Windfalls: A Novel

by Hegland, Jean

  She knew that if they didn’t talk then, they would not be alone again until Lucy’s bedtime, but even so, she drove almost a dozen blocks before she made herself say, “I heard some bad news today.” Her voice sounded both too cheerful and too careful, and she winced and shot another look at the rearview mirror.

  In the back seat Lucy nodded solemnly. “About Andrea,” she answered.

  “You know?” asked Anna, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Lucy nodded again, and for a moment their eyes met in the mirror. From that angle and in that light, Lucy’s gaze looked old and calm.

  “Who told you?” Anna asked, stopping at an intersection and watching for a break in the traffic so she could turn left.

  “The big kids on the playground, after school.”

  Anna said, “It’s very sad.” It was rush hour, and the traffic was thick and steady. Each car that passed in front of them splashed a curtain of water across the windshield.

  Lucy was saying, “I know. We wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “Me, too,” Anna said, as the cars streamed by. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me and the other girls at after school. And the new teacher.”

  “The new teacher?”

  “Uh-huh. I said about her already.”

  “Maybe so. That’s right. What’s her name?”

  “Honey.”

  There was a break in the traffic just large enough to scoot through, but Anna hesitated for half a second too long. “So the new teacher—Honey—talked with you about Andrea?”

  “No.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She didn’t say anything?” Anna turned around in her seat to watch Lucy shake her head.

  “She had us brush our hair,” Lucy said.

  “She had you brush your hair?” Anna asked perplexedly.

  “We all brushed someone else’s.”

  “You brushed each other’s hair?” Anna heard a honk, and shot a glance at the mirror to see a Lexus waiting impatiently behind her.

  “We sat in a circle,” Lucy explained.

  “That’s what you did about Andrea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh,” said Anna. “Well, how do you feel?”

  Lucy shrugged, “I’m sad for Andrea.”

  “Me, too,” Anna said. “And for her parents.” At last she saw an opening in the traffic.

  “Mommy?” Lucy said beseechingly.

  “What, Lu?” Anna answered, stepping on the accelerator and girding herself to meet the next onslaught of Lucy’s fears.

  “Can Kaylesha come over to our house to play with me?”

  FRIDAY NIGHT THE RAIN QUIT AND THE SKY CLEARED, AND ON SATURDAY morning when the women left the shelter, they drifted out onto the drying sidewalks and across the steaming lawns as though they were on vacation.

  It seemed astonishing to inhabit a world so bright and warm, though to Cerise there was something wrong about it, too, for there to be such voluptuous weather now that Andrea was truly gone. Andrea’s faded posters still reigned in every window and on every wall, though many of them were now decorated with ribbons or wreaths, and piles of mementos had begun to collect beneath them.

  Each time Cerise came across another of those shrines, she stopped to study it. Gazing at the flowers and letters and handwritten poems, she couldn’t keep from comparing Andrea’s parents’ situation to her own, couldn’t help but think of how Andrea’s parents had had their daughter for twelve whole years before they lost her, of how they still owned photographs of their girl, how they possessed her clothes and toys and art projects even now.

  At noon the dim hall of the soup kitchen seemed to echo with Andrea’s name, and as Cerise carried her tray to an empty corner table, she almost envied Andrea’s parents’ luck, because the whole city was in mourning for their child. She had finished her tuna casserole when she thought she caught the sound of Barbara’s cackle. With a sudden spurt of hope, she raised her head and scanned the hall, and when her first quick look was unsuccessful, she began to study the diners one by one, her eyes traveling up and down the length of every table. In the end, she had to accept that Barbara was not there, but the sight of all those heads—black and brown and blond—bent above their food made her think of the girls at after-school care the day before.

  Outside again on the shining streets, snippets of that afternoon kept returning to her mind. She remembered the shock on the girls’ faces when they’d come into the room, how even Kaylesha’s complexion had looked pale. She remembered the horror with which Shannon had whispered the awful news, remembered how stiffly Lucy had stood beside her, as if a single word would shatter her.

  Resting on a bench at the edge of the park, she felt the warm press of sunshine on her head, and her scalp remembered the gentle prickle of Brianna’s brush, remembered the little solace she’d found in that sensation. She thought of how willingly the girls had done what she suggested and with what tenderness they’d stroked each other’s hair, and she knew the tiniest shine of pride. She remembered how smoothly her own hair had lain across her shoulders when Brianna had finished brushing it. She remembered the clean, smokeless scent of it, fresh as a city after rain.

  When the light began to thicken and she could no longer feel the warmth of the sun against her skin, she turned her steps back to the shelter. Walking through the fragrant evening, she passed another memorial to Andrea and paused to study the jumble of flowers and stuffed animals that strangers had left there.

  One of the teddy bears had toppled over onto its face, and she knelt on the sidewalk to prop it back up and to rearrange the cellophane cones of flowers in a less haphazard way. She wished the city shared her anguish about Travis, wished that even one person had left a teddy bear or a rose for him. She wished she had a single snapshot of her son, or that she could have had just one more hour with him before the fire. But gazing down at the browning petals and wilting stems of the bunch of daisies she held in her hand, it occurred to her that compared to Andrea’s parents, maybe she’d been lucky, after all.

  Because at least she’d been near Travis when he died.

  DESPITE THE WONDERFUL WEATHER, ANNA SPENT THE WEEKEND INDOORS, in hopes that staying inside would help cure Ellen’s chest infection. The new antibiotic seemed to be working its magic, though it gave Ellen diarrhea, and the diarrhea caused a wicked diaper rash, and between Ellen’s rash and her cough and the tooth she was working on, Anna was kept busy all weekend simply trying to prevent Ellen’s whimpers from evolving into screams.

  But despite her preoccupation with Ellen, she couldn’t help but marvel at how happy Lucy seemed, so easygoing and unworried it was still hard to believe she’d heard the news about Andrea. By Monday morning Ellen’s cough was gone, her tooth had finally erupted, and her rash was so much improved that Anna was able to promise Lucy that if the weather held they could stop by the park on their way home from school.

  That afternoon Anna could hear the noise pulsing from the after-school program as soon as she entered the building. When she reached the doorway of the room, she paused, trying to identify Lucy before she plunged into the mob of kids. It was Ellen, perched like a chimp on Anna’s hip, who spotted Lucy first, sitting at a low table strewn with crayons and colored paper and talking animatedly to the woman squatting next to her. At the sight of her sister Ellen squealed with pleasure, and at the sound of Ellen’s voice, both Lucy and the woman looked up.

  “Hi, Mommy,” Lucy called, and added proudly as Anna drew near, “This is Honey.”

  The woman met Anna’s eyes and nodded, although her face was devoid of the professional smile Anna had come to expect from Lucy’s teachers. She held her hands in near-fists by her sides, her blond hair was pinned in a thick old-fashioned circle around her head, and when she stood, her jeans creaking on her thighs, Anna saw how tall she was, broad-shouldered and thick-hipped, her T-shirt hanging on her torso like a blocky rectangle.

  “Of co
urse I’ve seen you here before,” Anna said, thrusting out her hand. “But it’s nice to have a minute to talk. I’ve really wanted to thank you.”

  Honey looked startled, though she took Anna’s hand softly in hers and held it for a brief, uncertain instant. “Thank me for what?” she asked.

  “Lucy,” Anna said, “go get your things.” When Lucy scampered off, Anna turned back to Honey. “For helping Lucy with Andrea,” she answered quietly.

  The woman glanced across the room to where the program coordinator stood talking to another parent. “I’m sorry,” she faltered, “I made a mistake. I didn’t mean—”

  “She dealt with it amazingly well,” Anna continued. “I have no idea how you did it, but she hasn’t had a single nightmare since she heard the news.”

  “It’s okay, then,” Honey said, in a voice so low it was as though she were talking to herself.

  “Why?” Anna asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m supposed to quit. After today. For inappropriate touching.”

  “Inappropriate—what?”

  Honey said, “A family complained.”

  “About what?”

  “I had them—the girls—brush their hair.”

  “But—”

  “I should of known better,” Honey said doggedly. “I’ve taken classes.”

  “In child care?” Anna asked, shifting Ellen on her hip and burying her face for a brief second in her hair.

  Honey winced and glanced away, as though it were a man Anna was fondling in public instead of a baby. She said, “And child development.”

  “And the classes say you’re not supposed to comfort children who’ve experienced trauma?” Anna asked, raising her voice.

  Honey gave another quick look in Ms. Martinez’s direction. “They say you’re not supposed to encourage touching in a day-care setting.”

  “But hairbrushing—that’s absurd!”

  “Well,” said Honey flatly, “and sharing brushes. That’s how kids get head lice. I should of known that, too.”

  Lucy returned with her sweater and her backpack and a sheaf of artwork and worksheets. “Okay,” she said, “I’m ready.”

  Anna asked, “What will you do? I’ll be glad to help you appeal—”

  “No,” the woman said quickly, and added, after an awkward pause, “It’s okay.”

  Impulsively Anna said, “We were just going to the park, to celebrate the sunshine. Maybe you would like to meet us there when you get off work?”

  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO EASY TO SAY NO. CERISE COULD HAVE SAID thank you, but she was busy. She could have said that she was sorry, but she had to get home, had to fix dinner for her husband and her kids. She could have said that she had already made plans to rob a bank or fly to the moon. She could have done anything but nod her head and agree to meet Lucy and Lucy’s mother and Lucy’s baby sister at the park. After her head made that nod, it seemed like the most dangerous thing she’d done yet in her new little life. The whole time she was helping children clean up and find their jackets and backpacks, she kept telling herself she shouldn’t go. As she said good-bye to the kids with the hollow knowledge that she would never see them again, she knew that she should just walk back to the shelter a different way. Her life was quicksand and poison and filthy smoke, and it was absurd to pretend it could ever be whole and simple and solid like other peoples’. Even after the last child was gone and Ms. Martinez had left to make a phone call and Cerise was gathering her things, it felt like her whole body was bristling with warnings, like sirens were shrieking inside her head. Don’t go, she told herself. Go anywhere else instead.

  She’d signed her time sheet, put on her jacket, and was on the brink of slipping out the door when Ms. Martinez came back in.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ms. Martinez said, her eyes brimming with warmth and sadness. “I’d give you another chance in a minute if I could, but there’re just so many regulations we have to follow, especially since you were still a probationary employee to begin with. We have to take parental complaints very seriously, and it turns out that the parent who complained is on the school board. We’d be serving no one if the state were to shut us down. I hope you understand.” She looked so upset that for a minute Cerise was afraid that she was going to cry, and she felt another layer of regret, for making Ms. Martinez feel so bad.

  “It’s okay,” she answered gruffly.

  “The children will miss you a lot,” Ms. Martinez said, watching Cerise with her kind brown eyes. “And I will, too.”

  “I’ll miss—everybody,” Cerise said. Then, in order to prevent either of them from breaking into tears, she turned away abruptly and stumbled from the room.

  The hall was long and cool and echoing. She’d failed again, failed without even trying, failed before she’d even completely realized how much it might matter to be Honey to a roomful of other people’s children. She came to the end of the hall, passed through the silent foyer, and stepped outside. She’d meant to turn left, away from the park, had meant to take the long way back to the shelter where the doors would be opening for the evening and the supper crew would have begun to chop and stir. But before she could turn left, her legs went right, heading west down the street toward the sunset that was just beginning behind the trees and buildings and power lines.

  IN THE PARK THE LIGHT HAD THE CLARITY OF MOUNTAIN WATER, AND the balmy air held just an edge of chill that made the grass and leaves seem greener, more awake. The sun was nearly setting, and above the darkening tangle of city, the sky was ribbed with delicate coral clouds. A little fountain murmured a cold music to itself. Anna threaded Ellen’s pudgy legs through the holes in the baby swing and helped her to grip the chains with her soft hands, and when Anna gave the swing a gentle tap, a smile opened on Ellen’s face. The doctor had looked grave when Anna explained that Ellen spent twenty hours a week in day care. “You may want to reconsider that,” he’d said, and Anna had to bite her tongue to keep from protesting how little choice she had.

  Lucy climbed on the black rubber slab of a big kids’ swing. “Push me,” she demanded.

  “In a minute,” Anna answered absently, and gave Ellen’s swing another tap. She thought of Lucy’s teacher, Honey, and wondered where the impulse had come from, to invite her to meet them in the park. She knew nothing about Honey except for what little Lucy had said. She could already tell that she and Honey had nothing in common, that they would never become friends. But whatever had happened at after-school care on Friday, Lucy had slept well since then, and when Kaylesha came over on Sunday, she and Lucy had played together as though they’d been best pals for years.

  Lucy caught sight of Honey first, approaching across the grass.

  “Honey! I’m pumping,” Lucy cried gleefully as she drew near. “Look how high I am!”

  “You better watch out,” Honey called up to Lucy at the height of her arc, “you don’t kick holes in that sunset.”

  Lucy let her legs and head flop down in mock exhaustion. “I’m tired of pushing,” she announced. “Honey, will you push me for a while?”

  Anna watched as Honey stood behind Lucy and commenced to push, her whole body rocking easily back and forth with the rhythm of her work. She watched Lucy lift her face to the coral-colored sky, her eyes closed, her expression soft with the bliss of swinging. Anna had had a vague idea that she might help Honey somehow. She’d thought she could offer to help Honey write a letter or ask for a hearing, thought she might write a letter of complaint herself, but Honey’s silence reminded her that the two of them were strangers. She gave Ellen another little push and tried to think what to say next.

  Finally she asked, “Do you have another job?”

  “No,” Honey answered with a little grunt as she thrust Lucy up into the air.

  “What will you do?”

  Before Lucy swooped back to earth, Honey shrugged. “I’ll find something, I guess. Probably not child care,” she added as she pushed Lucy skyward.

  Anna asked, “Do you
like child care?”

  “I like kids,” Honey answered quietly.

  “Do you have children of your own?” Anna asked.

  There was a pause while Honey tossed Lucy up into the air. Then she said, “No.”

  The swing ascended again, and Lucy called down to the woman on the ground, “Where do you live?”

  There was another silence as Lucy fell back to earth and Honey pushed her once more. Then Honey answered, “I live at the Redwood Women’s Shelter.”

  “What kind of a house is that?” demanded Lucy.

  The woman was quiet for so long that Anna thought she hadn’t heard Lucy’s question, but then she answered, “It’s not a house. It’s a shelter for homeless women.”

  “Stop!” Lucy yelled. With each pass of the swing she jammed her feet on the ground until finally she was able to leap off her seat. Turning to face Honey, she demanded, “You’re a homeless person?”

  “I’m not anymore, am I?” Honey said, kneeling down and answering Lucy so directly that Anna felt like an eavesdropper. “If I live at the shelter.”

  “But you were,” Lucy insisted.

  “Well.”

  “What happened to your home?”

  Anna said, “Oh, Lucy, we shouldn’t—”

  “It’s okay,” Honey answered, though she was silent for such a long time afterward that Anna felt certain Lucy’s question had been a blunder. But when Honey finally spoke, her voice was neutral. Looking straight at Lucy, she said, “My trailer burned. I lost my home.”

  “And now you’ve lost your job,” Anna said softly.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” Lucy cried, stretching her arm in the air as though she were begging to be called on in class. “I know! I know! Mommy—Honey could have a job from us!”

  STANDING BESIDE THE LITTLE FOUNTAIN, WITH THE SUNSET DEEPENING behind her, Anna studying her, Lucy jumping up and down, and the baby watching big-eyed from her swing, Cerise felt both danger and a terrible compunction. It confused her that she’d told them so easily about the shelter and the fire. It troubled her that she’d lied so directly about not having children, and it frightened her to think what she might unwittingly say next.