I loved Teresa Tran, secretly hoping Lou would marry her and keep her on the farm, even though she wasn’t more than nineteen, maybe twenty. I couldn’t keep my hands out of Teresa’s heavy horse-tail hair. I would touch her slanted eyes, too, and try to make mine go like Teresa’s, pulling the outside corners of my eyes to my temples and fastening the skin with Scotch tape, leaving it like that overnight. Teresa would alchemically conjure her own dinners, the textures and smells Beth might have had the bravery to try, but not the generosity. She’d make Beth salty egg salad sandwiches, fish sticks, and corn on the cob. For herself and me, noodles and shrimp, soup that smelled like feet, and greasy rolls filled with wormy-looking salads. I loved her so much I used to sneak peeks at her sleeping in the little bedroom off the kitchen, which we later turned into a walk-in pantry. Teresa used bleach straight from the bottle when she washed down the counters; the house smelled hospital-clean and unfamiliar. She never ran out of things to dust, or fix, or sew. Two nights a week she took English at the high school and spent Sundays at the Catholic church, volunteering to help other refugees arriving in the county.
Teresa kept a jar on the counter labeled “The Swears of Beth and Peachy.” She’d learned bad words to watch out for and any time we uttered “damn” or “goddammit” or “shit” or even “piss,” she’d scribble the word on a piece of paper and drop it into the jar to tally later. She said God wouldn’t allow us to fill up more than one jar in a lifetime. In her bratty need to see it stuffed, Beth unleashed a barrage into the kitchen air and watched Teresa Tran frantically rip a sheet of paper to shreds, trying to keep up: poo, dummy, fucker, kaka, asshole, bumbum, fart, mixed in with God, Jesus Christ, and Holy Mary Mother of God, filled the jar, pressing up against the glass like the guts of a dirty religious novel.
She stayed for nine glorious months, and there were times I thought that even Beth might warm to her. Once, she even asked Teresa about her own mother back in Vietnam, while she was cleaning the cubby under the sink. Teresa told us that she didn’t get along well with her mother, but that she was fat and funny, and that people would bring her their wounded animals because she was the town’s amateur veterinarian.
“A Vietnam vet!” Beth squealed, a joke that flew over Teresa’s head.
“What about your mom? What do you remember about your mom?” she asked in her halting English.
After a long pause Beth said, “She always had gum.”
Teresa looked at Beth with such concern I thought I’d cry.
Not long after that, Lou made the mistake of introducing Teresa to Lorenzo Mann, the man who took the truck off his hands for a fair price.
“You should marry that guy, Teresa,” Beth said, after noticing the two of them hovering by the carport playing with one of the barn cats. At almost thirteen, Beth was easily a head taller than Teresa. And she must have felt filled with some kind of power when, a few weeks later, Teresa did just that, becoming Teresa Tran Mann before moving with Lorenzo to the Yukon.
I was devastated; Beth, nonplussed.
“Their kids will be cute,” she said.
I wrote my first letter ever to Teresa Tran Mann. She soon replied that she was “bored in so many times up here,” writing that it was “cold in the air, in the house, and in the heart of it too, though I press on as we all very must.”
We stayed in touch for two months, then lost track. Then she, like Nana Beecher, like Nell, like every other woman I knew, left the farm too.
chapter seven
AFTER THE BARBECUE, Beth helped Lucy and me clean up in order to bust me free from the group sooner. When she visited home, we always stopped into the tavern for a drink, or in her case several, plus shooters. And now we had the ridiculous need for privacy in order to discuss our prank on Marcus, not to mention how she planned further debasement in New York. It was twelve hours before we were meant to leave for the airport, six before I walked in on her having sex with my husband, and my hands still smelled like the bubble bath Beau and I had given the boys before we kissed their wet heads and put them to bed.
There had been nothing off about Beau’s demeanor during Beth’s arrival, Lou’s barbecue, the boys’ bath, nothing to suggest that in a few hours he’d bang my sister up against the pickled beets in the pantry off the kitchen. Watching him wrestle the boys dry, I had even made a mental note to seduce him later. I wanted him. I did. I used to love Beau’s brilliantly simple method of seduction, which, judging from what I had remembered, and what Beth had told me, hadn’t changed all that much since high school. Once he had it in his mind, he was like a snowplow in his single-minded pursuit of sex. With stunning momentum, he would remove every excuse, shove aside any of my arguments, too tired, too late, too busy—too bad, he’d say. Then after a brisk chase, I’d find myself lying in a breathless pile at his feet, cupping a rug-burnt knee. I had wanted Beth to overhear a variation of this later that night. I’d been feeling guilty about my emails to Marcus and my subsequent filthy thoughts, so I wanted to assure Beth (and myself) that I was really in love with my husband. And I wanted her to know that, despite my complaints, I had made all the right decisions about my life, that I had not regretted staying on the farm and stumbling into marriage and motherhood at twenty.
It was still early, so the tavern was empty except for Mike Laroche and his girlfriend Shelly, and Mike Dannon, who taught high school gym and said hello to us by flicking his baseball cap.
“Fucking hell, here comes Dannon,” said Beth, settling into her barstool. “Every time I get a goddamn beer here, I run into someone I fucked in high school. How can you stand living here?”
“Well, for starters, I didn’t fuck Dannon.”
“Well howdy-how to you, Beth Archer. Hey, Peach.”
“Hey, Mike,” I said, while Beth craned for Stu’s attention.
“Mind if I join yous?”
“Yes,” said Beth.
Mike began to pull up a barstool.
“No, I mind, Mike. I don’t feel like making conversation and I don’t much feel like sharing Peachy. Sorry. No offense.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay. Tell Beau to call me when my carburetor comes in, Peach.”
“Will do.”
“Tell Stu the first one’s on me,” he said, making a circle with his finger around the empty bar in front of us.
“Thanks, Mike. Always the gentleman,” Beth said with a salute. Mike clicked his heels like a soldier, turned, and left.
“That was mean,” I said.
“So is a married teacher fucking a student in the back of his car during lunch break,” she said, tapping out a cigarette from her soft pack of American Spirits. “It kills me that guys in New York wear those stupid baseball hats like they’re some statement on being cool. It’s just gay.”
“Don’t say gay.”
“I mean it in the eighth-grade sense, Peachy. I love fags and you know it.”
“Dannon got fat, eh?”
“Don’t say eh, Peach.”
“Beth Ann Archer,” Stu said, dropping two drafts and two Southern Comfort shots in front of us. “What brings you home?”
“I’m here because of love. Loss of it. Shit like that,” she said, making a pouty face. “Plus, I’m bringing this one back with me for a well-needed break in the big city.”
I shrugged. The idea of a break had started to appeal to me, though I was unwilling to admit it to anyone.
“Well then, here’s to love lost and found,” Stu said, raising his shot. They both threw them back and Beth asked for another one. I was searching for an emotional on-ramp to open across my sister’s face.
“I think he’s in love with you,” she said, staring straight ahead, wiping her nose on a cocktail napkin.
“Who?”
“Marcus, who do you think? You made him fall in love with you. I read your little correspondence with him. Pretty intense, Peach.”
“I’m, umm, confused. You mean Georgia’s correspondence with him.” I was trying to keep the anger from ta
inting my voice. “And remember that this was all your idea. Not mine.”
She pulled a piece of paper from her front pocket and unfolded it.
“Shall I share?” she asked, eyebrow arched. “Seems quote, ‘you are someone I really want to get to know,’ unquote. And that, quote, ‘I want you to reconsider your reticence and meet me for just one drink, Georgia,’ unquote. He says your note made him think you might be the, quote, ‘last woman of conscience left in this city,’ unquote. And that, quote, ‘if there’s no chemistry, perhaps there’s friendship,’ unquote. Oh and that, quote, ‘there’s no way I would get back with my ex,’ unquote. Adding that this ex, quote, ‘is troubled. I think she comes from a dysfunctional family, about which she was remarkably secretive,’ unquote.”
“Well, all the more reason to forget this guy, no?” I said, hiding the guilt. I had read that same email after Sam abandoned his Internet Scrabble game.
“Yes, I should forget him, I know. That would be the rational thing to do.”
“And what were you secretive about? Mom? Your real dad? I don’t know why you’re so ashamed of shit? You need to get over that.”
“I’m not ashamed. Just trying to keep a bit of mystery about me, you know. But I did something. Something kind of awful when you were bathing the boys.”
“What?”
“I wrote him back.”
“Wrote what?”
“I wrote him back and made a date with him. I made a date with him for Saturday night. That’s when he’s going to meet Georgia in the Village,” she winced. “Well, not really. I mean, that’s when she’s going to stand him up.”
She was hiding her face in the crook of her elbow, as though to protect her face from my punch.
“Um. No,” I said. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Why not?”
“It’s sick and cruel and mean. You think by standing him up on an imaginary date, you’re going to get back at him?”
“Well. Yes. Kind of,” she said. “He insulted me. He insulted my family to a complete stranger. So we are going to watch his humiliation from a bar across the street.”
“Well, you’re going there alone. I’m not a part of this. It’s shitty all around,” I said, putting my hands in the air in surrender. “I took it as far as I could stomach it. Besides, what if he sees me?”
“Oh, please, he’s expecting someone who weighs twenty-five pounds less,” she said. Seconds later she realized what she’d blurted out and slapped her hand over her mouth. Through her fingers she muttered, “Peach. I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re not fat. You have a beautiful body. I swear.”
“Right. Thanks,” I said.
“I mean it. I never meant to insult you.”
“No. Course not.”
The hand that had covered her mouth now clutched my upper arm.
“Please, Peach. I know the perfect place in Greenwich Village, a restaurant across from the bar where we can set him up. We’ll disguise ourselves and get there a little early, and—”
“No. Put an end to this. Erase the account tonight.”
“I can’t. I guess I’m just made of harsher stuff than you. You can stay at the apartment and I’ll go. I hate myself that I’m like this, but I can’t tell you how good it will make me feel for Marcus to experience just a teeny bit of the rejection I feel. Just a teeny, tiny bit. Is that so bad?”
Her eyes were filling up with tears.
“Listen, revenge is not release,” I said, running a hand down her spindly arm. “Humiliating someone to get back at them is only going to backfire on you. It turns into resentment, and resentment is cancer. Even if he doesn’t find out, you’ve put bad karma into the universe and it carries your name on it. It does.”
“That Lou’s hippy shit or your Psych 101 crap?”
“Bit of both,” I sighed, finishing my beer and signaling to Stu that I was through.
“I’ll have another one, Stu. Do you have any Popsicles?”
“No, honey, the only food we sell hangs on clothespins.”
Despite three more beers and three more shots of Southern Comfort, Beth was surprisingly lucid when we left the tavern. I had hoped by Saturday night I could convince Beth to drop the stunt and let the whole charade go, but I couldn’t pull this idea out of her jaws that night.
Back at the farm Beau had long gone to bed, but Lou was still up. I pretended to be deathly tired, so Beth grabbed a bottle of beer and followed the lights leading to the Airstream. That’s where I thought we’d find her in the morning, hung over and moaning about the early hour, me reminding her that the trip to New York was her idea.
I brushed, peed, and I threw on that yellow shortie nightie thingie Beau had bought me for Christmas. I had hated it at first sight, making fun of it with the boys that morning by dressing Sam in the top and Jake in the bottoms.
I climbed into bed and inched over to Beau’s side, where he had fallen asleep with his clothes on.
“Hey, baby. Dja have fun?” he mumbled, a little drunk.
“Mmm,” I said, moving my hand down to his belt buckle.
“Wait,” he said, stumbling to the bathroom. In his absence, I arranged the blanket just so, leaving my ass exposed like Alps under moonlight and pretended to fall asleep. Since almost the day I had married him, I had been trying to get Beau to spank me. And though Beau had no qualms about positions, orifices, fluids and where to put them (or in whom, one would think), he would not submit to that. So I became fixated on requesting spankings only because Beau had refused.
While Beau carefully unbuckled in the dark, he let out a long cool whistle which totally cracked me up.
“I guess if Peachy’s asleep,” he whispered, “I could just stand here and jerk off. I wonder how that would go?”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t get any on the carpet.”
Beau gingerly climbed atop me, lightly straddling the back of my thighs.
“Do it.”
My request was muffled by the pillow.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because. I told you. I cherish you.”
“Come on, Beau, it’s right there for the smacking.” I motioned toward my ass with a thumb like it was a suspicious stranger following me.
“But I don’t want to hit you, Peachy.”
“I don’t want you to hit me either, Beau,” I sighed. He rolled off of me. I turned over. “I was only trying to be playful.”
“I don’t like violence, Peach. You know that. Any other fetish but that. I can’t, can’t, cannot do that to that ass.”
“Jeez. You think because I asked you to take a whack at my butt I have a fetish? Beau, I do not have a fetish. I have a circumstantial request.”
“But you only want me to do it ’cause I won’t do it.”
“So. Don’t you think that’s kind of sexy?”
“No. It’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“Okay. But, if I hit you … then … you’ll probably have to hit me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine? You mean you’d hit me?”
“If you wanted me to.”
“Well, it’s not that I want you to. But it seems only fair.”
“Fine.”
“So … hit me,” he said. I could feel him brace up.
“It’s not supposed to be a funny thing.”
“C’mawwwn, give it to me, Peachy.”
“Where?”
“In the arm. Do the arm.”
It was dark in the room. By voice I gauged the general direction of his upper torso but my palm landed too hard by his left ear.
“Ow. Jesus.”
“Sorrysorry.”
“Boy,” he sighed into the ceiling. “I cannot believe how horny that just made me. Remind me to let you smack me around more often, Peach.”
I apologized and rolled over thinking how we used to “cherish” each other four times a week our first year, three the second, one the third, then after
the boys were both toilet-trained, whenever the hell they weren’t around, which was rare, or when both of us weren’t tired at the same time, which was almost never.
He kissed my shoulder and told me he loved me. I said, “Me too.” We touched bums, and as I listened for his snores to approach, I dug out another terrible, useful mind trick. When I’d begin to sound and seem like a whiny wife from afternoon talk shows, I would make myself think about how awful widowhood would be. It was a little sick, but it worked, made me feel physical love for the man who slept next to me, and, if everything was properly aligned, it sometimes made me quietly cry. Beth likened this trick to teenaged girls who cut themselves to feel anything. “Whatever,” I said, “it felt good and it was less bloody.” I would be so sad, I’d think. Then I’d imagine what I’d wear to the funeral; that sundress he loved, depending on the season, though he usually died in summer in my mind. Then I’d imagine his eulogy. Beau might have been Beth’s high school sweetheart, but he was the love of my life, I’d say, choking up. I only wish my mother could have met Beau; she would have loved him like the son she never had, and let’s face it, had probably really wanted.
I stopped sniffling long enough to hear one of the boys creaking gingerly down the hallway toward our bedroom. It sounded like the lighter, therefore younger, son. Jake padded like a spy across the bedroom carpet on up to the foot of the bed. There he paused kind of creepily, probably assessing the almost imperceptibly widening gap growing between his two sleeping parents.
“Jake. That you?”
His shadow froze.
“No more of this, didn’t we say?”
I lifted the covers.
“I know,” Jake whispered hoarsely, crawling toward my tunnel on all fours. “I heard yous come home and then I woke up and then I could hear Auntie Beth and Grandpa laughing and then music and I waited and no sleep came.”
The Almost Archer Sisters Page 10