The Distance Between Us

by Noah Bly

  “Maybe,” he mutters, “but you still drive like shit.”

  I bristle and he rushes to head off the explosion. “I’m just saying I’m a really good winter driver. You can pretend I’m your chauffeur and order me around and stuff, like in that old chick flick my mom used to watch all the time. Driving Miss Doofus, or something like that.”

  I shake my fist at him. “I have no need of a chauffeur! I’m an excellent driver, no matter the weather.” As fond as I’m becoming of him, I will not allow him to treat me in this fashion. “And if I were you, I’d begin groveling immediately, unless you intend to to walk to the grocery store.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m just trying to help.”

  “That may be, but I require no assistance from a chauvinistic young man who is getting much too big for his britches. Do I make myself clear?”

  I’m more on edge than I should be. Tomorrow is the pretrial conference with Arthur and our lawyers, and worrying about it is making me irritable.

  He grimaces. “Okay, fine, whatever. You drive. But I’m going to wear a motorcycle helmet and ride in the back seat.”

  As infuriating as his attitude is, I must say I’m pleased to see him put up a bit of a fight. When he finally went to bed after our heart-to-heart, pre-dawn discussion this morning at the kitchen table, he trailed up the stairs to his apartment like a zombie. Yet here he is a mere nine and a half hours laters, bruised and rumpled—and highly annoying—but at least functional.

  I wave him outside. “Be a dear and go open the carriage house door for me,” I grate. “Then stand perfectly still in the middle of the driveway, so I can run over you.”

  He steps out on the porch and shivers as the cold wind hits him. “You might want to hold off on that,” he grunts as I follow after him. “What if you get stuck in a snow bank and need a push or something?”

  He glances over his shoulder and flashes an insolent grin at me.

  I grit my teeth. “Just hurry up and get in the car.”

  “Peanut butter and soy sauce?” I eye his corner of the grocery cart. “Is that all you’re purchasing?”

  He shrugs. “I’m getting bread, too, and some toilet paper.”

  “I see. You’ve got all the major food groups covered, then.” I frown up at him. “No wonder you’re so thin. You’re living on a starvation diet.”

  Bolton’s sole grocery store is a Hy-Vee, and it’s clean and pleasant, but quite small. If I were more interested in cooking, as is my daughter, I’d be forced to venture up to St. Louis on a regular basis to acquire more exotic fare, but since most of what I eat is either frozen or canned, this little market suits my needs.

  Alex yawns. “I’ve got rice and beans at home, and milk, and some fruit and lettuce. I eat fine.” He picks up a jar of pickles, then puts it back on the shelves. “Besides, I’m kind of on a tight budget.”

  His parents should be boiled alive for cutting him off as they have. It’s a miracle he’s managed to put together enough financial aid to keep a roof over his head, let alone food in his non-existent belly.

  He makes a face as we pass the meat counter. “Beef,” he reads aloud. “Poultry. Pork.” He rolls his eyes. “I guess it wouldn’t sell as well if they were honest and said what it really is, right? Butchered Cow. Plucked Bird. Slaughtered Pig.”

  Other than this bit of vegetarian snobbery, he’s been almost totally silent since our mild spat at the house regarding my driving. I don’t believe he’s upset with me (although he did make an obnoxious show of covering both eyes with his hands when I brushed up against the highway median near an intersection on our way here), but his mood feels heavy again, as if his trouble with Eric is consuming him. I try to distract him.

  “So have there been any new developments in your creative writing class since we last spoke of it?” I pretend to be absorbed in my shopping list. “Has my daughter disemboweled anybody recently?”

  Before he can answer, Karla Greenbauer, my accountant’s secretary, rolls by with a cart full of red meat and M&M’s, and stops to greet me. I merely nod at her and keep walking to avoid a conversation. Once we’re safely away, Alex glances down at me with an inquiring expression.

  I reach for some horseradish. “That woman will talk your head off. I once said hello to her and she latched onto my ear like a deer tick.” The horseradish joins the honey mustard and the capons in a corner by my purse, and we turn the corner to enter the bread aisle. “So tell me about Caitlin’s class.”

  Alex rubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “There’s not much to tell. Especially considering that I skipped this morning.”

  “Oh, yes.” I stand on my toes to retrieve a box of croutons from the top shelf. “I forgot. I imagine you’ll be caned for that.”

  “Nah.” He pauses by the bread rack and tugs off a loaf of Roman Meal. “She’ll just lecture me in front of the class next time, and threaten to give my scholarship to somebody else.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and his tone abruptly changes as he does a startling imitation of Caitlin. “Don’t think for a moment you’re exempt from playing by the rules, young man, no matter whom you’re unfortunate enough to have for a landlord. Do we understand one another?”

  His impression is perfect, down to my daughter’s icy, imperious glare and her flawless, haughty diction.

  I stop still and laugh, even though it doesn’t escape my notice that Caitlin must have said something much along these lines for him to ape her so well now. “That’s quite impressive, dear. You’re a gifted mimic. For a moment there I was afraid I’d given birth to you.”

  He flushes a bit, smiling. “When I imitated her for Eric he about split a gut laughing.” He starts to say something else, stops, then decides to keep on talking. “He doesn’t like her very much at all,” he confides. “He thinks she’s a total whack-job.”

  His smile is gone as fast as it appeared. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Not to worry.” I pat his arm. “Truer words were never spoken.”

  Poor Caitlin. It saddens me to hear her students are so aware of her shortcomings. You’d think a brilliant woman like her might be better able to conceal the less savory aspects of her personality, but a duck could sooner type the Magna Carta than Caitlin could repress her chronic hostility.

  I’ve never agreed with the theory that one’s faults make one endearing to others. People are drawn to strength and repulsed by weakness; vulnerability is only attractive when it’s something cute and inoffensive, like having a soft spot for teddy bears, or an uncontrollable midnight craving for chocolate macaroons.

  But Caitlin is all too much her mother’s daughter, and she inherited the worst aspects of my temper, and then some. And a bad temper is neither cute nor inoffensive, and it’s harder to hide than a clubfoot.

  “Hester?”

  Alex is watching me, looking chagrined. He probably thinks he’s the cause of my sudden mood shift.

  I pat him again. “I’m fine, dear. My mind just wandered off.” I commence walking again, pushing the cart in front of me. “I’m done in this aisle, I believe. Let’s head on to the tea section, shall we?”

  We turn the corner and nearly collide with another cart coming the other way. I look up to apologize to whomever is driving it, and my breath catches in my throat.

  It’s Caitlin herself, looming up next to a Campbell’s soup display, as if I had conjured her out of thin air simply by thinking about her.

  I’m too flustered to greet her at first, and she stares at the two of us for a long time before speaking. “Hello, Hester,” she says at last. She sets a can of New England clam chowder in the kiddie seat of her cart and narrows her eyes at Alex. “Hello, Alex.”

  She’s wearing a knee-length, coal-black coat and a bright wool scarf the same color as Alex’s crimson hair.

  Alex mutters hi and fiddles with a price tag on a shelf.

  Her cart only has a few items in it; I see milk and eggs and som
e wheat germ, all lined up on one side of the basket like children at a playground fence.

  “Why, hello there, Caitlin.” I force a smile. “How good to see you again so soon after our last encounter.”

  She runs a hand through her thick black hair. “I feel blessed.” Her tone is corrosive. “I would have thought you’d be at home, sharpening your claws for the pretrial conference tomorrow.”

  I have no idea how she knows about that, considering she doesn’t speak to either Arthur or Paul.

  “I haven’t seen you here in years, dear. Don’t you usually shop in the big city?”

  She doesn’t bother to answer me; she’s too busy studying the boy. “You missed class today, Alex. I assumed you were sick.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m sorry, I just overslept.” He glances over at me. “I forgot something. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

  His discomfort is so obvious I can’t help but be amused. I nod at him and he touches me on the arm before beating a hasty retreat around the corner, leaving Caitlin and me staring after him.

  I sigh. “I think he’s in mortal terror of you, dear. Whatever do you do to your students?”

  She scowls. “I expect them to show up. I expect them to work.” She adjusts her scarf with impatience. “I awarded Alex a sizable scholarship to allow him to transfer here this semester, but I fear that was a mistake. He’s lazy and irresponsible, and he seems to be making a series of poor choices.” Her eyes flit to my forearm, where the boy rested his fingers a moment ago. “Especially when it comes to selecting his friends.”

  I search her face in surprise. Am I reading her correctly?

  “Dear God.” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re jealous of him.”

  She blinks. “Don’t be absurd.”

  I laugh. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve been giving him such a hard time in class. You’re actually jealous of our friendship.” I laugh again. “That’s rather sweet, darling. I’m flattered.”

  Her hands tighten on the handle of her grocery cart, and her cheeks redden. “If you think for a moment I care one way or another about the sick little Harold and Maude relationship you’ve got going on with Alex Pearl, you’re delusional,” she grates. “Perhaps you should consider a move into the Alzheimer’s wing of an assisted living facility, after Dad finally takes the house away from you.”

  It’s odd, but for once my own temper doesn’t flare in response to hers. I simply watch her carefully, as my amusement at her resentment of Alex deepens.

  “Surely you’re not really suggesting Alex and I are having an affair?” I throw back my head and almost shriek with delight. “Oh, my. You should mention that to him when he gets back, dear. He’ll turn green and begin to projectile vomit at the very notion.”

  The more I think about it, the funnier it gets, especially because my daughter is mortified by my response. My laughter echoes down the aisle, and a gentleman I don’t recognize at the other end by the coffee cans looks over at us and smiles.

  Caitlin winces. “All right, Hester,” she snaps. “Stop making a fool of yourself. It’s not that funny.” She pushes her cart closer to me, and lowers her voice. “I wasn’t saying I thought the two of you were having an affair. I was only making the point that your relationship is inappropriate.”

  The earnestness in her tone is a warning. I’ve rattled her cage, and now she wants revenge.

  I slowly regain control of my breathing. “Oh? And why is that?”

  She leans in to whisper. “Because any idiot can see he’s a very troubled young man, who needs stable people in his life, not more insanity. And the only reason you’ve taken him in as a tenant—and apparently adopted him as well—is for absolutely selfish purposes. You just want to create another Jeremy for yourself.”

  My spine stiffens. “That’s ridiculous.”

  I flash back to my recent conversation with Paul. The two of them must be talking to each other again, then. Just as they did when they discovered Arthur’s infidelity, and decided to keep it a secret from me.

  “Is it? I don’t think so.” Her eyes bore into mine. “You should be careful, Hester. He’s not even your own flesh and blood, and you’re using him to make yourself feel better.” She snorts. “And to make Dad as angry as humanly possible, too, of course. That goes without saying.”

  “Alex has nothing to do with either Jeremy or your father,” I hiss.

  It’s her turn to laugh. “Of course not. And fairy dust can make you fly.”

  Alex reappears from around the corner before I can respond, and she steps back and resumes her normal voice as he draws closer.

  “But as I said, what you do is of no concern to me.” She makes sure he’s within earshot before continuing. “Go ahead and keep hanging candy canes and gingerbread cookies on your walls, and entice whomever you wish into your oven.”

  She steps past me with a self-satisfied air, knowing she’s knocked me off center. “Don’t miss any more of my classes, Alex,” she admonishes over her shoulder before leaving the aisle. “I don’t believe you can afford to lose your scholarship, can you?”

  She exits in a flash of black and red, like an enormous crow with a piece of my large intestine wrapped around its neck.

  Alex comes up to the cart, nonplussed. He looks after Caitlin, then back at me. “What was that all about?” he asks.

  I gather myself together again. “What was what about, dear?”

  “That stuff about candy canes and ovens.”

  “It’s nothing. My daughter was just being her usual cheerful self.”

  He nods and stares after her again. “I’m sorry I left you alone with her, but she creeps me out. She’s just way too intense.” He peers down at me, worried. “Do you think that maybe she heard us talking about her?”

  I consider this for a moment. “No. If she’d heard us discussing her before we accidentally stumbled upon her foxhole, the two of us would now be nothing but hamburger for the Hy-Vee butcher.” I resume pushing the cart, determined to thrust aside her accusations. “She keeps a chain saw in her purse for such things, by the way, and a hockey mask. Did you know that?”

  He laughs. It’s a sweet laugh, young and warm and full of life. It seems for the moment he’s forgotten to be depressed.

  “You crack me up, Hester,” he tells me. “You say the funniest damn things about your own family.”

  “I’m not joking. The authorities will one day find a collection of vital organs and severed limbs in her freezer. Mark my words.”

  He laughs again, and I continue to banter with him as well as I’m able, for his sake as well as mine.

  When we finish our shopping, I may even let him drive us home. He needs the experience, and I’m not feeling particularly well. Tomorrow’s meeting must be weighing on me more than I want to admit.

  I don’t care what Caitlin says. I am not using this boy for anything.

  CHAPTER 14

  “You’re going to love this,” Jeremy said, lifting a flashlight from the seat between us and placing it in his lap. He unrolled his window and the freezing winter air filled the car. “Trust me.”

  Caitlin leaned forward from the back seat, which she was sharing with Paul. “What are you up to, Jeremy? Why did you drag us all down here?”

  It was a good question. It was nearly midnight, and Paul and Caitlin and I had been at home a few minutes beforehand, getting ready for bed, when Jeremy had charged in the front door, reeking of coffee and cigarettes, and demanded we all come with him for a “quick outing.” He said he had something “phenomenal” to show us, and it couldn’t possibly wait. We balked at first, of course, but eventually gave in, knowing full well it was no use arguing with him when he was in one of his manic moods. If we had refused to go he would have kept at us all night, so after a vain show of resistance we dressed and followed him out to the car, badgering him with questions, which he declined to answer.

  “You’ll see,” he kept repeating, chuckling to himself like a
deranged chicken, as he drove us through the darkened streets of Bolton, down to a dilapidated dock on the outskirts of town, on the east bank of the Mississippi River. He parked the car as close to the water as he could get, with the hood pointed toward the river, then shut off the engine and the headlights.

  “You’ll see,” he said again, in response to Caitlin’s question. “Just be patient for a little while longer.”

  There was a barge coming toward us, following the narrow, jagged path of open black water the icebreakers had carved for it down the middle of the river. An enormous spotlight was mounted on the boat’s cabin, and the light swept across the mostly frozen surface of the Mississippi, bouncing from bank to bank. Its foghorn blared every minute or so, long and low and sad. It was an abysmally dark night out, with the moon and stars obscured by the clouds, and the only sources of light in all that blackness were the spotlight on the barge and the dim glow coming from downtown Bolton itself, a mile or two behind us.

  I peered at Jeremy seated next to me in the car, and even though we’d been at the dock for some time and my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I could still barely make out the pale white blob of his face as he rested his chin on the steering wheel. The foghorn sounded again, and he shifted in his seat to look at me.

  “I believe it’s looking for its mommy,” he said. He seemed oblivious to the arctic blast coming through his open window.

  Paul’s head appeared next to Caitlin’s between us. “What did you just say?”

  Jeremy tipped his chin at the river. “The barge. Its mommy must have left it alone at the mall or some such thing, and now it can’t find her.”

  Paul sighed in disgust. “You’re a moron, Jeremy. Honest to God. Can we go home now? I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “Me, too,” Caitlin complained. “Can we hurry this along? I mean, whatever it is we’re doing?”

  Jeremy had just turned sixteen a month prior to this, so Caitlin was fourteen and Paul nineteen. I was sleepy and grumpy that night, and all three of them were irritating me more than usual.