The News of the World

by Ron Carlson

  It was when she arrived home that she saw Jim in the tub. She had driven home in a rush of Iron Maiden songs and found another New Era in the mail, a magazine her mother subscribed to for her, and it had been the limit. She took it, gathered the three others that sat politely on the coffee table and threw them in the garbage beside the patio. Tyler, the family’s sheepdog, came bounding from his nap; if Glenna was moving this fast, it must mean play. He jumped up on her. It was bad timing. She swiped him across the ears with her fist, almost screaming: “Get away from me!”

  In her state, near tears, she cut through the boys’ bathroom to reach her bedroom, and that’s when she saw Jim, her fifteen-year-old, lying in the soapy water. He was reclining, his Walkman earphones clamped on his head. The little machine sat beside the tub on a towel.

  On seeing his mother march through, Jim started and said, “Mom?” way too loud in a tone that implied: What’s the matter?

  Even then it was too late. Glenna sat on her bed and thought: something’s wrong. The image rushed her closed eyes: her son’s long body floating, his white belly, his navel, the dark hair below in the soapy water. She couldn’t figure it out, but she was mad, really mad. She was mad because her son had hair growing on his body.

  She wanted to accuse Lance, her husband. “Did you know our son has pubic hair! Is this something you’ve arranged?” She sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth slightly. She felt tragic and silly at the same time; she felt betrayed.

  It didn’t let up. Mark came home late from Bryant, and though Glenna had calmed herself, she still jumped him: “Where have you been? Feed your damn dog!”

  “Mom,” Mark said, sliding in to one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  Mark was in a little trouble at school. He was halfway through his tale about the vice principal, when Jim came down the stairs dressed in his McDonald’s uniform.

  “Where are you going?” Glenna asked him.

  “Mom,” Jim said, opening his palms to model his outfit. “I’m going out to do drugs. What do you think? You know I work tonight. Carl’s picking me up. He’s out front right now. See you at eleven.”

  She turned back to Mark. He had “Oreoed” the vice principal’s car, and he and three other boys had had to stay and wash the car, and they were going to be in detention the rest of the term, thirty minutes after school every day. Lance, her husband, walked in. He saw the looks on their faces and asked, “What’s up?”

  Glenna looked at Lance with the very look that said: “You’re the author of all this misery.” And she brushed by him on her way upstairs. What she did say was, “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of them. No more boys. No more dogs. You handle it.”

  That night, as a surprise to Lance, Glenna came on as a tigress. She covered his mouth every time he tried to speak, insisting that they just make love her way. At times it was strangely rough. Afterward, Lance rose on an elbow and asked, “Glen? Is there anything the matter? Glenna?”

  Glenna knew something was happening. She found herself trying to remember the lyrics to Boston and Twisted Sister songs. She even knew she was self-conscious when she went to Nordstrom and bought whole outfits of Guess and Camp Beverly Hills. She wore her Guess sweatshirt around the house without a bra. Late one afternoon she stood at the sink singing, “I Want To Know What Love Is” along with Foreigner on the radio. She could see the stupid dog, Tyler, sitting in the backyard watching her, his head cocked to the side in what looked like sympathy. In the evenings, she noticed that her sons avoided her when possible.

  LANCE and Glenna went to cocktails at the Weymans’. The Weymans’ children were grown, out of college, and lived in other cities. The Weymans were the oldest couple in the neighborhood. While Glenna looked forward to the party, she needled Lance about it, saying, “Oh yes, another gathering of the stodgy status quo.”

  “They’re nice people, Glenna.”

  “They could get over that with the proper help.”

  It was a rather large gathering. The Weymans’ house was filled. Glenna didn’t know many people there, most were from the University. This was the party for Dr. Weyman’s retirement. She left Lance with a group he played tennis with and scouted onward into the den, where she found her friend Mimi.

  “Ah, basic black,” Mimi said, nodding at Glenna’s dress. “Your credo still is ‘safety first,’ right?”

  Glenna liked Mimi, and seeing her, she was tempted to confess her pain, ask her, “Mimi, is there something happening to you?” But there was just enough jealously to prevent it. Mimi was four years younger, richer, and—Glenna thought—more clever. The two made fun of their husbands for a moment. Mimi had names for them: “Ordinary Lance” and “Dull Don,” but when she looked through the archway, Lance was leading a small conversation and he looked handsome and animated. Don leaned against the mantel talking to two attractive women, members of the history department.

  “Want to get stoned?” Mimi asked.

  They went out the side door and sat in Mimi’s Audi. It was cold in the car and the two passed the joint back for forth in silence. Glenna looked through the windshield at the ice hanging from the Weymans’ garage. Finally, Mimi announced: “This is your life, Glenna!” Glenna looked at Mimi placidly and felt the panic of having another person read her mind. Then Glenna watched in alarm as Mimi said something Glenna knew she was going to say. Glenna felt she could see each word fall from Mimi’s mouth, and Glenna felt how they lined up in the air and were at once right and obscene: “I saw Jim the other day,” Mimi said. “He’s quite a hunk.”

  Glenna snapped: “You stay away from my son!” And though she meant it and intended it as a grave warning, the two women began to laugh, to howl uncontrollably, laughing until there seemed no more air in the car. Glenna’s stomach hurt from laughter and her jaw ached, when she turned in slow motion and saw the close-up of Lance’s face outside her window. “Ahhhhhhhh!” Mimi screamed as she too saw the face, and the laughter tripled.

  “Honey,” Lance said to the closed window. “Honey, come in before you catch cold.”

  A moment later Lance was introducing Glenna to Jim’s French teacher, Mr. Van Vliet. “I’ve always wanted to learn French myself,” Glenna said, interrupting the compliment Mr. Van Vliet was making about their son. “Do you do any private tutoring?”

  Sunday afternoon, Glenna sat alone on the kitchen table with her feet on a chair, nibbling Saltines, staring at Tyler out in the backyard. She had sent Lance, Jim, and Mark off to her mother’s house.

  “Why is Mom not going?” Jim had asked.

  “Your mother has her reasons.”

  “And tell her to stop sending me magazines and do not bring back any clippings she’s saved. I’ve had it with that stuff,” Glenna had said.

  “You’ve had it with a lot of stuff,” Mark had said.

  “That’s enough, Mark.”

  “Well, Dad, it’s true!”

  “Let’s just go. Let’s just go to Grandma’s,” Jim had said.

  “I’m bringing back the clippings,” Mark had called from the front door. “I’m bringing them all!”

  She had watched them climb into the car. Mark was still upset, Jim resigned, Lance dutiful. She had heard Jim say, as he pushed Mark into the backseat, “Forget it, big guy, she’s having a little trouble with her heritage.”

  Glenna nibbled the crackers and rolled her eyes again, remembering his words. Heritage, for chrissakes. She stood, and Tyler in the backyard responded by standing too and waving his tail.

  “No way,” Glenna said to him, and moved to turn the radio on.

  Mark arrived home from school just as Glenna was leaving for her first appointment with Mr. Van Vliet. Mark was doing better in school. The vice principal’s car was okay; the Oreos hadn’t damaged any of the paint. The vice principal had even admitted to the boys that in a way, a harmless prank could be funny. Mark stood on the front walk and watched the Volvo back down the driveway. Glenna saw him watching her.
She rolled down her window. He just looked at her.

  “Well?” she said finally. “What is it?”

  “Mom,” he said calmly, walking down to the car. “You’re always running. I don’t care that you don’t talk to me. You’re mad at me maybe. But Tyler’s the family dog. You ought to be nicer to Tyler.” In the cold air, his breath rose on both sides of his face. They looked at each other.

  “I’ll see you later,” Glenna said to her son. “I’m late.”

  MR. VAN VLIET met Glenna at the door. “Can I get you something? Some coffee?”

  “No coffee,” she heard herself say. “But I’ll take a drink.”

  As soon as he went into the kitchen and Glenna sat down, she felt like a fool. “French? I’m going to study French?” A flame of panic touched her throat.

  Mr. Van Vliet returned with two coffee cups. “White wine. There’s no other choice.” Glenna tried to picture this man teaching her son’s class, fussing over the roll, scolding a daydreamer.

  The apartment was modern, primarily white. A framed poster centered each wall anouncing exhibitions of paintings in French. Stolen on summer sabbatical, she thought.

  “Now,” he sat down on a stool by the counter, “what makes you want to study French?”

  Her throat constricted again, but she managed: “Oh … I’ve always wanted to. This seems like a good time for me.” Then in her flooding nervousness a picture flashed in her mind. She was standing at cocktails with Mimi, saying, “Oh, yes, I’m taking French. It’s wonderful.” Glenna looked up at Mr. Van Vliet and said, “I’m not sure. If my son can learn it, can’t I?”

  “He’s a good kid,” Mr. Van Vliet said. “You did something right, something special to have such a good kid.”

  Glenna tried to sip the wine, but it tasted all wrong and she placed the cup on the end table.

  Mr. Van Vliet smiled at her and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine wine, really. I’m just not sure if I have the discipline to study, to …”

  “French can be a drag,” he interrupted her. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad to see you, but you don’t need French. You don’t need a French tutor. You’ve got great kids.”

  Three days later, Glenna went to McDonalds. She parked next to the building where she could see Jim through the window. He was the tallest of the counter help. She saw him nodding amiably at the customers as he took their orders. She saw him flip the pencil and catch it and slip it behind his ear. Glenna sat in her car for twenty minutes watching the two little girls behind the counter with Jim smile and laugh and flirt with him. One took his nametag and pinned it on her shirt. Glenna put her hand to her face and felt herself smile. She turned off the radio and drove home.

  LANCE planned a party. “It’s what we need for these winter blues,” he said to her.

  “I haven’t got the winter blues.”

  “Well, say I do. Come on. Let’s have some people over.”

  MARK and Jim served the party. Lance and Glenna invited everybody they knew from work, the neighborhood, parents of their sons’ friends.

  “You boys look nice,” Glenna said to her sons. They stood in the kitchen in their church pants and red vests. She reached and adjusted Jim’s tie. “It’s hard to get it straight because it’s so narrow,” she said.

  “Want me to wear a tie, Mom?” Mark asked.

  “No, I don’t,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I never want you to wear a tie.” She looked closely at his face. “How old are you?”

  “Eleven,” he said.

  “Going on five,” Jim said, smiling.

  “You boys know to serve …”

  “From the left, Mom. Don’t worry. Your family will not embarrass you.”

  AN hour later, the house was full. The Weymans. Robb Van Vliet came with Maria Del Prete, a Spanish teacher at East. Mimi arrived without Don.

  “Mimi!” Glenna greeted her friend.

  “Ah, the status quo in action. How’s the party?”

  “Fair. Nobody’s stoned yet. Where’s Don?”

  “Dull Don will not be here.”

  Jim appeared at Mimi’s left shoulder with a tray of shrimp. “From the left, properly, comes the shrimp. Madam, care for any?” he said.

  “Hi, Jim,” Mimi said. “None for me. I married one.”

  “Tut-tut,” Jim said. “Your mouth! The way you talk.” He moved away.

  “He’s so grown up,” she said to Glenna.

  Glenna looked at her friend, and without really thinking said, “We all are.” The words seemed tangible in the air. Across the room she saw Mark hand Mrs. Weyman a glass of wine. For the first time she saw that he had the same fine shoulder-back posture as Lance, and then Lance was at her side, his arm around her.

  “No drugs, ladies. There are children present.” He kissed Glenna on the cheek.

  Mimi made a little face. “I need a martini,” she said moving away.

  The party swelled into all the main floor rooms, shifted, and then sometime after midnight settled back into the living room where Lance was restoking the fire.

  Robb Van Vliet and his companion, Maria Del Prete, had hooked up with Mrs. Weyman and Glenna, and they sipped brandy and laughed like old friends as Mrs. Weyman told stories about disastrous faculty parties at the University. Her tales wove back through the fifties and she told them each as little histories that held her listeners rapt. Glenna found herself again conscious of a kind of happiness, and she pressed her fingers to her lips as she smiled. It felt so good to laugh. When Mrs. Weyman finished the episode of “The Department Chairman and the Ice Bucket,” Maria Del Prete said, “We don’t have anything like that at our Christmas potlucks.”

  “This wicked woman is telling tales out of school,” Mr. Weyman said. He had come up behind his wife’s chair. “Don’t deny it. I can tell by the scandalized look on everyone’s face.”

  “I haven’t started on you, dear. Don’t worry.”

  Moments later, Robb Van Vliet rose and Maria Del Prete joined him. He told Glenna, “It’s not too late to sign up for Spanish.” He quickly held up his hand and said, “Just kidding. Thanks for the party. It was fun. You have nice friends.”

  GLENNA and Lance walked their last guests, the Weymans, home. “It’s the first time we’ve been the last to leave a party in thirty years,” Jack Weyman said.

  “And it was a ball,” Virginia said. The four of them stood in the street in front of the Weymans’ in their coats talking for almost half an hour. Finally, Jack Weyman shook Lance’s hand and Glenna gave Virginia a quick hug.

  “We’re going to San Diego Thursday,” Jack Weyman said. “For a month. See if you can’t get down for a long weekend. It’s been a tough winter, and we’d love to have you.”

  Walking back, Glenna took Lance’s arm. “That was fun. It was a ball. A good party.”

  “The Weymans are interesting people.” Lance said.

  “I want to see more of them.”

  “Really?”

  “What do you mean, really!”

  “They don’t seem your …”

  “They are!” Glenna said. “Call him tomorrow and tell him we’ll come down in a week or two.”

  When they arrived home, Lance and Glenna found the boys doing dishes. “Wrong house,” Lance said. “We’ve got the wrong house, Glen.”

  “Thanks, boys,” she said. “Good work at the party. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She walked to the patio door, still in her coat and went out into the backyard. Lance joined the boys in the dish assembly line. “She meant that, guys.”

  “Is she feeling better?” Mark asked.

  “Check it out,” Jim said, pointing a soapy cup out the kitchen window. There Glenna sat on the edge of the deck with her arm around Tyler. Tyler had his head on her shoulder. Her fur coat made it look like two dogs breathing into the icy night.

  “It’s a good sign,” Mark said. “But I’m not convinced until she starts wearing her bra around the house
. I’d like to bring some friends over again one of these years.”

  Portions of this book have appeared, sometimes in slightly different form, in the following: “The Governor’s Ball” in TriQuarterly, a publication of Northwestern University; “The H Street Sledding Record” and “Blood” in McCall’s; “The Time I Died” and “Max” in Carolina Quarterly; “Phenomena” in Writer’s Forum; “Bigfoot Stole My Wife” in Quarterly West; “The Uses of Videotape” in New Mexico Humanities Review; “The Status Quo” and “Half Life” in NetWork; “Life Before Science” in Fiction Network.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Folkways Music to reprint lyrics from © “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” (Mbube) (Wimoweh), new lyric and revised music by Hugo Peretti, Luigi Creatore, George Weiss and Albert Stanton. Based on a song by Solomon Linda and Paul Campbell. TRO Folkways Music Publishers, Inc. BMI.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ron Carlson was born and raised in Utah. He taught and coached at The Hotchkiss School in Connecticut while writing his two previous books, Betrayed by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Truants. More recently, Mr. Carlson has made his home in Salt Lake City, serving as an artist-in-schools in Utah, Idaho, and Alaska. He is now writer-in-residence at Arizona State University and lives in Tempe with his wife and two sons and the good dog Max.

  ALSO BY RON CARLSON

  Betrayed by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Truants