Smartie was getting married, too. Her name was Regan Graham, and she was studying in Chicago to be a curator. Patsy had never known anyone who became such a thing. It just wasn’t something people from Buckstop (or even Big Rock) ever did. He had shown Patsy her picture once. Her teeth were on the big side, but Patsy couldn’t find any other fault with her.
One time, while on leave and bored with nothing to do, Patsy googled Regan Graham. She wasn’t a famous person, but there were still thirty-eight hundred links to her name. She had graduated from Harvard University, where she had been the rehearsal accompanist for the Gilbert and Sullivan Players. She had won a prize for a research paper entitled “Liminality in the Age of Distraction.” She had been a bridesmaid in her older sister’s wedding in Philadelphia. Her dress was made of black-and-white gingham. The picture ran in the society section of the newspaper in Philly, and Patsy had had to give her name and address just to see it. Regan had played lacrosse at some Quaker school, also in Philly. She had run in a 5K in Chicago just last February and placed forty-sixth. She had broken some boy’s heart, and he had apparently responded to the blow by writing a long blog entry about what a bitch she was. For several months in 2002, photographs indicated that she had dyed her hair black. She cataloged all her books on one of those library Web sites. She liked art books, but they weren’t the kind of artists Patsy had ever heard of. She had bridal registries at Pottery Barn and at Tiffany’s. She favored dishes and linens in whites and beiges. She was five years older than Patsy—Regan’s birthday was in October. Sometimes, Patsy felt like she should send her a present, knowing so much about her likes and dislikes as she did.
Not long after, Patsy had googled her own name. There were numerous links to Patricia French, but most of them had nothing to do with her. There was Patricia French, the real-estate broker in St. Louis, Missouri. There was Patricia French who painted animal portraits, specializing in equestrian. There was Patricia French who was an ombudsman in Leeds, England—she was probably the most popular Patricia French of all. There was Pat French, a youngish man who was into writing fan fiction about rather girly books; his friends liked to mock him by referring to him as Patricia.
However, she was the only Patricia Pomeroy French in the known universe. There were eight links to her full name. Three mentioned her first deployment. Two made reference to her being the pastor’s daughter (with reference to her deployment). One mistakenly reported her as deceased. The final two were dead links, which meant they didn’t lead anywhere at all.
UPON HER RETURN, the house was empty and the phone was ringing. It was Roger.
“Patricia,” he said.
She walked over to the kitchen table, which was the one thing in the house that she liked, the one thing in the house that had been bought brand-new from Slickmart. The table and chairs were edged in silver chrome, like something from an old diner. She had purchased the set using money from the first installment of her enlistment bonus, and at the time, that had given her great pleasure. For once in her life, she had found it satisfying to have everything perfectly matched. As she sat and the cushion made a sympathetic sighing sound, she wondered if those chairs were to be the only thing she’d have to show for her entire military career.
“Patricia,” he repeated, “are you there?”
“I’m here, Daddy. I was just thinking how you and Mom have never been over to the house to see my kitchen table.”
“Patricia,” he said, “I want you to know I prayed on your situation all day and all night.”
She told him that she wouldn’t have expected anything less. She looked at her face ever so slightly reflected in the Formica of the table. She was the moon on a cloudy night. She was spilled milk. She realized she hadn’t been paying attention to Roger at all.
“... But you knew the position of our church on the war when you joined up, so I’m gonna have to hold you to that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You left your church and your family to join the military. You knew this was against our beliefs. You put your faith in the military to pay for your education, so you’ll have to live with that decision and keep your faith with that.”
She asked him what that had to do with Grandma’s money.
“If I gave you that money, it wouldn’t look right.”
She noticed a tiny rip or burn in the vinyl of the chair to her left. Magnum and the Pharm had probably been getting stoned when it happened. She placed the tip of her little finger into the hole, which only made it bigger. This put her in mind of a story from her second-or third-grade reading textbook: upon being hired to patch holes in a blanket, a tailor comes up with the solution of cutting the holes out instead, leaving the blanket with bigger holes than ever. She wondered what the moral of the story was supposed to have been. Don’t hire stupid tailors? Patch your own blankets?
“Uh... It wouldn’t look right to who?”
“To the flock. It wouldn’t set a good example.”
“But, but no one would have to know!”
“I’d know. Your mother’d know. And God would know. I couldn’t in good conscience... On the other hand, if you wanted to come back to the church and go to an Adventist college—”
“You can’t do that!”
“Patricia, I’m only thinking of your immortal soul.”
“I’m here now, Daddy. I’m alive now. I don’t give a fuck about my immortal soul. I AM HERE NOW, AND I WANT MY FUCKING MONEY!”
“I won’t have you cursing at me, Patricia.”
“FUCK THAT! I’ve seen things. I’ve served in a war. I can fucking say fucking fuck if I want to! I have earned the right to use every fucking word in the entire fucking English language.”
She wasn’t sure if he’d hung up or not.
“Please, Dad, I’m sorry about the swearing; I’m sorry... I just... I really need that money...”
She continued begging until Roger cut her off. “Listen, Patsy, I know you don’t think I’ve been the perfect father to you. I know you probably think I’ve made mistakes. But the reason I’m holding to this is because I don’t want you to repeat any of the mistakes I might have made. And I want you to know that I’ll be praying for you, Patsy.”
She knew that I’ll be praying for you translated to FUCK YOU in Christian. “DON’T FUCKING PRAY FOR ME! I DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING PRAYERS!”
“I’ll be praying for you anyway,” Roger said and then he hung up the phone.
She threw the cordless across the room. It didn’t break, but the battery came loose from the back and skidded under the oven.
All her destructive impulses usually just resulted in more work, and about a second later, she realized she was going to have to make another call.
After cajoling the battery from under the fridge with a long wooden spoon, she dialed Lacey’s number. Her sister-in-law had mentioned jobs at the Slickmart.
She told herself that this would just be temporary.
Just until everything was resolved with Uncle Sam.
The unborn was banging her like a backward bass drum.
“Shhhhhsh!” she told it. “Be still, you.”
But it didn’t stop.
Patsy Gets a Job
PATSY CELEBRATED HER twenty-third birthday at the Slickmart superstore.
Her Slickmart interview was conducted by Abraham Slick, the owner of the store. Lacey considered this to be a big deal and asked Patsy endless questions about the meeting. Truthfully, Patsy could find little to say about Abraham Slick. He was one of the only Jewish folks she’d come across in the Buckstop area, and his hands had seemed uncommonly soft for a man’s when they’d shaken. On the desk was a photograph of his wife, Esther, who was rumored to be crazy. Patsy knew that the meaning of crazy was variable in that part of the world. There was listening-to-rap-music crazy, or driving-your-kids-off-a-cliff crazy, or wearing-weird-hats crazy, or shooting-yourself-in-the-head crazy, or voting-liberal crazy, or worshipping-a-different-God-from-
the-majority crazy.
“Patricia,” Slick said, when he offered her the job, “we all in the Slickmart family are real proud to support our troops.” Family was Slick’s favorite euphemism for employees.
“Thanks, Mr. Slick,” she said.
“And not only am I thrilled to be offering you a place in our family, I also have a proposition for you.”
Slick leaned across the table. She could feel his breath on her forehead. “I was thinking, as our newest family member, you might like to star in a series of advertisements for the Slickmart superstore.”
“Advertisements, Mr. Slick?”
“Well, not exactly advertisements. More like a picture of you dressed up in your uniform or fatigues or whatever costume would be appropriate, I’d leave that to you. We’d bring in someone to get your hair all fancy and do your makeup, don’t you worry. And you might be stocking a shelf, right? Or maybe just a red, white, and blue background. And underneath it, the poster would say something like THE SLICKMART SUPERSTORE IS PROUD TO SUPPORT OUR TROOPS: PATRICIA FRENCH, NEWEST MEMBER OF THE SLICKMART FAMILY.” Slick was staring like he could actually see it, like he was reading the caption off a cue card somewhere in the distance. He turned his focus back to Patsy. “So, Patricia, what would you think of something like that?”
It just about made her want to puke, but she figured she shouldn’t say that if she wanted to be hired. “Hmm,” she said, “that could be interesting. Let me pray on it.”
Slick patted her hand with his too-soft one. “Well, you just pray as long as you like, darlin’. No rush.” He put his arm around her and walked her out of his office. “’Course I’d be willing to pay you a little something extra for your trouble and the use of your likeness.”
This did indeed make the proposition more appealing. She figured she might be able to wrangle more money if she didn’t jump at the idea, though. She’d just keep her mouth shut and wait for Slick to approach her again.
“I’m expecting big things from you, Patricia,” Slick said before leaving her with human resources to claim her Official Orange Slick-mart Smock.
On her first day of work, she was assigned to the Slickmart sporting goods department, where the inventory included tents, fishing poles, and guns. Her job was simple enough. Help people find what they were looking for. Try to sell them the most expensive version of whatever they wanted and accessories they didn’t need to go with whatever they’d come in for in the first place.
Two other men worked in her department. They were named Lenny and George.
“Like Of Mice and Men,” she said when they were all introduced.
Neither had read it. They weren’t really readers. But the fact that she’d said that gave them the notion that she was a big reader, and this embarrassed her. She considered herself to be pathetically not well-read. She had read most of the fiction books for high school English, and the Bible, naturally, and a couple birthdays ago, Magnum’s sister had sent her a care package with The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Patsy had lent it to Buddy, who had reported it to be “pretty life changing.” She’d not yet made the time to read it herself, but had found the paperback the optimal size and ballast for swatting flies.
“Also, my mother’s named George.” Though she rarely talked about her mother, she said this to steer the conversation away from her reading habits. “She isn’t a dude, though.”
Both men found this to be a perfectly hysterical observation.
“It’s short for Georgia,” Patsy said.
“Is she from there?”
“No, she’s from Vermont.” This, too, cracked them up. Patsy concluded that her new colleagues were easily amused.
“Georgia from Vermont!” said the tall, prematurely balding one she was pretty sure was Lenny.
“You’re a funny one, Patsy,” said the short, hairy, apelike one—George?
Because she knew more about arms than either Lenny or George, they agreed that she should work the gun counter. The only kinds of guns they sold were hunting rifles. When customers came in, she would act helpful and then quietly convince them to buy their guns somewhere else. She wasn’t paid in commissions, and Abraham Slick wouldn’t end up in the poorhouse because a couple rednecks had bought their arms elsewhere. And if a few less deer found themselves with a hole between the eyes, that wouldn’t exactly be a tragedy either. If it got her fired, well, she was prepared to live with that as one possible exit strategy.
Her tenure at the Slickmart would be marked by a series of similarly futile acts of anarchy.
ON HER SECOND day of work, she began using a safety pin (the backup to the one used for fastening her pants) to punch holes in the store’s stock of plastic water bottles. In so doing, she fancied herself something of a vigilante for the environment. The amount of waste at the Slickmart repulsed her. Every last item came in some sort of container, and then there were containers to contain the containers, and she suspected all of that crap was just going right into the ocean or onto some enormous toxic barge. In the truck, she and Smartie had discussed water bottles and SUVs and red meat and lightbulbs and how all this pointless shit was killing the planet, and them, too. How their lives would be different, if not for the oil. Smartie used to say how being downrange had made him even more concerned about this sort of thing than he’d been before. So she’d poke her holes and think of him.
ON HER THIRD day of work, Patsy was forced to get a ride home with Lacey. (Magnum and Patsy had settled on an alternate-day use schedule for their lone car.) Patsy had never found it particularly easy making conversation with Magnum’s sister. Lacey said something about how much Mr. Slick had taken to her. Patsy said, “Yeah.” Then Patsy said something about Magnum’s cupcake contest, and Lacey said, “Yeah?” But Patsy couldn’t come up with anything more along that theme. At that moment, the unborn had unleashed a round of swift and adamant kicks.
Lacey dropped her off in front of the house. Patsy knew what the next logical step was: going inside. The door had a glass panel in the front, which had always struck her as rather obscene, as if the house were wearing a short skirt and no panties. Through the glass panel, she could see the yellow glow of the regular lights, the blue glow of the television, the red and white glow of the paper bucket, and the soft dark silhouette of her husband, pouring her a glass of diet soda. She could even imagine what she would look like once she got inside. All those other colors plus the orange glow of her Slickmart smock, and a smallish, dirty-blondish, orange-tinted woman who, though she wasn’t even twenty-five, looked at least thirty.
She just didn’t want to be that woman in that house.
She walked around back to visit her dog’s grave.
She was not surprised to find the Pharm sitting on the edge of the big hole. He was smoking a joint and he offered it to her. Lord, how she wanted it, but she forced herself to decline.
She sat down beside him. Both of them dangled their legs into the dirt void where the pool should have been.
“You come here often?” she joked.
He took her question seriously. “Peaceful,” he replied.
All the rocks and dirt and incidental pot started tending her mind toward blackness. “Pharm, is this how you saw your life going?”
He inhaled deeply. “I didn’t see my life going at all,” he said after a spell. “When we were kids, they always told us that the End of Days was imminent, so reckon I thought I’d be in heaven with Jesus by now.”
“You believed all that crap?”
“Yeah, Patsy, I did. Mostly I still do.” He inhaled again. “I’m royally screwed up, don’t you know?”
She considered her oldest friend’s face illuminated by his cigarette. He wasn’t handsome exactly. He was delicate, almost like a boy porcelain doll.
“How’s Vinnie?” he asked.
“Um. He’s called me a couple times since I been back, but I haven’t had time to return.”
The Pharm nodded. “He still in New York?”
“New
York and L.A. both.”
The Pharm nodded again.
“Maybe you and me could go out to visit him some time?” she suggested.
“Yeah, maybe.”
By then, he was finished with his cigarette. He threw the butt into the void. Then he helped her to her feet and walked her back to the house.
ON HER FOURTH day of work, she was heading into the break room when either Lenny or George said to her, “Not in there, Patsy.” He beckoned her over and led her outside to the loading area and up an exterior staircase that ended at the Slickmart’s attic space.
There wasn’t much up there except panels and insulation, a tiny hole you could peek through and view the store from above, and a big bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey and several incriminating empties. “It’s better up here, right?” Lenny or George asked, as he offered her the whiskey bottle.
“Different.”
Lenny or George looked her up and down and said, “You look like a gal who can hold her liquor.”
She shrugged. She didn’t want to offend her colleague, so she said, “I think I’m coming down with something. Don’t want to contaminate your stash.” If she was having this unborn, she didn’t want it to end up pickled and with webbed feet.
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