The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “So what does she think about Mom marrying Viveca?” Marissa asks. “Aren’t you Bible thumpers all about how marriage has to be between a man and a woman?”

  “Yeah, we kind of think that’s what Our Lord and Savior had in mind.” She rolls her eyes. “But hey, what do us ‘Bible thumpers’ know? We’re not nearly as cool and sophisticated as you New Yorkers who pray to Mammon instead of God.”

  “Who’s Mammon?” she asks.

  “Not who. What. Look it up. It’s in the Bible.”

  Ari tries to short-circuit this little exchange we’re having. “And what grade does she teach?”

  “Same grade as when you asked me yesterday. Kindergarten.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, I’m really looking forward to meeting her.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pick up the jam and ask Minnie if she wants any. She comes over and takes it from me. Grabs a tablespoon and piles some onto her muffin. It’s like that article I read in class a while back about the connection between poverty and obesity, the prevalence of diabetes in blacks.

  “So what’s your Lord and Savior’s plan for gays and lesbians?” Marissa says. “Castration? Chastity belts?” I’m trying to think of some equally smart-ass answer to give her when Mom enters the kitchen, all-business.

  “Morning, everyone,” she says. She hands Minnie the two dresses on hangers she’s holding. “These traveled pretty well. Just a light pressing ought to do it. I have yours here, too, Marissa.”

  “Jesus, Mom, I said I’d bring it down,” the twerp snaps.

  “Well, now you don’t have to. What about your dress, Ariane? Does it need to be ironed?” Ari tells her she’s already ironed hers. “Oh, okay. Great. How did you kids sleep last night? Better than me, I hope. When I looked in the bathroom mirror just now, I thought a raccoon was staring back at me.”

  “I’ve got some really good shit from Bloomie’s that’ll cover up those circles no problem,” Marissa tells her. “It’s super-expensive, but it’s worth it.”

  “Yeah, must be,” I say, waving my finger at her neck. Ari kicks me under the table. She knows something about how the twerp got those bruises, and I plan to pursue it when I get a minute alone with her. Those black-and-blue marks, her weight, her drinking. Bottom line is: I’m worried about Marissa.

  Minnie’s left her half-eaten breakfast to set up the ironing board, plug in the iron. Over her shoulder she says, “Them eggs must be cold by now. You want me to cook you some new ones, Miz Anna?” Anna is Mom’s New York name, I’ve noticed. Viveca calls her that, too.

  Mom says no, then reaches for the last English muffin. Sits down next to Marissa and cups her hand around her shoulder. Asks her how she’s feeling.

  “Like shit,” I say. The twerp gives me the finger.

  “All right, you two,” Mom says. “Let’s not start. Okay?”

  “Too late for that,” Ariane says. I know I shouldn’t, but I pick up the Advil bottle and shake it like a castanet.

  “Jesus Christ, would you stop it?” Marissa says. “What are you? Twelve years old?”

  Ever the peacemaker, Ariane changes the subject to who’s taking showers when. “I’ll go first,” I say. Get up from the table. Mom asks me if I need anything ironed. “Nope, I’m good.”

  “Are you wearing your uniform, honey?”

  “Nah. I tried on that gray suit in my closet. Still fits.” When the doorbell rings, I tell them I’ll get it.

  It’s some kid in a Yankees jacket. He’s carrying a box. “Florist,” he says.

  “Just a second,” I tell him. All’s I’ve got in my wallet is a bunch of twenties. Well, fuck it. “Here you go,” I tell him, handing him one.

  He hands me the box and glances down at the twenty. “Hey, thanks, yo,” he says.

  “Yeah, no problem. I don’t usually tip Yankee fans, but what the hell.” He grins. Turns and heads back down the front walk.

  I bring the flowers into the kitchen. “Oh, good,” Mom says. “I was hoping that’s who it was.” She opens the box, and the girls ooh and ahh at their bouquets.

  “There’s a boutonnière in here for you, too, Andrew,” Mom says.

  “Oh, goody. Okay, I’m going up to hit the rain room.”

  An hour later, Minnie’s gone and I’m waiting in the kitchen for the others. The twerp’s the first one down. “You look nice,” I tell her. “That’s a pretty dress. You feeling any better?”

  She nods. Tells me Viveca bought the dress for her. “You wouldn’t believe how much it cost,” she says.

  “Yeah, well, your new stepmother’s got pretty deep pockets.”

  “Our stepmother,” she says. “Seriously, Andrew, you should give her a chance. She and Mom are very happy together.”

  “Yeah, at Dad’s expense.”

  “Daddy’s doing fine,” she says. “I just wish he’d answer his fucking phone. I can’t believe I forgot mine up there.”

  “What’s the matter? You going through withdrawal?”

  Something like that, she says. She’s been waiting for a callback from some casting agent. “But he’s probably not going to call on the weekend. Right?” I shrug. How should I know? She gets up and goes to the fridge. Takes out the flowers. “You want me to pin your boutonnière on for you?”

  “Yeah. Just don’t stab me.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she says.

  Her hands are shaky, and there’s alcohol on her breath. Man, she really is becoming a boozer. Either that, or maybe she’s not so gung-ho about Mom’s wedding as she lets on. Maybe this is a hard weekend for her, too. She pins the flower on, pulls on my lapels, and then stands back to inspect her handiwork.

  “Thanks,” I say. “So seriously, how did you get those bruises?” She rolls her eyes, sticks to her story: she fell in her kitchen, hit the table on her way down. “Were you drunk when it happened?”

  “I may have been a little tipsy,” she says.

  “Then maybe you should cool it on the booze, huh?” She frowns. Tells me she’s got everything under control. “Okay, good,” I tell her. “And if some other time you get banged up by someone—some asshole guy, let’s say—”

  Tears come to her eyes and she looks away. “Yeah?”

  “Then you just pick up that cell phone of yours and let me know so that your big brother can come back and have the pleasure of beating the shit out of him. All right?”

  She looks back at me. Smiles. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  In the silence that follows, I can hear Mom and Ari coming down the stairs. “Well, don’t you look handsome,” Mom tells me as she enters the room. “And Marissa, you look like you should be on a red carpet somewhere.” Mom looks nice, too. Younger than she is. Ariane? Well . . .

  “That dress is perfect on you, Mom,” Marissa says. There’s the usual girl talk: how Mom found her dress at some shop, who the designer is. When Rissa compliments her on the sapphire earrings she’s wearing, Mom says they’re Viveca’s.

  “So that takes care of borrowed and blue,” Ari says. “What about old and new?” Mom says she just took her stockings out of the package, and that she herself is old—that she feels a little silly being a bride at her age. Marissa says something about how fifty’s the new thirty. “And your dress is vintage,” Ari says. “So you’re all set: old, new, borrowed and blue.”

  “Hey, I hate to break up this little hen party, but are you guys noticing the time?” I ask. That gets everyone up and moving toward the front door.

  I’m the last one out of the house. Mom and Marissa climb into the back and Ari gets in the front with me. When I start the car, Mom asks me if I remembered to lock up. “Daddy said there was a break-in in the neighborhood a while ago,” she says.

  “Whose house?” Ari asks. Mom says Dad mentioned the name, but she didn’t recognize it. “Must be one of the new families.”

  I know I locked the front door, but now I’m not sure about the one off the kitchen. “I’ll doubl
e-check. Be right back,” I tell them. I get out of the car, walk around the house to the back and try the door. Yup. Locked up tight. When I get back in the car, I’m hit with the aroma of all those flowers.

  On the way over to Bella Linda, Ariane turns around and asks Mom how she’s doing. “I’m a little nervous, but fine otherwise.”

  “Happy?” Ari asks.

  “I am, yes. We’re very different from one another, but it works somehow. We complement each other.” Yeah, and I imagine Viveca thinks so, too. Mom makes all the art and she pockets the commission. But I’m probably just being cynical. . . . Or jealous, maybe. Wasn’t that why I broke it off with Casey? Because we didn’t “complement” each other? But I wonder if that arrangement stays the same, now that they’re getting married. Does Viveca still get her percentage when she sells Mom’s work? “I’m just so grateful that you kids took time out of your busy lives to share our day with us,” Mom says. “That makes it even more special.”

  Marissa asks her if she’s excited about going to Greece.

  “Yes, now I am. At first I wasn’t sure about going there for a full month. Being away from my work for that long. But it will still be there when I get back. Right?”

  My sisters say it simultaneously. “Right.”

  Then, out of the blue, Mom says, “Oh, shit!”

  I tap the brake. “What?”

  “No, honey, it’s all right. Keep going. It’s just that I promised Viveca I was going to look around for something that’s back at the house someplace—a painting that Lorenzo might be interested in buying. But I can look for it later.” One of hers? Marissa asks. “No, it’s by an artist who used to live in that old cottage out in back.”

  “Josephus Jones,” Ari says. “It’s probably not even there, Mama. Daddy took all of those paintings with him up to Viveca’s beach house.”

  “All of what paintings?” Mom asks. “There’s only the one.”

  “No, there’s a bunch of them. A couple dozen, maybe.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Marissa asks. “Who’s Josephus Jones?”

  “The man who died back there,” Ari says. “Remember how we were never allowed to play out in back because someone had drowned in that old well? Daddy told me there was some question about if it was an accident or—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t even talk about that damned well,” Mom says. “It still gives me the creeps. But I don’t know what paintings you could be talking about, Ariane. There weren’t any others except for the one that we found up in the attic after we moved in. The family that had sold us the house had left it behind. But now he’s become quite collectible. Probably because so little of his work survived.”

  “Well, the ones Daddy has up there did,” Ari insists. “And I know they’re his, Mama, because his signature’s on them.”

  Is she talking about those paintings that Jay and I used to look at when we went out to that old shack to smoke weed? I can’t remember much about them except that there were naked women in some of them. Not exactly Playboy centerfolds, but we were what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Boobs were boobs.

  Mom says if there were other Josephus Jones paintings at our house, she’d have known about them. And even if there were, why would Dad have taken them up to the Cape with him? “Because the house is on the market,” Ariane says. “He said he didn’t want strangers walking around the property because they’re valuable. And because he didn’t want—” She stops midsentence.

  “He didn’t want what?” Mom says.

  “No, nothing. You should just ask Daddy about it.”

  “Yes, I guess I should. But if there was a stash of valuable artwork hidden away at our place, why wouldn’t I have known about it?”

  “Because you never went down in the back,” I tell her. “Except for the time you busted Jay and me when you caught us up on the roof.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she says. “You two could have gotten seriously hurt out there if that thing had collapsed. And that well? The fact that someone might have murdered him? Let’s change the subject. Shall we?”

  “Yeah, let’s,” Marissa says. “So Mom, any of Viveca’s celebrity clients going to be here today?” Mom says she doesn’t remember, and that she might not recognize the names anyway. For the next mile or so, nobody says a thing.

  Bella Linda is out on the edge of town, a little after this golf course we’re passing. It’s still pretty wooded out here. I’m surprised no one’s developed the hell out of it yet. Wetlands, maybe. The ground looks a little swampy. . . . Up ahead on the left, I see the sign. Slow down, put my signal on. “Oh, no! The rings!” Mom blurts out. “Andrew, we have to go back to the house. I forgot our rings.” Ariane says she doesn’t think there’s time.

  But the clock on the dashboard says 11:29. “Okay, don’t sweat it,” I tell them. “We’ve got about half an hour until showtime, right? So let me drop you guys off, and I’ll go get them. Be back in twenty minutes, max.”

  “Oh, honey. Thanks,” Mom says. “They’re in a little velvet bag on the bureau in Daddy’s and my room. It’s bluish gray. When I was getting dressed, I put it there so I wouldn’t forget. God, how could I be so—Oh, look! There’s Mr. Agnello.” Two older guys are going up the front steps. The younger one’s got the old geezer by the arm.

  “Who’s Mr. Agnello?” Marissa asks.

  “He gave me my start as an artist. Awarded me a ‘best in show’ when I was thinking about giving up.”

  “Which one?” Marissa asks. “The old dude or the other one.”

  “The one with the cane.” She puts her window down and calls out to him. “Mr. Agnello!”

  When I let them out of the car, Mom runs up to him and gives him a big hug. She’d better cool it. He’s so old, he looks breakable. Well, I’d better get going now that I’ve got a mission to accomplish. I drive down the circular driveway, turn back onto the road, and head back to the house. . . .

  Twenty minutes, I told them, but that’s optimistic with all this Saturday morning traffic—everyone out running their errands. Well, weddings never start on time anyway. Still, when the old lady in front of me slows down and signals that she’s taking a right turn about half a year before she’s going to take it, I check the mirror then gun it, passing her on the left. We’re not going to get this wedding over with until we get it started, and at this point, that pretty much depends on me.

  But naturally, I hit every friggin’ red light between here and home. Waiting out the one on South Main Street, I look over at the barbershop where Dad and I used to get our haircuts. I wonder how he’s doing up there on the Cape. Maybe he’s hanging with Tracy for the day. I hope so. I’d hate to think of him up there alone, stewing about what’s going on down here.

  It takes me almost fifteen minutes just to get to our road. Halfway up the hill, I pass some little kids at a lemonade stand. They try to flag me down, but I wave and keep going. Sorry, kids. No time. At the crest of the hill, I brake. Turn into our driveway and . . . What the fuck?

  Who’s this? Can’t be a burglar. Why would someone who’s breaking in be sitting out there on the front steps? Unless he’s the lookout. I put the car in park, cut the engine, and get out. He stands up when he sees me coming toward him. What’s that he’s wearing? An eye patch?

  “Help you with something?”

  “Is Annie home?” He’s gray-haired, skinny.

  “Uh, no. No she’s not. Who are you?”

  He says he’s her cousin. “She coming back soon?”

  “Not for a while. Was she expecting you?” I already know the answer to that one. If she’d invited him, why would he be here when the wedding’s over there? And where’s his car? He says no—he wanted to surprise her. They’re cousins? That’s when it hits me.

  “You’re not Kent, are you?”

  He nods, grins.

  “Holy shit. My mom and I were just talking about you last night. You’re the one who saved her, right? From that flood?”

  “That’s right
,” he says. “Got her out of the car and up into a tree. So you’re her son? Yeah, now that I look at you, I can see you got some O’Day in you.” He holds out his hand. “Glad to meet you, uh . . .”

  “Andrew.” We shake. “Glad to meet you, too. And god, Mom’s going to be thrilled to see you. She was just saying last night how you guys lost touch with each other. But we’ve got a complication.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  I tell him what’s about to go on over there at Bella Linda. “I just came back to get something Mom forgot. Look, why don’t you go over there with me? Surpise Mom?” He hesitates, says he’s not exactly dressed for a wedding. And he isn’t—not for this shindig: frayed gray sweatshirt, stained khaki pants. The guy looks a little down on his luck. “Tell you what,” I say. “Come on in. You might be able to wear something of my dad’s. It won’t be a perfect fit, but I think we can fix you up. We’d better hustle, though. The wedding’s supposed to start in another fifteen minutes.”

  “And it’s her wedding, you said? I thought she was already married.”

  “She and my dad are divorced,” I tell him. “This is her second marriage. I’ll tell you about it on the way over. Come on in.”

  Dad’s clothes don’t work out after all; his suit pants are swimming around the guy’s ankles, and the waist is way too big. But I get another idea. I’m shorter than Dad, and narrower at the waist. I start taking off the suit I’m wearing, my shirt and tie. We’re already going to be a little late getting back there; what’s another couple of minutes? By the time I’m dressed in my uniform, he’s ready, too. Not a great fit, but it will do. “Think I can skip the tie?” he asks. “I’m not a big one on neckties.”

  “No problem,” I tell him. “Come on. We’d better get over there.” We’re halfway down the stairs when I remember the goddamned rings. “Go on out,” I tell him. “I’ll be right there.” But when I come down again, I find him looking around in the living room. He didn’t pocket anything, did he?

  For the first few minutes of the drive over there, the conversation’s forced. I think of shit to ask him; he answers in single syllables. After I run out of questions, I turn on the radio to kill the silence. They’re playing some dipshit Madonna song. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s watching me. “So, uh . . . I didn’t see any car at the house. How did you get here?”