Authors: Vestal McIntyre
“Hey, fag, are you deaf? I said, come here!” By the sound of Pete’s voice, Enrique could tell that he was running to catch up with him. Then Enrique felt a hard shove from behind. He hit a car and fell onto the pavement. Pete stood over him. “Don’t be a pussy, all right? When I call you, you come!” The look of anger on Pete’s face was less that of a bully than a disgusted parent. He seemed to want to discipline Enrique, to teach him a lesson, but one Pete himself didn’t know. “Fuckin’ Mexican fag,” he sputtered in frustration. He kicked Enrique’s shin. It was a half-hearted kick, but strong enough to hurt.
Enrique would see, when he examined his shin in the bathtub that night, a gray smudge with dots of red where the tiny soft hairs grew out of the skin. Holding his knee close to him and examining the bruise and remembering Pete Randolph’s face would make Enrique’s penis start to grow, and he would quickly do it—masturbation—letting his seed, as Father Moore had called it, squirt under the water, unfurl and drop to the bottom.
Enrique lay on the pavement until he was sure Pete was gone. Then he got up and brushed himself off. Gene came around the car, pulling the bill of his white cap low over his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Enrique.
“Did he beat you up?”
“No.”
“Did he hit you?”
“I’m fine, Gene. Stop asking.”
They walked back to the curb.
“We should go to the office,” said Gene.
“Shut
up
,” said Enrique, and he heard the whine in his voice. It sounded girly.
You must change your voice
, he told himself.
“Where’s our stuff?” Gene asked.
“Oh no, did they steal it?” Enrique said. Then he saw his backpack, and Gene’s, empty, hanging in the bushes. Their books were scattered. “Those buttholes!” Enrique said. (He still followed Lina’s rules about bad language; he didn’t say “asshole,” even when she wasn’t present.)
They gathered their things and put them back in their backpacks. The Trapper Keeper containing the project remained safely Velcro-sealed. Nothing was damaged.
Then they sat back down on the wall and waited.
Finally Jay pulled up in his car. It was a cool car, a Maverick with racing stripes. The Van Bekes had bought it for him when he was fourteen and learning to drive.
“Hey, faggots,” said Jay.
“Screw off,” Enrique muttered as he got in.
Jay smiled.
A
T THE NURSING
home, an old woman named Adele Burnham sat in a wheelchair angled toward the white wall. She pushed, but her curled foot just turned her more toward the wall. Adele’s breath quickened and, like wind catching a sail, took on tone to become a whimper. With each gust of breath the whimper loudened, becoming a grunt, then a bawl.
“Mrs. Burnham, there’s no reason to make a ruckus,” said the new aide, turning her away from the wall. “Look, hon, now you can see what’s goin’ on.”
Adele continued to make her short, hoarse calls.
“Sweetheart, you’re gonna upset everyone if you keep this up. You’re fine. Are your feet cold?” She placed the free foot onto its rest and tucked the blanket around it.
Adele’s bawling only became louder.
“Sweetheart,” she said, laying her hands on Adele’s shoulders, “I need you to quiet down a little. Oh, now look. You’ve upset Mr. Ellis.”
The man limped down the hall toward them with an expression that asked what he could do. He stopped short of them and put a crooked hand to his brow.
“Hush now, Mrs. Burnham,” the aide said.
“She likes to be put in the light,” Connie said. She took the handles and wheeled Adele down the hallway. The new aide followed. Adele furled her voice and breathed. Connie wheeled her to the crafts room and put her into the warm light before the sliding doors.
Adele tipped her head to the side so that despite the permanent crook in her neck the light struck her eye. Here, in the light, she could remember running up the sloped lawn after the picnic, tripping on the hem of her skirt—a bright green stain punctuated with brown dirt,
darn it!
And walking down the dirt road between yellow walls of grass, frightening a grouse who exploded into flight, causing other grouse to explode into flight, and they all flew, warbling as they went, over the irrigation ditch and back into the grass. And opening the curtains of her children’s room on the first day of summer vacation to let the sun wake them, and sneezing.
Adele’s voice warbled and her head nodded. “You learn these things over time,” Connie said with a stern look. She’d have to keep an eye on this girl. Aides who showed so little restraint in placing their hands on the shoulders of their charges might shake them roughly before long. Connie had seen this happen, and worse.
The new aide nodded and looked around for an escape.
A
WASP, IN
silhouette, slowly, lethargically climbed the window blind. Lina was always vacuuming up dead wasps. There must have been a nest under the eaves or in the attic. The wasp took flight and went from one window to the next, its body swaying like a heavy bag.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Mr. Hall said, stroking her hair.
Lina said nothing, but moved her hand under the covers to find a part of him. The part she found was his soft thigh. She squeezed it.
“When do you have to be home?” he asked.
“Today’s Thursday? Five.”
“Good. We have a little time.”
“Do we?”
“Abby has a club meeting. Sandra is in Salt Lake.”
“Well, Mr.— I want to call you by your name. What is your name?”
Mr. Hall pulled away. “You don’t know my name?”
“No.”
“How could you not know my name?”
“How could I know it? You never told me.”
“But what do you call me?”
“Don’ be stupid. I call you Mr. Hall.”
“I . . . I never noticed.” His expression, which was so easy to read, went from wonderment to amusement to a deep remorse. It occurred to Lina that somewhere in becoming an adult most people put on masks. How had he avoided this? Then his face changed again and he pulled her to him. The strength with which he did this surprised her, and she gasped. He put his hand to the back of her head, drew her near, and, in a low voice directly into her ear, said, “What do you think my name is?” It tickled.
“I don’ know.” Lina laughed and tried to push him away.
“Guess,” he said.
“No. Lemme go.”
“Not until you guess my name.”
“Rumpelstiltskin?”
“No.”
“Cory?”
“No.”
“Tom? Dick? Harry?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
He continued to hold her close, breathing hard with the effort of holding her still. She could feel that his erection had returned and was throbbing against her hip. She stopped struggling and put one arm around him.
He whispered,
“Charles.”
They kissed.
Then he pulled back and their eyes locked. He said, “But you can call me . . .”
He didn’t finish. Did he want her to guess again?
“Charlie?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “Darling.”
Lina groaned and turned away from him. She sat up and fumbled with the sheet to remain covered as she reached for her bra.
“Lina, what is it?”
“You always do that!”
“What?”
“You go too far. We’re not kids. We’re married. We shouldn’t do this. I’m not going to call you ‘darling.’ ”
Lina got dressed, and Mr. Hall stayed in bed. He wasn’t the type of man who would stop a woman from leaving. He was weak. Before she left the room, she turned to him and said, “Tell me what I’m really supposed to call you. Is it Charles?”
“No.” His voice rasped a little, as if there was something in his throat. He coughed. “Chuck.”
“Thank you, Chuck. Good-bye.”
She went downstairs and gathered her things. She hadn’t mopped. Before she left, she looked up to the railing of the second floor, her hand poised on the doorknob. Would he be there?
Of course not.
W
HEN
L
IZ
P
ADGETT
opened her locker after the science club meeting, she found a tightly folded note on the floor. Someone must have slipped it through the vent in the door. Liz unfolded the note and revealed the typewritten words:
I LOVE YOU!
Each letter was made of faint lines anchored by black dots that nearly pierced the paper, and the short sentence got darker as it went, as if the writer’s emotion became more ardent and his fingers stronger as he wrote. The bar and point of the exclamation point nearly met.
I LOVE YOU!
Clearly, this had been typed on one of the ancient manual typewriters in the school library.
Liz cast a glance around. No one. The hallway was lined with lockers interrupted here and there by dark gaps of classroom doors.
She read the sentence one more time. Then she laughed in its face. He didn’t love her, this stupid Eula boy. Whatever dirty-nailed farmer or meathead jock or suicidal dirtbag had written this was confusing his lonely jerk-off fantasies with love. No one loved Liz, because no one but Abby knew her, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Liz wished that Abby hadn’t rushed off after the meeting. Liz would be laughing now rather than feeling angry tears rise.
Fuck you
, she said to her secret admirer. She refolded the note and looked for a trash can. Not finding one, she tossed it on the floor with the other debris. The janitor would be through soon.
Then she thought better and picked it up again. She put it in her pocket, a token of her unloved state, and went to her car. She set her jaw and drove south past the fields, over the ridge, to the grand house where she lived with those three strangers—Winston and her parents—who didn’t, couldn’t, love her.
On the way, Liz’s smart compact car passed the dusty, dented clunker driven by Lina. A bit shell-shocked, Lina still felt in all her creases the residue of that man, whose name she had just learned and who she felt
loved
her (it was crazy, she knew) even though he didn’t know her. Lina headed north through the town, to the doublewide where her sons—the one who had always been a stranger and the other, who was becoming one—sat watching TV in silence. Later, Jay would take off in his car, and Lina and Enrique would sit down to dinner, their secrets humming in their chests:
I was lifted up today
;
I was beaten down
.
Across town from the trailer park, past the thinning globes of trees, the dark-shingled roofs, and the white blades of church steeples, Connie sat in her car outside the nursing home. It was time to go home, but somehow she couldn’t summon the will. Who would push her into the sun when she could no longer speak? Someone who loved her, or some stranger who was paid to do it? Or would she be left to kick the wall alone? She wondered, as she did so often, if Gene loved her and if she loved him. Then she quieted herself with this thought:
At the very least, I love him in God’s way
. She lifted her chin and turned the key in the ignition.
In Eula, everyone loved everyone in God’s way, or at least that was the story. If a grade-school boy was taunted by his friends with two-little-lovebirds rhymes, he might protest, “I don’t love her!” then quickly amend, “I mean, I love her in
God’s
way, but I don’t
love her
love her.” It was forbidden not to love everyone. Love was a light you directed not only in a narrow beam at your husband or son, but—differently and at the same time—you flooded over friends and strangers and, as Christ decreed, your enemies as yourself. The world lost its color in the light of such a love, as the houses did in the noonday sun. It was easier to find your way home in the evening, as Connie did now, when the windows glowed blue with TV light, and the sun’s last rays lit the white smokestack of the sugar factory like a beacon.
After Lina left, Chuck dressed and opened the skylight, but then lay the remainder of the afternoon as the square of sunlight crossed the bed, bisecting him. His mind traveled over all his life and the faraway places he had been. The trash-strewn beach in Pattaya, Thailand. Kimmi was a masseuse, a prostitute. He stopped going to meetings of the convention to lie in the hotel room where she brought him mangoes. She couldn’t believe that he had never eaten one—to her, it was as if he had never experienced any pleasure at all. She started the mango with her teeth and let the juice drip into the sink of the wet bar as she peeled it. That was love—taking that slick, fibrous mango from her and tasting it. He had written her letter after letter afterward, and she had sent him only one, at the office—“Miss You!!!”—and then, nothing.
Then his mind wandered back to his grandmother’s house in Illinois, where his great-aunt, who never came downstairs, sat on the balcony and called, “Kids! Kids!” until he left the game and ran up the lawn. “Shake the rosemary for me!” He stepped carefully through the herb garden, bent, embraced the bush and shook it, then ran back down the lawn. His aunt’s head fell back as she breathed in deeply. That August, after they left, she died on that balcony.
Sandra was in Salt Lake City, having her treatment.
Lina.
“Daddy?” Abby said softly from the doorway. He hadn’t heard her car. It was dark outside now.
“Yes?”
“Are you taking a nap?”
“No, thinking. Are you just getting home?”
“I had science club, then I went to the library.” She paused. “Have you been taking your medicine?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Heat something up. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Abby walked down the hall. “Smells clean,” she said.
F
or a moment Connie was captivated by the sparkling of dust in the projector light. All those things in the air that we never see—do we just breathe them and swallow them all day long? When Gene was a baby, his eyes always seemed to be following dust motes. She’d move her face into his line of vision, but his eyes wouldn’t fasten on hers, they’d keep following the path of something else.
Then the guest speaker began and Connie looked to the screen and saw gray streaks of dawn over the African savanna. “Um, it’s been four years since I’ve been in the States,” he said, “so you’ll have to forgive me if my presentation’s a little rough.” The women of the Dorcas Circle—the Dorcases, so named after the female judge in the Old Testament—gave him a reassuring murmur. “You ladies will be my guinea pigs; I’m going to show these slides at a few churches in the area. But anyway, I thought I’d start with something pretty. This is the view from the roof of our hospital.”
“Ahh,” said the women, as if his words only now released the beauty of the image, although it had been on the screen for several minutes as he had adjusted its focus and piled workbooks under the projector to bring it up.
“This is the hospital itself”—a two-story cinder-block cube next to a white goat—“and these are some of the children at the orphanage”—a group of laughing children, their skin blacker than any of the Dorcases had ever seen in person.
“Cute,” cooed one of the women, and there were some affectionate laughs. Connie, though, did not laugh, because to do so seemed disrespectful of the direness of the children’s situation and the importance of the missionary’s work.
“And this—oops, I’ll have to fix that—well, this is me with some of the children.” The slide was upside-down.
The women all laughed; some tilted their heads one way, then the other. “We’ll stand on our heads!” said Kaye, who was always quick with a loud, dumb joke.
“We have a hospital and an orphanage in our compound, two doctors on staff, seven nurses, three teachers, and I don’t know how many gals work in the orphanage.” Images lifted and dropped into place. “And two missionaries, one of which is me. Here’s the church.” In the reedy voice of someone more used to action than words, he described his mission. He seemed in a rush, as if he couldn’t imagine anyone ever finding this interesting. He couldn’t have been over thirty-five.
“These next slides might be a little disturbing. I put them in just to show the kind of things we deal with every day. I’ll go through them quickly.” On the screen appeared an old man whose arm was mottled purple and half rotted away from gangrene, then a baby whose mother lifted a dirty bandage to reveal a tumor which had overtaken one eye socket and resembled a neatly rolled ball of hamburger. The women gasped. When it came time for questions, he seemed surprised that the women were so interested, and his voice became more confident and his answers longer. Then Bess Morgan raised her hand. The other women exchanged worried looks.
“I have more of a comment than a question. It goes back to Paul’s vision of the unclean foods being offered him in a sheet from heaven. This is the sign from God that we are to spread the Gospel, not only to our own people, but to the people of the world, and if missionaries are our equivalents nowadays of someone who has stepped out of his community and country and gone to a place where they don’t even speak the language—or, I don’t know if they speak English in Africa—but I’m sure partaking of foods that we would consider repulsive, or not repulsive, that’s too strong of a word, but outside our experience, outside who we are, like how they eat crickets in Mexico . . .” When Bess went on these bizarre wanderings, her eyes would follow her words off into space, and her voice would become quieter, almost as if she were talking to herself. This had the annoying effect of making the others strain to hear words they didn’t want to listen to. “. . . and in Egypt, it’s no longer the ancient gods they worship, but Mohammed, just like they do in Saudi Arabia—but I know we’re talking about a different part of Africa . . .” Again and again she reined herself in, but never so much as to bring the monologue to a point resembling a conclusion closely enough that one of the other women could gracefully interrupt. They just had to wait it out. Kaye, sitting next to Bess, was smiling and looking for someone with whom she could share a significant look, but the others considered this too mean. “. . . So what I’m saying, really, is thank you for doing something that others of us don’t have the opportunity, or not the opportunity but the resolution, to do. I’m sorry I went on so long.”
“That’s quite all right,” said the missionary. “I’m flattered. Thank you.”
Pamela, the president of the Dorcas Circle, said, “I think we should have one more question, then close with prayer. Is that all right with you, Reverend Howard?”
“Sure, and please call me Bill.”
“Connie, didn’t you have your hand raised earlier?”
She hadn’t, but she saw what Pamela was trying to do: bring the discussion to an end with something thoughtful.
“I think we’re all wondering what we here in the States can do to help,” Connie said. She used the phrase
the States
the way he had. The other women all nodded.
“Well, most importantly, keep us in your prayers. Send us letters of encouragement, remember us. Of course, you can also give us money; but really, ladies, your ministry is here in Eula, and it’s as important as mine.”
“Bill,” Connie said. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that if you should need anything while you’re in town, we’d be glad to help.”
Pamela smiled and nodded. “Let’s pray,” she said.
Connie felt that she had handled that well. If Bill knew her, he would see that she didn’t take things lightly. The gravity of the offer would counterbalance Bess’s foolish speech and save face for the group. Maybe this had taken place even without his knowing her.
T
HE PHONE RANG
during dinner. “I’ll get it,” said Lina, rising.
Jay didn’t turn from the TV. His chair was pulled slightly away from the table so he could eat and watch the game at the same time.
Enrique gazed at the TV too, but with a far-off expression. Today he had gone to his locker between classes to find the words
ENRIQUE HAS AIDS
written in thick black marker on the door. After covering this with a scribble that left it still legible, Enrique had packed all his books into his backpack and avoided his locker for the rest of the day.
Lina answered the phone.
“Lina, it’s Chuck.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry to call you at home, but I didn’t know how else to reach you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about how it ended . . . last week . . .”
Lina said nothing. Wouldn’t he understand her boys were there?
“I was wondering if I could see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s no good. I’m at the Hamiltons’ tomorrow.”
“Afterward, Lina. In the afternoon.”
“No, sorry. I’m going to have to look at my calendar and call you back.”
She went back to the table.
“Who was that?” Enrique asked.
“Mrs. Hood,” Lina said.
“You don’t like her, do you?” Enrique said.
“Why wouldn’t I like Mrs. Hood?” Lina said. “I like her a lot.”
“Your calendar?” Enrique said, a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. “You don’t have a calendar.”
“Diablito,”
Lina grumbled, relieved that she had pulled it off.
Later that night, Enrique worked up the courage to call Abby Hall. Her dad answered.
“May I please speak to Abby?”
“Hold on,” said Mr. Hall.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Abby. It’s Enrique Cortez.”
“Hey, Enrique,” she said.
“I was wondering if Gene and I could show you our project before the science club meeting.”
“Sure. How about tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
“Um, I’m busy after school,” said Abby, “but I have study hall during junior high lunch period. Would you want to do it then?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll just find you in the lunchroom.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Enrique hung up the phone. A high school girl was going to come eat lunch with him and Gene while all the junior high kids looked on, including whoever had written that on his locker. Enrique was going to give her an update on the project. And he would win the science fair and be on TV and everything would be better. He was so excited, he couldn’t help mentioning it to his mom and Jay, even though he knew Jay would make fun of him.
“The high school science club is helping us with our science-fair projects,” Enrique said, standing next to the television.
“Really,
mijo
?” Lina said. She wriggled her toes, in their socks, on the coffee table. “How nice!”
“Yeah, the girl who’s helping me and Gene is really neat.”
“What’s her name?”
“Abby Hall.”
The look on Lina’s face shifted. It wasn’t a mere look of recognition (Enrique knew that his mother was acquainted with Abby, since she cleaned her house); it was recognition followed by a shade of concern, then obscured behind a smile like a curtain quickly drawn. Enrique immediately knew that it was Abby’s father, Mr. Hall, who had kissed her. Now his good mood was ruined.
“I know Abby Hall,” muttered Jay without turning from the TV.
Enrique felt he must defend Abby, who had been wronged by her father, just as he had by Lina. “She’s nice!” he barked.
“She’s nice,”
Jay mimicked, bobbling his head and bugging his eyes.
“Come on, Jay,” said Lina.
Jay emitted a low, rasping laugh. “Enrique, do you have a crush on Abby Hall?”
“No.”
“You do! You have a crush on Abby! Good boy! Hot nerd-on-nerd action!” Jay started making sex noises.
“Mom, make him stop,” Enrique said. But when he looked at her, he saw that she was smiling. Betrayed, he opened his mouth and released a breath that, had he not checked himself, had he not been on his guard not to sound girly, would have been a whimper. He ran to his room.
“Enrique, come back,” said Lina. There was suppressed laughter in her voice.
Enrique slammed his door and threw himself onto the bed, causing the springs to squeak. It seemed that his mother, having done something dirty with Mr. Hall, wanted to make things between Enrique and Abby dirty as well, to ease her guilt. But they
weren’t
dirty.
Back in the living room, Lina said quietly to Jay, “Don’t tease him,” and they both chuckled.
The next morning, before Lina went to the Hamiltons’, she called Chuck at his office.
“You can’t call me at home,” she said. “I have kids.”
“But how am I supposed to contact you?”
“You’re not supposed to contact me. You’re married.”
Chuck allowed for a silence, then he said, “Do you want me to leave you alone, Lina?”
“No.”
“This afternoon?”
“Four o’clock.”
C
OOP SAT BACK
in the glider and Wanda, in a rusted old lawn chair, wrapped her coat tighter around her. The glider was Coop’s favorite possession. It was an extravagance, having cost $150 at Greenhurst Nursery, but since Coop often entertained on his porch those visitors who were hesitant to go into the house where Uncle Frank sat drinking in front of the TV, the glider saw plenty of use. Soon, Coop would haul it down to the cellar so it wouldn’t rust over the winter—that was always a sad November day—but tonight was brisk but not cold, and the air was scented with burning corn husks. Coop glided back and forth, his foot resting on a stool, the wicker of which was punched through like a circus net that had seen an accident.
“Things are getting better,” Wanda said at last. “I have a plan. I just need to get through this rough patch. And I’ve got to go to Portland.”
“Why Portland?” Coop asked.
“Well . . .” said Wanda, then she released a little sigh, and gave up. She always forgot how much she feared Coop and craved his approval until she was face-to-face with him. Coop rubbed his great, yellow palms together and stared up into the trees. His shoulders were sloped at the angle those of a mountain would be, washed away by rain. “I’m registering with this agency,” Wanda continued. “It’s a way to make money. Honest money. I’m not with Hank anymore. I can’t go back to him ever again, Coop. He’s mean, Coop—meaner than I’ve told you.”
Coop shook his head. “What kind of agency?”
“Let me explain before you say anything, okay? And don’t make fun.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Wanda—”
“It’s an agency that matches couples with surrogate mothers. I want to be a surrogate mother.” Wanda cringed.
Coop smiled a smile of pain, silently.
“I want to carry a child, Coop. I’m never gonna have one of my own, I can just tell. I’m thirty-one and I’ve never even come close to meeting Mr. Right. I missed my chance; they’re all gone. I don’t know, Coop, they never liked me anyways, the good ones. But I want to carry a child. I don’t want to die with that regret, that I never did that with my body. I feel like my body wants it. There’s so many of these poor, infertile couples . . .” She paused, ashamed of showing emotion, and worried that it seemed, to Coop, disingenuous. “And I’d get paid ten thousand dollars.”
“Wanda, they give you a physical before they let you do that. They check you out good. Can you pass a physical?”
“Yes, Coop, I’m clean. Totally clean for months, I swear it.”
This was true, in a way. It had been months since she had done illegal drugs. Even pot. She still bought the pain pills from Tammy, but she swallowed them like she should. The last time she had snorted one was that day when she had gone to court in Boise. The day Gary came over.
Something went wrong in Wanda that day. She woke the next morning with a discomfort in her belly and a yawning sadness in her heart. I’m pregnant, she thought. This is what that feels like.
A cautious certainty took hold even though her period had been out of whack for years. She would go four months without menstruating, then they’d come all in a rush in one miserable, cramped month. She attributed this to not eating right. A friend told her if she ate raw spinach her periods would become regular. In any case, Wanda had been boyish in adolescence—her breasts, when they finally came, were small and cone-shaped—and she had suspected since then that her apparatus down there wasn’t functional.