by Juliette Fay
“Oh, Tug, hi!” she panted. Her pitted skin and noisy inhalations made Janie think she must be a heavy smoker. “Didn’t recognize you with your new friends, here! Such a little sweetie girl!” she said, giving the baby a chuck under the chin. “What’s your name, honey?”
“That’s Carly,” said Tug patiently, “and this is her mother, Janie.”
“Oh!” said Rena, grinning a little too broadly.
“I just finished some construction at their house, so we thought we’d celebrate.”
“Well, that’s wonderful! What a generous employer!” Rena nodded at Janie, who looked startled.
“I’ll have the turkey club,” Tug said quickly, “fruit instead of fries, and a chocolate milk. Janie?” She ordered a spinach salad, and Rena scurried away.
“Hey,” Janie said, taking a jar of baby food out of her purse. “You actually like chocolate milk?”
“Absolutely,” said Tug. “Who doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, I just never heard anyone over the age of twelve order it at a restaurant before.”
“Their loss.”
They chatted about the diner and how things in general had changed over the years. Tug had grown up in Natick, the next town over, but had inherited the cottage his grandfather had built on the shore of Lake Pequot here in Pelham. He had gutted and rebuilt it himself when he’d moved back from Worcester almost a year ago. He liked that only two pairs of hands had ever worked on the house—his grandfather’s and his. Janie told him about buying the house she’d grown up in, and her mother’s now apparent disaffection for the place. She even told him about the letter, and her mother’s offer to have Janie move to Italy with her.
“You’re not going, though,” said Tug. “I mean, does that even appeal to you?”
“A little, it does. You know, it’s Italy, so that’s pretty interesting. And the kids are young enough to make the transition. And we wouldn’t be surrounded by so many reminders of what we’ve lost.” She fed Carly strained carrots, sliding the rubberized spoon around the messy little chin to wipe up the overflow. “But when I actually think about going, I can’t imagine it. Everything we know is here. And…I don’t know…I just like that house. My mother thinks I’ve turned into her, but I don’t feel like her. I don’t feel trapped. I feel a lot of other miserable things, but not that. And I’m pretty sure misery is portable, so in the end, moving doesn’t really solve anything.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“What?” She swiped a hand across her mouth in case some vestige of her salad had detoured.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re pretty clearheaded for someone who thinks she’s such a wreck.”
“I have moments of clarity,” she said. “But, trust me, they’re brief.” It was a nice compliment, though. And even though she didn’t really believe it, she retained it, tucking it away to remember later, in private. She changed the subject. “Why the fruit?” she asked as he popped a grape in his mouth. “You drink chocolate milk, but fries are a little too adolescent?”
“Nah,” he said. “Fried food slows you down. In my line of work I have to stay nimble. Doesn’t help much on the ball field, either.” He sliced a grape into quarters. “Can she have them?” he asked, nodding at Carly.
“Oh…uh, I haven’t given her grapes, yet…and I can’t remember when that’s supposed to be okay,” she stammered. “With Dylan I was so on top of stuff like that.”
“She’ll be fine as long as they’re cut up.”
“How do you know?”
“We babysat my nieces all the time when they were little. The younger one would eat as many grapes as you’d give her. Man, those were some nasty diapers. I didn’t make that mistake too often!”
They watched as Carly studied the grape sections, pinching one tightly between her thumb and forefinger and taking it to her lips. She rolled it around in her mouth, gnashing at it with her mostly toothless gums, then swallowed. Immediately she went back for another.
Tug smiled. “Better get to the market and pick up some grapes. Bigger diapers might be a good idea, too.”
They finished up the last bites of lunch. Rena brought over the bill and handed it to Janie.
“That’s for me,” Tug said, taking it from Janie’s hands.
“Oh, sorry!” trilled Rena. “My mistake!”
“I’ll pay my part,” said Janie.
“I invited you.” He quickly tucked a credit card into the plastic folder and handed it back to Rena. “Besides, I’ll write it off as a business expense. ‘Lunch with client.’”
“Am I still a client?” she asked. “All the work is done.”
“You are until I pay this bill.”
In the parking lot the heat engulfed them, rising off the asphalt like vaporized tar. Janie started her car to get the air conditioner running, and put the baby in her seat. Tug was giving her final instructions about letting the stain dry for twenty-four hours before stepping on it or placing any furniture. Furniture? she thought. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she’d need to put something out there once it was built. And who would help her decide what to buy? Tug would be long gone. She stared at his face, which had grown so familiar to her, as if he were now part of her house, like a door or a post that was always there. Except that he would not be there, perhaps ever again. His lips were moving, but she wasn’t making any sense of what came out of them.
“So…,” he said, with dismaying finality. “Thanks for hiring me.”
“I didn’t,” she responded dumbly. “Robby did.”
“True,” he said, squinting away for a moment. “Well, thanks for rehiring me, then.”
It was a joke, but Janie couldn’t find the humor. “Thanks for everything, Tug,” she said quickly, before her chin began to tremble. “Really, it’s great.” She got in the car and drove home.
17
FRIDAY, AUGUST 31
It’s been a long week. No camp, and school doesn’t start till next Tuesday, so Dylan hasn’t had much to occupy him. He was wearing his goggles all day every day, until I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I told him he could wear them an hour in the morning and an hour before dinner. He whines for them at odd times during the day, which is even more annoying than having to look at him with the stupid goggles on, but I had to draw a line somewhere.
I took him and Keane to Town Beach yesterday. They must have raced in and out of the water six zillion times, throwing their little bodies around like they were made of Silly Putty. And Dylan didn’t ask for the goggles even once! At the beach, for godsake!
It’s been so quiet around here. No banging. No requests to change the roofline from basic triangle to geodesic dome or anything. I found Dylan sitting on the new porch one afternoon (goggles on, of course) right where he and Tug had been talking baseball that time. Just sitting there. When he saw me he took the goggles off, but he didn’t get up. He’s only a little boy, but sometimes there seems to be an ache inside him that’s grown-up sized. Or maybe it’s more of a reflection of my own ache. Which seems to be getting worse, not better. So much for the healing effects of time.
Aunt Jude hijacked me yesterday and took me back to the soup kitchen. Beryl wasn’t there—en route to parts unknown, I guess. Malcolm was, though, and this time he wrote to his sister’s son, mostly to give instructions. Make sure she has enough root beer and don’t let her be alone too much, stuff like that.
Then he talked about how Mary Alice loved beach roses, always picked them whenever there was a rare trip to the ocean when they were young. Malcolm guessed that his nephew didn’t know this. He said kids only know what they need to know about their mothers, like how much trouble they’ll get in if they get caught pinching cigarettes from the drugstore. But they don’t pay too much attention to the things that give “some small comfort against the daily heartache of motherhood.” He had no idea of what might have consoled his own poor mother, and wished he had. The bitter tenderness of this comment has stayed with me all da
y.
Malcolm asked whether Oregon even had beach roses, and if so, did Oregon have the same seasons as we do here in Massachusetts, where it is now summer. (Clearly didn’t pay too much attention in geography class, but as I get to know him, I can see that he may have been dealing with much tougher issues than whether Oregon, though part of North America, might nonetheless be in the Southern Hemisphere.) In any case, if it happened to be summer there on the West Coast, Malcolm asked his nephew to go to the beach and pick some roses for Mary Alice.
There were backup suggestions, like, if not, grab some regular old roses from a neighbor’s yard, but do it just before sunrise when people sleep the deepest, so he’d be less likely to get caught. I wondered if I should be typing instructions for petty larceny, but I looked to Aunt Jude and her eyes weren’t blinking fast, like they do when she gets worked up, but were soft and sad, so I figured it was a go.
Beach roses. Comfort against the heartache of motherhood.
AFTER CHURCH AT IMMACULATE Conception in Natick, Dylan begged to go to Cormac’s for a cupcake, and Aunt Jude was no help. “Get the boy a cupcake,” she whispered to Janie, but loud enough for Dylan to hear her and take heart. “You want him to like church, don’t you?”
“How is going to Cormac’s for cupcakes going to make him like church, for godsake?”
“He associates it with something nice, for goodness’ sake,” said Aunt Jude, raising those over-penciled eyebrows in such a way that almost made Janie laugh.
Janie was not ready to bump into Barb yet, but she realized that bumping was inevitable, given their constant proximity, and given that soon they would actually be…related. But Barb wasn’t there when they came through the heavy glass door of the confectionary. Janie was annoyed at how relieved she felt. What are you—twelve? she scolded herself.
They were greeted by Cormac, and the sight of a cookie flying through the door of the kitchen behind him, and Uncle Charlie’s unmistakable “GodDAMN this goddamned thing!”
“Eeeeasy Charlie,” came a woman’s voice. “It’s a spatula, not a snow shovel.”
Cormac rolled his eyes. “He’s a gross motor guy in a fine motor world.”
ON LABOR DAY, UNCLE Charlie threw his annual cookout. He invited his old buddies from the dump, and, with encouragement tinged with blackmail from Aunt Brigid, the employees of Cormac’s Confectionary, his “new place of business.” The blackmail to which Aunt Brigid vaguely referred had something to do with a picture of Charlie from their younger days, possibly doing something not-so-masculine. Janie and Cormac peppered her with questions, but she locked her lips and threw the imaginary key over her shoulder.
Of course Barb came, too. Janie was fairly certain that Cormac had relayed the fact that her pictures were now prominently displayed. Half the apology had been delivered. It was the other half, the face-to-face, let’s-all-be-friends-now part that made Janie itch.
It had been tempting to arrive late and, with the proximity of other guests for cover, whip off a quick, “Sorry about the last time I saw you, I was having a bad day.” But Janie knew it was spineless and relied shamelessly on Barb’s pitying the poor widow.
When Janie entered the McGrath kitchen with a platter of veggies and Carly on her opposite hip, Aunt Brigid and Barb had just finished shaping spiced ground beef into burgers. She greeted them both with quick kisses on their cheeks and asked how the preparations were going.
Barb turned to scrub her hands in the sink, looking self-consciously out the window at Uncle Charlie and Cormac who were carrying a picnic table, each attempting to walk to a different spot. When she had dried her hands, she turned to Janie. Her look was unmistakable. It said, I may streak my hair to an alarming degree, and I may pay too much attention to my accessories, and I may seem like a lightweight in every category you can come up with. But I am here. And I am in it for the long haul. And I am not putting up with any crap from you, no matter what you’ve been through. Or so it seemed to Janie. An act of consequence was required.
Janie told Barb, “Carly has something to show you.” She stood Carly on the floor, and said, “Go get Barb! Go get your new auntie!” Seeming to sense the importance of this particular performance, Carly stormed toward Barb, arms outstretched, a slender thread of drool escaping from her openmouthed smile. The women erupted into applause as Barb caught her up and covered her soft cheeks with congratulatory kisses. Barb’s nod to Janie indicated the peace offering had been accepted.
Later in the afternoon, while Cormac was spinning Dylan around by his arms, and Carly was asleep on Barb’s shoulder, Janie told her, “The pictures are beautiful. Sorry I was such an ass.”
Barb’s gratified smile belied her casual, “You just needed to get used to them.”
“I appreciate your giving me some slack,” said Janie. “But don’t give me too much.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” said Barb, rubbing her cheek against the baby’s black hair.
Cormac had been conscripted, as was tradition, to bake a cake for the Labor Day bash. In years past there had been cakes made in the shapes of dump equipment (like the giant trash compactor), cakes made with the likenesses of retiring employees, and one memorable cake decorated with favorite quotes. These included: “Stevie, get that pile over there. Oh, wait. That’s Bob”; “Where’s the Take It or Leave It for naughty children?”; “Smells like my wife’s Baked Bean and Cauliflower Supreme”; and the perennial favorite, “Do I need a dump sticker if I’m only taking things home?”
This year, when the cake was brought out of hiding, it had been fashioned in the shape of a huge, muscular arm, flexing its bicep. Grasped in the fisted hand was an oversized chocolate chip cookie. Uncle Charlie groaned. His dump buddies made merciless fun of him. One of Cormac’s baker ladies gave him a little pat on the shoulder and said, “Welcome to hell, big guy.”
BY EARLY EVENING, CARLY had been awake long enough to be sleepy again, and Dylan’s icing-sticky cheeks were drooping with fatigue. Janie gathered up the kids and the diaper bag and the empty veggie platter and loaded the car. The drive home led them past Pelham Ball Field, where the Pelham Stealing Geezers were playing some new opponent.
Dylan perked up at the sight of the red shirts. “Is that Tug’s team? Is Tug playing?”
“He might be,” said Janie. “I’m not sure.” She, too, had scanned the Geezers bench for Tug, but was too far away to make out one player from another.
“Can we stop? I want to watch the game!” insisted Dylan, removing his goggles for a better view.
“No, honey, we need to get to bed. Tomorrow’s the first day of school, remember?”
“But I want to see Tug.”
“I know, and we’ll see him sometime,” said Janie. Feeling compelled to adjust his expectations so he wouldn’t be let down, she added, “Dylan, Tug doesn’t come to our house anymore. He was only there to build the porch, and it’s all done now.”
“Is he still our friend?”
“Well, I guess,” she said. “But it’s not like it used to be.”
Dylan put his goggles back on and rode silently home.
THE COFFEE WAS BREWING by 5:45 the next morning. The entire family had been awake since 5:30, fluttering and scurrying as if they had three and a half minutes, not hours, to get ready for school. Dylan decided that he didn’t like his Clifford the Big Red Dog backpack anymore, and Janie had to dig through the eaves for an old backpack from her camping days. By the time she found it, Carly was hopping around in her crib, screeching to be fed.
Janie felt the need to give the kids something hearty for breakfast, so instead of Rice Krispies and apple slices, it was scrambled eggs and turkey bacon, which seemed to take ages to get crisp. Dylan loaded his lunch box and emergency clothing bag into the old backpack, said it smelled funny, and wanted his Clifford backpack back. Somehow three and a half hours flew by, as they managed their excitement and trepidation by doing everything the hard way.
Dylan was not with Miss Marla this
year; he was in the pre-kindergarten class with Miss Sharon, who was known for being very good at getting kids ready for kindergarten. Miss Sharon was big on self-help skills. Her students zipped their own jackets and were responsible for making sure their artwork made it to their own cubbies. The word in the parking lot, where minivans vied for the choicest spots, and where mothers and nannies lingered before speeding off to the supermarket, workplace, or gym, was that Miss Sharon was a hard-ass.
“What’s my teacher’s name again?” asked Dylan. “Keane’s in my class, right?” as he skip-walked toward the front door. Janie had answered these and 150 other questions all the way to school, so she knew he was just talking for talking’s sake. Maybe questions are a child’s rosary, she mused.
“Dylan, you had a nice breakfast, and you have all your stuff, and your teacher, Miss Sharon, will take good care of you. Keane will be there, and I’ll pick you up after lunch just like I always do. Okay, sweetie? It’s all going to be great, so let’s just get in there and check it out.”
And it was great. Miss Sharon had put out all the best art supplies and blocks and dress-ups. The room was organized down to the last Magic Marker cap. She greeted each child and parent as if they were visiting dignitaries. She had warmth and enthusiasm and competence down pat. First day of school was a Fourth of July clambake for Miss Sharon.
“Parents,” she called to the milling adults, “don’t forget to send in a picture for our Here’s My Family bulletin board. It helps to see those familiar faces when we’re learning to transition!”