Bystanders

by Tara Laskowski

  “You probably could, these days,” Nati said. “Or maybe right there is your strike-it-rich idea. Baby chauffeurs. Mommy taxis. Think of a cute name and you’re all good.” She looked down at the baby, bounced her softly. “Hello there, Miss Megan,” she said. “How are you today?” She looked over at Evelyn. “And how are you doing? Are you okay?”

  “God, I’m starving,” Evelyn declared, and hurled herself off the couch and headed for the kitchen. They’d never been close, Nati and her daughter, never in that way that Nati had imagined when she’d thought of having children, of having a daughter—eating chickpea salads at an outdoor café, watching scary movies on the couch, giving fashion advice, sitting on the porch playing gin rummy. Stupid.

  Maybe it was her own shortcomings that had done it. Maybe she’d raised Evelyn wrong somehow, or maybe it was the pieces of Harold creeping in. Her husband had never been the warmest man in the world. Nati had loved him more for his strength, his dependability, not for his laughter.

  But she was being unfair. Nati and Evelyn had a fine relationship really. After all, with this trouble, in these trying times, Evelyn chose to be with her, to trust her. They may not share hairstyles or cry over sappy movies or carry around pocket mirrors with their initials engraved on the back, but there was a quiet strength to their relationship.

  She could hear Evelyn moving around the kitchen in that confident way that she had—taking charge, making herself at home. Nati imagined her putting away groceries she’d bought—probably a special kind of milk, fruit, and snacks bought at some health store—moving Nati’s things over to the side or the back of the refrigerator where ice crystals would grow. She didn’t mind this so much—there was something comforting about her daughter coming back home—but part of Evelyn’s actions also felt brazen, selfish, the way she’d been since she was a girl. That entitlement that kids naturally had: This. Is. Mine.

  Nati was relieved that she had hidden The Letter inside that cookbook, wincing as she imagined Evelyn finding it on the counter in all her unpacking and rearranging, (“Well, what is this?” thinking that her mother had once again misplaced some important mail), opening it, reading it (for that was also part of the entitlement—her parents’ mail, their private things, there were no boundaries). Nati imagined her daughter’s face falling as she read the lines from the letter Nati had by now memorized: I know you can’t understand…I was a different person then…the routine of it all…tired.

  “Your grandpa might still be alive,” Nati whispered into the baby’s ear. Megan Marie stared up at Nati in that unabashed way that babies have before they learn it isn’t polite to do so. “Should we tell your momma?”

  “Tell her what?” Evelyn said, affectionately, holding a can of parmesan cheese in her hand that she undoubtedly was going to ask Nati if she could toss out. Expiration date, probably. “What are you two whispering about out here?”

  Nati tamped down her irritation and smiled. “Oh nothing, just girl talk,” she said, tucking her secret down into her belly.

  ***

  Nati couldn’t sleep. She went down to the kitchen, turned on the light above the stove. She pulled closed the flimsy curtains on the window above the sink. Harold could be out there, anywhere—no that was stupid. Whoever wrote that letter could be out there, watching her. Didn’t these people go through your garbage? Learn things about you to mess with your head?

  Harmony in Seasons was the name of the cookbook, and as she went to find the letter, something else fell loose. A Christmas card stamped with a nativity scene. On the inside that same orzo scribble, and Nati realized with a start that Harold had bought her the book one year for Christmas. She read the note: This way there will always be harmony, year-round. Love, Harold.

  Harmony. Yeah, right. Nati snorted.

  She’d known Harold since high school, but they didn’t start dating until a few years later when they were both working at the nearby state fair. She was a ticket-taker at the admissions booth and he helped clean up the midway and the grounds. Later he became one of the best real estate agents around—snagged them a beautiful house on the lake that they otherwise couldn’t even have afforded the flood insurance for—and Nati opened a lingerie store in town, specializing in bridal items and special fit bras for women with mastectomies or other breast issues. Hers was the only specialty shop of its kind for miles around, and she really hit it big time when a young television star in a popular sitcom heard about her shop and came in on her vacation to buy undergarments for her wedding day. All the local TV stations had come out to do interviews. Nati and Harold had watched the segment later that night, and she’d been embarrassed by how flushed her face looked, how shaky her hands seemed.

  Harold developed a love of fishing. He bought a boat and then a custom fishing pole. He always wanted to take Evelyn out with him, but she grew bored after a few minutes and wanted to suntan. Nati herself was never much of a water bug, and she hated the sun—got rashes from it—so Harold took to booking bigger excursions with other men. Deep-sea fishing, cruises, whale watching. It was on one of those deep-sea expeditions that he’d fallen overboard in the night. By the time the crew realized he was missing, it was too late. They never recovered his body.

  Nati had always been mildly unsettled by that, but she’d never thought anything suspicious about it. Now, everything sounded like a Lifetime movie that that young actress might’ve starred in.

  With dread she pulled out the more recent note, tucked between the pages of a Symphony Veggie Pasta recipe. She put the two together. The handwriting was exactly the same, and Nati felt her heartbeat increase in her chest. She was suddenly in the middle of a very bad dream.

  She re-read the note again, this time slower. There wasn’t much there—not those details she wanted. Not the reasons. I am alive, he wrote—on one separate line, as if for drama. And then later, I’m sorry for the shock this will cause you. I’m not even sure why I’m writing to you now except that I think you should know, I think Evelyn should know. And then even later, I am sorry.

  Nati went through a series of emotions while reading it. Anger, then excitement, a weird flutter of the heart. Then utter depression—the mention of Evelyn’s name—how dare he even use it, how dare he even think he could bring her into it, hurt her all over again. The sheer overwhelming memory of the funeral. She could still remember the pinch of those heels she wore that day, that constant ache in her toes, and the way the backs of those blasted cheap things had rubbed her ankles raw. The two dried pools of blood on the back of her pantyhose.

  Evelyn, home from her sophomore year of college, took to drinking directly from a bottle of Southern Comfort (Harold had liked to put it in his tea) out on the back porch, earphones on, but the music so loud Nati could hear it in the kitchen—a fast, driving beat. How she’d debated about taking the alcohol away! How she’d considered going out there, pulling off the earphones and giving her daughter a hug. Or taking a seat across from her and stealing a swig from the bottle herself. She’d considered all those things, standing in her bare, scarred feet in the kitchen that day, watching her daughter’s head sway slowly back and forth on the porch swing. And she’d done none of them. She’d left Evelyn alone out there, convincing herself that was the best way for them to deal with their grief. Each in her own way.

  Nati went over to the sink. Through the window she could see that same porch swing Evelyn had sat on that night. And beyond that, the shed where Nati had found her months later, after Evelyn had dropped out of school for a semester to pull herself together, setting fire to pictures. The solution that time was therapy. And it had worked. Evelyn had gone back to school, graduated, worked for a while as a counselor for battered women down in Salem. But the absence of Harold had never brought them any closer. If anything, he left an even bigger hole between them, and they both seemed unable to fill it.

  ***

  Just an hour or so before closing the
next night, a woman walked into Nati’s shop. “Can I help you?” Nati asked, perhaps a little too aggressively, as she’d been hoping to close up early to go home to Evelyn and the baby.

  “I guess…I need a fitting,” the woman said, stepping back, her head turning back and forth. She was a jumpy one, with a thin face, dark olive skin, and green cat eyes. “I need a bra…I need something. I recently had a mastectomy.”

  Ah, so that was it. Nati nodded, immediately taking charge. “Of course. Come over here,” she said, leading the way. This was her favorite kind of customer, someone who really needed her. She’d never wanted to just sell things—she always envisioned it as more, as truly helping women. It was why she named the store Support: A Boutique for Women, with a pretty pink bra outlining the rounded part of the two “P”s in the sign. Over the years, Nati had become good friends with some of her customers—a bridge group here, dinner parties there. She found the whole thing, well, rewarding was the word she used when she talked about it. But really, it made her feel less lonely. A part of something bigger.

  “Is this your first fitting?”

  The woman blushed, nodded. “I’ve…I should’ve come a while ago, I guess, but I…” she stopped, turned around, and gazed at the racks of bras like a tourist lost in a giant museum of art.

  “Absolutely. It takes a bit of time,” Nati said. “Now, did you have a full or partial?”

  The woman exhaled. “Partial. The right breast.”

  Nati leaned over, squeezed the woman’s hand. “We’re going to take care of you. Don’t you worry. Goodness, you are so beautiful! Let’s find something that will make you feel that way.” Her name was Veronica, a name as delicate as the woman herself.

  ***

  When Nati got home, she was careful to open the front door quietly. Earlier in the week she’d come in and woken the baby, who had just settled down in her bassinet.

  The living room was empty, but Nati could hear Megan Marie crying in the kitchen at the back of the house. Nati slid off her coat and headed that way. Evelyn was standing, rocking the baby, her back to Nati, head tilted to cup the house phone with her shoulder. “No, no,” Nati heard her say sharply. “It’s fine. I’ll just talk to you later.” She turned, hung up the phone, and let out a sharp scream. “My god, mother! You scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nati blushed.

  “What are you doing sneaking around like that?”

  “I’m not,” Nati said, annoyed now. Evelyn seemed tense, jumpy, like Nati had caught her doing something bad. “Who was on the phone?”

  “No one,” Evelyn said. She gestured toward Megan. “Do you mind trying? She’s been doing this forever.”

  Nati scooped up the baby and began bouncing her. Nati was concerned by her daughter’s reaction to her question about the phone call. She felt a crack of fear. What if that had been Harold? After all, Evelyn had a cell phone. Why would she be using the house phone unless…unless someone had called the number. And no one ever called Nati.

  Evelyn left the kitchen, so Nati followed her out to the living room. “Was it someone for me?” Nati asked again. Evelyn was sitting on the couch, tugging on the ends of her hair. She looked up blankly. “What?”

  “The phone. Was it someone for me?” Nati felt the panic flushing up her neck. So he’d called, spoken to Evelyn. Did Evelyn know that Nati knew? Was she trying to hide it from her?

  “No,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. “It wasn’t for you.” She looked like she was going to say more, but stopped. Evelyn seemed far away, lost in thought, as if Nati wasn’t even there. Nati fought the urge to ask again.

  Megan’s cries had subsided for a brief moment, but started up again when she saw her mother. Maybe, Nati thought, Evelyn was just exhausted from taking care of an infant. “I think she’s hungry,” Nati said, almost apologetically.

  “She’s always hungry.” Evelyn’s eyes looked wet, like she was trying to hold back tears. “Give her here.” Nati saw Evelyn wince in pain as the baby latched on to her breast.

  “You need to come into the store. We have some really lovely nursing bras,” Nati said, trying not to watch, trying to curb her urge to go over to help. Nati sat down in the rocking chair on the other side of the room, unsure what to do. She had tried to broach the subject of bottle feeding—just trying it—but Evelyn had seemed very upset by the idea, so Nati shut up about it. She knew the drill: the worst mistake as a grandparent is to dispense unwanted advice.

  Finally the baby latched on and Evelyn’s body relaxed some, leaned back on the couch. “You need to tell me something interesting,” Evelyn said. “Distract me or something.”

  Nati was at a loss. She was amazed that Evelyn had decided to have children. Her daughter had, even from childhood, always managed to draw an imaginary circle around herself, never allowing anyone in. Evelyn never had a best friend growing up—she always just drifted in and out of groups, invited to parties and gatherings, but never attending them with any drive or passion. The relationships she got in only seemed to get close when one or the other was going away to college—and then the string of Internet boyfriends, all from states or countries very far away. Then there was the married man, the one that Nati didn’t like to talk about, the one that she still prayed on the rosary that Evelyn would never cross paths with again. And finally Evelyn met Mark, her husband, a military man called to duty every few years.

  When Nati pointed out the pattern, so obvious to her, Evelyn’s response was to shut down—a reaction clearly perfect for a person who doesn’t want to hear about their problems with intimacy.

  “This is not a very good story,” Evelyn joked, wiping her bangs out of her face with her free hand, and Nati realized she’d just been quietly staring into space.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking—I was just thinking about your father,” Nati said, then immediately regretted bringing him up.

  “What about him?” Evelyn said.

  “He used to sit up with you in the middle of the night, listening to radio programs. You loved listening to the radio.”

  Evelyn smiled. “That’s nice.”

  “What would you say to him if he walked in here right now?” Nati asked.

  “I don’t know if I’d say anything. I think I would just show him M&M here and that would be all he needed,” Evelyn said. “A granddaughter. He’d be so over the moon.” She laughed, looked up at the ceiling like she was imagining the whole scene. Nati tensed. She was about to get up, go to the kitchen, and bring the letter in to Evelyn. “Why? What would you do, Ma?”

  “I’d ask him where the hell he’s been these past eight years.”

  Evelyn laughed. “Oh mom, you’re so literal.”

  ***

  Nati’s full-time assistant, Patricia, was blathering on while they stacked piles of new merchandise—black silk bras with front closures. Nati kept rubbing her fingers across the soft fabric as she worked.

  “So how is your visit with your daughter going?” Patricia asked.

  “Oh, you know. It’s good. It’s fine. It’s so lovely having the baby around.”

  “Oh, I bet it is,” Patricia smiled. But no, she probably didn’t know. Patricia did not like children. She and her husband didn’t have any kids, made a show of talking about that decision very publicly—how much they liked to travel, go to shows, eat out. As if having a child sentenced you to a lifetime of television sitcoms and yardwork. “Just enjoy it while you can. They grow up so fast, you know.”

  Enjoy it while you can. Harold used to say things like that, those platitudes that meant a whole lot of nothing. He was good at smooth talking, which was why he always was able to close that sale, make those families feel like they were buying more than just a house. They were buying a future together. A life. He loved to watch this one segment on the local news—a newscaster who just picked a name a
t random from the local phonebook, called the person, and did a story on his or her life. Harold used to always shake his head, nearly tear up, and say, “Everyone’s got a story, Nati. Everyone.”

  “It’s amazing how you can never really know another person, isn’t it?” Nati asked Patricia, tucking the bras into drawers underneath the display. She liked having things arranged neatly. It felt like an accomplishment.

  “Oh yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Peter—we’ve been married for how long? Eighteen years? And all this time the man hates peanut butter. Loathes peanut butter. ‘Don’t come near me with that,’ he says. Won’t even want it in the house. I come down for breakfast the other morning and what’s he doing? Slathering Jiffy all over his toast. Like it’s going out of style. I mean, really?”

  “But I mean the inside of people. Like, true thoughts, motivations. You hear those stories all the time about the serial killers and how their wives never even knew. You just never know.” She kept thinking about all those fishing trips Harold took, one every month, like clockwork. How she never even thought to check up on him, if he really was where he said he was going.

  “Well, I highly doubt anyone I know is a serial killer,” Patricia said with a snort. Patricia would be the woman that the television newscaster would pick from random out of the phone book, Nati thought. He would never choose Nati, but Patricia, she was the type of woman that just had that kind of luck.

  That was the problem with those kinds of things, Nati thought—you can twist anything around to make it seem good.

  ***

  The second letter came on the back of a postcard: