Evening News

by Marly Swick

  On the ride home he’d sat in the backseat with Trina in her car seat crying at full volume the whole way. She had tiny gold posts in her ears. His mother and grandmother weren’t speaking to each other. He kept patting her chubby knees and kissing her wet cheek, trying to comfort her, feeling helpless. And a little offended that she was ignoring him. Usually he had the magic touch. Everyone always said so.

  An hour later, by the time Dan came home, Trina seemed perfectly happy playing with her soft blocks. She seemed to have forgotten all about it. When his mom launched into this big tirade about how awful it was and how she should never have listened to Luisa, Teddy could tell that Dan wasn’t really listening. He said, “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?” Then he knelt down and picked up Trina. She was all smiles now. His mother stormed into the kitchen and slammed the cupboard doors. “Was it really that bad?” Dan had asked him, man to man. Teddy had shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I guess she’ll live.”

  His dad looks over at him and says, “What’s the matter? You okay?” The sumo documentary is over, and Frito is flipping through the channels, looking for something else worth watching. Mac is in the kitchen dishing up some ice cream. Suddenly Teddy wonders what his mom is doing at this very moment. He kind of misses her, but he wouldn’t want to be back there.

  “Thanks,” he says when Mac hands him a dish of fudge brownie ice cream. He would just like to know what she’s doing now, at this very moment he’s eating his ice cream.

  It was dusk when the plane landed. A cluster of lights on the prairie. A lonely blip of civilization. It always depressed her to fly into Lincoln. It always raised existential questions, such as, Why am I here (as opposed to there)? Or, What’s more important: good restaurants or clean air? Her sister was waiting at the gate chatting with a handsome pilot in uniform who reminded Giselle of Bill Beemer. Pilots all seemed to have that same look. Sky cowboys.

  Vonnie was wearing what had become her uniform for the past several years: a black T-shirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots. Summer and winter, the only thing that changed was the earrings. She had an extensive collection dating back to high school, when she used to hang them in neat rows on a strip of lace tacked to her bedroom wall. Over the years she had graduated from ladylike pearl posts to eclectic, mismatched ear sculptures. Her dark hair, shorter and spikier than that last time Giselle had seen her, looked like she’d zipped over to Paris on the Concorde for a quick cut. Giselle couldn’t imagine where in Lincoln you could go and come out looking like that. When they were growing up, their mother used to drag them to a husband-wife team (June and Frank) who ran a barber/beauty shop called His & Her Hair. After Frank died, June redecorated all in pink and rechristened it the Crowning Glory Salon. It was clear that Vonnie’s haircut was not June’s handiwork, even if she were still alive. As soon as her sister spotted her straggling off the plane, she extricated herself from conversation with the pilot, who, completely clueless, was obviously trying to hit on her. He looked so crestfallen, Giselle almost felt sorry for him. Guys had always fallen all over Vonnie.

  Vonnie’s first words to her were “That fucking bastard. How could he?” Confused, Giselle turned to look behind her and then realized that Vonnie was referring to her eye. The shiner. It had swelled and darkened to the size and hue of a small plum. On the way to the parking lot she did her best to disabuse Vonnie of the notion that her younger sister had been the victim of domestic violence. But Vonnie wasn’t buying it. As she waited for her change at the toll booth, she looked over at Giselle and shook her head. “Why are you protecting him?” she asked. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

  “What do I have to do to make you believe me?” Giselle said. “Shit. Give me a break, why don’t you?” She reached over and punched the tape player. She already regretted coming. It was always like this with Vonnie. The know-it-all big sister. “Who’s this?” she asked, referring to the woman singing, hoping to change the subject.

  “Enya,” Vonnie said as if she couldn’t believe that Giselle didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Nice,” Giselle said.

  The ride from the airport to the Near South, where Vonnie lived, took all of maybe ten minutes. The town was laid out like a grid — alphabetical streets intersecting with numbered streets. Flat and square, in both senses of the word. But the trees and flowers were in bloom. After L.A., the lawns looked invitingly green and shady. The flight had been delayed more than an hour in Denver, and Vonnie was speeding, clearly in a hurry.

  As she pulled up in front of an old gray Victorian duplex, Vonnie said, “I thought we’d have a little time to get you settled,” glancing at her watch. It was large and plastic with a red band; she had sent Teddy one just like it. “But I’ve really got to get back to the bar. Why don’t you come with me? I want you to see the place.”

  Giselle shook her head. “Not tonight. I want to see it, too, but I’m beat. Tomorrow, okay?” She opened the car door and reached for her suitcase in the backseat of Vonnie’s sporty magenta Tracker, which she’d inherited from her dead lover.

  “Are you sure?” Her sister seemed reluctant to leave her alone. “You can just sit in a booth and have a drink or two. It wouldn’t require that much energy.”

  “I’m just not up for it.” Giselle sighed and faked a yawn. “Sorry.”

  “Okay, well . . .” Vonnie shrugged, her earrings jittering impatiently. A small silver airplane dangling from one ear and a miniglobe from the other. Giselle was still wearing the boring little posts she’d switched to after Trina was born. The baby thought dangly earrings were toys to be grabbed and yanked. All Giselle’s dangly earrings were in a box on her dresser. There was no reason not to wear them now.

  “There’s a key under the geranium pot next to the door. The door on the left. It’s the upper floor. You sure you’ll be all right?” Vonnie asked as she raced the accelerator.

  Giselle smiled and nodded. “I’ll just take a bath and go to bed early.” She turned and headed up the walkway before her sister could get in the last word. But she wasn’t quick enough.

  “Hey Gigi!” Vonnie shouted, loud enough to make the elderly couple on the porch swing next door turn and stare at her. “Don’t let the cat out!”

  ***

  Walking into her sister’s apartment, Giselle felt like a time traveler. It could have been their old apartment, Ed’s and hers, on B Street, the apartment they had inherited from Ed’s brother, the apartment where Teddy was born. Vonnie’s place was, in fact, only one block away, on C Street.

  There were two bedrooms. One was obviously her sister’s room. A queen-size bed covered with a red Mexican blanket and a flurry of bright pillows and throw rugs. The guest room was smaller and more austere, bare except for a narrow futon on the wooden floor covered with crisp white sheets and a single pillow. Giselle liked the looks of the small room, suitable for a nun. The people in the downstairs apartment, probably college kids, were playing music too loud. Just like their downstairs neighbors on B Street used to. Once, Ed had marched downstairs to complain and returned an hour later, stoned out of his gourd. Giselle had been so pissed off that she made him sleep on the sofa, which was several inches too short for him. She used to worry about the noise from downstairs waking up Teddy, but it never seemed to bother him. In those days he could sleep through anything, the sleep of the innocent.

  She went to the kitchen and opened one cupboard after another, looking for some liquor to help her relax. On the plane she’d had a couple of vodka and tonics. The cupboards were mostly bare, a teetotaler’s dream. In the refrigerator she found an almost empty bottle of white wine. Maybe working in a bar took away your desire for alcohol. In high school she had worked in a bakery one summer and developed an aversion to sweets that lasted almost a year. She had started out gaining five pounds and ended up losing ten. When she was pregnant with Teddy, Ed had worked two part-time jobs until he landed a full-time job at the Kawasaki factory and, later, a better job as operations mana
ger of a grain elevator. Afternoons he had bagged groceries at Hinky Dinky and evenings he delivered pizzas for Domino’s. At first she craved pizza, her version of pickles and ice cream, but by the time Teddy was born, the mere sight of a pizza box made her gag. They used to joke that the baby would be born clutching a pepperoni in each tiny fist.

  Giselle carried the wine bottle into the guest room and began unpacking. When she opened the closet door, she saw that there was a built-in bureau, just like the one in their bedroom on B Street. It had served as Teddy’s changing table. She would set him there to change his diapers, and sometimes when he was crying — had been crying all day, it seemed — she had to fight the impulse to slam shut the closet door and walk away.

  The windows were wide open, but the room felt hot and stuffy anyway. She had forgotten the feel of Midwestern summer nights. There were wet half-moons under her armpits. She could smell her own sweat, taste it in the back of her throat. She peeled off her T-shirt and opened her suitcase to find a fresh tank top. She hadn’t put a lot of effort into packing — just dumped a few things from her drawers into the suitcase, grabbed some toiletries from the bathroom, not really caring whether anything matched. Not like the old days. She remembered packing for their honeymoon trip to Hawaii, laying out on the bed each outfit complete with accessories — jewelry, belts, sandals — as she imagined herself sipping a mai tai in the red silk and silver sandals, walking on the beach at sunset in the white linen with the black espadrilles dangling from her hand. This time she’d stuffed everything into a squashy suitcase the size of a microwave. Lois, who drove her to the airport, couldn’t get over how little she was taking. “It’s only for a week,” Giselle had said, although she had left a message on Dan’s voice mail at the office saying two weeks, just to be on the safe side. He was supposed to mow the lawn and check the mail. During the long flight out here, she couldn’t help hoping that maybe her absence would serve to knock some sense into Dan, make him realize what he was losing, although she told herself not to get her hopes up.

  She dumped out the clothes on the futon and rummaged around until she found a gray tank top, which she yanked over her head. Then she peeled off her damp jeans and stepped into some white shorts. She felt better but she still stank. Vonnie had left some towels out for her in the bathroom, a large room with a mosaic tile floor and clawfoot tub. Their old bathroom on B Street had been remodeled, unfortunately, with linoleum and fiberglass, and a real shower. This place had one of those jury-rigged, handheld contraptions that sprayed water all over the bathroom if you weren’t careful. She was too tired to deal with it. She wet the washcloth and scrubbed her underarms, sniffing to make sure they were clean, then flapped her arms like chicken wings to dry off as she walked back to the guest room for her deodorant.

  The deodorant wasn’t in the cosmetics bag where it was supposed to be, even though she was almost certain she had packed it. She stuck her hand into the larger satin pocket on the inside of the suitcase and pulled out two stray Tampax and a Chap Stick. Then she tried the zip pockets on the outside. She felt something in one and pulled it out. Trina’s pink pacifier. She let out a small cry, shut her eyes, rammed the pacifier into her own mouth, and sank down on top of the heap of clothes scattered across the futon, arms and feet contracted into a fetal position. She was glad that her sister wasn’t there to see her acting like a big baby. Or Teddy, thank God. She had planned to call him as soon as she unpacked, but now she decided to wait until morning. She wasn’t sure he’d be all that glad to see her anyway. And maybe if she were completely honest with herself, she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to see him. But she couldn’t afford to be completely honest with herself. She was his only mother.

  This element of ambush was the thing that she found hardest to take. Day after day you accustomed yourself to the dull, lulling ache of loss. But nothing could accustom you to the sneak attacks, the sudden brutal trip wire — a pacifier, a knitted bootie stuck between sofa cushions — that set off a fresh explosion of grief. Not long ago she had seen a woman on some talk show, an amnesiac, who had lost her memory as a result of a head injury. A car wreck. The woman couldn’t even remember her own son. She said she had to look at baby pictures and even demanded to see the birth certificate. Giselle had listened in fascinated disbelief. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. And it had occurred to her to wonder what she would do if she could just snap her fingers and forget. Forget she ever had a daughter. Forget the pain of losing her. She was afraid that in a weak moment she would give in to the temptation. A snap of the fingers! Sweet oblivion! But she knew that somehow, someway the loss would find her. Even if she couldn’t name it, she would feel it. A woman weeping at an unmarked grave, the name of her loss forever on the tip of her tongue.

  No, it was better to remember. To remember how she had packed the pacifier, a spare, last October when they had driven up to Palo Alto for the weekend. They had stayed with Dan’s old college roommate, newly divorced, in a spectacular wood-and-glass house in Portola Valley. Even though the friend, a lawyer, had lots of money and an Italian sports car, Dan had seemed to feel sorry for him. As she sat on the back porch nursing Trina while the men watched a football game on the big screen TV in the rec room — complete with an antique billiards table — Giselle had overheard Dan telling the friend, “You know, I’ve never been happier.” She had smiled to herself, sitting there in the pale sunshine on the deck; and seeing her smile, Teddy had waved at her from the branches of a big tree he was climbing. Look, Ma, no hands! And for the moment she had felt such a sense of well-being, she wasn’t even worried about Teddy falling and breaking his neck.

  ***

  Giselle had been lying there on the rock-hard futon, drifting in and out of a thin sleep, when she heard Vonnie come home. Her cowboy boots echoing on the bare wood floors. There was just enough light from the moon or streetlamp to make out the time on her wristwatch: 2:15. She debated calling out to her sister versus pretending to be asleep as she heard Vonnie brushing her teeth in the bathroom. On the ride back from the airport, Vonnie had told her that she felt wired after she got off work. She found it difficult to come home and fall asleep. So she ended up sleeping half the day. On the one hand, Giselle felt too worn out for a midnight chat, but on the other hand, she felt lonely. For the past several days, ever since Teddy left, the emptiness of the house had weighed on her as she lay there in the darkness. The sounds of her sister’s nightly bedtime routine were comforting. The thunk of the old water pipes, the toilet flushing. Vonnie gargling. The cat, who had hidden herself as soon as Giselle opened the front door, mewing softly in the hall.

  Giselle got up and flicked on the bright overhead light. The heap of clothes she had been lying on top of was mashed and wrinkled. She tossed everything into the corner and pulled back the sheet so that it would look as if she had been sleeping under the covers like a normal person. Her sister was neat and energetic. She didn’t have much use for slothlike self-pity. When they were growing up and Giselle skinned her knee or got stung by a bee, she would try not to cry in front of her big sister, who was famous for her stoic bravery. Giselle would hold it in until she saw her mother’s face and then run into her arms, sobbing, while their mother ordered Vonnie to fetch the Mercurochrome and Band-Aids. Giselle always loved Band-Aids, the bigger the better. Her sister, the cheerleader, once pom-pommed and cartwheeled through an entire football game with a broken toe she didn’t even mention until the final touchdown was scored.

  Giselle tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. She was about to knock on the door when she heard her sister’s voice. At first she thought Vonnie was talking on the phone, but then she heard a second voice. Surprised, she hurried on toward the kitchen, as if she had just woken up thirsty. A minute later Vonnie emerged from the bathroom wearing what looked like their father’s old maroon bathrobe.

  “Hey,” she said when she saw Giselle, “what are you doing up?”

  “I needed a drink of water.” Giselle rinsed out her gla
ss and set it on the counter. “I guess I was dehydrated from the plane.”

  The bathroom door opened again and a pretty young blond woman walked up behind Vonnie and smiled at Giselle. She was wearing an oversized tie-dyed T-shirt and looked familiar. Before Giselle could place her, Vonnie said, “You remember Jess, don’t you?”

  Giselle stared. At the look on her face, the other two burst out laughing. Jessica Foley. The last time Giselle saw her, she’d had braces on her teeth and was wearing a Brownie uniform. The Foleys had lived in the big Tudor house down the street, the nicest house on the block. Giselle used to baby-sit for Jessica and her little brother, Carlton, who was deaf. They were her least-favorite kids to baby-sit for — spoiled brats — but their parents paid the best. Back then Jessica had long blond braids and expensive Kate Greenaway dresses and the most extensive collection of Madame Alexander dolls Giselle had ever seen. Just after Giselle started high school, the Foleys had moved to Denver to be closer to some famous school for the deaf. Giselle hadn’t thought of them in years.

  “I know I was a real pill,” Jess said.

  “She still is.” Vonnie gave her a big squeeze and Jess wriggled free, pretending to be offended. She was thin and pale and delicate. Giselle did some quick arithmetic and figured she must be about twenty-four, but she looked more like sixteen. And the complete opposite of Bev, who had been dark and muscular, a body builder, although not grotesque like some of the women who competed in competitions Giselle had seen on television. She wondered what Jess thought of all the photographs of Bev that were all over the apartment.