Far From Xanadu

by Julie Anne Peters

  “Where is Colby?”

  “North of here,” I said. “About thirty miles.” I checked my messages from Darryl. Ledbetter. Fountain. Why hadn’t the Redmans called about the replumbing job? They had to have reviewed the bids by now and been ready to get going. It’d been weeks.

  “I’m going to tell him today,” Xanadu said.

  “Tell him what?” I asked.

  She made a sound, like an irritated scoff. “You know. About my past. What I’ve done. Who I am. He’s going to hear all about the real me.” Her voice changed. “The real me. Won’t he be surprised.”

  I hoped, prayed her confession, her reality, included me.

  She went on, “His whole family’ll be there though. It might not be the best time. Bailey’s mother creeps me out, the way she looks at me when she thinks I don’t see. Like she wants to throw a bucket of water on me so I’ll melt. Isn’t that how Dorothy killed the Wicked Witch? So Toto. Anyway, I really need to tell him and soon. It’s driving me crazy.”

  I knew the feeling.

  Xanadu said more intimately, “I’m glad I have you for moral support. What are you doing today?”

  “Me? I, uh, promised to fix the town fountain this weekend for Coalton Days.”

  “What are Coalton Days, anyway?” she asked. “Bailey and Beau keep talking about them like it’s some huge deal.”

  Bailey should shut up. Likewise Beau.

  “Is it a big cow pie–eating contest or something?” Amusement in her voice.

  “No. Well, yeah. It’s a celebration. Town history. Tradition. All the businesses put merchandise on sale. Saturday we have a parade and an arts-and-crafts festival. A tractor pull. Then Sunday people get together at the park to eat and play games — horseshoe pitching and bingo, that kind of stuff.” I was talkative, babbling.

  “Bingo?” Xanadu said. “Are you serious?”

  I shut up.

  “Oh God. You are. I should know by now you guys are never joking.”

  When I didn’t respond, she let out a long sigh. “Okay, I’m going to Colby. God. What should I wear? Bib overalls?” She laughed again.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her Everett’s most popular clothing item was bib overalls.

  I was hungry. Weak. Needed carbs, protein. My canister of protein powder was down to one last scoop and we were out of eggs. On my way to pick up the PVC pipe for the fountain, I decided to make a pit stop at the Suprette. Replenish my Whey and get a dozen eggs. I might buy a whole precooked chicken and a bunch of bananas if they were ripe and on sale. I’d never been so hungry.

  Deb Pastore was cashiering and waved to me. She’d worked parttime at the Suprette since ninth grade. Half the town was here today. Saturday morning — Coalton’s unofficial grocery day. Observed by everyone but the Szabos, of course. The Szabos got their groceries delivered. La di da.

  The day-old bakery goods were on display up front by the register. Next to them were cards and candles and bug spray. Everything was fifty percent off for Coalton Days. I should buy Xanadu a candle, I thought. A gift. A Valentine’s card on sale. Behind me I heard a crash, then a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Todd, I’m going to kill you! I can’t leave you alone for one minute and you’re destroying the Suprette. Wait’ll I get you home.”

  Uh-oh.

  Charlene stormed out of the canned foods aisle with her over-loaded shopping cart. The baby, who was strapped in a baby seat, was wailing like a banshee. “Deb,” Charlene called, “my little monster just wrecked the soup display. He’s putting it all back together though. Aren’t you, Todd?” She threatened him with slit eyes. I wondered where the other two monsters were lurking.

  Deb and I made the exact same face. Scary mother. Scary kids.

  To avoid a run-in, I hustled to the meat case.

  The chickens in the rotisserie looked fresh. That charbroiled aroma. I slid a juicy one off the skewer and bagged it. The bananas were too green, so I settled for a tub of banana pudding.

  It would’ve slipped my attention altogether if the flickering fluorescent light over the register hadn’t caught the glitter. “You’re making a killing here,” Deb said, smiling at me. She lifted the coffee can off the top of the register and shook it. Change clanked around.

  “The mayor puts in a ten-dollar bill every time he comes in,” she said. “In fact, almost everyone contributes. Nel tells me she had to put out three more cans at the tavern to keep up with all the donations.”

  I paid. I bagged my groceries. I walked out. I slammed the truck door. Squealed onto Main.

  How many were there? Three, four? Were there cans all over town? I’d finally hid the one at the Merc behind the cigarette tray. The Suprette and the tavern. Where else?

  The VFW, the coffee counter, Renata hiding the evidence. Is that why people had been so nice to me lately?

  No, they were always nice. But they’d been smiling more, feeling sorry for me more.

  Dammit. This town didn’t owe me. Nobody owed me.

  I veered off Main Street toward Highway 83. The softball camp was maybe, maybe a possibility. But if I was going, it’d be on my terms. Me paying my own way. My choice. My life.

  At Rock Hill I exited and followed the graded road eight miles, the way I had the previous time. Past the five blue silos, the oil rig. Why hadn’t the Redmans gotten back to me? It was rude. The one time I called, no one answered and I didn’t leave a message. I should have. I should’ve said, “This is Mike Szabo, from Szabo Plumbing and Heating. I came by and gave you a bid on replumbing your house, remember? I haven’t heard back. You might’ve called and I missed it, since the tape in my machine is scratchy, and my brother is a retard, and my Ma can’t get off her fat ass to answer the phone.”

  There were two orange vans parked in the Redmans’ drive. At the barn, a tractor and a Jeep Cherokee. I eased in behind one of the vans. I took the front porch steps two at a time and knocked on the storm door. No answer. “Hello?” I called.

  A shadow materialized in the living room. “Oh.” Mrs. Redman opened the door. “I didn’t hear you through the racket.” She squinted her eyes. “I know you.”

  “Mike Szabo.” Last time I was here she was all dressed up like she’d just gotten off work. Today her clothes were paint-smeared and baggy. She had a smudge of green on her nose. I was tempted to reach up and wipe it off.

  She was pretty. She’d told me, when I came to give her a bid, that she and her husband and three kids were moving in because her parents couldn’t keep up the place anymore; the house was a shambles. It didn’t look that bad to me, but what did I know, living in a snake pit? They were planning an entire remodel, rewiring and replumbing, adding a third bathroom. It was the biggest job I’d ever bid on. Okay, the only job.

  Dad had done the cost estimating. I’d helped order supplies and made sure everything got delivered to the job site, but he had crunched the numbers. Before he crunched himself.

  “I was wondering if you decided on a plumbing contractor,” I said.

  “Um...yes. We did.” Mrs. Redman looked sort of sheepish. “Applewood, out of Garden City.” She eyed the vans over my head. I turned to look. APPLEWOOD PLUMBING, HEATING, AND AIR CONDITIONING, the panel on the side of the van read. The rushing sound from an acetylene torch drew my attention back to the house. A guy yelling from the basement, “Rafe, grab me another roll of solder from the truck, will you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Redman said. “I guess I should’ve called. I’ve never done this before — gotten estimates, hired contractors.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I heard myself saying. “I should’ve called you sooner.” Damn. Why hadn’t I called? Maybe if I’d called the next day to follow up, she would’ve hired me.

  Backing down the steps, stumbling a little, I said, “Well, good luck with your house.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.” Then headed back inside.

  On second thought... “Ma’am?”

  She reappeared.

  �
��If you don’t mind my asking, was my estimate way higher than Applewood’s?” Because it couldn’t have been. I’d barely priced the job above the materials cost, figuring I had most of what I needed in stock. A company like Applewood charged union rates. Two vans, three or four guys. Their bid had to be twice mine. Three times.

  “Actually,” Mrs. Redman winced, “your bid was so low we didn’t think you were serious.”

  “What?” My heart sank. “I was. I mean, I am. Serious. I could do this job for a lot less than Applewood. I’d do a good job. Our work is guaranteed.”

  “That’s what Mom said. She’s the one who suggested I call you. She has this friend in Coalton.. .” She studied me for a moment, then her eyes glazed over.

  What? She knew about me? About Dad? So what? What did my history have to do with my plumbing skills? Wait a minute. If she knew about me, she’d give me the job out of pity. No, that wasn’t it. It was something else —

  Oh, I got it. “Your husband didn’t think I could do the job, is that it? Because I’m a girl?”

  Mrs. Redman met my eyes. “No, that isn’t it. I’m the one who didn’t think you could do the job.”

  I about fell off the steps. “Why?”

  She scanned me up and down. “Look at you. You’re, what? Sixteen?”

  “Eighteen,” I lied.

  “Eighteen. Even so, I understand you don’t have any employees. It’s just you. You’re not even licensed in the state. I checked. Are you still in high school?”

  “Yes, but the year’s almost over. I don’t need employees. They jack up the cost. If I need help I’ll ask my brother —” I choked. That was stupid. He’d never help me. It’s not his gig. “I’d have worked full-time for you,” I told her. “Day and night if you needed.”

  She let out a weary-sounding breath and peered off toward the barn. “I hired a more established, reliable firm. You can understand that.”

  “Ma’am, Szabo Plumbing and Heating has been in business since 1932. We’re well established. I’m completely reliable. Ask anyone in Coalton —”

  “I don’t have to justify my decision to you,” she snapped. “We went with Applewood.”

  I felt myself shrinking. “Yes, ma’am.” I backed off her porch. “Sorry.”

  I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t cry. It was one job. So what? I didn’t need it. Who needed it?

  I needed it. Because there was no way, no way in hell I was ever going to accept money from people in Coalton. Money was help. Szabos didn’t need help. I didn’t. Once I started accepting help, it was all over.

  “Are you speaking to me?”

  “No.”

  Jamie plopped down beside me on the lawn in front of the school. “Geneviève’s lemon-bacon bars were a bust. She says the world isn’t ready for that much moistness. I say the world isn’t ready for their desserts to spark a grease fire. She’s leaving me the recipe in her will. And honey, I’m leaving it to you.” He dropped a block of aluminum foil in my lap. “Peace offering.”

  I’d skipped lunch to grab some sky. I needed space.

  “Hi, guys.” Xanadu loped up and knelt down next to Jamie.

  He scrambled to his feet. “I just remembered.” He pivoted in place. “Whatever it was I forgot.”

  She frowned at his retreating back. “What’s his problem?”

  “He has so many.”

  She slapped my knee and smiled. Then held on and squeezed. My mood shifted, lifted. I’d been in a black hole ever since yesterday, losing the Redman job. This sense of self-confidence Dad had inspired in me, this I-can-do-anything-I-put-my-mind-to attitude, anything I want, was slowly seeping away. What I wanted seemed suddenly out of reach. It was stupid to want that camp. Forget it.

  “What’s that?” Xanadu eyed the foil.

  “Lemon bars,” I said. “Grandma Dottie’s secret recipe.”

  “Oh yum.” She didn’t ask about the secret, just snatched the package out of my hand. “I am ravenous. Bailey was supposed to buy me lunch, but he had to stay after class and make up some lame assignment in English —”

  “Xana,” his voice carried out from the building.

  She raised her eyes over my head and her face lit up like fireworks. If I had a fire extinguisher, I would’ve doused that flame.

  He rushed over. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Prove it,” Xanadu said.

  Bailey arched his eyebrows. He lowered his voice. “I will. Tonight.”

  She pushed to her feet. “We’ll talk later, Mike.” She touched my shoulder, then leaned down to my ear. “I still haven’t told him. I’m such a coward. You need to give me courage.”

  Try liquid courage, I thought. It’s stronger and it lasts longer.

  She absconded with my lemon bars.

  It didn’t matter. She could have everything of mine. Everything, if once, just once, she’d look at me with the same burning desire she had for Bailey.

  “Hello, Mike. Mind if I join you?”

  I shielded my eyes against the noonday sun. What was this, Grand Central? “Pull up a chair,” I said to Mrs. Stargell.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Her joints creaked as she descended to the lawn. She sat, extended her legs out in front, and smoothed her flowered dress over her bony knees. “Would you like half my sandwich?” she asked. “It’s liverwurst.”

  Liverwurst wasn’t my favorite. At the moment, though, tree bark would taste good. “Thanks.”

  She peeled back the Saran Wrap and handed me a wedge. “Dr. Kinneson and I were talking about you during my planning period today.” Mrs. Stargell took a bite.

  Why didn’t everyone just shut up about me? I suspected I wasn’t Dr. Kinneson’s favorite person these days. But she’d dredged up everything. She was interfering in my life.

  “I’d like to tell you a story,” Miz S said.

  My stomach chose that moment to grumble.

  “Eat.” She pointed to my sandwich.

  I chomped into the middle. Soft white bread. Mustard. For liverwurst, it wasn’t bad.

  “When I was in college, my senior year, I had an opportunity to go to England for three weeks on a study tour.” Miz S took a bite of sandwich and chewed. She wiped the crumbs from her lips. “A group of select students were chosen for their particular interest in British history and art and literature. I was one of the chosen few. Along with the tour, we’d read great works of the masters and visit museums and attend concerts. We’d travel the countryside to see the birthplaces of Lord Tennyson and Byron and even the Bard himself. It was the chance of a lifetime.” She paused for another bite. “And I didn’t go.”

  I widened my eyes at her.

  She lowered her sandwich to her lap, staring off into the distance, looking lost. Like she forgot she was telling the story to me.

  I said, “Didn’t you have the money?”

  “What?” She blinked fast and returned from wherever she’d gone. “Oh no. It wasn’t that.” She raised her sandwich to her mouth, then lowered it again. “My folks would’ve mortgaged the farm to have me go. But I was in love.”

  My chin hit the ground, I’m sure. Miz S in love? I couldn’t picture it.

  She sighed dreamily. “I’d met Terrence. My future husband. The first one.”

  First one? Whoa. This was getting interesting.

  “Terrence and I were hot and heavy. Ooh, baby. We were all over each other like gravy on grits.”

  I choked.

  She looked at me and laughed.

  “Sorry,” I said. I shoved the rest of my sandwich into my mouth to plug it.

  “We were a real item in Leoti. That’s where I grew up. I was loathe to leave Terrence. He, of course, didn’t encourage me to go. Three weeks apart? Lordie, we’d die of separation anxiety. Long story short, I forfeited the opportunity. I’ll tell you, Mike, to this day, I regret that decision. What I missed — traveling overseas, expanding my world, living my dream — it went up in smoke. Poof.” She popped apart her fingers, and crumbs flew. “
What I’m trying to say is, you should take advantage of this opportunity you have to attend softball camp. Right now. Today. You may not get another chance to pursue your dream. I didn’t.” She forced a smile, kind of wistful.

  Her words swirled around in my head. My opportunity. My dream.

  Right, Dad. My dream died. Again. Because of you. I should have left it dead and buried.

  “Whatever happened to Terrence?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your first husband.”

  “Oh. Him.” She cocked a limp wrist. “He flew the coop. As did the second, and third.”

  Third?

  Unexpectedly, Miz S looped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. She smelled of chalk and liverwurst and rose water, and I had the strongest urge to wrap my arms around her and hold on tight. Like I would a mom. The one I never had. But my arms wouldn’t respond to my heart.

  “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Mike,” she said, rocking me gently. “Some decisions you can never take back.”

  Hear that, Dad? You made your choice. You can never take it back.

  I decided to skip Coalton Days. Xanadu was right. It was Toto. A hick-town hoedown. Who needed it? Besides, I’d gotten up at the crack of dawn every day this week to work on the fountain. It was a bigger job than anticipated. Not only did the pump need to be replaced, the pipe to the water main had to be chiseled out from under fifty years of tree roots, then new pipe cut, laid, reconnected. I couldn’t do it after school because of my real job. My paying job, which paid shit. And the hundred dollars I’d quoted Mayor Ledbetter didn’t cover the replacement cost of the PVC. Thanks, Dad. You could’ve taught me how to bid on jobs before you bought it.

  “What do you mean you’re not going to Coalton Days?” Jamie had a hissy fit on the phone. “You have to go. It’s tradition. I already signed us up for the sack race.”

  “Ask Beau to hop in the sack with you.” From the back of the house, I heard the toilet flush and Ma crack the floorboards in the hallway.

  Jamie whined, “Please? It’s no fun without you. Anyway, I have to talk to you. I need to show you something I can’t show to anyone else.”

  What could that be? His limp dick?