Yellowcake

by Ann Cummins

  "Shik'is," his grandmother says.

  "She says you've been a good friend."

  "That's right. We've gotten along just fine, haven't we, Ariana. We've been improving the irrigation system to the garden."

  His grandmother closes her eyes, her lips moving again. Where is his mother? His father has been out there alone on the farm with má saní'. Delmar didn't know that until yesterday. His father has never been on the farm without his mother. He hadn't meant for his father to stay there. He thought Sam was just going to visit.

  They drive up the mesa, cross the bridge, turn onto the Teec Nos Pos highway, and drive slowly past the new high school.

  "He ate the world," his father says. "Old Hank." He holds the flask, saluting. "It all came out in his songs."

  His grandmother's eyes are closed, and her lips are moving. She prays, "Nizhónigo naniná."

  It's 1:40 when they pass the Biggs place and turn onto the dirt road leading to the farm. The truck jitters across the rain welts, which sound like machine-gun fire because Sam's going a little too fast. Delmar puts his arm across his grandmother to keep her from pitching forward when Sam brakes hard, the truck fishtailing. Denver comes out from the shaded herb shed to bark at them.

  "Come on, I'll show you the irrigation system," Sam says.

  "Okay, but I need to get back. I have an appointment in town at three." His father has slammed his door and is walking quickly across the yard toward the river. It'll take forty minutes to get to town. They should leave no later than two to be on the safe side.

  He follows Sam past the corral and through the weeds by the dry irrigation ditch, toward the garden by the river. "I guess this is your work, huh?" Sam says.

  Delmar and Alice had dug the irrigating canals from the river. His father seems to have deepened a couple of them. Trickles of water run through the deeper ones and into the garden. The melons and pumpkins look fat and healthy. The deeper trenches have little wooden traps. "See," Sam says, squatting and pulling a knotted rope to lower the door on one and cut off the water supply. "During the spring, all she has to do is close these gates and she won't flood the garden. But for the dry season, like now, you need the deeper canals."

  "Good," Delmar says. He looks at his watch. It's two o'clock.

  Sam picks up a discarded shovel, wedges it into a ragged edge on one of his canals, and shaves off some dirt. Delmar squats. He looks back toward the house, where he can't see any sign of life. The horses are hidden in the shady part of the corral, and his grandmother has gone in. Denver is probably asleep in the shed again. The second hand on Delmar's watch sweeps past the 12 once, again, again. He licks his lips. The muscles in Sam's back strain against his T-shirt. Delmar thinks of the time Sam wanted to teach him how to pitch. He came by with new gloves and a ball, but Delmar couldn't get it right; Sam could pitch line drives, but Delmar's balls kept curving, and Sam kept saying, Just hit me, just aim at my chest. For a long time he said that, hours, it seemed, and Delmar's arm got tired, and finally Sam walked up to him, handed him the ball, and in a weary, frustrated voice said, "Just hit me, kid," and when Sam turned around, Delmar threw the ball as hard as he could, hitting him in the back, knocking his wind out, causing him to double over and gasp for a long time. But then Delmar couldn't tell if he was gasping or laughing, because when he stood up, Sam was laughing like crazy, saying, "I guess you hit me."

  Delmar stands up. "This appointment. I can't be late."

  "Plenty of time," Sam says. "I'm almost through here."

  The air is full of cotton picked by the wind from the cottonwood trees. The shallow canals are threaded with white puffy veins. Delmar says, "The thing is, Dad, the appointment's with my parole officer, and if I'm even a minute late..."

  "Oh, now it's Dad," Sam says. "When you want something." He tosses the shovel aside, turning to face Delmar. "Your mother used to do that, too. When she wanted something, she always knew the right words. Didn't mean anything. Just words." He starts back toward the truck, pulling his flask out of his pocket. "Savages," Delmar thinks he hears him say.

  Several feet away, Sam looks over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

  "That's all right. I'll find another ride."

  "Oh, come on."

  "Má saní doesn't want you here anymore."

  "Ariana? Nah, we're good. She likes me."

  Sam turns and starts walking at a clip toward the house. Delmar's grandmother has come out and is standing by the back door. "We're good, aren't we, Ariana?" Sam calls. His father beelines for her, and Delmar runs, positioning himself between them, steeling for a collision, but Sam veers off, saying, "Tell you what, you find another goddamn ride." He goes into the hogan, and a minute later comes out, tackle box and duffle in one hand, a sleeping bag in the other.

  "You think you're the only man?" Delmar says as quietly as he can. He wants to yell it. "There've always been other guys. She's always had men. Boyfriends. You're just a boyfriend."

  Sam stops a few feet away from him. He laughs. "Well, I guess I was the only hacking sperm donor."

  "Donated to a sixteen-year-old." He can't help it. He yells, "You know what they call that in prison?"

  Sam opens his mouth. White spittle in the corners. He closes it.

  He hurls himself past Delmar so close Delmar can feel his heat. Seconds later, dust roils up behind the truck as it speeds toward the road.

  Delmar is running across the field toward the Biggs's house. The dogs leap around him, nipping at his heels, the shepherd with the blue eye gurgling, gleefully enraged. He kicks at its teeth. He yells as he runs," Yá 'át'éhéii!" Vangie Biggs stands in the yard watching him. "Can I borrow your truck?" he says, but even as he says it, he sees engine parts all over the ground around the truck. All of the other vehicles are gone. "Can I borrow your phone?" he says. She doesn't like him, Vangie Biggs, and he doesn't like her, so he just pushes past her, opens the door, runs into the house to the phone in the kitchen. She follows him, standing in the kitchen doorway, a stick in her hand, which makes him want to laugh—what does she think she's going to do with that stick? He dials the number, staring at his neighbor's face, her lips slightly parted, eyes focused on his chin, her chin quivering, and the phone is ringing. He counts the rings, saying pick up pick it up pick it up to himself, four, five, six, and then she does, she picks it up.

  "Beck?" he says. "I really, really, really need a ride."

  Now and then a car or truck whooshes by. Delmar stands on the side of the road, still in view of his grandmother's farm. He puts his thumb out. Nobody stops.

  He has passed the safety zone. He doesn't know what time it is anymore, though his watch says it's 2:25. He doesn't really know what that means, except that he's late, which is funny, because his whole life he's felt like he's been early, as if he lives in a flood and is trying to catch hold of something and always having it slip by. He knows she won't come—why should she? Anyway, he's late. Even if she comes it will do no good.

  He squats. The sun is now directly overhead. He has slipped into his shadow. The pavement, practically at eye level, has rivers of hot tar melting between tiny asphalt rocks. Looks hot. Is hot. He takes the joint out of his pocket. If he had a match, he'd smoke it. He twists it between his fingers. He watches the second hand make its rounds.

  It's 2:45 when he sees something that looks like his cousin's truck come over the hill, rolling toward him soundlessly, a mirage, and then a sound, rubber on pavement, the smooth, even hum of an engine, and he stands just before she passes, she looking surprised out the window, as if he had snuck up on her. He watches her brake, sees the cloud of sand rise as she pulls off the road several yards beyond him, turns the truck around, heads back. Just before she reaches him, he rips open the paper on the joint and lets the weed fall out.

  When he gets in, he says," 'Ahéhee'." She gives a little nod. Her face is bloated and dirty, streaked from tears. He says, "Beck?" Her eyes are full of sadness, and he thinks she is the only person in the world he
really loves. He says, "Could you hurry?"

  35

  THEY TELL RYLAND he looks dashing in his wedding suit and boutonniere. They don't tell him that his suit is two sizes too big and his shoes a size too small. The boutonniere is a yellow rosebud. Rosy is dashing, too, in her melon dress and melon shoes. The skin of her feet fits nicely into her shoes, doesn't ooze over the tops like his skin does. But her face looks starched today. She has painted her eyebrows so they'll stay up. She said she didn't sleep a wink, worrying about all the ins and outs of this day.

  He is one of her worries, he fears, the major one. Rosy now sits alone in the head pew, marked by a huge satin bow, and he sits in the back in an unmarked pew. The rest of the wedding party is waiting for the bride out on the church steps.

  Everything is wrapped in cellophane. The people entering, the statues in their alcoves, the Eucharist in its chalice. His feelings.

  He watches the altar boys light the candles. He has ample oxygen—they filled the tank at his feet and the one in the front pew with Rosy before he came. He has two clean handkerchiefs, one in his breast pocket and one in his back with his wallet. He'll do his best not to fill the handkerchiefs with the hardened ball of spit in his throat, and if he must cough, he will try to do it under the muffle of organ music. He will try not to think about coughing because it's the thinking that always brings it on. He will try not to think.

  Father Liam, dressed in white and gold vestments, comes bounding out of the vestibule and down the aisle, bowing and waving to people. He stops beside Ryland, saying, "What a blessed day this is," and sticks his hand out. "A blessed, blessed day."

  The cellophane rips, the ball in his throat quakes, and Ryland's hand closes. The priest shakes his fist. Ryland can smell his holy aftershave, a fruity stench. He swallows and listens to the priest explain that he doesn't need to come to the altar for Communion, that they'll bring Communion to him and Rosy, which makes Ryland's head spin. He begins sputtering. He can't take Communion. He manages a "No thanks." In a puny voice, Ryland says he hasn't been to confession, is the reason he can't take Communion. The priest's mouth purses in a little o.

  Father Liam walks on, out to where the wedding party is organizing. Rosy keeps turning around and looking back. Now she stands and hurries down the aisle, just as one of the ushers escorts Edna Friedan in. They meet halfway, and Rosy says something to Edna. The usher turns her around, and they walk back down the aisle, Rosy returning to her pew. "Is that seat taken?" Edna says, stepping over Ryland's feet to sit beside him.

  "Are you my babysitter?" he says.

  "Absolutely not," she says, patting his knee. "I'm your date."

  "I guess Rosy thinks I need looking after." He smiles tiredly at her.

  "She did tell me to tell you it's not too late to back out of this."

  "She did, did she?"

  "Don't tell her I said so. It's supposed to be my idea. I'm supposed to say, 'Sit here with me and rest. Let Eddy step in.' Don't tell Rosy."

  "Mum's the word."

  Edna is dressed in clothes from another time, a navy blue suit that Ingrid Bergman might have worn for a date with Bogart and a wide-brimmed straw hat that nearly engulfs her little face.

  Ireland is all around them. In the choir loft the Austrian lady, Mrs. Gruber, plays "Danny Boy" at Maggie's request. Over and over again.

  "Does Maggie know this is a funeral song?"

  "She knows. She doesn't care. She wanted it. Irritating song."

  "Not as irritating as 'Amazing Grace,' do you think?"

  Ryland tries to smile. That's Mrs. Gruber's standard Sunday opener.

  "I think she's an impostor," Edna says. Edna's perfume reminds him of Christmas, why, he can't say. He tries to place the scent. "That's a Protestant song if I ever heard one. I think the only reason she's here is because she gets to play a nice organ."

  Now Ryland does smile. He's glad for Edna's company. She's a good friend. Has always been a good friend to his family. Unlike some he could name.

  They're probably burying Woody today. Sam will be there.

  Father Liam goes bounding back to the altar, stands at its center flanked by altar boys. Mrs. Gruber stops playing "Danny Boy" and sounds the first chord of the Wedding March. They all stand. Ryland places the perfume scent. Plastic, like a child's new toy.

  Here comes little Teri, throwing her sunflowers, her face solemn, legs stiff.

  The church is packed. He loosens his tie.

  Here comes Sue, who looks quite pretty except for the severely made-up face. Here's Sandi with the Offertory gifts, the wine and water, and Pooh with a satin pillow and the rings. Here's Eddy with Maggie. Ryland pulls the oxygen tube over his head, steps out into the aisle, and relieves his son from duty. Maggie's eyes brim with tears when she looks at him. He smiles at her. "Pick up your feet, soldier," he says. And he walks her down the aisle, stepping as lively as he dares, turning her over to George and stepping into the pew beside Rosy, where he hooks himself back up to air.

  Half sleeping, he listens to the priest charm them all in a language they understand, and he regrets the Latin they've lost. Once he could recite the whole Mass in Latin, both the priest's parts and the congregation's. Though he didn't understand the language he felt its meaning, and faith was easier.

  At the Offertory, before the Consecration, somebody in the choir loft sings "Ave Maria." Maggie takes a single yellow rose, places it at the feet of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and kneels until the song is over. Ryland thinks of his mother, who never knew his children, but he had felt her presence at their baptisms, their confirmations. He doesn't feel her presence today. He doesn't feel anything much, just the rock in his throat.

  He should go to confession. It's been so long. If he confessed and took the sacrament, maybe he would feel something again. But what should he confess? Where to start? Should he start with Woody? Woody's family? Make a list of the people he has let down? Might as well atone for his whole damn life.

  He knows what his mother would say to this line of thinking. She'd say, "Self-pity is a sin, Ryland. Go to your room and get rid of it."

  After Mass, after Maggie and George and all of them run back down the aisle, after pictures at the altar and on the church steps, Rosy says, "Ry, you don't need to go to the reception. I'll drive you home." But Edna, standing by, says, "Run along, Rosy. He's my date," and he lets Edna take his arm. They walk to the reception hall, leaving Rosy to herd the wedding party.

  "Let's sign in," Edna says. They stop at the guest book and sign under a supervising photo of Maggie and George, the date printed on the bottom of the picture: Saturday, September 28,1991.

  They sit at a round table covered with a white cloth and a small, ornate centerpiece: a little horn of plenty, gilded flowers, and, in a vase at the center, live mums and sunflowers. Next to the vase is a placard that says NO SMOKING PLEASE.

  People stop by, telling him it's good to see him, people he hasn't seen for years, mill people who seem to have crawled out of the woodwork—Howie Beeker, a welder, and Chris King, a mechanic, and the wives, more wives than men—they all stop by and say hello.

  "Rosy's the same old gal, isn't she. She has so much energy," Edna says. Rosy bustles around the room, moving from the guest book to the present table to the band on a platform. The band members are dressed in what look like matador costumes.

  "She's energetic."

  "I wish I had half her gumption," Edna says.

  "She has more than her share."

  "How about some whiskey, mister?" Edna says. At a bar in the corner, Pretty Boy from across the street swirls liquid in a glass and talks to the bartender.

  George, passing by their table, says, "I'll get it."

  "Whiskey and water," Edna says.

  "Neat," Ryland says.

  Lily and her new boyfriend stand in the doorway. Lily clutches her handbag in front of her stomach, looking in their direction. Edna waves her over. Lily takes the boyfriend's arm, steering him toward a little table
on the opposite side of the room from them.

  "She didn't see me," Edna says.

  "She saw you."

  Edna looks at him curiously. "Here comes the bride," he says. The bride makes her way toward their table, carrying her train over one arm, her cheeks flushed, eyes glittery.

  "What'd you think? Was it a great ceremony or was it a great ceremony?"

  "Everybody was great," Edna says.

  George brings the whiskey. "They're waiting for the trumpet player," he tells Maggie.

  "I don't care. He can be late. Guess what? We're going to Ireland for our honeymoon. This lug has been keeping it a surprise. We're going to stay in a castle!"

  "Ireland. Well, take a little boat ride to Scotland, then," Edna says. "I honeymooned in Edinburgh with Tommy, my third husband. What a lovely city"

  The band tunes up, the drummer brushing the cymbals. The trumpet player comes rushing in looking crumpled, hair tousled, costume wrinkled as if he's been sleeping in it. He looks pleased with himself. He has accomplished something. He has arrived. "Time to dance," Maggie says. "Get ready, Dad."

  "I think I'll sit this one out."

  "Oh, a father's got an obligation to dance with the bride," Edna says.

  "Get Eddy," Ryland tells Maggie.

  "Coward," Edna says.

  "Yup," Ryland says.

  The trumpet player jumps onto the platform, spits a few notes, gives the band a wave. George and Maggie swirl away into the middle of the floor, and the rhythm in the room takes on a spiky Latin beat. People group around the dance floor to watch the leading couple. Heads move to the beat.

  Now Eddy cuts in. Playing the part of the father. George starts dancing with Rosy. "George looks like he's stamping out a fire," Edna says. Rosy takes three steps to every one of his. "Look at our girl. She'll never let that boy know he can't dance." It's true, Rosy is chatting and smiling just as if she's not aware of the two hundred pounds behind George's feet, which could crush the bones in hers with one misstep.