Authors: Vestal McIntyre
Kneeling next to him on the floor, Abby said, “Enrique, that’s so cool. No wonder you won.”
Now his affection for Abby and for his project overcame his desire to be a detached observer. “Here’s the posters,” he said, taking them from behind the couch to the kitchen, where he laid them out on the table. “They turned out pretty good. I’m going to color them all in before State.” Abby studied the posters and nodded. “I have to change this one,” Enrique said. “It turns out Lake Overlook isn’t that deep.”
“Was Gene excited to win?” Abby asked.
Enrique put the posters back in a pile. “He dropped out before the science fair.”
“He dropped out?”
At the sound of a basketball being dribbled up the walk, Enrique positioned himself so he could see the front door. “Yeah,” he said absently, “Gene was being kind of a pain. He kept wanting to change directions, like, change the project to be about how lake overturn could happen at all the different lakes all over the world. And when I didn’t let him, he dropped out.”
Jay threw open the door, then stood there with the ball propped between his hip and arm. He wore his letterman’s jacket over his basketball uniform, and his hair was still wet. At the sight of the visitor, his eyebrows leaped and his face opened. “Hey, Abby,” he said. “Hey, little brother.”
“Hey, Jay,” said Abby.
“You’re letting in the cold,” Enrique said.
Jay went to his room, then emerged carrying a towel, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. A minute later the hiss of the shower started. Jay had never called Enrique “little brother” before; this was one result to be filed away and analyzed later.
“Well,” Abby said, “you might want to get Gene back on board. The State Science Fair is pretty big and goes all day long. You need someone to man the ship if you want to walk around or go to the bathroom.”
An idea occurred to Enrique. “Do you think . . . Would you want to be my partner?” he asked shyly.
Abby laughed. “First of all, I can’t. I’m in high school, so I’m not allowed. Second of all, I’m too busy. And third, this was partly Gene’s idea, and he should be your partner. But,” she said, pinching his shoulder, “if it weren’t for those reasons, I’d have loved to be your partner.”
Enrique smiled. Anyone else would have called his offer “sweet,” but not Abby. Of all the girls he had ever been friends with, she was his favorite.
When Enrique walked Abby out, Lina pulled up. “Hello, Abby,” she said as she climbed out of her car. She seemed relaxed and genuinely happy to see the girl.
“Hi, Mrs. Cortez.”
“Thanks so much for helping my Enrique with his project.” She ruffled Enrique’s hair and pulled him, by the top of his head, toward her.
“It was my pleasure,” Abby said. “He just showed it to me. It’s the best ever. He could really win State.”
Abby and Lina both smiled down at Enrique in a moment of uncomfortable silence. Abby seemed to like his mom. Would she still, if she knew? Enrique hypothesized no. The situation offered Enrique one final and definitive experiment. But did he have the nerve?
“Well,” Lina said, “I’m going to get dinner on. Good night.”
“Abby,” Enrique said when they were alone again, “could you give me a ride to the Circle-K?”
“Sure. Is it all right with your mom?”
“Yeah. I can walk home and be back before dinner’s ready.”
They got into Abby’s car and drove through the bad part of the trailer park, then out past the used-car dealership where strings of plastic pennants hung limply in the cold air.
Jay, toweling off after his shower, wished that he had brought in fresh clothes, for now he was stuck walking back out into the living room in a towel or in his sweat-soaked uniform. He opted for the uniform. How could he show Abby he was more than just a dumb jock? Although he had given up on Liz, it wouldn’t hurt to somehow convey something positive to her through Abby. For Jay to pretend interest in Enrique’s project at this late hour would be too transparent. Maybe he could ask politely after Abby’s parents, or Liz herself.
But when he opened the door to the chilly living room, it was Lina who sat at the table, sorting through mail. Enrique and Abby were gone.
Abby parked at the Circle-K and turned her gentle smile on Enrique. The oddness of having asked her for such a short ride, in effect, trapped Enrique; he didn’t want to seem too lazy to walk or too clingy to let her go. So he spat it out: “There’s something going on between my mom and your dad.”
Abby’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes deepened in compassion. Enrique was sure she thought he was crazy, or childishly inventing things.
But what she said was, “I was wondering if you knew yet.”
Had
he known? He thought he had. He had reached that conclusion. But the force of the fact now hit him in a different way. His experiment bubbled over a little.
“How did you find out?” Abby asked gently.
Enrique shrugged. “I just added up the evidence. How did
you
?”
“I came home early one day and . . . heard them.”
Enrique winced. It was too real. “When?” he coughed.
“Couple weeks ago. Before Thanksgiving. It bothers you, doesn’t it, Enrique?”
“Of course it does!”
Abby nodded and looked down.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Enrique asked.
Abby grimaced and wrinkled her nose, as if she were admitting to a nasty habit. She shook her head no.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Maybe what they’re doing is wrong, but it makes my dad happy. And it’s really important for my dad to be happy. He needs it more than other people do. Not just because of my mom’s illness. It’s almost like his life depends on it—on staying happy. It’s been that way for a few years. So I guess I give him more leeway—I make more allowances for him than other kids do their parents. It’s hard to explain. I’m sure it doesn’t make sense to you.”
“They’re not supposed to.” In saying this, Enrique heard how it sounded like something whimpered in the school yard:
No fair! I’ll tell!
Again, Abby gave him a smile that united embarrassment and compassion. “I know,” she said. “It probably should bother me. It just doesn’t.”
“Does your dad know you know?” Enrique asked.
“No. Does your mom know
you
know?”
“No.”
Enrique couldn’t think of anything else to say, but he didn’t want to leave Abby’s car. He felt safe here.
After a minute, Abby said, “How about, when you need to talk about this stuff, you call me, and when I need to talk about it, I’ll call you. Okay? We’ll be partners after all.”
Enrique smiled.
A
cross the table from Connie and Bill, Kaye Horton chattered away as her husband, Cal, turned over lettuce leaves with his fork and piled peas and carrot shreds into a reject pile. Like most farmers, including Connie’s father, he appeared to distrust raw vegetables. “Theresa has an allergy to penicillin, I guess, and when she got that shot she puffed up just like a puffer fish.” Kaye paused to puff up her cheeks, laughed, then continued: “And that was the least of her worries. Few days later her son got sent home from school for refusin’ to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. They said it was for arguin’ with the teacher, but that’s what they were arguin’ about, so take yer pick. Kyle—that’s her boy—said that he couldn’t salute a country that allowed the murder of the unborn and he couldn’t stand, because it would be to stand on the bodies of all those babies. Well, Theresa sure was mad, but I told her to stand up for him. He’s doin’ what he believes. I would never refuse to give the Pledge, but I see his point. He’s real adamant about it. Says he wants to take up the cause and go on the clinic circuit, soon as he’s old enough. What do you think, reverend?”
Her yarn had so quickly come to a point that it appeared to catch Bill off-guard, and he stammered, “Well, I suppose the boy should follow the rules of the school, and find another way to protest.”
“Well, you’re on Cal’s side then,” Kaye said with a disappointed air, turning to her salad. “When Cal heard the whole thing he says, ‘If that kid don’t want to salute our flag, then he can just go to Helsinki.’ ”
Connie winced with embarrassment, and Cal seemed to awaken. “I said that!” Cal said.
“ ’Course you did!” Kaye swatted him. “I said so, if you were listenin’! He gits so mad if someone steals one of his jokes.”
Connie offered a sniff of laughter—to refuse to give Kaye anything would have been rude—while Bill drew his lips tight into an apologetic expression, the same one he wore when he entered a room to speak—apologizing, it seemed, for having the gall to believe himself worth listening to. His head ducked, his eyes flicked around, ready, if they should be caught by someone, to trigger a shy smile. Kaye’s prattle seemed to Connie such a waste of Bill’s time, when he was used to eating dinner with the other missionaries and planning their work. Why had they invited him to this event? And who? Connie suspected Sue Deal.
The Dorcases, their husbands, and a few of their children who were of that special age of having outgrown babysitters and having not yet outgrown their parents were gathered at the home of Pamela Hendrick for the salad course of their annual progressive dinner. The point of the progressive dinner was food, fellowship, and the enjoyment of each other’s homes, decorated for the holidays. It was also a chance to thank the church staff for their work. Although Reverend Keane, the head minister, hadn’t come, Reverend McNally and his wife had, and Sissy, the church secretary. It had been a surprise to Connie that Bill had been invited.
The group had started at Bess Morgan’s for appetizers composed of tiny piles of meat and cheese melted onto crackers. Bess, who always tried to do something striking and unusual with her decorations, had dressed her tree only in red lights and red bows, put red lightbulbs in the plastic candelabra in the window, then refused to turn on the lights in her living room, which resulted in an atmosphere like that of a sleazy bar lit by neon beer signs. But Connie tried not to judge, since she, as the resident of a trailer, could not host a course of the progressive dinner, and instead contributed to the main course that was served at one of the larger houses. Pamela’s decorations, on the other hand, were modest and tasteful. Her tree was covered in decorations she had bought over the years at the Mennonite store, where volunteers sold crafts made by the poor people of their missions around the world: angels woven from dried banana leaves and the like.
At every turn this evening, Bill had been gently nudged toward Connie—embarrassing, especially when she caught Reverend McNally looking. Here, for example, Pamela had put out place cards and seated Connie and Bill together, as she had the married couples.
“What language do they speak in the Ivory Coast?” Cal asked Bill.
“French is the official language, although there are dozens of tribal languages.”
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what French women use as antiperspirant?”
Kaye interrupted: “Don’t you dare, Cal!”
Connie looked around for an escape. In the kitchen, a girl was forcing the family’s dog, a beautiful greyhound, to dance with her. The poor thing took big, tapping steps with its hind feet and ducked its head in shame. Connie could help Pamela, who had risen to clear dishes, but that would abandon Bill to the Hortons. Then she spotted Maxine Sedgwick attempting to simultaneously tend to her daughter Janice and eat from the salad plate she held in one hand. Maxine only attended meetings of the Dorcas Circle occasionally, when her husband could stay at home with Janice, who was perhaps twenty now but had Down’s syndrome. Janice’s eyes, under their puffy lids, seemed to overproduce tears, and Maxine wiped them away with a handkerchief she kept tucked into her watchband. On the Sunday morning years ago when the family first appeared at church, Connie had thought that this mother was comforting her daughter, who was weeping through the sermon. Janice proved to be a sweet girl, bright in her way, affectionate, and unaware, as far as Connie could tell, of her condition. Connie always made a point of chatting with her, not only out of kindness but because it was a relief to Connie, who usually measured what she said so carefully, to spend ten minutes discussing whose dog had recently had puppies, or the advantages of laced versus slip-on shoes, or how having a birthday in January didn’t necessarily make one older than someone whose birthday was in February.
“Maxine, sit down, please,” Connie said. “I’m done with my salad. Here—have you met Bill Howard?”
“No,” said Maxine, “but I’ve seen his presentation. It’s a pleasure, reverend.”
Now Bill and Maxine could talk—the Hortons had turned to bicker with each other anyway—while Connie watched Janice.
“What a pretty sweater!” Connie said.
“Thanks, Mrs. Anderson,” Janice replied, giving Connie a little hug.
Connie allowed her arm to remain around the girl’s shoulder. “I think that you’re old enough to call me Connie.”
“Really?” Janice said, brightening, as if Connie had given her a big, bow-wrapped box.
“Do you want some salad?” Connie asked.
“I ate my mom’s radishes.”
“Oh? I don’t really like radishes.”
“No one does,” Janice said, “but they’re my favorite.”
Some minutes later, Pamela called from the head of the table, “Folks? Folks? No rush, of course, but if you don’t know how to get to the Russells’ house out on Orchard, you might want to join the caravan, which will leave in about five minutes. It’s our main course, so you don’t want to get lost!”
There was a murmur both of intrigue and approval, and Cal Horton, apparently ready for some real food, hoorayed. Connie, though, felt suddenly uneasy. Bill had ridden with her thus far, but now she had to go home and pick up the ham before proceeding to the Russells’. It was vain, she knew—Bill would never judge her—yet she didn’t want him to see her trailer.
“Janice,” said Connie, “would you like to ride with me? I have to pick up a ham at my house, and I could use your help.”
“Really?” Janice said.
“Sure, just let me ask your mom.” Connie went to the table and placed her hand on Maxine’s shoulder. Bill stopped mid-sentence and smiled up at Connie. “Maxine, I’ll trade you. You can take Bill in your car and continue your conversation, and I’ll take Janice in mine.”
“All right,” said Maxine.
Bill nodded. The whole thing seemed perfectly natural.
“Does it move?” This was Janice’s reaction when Connie pulled into her parking spot.
It took her a second to realize what Janice meant. “I suppose it would, if you put wheels on it and dragged it behind a truck. But it hasn’t moved since I’ve lived here, and that’s been a very long time.”
“My grandpa has a motor home,” Janice said.
They entered the trailer, where Gene sat slumped in the easy chair. He didn’t move until he saw Connie had someone with her, then he hunched his shoulders, bristling like a cat. Janice, on the other hand, gazed at Gene, blinking shyly, her pink tongue filling her gaping jaw to the lip, the way a powder puff fills a compact. Her stocking cap had been pulled down past her eyebrows, and her puffy ski jacket rode up a little, exposing a strip of her belly, which looked like white marble striated with blue veins. Patches of wetness glistened under her eyes and nose.
“Gene, you know Janice Sedgwick.”
“Hi,” Janice said in a horn-like toot.
Gene glanced at Janice, then turned a raised shoulder toward her, as if to shield his eyes from the interruption as he continued watching TV. “Gene, say hello,” Connie hissed. It was rare for Connie to bring home a guest, but that was certainly no excuse for Gene’s rudeness.
“Hello.”
Connie went into the tiny kitchen and, using pot holders, removed the roasting pan from the oven.
“What are you watching?” Janice asked.
Gene didn’t answer.
Connie put the pan down on the stove with a bang. “Gene, the young lady asked you a question!” she said. In the seconds that followed, Connie watched Janice. She continued to blink at Gene, but took a couple of shuffling steps backward and groped unconsciously with one hand—was it for her mother?
“
Cosmos
,” Gene answered. “It’s a show about outer space.”
Connie searched his face. The fuzz of his sideburns had grown into wisps, which threatened to cross his cheeks and make contact with his mustache. Each feature seemed to struggle to shut out everything except the TV screen—the lips gathered into a purple bunch, the eyebrows drew low, like awnings. Why was he so angry? Of course, it was Gene, and the answer was simple: he was angry that his show had been interrupted, that was all. Then Connie looked to Janice, whose features, grouped together like an island in her chinless expanse of a face, were similar to Gene’s except each was a picture of openness—her mouth, her nostrils, and those beady eyes struggling toward comprehension. Connie couldn’t help it. She thought the awful thought:
I would trade
.
“Janice,” she said, “hold the door open for me, please.”
Connie took the roasting pan and left without another word to Gene.
“If you go down Tenth Street,” said Janice, “we can see the lights.”
“Oh?” Connie said, feigning ignorance. The residents of Tenth Street had, for as long as Connie could remember, tried to outdo each other with their Christmas decorations.
“I’ll show you,” said Janice.
So they took this detour and Janice pointed out plastic reindeer and trees encrusted with twinkling lights, and Connie gasped and said, “Isn’t that pretty!” while the thought haunted her.
I would trade
. She felt less shameful than sad, for Gene and for herself. It was an injustice both of them had suffered, that Gene had been born to her. It was certainly part of God’s plan, and she accepted it, but it wasn’t fair. This was a heavy, heavy thought, and it helped to know that she would soon walk into a warm room that contained, among others, Bill.
He would be leaving before Christmas, and she would no longer have that next drive to look forward to. She would no longer pull up to the parsonage and wait those wonderful seconds before he emerged, waving, with an awkward smile, as he pulled on his jacket. What would she do then?
The windows of the Russells’ house had steamed up by the time Connie and Janice arrived. Choral music thick with sleigh bells played in the background, candlelight warmed every corner, and the smell of gravy was heavy in the air. All eyes were on Mr. Russell, who braced a turkey with a great fork, and gently guided an electric knife through the flesh, letting slices fold down onto a pile. This was the nice thing about the progressive dinner—each course had its own color, mood, and aroma.
Connie went to the kitchen and handed off the roasting pan to Binnie Russell, then went to the dining room and saw that a seat had been saved for her, again, next to Bill. This time she didn’t mind. The Dorcases were her friends—she tended to forget that—and they saw the road she had traveled. They saw that it had been unfair, and they were trying to hand her a little happiness. They were clumsy about it, but it was well-intended.
Connie had not yet made it to her seat, though, when Binnie burst from the kitchen carrying the roasting pan, and shouted, “Folks! I hate to interrupt, but I cannot cut into this until you’ve all seen it. Just
look
what Connie Anderson brought!”
Connie admitted to herself that the ham, which she hadn’t bothered to uncover before, was glorious. Dotted lines made of cloves snaked between pineapple-ring-and-maraschino-cherry bull’s-eyes, creating a crazy pattern like the sixties wallpaper her mother had hung in the bathroom when Connie was a child. Behind this pattern, the meat glowed a honeyed pink like sweaty, sunburned skin. The scent, which reached her a second later, was heavenly. Connie had overspent. It would be buttered noodles for her and Gene until Friday’s paycheck, but the applause the group now gave her justified the expense. Connie laughed and covered her face with one hand as she slipped into her chair.
Sue Deal, at the far end of the table, managed to say to her husband, “Look at her!” before she was choked by a noose of happiness, and tears sprang to her eyes. She had never seen Connie laugh with her mouth open and her short, regular teeth showing like that. She was pretty. “Thank you, Lord,” Sue whispered. Connie had been at the top of her prayer list since that day they had had coffee.
The group fell to eating, and Connie, feeling a bit overcome by the attention, sat back and listened to Bill answer the questions of those seated across the table. These questions were the same she had heard asked many times: what religion were the Africans, were they responsive to Bill’s mission, and that silly one, were there any dangerous animals there? Connie paid less attention to Bill’s answers than to the interplay between him and his listeners. Dale Russell, the man of the house, was so insistent in his affirmations as Bill spoke, “Yep, uh-huh, right, right . . . ,” that at one point Bill paused, apparently assuming Dale had something to say. But Dale paused, too, so Bill went on, having learned that that’s just how Eulans listened, nudging the speaker along like a border collie herding sheep. Bill wasn’t like that. When he listened it was with a steady, wordless gaze that sometimes caused the speaker to seek affirmation: “Do ya see what I mean?” Then Bill would answer in a way that assured the speaker that he had not only been listening, but considering what had been said more closely and intelligently than anyone else present.