The Daughters of Erietown

by Connie Schultz

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. His face came into focus, and she took a step back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It’s over,” he said. “You and me and this, this thing we did. It’s over.” He held out his clenched hand and she clasped it with both of hers. “Brick, I—” He forced open her hands with his fingers and dropped the apartment key into her palm.

  “You said I was the one who made you happy,” she said, her voice trembling. “You said one day we were going to be together. That we would have a family.”

  “I never said any of that shit.”

  “In so many words, you did. I would never have—”

  The front door of the bar slammed shut. They fell silent, waiting as Vinny Sardelli turned the key in the lock. Rosemary took a quiet step toward Brick and laid her hand on his arm as they waited for Vinny to walk to his car on the other side of the lot. At the sound of the engine turning, Brick stepped past Rosemary and hid behind her in the doorway. She closed her eyes and turned toward him, breathing in the smell of him. “Brick,” she whispered.

  He reached for her arm and yanked her in just before Vinny’s headlights swept over the spot where they had been standing. She leaned into Brick and pressed her palms against his chest. As soon as they heard Vinny’s car pull onto the road, he shoved her away and stepped out of the doorway. “I gotta go.”

  “You can’t leave like this,” she said. “You can’t just go and pretend this never happened. That we never happened. I love you, Brick.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette and a pack of matches. “Well, I love Ellie,” he said.

  Rosemary couldn’t swallow. “You can’t leave me, Brick. Not now.”

  He yanked open the car door. “You’re beating a dead horse, Roe,” he said, his voice low and flat. “I’m already gone.”

  * * *

  —

  Brick’s chest was pounding. Where was the relief, the calm he thought he’d feel? He had laid it out for her. He was staying with Ellie and getting on with his life. He had expected her to cry. Maybe even scream at him. But she just stood there, speechless in the dark as he pulled out of the parking lot with his headlights off so he couldn’t see her face.

  He was not the bad guy here. He’d made a mistake, and now he had fixed it. Where was the peace his mother said always comes when you do the right thing?

  He pressed his foot on the gas. He couldn’t go home yet. He had called Ellie in the afternoon to tell her he was working a full eight hours of overtime. She wouldn’t expect him for another hour or so.

  He turned on the radio and winced at the sound of Diana Ross’s voice. He looked at the dial, pissed that it was set to CKLW, and then he remembered why. Sam had been in the car with him yesterday while he ran errands, and for the first time she had worked up the nerve to ask if she could switch the station. “Dad, can we please listen to my music?”

  My music. Not even a teenager, and she already had her radio station, her favorite songs. He used to love buying forty-fives and rushing home to play them for Sam on her record player from Santa. They’d sit together on the floor and sing along to everything from Neil Diamond and Petula Clark to the Beatles, when they were still mopheads. Now Sam was using babysitting money to buy her own records, and none of the music was his. Even when she was humming, it was Motown.

  But when she asked if she could change the station on his car radio, he agreed. He missed sharing music with her, and sang along when Sam started belting out the Temptations’ “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.” The look on her face. It was everything.

  He shut off the radio and turned onto State Route 11, toward Clayton Valley, and thought about Ellie. She sure had been in a mood lately. Jesus, that bag of his clothes waiting for him on the back porch. His stomach had lurched at the sight of it. He thought Ellie had found out about Rosemary and was kicking him out of the house. What a relief to see that smirk on Sam’s face as she leaned against the fridge. “Mom thinks you should get your clothes washed at the plant like everyone else,” she said. “I think she’s right, Daddy. It’s 1967. We women have better things to do.” We women. Brick knew where that was coming from. That damn Emma Dunham down at the newsstand, filling Sam’s head with women’s lib shit. Another reason to move.

  He rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of farmland stretching out around him. He knew by heart every curve in the road, the name of every family farming the land. The world that was turning his wife against him and every union meeting into a Martin Luther King rally hadn’t touched Clayton Valley. Here, it was still 1955.

  When he was a teenager he’d been so desperate to leave this hick town. Now he kept coming back looking for signs of who he used to be, when he was Clayton Valley’s basketball star with big plans. He was going to go to college and Ellie would wait for him because he would graduate and be a coach at one of those big high schools in Cleveland. And then one snowy day in their senior year he found Ellie collapsed on the side of the road.

  He grabbed the rolled-up towel in the passenger seat and wedged it into the small of his back. He was barely thirty, but too often he felt like an old man with his stiff back, the aching shoulder. His knees were crackling now every time he bent down to pick up something heavy. Christ.

  Brick turned right onto the road that sometimes showed up in his dreams. He flicked off his brights and slowed to a stop at lot 52. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray before pushing open the door.

  The wind had picked up, as it often did when he visited his mother. That had always been her way, raising the energy around him. The grass was crunchy with frost, and when he sat down on the grave the wind threw a smattering of leaves across the gravestone. He shivered and buried his face into his collar to blow a hot breath down his chest. “I’m sorry, Ma. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I visited.”

  He pressed his palm on her name. “I’ve been ashamed. I haven’t told anyone else that, but I’m telling you. I’m ashamed of what I’ve been doing.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I did it, Ma. I did what you’d want me to do. I can feel I’m turning a corner.”

  He paused. This was the only place on earth where he never worried about sounding like an idiot. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Ma, but I hope you were right that if we ask God to forgive us, he will.”

  He sat for more than an hour, silent until he couldn’t take the cold a minute longer. He patted the gravestone and stood up. “I’m going home, Ma. To Ellie and the kids, where I belong. I just wanted to let you know. Tell Harry I said hi.”

  He walked slowly back to the car, his shoulders bowed under the restlessness that wasn’t done with him yet.

  She heard Brick’s voice before she saw him.

  Okay, Son, now try this glove on. Don’t worry about how stiff it is. I’ll oil it for you when we get home. Just see if it feels right.

  “How much?” the clerk said to Rosemary.

  Rosemary looked at her. “What?”

  “How much do you want to pay on your layaway today?”

  “Umm.”

  The clerk looked at Rosemary. “You okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Rosemary said. “I’m sorry. Five. I want to pay five dollars.” She snapped open the wallet in her hand, pulled out a wad of singles, and slid them across the counter.

  “That looks like more than five.”

  Now see, I know that feels a little too heavy right now, but you’ll grow into that one. And this way, you’ll build up your muscles.

  Rosemary looked at the clerk. “What?”

  The clerk fanned the dollar bills on the counter. “You gave me more than five.”

  Rosemary stared at the money.

  You want to stand with your feet apart a little wider. Just like we talked about last weekend, remember?

  Rosemary counted out five dollars and tried
to smile. “There,” she said. “Five. Can I have a receipt, please?” She grabbed the counter with both hands and lowered her head. Breathe, she told herself. Just keep breathing.

  That’s it. All the way to the floor. See? That’s how you snag a grounder. Now, spread your ankles apart and I’ll roll it a little faster to you.

  The clerk waved the paper under Rosemary’s chin. “I said, here’s your receipt.”

  “Thanks,” Rosemary said. She shoved it into her pocket and started to walk away. “Ma’am,” the clerk said, waving Rosemary’s wallet. “You want this?”

  The four women in line stared at Rosemary as she walked back to the counter. “Thanks.” She stepped away slowly, weighing her options. If she walked to the right she could weave through women’s lingerie to the exit and he’d never know she was there.

  Yep, bat and glove. You need both to play baseball.

  She pulled out the receipt and studied it. At this rate, she wouldn’t be able to pay off the balance for Paull’s tricycle in time for his second birthday.

  She turned left.

  Past the gardening tools. The folding chairs. The pet food. She hesitated at the first aisle of the toy department, the Barbie section. How many aisles did she have to pass before she hit sporting goods? Three? Or was it two?

  Think, Rosemary.

  She walked to the second aisle, paused, and grabbed onto a shelf to breathe. What will he do? How will he react? She looked at the row of diecast cars above her hand. Paull loved those little cars. She felt the usual pang, imagining his face if she could ever walk through the door with a whole set of them.

  When we get home, we’re going to oil this glove and stick your ball in it and you’ll sleep with it under your pillow.

  “Like you do, Daddy,” a boy said.

  Rosemary scooped up three of the cars and walked toward the sound of their voices in the next aisle.

  “Now see, that’s a catcher’s mitt. See how it’s round and padded? You’re not going to be a catcher. You’re going to play right—”

  Brick dropped the glove on the floor.

  “Okay, Daddy,” the boy said, bending to pick up the glove and shoving it back on the shelf. He pulled out another glove. “Look how big this one is, Daddy.” He turned to look up at his father.

  “Hello, Brick.”

  She watched his fingers curl around the shoulder of his son.

  The little boy looked at Rosemary and leaned into his father. “Who’s that, Daddy?” he asked in a stage whisper.

  Brick plunged his left hand into his pants pocket. “You know what, buddy? How ’bout you go get us some popcorn?”

  “By myself?”

  “Sure,” Brick said. “You’re six years old. You can do this.” He quickly gave up trying to count and put all the change into Reilly’s open hand. “Take all of this. The lady at the popcorn counter will take what she needs.”

  Reilly smiled at Rosemary. He had large blue eyes, with long eyelashes as red as his hair. “I’ve never done this before,” he said. “Go all by myself to buy popcorn.” He shook his head. “Wait’ll I tell Mommy.”

  “Okay, pal,” Brick said, his eyes on Rosemary. “Go on now.”

  Reilly pointed to the cars in her hand. “I have that one.”

  Rosemary looked down at the three cars. “Which one?”

  “The Johnny Lightning Chevy Camaro. It’s the only one I have with stripes.”

  Rosemary smiled at the boy. “Well, then, you just helped me decide. That’s what I came over to ask: Which car would a little boy like you pick out?” She continued to look at Reilly as Brick inhaled. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve helped me make our son very happy.”

  Brick reached out and placed his hand on top of Reilly’s head. “Okay, Son, go get the popcorn.”

  “He’s adorable,” Rosemary said.

  Brick turned and watched Reilly until he was out of sight. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping, just like you. For my son.”

  “Your son.”

  “Yes, that’s right. My son. He’s almost two.”

  His eyes narrowed; she looked down at the floor.

  “Let me save you the trouble of all that math, Brick. I’m shopping for our son. Yours and mine.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I can tell by the look on your face that you know it’s not.”

  He stared at her.

  “I know the feeling,” Rosemary said. “That’s how I felt when I heard you talking about all the nice stuff you were buying your boy. Your other son.”

  Sweat was beading on his brow. “I’m going to walk away from here,” he said, “and I don’t want you following me.”

  She took a step toward him. “Two years. Two years without a word from you. I never bothered you once, Brick. And you think you’re giving me orders? Fuck you.”

  He looked around and ran his hand across his brow. “He’s not my son.”

  “Really,” she said. “Let me show you something.”

  Rosemary set the diecast cars on the shelf and pulled out her wallet. She opened it and thrust the first picture inches from Brick’s face: “Meet Paull. Paull-two-els. Same freckles. Same red hair. Same smile, as you can see in this picture here.”

  Brick’s face softened as he stared at the picture. She’d imagined this moment so many times, but she’d never dared hope for this reaction.

  “Why, Roe? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “When would I have told you? The only time I tried, you told me I was beating a dead horse. You never gave me the chance.”

  Brick shoved his hand into his pocket and scowled.

  “No more coins to jingle, Brick. You gave them all to your son, remember? The one who gets to call you Daddy.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How old is he?”

  “I told you. He’s almost two.”

  Brick looked at the floor and nodded. “Two.”

  “He’s a beautiful boy. Looks so much like you that sometimes I can barely stand it. Same soft red hair. He’s covered in freckles. When he smiles, grown women accuse him of flirting.”

  He held out his palm. “Stop, Roe.”

  She pressed her palm against his. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard you say my name.”

  He hesitated. Before dropping his hand, he hesitated. She was sure of it.

  He looked at her. “Can I see him?”

  “We live with my aunt now,” she said. “I’m still working there. Not exactly what I had planned.” Rosemary reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and the layaway receipt. “Here,” she said, setting the paper on the shelf so that she could write. “This is the phone number at the bar. I’m there from five o’clock to one. Call me. If I don’t answer, hang up. We’ll set up a time for you to meet Paull.” She handed him the receipt and smiled past his shoulder.

  “Daddy, look!” Reilly grinned as he held up the red-and-white-striped bag. Rosemary and Brick stepped farther apart as he walked toward them. “I ate two inches of it already.”

  Brick roughed up his hair. “You sure did. You going to save any for me?”

  The boy held up the bag. “Better take some now.”

  Rosemary held up the striped car. “Thanks for the advice, Reilly.” She smiled at Brick. “You two have a wonderful day together.” She set the other two cars on the shelf of baseballs and walked away.

  “Okay, buddy,” Brick said, scooping up the two cars Rosemary had left behind and wedging them into the glove. “Let’s pay for this stuff so we can go home and hit some balls.”

  Sam walked into the kitchen and frowned at her mother. “Why doesn’t Dad ever pack his own lunch?”

  Ellie tore off three squares of wax paper and lined them up across the counter. “Why should he do that?”
she said, dropping a slice of Wonder bread on each square of paper. “Do you have any idea how hard your father works?”

  “You work hard, too. Nobody’s making your lunch.”

  Ellie slapped two slices of bologna on each slice of bread. “I see you’ve been reading more of The Feminine Mystery. Why does Emma stock that horrible thing?”

  “Feminine Mystique, you mean,” Sam said. “It’s French.”

  Ellie pointed to the napkin holder. “Hand me three of those, pronto,” she said. “That’s Spanish.”

  “You should read it, Mom,” Sam said, folding the napkins into triangles. “It’s opening my mind. Aunt Emma says I have a lot of options in the world, and it’s important to know about them. Says not every girl who grows up in Erietown has to spend all her life in Erietown. She also thinks it’s important not to marry the first man who comes along.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ellie said, picking up a butter knife and smearing yellow mustard on the circles of bologna. “Emma is forty-three and never married. Exactly what man is she waiting for?”

  Sam peeled the plastic off a slice of American cheese and nibbled a corner. “She likes being independent. She has her own newsstand, and she never has to cook for anyone but herself unless she wants to. She’s a modern woman.”

  “Give me that,” Ellie said, grabbing the cheese. “I have just enough for your father’s sandwiches.”

  Sam finished each sandwich with a slice of bread and wrapped them in the paper. “Dad eats the same thing every day. A little variety would be nice.”

  Ellie stacked the wrapped sandwiches in the lunch pail. “His variety is the Hostess fruit pie. Now go down to Emma Jane’s and get him one. You got him cherry yesterday, so maybe apple.”

  “Aunt Emma says she’s never seen Dad buy pie for his own lunch. That’s not right, Mom.”

  Ellie reached into the pocket of her apron and slid a quarter and a dime across the counter. “Just go get the pie, Sam. And don’t take forever this time. It’s already after seven, and I need you to help Reilly with his spelling list.”