by Sonja Yoerg
Carole had taken care of meals, as she had everything else, for most of Janine’s life, even when they lived with their hateful Aunt Regina. When Carole was eighteen and Janine was seven, Carole moved them from Aunt Regina’s sprawling Victorian into an apartment on Pearl Street. Carole worked at a bakery all day and ran their household. It was the happiest part of Janine’s childhood, just her and Carole. Four years later, Carole married Walt. They moved to a single-story clapboard house outside Colchester, and Janine complained about how boring life there was compared to Burlington and about Walt, who’d stolen Carole’s attention. When the twins came along, Janine was finishing high school and schemed constantly (and volubly) about how she might flee the pedestrian chaos of Carole and Walt’s home. She would, she announced without a hint of irony, take the bus to New York and become an actress. She would marry Drake Connor, the high school basketball star, and follow him to whatever big city team offered the most money. (That Drake Connor was engaged to another girl did nothing to quash this conviction.) She would go to Las Vegas, where wealth spewed like oil from the desert. She would, in sum, do anything other than work.
Mitch was the answer that came to her gradually. He started off as just another old man like Walt. Exactly like Walt, in fact, since they were fraternal twins who might as well have shared an egg, at least as far as looks were concerned. As she emerged from her teens she discerned the differences—Mitch held himself straighter, spoke with authority and had a way of making people around him feel noticed, including Janine. His wife died the year the twins were born, and the pallor of the tragedy made him different again, and intriguing to her, as if misfortune were cologne. Mitch was widowed, childless, wealthy, poised and familiar; a potent mix for Janine. None of the many suitors she had jilted had come close.
The Christmas Janine was nineteen, the whole family, twins included, traveled to Burlington to spend several days at Mitch’s house. Lester ran a high fever on the twenty-third and was no better on Christmas Eve. Carole and Walt packed the car to take the children home so Mitch’s parties would not be spoiled. Janine sipped wine in front of the drawing room fire and told Carole she would stay.
Her sister held Lester, whose cheeks were on fire, and frowned. “But you belong with us.”
“It’s only a few days.”
“No one else is staying. People will talk.”
Janine laughed. “There’s nothing to talk about. Yet.”
Carole’s cheeks turned as red as her son’s. “You don’t intend . . . Mitchell would never . . .”
Janine put down her glass and recrossed her legs. “What worries you, Carole? That I might get the better one?”
A year later she had her own house to run. She kept the housekeeper Mitch employed after his first wife died, but Janine struggled with cooking. At first Mitch didn’t mind. What did he expect when he married a twenty-year-old? But a few years into their marriage, he made it plain that canned vegetables and mashed potatoes made from Potato Buds would no longer pass muster. The wife of one of Mitch’s colleagues suggested she watch Julia Child on television. Janine felt an immediate affinity for the triumphantly haphazard woman and accepted her demonstrations as gospel, although she only prepared a handful of the meals, and those under duress. The cooking shows served a more primary purpose: whenever Janine’s natural confidence flagged, she thought of the catastrophic collapse of the apple charlotte on national television, and of Julia’s equanimity. One could fail decisively and publicly and laugh it off with the help of a swig of wine. Janine studied Julia Child but never mastered her.
Now that Mitch was dead and she lived alone, Janine rarely cooked for herself—she couldn’t possibly keep her figure if she did—but she pulled out the stops for Greg: chicken cordon bleu, green beans amandine, scalloped potatoes and apple tarte tatin. So what if it happened to be Mitch’s favorite meal? Janine couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Love was for schoolgirls. Marriage was business.
• • •
Greg appeared at the door in a faded denim shirt, worn chinos and desert boots. His hair was damp from showering. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. God, he smelled great.
“Did you squeeze in some basketball after school?”
He flashed his dimples and stepped inside. “Yeah, the Friday pickup game.” He was carrying a bottle of red and a bouquet of orange supermarket mums. She accepted the flowers (Mums? That’s what you bring your grandmother) and led the way to the kitchen.
“It smells fantastic in here,” Greg said. “You forgot to mention you can cook.”
Janine handed him the wine opener. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you with all my virtues at once.”
He laughed. “Keep ’em coming.”
They carried the wine and glasses to the porch, where Janine had arranged cheese and olives on a small table covered with a blue-and-yellow Provençal cloth. The yard opened onto a narrow field bordered by oaks and maples, emerald green. The setting sun found a gap in the tree canopy and fell across the porch, igniting the edges of the evening.
“It’s so pretty here,” Greg said.
Janine stood next to him, taking in the view, but couldn’t help seeing the bare trees and piles of snow that would arrive all too soon. “It’s Vermont. Pretty is the law.” He looked at her sideways, so she added, “It’s very pretty. The view’s what sold me on the place.”
They sat. Greg toasted the start of the school year and Janine took a long sip of her wine. Why not toast the school year? It was, after all, what brought them together. Greg tossed a couple of olives into his mouth and relaxed into his seat. Janine fed him the questions about Mexico she’d been warehousing all week, and he told her stories more interesting than she’d expected and admitted to cultural faux pas that made them both laugh.
Sometime between the main course and dessert, Janine forgot about her marriage campaign. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was having Greg in her house, surrounded by objects that carried the memories of her life: photos of her and Carole, and her nephews and niece. Chairs and lamps and linens from the home she had shared with Mitch. Garage-sale plates painted with delicate flowers that lifted something inside her each time she saw them. The shelf of record albums below the stereo, songs of her life. The bedroom, separated from them by a plaster wall, in which she dropped into loneliness each night the same way she lowered herself into a too-hot bath. In this environment, she was hard-pressed to maintain the discipline she’d evinced to get this far with Greg. She was relaxed. A light, warm feeling bubbled along her spine. Happiness?
She crossed from the kitchen to the living room, a dessert plate in each hand. Greg had moved from the table to the couch and was refilling their wineglasses. He looked up at her, his face open, his eyes soft.
“I’m so glad you invited me here, Janine.”
She smiled, then, without thinking first what sort of smile it should be. She set the tarte tatins on the coffee table and sat beside him, a flutter in her chest quickly expanding until her heartbeat was loud in her ears, heightening her senses. Something real was surfacing too quickly. She moved to fight it, beat it down, and triggered an internal panic. Where was her control, her focus? She was adrift.
Janine glanced at Greg’s knee, three inches from hers. A charge zinged across the space. She’d read about this sort of thing, but hadn’t quite believed it and still didn’t. He put down his glass and touched her, barely, along the inside of her wrist. She wanted to look at him but her boldness had left her. He reached up and stroked her cheek. There it was again, a true feeling, or what sure as hell seemed like one, fighting its way out through her hard-bitten shell, which was breaking down, splintering. Her fear of being exposed mixed with pure desire and overwhelmed her.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She didn’t dare move. She’d run out of script. The air between them was like cracked glass a breath away from shattering. If sh
e wasn’t mistaken, she was falling in love with Greg.
“Tell you what.” He dropped his hand from her cheek and settled back against the couch. “There is no way I’m passing on this dessert, but as soon as I’ve devoured it, you’re next.”
She looked at him, her limbs loose with desire, and gave him his plate. “Don’t let it get cold.”
11
Carole
Carole beat eggs in a bowl and watched Lester, half asleep, hunched over his plate, his hair falling over his cheeks. She ought to have sent him to the barber before school started—both boys, in fact. She’d never before let them show up on the first day this way, even if long hair was “in.” Lester bit off the corners of the Pop-Tart, then nibbled around the edges, examining it every few seconds to see if he’d managed not to expose any of the fruit. Satisfied, he gulped down his orange juice and finished off the rest of the pastry. Carole switched the heat on under the frying pan.
“Mom, where’s my cross-country stuff?”
She startled, rattling the pan on the grate, and turned to see Warren filling up the doorway, hands on his hips.
“Your what?”
“My clothes. For cross country. Yesterday you said you’d wash them and put them in my room.”
“Well, I must’ve, then.”
“Not that I can see.”
“Let me make your eggs, then I’ll look.” Had she done the laundry yesterday? She couldn’t remember a blessed thing about yesterday and this worried her. She gathered herself. One thing at a time. She slid the eggs in. Took the toast out of the toaster oven. Buttered it. Put it on a plate. Stirred the eggs. Waited a little. Stirred some more. Put the eggs on the plate and the plate on the table. Short-order cook. That’s what Walt always said.
Carole wiped her hands on her apron and went upstairs to the boys’ room. Dark green shorts and a white T-shirt were what she was looking for. And white socks with green stripes. Was that it? Or was it more of a uniform? Were they still practicing or was it a race? Did it matter? And shoes. Did she put his shoes with his running clothes?
Clean clothes went in the dresser, or on top, if she was rushed. She crossed to the dresser. All the drawers were open. She scanned for something dark green, something white, pulling all the clothes out of one drawer, then the next, tossing everything on the floor. Nothing. On top of the dresser were two baseball hats and a magazine. Was a hat a part of what he needed? Maybe she’d put the clean clothes on the dresser and they’d fallen off. The floor on either side of the dresser was covered in clothing. She picked it up, piece by piece, and threw it onto the bed next to her. Lester’s? Moving around the room, she piled clothing on the bed. Red. Blue. White—but shorts. Stripes. Red. Black. Green—a shirt.
“Mom!” Warren, from below.
Carole stuck her head out the door, glanced back at the bed and hurriedly gathered the clothes in the top sheet. Where? Where else for clothes? She dragged the bundle down the stairs.
“What the hell?” Warren frowned. “It’s not there, right?”
She walked past him, down the hall, and went downstairs into the basement. One step, two steps, three steps, four five six seven eight nine ten.
It was cool. Dark. Quiet. The washing machine squatted in front of her, a hulking shadow beside its twin, the dryer. Liar.
“Mom!” The light came on. Warren stomped down the stairs, stepped around the bundle, now burst open, and stood in front of her. She had to look up at him, that’s how tall he was. “We gotta go. What are you doing?”
She nodded at the bundle. “Laundry.”
“Too late.” Warren bent over the basket next to the washer, pulled out a few things. He straightened, stared at her a long minute. “You’re acting totally wacked, you know.”
She’d failed him. She knew that. But she didn’t quite understand how, and that worried her. She couldn’t fail him, or any of her children, just like she couldn’t fail Janine when her sister was small. She simply couldn’t.
Warren nodded toward the stairs, his voice soft. “You coming? Lester likes his good-byes, you know.”
“Of course.”
They went up to the kitchen, where Lester was waiting. He put his arm around her shoulder, his head against her cheek. “Bye, Mom. See you after school!”
Warren stuffed his clothes into his gym bag and stood back, jingling car keys in his pocket. “Later, Mom.”
He resembled Walt so closely in that moment, the ground lurched under her feet. She held on to Lester, gripping his shirt with her damp hands. He thought it was a game and squeezed her more tightly. Warren glanced at his feet, impatient now, sharpening his resemblance to his father, to the man he would become, or already was. High school seniors. Time was a tide, and she was going out to sea with it. See with it. Be with it.
Stop.
A flood of belligerent, cascading emotions swept over her, through her, faster than she could label them. Collapsing. Relapsing.
Stop.
“Drive carefully, Warren. There’ll be children about.” She kissed Lester’s cheek and released him. “Be good. Both of you.”
Lester eyes widened in alarm. “Mom, why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
Carole swept a finger across her cheek and was surprised to find it wet. “I’m sad you’re growing up.” It was true.
Warren shook his head but his eyes were warm. “Mom . . .” He tossed his keys in the air and caught them. “Come on, Lester. Let’s boogie.”
Carole watched them go. She tidied the kitchen, working by rote. Wipe, dry, sweep. Wipe again. And again.
She checked the clock on the stove. Middle school started a half hour after the high school, so Alison would be coming down before long. Carole was not ready for that. Not steady for that. She left the kitchen, climbed the stairs and entered her room, shutting the door silently behind her. She straightened the bedclothes and lay down, curling her knees to her chest and closing her eyes. Tears stung her nose and she willed them away.
It wasn’t just about the boys. It was about her simple life, the ordinary, everyday life she had created with Walt, had cherished, clung to. It might not be much by other people’s standards, not even her sister’s, but it was everything to her. It was good and right and true.
And it was floating out of her grasp.
• • •
“Mom? Mom, where are you?”
Alison’s voice from somewhere below. Carole roused herself, unsure if she’d been asleep. She pushed to sitting and waited for the dizziness to subside.
“Mom!”
Alison was on the landing. Carole went to the door, opened it. Alison was bright, excited, flustered.
“The bus’ll be here any minute!” She stepped closer. “Are you okay?”
“Of course. Just a little tired.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Did you eat?”
“Uh-huh. I have to go.” She rocked from foot to foot like a boxer, her red curls bouncing. She threw her arms around Carole and sprang away before Carole had could do more than touch her back. “See you after school.” Alison spun around the stair post and glanced over her shoulder, her brow creased.
“I’ll watch you go.”
Alison flew down the stairs. Carole followed, catching doors in her daughter’s wake, and stood before the office windows. Alison was already across the lot, searching the road for the bus.
“See you,” Carole said around the lump in her throat.
Walt came up beside Carole. Alison waved at them and he waved back. The bus arrived, swallowed up their daughter and left.
Carole gasped, fighting tears of confusion and fear. Walt wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck and sobbed.
“Too big too fast, huh, sweetheart?” he said.
She let it go, too exhausted and terrified to explain. He took her hand, he
ld it to his shoulder and slow-danced her across the office.
12
Alison
The engine of the school bus rumbled as it rounded the bend and lumbered into view. Alison peeked behind her to check on her mother, who’d been super out of it this morning. There she was, next to Alison’s father, standing inside the office. Alison waved. Maybe with school starting her mother would have more time to rest.
Alison pulled up her white kneesocks and glanced at her feet one last time to make sure it wasn’t obvious her sandals were last year’s. White socks, sort-of-white sandals. Like she had a choice. Luckily, it was a sunny day and warm enough that she didn’t have to cover up her new yellow-and-orange plaid shirt with an old sweater. Even her hair hadn’t frizzed out this morning—another auspicious sign.
Auspicious signs were everywhere, making her think Delaney must’ve botched the tarot reading. The class-assignment letter came, and she got Mr. Bayliss, the best teacher in the whole school, and the nicest. The other sixth grade teacher was Mrs. Dorfman, and the name said it all. She was crabby and her face looked like it might explode any second. She was humongous, too, her arm as big around as Alison’s leg. Some of the boys called her Dorfcow and said she slept standing up. So getting Mr. Bayliss was like winning twice. Delaney got him, too, but she always got the good teachers because her mother made sure of it. Maybe having the same teacher would make it easier for Delaney to be her school friend for the very first time.