Wish You Were Here (69 page)

It bounced in the grass, running the count full, and she bent over and bulged one cheek out and pretended to spit, then glared in at Justin. He glared back, dead serious.

At recess she pitched to both teams, so she knew her way around the plate, but there she was strictly business, trying to give them something to hit, every minute precious. Henry entertained, throwing behind his back and between his legs, all the while delivering a ridiculous play-by-play—“Here's Sammy ‘Whammy-bammy' Maxwell, he's oh for ten today.” He'd been doing this routine since Kenneth and Margaret could swing a wiffle bat, and Arlene was surprised to find she'd absorbed so much of it.

“Two out, man on first, and a full count to the squirt from Detrert. Maxwell looks like she's tiring out there. This could be her last batter, depending on how long those girls take to get ready.”

“No batta,” Sam chanted. He was playing shallow, halfway to the lake. Justin had already struck out twice, and the single they'd given him was a tapper. She could barely bend over in her dress to field it.

“Sets and checks the runner, and here's the payoff pitch.”

She wanted to lay it out in the middle of the plate to give him a chance, but the ball ran in on him. He swung in self-defense as it plunked him square in the chest.

“The whiff!” Sam said, running in to take his place.

“No,” she said, “it hit him.”

“He swung at it.”

“I swung,” Justin surrendered.

“Nope. Take your base. First and second. They're giving Maxwell a warning. Watch out, it could get ugly out here.”

She was trying to groove one for him when Emily stepped out of the screenporch with her white purse and a camera. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Playing wiffle ball.”

“Not in those clothes you're not. I swear. Come on, I want to take all of your pictures in front of the house.”

“Grandma's no fun,” Arlene said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“Grandma is so fun,” Emily said. “Now stand right there and look this way. Everybody say ‘Aunt Arlene is crazy.'”

“Am not,” she said after the flash.

“Are too.”

On the way they passed the Putt-Putt, and with a twinge Ken realized that he'd missed his chance to shoot it. Next year it would probably be gone, replaced by a gas station or turned into a parking lot for the Institute. He'd had all week, and he'd wasted it chasing after Tracy Ann Caler. He thought he should get Webb's too—the boys standing on the huge flukes of the anchor out front, the hokey gift shop—but he'd come unarmed. By the time they got back to the cottage the light would be gone.

He had a whole list—Hogan's Hut and the True Value and the ferry seen from the bridge. He needed another week, another three days. He could do it in one day, make that the frame, wake up at four and do nothing but drive around shooting, arrange them by time like those awful coffee-table books. One Day in the Life of Lake Chautauqua.

He could mock the obviousness of the idea and still see the potential in it, and thought that said something about him. He was unoriginal, even his best work secondhand, his worst bordering on incompetent.

Lise slowed for someone turning in, and he caught a fat marmalade cat bolting for cover under a hedge, a basketball on the lawn. The light was soft on the grass, bringing out motes and flying insects under the trees, wafting seeds—pretty clichés. He could see them on Hallmark cards or posters with inspirational slogans. Maybe that was his calling.

In back, Ella said, “Stop it!”

“Stop it,” Sam mimicked.

“Mo-om!”

“Stop it, both of you,” he said, too hard, for knocking him out of his thoughts, and then Ella was pissed off at him.

He just wanted to get through this dinner and see the fireworks and go to sleep, but it seemed that was too much to ask. And then he recovered, or gave up, clicked into that mode where nothing could touch
him, and he sat back and watched the world fly by outside, recording it like an open lens.

He saw a grackle perched in a mulberry tree, the branch it was on waving as it ate.

He saw a balloon tied to a mailbox painted like the flag.

He saw a house that was half Tyvek with roses growing around the foundation.

He saw trolls in a rock garden.

He saw a woodpile between two trees.

He saw a bored girl selling corn.

He saw a sparrow worrying a crow.

He saw an Indian woman in a squash-colored sari rolling a stroller away from the Root Beer Stand, an antique truck parked over her shoulder.

It always happened when he didn't have a camera.

“I hope Rufus will be all right by himself,” Emily appealed to Ken for the third time, and Lise clenched his thigh under the table.

He covered her hand and held it still. She and Emily were seated directly across from each other, a mistake Lise recognized immediately but could do nothing to remedy. The kids wanted to sit together, leaving the adults bunched at one end of the table. She had Sam on one side of her so she could keep an eye on him, and Ken on the other. She caught exchanges from both the kids' and grown-ups' conversations without being part of either, which she thought was even more tiring than making small talk.

“You leave him alone at home, don't you?” Meg said—exactly what she wanted to ask.

“That's different. I know I shouldn't worry, but he's old. I know one of these times I'm going to come back and … you know.”

But he'd been fine when they left him all day the other day.

Emily never explained. She was off into a story about Duchess, who Lise had only seen pictures of.

“When she got sick I could tell because she just wasn't herself. Remember? She'd growl at Kenneth and he used to be so good to her. And she was just the sweetest dog before that, but that's what happens. You can understand why.”

Everyone agreed, or no one objected. Lise didn't see her point, if there was one. It seemed that her conversations circled more and more around sickness and death, though as far as Lise knew she was completely healthy. Maybe that was natural, after Henry, but Lise couldn't help but find it morbid. She suspected the stories Emily told had some connection to the way he'd treated her or the way she'd treated him those last weeks, though Ken said things had gone as well as could be expected. In any case, Lise thought she was trading on their sympathy, bringing it up over and over again, lightly disguised.

“Does anyone want more calimari?” Sam asked, shakily handing Lise the plate.

“I think we're all right,” she said, but he'd done it to make room for him and Justin to do the word search. She reached over her wine and combined the two plates and stacked them. She thought that their dinners should be here soon. The waitress had already faked her out once, setting up the folding stand for the table next to them.

“You do have to admit that Mr. Bush is a moron,” Emily was saying, and Lise checked on Ella, looking cute in her pearls, sipping at her virgin strawberry daiquiri.

Across the room it was someone's birthday, the whole wait staff serenading a table, a flash stunning the air.

“That reminds me, Lisa,” Emily said. “What do you want for your birthday?”

She
would
have to do this. “I don't know. Nothing.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“I'm serious, Emily. I have everything I need.” Ken patted her thigh and she stopped his hand.

“I know it's early but I want to get a jump on it. If you have any ideas, let me know.”

“I will.”

Great, now Emily would use it as an excuse to badger her for the next two months. She'd have to look through her catalogs and come up with something. In the lull, she smiled at Ken to let him know how much fun this was, and he smiled back.

The waitress came by to say their dinners would be right out and asked if they were ready for another round of drinks. Yes, Sam could have another Slice, but that was it for the night. Lise had finished her wine but held off like the rest of them, for Meg's sake, and anyway, she had to drive.

“That's where they get you, with that second drink,” Emily said when the waitress had left. “Now this is a question for everybody. Did any of you hear any new news on what was going on down at the marina?”

Thankfully no one had. Lise thought it was probably not an appropriate subject to discuss in front of the kids. Ella and Sarah were intently pretending not to listen.

“You know what's funny,” Emily said. “No one's called and followed up on what we told them.”

“You mean Ken,” Lise corrected her.

“You'd think with such a big operation they'd cover their bases a little better. If they're looking in a certain area, you'd expect them to ask people who live there if they've noticed anything peculiar.”

“Has anyone noticed anything peculiar?” Arlene asked.

“You know what I mean. Like the Lerners' alarm going off. You'd think they'd be interested in that kind of information.”

“Maybe they have enough information,” Meg said. “Who knows what they were looking for. They could have been looking for a weapon. They could have someone in custody who told them where to look.”

“Maybe it's not a mystery anymore,” Ken said reasonably, and she could tell he was covering something. He wanted them to change the subject and leave her alone, his girl.

“You don't think she could still be alive?” Lise asked.

She couldn't resist. It was a sign of how deep her jealousy went that she picked the meanest thing she could think of, leaving him no way out.

And then Emily saved him, saying, “After a week, I wouldn't think so.”

“No,” Arlene agreed.

She'd forgotten how badly she was outflanked here. Now she wanted another wine, Meg or no Meg.

The meal came, a break, people craning around to see what everyone else ordered. The food here was basic, aimed at the place's clientele, who were mostly Emily and Arlene's age. Everything came with a baked potato and a tiny bowl of very green broccoli. Lise had gone with the broiled sole, thinking they couldn't ruin that, but after she helped Sam cut his ribs, she found it dried out and overdone.

“How's yours?” Ken asked, offering her a bite of lamb chop.

“No thanks. It's fine.”

She checked on Ella to make sure she was eating, not just rearranging the food on her plate. Ella caught her and Lise returned the look and tipped her chin for her to take a bite. Next week it was back to making dinner for them every night, trying to come up with a menu they could all live with.

“How is everything?” the waitress asked.

“Good,” Emily said, and Ken nodded with his mouth full.

Lise was tempted to send hers back. If it was just the two of them, she would have. Instead she loaded her baked potato with butter and sour cream and watched the constant traffic of aproned wait staff and older couples in their summer best passing behind Emily and Arlene. Over the stone fireplace hung an impossibly pink-bellied trout curved like a wurst. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to work at a place like this.

Sam tapped her arm. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where is it?” he asked. She almost told him to go ask his father, but saw her opportunity.

Justin had to go too.

“Anyone else?”

No, the girls were too cool to be seen with her.

“I can take them,” Ken offered, but she was gone, blazing a trail between the tables, pausing at a crossing to let a waiter by.

She remembered where the rest rooms were, back in a dim hallway near the kitchen with the pay phones and an out-of-date cigarette
machine. As she waited for them, each time the swinging doors opened she could see into the bright, busy kitchen, the pots hung above the steel counters and the smoking grill. It seemed more exciting than being out here, and she envied the chefs. The boys came back too fast and she sent them in again to wash their hands. Technically she wasn't stalling. They were right out anyway and then practically ran for the table.

They were all done except Ella, what a surprise. She'd picked her chicken apart and gutted her potato. The only thing she'd eaten was her broccoli—that and the two daiquiris.

Now that Lise was back, the girls decided they needed to go. When Ken asked, Ella said she was finished.

“She doesn't eat much, does she?” Emily said, once the two of them had left the table.

Lise knew Ken would downplay it later as honest concern, but she thought this line of criticism was directed at her.

“She eats,” Ken said, “she's just particular.”

“Is she like this at home?”

“She's like this everywhere,” Lise said. “The doctor says she's normal for her height.”

The waitress saved them, asking if people would be interested in seeing the dessert menu. They all were, the boys noisily. She cleared half the table and said she'd be right back, leaving them becalmed. As a starting point, Meg wondered what was going on at the Institute.

Friday was pops night. Arlene thought it might be Dionne Warwick.

“Walk On By,” Ken said, Mr. Trivia.

“Or the other one, what's-her-name, Natalie Cole. I always get those two mixed up.”

The girls returned, and the waitress, with a busboy who stared at Sarah. When he was gone they gave her grief but she took it well. She was used to the attention. Lise supposed it could be tiring, putting up with that kind of aimless desire all the time, but was more concerned about Ella, sitting right beside Sarah, invisible. These were the same lessons she'd learned at that age, the basic unfairness of the world and her place in it.

She hoped Emily noticed that Ella had ordered dessert, but didn't draw attention to it.

Somehow they'd gotten around to talking about the septic tank, all the things that could go wrong. In the course of a few hours, Ken and
Emily had become experts. A diaper was all it took to plug up the works and have everything back up into the house.