The Hole We're In

by Gabrielle Zevin

  “No, Helen, I’ll take care of it,” George promised. “In fact, I’ll call as soon as we hang up.” George said this in order to get Helen to hang up.

  But George did not call. She wasn’t sure where she had written the phone number, and there was no way she was calling Helen back to get it.

  In George’s mind, this wedding could not come at a worse time. Next year would be a wonderful time. Next year, Roger would be done with his PhD and back at work, and she would be able to breathe again. This year, Roger was making only five thousand dollars for reasons George still did not completely understand. “I got a promotion,” he had announced a little over a month ago.

  “A promotion,” she said. “How wonderful!”

  “The thing is, Georgie, I’ll be making a little less money than I was. But that’s only temporary, and then I’ll be making so much more.”

  Then he kissed her hard on the mouth. Her husband might be almost fifty years old, but he was still dashing. Roger had blondish brown hair, and he was slim and tall. He wasn’t handsome like an actor or model. His features were less tortured and more regular than those kinds of men. He was handsome in a placid way, like a weatherman. All the ladies flirted with him. It used to bother her, but Roger had never strayed, and now those flirtations amused her more than anything. George still believed that if you lined up all the husbands at their church, hers was the handsomest.

  This wasn’t to say she had been fooled by the kiss. George knew there was no universe in which a ten-thousand-dollar pay cut somehow represented career advancement. No. The point of Roger’s kiss (or so George thought) had been to say something along the lines of, Please let this be all right with you because there’s nothing I can do about it now. So George tasted her husband’s mouth and thought to herself, Whatever has happened has happened, so I may as well enjoy this kiss and then we’ll just get on with it, whatever it is.

  Sometime after lunch and a nap, George checked the mail. There were bills, of course, and three college admissions pamphlets for Patsy, two credit card offers for Vinnie though he had never resided at this address, a notice that Señor’s teeth needed to be cleaned (Señor was Helen’s cat who had died last year), the September issue of Christian Educator Monthly for Roger (it always seemed to arrive a month late), and a specialty catalog catering to the mature, full-figured lady who could appreciate a high-quality caftan. Who in the world is this supposed to be for? George wondered, flipping the catalog over to look at the mailing label. Of course, she realized. Me.

  Lacking the serious mental preparation required for bill opening, she stuffed the bills in the kitchen “bill” drawer. She was about to toss most of the kids’ mail into the trash when one of Vincent’s credit card offers caught her eye. It was preapproved with an introductory APR of 0.0%. George decided to set this one aside. Maybe her son could use a better credit card? She knew he had at least one already, but he could always do a balance transfer or something. She decided to call him to ask but as usual only got his voice mail. “Hi Vinnie. It’s Mommy. There’s a credit card offer here ...” George always felt awkward leaving messages, like the recording was somehow draining the life force from her. Keep it light, she coached herself. Sound normal. Don’t ramble. An answering machine is not the place for a heart-to-heart. “Really, it’s a better deal than any of Daddy’s and my credit cards at this point. So ... so, just give a call back when you have the time. Love you, honey.”

  George paged through the fat-lady catalog, pausing to admire a red empire-waist dress with a matching multicolored quilted jacket. She was wondering whether the color was too bold to wear to Helen’s wedding when the phone rang again. She dog-eared the catalog page.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pomeroy. This is Laine Philips from the Paper Trail, Highland Mall location.”

  “Who?”

  “We’re doing the invites for your daughter’s wedding,” said Laine. “Helen,” she added, as if George could possibly have forgotten the name of the daughter who was getting married.

  “Oh. OK. Nice to meet you.”

  “Helen asked us to call for your credit card information, if that’s all right.”

  “Um, just a minute.” George dug through her bottomless purse. Over the years, her purses had grown in proportion to her hips, and this one was starting to become one of those epic old-lady bags, the kind she had said she’d never have. The kind her grandmother had carried. Her grandmother who used to carry around a five-pound marble ashtray even after she had quit smoking. Even after the woman had been diagnosed with lung cancer, for Pete’s sake.

  “Mrs. Pomeroy?”

  I told Helen I would call, George thought.

  “Mrs. Pomeroy?”

  “I’m just trying to find my credit card,” George apologized.

  “No problem,” said Laine. “So, it must be super exciting having your daughter get married?”

  “Yeah. It’s truly”—George paused—“something. Oh, I just found it!” She was about to read the numbers when the phone beeped. Maybe it was Vinnie? “I’m sorry, someone’s on the other line. Can I just take this real quick?” As she clicked over, George felt slightly annoyed with herself for asking permission.

  “Hello, Georgia, this is Kate Johnson, Janet Johnson’s mother, from the cheerleading team.” The only time this woman calls is for money, George thought. When Patsy had joined the cheerleading team two years ago, she had had no idea it was such an expensive pastime. George’s notions of cheerleading had some straight from her own 1960s high school where color coordinated skirts, pompoms, and the occasional ponytail holder had been all that was required. “How y’all doin’ today?” Mrs. Johnson drawled. The more money she wanted, the more Texan her accent got.

  “Um, could I call you back? My older daughter’s getting married—”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Well, I’m not the one getting married, Kate,” George joked.

  “Well, a daughter’s wedding is like your own, though, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. The thing is, could I call you back? I’ve got the engraver on the other line.”

  “Why don’t I just hold?” Mrs. Johnson offered.

  George clicked back to the Paper Trail. “Sorry about that.” She read her credit card number, then returned to Mrs. Johnson.

  “The reason I’m calling, Georgia ... do you go by Georgie?”

  George answered the same way she had answered every other time Mrs. Johnson had posed this question, “You can call me whatever you like.”

  “So, Georgie, the girls are having a fund-raiser, which of course means that we’re having a fund-raiser for them ...”

  And blah, blah, blah. George tuned Mrs. Johnson out. Eventually, she’d come to the point.

  “So assuming the bikini car wash goes well, which it always has in years past, each girl only needs to sell one hundred rolls of wrapping paper ...”

  More than anything in the world, George hated selling that stupid crap. Over the course of three children, George had sold magazine subscriptions, chocolate bars that tasted like soap, raffle tickets, prepaid calling cards, potted plants, greeting cards, gourmet baskets, cheese, encyclopedias, personalized Bibles, and a variety of baked goods. As she was not a natural salesperson, she had never gotten the knack for asking her colleagues and neighbors to buy this crap either. Besides, a sale to a neighbor or colleague contained an unspoken promise that she would buy whatever their kid sold in the future. Consequently, she herself had usually ended up buying the majority of whatever her children were meant to be selling. And whatever sat in the garage until it ultimately rotted or was given to Goodwill. She wished they would just ask them for the money flat out.

  “But if the bikini car wash doesn’t go well, probably one hundred fifty rolls. In any case, that should leave plenty of money to pay for the girls’ airfare to nationals in San Diego and team boxer briefs.”

  “Boxer briefs?” George asked.

  “They’re boxer shorts that are tight, like
underwear. Boxers and briefs at the same time.”

  George knew what they were. She was just wondering why exactly the girls’ cheerleading team would need them. “Aren’t boxers for boys?” she finally asked.

  Mrs. Johnson laughed. “The girls like them, too. It’s sort of a thing. It’s sort of a—”

  The phone beeped again, and the tone was sweet to George’s ears—deliverance. She apologized to Mrs. Johnson and asked if she could call her back later.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Georgie,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I really just wanted to give you the heads up that Patsy should be bringing home the catalog with the wrapping paper samples this evening, OK?”

  “Now I know,” George said.

  “Because you know how the girls can be about remembering to give things to their moms. My Janet, God love her, but her backpack’s like the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I’ve really got to get the other—”

  “Sorry, hon. I’ll give you a call some time next week. Buh-bye now!”

  George clicked over to the other line.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pomeroy. This is Laine from the Paper Trail again.”

  “Hi there,” George said.

  “Um, well, the credit card you gave me ... I was wondering if you had a different one.”

  “Is it not ...,” George began, but at that moment, Patsy came through the kitchen door. The youngest left her gym bag in the middle of the kitchen, waved at George, and headed straight for the fridge.

  “Hey, Mom,” Patsy whispered. “Who you talking to?”

  Patsy’s accent always surprised George. The family had moved from Massachusetts to Tennessee when Patsy was one month old, and Patsy was the only one who had developed the voice of the region. Roger, whose mother was Southern, had a little Tennessee from time to time, but then, he was a bit of a mockingbird. He had gotten the long a’s of a Kennedy when they had lived in Massachusetts, too. “Someone for Helen’s wedding,” George whispered back. “Sorry,” George said to Laine, “My youngest just got home from school. So, do you want to run it through again?”

  “Yeah, the thing is I’ve already done that. Twice actually. This happens pretty often, though. You might want to call your credit card company or something.”

  “Right,” George said. “I’ll definitely have to do that.”

  “So, in the mean time, the easiest thing might be if you just have another card.”

  But that’s the one that works, George thought. While George was fishing through her massive purse for a different credit card, Patsy sat down across the table from her with a snack that included two Twizzlers, a handful of Cheetos, and a Coke. George suspected she ought to pester Patsy to eat something nonsynthetic, but she didn’t feel up to an argument.

  For lack of any other reading material, Patsy picked up the fat lady catalog, which sprang open to the dog-eared page.

  “Mom,” Patsy whispered, “what in the world is this?” She pointed to the rainbow jacket.

  “I was thinking I might wear it to Helen’s wedding. Or, you know, the rehearsal dinner or something,” George whispered back.

  “Yeah,” Patsy said. “Or you could wear it to clown school?”

  “Is it that bad?” George covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “I thought all the colors were sort of pretty.”

  “Why don’t you just cut a hole in the middle of the bedspread and wear that?” With a cheese-stained finger, Patsy cut a circle in the air, then left. George could hear the television come on in the den.

  “Mrs. Pomeroy,” Laine asked, “are you still there?”

  George made a note to clean out her purse. “Oh, um, I just found it.” George produced the second credit card and read the numbers to Laine.

  “Why don’t you stay on the line while I ring it through?” Laine suggested.

  An endless ninety seconds later, the card was approved. George apologized for the trouble and hung up the phone.

  Hell, George thought, now I have to deal with whatever’s wrong with the good credit card.

  Though not mentally prepared for such a task, she opened the bill drawer and found the statement in question. It turned out there was nothing wrong with the credit card except the obvious—its eight-thousand-dollar limit was all used up. Most of the charges were familiar to George—groceries, the cable bill—but then there were a few larger ones that Roger must have made without telling her. Things like airplane tickets. Airplane tickets to New York.

  All was easily explained. The tickets, it turned out, were a research trip Roger was taking to New York in February for his dissertation. It was the only expense he had to take care of—the rest of the trip was being sponsored by his faculty adviser. “It’s OK, isn’t it?” Roger asked George that night in bed.

  “It’s fine. It’s just better if you tell me first. So I can plan,” George said.

  “Maybe I can get the department to reimburse me for the travel?”

  “That would be good.”

  “I doubt they’ll do it, though,” Roger said. “They’re already being really aboveboard to cover the hotel.”

  “Fine.”

  Roger turned to look at George in bed. “Are we OK?”

  George nodded. “We’re fine.” And then she sighed. “We’ll be better when Helen’s wedding is over and you’ve got your PhD.”

  “Do I need to worry?”

  “No.” There was no point in him worrying. One of her designated marital responsibilities had always been worrying. “Roger?” She tried to say this as gently as possible. “The next time you make reservations, it might be better if you flew coach. For the time being, I mean.”

  “You’re right. It’s just that Carolyn”—he began, then corrected himself—“Professor Murray, my adviser, always flies business class, and she thought we’d be able to get some work done on the plane.”

  George considered this argument. “That makes sense,” she said after a while. But Roger was already asleep.

  Despite the fact that she was overweight and they were in debt, their sex life was really very good. Or at least regular. Around 3 AM, George woke to the feeling of her husband atop her. “Is it all right if I go in?” he asked.

  George wasn’t really in the mood, but as the question had been put so politely, she consented.

  He lifted up her nightgown and crawled under it. She couldn’t see his face. It was like having sex with a pink nylon ghost.

  The question of contraception was not considered. Roger had always been against it on both Christian and pagan principles, and George’s periods had lately become irregular enough to make the issue moot.

  After sex, George couldn’t sleep. She went downstairs and prayed for a bit: Dear God, let us all stay healthy. Dear God, let Roger finish his PhD this year. Dear God, let us not have to declare bankruptcy. Dear God, dear God, dear God. In the end, she threw in something about the poor children in Africa and innocent people with AIDS and sinners everywhere just so her prayers didn’t seem completely narcissistic.

  But she really only meant the first part.

  She went into the kitchen. The answering machine light was blinking. It was Vinnie. He apologized for calling so late—the hours in the graduate film program he was attending were very long—but he was interested in the credit card offer and asked George to set it aside for him. He’d get it at Christmas or the next time she had something to send him or whenever.

  George thought she had left the application on the counter, but it wasn’t there. It had gotten mixed up with a rough crowd: the bill drawer bills. She was awake and had nothing else to do, so she filled it out for him. Like any mother, she knew his name, his date of birth, his social security number, and even the way he signed his name: the extravagant upstroke of the capital V; the tightly packed, indistinct lowercases; the P with its oversized, arrogant loop; the final y, which ended in a flourish, not unlike his father’s.

  November

  LAST PRACTICE BEFORE the last game of the year, and the foot
ball team was distracted. Basketball tryouts in the gym had forced the cheerleaders to hold practice on the sidelines.

  Harland Bright, the wide receiver, watched the girls form a three-level pyramid. He was known for his great eyes and his even greater speed, and he saw before anyone else that the little blonde at the top was about to fall on her head. He started running.

  “Bright, where you going?” Coach called out.

  Harland didn’t answer. That was his great gift as an athlete. He never felt like he had to explain himself. He just got it done.

  He arrived at the pyramid just as the little blonde was about to crash into the gravel. He caught her, but a moment too late. The back of her head bounced briefly against the ground then her neck twisted causing her temple to skid across the gravel—a fumble—and then she passed out.

  “What’s her name?” he asked her teammates.

  “Patsy Pomeroy,” someone told him.

  “Pomeroy,” he repeated. Like the apple, he thought.

  * * *

  HE DIDN’T SEE the little blonde for another week, but he thought about her. About the way her head had felt in his hands—silky and clean and smaller than a football. About the way she had smelled—sweaty and bloody and a little sweet. He wished he had another chance to run the play. If he’d just been a little faster or taken a slightly more efficient route to the sidelines, she wouldn’t have hit her head at all. Harland Bright was a perfectionist.

  And then, there she was in the flesh, standing in front of his locker.

  “Hear you saved my life,” she said. Now that she was standing, he could see that she was more than a foot shorter than him.

  “Not quite,” he said. He nodded toward the neck brace she was wearing.

  “Aw, that? That’s nothing. I could be in a wheelchair or like, dead, you know?”

  “S’pose.”

  She narrowed her bluish green eyes at him. “Yeah, maybe I should be pissed at you,” she said. “I have to sit out the whole rest of the cheerleading season.”