Life Among the Terranauts Page 6

  At home, Rose saw Bev had pulled all the dishes out of the cupboards, wrapped half of them in newspaper, and stuffed those in boxes on the counter. Rose had three bags of groceries and had to put them all on the floor. “I thought you were hungry,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Should we do this later, then?”

  “I’ve already started. No point in putting them all back just to pull them out again.”

  “Do you want me to help?”

  “You don’t know what was whose.”

  “I’m pretty hungry.”

  “So order in if you don’t think you can wait.” Bev’s hair was wet from the shower and Rose realized how much longer it had gotten since all those pictures of her with a blunt cut and wearing overalls. It spread across Bev’s shoulders, the damp gray strands soaking the fabric, saturating the colors and pressing the pattern against her skin. The combination of thin hair, dark pink peonies, freckled skin, looked vulnerable in a way that the rest of Bev didn’t.

  “I brought you this.” Rose unfolded the BevMo bag and snapped it in the air like a matador’s cape. “It reminded me of your name.” The bottle of vodka was in the glove compartment of the rental car.

  Bev looked at it a long time. She was holding a beige mug labeled CARDIO FUN RUN ’89, and Rose tried to imagine what possible incarnation of either Bev or Vera in any decade went running. “What’d you buy?”

  “Nothing. I just got the bag.”

  “Too bad,” Bev said. She wrapped the fun-run mug in a piece of newspaper and then put it in the BevMo bag, consignment-store-bound. She picked up a plastic Hamburglar cup and tossed that in too. Rose took the hint and let her clatter around by herself until there was enough room to cook. The meal was the quickest one she could make, broccoli and instant mashed potatoes and two chicken breasts. She was just waiting on the chicken when her cell phone rang.

  “I’m done with aerobics,” her mother announced. “Headed home.” Rose could hear the murmur of Top 40 radio and pictured the dusty dashboard of the ancient Honda Civic, purple travel mug in the cup holder, sunglasses elasticked to the visor, Juicy Fruit in the door pocket, and felt nostalgia so strong it was like she’d lived there, like that car was a home a person could go back to. “Can you talk?”

  “No.” Bev was in the living room. The news was starting, sweeps for illegal immigrants, and Bev talked out loud to the television: “About time.”

  “Bev’s there?”

  “Yup.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier.”

  The tick of the oven timer sounded hoarse as it slipped into its last minutes. Rose held the phone between her ear and shoulder and thumbed through the give-away box. At the bottom there was a melamine plate with her own face on it, age eight. She was wearing a Care Bear sweatshirt and fluffy bangs. She remembered her mom having the plates made and then her grandmother talking about how tacky it was that she’d worn a branded shirt for her school picture. “You should make those animals pay you,” she’d said, “if you’re going to wear ’em across your chest.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing you want?” Rose asked. “There’s nothing I should be saving for you? Grandma had a lot of stuff.”

  “For the millionth time, no. Let Bev take whatever she wants, you take whatever you want, and get rid of everything else.”

  “She doesn’t want anything.”

  “What?”

  “She—never mind. I’ll call you later.” Bev came back into the kitchen and got them two glasses of water straight from the tap, water that tasted so foul the city distributed brochures with tips for drinking it. Add lemon slices, they recommended. Rose pulled a water bottle from the grocery bags and carried it with the plates into the living room. She ate off her own portrait, uncovering it bit by bit. There was Brave Heart Lion from the Forest of Feelings. There was her toothy smile. She arranged the last of the potatoes into a white hat on her head and waited for Bev to apologize for just dumping this plate in a consignment box without even offering it to her, the one person who might conceivably want it. But Bev seemed determined to ignore her completely. They ate in silence until the news had dwindled to the dangers of leaving pets in hot cars and the weather—it would cool off later that week, the weatherman said, down to 109. Bev ate with Cline in her lap, passing shreds of broccoli to him. Finally she put down her fork with a clank and waited for Rose to look at her. When she did, she didn’t understand why Bev looked so angry. “Your grandmother knew, you know. She knew what you were.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She didn’t mind. I wanted you to know that. She forgave you.” Bev handed the last of the broccoli to Cline and then fingered her necklace, rubbing the little cross, the gold disappearing between her fingers.

  “What I am?”

  “She didn’t hate you or anything.”

  “For being a bartender?” Rose tried to joke.

  “Oh, she hated that you were a bartender. Said you were wasting your life. Those stupid reviews your mother sent. But that’s not what I mean. You know what I mean.”

  Rose ate the last few bites of potatoes, thinking something would come to her. Nothing did. She climbed over the guinea-pig gate and threw her plate in the sink so hard, it shattered.

  She grabbed her bag and two-dollar flip-flops and headed out the front door, Bev calling after her. It was dark and the air was cooler but the heat still radiated from the sidewalk, birthing itself off the pavement. She sat in the rental car and opened the warm bottle of vodka. She thought about where she might go, what she could do, and decided that what she really wanted to do in that moment was drink so much she shouldn’t drive anywhere. She got back out and started walking. She wandered the development’s endless curves, the wide streets, the low, sunbaked houses. People went to bed early here, and the homes were dark and quiet. The cheap flip-flops rubbed her feet, and when she came to the development’s golf course she cut across the seventh hole, deserted in the dark. She tried to take her shoes off, but the grass was deceptive—dyed green, it was nearly dead underfoot, brittle and so sharp it hurt to walk on. Rose sat in a sand trap and buried her feet to soothe them. The vodka was an obscure brand she’d decided to try, but it turned out there was a reason she’d never had it before. It tasted like a mouthful of dirty glass, and she wished for tonic or vermouth, olive brine, a shaker. She wanted to be back behind the bar, where the problems were always everybody else’s and all she had to do was listen. She wanted someone right now to listen to her, a row of old customers who could be made to return the favor. She wished she weren’t between girlfriends just so she’d have someone to call. She’d always let go of people so easily; it had made her feel strong but now it made her feel like Bev, careless, callous, inscrutable.

  Her phone rang and she got sand all over it trying to answer. “Should I come down there?” her mother choked out. “Just tell me. You’d tell me if I should, right?”

  “Do you want to? You should come if you want to.”

  “Don’t give me a choice, because I’ll say no.”

  “I can’t tell you you need to come.”

  “It matters. Of course it matters. I don’t want to pretend like it doesn’t.”

  “Mom.”

  “I didn’t realize—I didn’t realize until…I should be there.”

  “You don’t need to be. It’s fine.”

  “I hated her. I hated her for a long time and I can’t take that back.”

  “I know.”

  “I was picturing you doing to me what I’m doing to her. When I imagine you not caring, it’s the worst feeling in the world.”

  “Mom. That won’t happen.”

  “Your father’s the one who…he said, ‘If the two of you make each other that miserable, why keep doing this?’ And that made so much sense.”

  “Then don’t apologize for what made you happy.”

  “But she’s family, Rose. Sometimes you aren’t supposed to be happy.”

  “Maybe that�
�s not healthy.”

  “I just— When you asked if there was anything I wanted. There is something. There was this necklace she used to wear. Real delicate, just a little gold cross with a diamond in it. She’d had it since I was little, when Daddy was still alive. I remember that. Have you seen it?”

  Rose pressed her palm into the sand like she could leave her print behind. Her face on a plate. The phone was sweaty in her hand, hot against her ear.

  “If you see it, can you take it for me? I don’t think she would have gotten rid of it. It’ll be in the house somewhere.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Rose said. She pulled her feet out of the sand; grains stuck to the raw places. She could see the dark lines in the moonlight, sandal straps of blood and grit.

  As Rose opened the door, she steeled herself for Bev’s awful sad song, but there was only silence. The swamp-cooler air hissed through the sealed house, raced out the open door. Rose shut it and stood still, breathing deeply, sobering up slightly in the cold. A strange animal noise scrabbled somewhere, like Cline grown to enormous size. Rose kicked off the flip-flops, winced at the fresh blood between her toes, and went padding through the house. She found Bev in Vera’s room, lying on the bed. The hem of her peony housedress was hitched above her knees, her body curled tightly above her pale, dimpled legs. She was crying. Cline wandered over the coverlet down by Bev’s feet, having no interest in comforting his mistress or no idea how. The Hamburglar cup was on the nightstand, full of soda. No, whiskey and Coke, Rose recognized after lifting it and smelling. Bev looked up at her and Rose felt powerful.

  Bev took one of the pillows from under her head and held it across her face. “Your grandmother was a good friend to me,” she said. “I know she could be sharp but she was a good friend.” Rose pulled the pillow off and dropped it on the floor, but Bev grabbed the next one and curled it more tightly over her head. “I never did,” she said. “I never slept here before. In this bed.”

  Rose sat beside her, and the mattress creaked. She reached out and touched the necklace with a single finger, the pendant so slight she couldn’t help but touch Bev too, the warm skin beneath. Bev flinched and lifted the pillow long enough to take the Hamburglar cup. She tried to drink flat on her back and coughed. Liquid spilled into the gullies of her neck and ran down the gold chain. She pushed the cup back into Rose’s hand and replaced the pillow. “You should ask me,” she said, her voice muffled. “Just ask me what you want to know.”

  “Was she happy?” The question came to her as a kindness, a way of easing Bev into greater confessions, but as she asked, it felt like something she needed very much to know.

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.” Bev curled on her side, lifted the pillow enough to reach for the cup again. “Ask me if I’m happy.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “No.”

  Rose took the drink from Bev’s hand. “You’re cut off. Robble-robble.” She set it on the nightstand clumsily, drunk enough herself that the liquid sloshed in the cup.

  “I should have said something. But she could be so hard. You know how hard, your grandma.” Bev’s fingers closed around air. “Give it back.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “My bedroom. Vera didn’t drink. Said she used to like it a little too much.”

  Rose could feel Bev’s warmth against her back. “That’s what my mom always said. I don’t know. I didn’t see that part of her. She’d stopped before I came along.”

  “You never really know. The things a person doesn’t want to show you.”

  “Even the things they do,” Rose said, and it felt wise but sounded helpless. Tucked in a corner of the mirror was a snapshot of Bev and Vera at the zoo. She wondered if Bev had noticed it, if it made her feel better or worse. She wished it were framed. She wished there were a heart drawn around it in lipstick, something irrefutable. The brown box sat mutely beneath it.

  Bev braced her arm on Rose’s thigh and worked herself upright, then leaned back against the headboard. “I took—” She gripped the necklace. Then she noticed Rose’s feet. “That has to hurt. You should wash them.”

  “I will. Later.”

  But the moment was gone. Bev took the Hamburglar cup again, and Rose didn’t stop her. “I didn’t want to tempt her,” Bev said. “But I’m not a woman who likes to do without.”

  “I like that about you,” Rose said honestly. Bev grabbed the bottle of vodka from the nightstand and poured some into the cup. “That’s going to taste disgusting,” Rose said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I care. Shut up,” she said as Bev opened her mouth to protest. “Let me make you something.” She got up and walked unsteadily across the hall into Bev’s room. There were more grandchildren pictures on the dresser, a music stand, and an accordion. The bed was unmade, the sheets pink with a nubby chenille coverlet. A cardboard box filled with bottles was halfway out of the closet. Rose hefted the whole thing up and then heard the CD player hissing on top of the dresser. It was cued up, paused at the beginning of a track, the disc whirling, waiting. She pressed Play. Blood calls to blood, calls to the wound, the singer howled. Bones long to be broken.

  She went into the kitchen. Bev had cleaned up the supper dishes and the giveaways. Rose set the box on the counter with a satisfying clank. She pulled out every bottle to see what she had to work with. Some were nearly crusted shut, but she wrenched them open, one by one. She pulled every bottle of juice, every soda, every can of frozen concentrate, from the fridge. She pulled every glass, every mug left in the cupboards, and placed them all on the counter. She began to pour.

  The sliding door opened and shut behind her. She looked out the sink window and saw Bev with Cline under one arm, Vera’s box under the other. Rose worried they were all going in the pool, but Bev set the box down gently on the patio table, Cline on the concrete rim. She turned on the pool lights and then leaped into the water with a splash that hit Cline like a tsunami. He just squeaked and stayed loyally put. Bev threw herself across the water over and over. Rose mixed. They could toss drinks down their throats, down their cheeks. They could throw them into their eyes and weep bright tears. Bev paused at one end, her housedress ballooning around her. She looked like a magnificent pink squid. The cross glittered at her neck. Rose opened the sliding door. The heat rushed in like wind. Bev had opened her bedroom window, and the sad song circled the backyard.

  “You can have it,” Rose said.

  “What?” Bev gasped, out of breath.

  “You can have it.”

  Bev shook her head, confused, water flying from her hair. She pointed at her ears. “Water,” she said and stuck her index finger in one like she was popping a balloon. “What are you making?” she called.

  Rose held up a finger, meaning Wait, although in a loud bar it would just mean One, and you never told customers to wait. She chose two glasses and carried them out, jewel-bright, showy with floating, separated layers. If you looked closely, you could see them already collapsing together. The heat wrapped around her, a living, tireless thing, laughing at the dark. Sweat sprang from her face, her neck, under her arms. She stood on the concrete edge, and Bev surged toward her. The splashing felt like relief.

  “Get your feet in here,” Bev said, and Rose sat, legs dangling.

  The chlorine burned the raw spots on her feet, and they both watched the blood and sand lift into the blue and drift away. “Medicine,” Rose said, handing Bev a glass.

  They nearly toasted in silence, helpless for the right words. Bev held the edge with one arm and treaded water, her legs churning.

  “Bottoms up?” Rose finally said, raising her drink toward the patio table, the box.

  They clinked their glasses together. The song ended, and in the few beats before it began again, Rose opened her mouth.

  “Don’t say anything else,” Bev said. “Don’t spoil it.”

  Rose swallowed and drank. Let it find the illness, she thought. Let it bring the answers. Let it be th
e cure for something.

  Teacher

  Nine years after he was a student in my fourth-grade class, Zach Nowak threw a brick off an I-75 overpass. It smashed straight through the windshield of a white Subaru and into the face of the driver, a mother piloting her family toward their summer vacation. She lived long enough to be brought to the hospital where my ex-sister-in-law was a nurse. I’d been divorced for almost five years, but Helen had stayed closer to me than to her brother. “He was a jerk,” she’d say. “The new one’s dumb as a box of rocks. Even he knows he made a mistake.” I was skeptical on that count—he’d never tried to come back to me, or even apologize. But I appreciated Helen’s lie.

  We met up for dinner every few weeks, mostly at the Thirsty Sturgeon, the only restaurant worth eating at anywhere near Walleye Lake. No one lived here for the food. Or the walleye, really. Or the sturgeon. Mostly, we lived here because we’d always lived here, in the forested swath of north-central Michigan that the rest of the world drove straight through.

  The family in the Subaru had been pressing north, planning to stay overnight in Mackinaw City and take the first ferry over to the island to do the usual: horse-drawn carriages and bike rentals and fudge. The brick came down at nine thirty p.m., not long after sunset.

  Our first dinner together after the brick, I thought Helen was bringing it up the way any of us in town might: a terrible thing had happened in a very small place, and we worried at it like a rash, the scratch of “What was he thinking?” and “That poor family.” I hadn’t realized that Helen had been working in the ER when the family was brought in.

  “We’re not a level-one trauma center,” she said. “We’re not supposed to see things like that.” And after we ordered, she told me just a little of what she’d seen, how the husband, who’d been in the front passenger seat, had had pieces of his wife’s face on his clothes. Their kids had been strapped in in the back seat and were unharmed except for what they’d witnessed. I understood that she wasn’t saying any of this to horrify me or impress me but because she needed to say it to someone.