The Distance Home

by Paula Saunders

  * * *

  —

  Catherine was pale and freckled, with thick, yellow braids and a conspiratorial smile that made you feel like any minute the two of you were going to be sitting down to share your deepest secrets. Her family owned the largest actual gold mine in the Black Hills and was easily the wealthiest family in town. They had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a private zip line, and endless property in the hills, with housekeepers and cooks, groundskeepers and drivers, even an antique yellow motorcycle with a sidecar, which her dad sometimes drove around town, wearing an old leather helmet and strap-on vintage aviators just for fun. And, likely because René had been badgering her for an invitation, Catherine asked the pas de deux partners over to her house one day for lunch.

  They arrived in the morning, remnants of a disappearing mist still lacing the treetops. While Leon and Joey went off to ride the zip line, Catherine and René sat by the pool, taking in the early Indian-summer sunshine. Catherine asked René if she’d ever carved someone’s initials into her skin, and when René shook her head, Catherine got out two straight pins and showed her how to get started, first making little pinprick dots, then scraping between them, connecting the dots to make a line, then a letter. They both got to work, but when René looked over, Catherine was carving JB, for Joey Baker, into her thigh. René was carving JB too, because she certainly couldn’t carve her own brother’s initials into her leg.

  “You should do Leon’s,” she told Catherine.

  “No,” Catherine said, not even looking up.

  “Why not?”

  In Pas de Deux class, Leon and Catherine were a perfect pair, their bodies matched like shadows. Catherine would spin and Leon would guide her lightly with just his fingertips, lending her speed and balance. Or Catherine would jump and Leon would lift her as she secured herself against him, letting his firm, strong hands handle her however he needed to. And, like René, Catherine could run at Leon and leap, and he’d catch her mid-flight, taking her into the next step or turn without the slightest hitch, with simple, continuous motion. They were a natural couple.

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “I like him,” she said, noncommittal. “But I like Joey.”

  “But we can’t both put JB.”

  René was reeling, partly from the pain and beads of blood, partly from the way she was putting everything on the line, ruining her one chance to be friends with Catherine by making a fuss over the boys’ initials, and partly from thinking how Leon would feel when he saw that they’d permanently branded themselves for the boy they liked best and no one had chosen him.

  Catherine just shrugged and kept going. “Let’s go get a snack,” she said when they were done. “And we should put some alcohol on these.”

  So they went inside.

  There was a sign on her enormous refrigerator door: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED!

  René read “Persecuted,” and could only think of being condemned and nailed to a cross, which was a turn the day seemed to be taking on its own.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, feeling like a dumb baby. Something about the depth of Catherine’s privilege and the solid foundation of her superiority had undone her.

  “Oh, God,” Catherine giggled, not answering. And though René was still in the dark, she made herself laugh like she was in on it.

  The minute they tugged open the refrigerator, a woman in a white nurse’s dress was at their side. “You sweethearts want something to eat right now?” she said. “I’m just making your lunch. Can you wait five minutes?”

  “Sure, Molly,” Catherine said. “We can wait.” Then she looked at René like she was beginning to wonder what to do with her. “Let’s go to my room,” she said.

  “Was that your mom?” René whispered as they took off down some steps.

  Catherine didn’t answer. She just turned and looked at René as if that was the most totally asinine question she’d ever heard in her life.

  René followed her through the marble foyer, which had a wide upper-level balcony with an elaborately carved wooden railing, then down through a dark, interior hallway that seemed to go on forever. Along the way, Catherine pointed out rooms.

  “There’s the pool room, there’s Daddy’s library and office, there’s the music room, here’s a bathroom, there’s the den.”

  Then they continued up some steps, turned a corner, and went through her bedroom, which had a pink canopy bed trimmed with tiny, dangling pom-poms, and into her bathroom, which had double sinks and multiple full-length mirrors. Catherine got down some alcohol, and they swabbed their new cuts.

  “I wonder if they’ll notice,” Catherine said, her eyes shining.

  René kept quiet. She hoped not. She hoped against hope that they would not.

  * * *

  —

  They all had lunch together at a little table someone had set up under a tree in Catherine’s back garden. There was a crystal pitcher of lemonade and tuna fish sandwiches on gold-rimmed china, along with potato chips, celery sticks, watermelon slices, and hand-churned strawberry ice cream with homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

  They joked and laughed and ate everything in front of them, but the whole thing made René sad. Sad for herself, since it seemed clear that she would never have Catherine as a friend, and beyond that, she would certainly never have any of the cool things Catherine had. And sad for Leon. He liked Catherine. He liked her all-over freckled face and the way her yellow hair curled out from her thick braids. He liked her warm smile and the way he was accustomed to being near her, already adept at handling her, holding her. But whenever he was around her outside of the ballet studio, he couldn’t seem to keep himself from smiling and acting shy, the confidence he had when they danced together apparently lost, or maybe just hidden away, waiting for some music to start. And as he sat at their glamorous summer lunch table, grinning at her, with no eyebrows or eyelashes and a big white bald spot gleaming like a searchlight from the top of his head, it was all too clear. None of this, none of what was here today, would ever be his. Not Catherine, not the swimming pool, not the high-flying zip line, not the trails through the woods, or the library, or the happy, carefree afternoon. Catherine was nice to him because she was rich and sweet and had good manners. But she had JB cut deep into her thigh, just like René did. And even if Leon didn’t notice right away, it would be a while before the newly scabbed initials healed over.

  The whole thing made René feel like a traitor.

  * * *

  —

  They were waiting in the shade by the front door, under the stone portico with the second-floor terrace overhead, as Eve’s old Chevy turned in at the bottom of Catherine’s long driveway. It made its way around the circular drive and came to a stop just after the first set of pillars, brakes squealing. They piled in, and Eve took off, Catherine waving them goodbye.

  “Did you have a nice time?” Eve asked.

  “Yeah,” Joey said.

  “It was fun,” René said, feeling the edgy magic of the afternoon and the long shot of having Catherine as her new friend already far behind her.

  “It was okay,” Leon said, looking disappointed and hopeless.

  Joey gave Eve the whole explanation of the day, answering all her questions about how many cars were in Catherine’s garage, and how big the swimming pool was, and how the maids were dressed. He couldn’t help her with what Catherine’s mom was wearing because no one had seen her. They’d seen her dad. He’d helped Joey and Leon get set up on the zip line, and he’d turned René on her side and tickled her, pretending to draw a bow across her belly when Catherine begged him to “play the violin.” But they hadn’t seen her mom.

  “I hear she does all her shopping in Denver and Minneapolis,” Eve said. “She buys fur coats and diamond earrings and all the latest styles.” Eve was giddy. “Can you imagine?”

&nb
sp; But they were tired. They’d spent the whole day imagining.

  So after they dropped Joey off, they drove the rest of the way home in silence.

  15

  Where There’s Water

  Late one evening Mrs. G called, frantic.

  “Oh, Eve,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I’ve made a terrible mistake. Just terrible.”

  “What is it?” Eve said. They’d all just got home from ballet class and were having a bite to eat, Leon with his head down over his soup bowl.

  “Oh, I can hardly say it.” She paused.

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that, Helen.” Eve waited.

  “Well, you know how some of the boys are wearing their hair in all kinds of crazy styles? Mohawks, shags, Afros, what have you—”

  Eve took hold of the kitchen counter.

  “Oh, Eve. I just figured Leon was doing his hair according to some new fad, and I said something to him in class about his ‘wacky new hairdo.’ ” She took a breath. “I knew right away when I saw the look on his face. What a terrible mistake.”

  “It’s bound to happen,” Eve said in her best voice.

  “Eve—? Is everything okay with Leon?”

  Eve cleared her throat. “Can I give you a call later? We’re right in the middle of dinner.”

  “Of course,” Helen said. “Of course. I’m sorry. Please tell him. I love Leon. He’s my buddy. I’d never do anything to hurt him. I hope he knows that. Please tell him how sorry I am.”

  “I will,” Eve said, and she hung up and went straight to the other end of the house, to the family room, where Al was sitting, having finished his dinner earlier—“at dinnertime,” he’d felt compelled to point out—and she fell into a chair.

  Al was watching Lawrence Welk and eating ice cream, but when Eve came in, he looked up to see about her. And though his favorite clarinetist was bubbling a tune from the bandstand, he put down his spoon, set his bowl on the side table, and reached out to touch her arm.

  “What is it, Eve?” he said.

  As his hand settled on her forearm, Eve could hear the tenderness in his voice and feel the sudden weight of his concern, and she gasped and leaned toward him. She needed him, and he was there. He was right there when she needed him most. And her heart opened, just like a flower trusting in the warmth of sunshine opens to the light.

  “Helen Gilbert called,” Eve said, and she started to cry. “It’s just terrible, Al. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, now,” Al said, patting her arm. “I’m sure it’s not all that bad.”

  “It is that bad,” she said, blubbering. “It’s Leon’s hair business.” She wiped her eyes. “She didn’t mean to, but she embarrassed him in front of the whole class today. She didn’t mean it. She’s so good to him.”

  Al paused and sank back a little. Then he said, “A person can’t take everything on his own shoulders, Eve. You can’t keep taking everything on yourself. At some point, Leon’s going to have to take responsibility. You’ve talked to him again and again. I know you have.”

  “But it’s so hard for him,” Eve said. “Maybe we could do something—” She hesitated, wary, sitting up. “At least try something different.” She paused again and dried her eyes before venturing headlong. “The Jensens thought maybe a psychiatrist—”

  “The Jensens?”

  “Yes, the Jensens,” Eve said firmly, knowing full well what Al was getting at. According to Al, Eve would take the advice of her bridge buddy Doc Jensen over anyone’s, even his, and for no reason other than the fact that Jensen was an optometrist and had a couple of letters after his name. “Not even an M.D.,” Al would remind her, and not a very good eye doctor, either, from what he claimed to hear around town.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Al started. “The Jensens, the Jensens. I’m not going to send Leon to some voodoo head shrinker just because Doc Jensen has an opinion about it. Do you know how much that would cost? That’s ridiculous.” He took his hand back and picked up his ice cream bowl. “We’re not looking for angles to get rid of our money, Eve. Contrary to what you seem to believe. I work hard every day. And we certainly don’t have the kind of insurance the Jensens have. I guarantee you that! We just can’t afford it.”

  “I know,” Eve said, defeated by something deeper than their disagreement about the Jensens. She sighed. “What are we going to do, Al? If it keeps up—”

  “I’ll tell you what Jeb Bickman down in New Underwood says,” Al continued, citing a friend of his own, one he knew Eve would never stoop to agree with just because Jeb had run a farm all his life—as if all that impossible hard work were nothing, less than nothing. “He says if it was his son, he’d take him straight to the woodshed. He says every time I see that Leon’s been pulling out his hair, I should give him a taste of the strap. That’s his idea. He says anyone who’s had a taste of that will not want to repeat it. And he knows.” Al paused, dropping his head at the thought. “It would make him think twice, I bet. I do believe that.”

  “Oh, Al, no. No. That’s a terrible idea. I’d never allow it. Never.”

  “It’s not a terrible idea if it works,” Al said. “If it did work, we’d both be happy for it, we’d all be happy for it in the end.”

  Eve just shook her head.

  “I don’t like it either,” Al said. “Not any more than you do.”

  They both looked to the TV, to Bobby and Cissy dancing a quickstep, and Al stood up to take his empty bowl to the kitchen. As he passed between Eve and the television set, he turned to her and did a little hop, skip, slide combination that almost made Eve laugh. She smiled and shook her head at him, which was enough. He laughed.

  “Want some ice cream?” he said, turning the corner.

  She shook her head as she blew her nose. “No, Al. No, thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  That winter they joined a carpool to ballet so that Eve didn’t have to drive every day. It was crowded and smelly and chatty, and mostly René was late getting ready, so there’d be a car in the driveway after school every day, honking for them to hurry up. The kids were tired and grouchy, and whenever it was their turn, the moms felt put out about having to drive.

  One of the moms had a small hatchback, so whenever it was her day to drive, Leon had to ride behind the backseat, basically in the trunk. He was scrunched in there one night after dance class, as usual, his body bent like a contortionist’s, when something René couldn’t decipher started up between him and the girl whose mother was driving. Was it something about his eyebrows and eyelashes missing or his freaky-looking bald spot? Maybe repaid with a shot about the girl’s ridiculous open-crocheted gloves, which couldn’t have possibly kept her hands warm, or about all her whining in spite of being up in the front seat, right next to the heater? Whatever it was, suddenly the mom slammed on her brakes and the car came to a screeching halt in the middle of a dirt road, well before their turn onto Clark Street. It jolted them all forward in their seats, and Leon barely caught himself against the rear seatback.

  “That’s about enough outta you, Mister Ballerina!” the mom screamed at Leon, catching him in the rearview mirror. “Now get out! Get out of my car! You can walk home.”

  It was dark. There was snow on the ground and thick patches of ice on the cracked sidewalks. It was deep winter, and they’d all just danced a full class of jumping combinations as Mrs. G talked about ballon and how professionals hardly make a sound when they land, even from the greatest of heights, how they use the power of their breath and the strength of their legs to keep them, paradoxically, aloft and light. Leon and Joey had attempted single tours and double tours to one knee over and over again for at least half an hour straight. There was no one in that car who wasn’t bruised and clammy and still sweating.

  René could see that Leon was stunned, bushwhacked, but he opened the hatchbac
k and started to climb out.

  “Hey,” she said, startling from her exhausted stupor. “Hey, don’t!” she called to him.

  But Leon was already gone.

  “You wanna get out, too?” the mom suddenly growled at her.

  Like a small animal startled by a sharp noise or a bright light, she didn’t move. She needed a minute to think about it. But as soon as Leon closed the trunk, the mom tore off, throwing gravel.

  René turned back to see Leon tucking his head into the wind. He was still in his ballet slippers and tights. The mom had been honking for him after class, and Leon had grabbed his clothes as he came running out to the car, but he’d forgotten to change his shoes. He’d left his street shoes back at the ballet studio. René turned and watched as Leon bent against the night, struggling forward on the icy cement in his thin dance slippers until, sinking farther and farther into the darkness, he finally disappeared against the black horizon.

  I should’ve got out with him, she thought. If she was going to do something like that, I should’ve gone with him. But she was tired, and she didn’t want to walk in the cold, and it had all happened so fast. Still, she shouldn’t have let him get out like that. She thought that over and over.

  When the carpool finally stopped at her house, René ran inside and told Eve. But when Leon came through the door, he ignored all of Eve’s questions, went straight up the stairs to his room, and didn’t come out.

  And as René sat in her bed that night, looking across the hall at Leon’s closed bedroom door, she couldn’t help but wonder where all the hurt and anger went after something like that. Did it just disappear as a person grew older, dissolving in a mist of resignation and forgetfulness? Or did it crystallize, so that you carried it with you, building layer upon layer as the years went by, each incident adding to a more solid core of pain, until you came to face the world more rock than flesh?