Authors: Vestal McIntyre
“There are many things I want to tell you,” he said.
“Don’ be cute.”
His smile trailed away and his expression became that of a schoolboy who’s been told to stop daydreaming and study. “Is it the train accessories?”
“We can start there.”
“I don’t need them anymore.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize them? I’ve dusted them a million times.”
“No, Lina, I thought you
would
.”
“So,” Lina faltered, “you thought I’d be
grateful
? I’m poor, Chuck, but not that poor. I don’ need your handouts, and I
sure
don’ need you messing with my kids.”
“It’s not like that,” Chuck said.
“Oh, no? Then explain it to me.”
“Lina, I can’t walk down the street holding your hand. I can’t phone you whenever I want, and I can’t write you love letters. But I can give you a garage-door opener, and I can give Enrique some old toys that I don’t need. I’m sorry if it offended you. That certainly wasn’t my intent. My intent was for it to be a kind of love letter.”
Lina laughed in spite of herself. “You idiot,” she said. “You do everything wrong.”
He smiled and reached for her.
“No, Chuck. Can we go inside?”
“Of course.”
They went into the kitchen and sat at the same bar where, two months before, when the sun was shining through the skylight, he had given her that glass of wine.
“Chuck,” said Lina, “why has Sandra been going to Salt Lake City?”
Again, his faraway look was reined in. “Well, she’s having chemotherapy treatments.”
“I thought she was going down there to stay with her parents because you two were splitting up.”
“I never said that.”
“I know, but you let me believe it.”
“No,” he said, seemingly surprised, “I didn’t.”
“Then what did you
think
I thought?”
“Honestly, Lina, it never crossed my mind.”
“What’s wrong with you? Don’ you think things through?” As had happened before, the things Lina had planned to say to him were defused before she could lob them.
What, am I some replacement for Sandra?
she had wondered in the car.
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of your wife’s illness to fool around?
But now, given the sorrow evident in the lines etched around Chuck’s eyes, to say such things would have seemed crass, jarring, as false as a line stolen from a movie.
Then Chuck himself reminded her of yet another accusation she had planned to make, by owning up to it: “Lina, you are my escape.
You
are my
escape
.” He said this in a hushed voice, like he was telling her his one secret. “You are my— This is why I don’t feel bad about what we’ve been doing—because you’re my
wife
now, Lina. That’s how I see it, and I think that’s how God sees it as well.”
“You’re like a little kid, you know? Thinking that you can say things and they’ll happen like magic. There are laws we have to live by.”
“I suppose you’re right, Lina. I mean, I
know
you must be. But what I
feel
is that your husband isn’t your husband anymore, and Sandra’s not my wife. She hasn’t been since you and I started this.”
Lina inhaled, then her voice caught and she released a frustrated sigh. “
I
should talk!” she said, and then in answer to Chuck’s inquisitive expression: “I was dishonest, too. Jorge and I, we were never married in the church. When I had Jesús, then Enrique, I said on all the forms that Jorge was my husband, and I pretended that made it so. But it didn’t make it so. We weren’t married in the church, and that’s what counts. He said he hated priests. He called them devils. I should have known then that he was crazy.” She took a paper napkin from the holder and blotted at a shiny smudge on the counter. “Even my kids don’ know.”
They sat quiet for a while, then Chuck said, “Lina, if you’re not legally married, that’s all the more reason we can be together.”
“I can’t, Chuck. Not with Sandra down there, sick. You know that—that I can’t see you now.”
“I know it. I do. But then I think, why? What is there, really, to keep us?”
“Everything right.”
He nodded in a way that made Lina see that he had expected that answer, she had confirmed something for him, and he was now trying to understand how it was true, to learn its logic and integrate it. Something—Sandra’s illness or something before—had obliterated everything for this man and left him like an amnesiac who has to relearn the world. She loved him for it.
Chuck looked at Lina. “Stay with me tonight, Lina. Then I’ll leave you alone, until . . . until after.”
Lina winced. How could a man who was so kind think in such ruthless terms?
But Lina didn’t realize the difference between Sandra’s impending death and the only death to which she could compare it, her mother’s. Her mother had died of “old age,” which meant that she died of many things, few of them named. Lina hadn’t wanted them named and hadn’t listened when they were, in order to more easily hold out hope to the end that her mother would recover. Chuck, on the other hand, had been to many of his wife’s appointments, seen all those X-rays, and knew the shapes of gray masses in his wife’s liver, lungs, and, most recently, kidney.
A week ago, the day before her flight, Chuck had helped Sandra from the bedroom down the stairs to her little office off the kitchen, where she had shown him the bills: how to pay them and where to file them. “In May,” she had said, “call Sammy to schedule him for mowing. Don’t wait until late in the month, or he’ll be all booked.”
She’s telling me this because in May she’ll be gone
, Chuck had thought.
Why aren’t we crying?
Now Lina and Chuck sat still and mute. It seemed everything had been lain bare between them, and what had been complex was now simple. Lina loved him, and she would stay with him tonight. She felt what she had as a child when she watched her mother unwrap and marvel at the pair of rhinestone earrings that she had swiped from the rack at the drugstore: the awful pleasure of giving something stolen.
Finally she said, “Can I use the phone?”
Chuck nodded and left the room.
“Hello?”
“Enrique, baby, I’m with Nita Rodriguez from church. Her mom’s real sick, and I’m going to help her out a little. Is Jay home yet?”
“No.”
“Are you okay there by yourself?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching TV.”
“Arright, baby. Don’ wait up for me. I’ll probably be home real late. I might spend the night if Nita needs the help. Will you be okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good night,
cariño
.”
“Good night.”
Enrique sat for a while thinking about the scientific method, which said that there were ways to test a hypothesis and prove it right or wrong. He went to the kitchen and from the drawer that contained all the pens and pads of paper took a little booklet labeled
St. Paul’s Parrish Directory
. He looked up Nita Rodriguez’s number and called it.
“Mrs. Rodriguez?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to be calling so late. This is Enrique Cortez.”
“Hi, Enrique.”
“I was wondering, is my mom there?”
“No.”
“Oh, I thought she said she was going to your house, but I must have heard her wrong. Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s okay. Tell her hello for me when you find her.”
“I will. Good night.”
Enrique wandered slowly back into the living room. He stood for a long time looking down at his little village, thinking a
real
boy would smash it all to pieces.
I
t was nearing Thanksgiving, and the fall sugar-beet harvest, which had been piled outside the factory in three hills as tall as houses and as long as football fields, now dwindled to a few scattered beets on the ground, like brown stones the size of softballs. Kids would sneak under the fence and grab an armful while their mothers waited in the car; a sugar beet kept for months and made a good midwinter treat for a horse. Eula gave a sigh of relief this time of year. The smelliest part of sugar processing, when the factory produced a plume of burned-molasses-smelling smoke that made its way into everyone’s clothes and hair, was over. Kids in Eula subconsciously linked the smell of clean, cold air with the coming of Christmas. But the end of the smelly season also meant the end of many Eula residents’ jobs.
One crisp morning, Liz Padgett arrived at school and opened her locker, hoping in spite of herself to find another tightly folded note atop her wad of gym clothes. Her heart leaped, then dropped. What she had thought was a note was merely a card that had fallen out of one of the books from the school library. But, on closer examination, it proved to be not a due-date card, but one taken from the card catalog, showing an author’s name, a Dewey decimal number, and the word
Renaissance
. Puzzled, she slipped the card into her back pocket and went to class.
Liz realized that the thrill she felt when she got notes from her secret admirer was a vain thrill, as there was no one at Eula High she would ever date. There were a few boys, though, she wanted to
want
to date
her
—three, to be exact. Two were handsome jocks, Eddy Nissen and Caleb Stone, and the third was the student-body president, Cordy Phillips. She wouldn’t date Eddy because he was a friend of Winston’s, and she felt a blanket distaste for all of Winston’s friends; Caleb because he was dumb as dirt; and Cordy because Sarah Fagan, his longtime girlfriend and likely future wife, was a friend. There were some juniors and even sophomores who were cute enough, but Liz wouldn’t date anyone younger than she, not so soon before graduation and not after having dated Matthew, the Boise State University student. She had gone steady with Matthew for nearly a year. He was smart and cute and only really had one fault: he had insisted on calling his massive stereo system, which included the first CD player Liz had ever seen, “the Tower of Power.” Liz had had sex with Matthew, liked it well enough, and figured high school boys could do no better.
All of these were minor, momentary thoughts, however, since the mental space that most seventeen-year-old girls devoted to boys Liz devoted to Abby—the only person in Eula whom she truly loved—and the Big Plan.
Some, if they had observed the gradual development of the Big Plan, would say that Liz had led Abby into it, that she had drawn out Abby’s frustration with Eula and cultured it into hate; but this mattered little—less and less as graduation approached—because the end result would be the same: Liz would be far from Eula, and so would Abby, and Abby would be happier. Abby had a beauty the boys in Eula would never recognize, but maybe the boys at Stanford would. Her face was made for sadness. Liz missed her on the weekends when she was down caring for her mother.
So, while her secret admirer’s notes flattered Liz, they fell outside the Big Plan and were therefore worthless. This did not stop her, however, from going to the library during lunch and looking up the book whose catalog card had been slipped into her locker. It was a big, heavy book called
The Art of the Italian Renaissance
, and Liz took it to one of the carrels that lined the long, windowless wall behind the bookshelves. She saw the rim of a paper that had been inserted between the pages. She opened the book to this page and removed the note, and, so doing, uncovered a detail from a painting—a woman with small, red, parted lips and great round globes of eyes. The note said:
You have the most beautiful eyes in the world. They are not green. They are blue with a ring of yellow. What does your driver’s license say?
There’s only one Liz Padgett.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!!
Liz smiled, slipped the note into her backpack, and took out a fresh sheet.
You have a way with words
, she wrote.
Who are you?
She put the sheet between the pages where she had found the note and returned the book to the shelf.
When she returned the next day, her note was gone and in its place was another card from the card catalog. She took it and went to the section indicated by the number, a section, which contained college catalogs and SAT preparation guides. It did not contain, however, the book listed on the card,
Pierson’s Guide
. Liz took some books off the shelf and fanned their pages, but found nothing. She double-checked the card and scanned the neighboring sections for the title in vain. It occurred to her then just how long she had been at this. What if the boy had sent her on a wild-goose chase just so he could watch? She made a quick walk through the aisles, but there was no one else in the library; nobody studied during lunch. Maybe, she then thought, the boy had put the note in the book, and someone else had checked it out.
Liz went to the librarian’s desk. “Hello, Miss Trask,” she said.
Miss Trask looked up from her book. Her tiny nose hardly seemed up to the task of supporting her large glasses, and together they gave her the appearance of a barn owl. She blinked. “Liz! How nice to see you!”
“I was wondering, has someone checked this book out? It’s not on the shelf.”
“Where did you get this card?” Miss Trask held it close under her eye and gave a subtle nod to get it into the correct lens of her trifocals.
“From the card catalog.”
“Funny,” said Miss Trask, taking another card from the countertop to show the difference in size, “it’s from another library.”
C
ONNIE WENT TO
the trouble of driving out of town to buy her eggs from Sue Deal both from a sense of loyalty, as Sue was a Dorcas, and compassion, as Sue’s husband was one of the sugar-factory workers who got laid off this time every year. A flat of Sue’s eggs was fifty cents cheaper than Albertson’s anyway, and who cared if sometimes there was a little crust on the shell?
“You wanna come in for some coffee?” Sue asked after Connie had paid for her eggs.
“Oh, Gene’s getting home about now,” Connie said.
“Gene’s a big enough boy now. You just go on and put those eggs in your car, and I’ll put on some decaf.”
Connie took the two flats out and set them carefully in the backseat. When she returned, Sue had set out some sugar cookies, and the coffee maker was popping and sighing in the next room.
“So, you been takin’ Reverend Howard around?” Sue asked.
“Yes.”
“How’s that been for ya?”
“Such a delight, Sue. Such a blessing. He’s a good man, very well spoken—you saw—and very kind.”
“And very handsome,” Sue whispered, leaning forward.
“Sue, it’s not like that.”
“I’m not sayin’ it
is
like that. All’s I’m sayin’ is that the man’s handsome,” Sue chirped, thrusting her elbows back like a sassy bird.
“Sue, if I thought for one minute that you and the other ladies thought I was up to something other than the Lord’s work . . . well, I’d be fit to be tied.”
“Relax, Connie. No one thinks anything of the kind. But we all got eyes. And we all use ’em, even old married ladies like me.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Got ’em or use ’em?”
“Honestly, Sue, if you don’t stop this talk right now, I’ll get up and leave.”
“Connie, I’m just playin’.” With that Sue got up to get the coffee. Sue’s shoulders were petite, but her hips were massive. Her top half rode atop her bottom like a child on a horse.
In the minute she had to herself, Connie listed the churches she had visited with Bill. One was in Arco, a town whose claim to fame was that it was the first in the world to be lit by nuclear power; another was deep in Owyhee County, a neat, humble building surrounded by saplings and situated on a square of green in the blue sagebrush expanse. This desolate site had been chosen because of its location, in-between the two towns it served. Then there was the one in Horseshoe Bend, a picturesque town in the crease between two gentle slopes. Walking at Bill’s side toward the church, she had heard the voice of a creek and felt nothing but happiness.
There was a new ease to their conversations during the long drives. Bill told Connie stories from his mission that he didn’t tell in the presentation.
A child tricked his mother into being baptized by telling her that afterward she could eat for free in the hospital kitchen. When she found out this wasn’t true, she threatened to put a curse on Bill if he didn’t reverse the baptism and give her back her soul. After arguing with her for several minutes, Bill, exasperated, said, “Abracadabra,” and did a waving motion over her head. The woman left satisfied.
(Bill’s laughter allowed Connie to laugh. None of the other Dorcases, perhaps no one else in Idaho, had seen this: how, when Bill laughed, his eyes pinched at the outer edges, making them appear to be looking outward in separate directions—wild, in such a tame face.)
Earlier in his mission, Bill had contracted dysentery, and, delirious, wandered out of the hospital and into a stranger’s house, where he fell asleep on the sofa. In the morning, the stranger asked him if he wanted breakfast.
(
Dysentery
, Connie marveled. It was a disease from novels, not from life.)
Privately, Connie used these stories to assemble a landscape of Bill’s Africa, where a brown river meandered across a savannah, and colorful birds studded the rushes. A warm breeze made the grass bow and rise in waves, as if it were being stroked by the hands of an invisible giant. She visited Bill’s Africa every night before she drifted off to sleep.
Was Connie in love, as Sue had suggested? If she was, she didn’t know it, or, at least, would never allow herself to use the word. There was a dramatic change in her feelings, though, even at a physical level, as if she were breathing more deeply, as if she had climbed one of the walls she had built around herself and was now gulping fresh air and taking in the view. She asked herself questions, just as she had after Reverend Raleigh’s sermon—different questions but in the same dizzy manner: Where was her husband? Was he still alive? Had he tricked another girl into marrying him?
On the latest church visits, while Bill gave his presentation, Connie busied herself: if there had been a meal before, she would wash dishes; if there were children, she would watch them. She told herself this was to make herself more useful, but really it was because only when she heard a group break out in laughter when they saw the upside-down slide did she feel the fact of Bill’s dishonesty painfully lodged in her, like a burr.
Once, a woman picking up her baby from the nursery said, “You and your husband are doing great work, Mrs. Howard.” Connie didn’t correct her. To do so might have embarrassed the woman.
“Milk, hon?” Sue called from the kitchen.
“A little,” said Connie.
Sue returned holding the handles of two mugs in one hand and a box of sugar in the other. Spoons rang the mugs like bells when she set them down.
“All right, change of subject,” Sue said. “Did you hear Marlene Bailey got engaged?”
“No. To who?”
“Angie Wilder’s boy. He’s been livin’ in Boise the past few years. Good kid. Quite a bit younger than Marlene, though.”
“Well, I hope she won’t be leaving us,” Connie said. Marlene was the church organist whom Connie revered.
“No, Angie said Jeff’s gonna move back to Eula.”
“It’s Jeff?” Connie remembered this boy, and he
was
young for Marlene. In fact, he had sung in the youth choir—Connie remembered his strong baritone voice. Marlene would have led him in youth choir when he was in high school.
“Yep, Jeff,” said Sue. “Connie, are you all right?”
“That makes me so sad, for some reason,” Connie said, forgetting herself.
“Because he’s so young?” Sue asked.
“No. I don’t know why.”
With effort, Sue scooted toward Connie. She took the mug from Connie, set it on the table, and held both Connie’s hands in her own. “I know why, hon.” Connie gave her a dazed look as if Sue really could tell her. “It’d be good for you to find a fella,” Sue whispered.
“Oh,” said Connie.
Sue nodded.
“Sue, I thought you knew. I’m still married,” Connie said, pulling her hand away from Sue to show her her ring. “I never divorced.”
Sue, who could cry at the mention of a pet’s illness (Connie had witnessed this at the Dorcas Circle), released Connie’s hands to grab a tissue. She inhaled to say something, thought better of it, and lifted her glasses to wipe her eyes.
That evening at dinner, Gene surprised Connie by breaking the silence with his loud, high-pitched voice. It made her jump. “Don’t be sad, Mom,” he said.
“Thank you, Gene,” Connie said. “I am a little down. It’ll pass.”
Gene finished his meal and went to his room to work, Connie assumed, on his charts and drawings, but Connie stayed at the table staring down into the crinkled aluminum shell that had held her potpie. Marlene Bailey was, to her, an inspiration, a model Christian—talented, bright, and exceedingly humble. Sunday mornings she would sway crazily over the organ, her long, frizzy hair falling over her face, unself-conscious, in an ecstasy, playing for the Lord. Music and the church were the whole of her life. Now the church would lose her to this boy. Connie didn’t want Marlene to get married, because it would taint her and make her less holy. But Connie checked herself. These thoughts seemed Catholic and, therefore, wrong. Didn’t the Bible say, “to avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband”? Devout Protestants were encouraged to marry.
It dawned on her: while Marlene was single, Connie could hope that her own abandoned state would make her holier. Now she would just be alone.
W
ALKING INTO THE
Eula Public Library, one might wonder for a moment if one had mistakenly entered a daycare. Tattered picture books were crowded into short bookshelves, which were arranged in a ring around a center area filled with bean-bag chairs and child-sized tables. The walls were covered with children’s drawings, and there was even a terrarium containing two despondent tortoises. One had to pass through this children’s area to find the circulation desk and, beyond it, a small reference section. Books of fiction were shelved on a narrow mezzanine, and everything else was in the low-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit basement.