“Yep,” Sarah said, “she’s pretty amazing. I keep thinking I’m going to come home someday and find her on the kitchen floor or in the bathtub with the water running.”
“She’s that bad,” Ella asked.
“She’s better than she used to be. I don’t know.” Sarah raised her arms up toward the ceiling, then let them drop. “You ever drink whiskey?”
“No.”
“Beer?”
“Nope.”
At barbecues her dad offered her a swig from his bottle, but she never wanted any.
“I haven’t either,” Sarah said, and rolled on her side, one elbow jutting out, a hand propping her head. She looked straight at Ella, her smile like a challenge, all sexy teeth, and, as in her dream, Ella thought she might lean forward and kiss her.
“You want to?”
Whatever the question was, her answer was yes.
18
“What are you saying, Mother?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Emily protested, and in the flush of her first glass of wine Lise shook her head to keep from laughing. “I just don’t understand why anyone would choose to have that done to them.”
“You don’t,” Meg echoed, baiting her.
“I read somewhere that it’s tribal,” Arlene said, trying, as usual, to turn a personal argument into an abstract discussion. “In some societies it’s a coming of age.”
“Not Western society,” Emily said. “I’m sure it’s a middle-class bias of mine and that I’m behind the times—”
“It is and you are,” Meg interrupted. Lise was waiting for her to turn around and pull up her sweater so Emily could see the wavy-rayed sun at the small of her back.
“Thank you, but it seems ludicrous to me that we now have a generation of teenagers who look like sideshow freaks because of this. Honestly. It’s different from when you kids were growing up. You can always cut your hair or grow it back, but these things are permanent. They’re on their faces, for God’s sake.”
“They’ll wash right off,” Ken said.
“It’s the idea,” Emily said, missing his point.
“The boys know they’re temporary,” Lise put in, “that’s why they wanted them. Sam’s terrified of needles, so is Justin.”
“You don’t see girls doing things like this.”
The statement was wrong on so many levels that Lise didn’t know where to start, and in the seconds it took to process a response, she realized her goal in the whole thing was to stay out of it, let Ken and Meg deal with her. Emily never listened to her anyway. She busied her mouth with draining her wineglass, watched the raindrops gather and fall from the broad leaves of the rhododendren that crowded her end of the porch. It was cool, but they were tired of being inside.
“What is makeup?” Meg asked. “It’s the same thing.”
“No, I’m sorry, but eye shadow and tattoos are not the same thing.”
“I didn’t think this was going to be a problem,” Ken said, and she could see he was losing his famous patience. It was rare, but he could be rigid when he was attacked directly. “They got them out of a box of Cracker Jack.”
“They’ve been in Cracker Jacks for years,” Arlene testified. “My kids used to put them on their hands, that was the cool thing to do.”
Lise was ready for a comment from Emily about the debased nature of the inner city, which would lead to a standoff between her and Meg, a drawn-out balancing of moral outrage and practical application, a test of who knew more about the real world. Their sparring bored Lise. Her family were old North Shore Republicans and steered clear of personal politics. Their talk before supper was a lighthearted replaying of the day that naturally turned into making plans for tomorrow, voting on what they would do and who would watch the children, who would be responsible for lunch, the tasks rationally divvied up to avoid hurt feelings. At the beach they would no more discuss the significance and history of tattoos than the consequences of regulating the Internet. Their time was more important, dedicated to the serious matter of relaxing. It seemed to Lise that the Maxwells always had to break things down to principles, except they’d chosen their positions in advance, so their arguments possessed a deadening inevitability. Both sides were right and both sides were wrong, eternally, because of who they were. Honor was at stake, and position. The only compromise was a softening of tone, an apology delivered in private.
Yet there was mercy, too, at times, a nodded concession, a puzzling retreat covered by unexpected silence, a matter for conjecture. Meg said nothing of her tattoo, let Emily’s assertions stand. Ken shrugged it off, glad to have peace restored.
Lise needed another wine and used the lull to make her exit, swinging around the screen door. The girls were upstairs, the boys on the floor in the living room, Sam watching Justin play his Game Boy. She was sure he saw her. He purposely didn’t look over so she’d know it was her fault he couldn’t play his game. She suppressed the desire to stick out her tongue. How many times had she listened to Emily bad-mouth her for letting him have one, and then this garbage?
The wine and finding Rufus alone in the kitchen lifted her above any pettiness. He was slumped down by his empty water dish, his eyes bloody from sleeping.
“Hey, Roof,” she said. “Little dry there, huh, buddy?”
She took care of him first, the stream from the spigot ringing in his dish, spritzing her hand. “There you go,” she said, squatting to set it in the corner. He looked up, grateful, then bent to it, his tags dinging against the rim.
Arlene’s diseased lime sat on the cutting board in a spill of juice. Lise poured herself another sauvignon blanc and took a generous sip, looking out the window at their cars parked under the chestnut. Steak tonight. Ken should get the coals going, she thought. That way they’d have time to watch a movie later. She had a tendency to watch the clock here, as if it might deliver her. Rather than ask time to speed up, she found it was better to slow herself down and let the rest of the world fly by.
Standing at the sink, stalling an extra minute, she felt like a suspect, alien and separate from the others. The first time she came here, her junior year in college, she’d been shy and didn’t know what to say to any of them. She spent most of her time finding hiding places and trying to be alone with Ken. Twenty years later, nothing had changed. Like Harry Potter lodging with the Dursleys, she was still a guest, a visitor.
The thought was not new, but the wine made her contemplate its implications seriously, and the view of the lake, intoxicating, locked on her sight like a slide, someone else’s rainy vacation, the blackened docks reaching into the water. The scene captivated her, held her, a pregnant paralysis, as if she were about to make a great discovery about not just her life but the true nature of things—how she belonged in all this, how anyone belonged in a world that seemed foreign. There was a mood to the colors, the storm darkening everything. The elements blurred, wavered out of focus, and yet she didn’t turn away, stayed connected to the vision and its promise. She became aware of the liquid surface of her eyes, the thump of her heart, and now her vision shifted—like a telescope tilted a few degrees—shortened and fell on the cobwebbed screen, the white windowsill, dust bringing out ripples and eddies of wood grain beneath the paint, knots like islands, the lines on a topographic map. It had the same magnetic power over her, held the same inscrutable meaning for an instant, and then the spell or whatever it was dissipated, and she was leaning against the sink with her wineglass in her hand, Arlene’s lime dead and shriveled on the butcher block, the world’s secrets closed to her again, wholly unavailable. It had been nothing, a momentary buzz, a sip of wine kicking in, pleasantly destroying a swath of unemployed brain cells, and yet feeling it slip away from her was a loss.
Rufus slopped at his dish, parched.
“Okay,” Lise said, “enough,” and he stopped, then stiffly backed out of the corner. He stood there in the middle of the floor, facing her expectantly. “I bet you’re hungry, huh?”
She c
alled for Sam.
“Yeah?” he called from the other room.
“Come feed the dog.” She waited, gave him time. “Now.”
He said nothing, but stalked around the corner and past her, intent on fulfilling his mission so he could get back to watching Justin. He dug the plastic Pitt cup into the bag of kibble. Rufus attended him, switching his tail.
“And remember to close the top all the way. We don’t want ants.”
He let go a sigh, but, tired of being the bitch, she let it slide. He worked like a slave under her eyes, every motion forced and defiant at the same time, the absolute minimum he could do. She had to remind him to roll the flap of the bag, earning her another sigh. As he rushed out, dipping a shoulder to dodge the fridge, she couldn’t control herself any longer and chased him with an unfelt “Thank you!”
Rufus looked up, confused, then went back to his food.
She glanced around the counters, did an unsteady pirouette, looking for something she could do—any excuse to keep her there. She thought of the broccoli in the hydrator, but it was too early to cut it up. Everything depended on the steaks, on Ken. She wished they needed something from the store—a loaf of garlic bread, another gallon of milk.
The creak of the screen opening startled her, set her in motion as if she’d been pushed.
It was just Arlene, finished with her drink, but her presence was enough to evict Lise from the kitchen, two playing pieces occupying the same space.
“I think these kids are getting hungry,” Lise mentioned in passing.
“Don’t talk to me, talk to the chef.”
Lise repeated the comment to the porch at large, sticking her head out the door. Ken seemed relieved, levering himself up from the glider, beer in hand. Emily and Meg were on to some other topic and barely registered her.
“Need help?” she asked Ken.
“No, I think I’m all set.”
He escaped out the back door to the garage. Arlene was done fixing her drink, so Lise was alone in the kitchen again, even Rufus gone, off begging chips from the kids. Out on the lake, whitecaps foamed and sank, winked on the dark water, all sharply, devoid of any private message, just waves, the effect of weather. That had been it most likely, her isolation mixed with the day. She refreshed her wine from the bottle in the fridge and stood at the sink, watching, ready to flee at the slightest sound.
19
“Not again,” her mother objected between bites, like it was a surprise—like it was all a plot against her.
“That’s what they said,” Aunt Arlene assured her. “A hundred percent chance.”
Great, Sarah thought. They’d be stuck in the house again. They could only walk Rufus so many times a day. That was, if it was his house. Ella didn’t think so, which meant she was dreaming and miserable for nothing. At least after the pain of Christmas break she’d hooked up with Mark. She’d convinced herself she didn’t miss him, that he was a jerk. And then, lying down at night, she thought of the couch in his basement and the lava lamp that sent blue bubbles swimming across the walls like fish.
“I’m sorry,” Grandma apologized. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I was hoping we could squeeze in our golf tomorrow.”
Uncle Ken told her it wasn’t her fault. They could play Thursday or Friday, he promised.
“If it ever stops,” Aunt Lisa said.
Sarah ate, not part of the conversation. She had her dinner balanced in her lap, knees clenched together, pigeon-toed. When she cut her steak the blood circled her plate, staining her potato salad. Beside her, Ella batted at something invisible. A fly had gotten in and was slaloming between the wrought-iron tables, shopping up and down the porch for a place to land, buzzing Justin so he almost spilled his milk.
“Just ignore it,” their mother instructed, but Justin kept ducking, though Sarah willed him to sit still, to stop being such a baby. “It’s not going to hurt you, it’s just a fly.”
“I’ll get it,” Sam volunteered, clanking his plate down on a table to fetch the flyswatter from inside.
“You sit and eat your dinner,” Aunt Lisa ordered, pointing, and he sighed.
“All this uproar over a little fly,” Aunt Arlene said, trying to be funny.
She wasn’t. Sarah felt sorry for whoever her students had been.
Uncle Ken was done—he was the fastest eater—and went inside. When he came back he had the swatter.
“Not while we’re eating,” Aunt Lisa said, so he propped the door open like it might fly out on its own.
“You know what I was thinking,” Grandma announced loudly, so everyone turned to her, and Sarah knew this was trouble. Grandma was great at making plans. “I was thinking if it’s going to be cruddy again tomorrow, we might take a day trip up to the falls. As far as I know, the children have never seen them.”
“Niagara Falls?” her mother said, like it was crazy.
“In the rain?” Aunt Lisa said, and Sarah found herself agreeing, rooting for them, thinking how bizarre it was that they were on the same side. It would be boring, driving all that way just to see something everyone else thought was a big deal but she didn’t care about. She knew her mother and Aunt Lisa wouldn’t let her and Ella stay here by themselves.
“It should keep the crowds down,” Grandma said. “You’re going to get wet there anyway with the spray.” When no one commented on it, she said, “I’m just throwing it out for consideration. I think at this point people are running out of things to do. I know I am. Of course if no one’s interested …”
“I’m interested,” her mother said, “I’m just trying to catch up to it.”
“I think the kids are at an age where they can appreciate it.”
Her mother seemed unsure, like there must be a trick.
“I’d like to see them again,” Aunt Arlene said. “They’re so close.”
“From here,” Uncle Ken said, “it’s less than two hours.”
While they discussed how far it was, Sarah caught Ella’s eye. Like her, she was bent over her plate, eating, staying out of it, hoping the adults would make the right decision, but a roll of her eyes let Sarah know she was just as thrilled. Her mother was beginning to like the idea, saying it might be fun, and Ella stuck out her tongue as if the steak was grossing her out. Sarah almost laughed at it, had to cough and look away, across the water. They were both thinking the same thing: they were completely and totally screwed.
“Whatever you want to do is fine,” Grandma said. “For me, it’s a sentimental journey. I’m not interested in it as a natural wonder per se, but I thought you all might feel left out if Arlene and I went by ourselves.”
“What else are we going to do if it rains?” her mother asked.
“And it’s going to rain,” Aunt Arlene said, definite.
“Can we go on the boat?” Sam asked.
“Of course,” Grandma said. “You can’t go to Niagara Falls and not go on the boat. We’ll go down in the caves too, right behind the waterfall. You’ll have to wear a slicker.”
“What time would we get going?” Uncle Ken asked, and they started making plans. They’d take the van and the 4Runner; they could fit everyone that way. Sarah imagined four hours in the van with Grandma and Aunt Arlene and Justin and her mother.
“Can Ella and me stay here?” she asked.
“No,” her mother said, final.
“Then can I sit with Ella?”
Ella seconded it.
Her mother looked to Uncle Ken, who nodded.
“Sure,” she said, frowning, as if Sarah had gotten away with something.
“Well, this should be a real adventure,” Grandma said, like she was surprised she’d gotten her way.
Aunt Lisa didn’t say anything, just ate. Sarah’s steak was cold and tough, the fat on the edges the color of old tape. She wanted to be done. Tomorrow was shot, so there was what—Thursday and Friday. Saturday they’d go home. Mark would get back right about the same time. He’d call and say he wanted to get togeth
er—or not. In two weeks, school started, her life started again. She wondered if she would see her father before that. He was in the U.P. at her grandparents’, probably inside because of the rain, the same as here. She wondered if he took his girlfriend to meet them, the way he insisted Mark come inside before a date and shake his hand. She thought, idiotically, of calling him, and of what she’d say.
I miss you.
So does Justin.
Mom’s okay.
On the phone they hardly talked, like they might mess things up worse.
Good, he’d say.
Huh.
That’s great, Picklechips, just super. Hang in there, babe—like he might come to save them. That was what Justin thought, no matter how many times she told him it wasn’t going to happen. He’d cry and then she’d feel like shit and wouldn’t know what to say to him. It was like her father used to say when she was little: just another day in the Carlisle House of Fun.
Another fly had sneaked in and was weaving around the first one, the two of them just missing head-on collisions. Uncle Ken stood up and shut the door, the swatter in his hand, then sat back down and waited for everyone to finish. Sarah took her plate in, holding it high so her mother couldn’t see how much she’d eaten. She dropped her fork in the silverware basket, then went into the downstairs bathroom and shut the door, locked it with a metallic clack.
With the light out it was quiet, only the skunky smell of the water to disturb her. She sat there with her eyes closed, biting the corner of her thumbnail, her breath warm on her knuckles. She gnawed one corner, then the other, back and forth over the square points, turning her head. Her teeth slipped and clicked together, making a strange sound in the space above the bathtub, but she didn’t open her eyes. With her other hand she reached up and removed the thumb from her lips, took it away. Everything’s fine, she thought. There was no need to freak out. Everything was okay, as long as she didn’t think.
Wish You Were Here Page 30