Evening News

by Marly Swick

  His dad nods agreeably. Teddy knows that his dad doesn’t like “to make waves.” It’s another one of his dad’s expressions. But he does have a temper he lets loose every once in a while. The other morning he cussed out Frito for starting a fire in the toaster oven and nearly burning the place down.

  “Okay then. Thursday it is.” His mother sets her nearly full Coke can on the floor and stands up. “How ’bout we say around dinnertime?”

  His dad stands up and walks her down the stairs. Teddy stays on the sofa. He hears his dad saying, “I can drop him off. Save you the trip out here.” His mother’s voice is too soft for him to hear. Teddy leaps up and walks over to the window facing the front of the house, where the cars are parked. From here the little magenta Tracker looks like a Matchbox toy. He watches as his father walks his mother to the car, opens the door for her, and shuts it after she’s climbed inside. She starts the engine right away and turns the car around. She seems in a hurry to leave. His father stands there, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot, watching as she bumps down the gravel drive to the main road. Teddy knows if he tried, if he concentrated, he could read his dad’s mind, but he doesn’t really want to.

  She had two days to wait before Teddy’s overnight. It felt strange knowing that he was in the same town, just minutes away, but not with her. Maybe it was just being back in the place where she grew up, but she felt like a junior high school girl mooning over some boy who didn’t give her a second thought. It was all she could do not to drive by the house. When she was a teenager, she used to ride her bike by Tommy Harms’s house at least once a day. And a couple of years later, she would drive by Ross Rosowski’s house every evening, half hoping, half fearing he’d be outside washing his car or mowing his parents’ lawn. In this instance it wasn’t really a triumph of maturity. Ed’s place was too far off the road to see anything.

  She was reluctant to go out of the house and bump into people she knew, people she hadn’t seen in years. There would be that awkwardness of wondering what they had heard through the grapevine. And beyond that there was something else. Being home again reminded her of who she used to be, who she thought she would be when she grew up. At the grocery store yesterday she had glimpsed Mrs. Van Dorn, her old English teacher, sorting through the cantaloupes with the same look of rapt concentration with which she diagrammed sentences on the blackboard, and Giselle had ducked down another aisle. It had been an instinctive reaction of guilt, of shame, as if she were cutting school. Mrs. Van Dorn had been the yearbook adviser the year Giselle had been editor, and she had expected Giselle to go on to become a successful journalist. At graduation she had given Giselle, who was salutatorian, a biography of Margaret Bourke-White inscribed, “To a future White House correspondent. Don’t forget us. Fondly, Mrs. V.” Later, after she left the grocery store, Giselle felt terrible. She had heard from Laura that Mrs. V had undergone a double mastectomy last year. Giselle should have gone up and asked how she was doing. The whole world didn’t revolve around her own problems. Mrs. V probably had more to worry about than a former student’s defaulting on her youthful promise, which was probably more the norm than not. Still, on the way back to the apartment, Giselle had made it a point to stop by the main library and get a library card and an armful of books. She supposed that one of these days — she didn’t know when exactly — she would be ready to go back to school.

  That night Vonnie dragged her to the bar. Vonnie and her partner, Val, had done a nice job of redecorating, tearing out the old booths and dark paneling in favor of small, brightly painted tables and chairs and hanging plants. The walls were painted a deep womblike pink. It was like sitting inside a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.

  Once she got there, Giselle actually enjoyed herself, sitting at the bar drinking free tequila sunrises and chatting with the bartenders. She could see that her sister was in her element — the perfect hostess — somehow managing to oversee the kitchen and mix drinks and greet people all at once. Giselle was happy that her sister had created such a congenial niche for herself; she wished that their parents could put aside their prejudice and embrace their daughter’s entrepreneurial success. But she didn’t think that was likely to happen anytime soon. Come Sunday, Giselle didn’t know what she would do. She would have to call them, but she wasn’t sure she would tell them she was staying at Vonnie’s. She didn’t want to get in the middle. She wasn’t here to broker peace negotiations. It might just be simpler to lie. She would have to ask Vonnie what she thought.

  In the meantime Val set down another tequila sunrise in front of her. They made small talk about California, where Val had lived for a year after college. Nothing heavy — just the weather, the traffic, the smog, the beach, the usual pros and cons. Giselle noticed a book called A Woman’s Guide to Investment sitting underneath the cash register and asked Val if it was hers. When Val said yes, Giselle told her about the women’s investment study group she had joined back in California. Val thought it was a great idea. She called Vonnie over and made Giselle tell her about it. Vonnie said she could think of at least four other women she knew for a fact would be into it. In the time it took for Giselle to drink her second tequila sunrise, Vonnie made a few calls and organized the whole thing. “We’re on for next Sunday evening,” she informed them. “All right! Way to go!” Val and Vonnie slapped hands. Giselle smiled. She could feel her spirits lifting — a combination of the tequila and the thought of making a bundle in the stock market. She could definitely use some money, some financial independence.

  Ever since her near encounter with Mrs. V, she had been brooding over just how it was that she had allowed her life to stray so far off course. First there was Ed and the unplanned pregnancy and marriage. Okay, that was one major detour. But then, finally, she had found the will to leave for California, to start over, and what had she done? Fallen for a professor and — wham! — the next thing she knew, she was changing diapers again. Okay, so he was a professor this time, but what was she? When Giselle told Laura she was getting married again, expecting to hear congratulations, there had been a brief silence on the line and then Laura had asked, “But what about you?” Giselle had bristled and said, “What do you mean, what about me? I’m in love.” As if being in love were a vocation or livelihood.

  Later on, when the place got busier, Val recruited her to stand behind the bar and serve beers. “Keep the tips,” Val told her, tying a forest green apron around Giselle’s waist. It was hectic and fun. She loved the weight and jingle of the heavy coins accumulating in her apron pocket. It reminded Giselle of the lemonade stands she used to set up by the curb when she was little. For the first time in ages she didn’t have time to brood. At first she was surprised and a little uptight when some of the women customers flirted with her, but pretty soon she warmed up to it and flirted right back. Every so often Vonnie would bop over and joke around, like an outraged guardian. “Hey, quit hitting on my little sister!” Or, “Forget it. She’s straight.” It felt good to laugh. Every time she laughed, she felt lighter, as if she were taking in great gulps of pure oxygen. When Val hollered out, “Last call!” Giselle was surprised so much time had passed. She was sorry to close up and go home.

  That night Giselle slept better than she had since before she could remember. There was a sudden storm, the sort of storm that used to send her scurrying into her parents’ bedroom when she was a child. Burrowing into her mother’s arms and covering her head with a pillow. But now she lay on the futon, listening to the rumble of thunder and crack of heat lightning, feeling pleasantly tired. She fell asleep to the steady swoosh of rain drumming on the roof. It helped to be in a place where Trina had never been. A place with no associations.

  In the morning she made coffee and curled up on the sofa with one of her library books even though there were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room of Vonnie’s apartment. Her sister had always been a great reader. In Madison she had managed a women’s bookstore called A Shop of Her Own. After a couple of pages Gisel
le’s mind had taken a detour. She was thinking about Dan and feeling lonely, debating whether to pick up the phone and call him, when it rang. Since Vonnie was still asleep, Giselle leaped up and answered it. She said hello, hoping to hear either Teddy’s or Dan’s voice on the other end, but it was her cousin Ruth’s voice that she recognized instantly. Giselle hoped that her disappointment wasn’t audible. Ruth said that she’d heard Giselle was in town and wondered if she would like to have lunch. Giselle hesitated, trying to imagine the scene — two mothers who had lost their little girls in tragic accidents, chatting over chicken salad — and then said yes, okay, she’d like that, even though she wasn’t really sure if she would. Nicole, Ruth’s seven-year-old daughter, had been Rollerblading on the sidewalk in front of their house when an elderly neighbor had suffered a heart attack at the wheel and lost control of his car. The driver died instantly, but Nicole had lingered in a coma for a week. Giselle remembered talking to Ruth shortly after Trina’s death, hoping that Ruth would have some wisdom to impart, and feeling even more hopeless when she hung up. But maybe in person it would be different. At any rate, it was nice of Ruth to call, to extend herself. And Giselle couldn’t very well say no. Ruth said she’d pick her up at noon.

  Vonnie emerged from the bedroom, yawning and stretching, her short hair bristling unsymmetrically. “Who was that?” For the first time Giselle noticed a small tattoo just above her sister’s left breast, a butterfly or hummingbird fluttering at the edge of the skimpy tank top — Giselle couldn’t quite make it out from across the room.

  “Ruth,” Giselle said. “We’re having lunch today.”

  “Oh, God.” Vonnie wrinkled her nose. “Better you than me.” She sniffed the air and walked into the kitchen, where she poured herself a mug of coffee. “I know that’s mean. I guess I should be more charitable under the circumstances.”

  Giselle shrugged and sighed.

  As kids they never got along, forced to endure family holidays in one another’s company. Ruthie, an only child, was boring and well behaved and liked to sit with the adults. She was always tattling on Vonnie and Gigi. “Aunt Ruth,” she would announce in a prissy, pompous tone of voice, “Vonnie called me a bitch!” or “Gigi took her clothes off in the swimming pool!” To their mother’s credit, even she thought Ruthie was “a little drip.” Once, after a particularly tiring afternoon in Ruthie’s company, their mother took two aspirin for her headache and said, “I’m sorry that little drip is named after me.”

  When Teddy was born, Ruth befriended Giselle. It was the first time they had ever had anything in common. On a few occasions they took the babies to a park or a lake. Ruth already had a toddler, Marissa, as well as the baby, Nicole. Although it was pleasant enough — at least, Ruth seemed content — sitting there in the sun chatting about diaper rash and colic, Giselle felt as if she were going to go crazy. She felt like screaming and yanking out her hair. This isn’t my life, she thought. What happened to my life? Being around someone who seemed so serene and satisfied only made her feel more crazy. So she started to make excuses whenever Ruth called. And then Ed got busted for pot — no big deal, really (first offense, probation) — but Ruth’s husband, Kip, wouldn’t let her have anything more to do with them. And since Giselle’s parents moved to Florida about that time, there were no more family holidays together.

  At the restaurant Ruth insisted on ordering for them both in Japanese. In the car, a new silver Acura, Giselle had been surprised when Ruth suggested going to a Japanese place. The old Ruthie had been a picky, xenophobic eater. Pizza was the outer limits of her taste for exotic cuisine. And the only ingredient she liked on her pizza was hamburger. Now, as Ruth attacked the sushi, Giselle smiled to herself as a clear picture of ten-year-old Ruthie methodically picking olives and mushrooms off her pizza flashed in her mind. From the look of disgust on Ruth’s face, you would have thought they were slugs and maggots. But apparently the year that they spent in Tokyo, where Kip’s corporation had transferred him to start up some new branch office, had transformed Ruth into a sophisticate.

  Her taste in clothes had also improved. Growing up, she’d had an unfortunate penchant for frilly and dainty garments completely inappropriate for a tall, large-boned girl. Behind her back, Vonnie used to say that Ruthie looked like a transvestite. But today she was wearing a flattering beige linen pantsuit.

  “It was the best thing that could have happened,” she said as she tweezed a piece of pickled ginger into her mouth. “I didn’t want to go, but we had no choice. Kip wasn’t about to quit his job, and he refused to leave Marissa and me behind. I was too depressed to pack. Kip’s mother came over and did it all. I had insisted upon leaving Nicole’s room just the way it was. Hadn’t touched a thing. I thought it would kill me to see it all packed away.” She paused to signal the waiter for some more water. “But in a way, it wasn’t so bad, because we were all packing. It was almost as if Nicole were just going along with us. Least that’s what I pretended to myself.”

  Giselle nodded to show that she understood. The sushi seemed to stick in her throat. She was amazed by Ruth’s appetite.

  “Anyway, to make a long story short, the complete change of culture just snapped me out of it. Suddenly everything was just so strange and different, and nothing reminded me of Nicole. Whereas here, everything reminded me of my baby. It was just all there was every minute, every second, every breath. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if we hadn’t gone to Japan when we did.” She shook her head and speared a shrimp tempura.

  Although they were supposed to be commiserating, Giselle bit her lip in annoyance. What was she supposed to do? Move to Japan?

  “How’s Teddy doing?” Ruth asked, reaching across the table and cradling Giselle’s hand in hers.

  “Well, you know” — Giselle sighed — “he’s had a rough time. It’s been difficult, to say the least.”

  Ruth’s eyes welled up with tears, and she blotted them with her napkin. “I just can’t believe it. He was such a sweet little boy.”

  Giselle gritted her teeth. “He’s still a sweet boy,” she snapped. Even though she didn’t know if this was true or not. She just resented Ruth’s talking about him as if he were dead or deranged. “It was an accident.”

  “Of course.” Ruth nodded vigorously. “And God knows, accidents happen.”

  To change the subject, Giselle asked about Marissa, then more or less tuned out as Ruth warmed to the task of describing her remaining daughter’s virtues and victories under the most trying of circumstances. “I think it has just made her a stronger person,” Ruth concluded, picking up the check and reaching for her purse. “I think it was God’s way of making all of us stronger.”

  “Excuse me,” Giselle said, throwing her napkin onto her plate. “I’m not feeling too well. I’ll just wait outside.”

  It was true: she really wasn’t feeling well. And the air outside didn’t help. In the mid-nineties with 100 percent humidity. The restaurant was in one of the small new strip malls that seemed to have sprung up everywhere. Ed referred to it as the “Californication of America.” Giselle paced down the sidewalk and entered what appeared to be a big new sporting goods store that looked like it would be crisply air-conditioned. The first thing she noticed, standing to the right of the doorway, was a huge stuffed lion, ready to devour her. Startled, she walked quickly past it and found herself standing in front of a long glass display case full of guns. All sorts of handguns of various sizes. She caught her breath and took a step forward. A clerk, a young clean-shaven blond man, asked if he could help her. He had a shy, pleasant smile and seemed eager to be of service. Like a pharmacist or florist. She stared at the row of small guns on top, neatly labeled. She had never seen the gun. Had no idea what it looked like. The police report said it was a .38 Colt. The clerk slid open the case in anticipation of her request.

  “I’d like to see a Colt .38,” she said, amazed by how normal she sounded. Businesslike.

  The clerk — his nametag said DAN
— handed her a small silver-and-black gun. As an aesthetic object, it was surprisingly pleasing. She held it in her palm, weighing it.

  “My husband’s name is Dan,” she said.

  He smiled, waiting for her to elaborate, then turned his attention to the gun in her hand. “Is it for self-protection?” he asked.

  Before she could answer, Ruth burst through the door and said, “My God, Gigi, what are you doing in here?” She grabbed Giselle’s arm as if to drag her away. Giselle thought of Eric’s grabbing Teddy’s arm and the bullet firing. She could almost hear the explosion as she dropped the gun onto the glass counter. The clerk’s smile had faded; he was looking confused and concerned, slightly apprehensive, then relieved as Giselle turned and followed Ruth out of the store, back out into the oppressive heat of high noon.

  ***

  When Giselle returned home after lunch, she found Jess ensconced at the kitchen table, studying. A yellow highlighter in one hand, a Bud Light in the other, and a Camel Light burning in the ashtray. The table was littered with dark, heavy law books.

  “Can you spare a beer?” Giselle asked.

  “Sure. Help yourself.”

  The apartment felt like a sauna. A breeze from an old box fan riffled the pages of Jess’s book as she paused for a drag from the cigarette. She was wearing a black athletic bra and jockeys. She looked like some prepubescent waif in a Calvin Klein ad. Giselle opened the refrigerator, tore a can from the six-pack, flipped it open, and took a long swig.

  “You look like you need that,” Jess said, swinging her feet off the other chair so that Giselle could sit down at the little table wedged into a sunny corner.

  There was a pungent odor of sweat, and Giselle wondered why Jess didn’t study in the bedroom, the only room with an air-conditioner. “What is torts exactly?” she asked, reading the title off the spine of the book Jess was underlining in.