River Angel

by A. Manette Ansay

  She would never forget how she and her sister had had to walk on tippy-toe around Pa, how Ma was always saying, Now don’t upset your father, now leave your father be, like he was some wild animal they’d lured in with table scraps. They’d lived in a duplex, rented their side from a man named Mr. Shuckel. When he came to the door to ask about rent, Pa always sent little Rose to say nobody was home, but Mr. Shuckel hollered at her just like she was a grown-up. Now Pa was long gone and Ma had moved in with Rose and her three half-grown kids. She lectured Rose and Bethany both about how her children always had a father, how’d they been a real family, not like you young gals today. Bethany ignored her the same way she ignored the politicians on TV. She’d never voted, hadn’t even bothered to hear George Bush when he stopped to give a stump speech in Cradle Park. What did this politician, or for that matter any other, care what she had to say? She could have told them that a happy family didn’t start with the right church or a fancy school or x many cops on the street. It started with a nice place to live. And when Fred returned three months later, that same ring hooked to a house key, Bethany married him right there in her heart—Father Oberling’s ceremony at Saint Fridolin’s Church had little to do with it. It was a home that cleaved two into one, and it was only their second Christmas together when Shawn Carpenter showed up to spoil it all.

  They had just said grace, something they did only on holidays—Bethany saved prayer for special occasions, the same way she saved her good china. “Everything looks great,” Fred said, and he stood up to carve the ham, which was wrapped in a pineapple-and-cherry necklace Bethany had copied from the cover of Good Housekeeping. There were side dishes of scalloped potatoes and carrot salad piled high in a Jell-O ring and squash with marsh-mallow topping. There were baby canned pear halves spread with cream cheese, garnished with a dab of mint jelly. A perfect Christmas dinner, Bethany thought. A perfect family to enjoy it. She silently challenged Ma or the tight-lipped ladies she cleaned house for or even George Bush himself to say it wasn’t so. Then her heart froze at the sound of somebody pulling into the driveway. “Who’s got a big brown station wagon?” she said. It stalled on the ice, slipped back, lurched ahead so that it spun a cookie in the courtyard, crashing into the drift along the snow fence.

  “What the hell,” Pops said, standing up to look.

  “Language,” Bethany said.

  “What the hooey,” he corrected himself.

  “It’s two of them,” Bethany said. “They’re headed over to the farmhouse.”

  “Maybe it’s Santa and Rudolph,” Pete said sarcastically.

  “Ho ho ho,” Pops said.

  “Maybe it’s Saddam Hussein,” Robert John said.

  “Hush,” Bethany said. “That’s not table talk.” Fred finished off the last of his whiskey; Pops wobbled slightly as he followed him to the door. “Hullo?” Fred called, and Pops hollered, “We’re over here!” Then the cold air sucked all the good food smells out into the night and, in exchange, presented them with Shawn Carpenter.

  Bethany knew from the get-go who he was—she’d heard all about his good looks and bad habits from Lorna Pranke, the police chief’s wife, one of the nicer ladies she cleaned house for. Fred himself didn’t talk about Shawn much, just said he had ways of making bad ideas sound sensible. But Lorna had told of how he’d stolen and scammed and disturbed the peace and generally made a nuisance of himself, how for years you couldn’t open the Ambient Weekly without finding his name under “Citations.” The chief lost many a good night’s sleep before Shawn graduated from high school and left town for good. Whenever Bethany asked Fred about the things Lorna told her, he’d neither confirmed nor denied them. “Now, now,” he’d said. “You want to dig for skeletons, you keep to your own closet.”

  “Surprise!” Shawn yelped, and he grabbed Fred and thumped him on the back right where it was always sore from standing at the bar. That spot, if you pressed your hand to it, would bring tears to his eyes, and Bethany felt that pain all the way up her own spine. But Fred only moaned and grabbed his brother harder, and the two of them hugged like no two men she’d ever seen, the way women hug, or lovers.

  “Shawn-O!” Pops said, and the three of them wrestled around like kids instead of the grown men they were. Bethany and Pete and Robert John just sat there, and what Bethany felt at that moment was jealousy—jealousy and an odd twinge of fear. For this was something else Lorna Pranke had told her: Shawn Carpenter drew people to him, made them do whatever he wished. He was like a magnet, like that iron ball inside the world that holds everything together, whether things want to be held or no. He had those good looks you couldn’t look away from; he moved like whole milk poured smooth out of a bottle. Fred, her own husband, loved him so much he was weeping like a child, and yet she’d never known until now. He’d kept it a secret, too painful, too sweet to share even with his own wife.

  “Who’s that?” Robert John said. A fat little boy was standing on the threshold, letting out the heat. His weight made it hard to guess his age. His nose was running. There was a flu going around, and Bethany hoped he didn’t have it.

  “Don’t let the cows out, Gabriel,” Shawn said, and the boy quickly shut the door. Bethany was the afternoon crossing guard at Solomon Public Elementary, and she could already see he was the sort of kid the others wouldn’t want to sit with. She could tell anybody might copy off his homework or pick on him at recess. “Whew,” Shawn said, swinging an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Some Taj Mahal your grandpa’s got—huh, kiddo?”

  “Pops still lives at the farmhouse,” Fred said, and he pulled Bethany forward by the hand. “I built this place for Bethany when we married.”

  “Married? You?” Shawn said. “Freddie, you old dog!”

  “Yes, sir,” Fred said proudly. “These are my new sons, Pete and Robert John.”

  Shawn ignored the boys. “Bethany,” he said, as though her name tasted creamy in his mouth. “A pleasure to meet a woman who could make an honest man of my brother.” His incisors were so sharp and white she wanted to touch one with her finger, the way you’d test a good kitchen knife. It was clear he wanted something from her, though what that was she couldn’t say. She remembered Pete’s father, and Robert John’s father, how their smiles had wrapped around her, held her close; Shawn’s smile was trying to do the same. He said, “You got room at your table for a couple of weary travelers, Bethany?” beaming like he’d done her a favor. But a pretty smile didn’t work on Bethany the way it used to. She’d set the table for five; there wasn’t room for two more people. Anyone could see the whole arrangement would be ruined.

  “Well,” Bethany said. She saw the boy looking hungrily at the ham, at the hot, fresh dinner rolls. His hair was tangled as a windblown field.

  “If there’s not enough to eat,” Shawn said quickly, “we’re happy with a sandwich. We don’t want to put anybody out.”

  Which was a lie. You didn’t show up uninvited for Christmas supper to beg a sandwich. “You’re welcome to what we have,” she said. “It’s just that I’m wondering where to seat you.”

  “Oh, we can sit on the floor,” Shawn said, as if a decent person would allow something like that. So Bethany ran to the kitchen to find more plates, while Fred dragged the twin wing-backs in from the living room. The boy sank into one, still wearing his coat, and took the plate Fred filled for him. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he put the plate on his lap, folded his hands, and lowered his head.

  “Gabriel’s on a religious kick,” Shawn explained. “Teacher at his last school brainwashed him. So much for separation of church and state.”

  “A little religion never hurt anyone,” Bethany said firmly. “I’ll be taking my boys to Mass tonight, and we always go on Easter.”

  “This isn’t just Christmas and Easter,” Shawn said. “This is morning, noon, and night.” He laughed, but the child’s face was radiant with concentration. Pete and Robert John stared. The room ticked with silence. Finally, the boy blinked, opened his e
yes.

  “Did you remember to pray for your old man?” Shawn teased, and with those words, Gabriel began to eat, steadily and noisily, like an animal at a trough. Robert John let loose with a soft pig snort; Bethany cut him a warning look. “How old are you, Gabriel?” she said to be polite, but Gabriel didn’t answer, didn’t even look up.

  “He’s a big fifth grader this year,” Shawn said, and he smiled again, that slick, wanting smile. “How old are these handsome boys?”

  Pete said, low as he could, “I’m at Solomon High,” and Bethany could tell he wanted to put as much distance between himself and Gabriel as possible.

  Robert John said reluctantly, “I’m in fifth.”

  “Hear that, Gabey?” Shawn said. “You’re the same age! You’ll probably see each other at school.”

  Bethany put down her fork uneasily. “So you intend to stay in Ambient?”

  “Thinking in that direction,” Shawn said. “Of course, we need to find a place to stay.”

  “I got plenty of room at the farmhouse,” Pops said. There was mashed potato in his beard. Bethany signaled Fred, who leaned over and tenderly wiped it away with his napkin.

  “The thing is,” Fred said to Shawn, “Pops is having another dispute with Wisconsin Electric.”

  Gabriel’s fork moved from his plate to his mouth, from his mouth to his plate.

  Shawn said, “Then maybe Gabriel could stay here for a bit, let his cousins show him the ropes.”

  At last, Gabriel’s fork fell still. Pete and Robert John looked at each other as if the only rope they planned to show Gabriel was a noose. And it was all Bethany could do to conceal her rage. She cleaned fourteen houses each week, plus her own. Weekday afternoons, she met the buses at Solomon Public. She had no time for the child of a man too lazy to look after his own.

  “You need to understand something,” she said. “We keep our households separate. I’ve got all I can handle with my own two boys.”

  “Now, Bethany,” Fred said. “It’s just a night or two.”

  But if she’d learned anything over the years, she’d learned how to stand up for herself. One night would stretch out into a week, and then a month, and once Gabriel got the run of her house, Pops and Shawn would soon follow. And it wouldn’t take long for squalor to take root, settle in to stay. A few stray cups could collect overnight into a dried-on sinkful. Some newspapers left on the couch might slide across the floor, pile up beside the armchair, snag the dust bunnies that had materialized the moment you looked away. And when you turned back to deal with them, you’d forget the laundry you’d meant to start, so the beds wouldn’t get made for a night that stretched into a week because Mrs. So-and-so called and she needed her house cleaned special for a party, or because you caught cold or your back went out, or because it was already time to take out the garbage and vacuum the living room carpet and rinse the teapot with vinegar. Suddenly the house would seem smaller and voices would seem louder and supper, again, would be Van Camp’s pork ’n’ beans. She could see the clutter building up already in the twin crystal balls of the boy’s thick glasses.

  She said, “I’m sorry, but it’s more than I can do.”

  “Now, Beth.”

  “I won’t be sending him my boys to care for.”

  “It’s OK,” Shawn said, but that smile was finally wavering. “I don’t want Bethany to put herself out on our account.”

  “I assure you that I won’t,” she said. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Of course I’m happy at the farmhouse,” Shawn said. “And Gabriel will be too. I just thought he’d like to spend a little time with boys his age.”

  “I want to stay with you,” Gabriel said to his father. It was the first time he’d spoken.

  “For Pete’s sake, kiddo,” Shawn said, too heartily. “I bet you could survive a night or two without me. How old are you now anyway, twelve? Thirteen?”

  “I’m ten,” Gabriel said, and he broke into silent, shaking sobs.

  “Old enough for a super-big slice of pie,” Bethany said to quiet him, to quiet them all. But tears kept bubbling up in the corners of his eyes, and the sleeve of his coat was shiny from wiping his nose, even though, twice, she offered him the Kleenex box. He ate three huge pieces of pie, bite after bite, wedge after wedge, in the same helpless way she remembered Ma eating cookies right from the bag. By that time Pa’s late nights had stretched into lost days, and she weighed over two hundred pounds. Even today she was a big lady, and she’d be living with Bethany instead of Rose if Bethany hadn’t hardened her heart. There’d be a yellow stain on the ceiling above the chair where she smoked her cigarettes, butts toppling out of whichever clean plate she chose for an ashtray, burn holes scattered across the upholstery like flecks of dirt. And then Fred would start lighting up his after-dinner cigar in the house instead of going next door, and maybe he’d have one after work, seeing it was so convenient for him to do so. That was how easily it started. You had to be on your guard. As soon as somebody balled up a handkerchief, left it lying on the end table, there’d suddenly be a couple of pennies, a pen, a scrap of paper beside it.

  “Rosie,” Bethany had told her sister, “you’ve got yourself and those kids to think of. Don’t let Ma go bullying you if you don’t want her living with you.”

  “I just think you ought to take a turn for a while,” Rose said. “Just give me a break from her, that’s all.”

  But that kind of thinking was the beginning of the end. It was the beginning of Ma and those dresses she couldn’t be bothered to wash, and that stinking little dog she’d adopted last year and doted on more than she ever did on Bethany. It was the beginning of forgetting where you drew the line. For by the time you were in a particular situation, that line got hard to see because there were people stepping all over it, waving their arms, hollering and crying and making demands. The thing was to keep yourself clear of those troubles. The thing was to understand your limits, to put your foot down with a boom. Bethany had known before she’d married Fred that he had his family’s taste for booze. But she also knew he had a kind heart and a yearning for better things, and she’d designed the house to feed those inclinations.

  After supper, Fred led everybody into the living room to play cards around the coffee table as Bethany put the leftovers away, did the dishes and wiped down the cupboards and washed the floor. By then it was nearly eleven, time to leave for Midnight Mass—if you didn’t get there early, you’d end up standing at the back. Bethany had taken the boys each year since they were old enough to sit up in a pew. Religion, like a spoonful of cod-liver oil, was an easy ounce of prevention, even though some might protest its bitter taste. She stuck her head in the living room. The Christmas tree cast a warm light over the crèche in the big bay window, and Bethany admired the faces of the shepherds, the wise men, the little drummer boy. Even the animals’ dull expressions were made human in the presence of the Baby Jesus. Mouths parted expectantly. Eyes solemn with hope. She’d draped the top of the crèche with red ribbon that matched the ribbons on the gifts beneath the tree, and these matched the tiny red bows she had glued to each of the golden ornaments. The angel she’d seated at the tree’s tippy top, a white bulb illuminating her dress, looked down upon everything with pleasure—except for the bottle of Wild Turkey, the men hunched over their cards. Pete and Robert John sat beside them; Gabriel dozed on the love seat, his mouth open on one of her nice throw pillows, his coat tugged carelessly over him.

  “Pete, Robert John,” she said. “Time to get ready for church.”

  The men had cigars tucked in their shirt pockets; Bethany saw Pete had one too. And perhaps it was that cigar which made him decide to feel his oats a little. “Oh, Ma,” he said. “I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

  “Me too,” Robert John said.

  “Then I guess you’re too old for what Santa brought you,” Bethany said.

  Pete sighed theatrically; Robert John popped to his feet. In the fall, Fred had taken the boys
out to look at snowmobiles, and they suspected, rightly, there was something waiting for them in the milk house under a tarp. But then Fred said, “Aw, Beth, don’t you think Pete’s old enough to make up his own mind?”

  And before Bethany could reply, Pete said, “Dad’s right. I’m not a kid anymore.”

  Dad. She’d been after the boys to call Fred that since they were married, but this was the first time either one had done so. Fred beamed, knuckled Pete’s shoulder; Pops cackled vengefully. What could she do? She said, “Whatever your father thinks is best,” hoping he would say, “Go along with your ma,” or maybe even, “Let’s all go to Mass together this year,” which, of course, he didn’t. Robert John sat back down and announced he wasn’t a kid either, but she had him by the ear so fast he yipped like the pup he still was. “We leave in five minutes,” she told him, anger masking her hurt. “March.” She turned to follow, saw Gabriel clumsily working his arms into his coat. He said, “May I go to church too?”

  “Now, son,” Shawn said, “we don’t want to impose.” He was looking at Bethany when he spoke, but the easy, oily smile was gone. Maybe she’d been too hard on him. Clearly, he cared about the boy. And she knew firsthand how difficult it was to raise a child alone.

  “Beth?” Fred said. “Honey?”

  But the truth was that she didn’t want to take Gabriel to church, to have him sit beside her with his uncombed hair and unwashed smell, that jacket sleeve stiff from wiping at his nose. She wanted her own sons sitting right beside her, where everyone in that congregation could see what big, fine boys they were, how she was raising them right, how she was keeping herself up, how Fred Carpenter was one lucky man. “You sure you can be good for one whole hour?” Bethany said. “Because if you fidget, I’ll send you out to the car.”