People said things happened for a reason, even when my mother had gotten sick. Though it was hard to see inside clouds, sometimes good things lay in the shadows. Having a boy exempted me from girl stuff. No daughter to disappoint, no one to discuss periods with. It was after the miscarriage I’d started dressing like Sonny: jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers. “There are so many things to feel bad about,” I’d told Charlie once. “Why would you care if I don’t wear pink or aqua?”
We’d treated the miscarriage as if I’d had a flu. A week or two later, a chopper from his squadron had crashed on a routine mission and the crew was killed. We watched it on the news, Charlie and I. Not even a war, and there were pictures of flack vests hanging from branches, rags of metal everywhere. The November woods still smoking.
Shaking Cheerios into a bowl for Sonny, I thought of the funerals. I’d pressed Charlie’s uniform beforehand, polishing the buttons with Brasso. He couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. There were more important things, he’d said. Standing outside the small brick chapel, I’d watched a shred of newspaper lift and tumble along the curb. Before the burial, one of the crew—an AESOP grounded by appendicitis before the mission—tapped each of the flag-draped caskets and barked: “Have a good one, bud.” A couple of the wives were French, and I’d wondered if they understood.
The wind had messed our hair and blown grit into our eyes, and I’d seen how adrift they were, all these widows: parachutes without air. I could never say I envied them, not even the one with perfect legs and a beautiful black suit. But in their grief you saw relaxation. Easier suppers and only the complaints of kids to contend with, easily silenced complaints.
When we picked Sonny up from school afterwards, he’d asked, “How was the funeral?” as if it’d been a barbecue. Such a grown-up question. People died all the time; so why not make the most of things? There was no such thing as eternity. And I’d gone in and lain on our queen-size bed, staring at the wall, thinking not just of the crewmen but of my mom. Not long after, Charlie was transferred; and so it went.
***
Cereal wasn’t good enough; Sonny wanted Kraft Dinner. I was stirring in the orange powder when an aircraft rumbled overhead, loud as a snowplough. From the kitchen window I watched the chopper coming in, trotting sideways like a dog. Rotor blades hacked the air and the house shook as it passed.
Sonny sat at the table picking the scab near his eye, in a snit because I didn’t want him watching TV.
“When’s Dad coming home?” he whined as I whacked some macaroni onto a plate. We’d been through this a couple of times, me repeating the message Charlie had left weeks ago, that he loved him.
“D’you love Dad, or what?” he asked, when I didn’t answer. “How come he never calls?”
“That’s not true,” I said, licking the spoon. “What time’d you guys get to bed Friday night? You’re overtired.”
“Tttttt,” was all he said, digging in.
10
FOG SIGNALS
The phone rang several days later. It was Charlie. Though I’d been up a while, his voice slugged me awake, dead familiar yet disembodied. Touching down from another world. A ghost, had I believed in ghosts then, as I came to later, or at least in how the dead resurface.
“Charlie…?” It was as if I’d been slapped. There was a pause, an intake of breath.
“What’s going on?” he wanted to know, as if calling from the hangar to see how Sonny’d done on a test.
“Where are you?” I half listened, a lump in my throat, as he described the weather, the colour of the Mediterranean. His voice seemed to pulse, fading in and out. For most people, the Mediterranean meant wine and olive oil; for me just then, it conjured a hopelessly WASPish man in shirtsleeves stumbling over words in Italian. To whom hardly mattered now. I pictured him in a grounded chopper, legs hanging out the side like a kid on a stalled midway ride—the Zipper, for instance. Waiting for someone, anyone, to flip a lever.
“Willa? You say something? Connection’s lousy, can’t really hear you. Why don’t I hang up and call back?”
“Oh…” I glanced at Sonny, dawdling over his milk. “Listen, I’m just getting breakfast.”
He sighed—disappointed? Pissed off?
“I’ll try later. Tonight?” he said grumpily.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed.
“Charlie…?” I held my breath.
“Yeah?”
“Love you,” I said crazily. As if holding out one last chance, the softest way to say goodbye.
Sonny heard and perked up. “I wanna talk! Dad, Dad!” he clamoured. “Tell Dad about my eye thing!”
“Catch you then at…what?…twenty-one hundred, your time?” Charlie was saying.
In my mind, I’d already hung up. “Sure. Okay. We’ll be here,” I said, putting down the phone.
***
We weren’t, though, as it turned out. Just after six that evening Hugh called, asking how Sonny’d like to sleep out on the island.
“Under the stars? Kind of chilly, isn’t it?” Plus it was a school night, a Thursday.
His laugh tickled like a feather. “He can have the room upstairs. To himself. There are a couple of beds up there. Or you could stay with him. If you’d feel better.”
“Hmm,” I said, hiding my disappointment. Ticked at myself for feeling that way.
“Charlie phoned,” I said, low enough that Sonny wouldn’t hear above the TV. I’m not sure what I wanted—advice? Someone to take note, perhaps, to see…what?
But all he said was: “Yeah? So when can I get you?”
***
Hugh had the truck again; no sign of Wayne or his woman—a relief. Sonny didn’t say much sliding in between us, though you had to figure things weren’t too bad if he kept his mouth shut.
Wayne ferried us across; it was touch and go, the four of us in the whaler, and a couple of times we found ourselves in the wakes of boats from the other wharf. This time he and Hugh kibitzed over the merits of Zeppelin versus Motley Crue, Billy Cobham, and Steely Dan. Sonny listened with a funny look, not quite bored the way kids get around adults, but almost envious. “Can you play ‘Everybody Have Fun Tonight’?” he asked. “You think I could play that?”
Hugh shook his head, pretending to cuff him. “What, on sax?”
“Teach me?” Sonny persisted.
Wayne hacked into his fist, stifling a laugh. Hugh looked surprised.
“Sure. I guess. Sometime.” He looked at me. “Yeah, Alex. I could show you, why not?”
I tried to gauge what was going on behind Sonny’s freckled face. Maybe it was better not to; he was probably thinking about his father.
Instead of heading back, Wayne tied up and came ashore. It wasn’t the same, four of us tramping through the woods. I felt jumpy, worried Wayne would stay and say something, I don’t know, inappropriate in front of Sonny. He seemed harmless enough, though, and he’d done me those favours. His coming along would’ve made sense if Hugh had beer. But Hugh wasn’t much of a drinker, except for gallons of tea and water. That was clear from the night of Wayne’s party.
We sat in the kitchen, Hugh rustling up an extra couple of chairs from somewhere. We kept our jackets on. It stayed light a long time, and I realized with a shock that it was almost summer. Hugh made tea and we sat drinking it in the twilight. The sea swished in and out of our talk, its murmur just outside the window filling the lulls. Hugh and Wayne rambled some more about music, and Sonny kept asking if they liked so-and-so. Mostly I listened, pushing back the sleeves of my jean jacket and gesturing at Sonny to pipe down. What is it about kids that they have to yell? The room wasn’t that big, though it took up the back of the house; and his mouth was just inches from our ears. It wasn’t like they were ignoring him. Every so often Hugh would give me a look as if to say, it’s okay.
Wayne went out to the porch a couple of ti
mes for a smoke. When it started getting dark, he slapped his thigh, announcing, “Well, guys, time to boogie.” You couldn’t tell if he was serious or not; something about Wayne made you think of John Travolta trapped in the last decade, the disco era. His hair, for starters. Though you couldn’t imagine him dancing, not with his wife; and especially not slow dancing, not with that gut of his, and her like a praying mantis. God, it’s hard to figure what brings people together.
Hugh followed Wayne outside; he stayed out there a while before coming back in. His eyes shone as he smiled at me.
“What about your band?” I asked, curious. “You never mention them. Don’t you practise?”
“Now and then,” he said vaguely, watching Sonny rocking his chair. Sonny was bored out of his tree now but trying not to bug me. He kept playing an imaginary guitar and humming some jumpy tune under his breath.
“You must be bushed,” Hugh said, but he didn’t answer. “Ready to hit the hay?” Hugh tried again.
Sonny looked up. “Show me that song. You know, the one I wanna learn to play.”
“Tomorrow,” Hugh said, with that faith the childless have that kids listen. Sonny opened his mouth, but before he could speak I jumped up.
“Let’s check out the upstairs—there must be a bed you can use. C’mon, get your backpack and we’ll see what’s what.”
“Help yourselves,” said Hugh, smiling broadly.
There was one big bedroom up there facing the beach, with a couple of saggy iron beds. Across the narrow hall was a room full of stuff—a storeroom crammed with junk: broken furniture, a steamer trunk with Hugh’s initials, H.G., painted on it, and some odds and ends that might have been lifesaving equipment, all quite decrepit. There was a rusty spear with a hook at one end—a gaff; a life preserver and a couple of those orange pylons used in road construction; a sagging metal rack hung with rain gear, and quite a few pairs of ancient rubber boots. There was a doll, of all things, a naked, armless baby doll lying in a corner, its eyes half open in a nod. Beside it was a carton with Keep Cold printed on the side.
“Willa?” Hugh’s voice echoed from the dusty landing. “Need any help?”
“You take the one by the window. And I’ll sleep here,” I said loudly, dropping my pack on the bed nearer the door. Sonny went over and flopped down, the mattress bulging around him.
“Piece of crap,” he complained matter-of-factly. “I’ll never get to sleep.”
“Sure you will.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I want my bed.”
“Sonny—”
“Why’d we have to come here? Doesn’t even have a freakin’ TV. What kinda worthless piece of crap place…?” It was almost like he was enjoying this.
“Watch your mouth, for Pete’s—” There was a creak.
Hugh appeared in the doorway. “Problems, Alex?”
Sonny made fish lips, and shook his head.
“Good,” said Hugh. “Make yourself comfy. And that tune you were asking about? Show you in the morning, promise. Right now I need to borrow your ma. Willa? Coming downstairs?”
Bending over Sonny, I tried to fluff his pillow. It felt doughy. Crawling to the window, I pulled the faded curtain. There was something on the sill, a little square of brown leather tooled with flowers, with holes in it. One of those hair clasps, the kind held together with a sharpened stick, that made you think of geishas, or cavewomen.
Sonny yanked off his T-shirt, in a snit or not it was hard to say. I glimpsed his belly. Baby fat, prepubescent pudge. But he almost had breasts, it struck me with a kind of wonder; why hadn’t I noticed?
“I’m changing, can’t you see?” He covered himself with his shirt.
I tried shutting the door behind me; it wouldn’t close completely, as if it was too big for the frame. Giving up, I slipped downstairs. Hugh glanced up from something he was reading, a little green book the size of a person’s hand.
“Everything okay?” He laid the book down.
“Kids—you know. He can be a bugger sometimes.”
Navigation, I read from the spine. The People’s Books.
“Hope it wasn’t something I said.” He covered my hand with his, then brought it to his lips. “You’re a good mother, I can see that.”
It made me blush. “Oh, everyone’s a good mother.”
“Right. Saint Teresa,” he said. “Did you know she was nuts?”
“What?”
“Teresa. Of Avila. She saw things. Visions.” He waved his hand extravagantly.
“Okay?” The last I’d heard of saints and visions was at that funeral, a hymn that went, “Be thou my ...”
“Then again,” he laughed, “she wasn’t a mother. Not even like the one in India who tends the poor.”
He had me stumped; where was this going, and what had it to do with Sonny?
His smile shifted. “My mother packed her suitcase once, at dinnertime. The bunch of us around the table—my dad, me, and my brothers. She ended up eating alone later, in her hat and gloves. Had to take ’em off to do the dishes.”
“Then what?” I said, a catch in my voice. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.
“Nothing. She just, ah, looked like the Queen, you know? Good old Brenda, refusing to sit with us.”
His joke was interrupted by hollers. “Mom? MOM?” Sonny thumped downstairs. He hobbled in, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t get to sleep,” he grumbled. “How’m I supposed to get to sleep?”
Hugh pushed his hair back, smiling with those eyes that seemed to see right through me.
I sighed as if forcing myself to breathe. “What’s wrong?”
Sonny looked from me to Hugh, waiting. The elastic was gone in his pyjama pants and he kept hauling them up. “It’s so…quiet.”
“You want to see quiet?” Hugh sounded amused. Charlie would’ve hit the roof by now. Gimme a break, Alex, I could just imagine him muttering.
Hugh rose and went upstairs; we could hear him creaking around up there. Sonny scowled at the floor, avoiding my eyes. After a while, Hugh came back with a battered Scrabble game, the box a faded violet.
“Great.” Sonny looked about to cry.
Hugh unfolded the board and set up three little wooden stands, shaking the lid full of letters. He turned them over one by one. It was like watching rice cook.
“I’ll keep score,” he said, folding his arms. “Take a letter, Alex. Closest to A goes first.”
I sucked my teeth to keep from laughing. The look on Sonny’s face! As if he could’ve overturned the board, possibly the table. Instead he gave in. “C,” he said glumly.
“All right,” said Hugh, picking letters as if he knew what they’d be, arranging them on his stand. “Go for it.”
Sonny overturned a letter in the box, peeking.
Hugh raised an eyebrow. “Cheaters get to sleep in the tool shed.”
C-R-A-P, Sonny spelled without hesitation.
“Double word score.” Hugh winked at me, jotting it down. Sonny grabbed more letters.
“Willa?” Hugh’s eyes locked on mine. They seemed dark in the dingy light, and full of patience.
Oceans of patience, I thought, fussing with my letters. Six consonants and a blank. I hadn’t played since I was Sonny’s age, when my dad thought it’d help my spelling.
“Pass,” I said.
Hugh leaned closer to peer at my stand. I felt his breath near my ear. “You’ve got a blank—use it.” His fingers brushed mine as he reached in to shift my letters.
T-R-U-S-T, I spelled. “Say it’s a U.”
“Or a Y,” he shrugged, “whatever. Ten points.”
Sonny twisted in his chair, concentrating, his tongue sticking out.
F-O-R-G-E-T, he plunked down, planting the letters like seeds.
“Wait
a sec.” Hugh grinned at me. “It’s my turn.”
“Triple letter!” Sonny crowed.
“Oh all right.” Hugh walked his fingers up my arm. I was having a hard time concentrating, and it didn’t get better. “Hang onto a U in case you get the Q,” he whispered loudly into my ear. I leaned closer.
“Any more advice?” I whispered back. To my amazement Sonny paid no attention, gazing at his letters.
The game progressed, a patchwork of words creeping over the board. Hugh came up with ones I’d never heard of, words like “qua” and “ti,” totting up our scores with a chewed-off pencil. He had one arm looped over the back of my chair, his hand gently brushing me after each turn. I kept glancing at that greasy clock. Sonny’s eyes looked increasingly heavy. “We can always finish tomorrow,” I suggested, but he pretended not to hear, arranging and rearranging his letters.
Finally we got to the last letter, mine: the Zed.
“You’re sure you can’t fit that in?” Hugh rubbed my shoulder. His thumb brushed my strap.
Sonny pored over the board. “Oz,” he murmured, practically in his sleep. As he leaned forward, the crack of his bum showed; he’d pretty much given up on those pants. “Right there, Mom. Zed.”
“No proper nouns.” Hugh smiled, nudging him. “Okay, Tessie, toss ’er back.”
Gratefully I gave up the letter. Hugh yawned, tallying the results. He gave a big stretch, hugging me. “Sonny: one hundred and ninety-seven. Willa…Willa? One hundred and twenty-two.”
“And?”
“Beat you both: two hundred and sixty-nine. No contest.” Sonny flicked his letter-stand in disgust, then, saying nothing—incredibly—trudged upstairs. I remembered that he hadn’t brushed his teeth and started to call out. Hugh stopped me with a kiss, a long, slow one that might have lasted forever. His mouth tasted like tea. Above us, as if from somewhere out of time, I heard rustling. Mice. No, Sonny going to bed. Hugh’s lips moved to my throat. Somewhere in the night there was a churning sound: engines. And from upstairs, one last, feeble holler:
“Mom?”
“I’ll be right back,” I whispered, untangling myself. By the time I got there, Sonny was asleep. He’d almost pulled the curtain off. When I went to fix it, the little hair clasp was gone.
Berth Page 9