“Oh, whatever. There’s nothing wrong with me living vicariously through you. Besides, you deserve to have a little fun, in my opinion.” I heard her downshift. “Speaking of which, when I get there, you’d better not be wearing a sweatshirt.”
“Do you have any idea how cold—”
“I don’t care how cold. You’re way too pretty to be dressing like a fourteen-year-old boy all the time.”
By the time she arrived, it was snowing again. When I climbed into the car, she gave me a hug, rocking me back and forth slightly before letting me go.
“There,” she said. “I feel better already.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing—same old. It’s just still tough when Mark’s gone. Of course, it’s also tough when he’s here, but that’s another story.” She pointed at the glove compartment, her short black hair brushing her cheek as she turned her head. “There’s a cookie in there for you. We didn’t sell them all today.”
I pulled it out; it was gingerbread, smelling of cinnamon and cloves. “Not a lot of business?”
“Actually, I lied. I kept that one aside for you.” The wipers beat rhythmically as she looked over her shoulder and swung into another lane. “Did I tell you the kid started running the other day?”
“He’s old enough to do that?”
“Barely. You should see him—he gets all fired up about something and just starts pumping those little legs.” She laughed. “He’s still so tiny—but then, he was pretty much doomed to be short, I guess, given how Mark and I both turned out. He’s gonna be an only child, too, so we’ve probably created a monster.” She swung into the parking lot of the Joyride and stopped under a blinking Rolling Rock sign, its neon-green lights flashing into the night.
The bar was nearly deserted—it was a Wednesday, after all. Beth sauntered over to the jukebox and pushed the buttons for a new country song, something fast and jangly I didn’t recognize. “What’re you having, gorgeous?”
“I don’t know—Jack and Coke?”
“I should’ve known. Would it kill you to try a girly drink?”
“It might.”
“Ha.” She spoke to the bartender, a stout woman in a Rusty Wallace T-shirt, returning with the mixed drink for me and a cherry Pepsi for herself. Even in her heels, she barely reached my shoulder. “Drink up. You want to break, or should I?”
“I can, if you want.” I racked the balls with swift movements and hung the triangle back under the table, breaking with a fierce crack. Behind me, an array of smoke-stained posters hung on the wall—Corvettes and Mustangs and Roadsters. Their edges were curling, but the sunsets behind the cars, the palm trees and bright strips of beach, shone eternal.
“Damn,” she said. “It’s so hot when you do that.”
I laughed. “Oh, please. I didn’t even sink anything.”
“That’s not the point.” She peered under the table, searching for the chalk. “You know, Mark took me to Good-Time Joe’s when he was here on leave—God knows why; I think he just wanted to get out of my parents’ house—and let me tell you, it’s a little alarming how much the army has improved his pool skills. Also poker. I pretended not to notice.” She shot at a striped ball and missed. Straightening, she caught sight of her reflection in a long mirror on the wall. Her face briefly took on a hard, scrutinizing expression as she sucked in her stomach and smoothed her shirt, twisting sideways to look at her hips.
I took aim at the six ball but watched it rebound sharply off the corner of a pocket.
“Boy, we’re great at this game, aren’t we?” she said.
I smiled again and sipped my drink, surprised by how strong it was. The bar, with its reassuringly bar-like smells, was beginning to feel smaller and warmer than before.
“So did you sign up for that master’s program?” I picked up the chalk.
She sighed. “Actually, we just decided to push that off ’til next year. I still want to do it, and Mark wants me to, but I don’t know who’d watch Dylan. I’m sure my parents would, but I hate to put that on them—they’re already doing me a huge favor by watching him so I can go out and work. I think they know I’d go crazy if I didn’t, but still.” She bent to slip a finger into a shoe where it must have been chafing her. “You need a master’s to be a CPA, so I do want to do it someday. It’d be nice to have a life of my own once the kid’s old enough for school. I love him to bits, but right now I feel like my brain’s rotting.”
I missed my next shot, and she took aim again, looking at me surreptitiously. “Do you think you’ll ever go back and finish?” she asked.
“What? My bachelor’s degree?” I leaned against my stick. We’d circled around this question before, but she’d never asked it so directly. I shook my head. “No, not a chance. I mean, I wish I could. But I’m not earning nearly enough. I’m barely saving anything at all, working up there.”
“You know, Mark and I were talking about that,” she said, striking the white ball and sending both a striped and a solid into the pocket. “Shoot—that wasn’t supposed to happen. Anyway, if I go back full-time, I could take Dylan and move into one of those student apartments, at least until Mark’s back from Iraq. If you don’t mind watching him sometimes—the kid, I mean—maybe we could live together and both take classes. You know, like before.” A hesitant but earnest expression came over her face, and I looked away. “Mark and I would take care of the rent. It’d be worth it to us, to have someone besides my parents who can keep an eye on Dylan sometimes. I thought…well, I thought it could be good for both of us. If it’s what you want.”
I bit my lip, gazing behind her at the jukebox. “Oh.” The bartender strolled over to the machine and picked a different song, an older one. “I mean, that’s—that’s an incredible offer, but…” I tried to imagine myself folded into a chair at the back of a classroom, surrounded by chattering nineteen-year-olds. Bending over a textbook at night. Standing up in front of a crowd of strangers to give a presentation, exposing myself to their stares. Inwardly, I shrank away.
Aloud, I said, “I just don’t think I could. My grandmother needs somebody to keep an eye on her. And the tuition is just so much—it wouldn’t really be within reach.”
“Well,” she replied brightly, “you were almost finished when you left, right? You’d probably only have to do it for a few semesters.”
I avoided her eyes. It hadn’t really been my choice to drop out in the first place, something I’d never seen fit to tell her, but which she probably suspected. At any rate, it didn’t matter now. “I don’t know,” I said, looking for a way to change the subject.
“Okay, but promise me you’ll think about it?”
Without answering, I pretended to concentrate on my next shot, finally sitting on the edge of the table and swinging the cue behind my back in defiance of my protesting joints. The five ball rolled into the pocket, and the bartender applauded. I smiled and shook my head.
“Show-off.” Beth touched my shoulder gently as she walked toward the jukebox. “Well, whatever you decide, you know I love you. Although I still think you should give it some thought.” Pinching her wallet from her purse, she flipped through the song list. “By the way, you heard from your brother lately?”
“No, not for a while. He’s still near a place called Kandahar. That’s all I know.” I studied the balls that were left on the table, then glanced up at the car posters. There were women in many of them, of course, with long hair and tanned legs, sitting on the hood or leaning over to polish a strip of chrome, backs arched and breasts perfect. Somehow, I thought, they were never in the driver’s seat.
“His wife doesn’t call?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Ugh, what a witch.” She chose another song, poking at the buttons with a long, polished fingernail.
I laughed. “I don’t really blame her. What would we talk about if she called, besides him? She doesn’t know us, and it’s not like there’s ever any news up here.”
; “Truer words were never spoken. You could die waiting for something to happen here that’s actually, you know, an event.” She looked at me from the corner of her eye. “Not that that’s an excuse, in my opinion.”
For a moment, I thought about telling her about the stranger who had so mysteriously appeared on the mountain, but, looking down at the billiard balls that were scattered across the table, I decided against it. There was no reason to mention him. He was no one and he would soon be gone.
With a sharp, hard shot, I sent the thirteen ball down the edge of the table, but my aim was off and it ricocheted dumbly back toward me. I picked up my drink and finished it off, letting it reach my feet, making me hover above the ground as the room softened and grew. A group of men walked in, their boot heels striking hard against the linoleum, descending on the bartender in a blur of striped shirts and black cowboy hats. Beth wandered off to the bathroom, leaving an invisible trail of perfume behind her. The music changed to the deep, thudding chords of classic rock.
One of the men in the crowd glanced over his shoulder and, seeing me, kept looking, his round face shadowed by his hat but still familiar. It was John, I suddenly realized—the trucker I knew from childhood. He kept watching even as the bartender began to slide drinks across the counter, her chest shaking as she laughed a laugh I couldn’t hear, the lines in her cheeks deepening as she smiled.
My back stiffened, but I turned on my heel, pretending not to see. I didn’t care, I thought. Let him watch; let any of them watch. I wasn’t even there anymore, anyway: I was miles away, in a world created by the single green-shaded bulb that hung over the pool table, a place none of them could ever reach. I was no longer myself, I was someone else—just a woman in a bar, anonymous, leaning on her cue stick, her hair falling onto her shoulders, no scars, no mended bones, no rumors that followed her. A woman who was whole and complete and mysterious, someone no one had ever tried to look through with their prying eyes or their X-ray machines. A woman with no name, or rather, any name she wanted. Who decided who could see her and who couldn’t, who was able to vanish with a snap of her fingers. Here before you and then gone.
I knew it was the liquor that was giving me this illusion. I didn’t care.
“Your turn,” I told Beth when she returned, floating over to the bar on my suddenly weightless legs, cutting through the cloud of men with their wide backs and shining belt buckles as if they didn’t exist, putting down my money, ordering another drink.
* * *
—
The next morning, before work, I called my parents. It was early, and I knew they would still be asleep. Fighting a sense of reluctance as I dialed the number, I rubbed my palms against my sweatshirt, shifting my weight in my shoes. My head ached and my eyes felt dry.
My mother picked up; I could see her rolling over in bed to grab the phone, her black hair disheveled and streaked with gray. “Yeah? What?”
“Hi, Mom. It’s Kathleen.” I waited, knotting the cord around my fingers.
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Yeah? Listen, honey, could I call you back later? We were up—”
“No, sorry. The phone still isn’t working at the store. This’ll just take a minute, though. Listen, yesterday—”
She made a muffled sound, and I heard her mumbling something to my father in the background.
“Mom,” I said patiently.
“Yeah?”
“I had to take Grandma to the E.R. yesterday for her breathing. I thought you and Dad would want to know.”
“Oh.” She seemed to be waiting for me to go on. When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “Is that all?”
“Well, yes, that’s all, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Let me talk to your dad about it. She’s his mother. He might be able to swing by after work, but I don’t know. The shop’s been giving him later and later hours. And honey?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call so early.”
“All right, Mom.” I hung up, rubbing my face with both hands. There were some Aunt Jemima pancakes in the freezer, and I pried two off the stack, heating them in the microwave. I didn’t particularly want to go to work. I didn’t particularly want to do anything.
I took my coat from its hook and grabbed my book from the dining-room table, poking my head into the living room to look at my grandmother. She was asleep on the couch under a blanket, her mouth slack.
The keys jingled as I pocketed them. I opened the door, wincing as the cold air struck my skin.
“Kathleen,” my grandmother said.
Surprised, I stuck my head back into the living room. She was lying in the same position as before, but her eyes were open. “Yes?” I said, in case she couldn’t see me. It was sometimes hard to tell just how bad her vision was these days. “How are you feeling, Grandma?”
She ignored the question. “I want to have dinner tonight.”
“You mean with me?” We had dinner together nearly every night, or if not together, then at least in the same household, her staring at her TV shows, me perched on the edge of the mattress in my room.
Something in my expression seemed to pain her. She turned her face away. “Bring a ham from the grocery store. And some potatoes.”
I did some mental calculations, remembering the pile of bills I had pulled from the mailbox the day before. “Okay.”
“And green beans. Or peas. Canned.” Speaking seemed to tire her. She shifted under the blanket, settling further into the cushions.
“All right. I can do that.”
Grimacing, she closed her eyes. I left, forgetting to tell her that my father might stop in, although I doubted he would. Generally, they left it to me to take care of things. And I did.
* * *
—
“They’re finally putting up the sign!” Martin enthused over lunch in the store. “I was starting to think they weren’t going to do it, but when I walked out this morning, there they were, digging a hole for the post.”
He had cropped his hair even closer than usual, giving him a fuzzy look. “What sign?” I asked, looking at the gray meat of my hamburger. I had overcooked it, and it was dry. I opened a Pepsi that tasted much too sweet.
“The Underground Railroad one. The historical marker. I heard a rumor way back when I first took over up there, but I never really thought it was true. I can’t even believe it. Runaway slaves! In that very building!” He was rapturous, even more so than he’d been about the mystery project—which remained ongoing, if the parts currently stacked on the hostel’s porch were any indication. “In some ways, it makes me feel a closer connection to God, you know? Like Moses and the Israelites—how they fled slavery in Egypt. Like the building was part of a deliverance.”
I walked to the sink and poured myself a cup of tap water, peering into the bottom to make sure there were no bits of rust or dirt. “You’re right, that’s really something,” I answered absently.
“Sure is. I’m going to look into it as soon as I get a chance. Maybe the county historical society has something on it.”
I looked at him, his bright eyes and radiant smile, and for a brief, troubling moment was puzzled. What had we been talking about? My grandmother’s face, her grim expression and narrowed eyes, appeared before me. I should have put more wood in the stove before I’d left. She’d be cold.
“So how are you?” Martin asked, taking a swig of his Dr. Pepper.
“Me? I’m fine.” I returned to the present. “How’s our friend?”
“The foreign guy? Busy. I put him to work.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he can’t pay,” Martin replied nonchalantly. “He somehow got down to his last few dollars, it seems. So I told him I’d let him stay for free and eat whatever he can find in the kitchen if he helps me out. He’s up there sweeping out the game room right now.”
I rubbed a fingertip along the edge of the counter, frowning as I envisioned the stranger with his thin limbs, the padded coat in which he looked so
slight. “What’s he doing here, do you think?”
“I don’t know—not my business to ask. I invited him to our Bible study tonight, but he didn’t seem very interested. Hey, do you want to come?” His face brightened.
“I can’t—I’m having dinner with my grandma. Thanks, though.”
“No problem. It’s a standing invitation. We always meet on Thursdays.”
“Yeah, I know.” Although if the older ones found out I had been brought up Catholic, I thought, they would probably chase me out of the building. Many of the churches in the area taught that Catholics weren’t Christian, pointing to what they called idol-worship and who knew what else. I’d lost more than one childhood friend over it, although these days people seemed more inclined to focus their ire on Middle Easterners they’d never have to meet.
“All right, Kathleen,” he beamed, slapping his money on the counter the way he always did. “I’ll see you later.”
The sky darkened during the afternoon, and in the evening a lashing rain came, pelting the windows and battering the ceiling. At six, I dragged the metal signboard in, locked the store, and walked as quickly as I could to the Jeep, holding a plastic bag over my head to shield my face. The drive to the grocery store in Carlisle—all Centerville had was Miller’s, a combination convenience and hunting store much better known for its crossbows than its food—was a long one, the rain coating the roads in slick, half-frozen sheets. I steered the car carefully around the curves, watching for deer. They didn’t usually come out during storms, but you never knew. I had once counted thirteen of them as I drove up the mountain on a foggy night, my headlights shining into their wide, frightened eyes as they stood by the side of the road, vigilant and vulnerable, watching. That had been years earlier, but I still remembered it, the wonder of it, thirteen adult deer stunned into stillness, one after another, poised to run but frozen in their beautiful, fatal uncertainty.
The parking lot at the grocery store was jammed, probably with people from Centerville and other rural dwellers leaving their jobs in Carlisle. It was a cheap, crowded place, and none too clean, but we all continued to go there out of habit. My grandmother had been a cashier there for a while, after my grandfather had decided working wasn’t worth the bother. I parked at the edge of the lot and made my way toward the faded awning, feeling my hip begin to ache with the cold. Ignoring it, I yanked a shopping cart from the interlocking line of them and pushed it through the sliding doors, wiping the rain from my eyes.
Ways to Hide in Winter Page 5