Night at the Fiestas: Stories

by Kirstin Valdez Quade

  “Or I could,” said Morgan.

  “Super,” said Patsy, handing Claire the brush.

  Patsy’s hair wasn’t as soft as Claire expected, but beautiful still. Up close, two or three silver strands shone among the red.

  “Girls,” said Patsy, eyes closed, “you don’t know it now, but these are the best days of your lives.”

  “Really?” asked Claire. Just yesterday this would have been devastating news. Her whole life she’d been banking on things getting better, but today, hair teased in a high, tight ponytail, makeup so thick her skin itched, Claire could almost believe it.

  “Maybe,” said Morgan grimly. She watched with narrowed eyes as Claire wrestled Patsy’s hair into a messy French braid, then sprayed it all stiff.

  The phone rang, its sound barely reaching them from the sanctuary at the far end of the long hall, but Patsy continued to apply her mascara.

  “We should get it,” said Morgan. “It might be Dad.”

  Patsy put a hand on Morgan’s wrist. “Let it go.” She blinked at her reflection.

  THAT AFTERNOON, MORGAN and Claire sat in the shade on the concrete steps, watching cars pass. It was hot, and when Claire scratched at her face, the makeup gathered in gluey worms under her nails. Patsy had gone off in the minivan promising a treat, and without her there, all the day’s liveliness seemed to have evaporated in the parched air. It was funny to Claire, this concept of setting up a vacation house—cabin (why would they call it a cabin?)—in a place where people lived their lives. In houses all around, women vacuumed and baked meatloaf, kids watched television, men left for work and came home.

  “Don’t worry,” Morgan said. “It will be more fun when my dad and my cousins get here.”

  “I’m having fun,” said Claire, listless.

  Patsy returned with a bag of groceries and Rocket Pops. “You know what we need, girls? A sprinkler party!”

  By the time the girls had changed, Patsy was already in her swimming suit, her towel spread on the dry grass. She lay on her back, stretched her toes and pressed her middle with the pads of her fingers, frowning. Her suit was magenta, a one-piece, but not the kind the mothers of Claire’s friends wore when Claire accompanied them to the Deseret Gym, with legs and cap sleeves. It was a regular swimming suit, like Claire’s own mother’s. Morgan looked at Patsy, alarmed, then quickly over at Claire, as if to see if she’d noticed. Claire averted her eyes and pretended to be absorbed in catching the drips on her popsicle with her tongue.

  “Go on, girls,” said Patsy, indicating the sprinkler. “Play!”

  Claire hooted and splashed, acting out an approximation of fun, trying to lift Morgan’s mood. She was doing this for Patsy, Claire realized, and she laughed more vigorously, until she realized they actually were having fun. She grabbed the hose and aimed the sprinkler at Morgan.

  “I’m gonna kick your trash!” yelled Morgan and charged her.

  Finally, breathless, they dropped onto towels beside Patsy. Morgan’s mascara had dissolved around her eyes, giving her a haunted, dissolute appearance. A woman in a long denim dress passed on the sidewalk and looked at them. Claire imagined how they must seem to her: idle, fascinating, privileged.

  Patsy squinted into the sun. “This is nice. Reminds me of when I was a teenager, hanging out at the city pool.” She turned onto her belly and wiggled out of her straps.

  Morgan scowled at her mother’s bare freckled back. “Where’s Dad? You said he was coming.”

  “Something came up at work. So it’ll be just us girls!”

  Morgan glared. “Next time he calls, I want to talk to him.” She stalked to the steps and sat hugging her knees.

  Patsy rolled onto her side and smiled at Claire. “Morgan’s very close to her dad. He’s a really good man. He converted for me, you know.” The skin on her chest was even redder than usual and the tops of her small breasts squeezed together.

  “Really?” asked Claire. She paused. “Who’s watching Morgan’s sisters?”

  “They’re with our neighbor.” Patsy’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Do you think I’d just leave them alone?”

  Claire opened her mouth to apologize, but to her relief Patsy smiled again.

  “I met Mr. Swanson in college. I was a sophomore and he was a senior. I had lots of boyfriends back then, but he fell in love with me immediately. By the end of the year we were married. Now he’s even more devout than me!”

  “Wow,” said Claire. Patsy was talking to her as if she were an equal, a friend. She looked at Morgan, who was glowering on the steps. Morgan swiped at her face, smearing her makeup still more.

  “So Will’s your stepdad?” Patsy asked.

  Claire inhaled. “Uh-huh.”

  “Your mom got a divorce from your real dad?”

  Claire nodded. Pieces of grass were stuck to her ankles, but when she tried to pick them off, they clung to her wet fingers. “But it was because he could be really mean.”

  “Mr. Swanson’s not mean.” Patsy rolled onto her back, eyes closed to the sun. “So . . . did your mom have boyfriends before Will?”

  Claire looked at her thighs. The water was beginning to dry. She felt sticky. “A couple.”

  “Did they ever spend the night? Did Will spend the night at your house before they got married? Did they sleep in the same bed?”

  Claire didn’t say anything. Her eyes felt hot and she couldn’t have raised her head if she’d wanted to.

  Patsy patted her leg, left her hand there, and Claire felt a warm rush in her thighs. “It’s okay, honey. I’m not judging.”

  Her voice was so kind. Somehow Patsy understood the shame and was forgiving her.

  Morgan stomped over and grabbed Claire’s wrist. “Come on. We need to go for a walk.”

  Patsy squinted up. “I’ll come with you.”

  Claire didn’t want to leave Patsy’s side.

  “No,” said Morgan and yanked. “Why can’t you leave us alone?”

  Patsy blinked, her face naked and hurt.

  “Ugh!” shouted Morgan, throwing a towel over her mother. “Get dressed.”

  They walked around the block, but they were barefoot and the pavement was hot. In some places the sidewalk gave way entirely and they had to pick their way through burning dirt. Morgan walked three steps ahead and never said a word and never turned around.

  Claire tried to pretend to be interested in the neighborhood: small houses, a boarded-up garage, some little kids in a yard who eyed them suspiciously as they passed. At the next corner, Morgan waited for Claire. She seemed to have softened.

  “So when’s the family reunion starting?” asked Claire conversationally.

  “Stupid. There is no family reunion.”

  “What?” asked Claire. “Your mom lied?”

  Morgan turned away. Her pale shoulders were hunched and the straps of her bathing suit cut into her soft skin. “She didn’t lie. There must be some mistake.”

  Claire hesitated before asking, “Morgan, is your mom Mormon?”

  Morgan whirled around. “Of course she is,” she snapped. “Her father is a bishop.”

  “Oh,” said Claire, suddenly aware that she liked Morgan less. “Why are you so mad?”

  THAT EVENING AS PATSY was laying out the fried-chicken dinner from the restaurant near the highway, the phone rang again. “We’ll let it go,” Patsy said. She put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder a moment, then continued setting the plastic sporks on thin paper napkins. The phone stopped.

  “I want to call Dad,” said Morgan. They’d washed their faces, but Morgan’s eyes were still shadowed.

  Patsy shook her head. “Let’s not bother him. He’s very stressed out with work.”

  After a moment she turned to Claire and said, “Maybe you should give your parents a call, let them know you’re okay.”

  “It’s fine,” Claire said, feeling Morgan’s glare. “I can do it after dinner.”

  “Now’s good,” said Patsy. “Just to check in.”

&nbs
p; Claire dialed carefully. Her mother picked up. “Did you call me, Mom? Just now?” Claire could hear Emma and Will laughing in the background.

  “No, honey, but it’s great to hear your voice. Are you having fun?”

  Claire said she was, then waited for her mother to ask if everything was okay, but she didn’t. “Morgan’s dad couldn’t make it.”

  “Oh? That’s too bad. But you’re having a good time?”

  There was so much she wanted to tell her mother—about the wine coolers, about how sad Patsy seemed, and how Morgan was angry with her and she didn’t know why—but Patsy and Morgan were both watching. “We did makeovers today. We ran in the sprinklers.”

  “That sounds terrific, sweetie.”

  “Yeah.” Claire allowed a silence, into which her mother ought to have read that everything had gone wrong.

  Instead, her mother said, “I better go, honey. I’ve got to put Emma to bed, or she’ll be a grouch.”

  When Claire dropped the phone into its cradle, Patsy said, “Bon appétit!”

  The fluorescent ceiling panel seemed very far from the table and the flickering dim light made Claire sad. Morgan was silent as they ate. Claire kept glancing at her, but she didn’t lift her gaze from her mashed potatoes.

  Morgan was a brat. She was spoiled and didn’t know how good she had it, having Patsy as her mother. At least Patsy wanted to spend time with Morgan. At least Patsy tried.

  “This is delicious,” Claire told Patsy. She paused. “I think you’re a really good mom.”

  “Thank you, Claire.” Patsy smiled gratefully and looked more beautiful than ever. They both considered Morgan, who appeared not to have heard.

  But when Patsy took the dirty paper plates to the kitchen, Morgan looked right at Claire. “Just so you know, you’re going to be cast into Outer Darkness.”

  “Outer Darkness?”

  “That’s where the bad people go, the people who deny Jesus. There’s nothing there. Just dark.” Morgan’s gaze was very still and certain. “We’ll be in the Celestial Kingdom. My mom and dad and my sisters and me.”

  “That’s not true,” said Claire. Surely she’d have heard of this before.

  Morgan pressed her lips and nodded, as if to say it was a shame, but it wasn’t up to her. “It’s definitely true.”

  Claire thought of her conversations with Will about galaxies beyond the Milky Way, how when he explained infinity she felt so queasy and anxious she had to push the idea from her mind. The notion that she could end up in that emptiness was terrifying. Panic tightened around her chest.

  She imagined them all, Morgan and the girls from school with their pretty haircuts and orthodontia and ironed floral dresses, all of them being lifted above her, led through the Celestial Curtain, which glowed white with warmth and life, while she, with her tangles and off-brand Keds and too-short jeans, was sucked into the cold darkness of space. Floating around like an astronaut who had come untethered, without even stars to orient herself.

  “Ice cream!” sang Patsy, sweeping in and placing a paper bowl in front of each of them.

  Claire felt close to tears. “Maybe it’s just a story.”

  “It isn’t a story,” Morgan said. “It’s revelation. God told Joseph Smith personally.”

  “Morgan,” warned Patsy. “What are you talking about? We don’t need to talk about that.”

  “Yes,” Morgan insisted, “we do need to talk about it.”

  Patsy bit her lip. “This isn’t really dinnertime conversation.”

  Morgan whipped around and looked at her mother. “Why shouldn’t we talk about the teachings of the Prophet? Revelation is important. You know that.” She stood. Claire could feel her rage vibrating around them. Morgan pointed at her mother. “You’d better know that!” she shouted, then ran down the hall. At the far end, a door slammed.

  Outer Darkness. There was no such thing, thought Claire. She was an atheist, so there couldn’t be.

  If Claire were away from her family when the end came—say, if it happened tonight while she was in Nephi City—she would be cast out alone, with no one to hold her as she drifted around in the vast, airless blackness. Her mom and Will and Emma might be destined for Outer Darkness, too, but they’d have each other.

  She pictured the three of them as they were now, probably reading books on the couch at home, the lamplight warm and yellow. They’d be reading The Mammoth Hunt, Emma’s favorite book, laughing at the antics of Fern and little Sam, the Ice Age siblings. Emma, with her dimpled hands and silky honey-brown curls, surrounded by her mother and father, all their heads touching. They were perfect, the three of them: related, joined. A triangle, the strongest shape there is.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Claire found Patsy and Morgan lying together on Morgan’s bed. Morgan’s face was pressed into her mother’s chest, and Patsy’s fingers were twined in her hair. Claire stood in the doorway, watching them. Four more days. She missed her mother with an intense, full-body longing that hit her so hard, so squarely in the chest, she couldn’t breathe. She knew she’d begged to be allowed to come here with Morgan; why then did she feel she’d been sent away?

  Much later, when Claire woke in the night, Patsy was gone and Morgan was sleeping. Claire opened the bedroom door. At the end of the long hall, a light was on.

  In the sanctuary, Patsy was in a long rose-printed nightgown, hunched over the phone. Claire stood in the dark of the hall, watching.

  “It has been a while!” Patsy laughed gaily in the way Claire loved. “Three kids, yeah. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. A lot.” Her voice dropped, and then Claire realized that something was wrong. Patsy was drinking Fruit Coolers. She had a box of them, and there were four empties, the one in her hand half-full. Her voice rose and tightened. “Anything you wanted. I’d do it now.” She listened for a long time. “I know it’s late. I’m sorry. I know.”

  Patsy hung up, then threw the bottle against the wall. It hit with a crack but didn’t break. Claire watched the bottle empty itself into the carpet, and thought again of Outer Darkness. She could feel it gusting inside her, cold and vast, as if she’d swallowed a bite of it at dinner and it had swelled to fill her.

  Patsy dropped her head into her hands. “Oh my gosh.” She hit the floor with her fist. “Fuck,” she wailed softly. Then: “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

  When she lifted her head, she looked directly at Claire, as if she’d known she was there all along. Patsy’s mascara was smeared, her eyes dark and red.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire croaked and backed down the hall.

  Patsy caught up with her and put an arm around Claire’s shoulder. “You poor thing. You’re sad. I’ve made you sad. Are you sad?”

  Claire shook her head.

  Patsy kneeled before her, dragging on Claire’s hands. “I was just talking to an old friend, but I’m okay now. Everything’s okay.”

  “Is it true about Outer Darkness?” And as if responding to its name, the emptiness inside Claire dilated. “Is it true I can’t be with my family in the Celestial Kingdom?”

  “Oh, gosh.” Patsy looked stricken, and her eyes welled with tears again. “It is true,” she said. “I’m so sorry, honey. I don’t know what to tell you.” She dropped her head, then looked up suddenly. “But it will be okay!” She jumped to her feet and steered Claire down the hall with both arms.

  She pushed open a swinging door. The dark room was empty but for a pool sunken in the floor, a huge square expanse of tiny bathroom tiles. Four steps and a metal handrail led down.

  “This is the baptismal, Claire.”

  “Wow,” said Claire. She thought baptismals were supposed to look like birdbaths, or grander, more sacred-looking, like the marble-edged pools in the book of Maxfield Parrish paintings her parents had. This was so ordinary, like a drained swimming pool, except smaller and cubic.

  Patsy descended the steps, put the stopper in, and turned the faucet.

  While the baptismal filled, the two of them stood at
the edge. Patsy held Claire’s hand so hard it hurt. Outside the pebbled glass windows a phosphorous streetlight shone. The water was black, the pool too deep for its proportions.

  Patsy shut off the faucet. “Do you know what this means?”

  Claire listened to the quiet of the church and the sounds of water dripping and a gurgle in the pipes. This was it, the moment her life would change. Claire’s chest was tight, her mouth dry. What surprised her is how accidental this all felt: imagine if she hadn’t woken up, imagine if she’d slept through her chance. She nodded.

  Patsy led her by the hand into the warm water. Claire had never been submerged in her clothes; her pajamas dragged around her legs as she took each step. When they were in the center of the pool, they stood facing each other until the black water stilled around them. The water was high on Claire’s chest. The line of wet climbed Patsy’s nightgown, and where the thin fabric clung to her breasts, the rosebuds looked like welts.

  Claire breathed in the steam and the scent of Patsy’s lotion. Her mind was quiet, waiting.

  “It’s okay, honey,” said Patsy. “Deep breath.”

  Patsy cupped one hand behind Claire’s head and held both Claire’s hands in her other, then tipped her back into the water.

  Claire’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t see anything in the warm dark, except, somewhere, a shifting haze of orange light. For a moment she felt bodiless, as though she’d become the water, but then the weight of it pressed around her, squeezing her lungs and throat. Claire opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, she had surfaced. She sputtered and coughed and blinked the stinging water from her eyes.

  “Now do me,” said Patsy, and she settled herself in Claire’s arms.

  Claire cradled her awkwardly, aware of the slippery warm skin at Pasty’s neck and of the sucking of her own t-shirt against her belly. Patsy’s gown drifted beneath the water as graceful as mermaid hair. Claire gazed down at Patsy’s calm face and her closed, waiting eyes.

  “Do it now, Claire.”

  When Patsy came up, water streamed from her face. She was smiling. “That’s what we needed,” Patsy said softly, the ends of her red hair dripping. “A new start.”