“We don’t see them nearly enough now that the kids have moved away,” Mrs. Vance continues. “I don’t think there’s a grandparent in the world who feels like they get enough of their grandchildren—but they get back at Christmas and during the summer, and Harold and I try to get away and see them whenever we can.”
Maybe there’s only so much good luck in the world, Larken thought at the time. Maybe luck is like a pie, and if you get a big piece it means somebody else gets a little piece, or none at all. That’s how it felt anyway, because just a little while after Mrs. Vance’s mole was pronounced benign—another word whose sounds are so perfectly suited to its meaning—they found out that Hope was sick. Their mother, as it turned out, was not lucky.
Realizing that Mrs. Vance is looking past her, Larken turns; Gaelan and Jon are leaning against the car in an attitude of nonchalant vigilance—the way teenage boys stand when they’re sharing a joint in the school parking lot. Gaelan looks past Jon’s shoulder and waves. “Hi, Mrs. Vance!” he calls happily.
Mrs. Vance waves back. “Hi, Gaelan!” Returning her sweet lopsided smile to Larken, she remarks, “It looks like you have a visitor.”
“That’s Larken’s friend, Jonathan,” Viney interjects. “He’s visiting for the week.”
Larken can actually see Mrs. Vance formulating—and then rejecting—dozens of questions before she nods and remarks, “How nice.”
“Well, we won’t keep you, Clara,” Viney says. “But I did want to invite you to that planning commmitte meeting I told you about.”
“I’ve been meaning to get more involved,” Mrs. Vance says apologetically. “I’ll definitely try to be there.”
“Planning committee? For what?” Larken asks once she and Viney start heading back. With suspicious suddenness, Jon and Gaelan move away from the car, toward the stand of cedars and the fields beyond. Jon makes a show of shouldering his camera and starts taking photos. Maybe they really were sharing a joint.
“Fancy Egg Days,” Vine replies. “Everyone’s very excited about putting our best foot forward.”
“Right.” Bonnie is getting out of the backseat. She starts strolling in the opposite direction from Jon and Gaelan.
“Don’t be surprised if someone tries to get you to sign up for something while you’re here,” she adds, taking Larken by the arm and nudging her playfully. “Maybe even me.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Bonnie stops, kneels. She’s found one of those makeshift roadside shrines.
“Your dad would be real happy,” Viney adds wistfully. “Hope, too.”
Returning the flimsy toppled cross to its vertical position, Bonnie firms some earth around its base, rearranges the plastic flowers.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Viney asks. “Are you upset about something?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just gonna wait in the car.”
Gaelan has hiked out to the bumpy stretch of land they used to call Babe’s Meadow Muffins; heroically backlit by the sunset, he’s straddling the space between two mounds and is staring at the sky; Viney starts toward him. Bonnie is still on her knees. Jon is wandering around taking photos of the pines, the small withered hillocks, the empty fields.
Could there be a more depressing landscape than that of Nebraska in mid-March? Larken wonders.
Retrieving her purse, she settles into the driver’s seat, pulls out the M&M’s, and begins to self-medicate.
It is May 1978, and the eldest daughter of Hope and Llewellyn Jones is once again—and for the last time thank God since she’ll be too old next year—adamantly resisting her parents’ suggestion that she enter the Little Miss Emlyn Springs pageant. Ever optimistic, but, Larken can tell, increasingly desperate, it’s a suggestion they’ve made every June since 1975.
Honey, you’re smart, you’re pretty, you’re gifted, they’d say in a script they seemed to drag out every year and perform with slight variations. I/We just don’t understand why you don’t want to.
That year they’ve each found occasion to appeal to her in private:
Do it for Daddy, Hope enjoined her with forced gaity. You know how much he loves seeing you get all pretty and dressed up.
Do it for your mother, her father pleaded—and then added darkly, This may be the last year she can come.
Usually Larken has been able to put them off after a few attempts, but this year, Hope has been especially persistent. She will not let it go.
At the moment, Larken is sitting at her mother’s writing desk, flat-out ignoring her. The household bills are due and Mom’s right hand is taking one of its impromptu vacations, so Larken is writing the checks this month. This means that she’s cornered, literally, a captive audience.
“I just don’t understand why you don’t want to be part of this,” Hope is saying, “especially since it’s your last chance.”
“You do, too,” Larken says tersely. Sitting around nagging her about the Little Miss Emlyn Springs pageant seems to be the only thing Hope has any energy for. The house is a mess. She really wishes her mother would shut up and leave her alone so she can get done with this; there’s still a load of laundry to get started and then she has to figure out what to fix for supper. “Is Dad gonna be home tonight?” she mumbles, hoping to lead her mother to another subject.
“No,” Hope replies.
Larken is relieved. Her father’s presence at the dinner table—infrequent as it is—always ups the ante at suppertime and means she has to fix something special. With him gone, they can make do with Hamburger Helper or something.
“You’re right,” Hope admits. She falls silent long enough for Larken to hope that the discussion is finally over. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t address your concerns!” she adds, rallying.
Larken has two objections: First, she’s watched enough Miss America pageants to know that she does not now nor is she ever likely to have beauty queen proportions, never mind that Little Miss Emlyn Springs contestants are between the ages of twelve and fourteen and in many cases still don’t even have breasts (although this is not Larken’s situation; she got her period, her size six feet, her five-foot, two-inch height, and her big stupid tits before anyone else, at the age of eleven). They’re not, thank God, required to participate in a swimsuit competition, but they are required to demonstrate runway modeling skills while wearing princess heels and nylon stockings and some kind of bridesmaid-type dress with lots of ditz and froo-froo. And no matter what anybody says to the contrary, Larken knows that no one’s going to give a Miss Anything crown to a short pudgy girl with big boobs because there’s no way they can look anything but stupid and even pudgier wearing spaghetti straps and ruffles.
Then there’s the talent. Larken already knows most of the other contestants and can easily guess what their talents will be: Mary Margaret Ellsworth will play the piano, Vicky Davies will do ballet, Jennifer McAllister will do gymnastics, and Tracey Hindemuth will sing or dance or act or all three; she can do everything and everybody knows she’s going to win anyway, so why bother?
“My point is,” her mother is saying, “the same kind of girls enter these contests year after year, and I don’t mean to sound unkind, but you know what I mean, doing the same kinds of talents, and … well, you’re different, Larken, and don’t smirk, I know you hate hearing that, but it’s true, and one day you’ll thank me for pointing it out.”
Larken hears her mother get to her feet and—with the aid of the aluminum walker Larken picked up at Beatrice Medical Supply last week—start shuffling across the room. Larken experiences a familiar self-hatred born out of the fact that she can write checks, drive a car, fix dinner, and walk across a room without any assistance.
Hope starts petting her hair. “I just wish you’d stop … hiding your light under a bushel basket, that’s all.”
“The same girls always win because they’re good, Mom. And they’re pretty, not different.”
Larken feels her mother lean against the back of the chair. �
��First of all, we can design a dress that you like, a dress that looks fantastic on you and has no ruffles whatsoever. Draw a picture for me.”
“Mom.”
“No, now listen. We don’t have to go up to Beatrice and get something off the rack, I can make something.”
Larken closes the checkbook and turns to face her. “How are you gonna make a dress, Mom? You barely have enough energy to walk across the room.” Larken knows it’s a cruel thing to say, but she doesn’t care. She just wants her mother to shut up and if being mean to her is what it will take, then so be it.
“I appreciate your concern,” Hope says, her voice even and devoid of irony, “but you let me worry about that. Now”—the floor creaks as Hope shifts her weight—“the talent. I’ve been thinking about this. You’re plenty good at piano—”
“Mom—”
“—but I know you don’t want to play piano, or sing, or anything like that, so I was thinking”—Hope reaches into Larken’s field of view and presents a book: The Norton Anthology of American Poetry—“how about reciting a poem?”
“What?” Larken has never heard a more stupid idea.
“You have such a strong speaking voice, honey.”
“No, I don’t,” Larken replies, horrified. “Who says?”
“It’s plenty strong when you believe what you’re saying, when you want to make a point.”
“Like when?”
“Like when you ran for student council.”
“And lost,” Larken reminds her.
Hope toddles to the nearest chair and sits.
“… or when you’re at one of Gaelan’s games …”
“Mom …”
“… or when you’re walking out of the house wearing the same outfit you’ve worn three days this week and your mother is trying to get you to put on something else.”
Hope is deadpan for a moment; then she laughs. Larken hates this. Most of her fourteen-year-old peers are constantly engaged in mother-daughter battles; it’s hard to fight with your mom when she finds everything all so funny, not to mention the fact that she’s a cripple.
Hope starts looking through the book. It’s painful to see. Hope’s hands—whether they were playing piano or sewing or unscrewing a lid or plucking a spear of asparagus from a dinner plate—used to be graceful. They were elegant, like a movie star’s. Now they’re hesitant and bumbling, as if she’s old. While Larken watches her mother struggle to turn the pages, a feeling stronger than pain emerges: anger. She is angry at her mother for her senile hands, and this anger makes her ashamed.
Hope’s hands continue to fumble with the book. It smells musty, as if it’s been buried in a compost pile.
“What about this one?” Hope says. “‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by … Ha! You know, I never noticed that. It’s like a joke, isn’t it? His name being Frost … Here,” she says, handing the book out for Larken. “Take a look and see what you think.”
“Reciting poetry isn’t a talent, Mom,” Larken says, in spite of the fact that she hopes it is. Now that Hope has suggested it, Larken suspects that she might be good at reciting poetry.
“Of course it’s a talent, darling. Nobody values poetry more than the Welsh, you know that. And doing a poem for your talent is no different than what’s-her-name, that girl who won last year doing a speech from Romeo and Juliet.”
“Anne Gottberg. It is different, Mom. That’s acting a part, a character. This is just … poetry.”
“Oh, come on. Just read it out loud and see if you like it. Go slowly. Speak it the way you’d sing it.”
She begins.
“Slower,” Hope says. “Exaggerate the sounds.”
Larken starts again.
“Slower still, sweetheart. Think of it maybe as a primer, you know? As if you’re learning the words as you read them.”
Larken slows way down. It feels silly at first, but at least there’s just the two of them. Hope smiles and nods. Eventually she closes her eyes and before long Larken has the sensation of being alone in the room.
She lingers less self-consciously now over words like miles and snow and deep, reexperiencing the strange way words look on the page, becoming aware of the way that they call upon the use of muscles: mouth, tongue, cheeks, lips. She never thought about that before, how speaking words requires physical assistance, how ideas can’t be expressed aloud if the body doesn’t go along.
“Well?” Hope says, her eyes still closed. Her voice is fairly expressionless, but she must be clenching her teeth because Larken can see the muscles of her jaw working beneath her thin skin.
“It’s okay,” Larken says.
“Good,” Hope replies. “That’s settled, then. Be thinking about your dress. We’ll talk about it after dinner.” She fumbles briefly and ineffectually with the edges of her cardigan—Larken can’t tell if she’s trying to take it off or do up the buttons—and then emits an expulsive huffing sound and gives up.
“I just love solving problems,” she mutters, “don’t you?”
But the comment doesn’t seem to be directed to Larken, and Hope’s voice is strangely bitter.
Larken realizes that bringing Jon to a setting with no familial associations allows him to complete his emotional recovery—not a bad thing in and of itself, but during the week they’re in Emlyn Springs, his need for dedicated therapeutic fucking definitely diminishes.
Jon also reveals himself as someone who’s far more of an extrovert than she realized. He’s very interested in the history of the town, in chatting up the townsfolk. He likes to get out.
It makes sense when she thinks about it. Jon’s a novelist, after all, and a teacher of contemporary literature—not an art history professor and book-bound scholar like she is. His work requires contact with people who are still alive. She’s just glad he’s feeling better. He doesn’t mention Mia or Esmé the entire week.
As far as the rest of the town is concerned, the not-knowing principle is fully in play. If discussions take place at all, they don’t extend beyond Doc’s oldest daughter Larken is in town for the week, professor at the university on spring break, not staying at Viney’s, though, she’s at her dad’s house. Got a friend with her, English fella, writer, colleague. No one asks any questions that might require Jon to speak the dreaded phrases my wife or my daughter.
They take walks, have malts and burgers and fries at The Little Cheerful, drink beers and watch college basketball at Grumpy’s. They visit the Co-op so Jon can study the colloquial speech of Nebraska farmers and learn about irrigation and cattle feed. They spend an entire afternoon at the Historical Society with Jon sandwiched between the Miss Williamses examining the town archives. These include a photo of Miss Larken Jones, age 14, Little Miss Emlyn Springs, 1978.
“You’re adorable!” Jon remarks. “Larken, come here. Have a look at this.”
“No thanks.”
Everywhere they go Jon strikes up conversations, asks history questions, liberally bestowing his charms.
In public, they’re as asexual as first cousins.
They do manage to screw, but not nearly as often as Larken had hoped, and the quality of their couplings is only slightly less restrained than it would be if Esmé were sleeping in the next room.
Larken consents to be one of the Little Miss Emlyn Springs judges, and the first meeting of the Pageant Planning Committee is held at Viney’s house.
“Who should we ask to build the chair this year?” Miss Williams asks.
“Sorry,” Jon interjects. “The chair?”
“It’s a tradition we borrow from the Eisteddfod,” Miss Williams explains, “the national poetry and song competition that has been held in Wales since medieval times. Eisteiddfod literally means ‘the chairing’ and in olden times the bardic winner was allowed to sit at the royal table. Every Little Miss Emlyn Springs receives a special, one-of-a-kind chair.”
“Miss Williams’s father used to build them,” Larken adds, remembering her own chair. Whimsical and
brightly painted, as were all of Doc Williams’s constructions, the chair seat and back were carved in a curving, sloped shape, made to look like a quilted hammock. Positioned along its edges, colorful carved birds held the cloth in their beaks, as if whoever sat there could expect to be lifted up.
“I think yours was the best one he ever made,” Hazel muses.
Missing from most of these gatherings are Bonnie and Gaelan; Bonnie’s reclusive behavior is normal, but Gaelan’s reluctance to come out is concerning. He seems depressed.
On Saturday, the night before she and Jon are to head back to Lincoln, Larken invites her siblings over to her father’s house to watch a movie and eat pizza.
“So what’s up, Gae?” Larken asks. They’re pouring drinks in the kitchen while the pizza is baking and Bonnie and Jon are setting up TV trays in the living room. “How’s the studying going?”
“I quit.”
“What? School?”
“No. I quit my job.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Viney never said a thing about it.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know. I haven’t told her.”
“Gaelan—” Larken begins, but then Bonnie comes in holding the DVD case.
“This movie is rated ‘R,’” she announces.
The timer goes off. “I’ll get it,” Gaelan says, arming himself with oven mitts.
“Yes? So?”
Bonnie reads. “‘For graphic violence, strong language, and explicit sexuality.’”
“It’s supposed to be good, Bon. It won an Oscar.”
“I just don’t think I want to stay and watch it.”
“Bonnie,” Larken says, taking her hand, trying to placate her, “this is our last night in town. We don’t have to watch the movie if you don’t want to. We can do something else. Play cards, or Scrabble, or just sit around and talk. Whatever you want.”
“It’s not just that,” she says, avoiding Larken’s eyes.
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