The Stories of Richard Bausch (92 page)

“Well, I did wonder how long he would go on seeing your mother outside her family.”

“I confess that I selfishly did want to keep her to myself.” His smile remained. In another second, it would seem unnatural. It was already unnatural. He looked down at the old woman’s hand, still holding his own out. In that moment, Lauren understood that of course he had indeed been warned about Georgia.

At last, the old woman shook hands and then reached for her purse, turning her back on all of them. “Nice to meet you, Lance.”

Strolling out into
the sunlight with the knowledge that Dalton knew and was ready, Lauren wondered gloomily what she might remember about this evening, many years from now. Before the loneliness started, she had often felt on the brink of something grand and unimaginable. The sensation always gave way to an indefinable longing that made her irritable and cross.
But there were moments when, staring at herself in mirrors and windows blacked by night, she received the suspicion that she might turn out to be quite lovely. When the angle was right, and the light, she could fancy that she looked a little like Audrey Hepburn, all of whose movies she had watched on videotape before she was thirteen. But that was all gone now, and there was only the isolation, the suspicion that all plans would work out badly, the feeling of being defined as some kind of oddity by everyone around her. And it was baseball, which she had loved so much and been so delighted to learn she could do well—even from the start—it was baseball that had been what brought it on.

Now she turned and looked at Mother in her white cotton blouse, and poor Dalton, with his new slacks—Dalton, at the beginning of his ordeal. It was going to be a long night. She got into the back seat of his Honda, and he held the door for Georgia to get in, too. Georgia thanked him sweetly, and bumped her head slightly on the doorframe as she bent down. “Oops,” she said. “These small cars.”

Dalton closed the door on her and then held the passenger door for Mother. He was being gallant. Georgia wouldn’t miss the chance to comment on it. As Mother settled into her seat and Dalton walked around the car, the old woman said, “Where’s the white horse?”

“Okay, Georgia. Please. I mean it, if you mess this evening up I’ll never speak to you again, I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

“It’s that important, is it? A stack of them.”

“Yes, as a matter of damn fact. It
is
that important.”

Lauren sat staring out. The street seemed abandoned. The yards all empty, though well kept and green, with splashes of cool-looking shade from the trees. Nothing stirred. It looked like the world knew what was about to unfold: the silence of graves, of the appalled seconds after an accident.

“Just wondered where the white horse was,” said Georgia as Dalton got in and settled himself.

“We ready?” he said.

“Ready,” said Mother with forced cheer. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Lauren before he started out into traffic.

“These cars aren’t built for Americans,” Georgia said. “They were built for little Asian-type people.”

“You mean those tiny little sumo wrestlers?” Lauren said.

“Sumo wrestlers are rare. Don’t be impertinent. They’re all so impertinent these days. I think they get it from television.”

“I’ll move my seat up,” Mother said.

“Don’t bother. You be comfortable, darling. I’ll sit back here and think about the Bible.”

“It’s no trouble, Georgia.” Mother had chosen to ignore the aside.

“What about the Bible?” Dalton said.

“The problem,” said Georgia, “is head room.”

“There’s no adjustment for that,” he said pleasantly. “They do make these cars awful small.”

“Like a tin box,” said Georgia. “This one, anyway.”

“Dalton had it designed especially for you,” Lauren said.

“See? Impertinent. I think they get it from television. And speaking of television, somebody believed the commercials about the room in these little Japanese boxes they call cars.”

“Okay,” said Mother. “We’ve established that the car is small.”

“I’ve been wanting to get a bigger car,” Dalton said.

“Too late,” murmured Georgia.

He gave forth a little chuffing laugh. “Right.”

As if to cover for him, Mother turned in the seat and addressed Lauren. “Honey, did you decide anything about the baseball?” Then she explained to Dalton that Lauren had been asked to try out for the boys’ team.

“Really,” Dalton said.

Lauren sank lower in the seat, arms folded. She shook her head at her mother, who looked the question at her again.

Georgia said, “The kid’s got the best fastball in the state.”

Lauren wished they’d change the subject.

“It’s those long arms of hers,” Georgia went on.

“My arms aren’t so long,” Lauren told her. “And could we please not talk about me in the third person, like I’m not here?”

They all sat gazing out the windshield at the lights of the traffic ahead and the city towering around them.

“Do you remember where it is?” Mother asked.

“Should be right up here on the right. A right turn. Belmont Street. Or Belfort Street. I think.” Then he spelled the two names out.

“Well, which?” Georgia said.

“I think it’s Belfort.”

Lauren tried to read the signs, and couldn’t.

“We went past a Belfort Street about nine blocks back,” Georgia said.

Dalton sought her in the rearview mirror. “Did we?”

“I didn’t see it,” said Mother. “And I’ve been reading the street signs.”

“It’s ahead here,” Dalton said. “I’m pretty sure.”

“I know I saw Belfort,” Georgia said.

Dalton leaned forward, and said something about looking for a place to turn around. The next street sign read
BELL PARK.

“Bell
Park,”
Mother said.

“That’s it,” said Dalton, and took the turn.

“I saw Belfort,” Georgia said. “You’re sure it wasn’t Belfort? You can’t remember to take a tag off slacks. Why should we trust you?”

“Oh, Georgia,” said Mother. “For God’s sake.”

“I’m just joking.”

“I did forget the tag,” said Dalton with an air of good-natured self-deprecation.

They pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, and got out in a commotion of opening and closing doors. No one said anything for a time.

“Confusing,” Georgia said.
“This
is the place you wanted to take us. And not someplace over on Belfort.”

“This is definitely it,” Dalton said. Then, with a self-deprecating smile: “If I remember correctly.”

Georgia seemed dubious. “You didn’t just pull in here out of a wish not to be wrong about the street—”

“I don’t remember,” he said, and gave forth the little laugh.

“So you’re not just trying to save face—”

Mother talked over her. “I’ve gone by this place a few times. Always wondered what it might be like.”

“It was recommended to me,” Dalton said, and at the same time Georgia had spoken, or gone on speaking. He turned to her. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I said it doesn’t look like much from the outside.”

“No?”

“But then it’s often the case that really good places don’t.”

“I’ve found that to be true,” he said.

Lauren didn’t have much appetite. As they all entered, she murmured this to Mother, who frowned and murmured back. “Do your best.”

“What?” Dalton said.

“You know,” said Georgia, pulling his sleeve. “I come with the whole deal. I’m part of the package.”

“Excuse me?”

Mother said, “You and Guatemala, right, Georgia?”

“What’s a house without a rain forest?” Dalton said.

They were led to their table by a slender young woman in a black skirt and white silk blouse whose flaring shiny sleeves trailed past her hands. Because the entrance hall was narrow and the tables were close together, they had to file along, one behind the other, with Dalton bringing up the rear. Lauren felt the urge to turn and stop him. It was absurd; he was a grown man.

The interior of the restaurant was all heavy wooden surfaces and thick leather padding, oak tables and chairs, with matching squares of the same leather padding on seat and back. There were little half moons of light along the walls, designed to look like gas lamps. The motif of the place was nineteenth century. The wallpaper showed repeated patterns of antique catalog pictures of ladies in long bathing suits and men in derby hats, and archaic farm implements had been suspended by wires from the cross beams in the ceiling. Several other diners were seated on the other side of the room, but it seemed isolated where Lauren and the others were. They all took their places, Georgia and Dalton across from each other, Lauren across from Mother, beside Georgia. The young woman set menus down for them, and then slipped away. Heavy-leafed potted plants bordered their spot on the right; a wall of empty booths led away to the left.

Georgia took one of the green leaves between her fingers and felt the texture of it. “Real,” she said. “They should give it some water.”

“It seems we’re never far from Guatemala,” Mother said.

“What kind of plant is it?” Dalton asked.

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Can we change the subject?” Lauren said. “Why don’t we talk about the real Guatemala.”

“I guess we should let her dictate the conversation for the whole evening,” Georgia said. “Although this isn’t a baseball game.”

“I don’t want to talk about baseball, okay? I’d rather talk about Guatemala.”

“I bet she doesn’t even know where it is. I bet she doesn’t have any idea.”

“Do
you
know where it is? Other than in your room?”

“Don’t be impertinent. I swear—listen to that. Where do they get such disrespect?” Georgia looked across at Mother. “I certainly never allowed that in my house.”

Mother was staring at Lauren. “Honey, what is it? Something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Not many people here,” Georgia said to Dalton. “I always took that as a bad sign about a place.”

“Maybe it’s exclusive,” said Mother.

“Well, as I said, it was recommended to me,” Dalton put in.

“Who recommended it?” Georgia asked.

Dalton smiled. “The owner. He’s from Guatemala, I think.”

“Oh. Well, that’s certainly a recommendation you can trust. Somebody from a lovely green country like that. You can trust it like you can trust someone swearing on a stack of Bibles.”

“What’s this about the Bibles?”

“That’s Georgia’s way of talking,” Mother said quickly.

“I never used the expression before tonight. And I never heard a thing about Guatemala until tonight. I guess my jungle room is a problem.”

“That’s an old expression,” said Dalton. “Isn’t it? Stack of Bibles.”

They were quiet.

“It’s fine,” Mother said. “Guatemala’s fine. You get such enjoyment out of it.”

“You always liked keeping pets and you had that exotic bird in college. It’s as much for you all as for me.”

“We love it,” Lauren said. “We don’t have to go to the real Guatemala.”

“Well, if you’re so put out by it, why don’t you let somebody know about it?”

Dalton cleared his throat and rested his elbows on the table. Mother said, “I’m sorry,” to him. Then, looking across at Georgia: “This isn’t the time to talk about Guatemala.”

“I’m just defending myself,” Georgia said.

Again, there was a pause.

“They take their time about serving people in here, don’t they?”

“It
has
been a while,” Dalton said. “Hasn’t it?”

Mother said, “Lauren, honey, what’s the matter?”

“She’s nervous about trying out for the baseball,” Georgia broke in. “She’s at that age, you know. A lot of lean muscle isn’t going to be lean muscle in a few months.”

Lauren put one hand to her head and stared down at the table, understanding that she was the subject of their talk for a reason. Now they went on about the changes of adolescence—Georgia saying that it was entirely possible she wouldn’t want to play.

“If she decides not to play,” Mother said, “it’s not going to disappoint me. She won’t be letting anyone down.”

“Wouldn’t her father be proud of her,” Georgia said. “You remember how he was about sports.” She looked across at Dalton. “Lived and breathed them.”

“Did he play sports?” Dalton asked.

Georgia nodded. “That’s where this girl got her talent for throwing a baseball.”

“He actually played in the minor leagues,” Mother said. “For a while.”

“Well, he didn’t want to settle down. Joannie’s father wondered if he’d ever grow up.”

“He had a serious skill,” Mother said. “He was plenty grown up.”

“I’d like not to spend the whole evening talking about my father. I never even knew my father.” Lauren felt a sudden urge to begin crying. She rested her hands in her lap and looked away from them.

“Lauren?” Mother said. “Something
is
wrong.”

“No it isn’t. Nothing more than the usual.”

“She’s talking about Guatemala,” said Georgia. “Isn’t she? I swear. They harbor these—these hostilities, and then act on them. And you never know what’s behind it. Her mother was the same way when she was a teenager.”

Mother said, “It’s all learned behavior, Georgia. You’ve said so yourself.”

Lauren said, “Hey, you know? I don’t, like, care whether it’s, like, hostile or not. Or if it’s, like, learned, or normal, either. You know what I, like,
mean? I don’t want to talk about somebody I never knew, no matter who it was. And I wasn’t talking about Guatemala.”

Dalton looked at her.

“Hey,” Mother said. “You can watch your tone there a little, don’t you think?”

“Seems we’re all a little tense,” said Georgia, stroking the napkin in her lap.

Dalton stared at the menu and said nothing. And now everyone stared at the menus. At last, a young man came to the table, wearing black slacks and a shirt with the same quality of shining silk as the blouse of the maître d’. He introduced himself as Byron, and began to recite the specials of the day.

“Slow down, Brian,” Georgia said to him. “What’s your hurry?”

He shuffled slightly and looked momentarily lost. “Uh, that’s—my name is—I’m Byron, ma’am.”