Five minutes later it was silent and still, just a whoosh of the occasional car passing. Kay probably had the time wrong. But Rita would not call the house or sit down on the bench. She watched the curve of the track ahead until it wound over the road, out of sight. Maybe she could get the train straight to Woeburne from here, see Will. She’d find out all that.
Just this morning at Staubitz’s market, cold-cut order half filled, Patsy Staubitz pushed out the top of the Dutch door behind her husband’s new slicer with a New York newspaper in her hand. She’d been waiting, her face like an open trap. Now Rita, don’t be upset, she said. Too wound up by half. Rita straightened her handbag on her wrist, found her wallet to pay fast and go. She did not enjoy this side of Patsy, not much at all, though knew her to be better in other ways. Good to the school, helped out there. Said, Fine, Jay, that’s plenty for today.
You won’t have a scrap left by tomorrow! he said.
Leave it for now. And she had a ten-dollar bill on the counter. That’ll be all. She’d make a meat loaf, and her husband could do sandwiches from it when he pleased.
All weekend he’ll be working the back side of the old house on Treehorn Road, Rita said, you know that place. So I won’t see him, it’ll go bad.
Wait, Rita, you may find him home. You take a look here.
And this Patsy Staubitz had no children. That was part of it, and Rita understood. She took hold of the newspaper held out over the wet joint of ham. Patsy’s face a step down now in satisfaction. A query burst open there. Rita could not answer until she saw and, when she did see, read her son’s name in a story that made little sense, she felt only silence, which disappointed Patsy.
Rita read it again.
I can have this?
Patsy Staubitz nodded, then shook her head. Transaction concluded, and a few conclusions already reached about what Rita Clemens might be thinking just now, though she said nothing.
I’ll just take what you’ve got, Jay.
No trouble. He scribbled a list of numbers on the brown paper, broke her bill, poured the change into her palm. Glanced to his wife. Her jaw opened a bit.
Rita found her husband at the far end of Treehorn Road, where the tar turned to dirt and the house he worked on looked made of patches of partial houses. Jack Clemens was at the top of an extension ladder, leaning into the uncertain chimney that was half crumbled onto a gambrel roof. Next winter a fire would be safe there. He could be relied on. Everyone knew to use him for these things.
Hey Cowgirl. Lou-Lou Clemens had her nose in Gert’s side pocket, and it looked like she’d gained about ten pounds since the morning, was that possible? Kay kissed Lou-Lou’s brown hair, took a sniff. Like a bad onion. She must be rubbing her head in the grass. Tub for you, lady. And all business.
Go. Go. Go, Gert said, as if cheering for a team, but Lou-Lou’s nose stayed buried in her pocket.
Whatcha got in there?
Come on, pronto. Ann Louise. Get the lead out. Kay’s voice had moved entirely out of the appeasing zone. Now.
Gert peeled Lou-Lou’s face away from her jeans. Come on, turnip. Do what your mother said. Ta-dum.
Lou-Lou moved off at last toward the bath. Pink Danskin pants tight in the bottom, strained at the seam. Sweetheart, you need help?
Uh-uh.
I have a genius for reunions. Don’t you think? Generally speaking, a mother with gifts. Kay poured two Scotches. Arranged five Ritz crackers on a plate.
Only a minute, said Gert. Got the menfolk gnawing at the furniture.
Red’s home for dinner?
Did I tell you he’s become a runner?
Like a track star?
Yes, but around the block, late at night, when he can’t sleep. It’s good for circulation and insomnia. So he says.
I didn’t know he had insomnia.
Me neither.
Observant, madame, Kay said, and yawned wide.
I get in bed, I’m gone.
Lucky. I get in bed. That’s a bad story. You don’t want to hear it.
You’re so right. Gert laughed a bunch of hiccups in a row, as if something was funny. Gert Maguire, next-door neighbor, childhood friend, the most faithful, unquestioning supporter during this whole nightmare. Kay could barely stand to look at her. Porch or den?
Porch. Then I gotta go.
Not a soul at the station besides Rita, standing like a statue by the bench. Kay angled the Thunderbird to the platform. Lou-Lou was out and running, arms wide, wet hair flopping, calling Meemaw, Meemaw, before Kay could get the gear shift into park. She assessed the hug as she put out her cigarette, waved the smoke out the window. They looked like weird twins. The kind of girl-child most likely to be produced by Jack and Rita Clemens was her Lou-Lou. Rita hugged Lou-Lou like she knew that, felt it herself. Gert had mentioned something about something the nuns had said about Lou-Lou feeling downcast and not really in line for a lot of attention, and so was acting up, in fact, had thrown her shoe across a room and hit someone. That would hurt. Already, and only nine years old, her feet were bigger than Kay’s. Rita was built that way too, big limbs, strong hands. Kay brushed off her slim pink linen skirt and swiveled out of the car. Lou-Lou was becoming a hip-clinger. Mother! Let me help you!
Rita Clemens juggled an overnight bag and Lou-Lou all on one side. Kay caught Lou-Lou by the hand, shouldered the bag, and kissed Rita, touched the warm dark hair with her lips. In the car, Lou-Lou did all the talking and Kay looked ahead, trying to remember now what she’d planned to say.
Behind the door of the master bathroom, there was a long, narrow closet where Kay hid all the things she maintained her appearance with that she didn’t want Will to see. She looked into that hidden inventory now, assessing. Trying to know what she could live without if she had to. She just didn’t want to be here any more. She was thinking maybe it would be best to camp out somewhere neutral until Bo recovered. She’d lived in this house with Will for ten years, and everything she did here she’d done too many times before. If nothing else was obvious, it was that she needed to start thinking, start living, in new ways. She’d let go of some of these devices: depilatory kit, electric curlers, douche, hair color, manicure kit. She’d try natural, the way the kids were doing in California, see if that would clear her mind.
There was the lightest tapping sound in the bedroom, like a squirrel gnawing. Kay looked around. Rita stood in the doorway of the bedroom; when she saw Kay’s face, she wriggled her fingers and took a seat on the slipper chair. So, she said. Rough times.
Not so bad.
Rita squinted at her like she was a lying child.
Not so good.
I want to help, so does Jack.
I know you do, I do. But I’m managing, it’s working out.
We could take Lou-Lou with us.
Well, right now she’s in school. And Gert’s a good egg. And I’m back and forth. She’ll be okay.
I could come here.
And leave Jack Clemens to fend for himself? Unlikely. That would be the end of me in his eyes. Kay closed the closet door.
Rita didn’t answer. She brushed a speck from her lap.
We’ll be okay, you’ll see. And she noticed that Rita was watching her, not directly but in the side-view mirror over the vanity. She straightened her chin. Rita, you’ll see.
What about a good lawyer. I know you don’t put a lot of stock in anyone outside of New York, but we’ve got a man you two might consider, he’s known Will since he was a baby. That might count for something.
Kay made a face like she was considering, but she was thinking about the time right after Will and she were married. She was almost nineteen. They were looking to escape Rita’s house in Maryland on a Saturday morning when Jack Clemens woke up sour in the head, a mouth on him, from a lot of card playing the night before. Rita answered everything Jack said with a tap of her spatula against the skillet, a Morse code of displeasure. Then she said to Kay: Your father seems such a gentleman. Jack Clemens studied Will and his
new bride sitting with a newspaper spread wide on the table. Jack looked like the source of his problem was just now occurring to him. Will took Kay by the arm and led her out through the backyards in the bright unbroken sun down to the boatyard behind some shack, to sit beneath a briny hull on two sawhorses. He rubbed sand on her knees; it smelled like chalk. You don’t want this, said Will. But apparently she did.
And then he did something with his tongue, right in the boatyard, hidden away, her skirt pushed high on her hips, a poof around her waist. And he told her: Cunnilingus. Labia. That was funny. And that was their deal for a long time, he’d bring home whatever he could come up with, she’d let him show her, and she’d be surprised. What was he learning now.
Rita patted the silky trim on the slipper chair. What about Roy. What’s this business about Roy.
I think Roy was just trying to help. Will’s going to be mad now.
Mad? I should think so.
Maybe we should be thinking about sleep. A long day ahead, as they say.
It’s only seven o’clock. Lou-Lou hasn’t had dinner yet.
Yes, well.
Honey, I’m not trying to hurt you.
No, no, of course not.
Only one sliver of ice, shaped like a guitar pick, floated in the tumbler of Scotch. Kay lit a mosquito candle too late. Scratched at her neck. She could hear the knocking of a boat tied too loose down on the water. Probably Hank Ruddy’s. The moron. It was midnight. Lou-Lou and Rita were sleeping, both in the guest room. She’d taken a peek to see, twin heads turned into the pillowcases. Lou-Lou looked happy.
Kay let the sliver of ice melt on the tip of her tongue. Outside the screen, in the blackness, she heard a crackle, pinecones underfoot, then a panting for breath. Jesus! She jumped up, spilled her drink down her blouse. The latch wasn’t even hooked on the door. Jesus, who’s there, she yelled really loud, maybe she’d wake up Gert.
Shh. Shh. Kay. It’s me.
Me? Who the hell?
Red. Red. I’m sorry, jeez, really sorry. I just thought you were awake and everything.
Red?
Don’t worry. I’m just out, that’s all, and I saw you. How’re you doing?
I don’t know.
I haven’t seen you in days. And I was thinking about you. About you guys, just how and stuff, things were going, and I hope.
Oh. We’re fine.
Great. Great. Can I come in?
I’m on my way to bed.
Just a little water would be great. Red pushed through the screen door. Hair matted around his ears like he’d been licked. Face all damp.
You’re soaked.
Ten rounds already. Here to McKim’s and back.
Wait here.
Kay dumped her empty tumbler on the counter inside, then headed for the laundry to shed her blouse. She stunk now. She wiped the dampness from her chest with a towel. She stripped off her wet bra and looked in the dryer for something. Empty. Carmen would never leave an unfolded load inside. One of Will’s old sweatshirts was in the ragbag. She took that out, it smelled like mothballs, which was better than Scotch.
She came back out with water for Red and more Scotch for her, but before she could hand it over, Red’s own hands, like silky claws, hard and smooth and very big, were stroking with an emphatic upward push along her waist. Kay skittered back, again spilling. Hey. Quit it.
But Red kept on, took away the glasses. He sipped the Scotch, watching her eyes. And she was interested. For a moment she forgot to stop him, forgot to start screaming really loud, and wondered if she’d already awakened Rita, and what would that be like. Such a blankness started and the thought of Rita’s tapping spatula. The boat knocking down below. But Red was pulling the sweatshirt away from her damp again skin, and again the hands found her waistband, and her belt loop, and the snap on her cotton shorts.
Wait. Wait just a minute here. But her neighbor was deaf and uninventive. He lifted her up, arms right around her hips, and carried her like a sack to the rod-iron sofa, and slid her onto the waterproof cushions, and pulled down her shorts and panties. Shorts, begone. He said that. And Kay laughed. But, really, this is, she said. Ridiculous.
And he dropped his own baggy shorts, looked made of plastic, and he was wearing a jockstrap which had angled his erection out to the high left. Kay couldn’t say anything for the moment, let him peel that thing off and mount her, as if she had never learned a thing. She lay there with her legs splayed, thought maybe I’m being repaired. That was the idea, an overdue maintenance, a clumsy repairman, but honest and adequate. She listened for her mother-in-law, for her friend, for her daughter. She closed her eyes and didn’t look. Felt the hands laid tidy and warm and heavy around her breasts. Thought about starting over. Thought I am so beautiful he cannot believe I have come into his humble shop. Soon she would be a clean slate.
June 5
Will Clemens discovered a way to wet his soap and slowly, so not to create a lather, get the bar to issue a slick, gelatinous sludge. He could use it with the comb of his fingers to scoop his hair back out of his eyes. When he first entered Woeburne two months ago, it was like being inducted into the marines. He’d been hosed, prodded, vaccinated, shaved, and barbered in a way that gave him a moon face, but now his hair was growing back.
At the start he was also given a sack of personal goods and clothing. Some of which were replenished on a regular basis by fat Pasteur—the housekeeper, they called him, the chief guard of cell block Kentucky, where Will and the other executives were housed. Every other Sunday, Pasteur delivered: one cake of pea-green soap that smelled like bacon, four washcloths, two bath towels, a miniature unlabeled tube of aqua-colored tongue-burning toothpaste, but no razors. Razors got a special treatment. Handles wrapped in masking tape, owner’s names written in Magic Marker, all kept together in a wicker basket under lock and key.
Every day, after the eleven o’clock head count, Pasteur escorted the eighteen men living on Will’s cell block to the john and brought the basket of razors with him. They shaved in silence, looking into the long slab of marbled mercury above the sinks. No talking allowed when the razors were in their hands. Once Pasteur had collected them, rinsed and wiped, in his basket, they were free to say something.
Will thought these precautions excessive for his group: the short-termers, the accidentals, the compos mentis deluxe. But Pasteur had trained with the mental defectives, which was the majority population at Woeburne. This was the designated stopping place for New York criminals whose first motive was an emotional disorder, not necessarily including malice. Some of the mental defectives were heartbroken. Pasteur had learned to be consistent in his methods, to be strict, and not to let any talking excite melancholy when a sharp edge was at hand. Razors were impossible to get, except out of Pasteur’s basket, but everything else, and certainly soap, could be bartered for.
Kentucky block was located on the upper-right tier, overlooking the central atrium. A glass and iron ceiling arched twenty more feet above, and through the haze of thirty years of accumulated muck, Kentucky was often radiant with filtered sun and stippled blue skies. The dirt functioned like a scrim and subtly patterned the light that came through. Will thought the artists had anticipated just that. The whole place had been built by Works Progress Administration artists during the Depression. Woeburne was filled with odd details. But the sound could be appalling. Rain sounded like an atomic bomb, and hail like shrapnel fire, and this was a bad thing for the veterans among the mental defectives, which were almost all. Will was a veteran. Stationed in Korea, after the peace, as a mail courier. He carried letters in a canvas sack by bicycle from the airstrip to the mail table at the tiny base camp. Sometimes he sorted it and put it in the correct pigeonholes, sometimes he was busy and stuffed it into a locker in the room with the weight bench and barbell, never used. No one ever complained. It was more relaxing not to have a lot of news from home.
Right before his discharge, Will’s sergeant was doing a few situps to get in shape
before going stateside, and he opened one of the lockers, just by chance, and the mail cascaded all around his feet. This was only a minor problem. The enlisted men read their old letters like novels. Will almost wanted to suggest something like that here at Woeburne. Novels were in short supply, worse than razors.
Will did not want to read his mail. It was the contrast that killed him. The blue-gray edge on Kay’s notepaper, that’s what made him want to find a razor, want to get very melancholy and raid Pasteur’s basket. So he started a storage system. By chance, he procured an empty can from the mess where he worked—Persephone’s cherries, one of those wild brands that must sell only to prisons and locked-down institutions, because on the open market no one would buy them. Companies where the product names were cribbed from the homework of high school students. Persephone’s cherries were in fact red tasteless bulbs suspended in a sugar mulch. Brodie, the chief cook, liked to dump a few kilos into gelatin and call it dessert. But the label was even more perverse than the contents. A bent-over agrarian worker, clearly from nineteenth-century northern Europe, caught in a suspended wag of a backside like a cave entrance, huge and dark and U-shaped. This agricultural hussy had round hands like spoons with which she dug in a field. Cherries grow on trees. There were no trees on the label.
Will studied the huge brown-skirted backside. He would have put a single blossoming branch on side A, and on side B, the identical branch with fruit dangling, supple, ready for plucking. And maybe, but this might be pushing it, he’d put a dimpled hand reaching for, but not touching, the bottom-most dew-lapped globe. Illustrate desire. Better always than a fruit in the hand. But for now, into the existing can, Will consigned his unopened letters and his emphatic desire not to read them until he was out of here.
Wavemaker II Page 3