Evening News

by Marly Swick

  She couldn’t run. Her moon boots were magnetized to the surface of the planet. She woke up screaming. She lay in bed panting, letting her heart rate return to normal. Her mind sent a message to her legs that it was time to get up, but her legs lay there like iron girders, too heavy to move. Pinned down by the full force of Earth’s gravity. Until she heard Lois pounding on the back door, calling her name. Go away, Giselle thought, but she knew if she didn’t respond, Lois would probably call the police, sure she’d killed herself. She got up and dragged herself to the door.

  “My God!” Lois gasped and took a step backward. “What happened to your eye?”

  At first Lois seemed suspicious, as if Giselle were some battered woman making up a half-cocked story about a champagne cork, until Giselle fished the bottle out of the trash and waved it at her.

  “You sure you don’t want to go to the doctor and have that eye checked?” Lois kept asking on the drive to the supermarket. But Giselle insisted that she was fine. Lois had made it her personal mission to see that Giselle had food in the house. At the store, wearing her dark glasses, she trailed Lois up and down the aisles, talking earnestly about this new exercise machine she’d seen on the infomercial the night before. “Do you want skim or two percent?” Lois butted in as Giselle went on and on, describing how this string of ordinary people had testified as to how the Fitness Flyer had changed their lives. She had copied down the 800 number, she said, and was thinking of ordering one. What did Lois think? Lois said she thought Giselle ought to wait a few days, think about it a little longer. Later, Giselle couldn’t find the scrap of paper on which she’d jotted down the 800 number. She thought Lois must have hidden it. Or taken it for herself. After all, Lois was the exercise fanatic. But she decided not to confront her about it. She knew that Lois meant well. Giselle could tell that Lois was worried about her. A couple of times she had sent Eric over with a plate of dinner for her. Pizza or Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  ***

  That night Dan appeared at the door about suppertime. She offered him a piece of fried chicken, which he declined. From the look on his face you’d think she’d offered him a dead bird. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “what did you do to your face?” She thought about saying she’d been mugged, something to make him feel bad, to make him feel guilty for not being there to protect her, but she just shrugged and said she had walked into an open cupboard door. She didn’t want to mention the champagne. He looked skeptical but didn’t pursue it. He apologized for barging in unannounced; however, he had no choice, he said, since she hadn’t answered the phone or bothered to return his messages. He looked uncomfortable and nervous. There were some books he needed, he said. “Fine” — she shrugged — “go get them. Help yourself. Be my guest.” He hurried into the back of the house and returned several minutes later with a couple of suitcases full of stuff, which he set by the front door. Then he sat on the edge of the armchair opposite the sofa and tried to strike up a conversation. “How are you doing?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he picked up an empty glass and sniffed it, then shook his head.

  “So, how’s the book going?” she asked, perky as a talk-show host. She knew she looked like a slob. If she’d known he was going to show up, she’d have changed her clothes and done something with her hair.

  “I told you, I stopped working on it.”

  “For good?”

  “Look, Giselle, you’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said, ignoring her question. “This is bad. The place looks like a dump. It stinks in here.” He walked over and opened the sliding glass door, then the window behind her. “When’s Teddy coming back?”

  “Why? What do you care?” She picked up the remote and snapped on the TV.

  “Giselle” — he raised his voice — “I’m trying to talk to you.”

  She muted the volume and turned to him. “Do you have anything to say to me?” Her tone was belligerent, but her voice cracked and she turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears.

  He shook his head helplessly.

  “That’s what I thought.” She upped the volume on the TV. He shrugged and walked out with his heavy suitcases balanced in each hand, like the scales of justice. When she heard the car door slam, she leaped up and ran to the window. She stood there watching him drive off, thinking of all the things she already wished she had said. Such as, Please stay. Don’t go.

  ***

  It seemed like later the same night, although it could have been the next night, that Vonnie called her. Giselle had given up answering the phone — it was mostly wrong numbers anyway — but when she heard her big sister’s voice shouting, “Pick up the goddamned phone!” she reached over and picked it up.

  “That bastard called me,” Vonnie announced without preamble. “He says he’s worried about you. Not worried enough to stick around, obviously, but worried enough to call me.”

  “You mean Dan?” The alcohol seemed to have numbed her brain. The synapses moved sluggishly.

  “Yeah, you know, your husband. Hell of a guy.”

  Vonnie and Dan hadn’t really hit it off on Vonnie and Bev’s visit to California. But Giselle hadn’t taken it too much to heart since Vonnie didn’t have much use for men in general. She had always held it against Ed for impregnating her little sister and turning her into a college dropout. As if he had tied her down and forced himself on her.

  “You don’t know what he’s been through, Von. You can’t know what it’s like.”

  “Why are you defending the slime? He walks out on you, and you make excuses for him. It’s sickening. Where’s your backbone?”

  “Leave me alone!” Giselle started to bawl like a baby, great boozy sobs. She whimpered a couple of things into the receiver, which had slipped down to her chest. She could hear her sister saying, “What? I can’t hear you,” and calling her name, “Gigi? Gigi! Are you there?” Her voice sounded tinny and far away, like some angry alien munchkin. “Are you there, Gigi?”

  She must have passed out then. When she woke up, it was nearly midnight. Nightline was on the TV. The phone had slipped between her body and the sofa cushion, beeping like a cricket. She couldn’t remember who she’d been talking to. She shut off the phone and set it on the coffee table. Then she got up and, for form’s sake, hung up the phone and stumbled into the bedroom. As if it made any difference where she slept. Or when.

  ***

  The next morning the phone beside the bed rang. Still asleep, out of habit, she answered it. It was her sister.

  “I’ve made you a plane reservation for this afternoon,” Vonnie informed her in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “To where? What are you talking about?” Her head was pounding. She hoped this wasn’t something they had discussed, something she had agreed to and then forgotten about in an alcoholic haze.

  “Here. To Lincoln.” Vonnie sighed impatiently. “It’s United, flight —”

  “Are you nuts? This afternoon? Forget it. I can’t just pick up and leave. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t.” She sat up and tweezed an opening in the miniblinds to peer out of. Another overcast morning.

  “Why not? Give me one good reason you can’t go.” When Giselle didn’t answer right away, Vonnie continued in a less belligerent tone. “Look, you shouldn’t be alone. I’d come out there, but I really can’t be away from the bar right now.”

  “How’s business?” Giselle asked, trying to change the subject, trying to give herself a minute to think. She couldn’t seem to focus. She knew there must be some reason — reasons — she couldn’t just take off, but she couldn’t think of any just now. Only half awake and hungover. She didn’t even have a cat to feed. But there was Trina to consider. She couldn’t just go off. Someone had to be here. Sometimes in the middle of the night she’d felt something, some presence.

  “Business is good,” Vonnie said. “Don’t change the subject. Now, do you have a pen and paper? I’m going to give you this information. Okay?”

  “
Okay. I guess.” She dutifully scribbled down the flight times that Vonnie dictated. She had never been able to stand up to her big sister, who could be something of a bully, always sure she knew what was right. Now she’d taken the money that Bev had left her, twenty thousand dollars, and sunk it all into this gay bar on O Street. Orlando’s Hideaway. Her parents would die if they knew. Right in their hometown. Giselle could just hear her mother: What will our friends think? Is she trying to humiliate us? What did we do that was so bad?

  “So, okay,” Vonnie said. “I’ll be at the airport at seven-fifty.” Daring her to object.

  Giselle didn’t say anything. She was still busy protesting inside. “For how long?” she asked finally.

  “Two weeks. But you can change it.”

  “I can’t be gone that long. It’s impossible.”

  “I told you, you can change it. I’ll pay the penalty. Don’t worry about it, for chrissakes. Just get your butt on the plane, and we’ll worry about the rest later. All right?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “Good.” There was a slight pause, as if Vonnie were debating whether to get into it. Then she said, “I saw Teddy yesterday. Bumped into him and Ed at Pioneers Park. With that dog, the malamute.”

  “Beowulf,” Giselle said. “How did they seem? I mean, did he seem okay?”

  “Yeah. They looked like they were having a good time. Throwing the Frisbee around. Very family values.”

  “That’s good,” Giselle mumbled. “That’s good.” It was good, but somehow it made her feel like shit. Clearly, Teddy was doing better without her. She should just stay away. But maybe if she stayed away too long, she would never get him back. He’d be gone for good.

  “I’ve got to run,” Vonnie said. “We’re interviewing for a couple of new bartenders. Hey, how about you? You think you could mix a decent martini?” She laughed. “Just kidding. Seriously, though, we’ll have plenty of time to talk when you get here.”

  “Yeah.” Her head was killing her. She thought she might throw up. She hung up as Vonnie was saying good-bye, then raced into the bathroom and stood over the toilet, poised to retch, until the nausea passed as suddenly as it had arrived. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth. Nebraska. The Good Life. She didn’t know how she felt about going, about leaving. Two weeks seemed like a long time. Maybe she would stay a week. Maybe a week would be a nice break. Maybe she could persuade Teddy to come back home with her. They could move into a nice apartment. Maybe they could find a nice complex with a swimming pool. Teddy would like that. Who knows, maybe Dan would realize how much he missed her — missed them. And by then the bad weather would have passed. Nothing but sunshine. Like the license plates said: The Golden State. A billion cars couldn’t be wrong.

  THREE

  Teddy feels just like one of the guys. He loves it here. He never wants to go back to California. At his dad’s place it’s like camping out, a constant party, even though it’s hard work. They are remodeling the old farmhouse, turning the lower floor into the kennel offices and the upper floor into an apartment to live in. His dad’s buddies, Mac and Frito, don’t even bother going home at night. After they knock off work for the day, they all cook up hot dogs or spaghetti or chili and drink beer and watch TV. Mostly they’re all dead tired after a long, hard day of work — sawing, hammering, plastering, painting — and they hit the sack early, curled up in sleeping bags on the two sofas like big slugs. They are behind schedule for the grand opening. Sometimes they fight. They curse and storm off. Yesterday his dad made some comment, and Mac threw down his screwdriver and yelled, “Quit bossing me around! You ain’t paying me enough to put up with this fucking shit.” He got into his old pickup and tore off in a cloud of dust and gravel. When he saw Teddy looking worried, his dad told him it was no big deal. “He’ll be back,” he said. “Hell, we’ve been friends since kindergarten.” And an hour later Mac came back with a bag full of tacos for everyone, just like nothing had happened.

  Nobody looks at him funny or treats him special. Sometimes he forgets about it, the bad stuff, for hours at a time. If they know he killed his sister, which he figures they must, they seem too busy knocking down walls and arguing over whose turn it is to go to the building-supply store to give it much thought. Even his dad seems to have sort of put it out of his mind. At first Teddy could tell that his dad was thinking about it all the time, treating him kind of like he was sick, always asking him how he was doing, but now he’s treating him like a normal kid. Last night he even yelled at him for leaving the hamburger out where Beowulf could get at it. They had to drive to Food 4 Less and buy more meat for supper. His dad was tired and cranky the whole way there and back. Later, as they were getting into bed, his dad apologized, but Teddy didn’t mind. It felt kind of good to be scolded for something dumb. He wanted to tell his dad, but he didn’t know how to explain it.

  He and his dad sleep in twin beds in the guest room because his dad doesn’t want to sleep in his grandparents’ old four-poster bed. Granma Rose has left a lot of her stuff just as it was. Frito says the place looks like a museum. China knicknacks and family photographs in fancy frames. Flowered wallpaper, hooked rugs, lace curtains. The other night Frito said, “Better get rid of this shit or everybody’s gonna think you’re gay like your brother.” His dad just shook his head and said to Teddy, “Don’t listen to him. He’s a moron.”

  There are photographs clustered on a small round table in a corner of what is going to be the new living room. In one picture, Teddy recognized his father and his uncle Brice and another, taller boy who looked a lot like his dad standing in the snow in front of a huge snow fort, looking proud of themselves. “Who’s that other kid?” Teddy had asked his dad the first night he arrived.

  “That was my older brother George. He was killed in a car accident when he was seventeen.”

  “How old were you?” Teddy asked.

  “I was about your age. Well, no, actually a couple of years older. Eleven. I’d just turned eleven. It happened the day before my birthday. I remember because we canceled the party and nobody said anything about opening my presents even though there were a couple of boxes sitting on the buffet all wrapped up. I got up after everyone was asleep and opened them by myself. Afterward I felt real guilty. I tried to sort of wrap them back up, but it didn’t work.”

  Teddy walked over and put his hand on his dad’s shoulder. His dad stopped looking sad and whipped him off the ground in a big bear hug. His dad was on the wrestling team in high school. One of Teddy’s few clear memories of before California was wrestling on a gold shaggy carpet with his dad. His dad has already shown him a couple of basic moves, like the half nelson and the hammerlock, and has promised to teach him how to wrestle for real when he’s older. “How old?” Teddy asked him, and his dad thought for a moment and said, “Thirteen.”

  Tonight Mac is the chef — they take turns — and they are having Spaghetti Mac for supper. Mac makes a big deal out of it, saying it’s his special secret sauce he learned from his Italian ex-girlfriend, although when Teddy sneaked into the kitchen for a Coke, he saw a jar of Ragú in the garbage. When Frito complains that the noodles are still hard, Mac says, “They’re al dente. You’re just used to Franco-American in a can, you hillbilly.” Frito winks at Teddy and says, “Al who?” While they eat, they watch a documentary on Japanese sumo wrestlers on the Discovery Channel. Frito makes a lot of jokes about their naked flabby asses. Then he and Mac suddenly leap up and start butting bellies, sloshing their beers onto the hooked rug, but nobody cares. Mac is skinny, but Frito has a beer belly that hangs over his Huskers’ belt buckle, and he sends Mac flying across the room, where he crashes into a sawhorse and lands on his butt. Beowulf skitters around him, barking nervously. Everyone laughs like lunatics. Teddy laughs so hard, he almost wets his pants. Then Frito turns to him, suddenly serious, and tells him, “Hey, man, you should’ve seen your old dad here in his glory days. He was a real champ. Fast Eddie.” Teddy nods, waiting
to hear more, but Frito just says, “Got to take a piss,” and ruffles Teddy’s hair on the way to the john. Both Frito and his dad have ponytails and one pierced ear. His dad wears a small turquoise stud, and Frito wears a small gold hoop. Teddy thinks maybe he’ll let his hair grow and ask for an earring for his birthday. July 4. The same day as the grand opening.

  He remembers going to the mall with his mother and Nana to get Trina’s ears pierced. They went to some booth in the middle of the mall called the Earring Pagoda. His mom bounced Trina in her lap, and Nana tried to distract her by jangling her key ring while the girl who worked there took this staple gun sort of thing and punched a hole in Trina’s ear. His sister let out a loud, terrified wail and tried to squirm out of his mother’s lap. His mom closed her eyes and looked white as a sheet. “That’s enough!” she shouted, standing up. “Let’s go.” The ear-piercing had been his nana’s idea in the first place. It was some Mexican custom. “But she can’t have just one pierced ear,” his nana protested, although she sounded shaky, too. “It’ll be over with in a second.” And she motioned to the young girl, who just looked bored, to do it quick.