A Place We Knew Well (29 page)

Chilled by his conviction—hopeless, hopeless—Avery shuddered and the bird shrieked and rustled its wings in protest. Tiny feet grasped a toehold on callused flesh.

Avery saw the bird, the rectangle of light on the grass, the lit kitchen window through a mist of tears that gave the scene—his entire life?—a mirage-like shimmer. He felt spent, light-headed, muscles too weak, bones too soft to move. He might die right here. It would be appropriate, wouldn't it? Now, as always, outside looking in.

No, you won't,
the voice that was inside him, yet somehow watching him from elsewhere, insisted. At its imperious urging, he managed to haul himself up—careful of the bird, of Blue Boy—carry the bird, retrieve its empty cage, still upended on the grass, and make his way into the kitchen. Once there, he set both bird and cage onto the counter and stared at them.

Resolutely, he wiped the wires and each of the wooden rungs clean and dry. He found and folded a newspaper lining and settled it into place. Then he filled and repositioned the plastic cups with food and water.

Each action set off a flurry of grateful fluttering and chortling.

“There you go,” Avery said, lifting Blue Boy back into his cage. “Feel better now?”

He watched the bird peck greedily at its seed, crack the kernel from the shell in its beak, head-shake the empty hull to the floor of the cage, swallow, then start the whole process all over again.

He remembered his own dinner, congealing in the trash. The thought of food repulsed him. Despair, like a pair of dirty hands, gripped him by the throat.

He went into the living room and sat in his chair to wait—for Charlotte and Emilio's return, and for whatever came after that.

J
UST BEFORE MIDNIGHT,
A
VERY
saw the headlights then heard The Admiral rumble up the drive.

As Emilio killed the engine and the lights, Avery scooped up the
National Geographic
beside his chair and pretended fascination in the cover story, “Seattle Fair Looks to the 21st Century.” Forty years from now? Fat chance.

He heard Emilio walk around the car to open the door for Charlotte, heard the two of them stroll up the drive. He looked up when they entered—Charlotte with her runner-up's roses in one hand, Emilio's arm in the other, both their faces lit with youth. Feeling like a counterfeit Ward Cleaver, he asked, “Have a good time, kids?”

Past them, through the picture window, he caught the slow glide of a long white car, a Chrysler Imperial, and the face of its driver briefly illuminated by the streetlight on Bryn Mawr.

Had Kitty followed them here? Was she just making sure Charlotte got home safely? Or did she expect him to let her in?

“Oh, Dad, it was
great
!” Charlotte enthused. “We danced the whole night.”

“And I've got the blisters to prove it,” Emilio added with a rueful grin.

Avery stood, stepped to the front window, and pulled the drapes firmly closed. No way was Kitty getting in. Not here. Not now.

“Emilio and the twirls got a conga line going. Most of the crowd joined in except for Todd Jenkins and his crew.” Charlotte made a face. “They kept calling Emilio ‘Jose Jimenez,' saying stupid things like ‘Better dead than red.' ”

Avery turned. “But…”

“Doc Mike told 'em to knock it off. He was about to give 'em the boot when Emilio invited them to hook on at the back of the line.”

“And they did?” Avery asked.

Charlotte gave a proud nod.

Emilio shrugged. “They were just jealous because all the best-looking girls were dancing with me.”

Avery would have liked to hear more, but Charlotte's pointed glance was clearly beseeching him to leave.

“Well, since we're all in…” He made a show of locking the front door, then added lamely, “…guess I'll close up shop.”

He took his time covering Blue Boy's cage, picking up the random seed hulls on the counter, dawdling over the trash.

At last, he heard Emilio's deliberate call, “Good night, Mr. A,” and more softly, “Good night, Charlotte.”

He heard her high-heeled footfall across the dining room, turned to see her push through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“Thought I'd put these in water.” She grabbed a vase from under the sink, filling it first with water then with the roses. “There,” she said. When she was done, she gave him a heartfelt hug. “Good night, Dad,” she said. “Thanks for everything.” Even all dressed up, the little girl she'd been was still there, sparkling, in her smile.

“You're welcome, sweetheart. See you in the morning.” A father's promise of tomorrow. The lie of it sickened him.

After she'd gone to bed, he helped Emilio, now in pajamas, make up the sofa with linens from the closet and wished him good night. Then, one by one, as if for the last time, he turned off the lights and, remembering the Chrysler, the fact that Kitty was still out there somewhere, checked and locked all the windows, closed all the curtains, and dead-bolted the doors—something he'd never before felt compelled to do in this neighborhood.

He undressed in the dark, hangering his grass-stained suit, racking his tie, placing his dress shoes in their usual spot, and putting his shirt, socks, and boxer shorts in the laundry basket. As he accomplished each task, he found himself thinking, There, that's done. And that. And that, too, with the sense that if this was the last time, he wanted it done right.

Finally, he slid into bed. Sarah, beside him, was snoring softly. “Dead to the world,” Martell had said. Avery envied her. He thought briefly of finding her bottle of Seconals and taking some himself. But that seemed the coward's way out.

Instead, he lay on his back in the dark, listening to the rise and fall of her breath.

He pictured their location on a map, from a plane's, or God's, view. Florida, the pistol-shaped state cocked straight at Cuba, the great green crocodile of the Caribbean. Deadly missiles lining its spine like scales, Havana due south of Key West. Somewhere he'd read that the crocodile has the strongest jaws, the most powerful bite of any animal on earth—ironically true, if Cuba proved the planet's undoing.

Every sound outside the house startled him, made him wonder if it signaled the beginning of the end. A car passing by, a formation of jets swooping overhead, a boat engine roaring to life across the lake. Surely, they'd use the Civil Defense sirens if they could. But what if there wasn't enough time? What would be the final sound—the last one he would hear?

The roaring of the giant fireball, he decided. The airmen who'd delivered The Bomb to Hiroshima reported it was unlike anything they'd ever heard or seen. “Louder than all hell,” one said.

His mind darted between dark and darker scenarios, feeding the most primal of his fears. Engulfed by fire, they said, it wasn't the flames that killed you, it was the lack of oxygen. If you were lucky, you died before you felt the pain.

And then what?

Pearly Gates, streets of gold, a fitting for a new white robe?

Avery knew he was long past believing the revivalist's version of heaven. On the other hand, he couldn't conceive an alternative. His mind was a blank, afterlife a complete unknown. Unknowable till you got there. Like the way the world would be after the bombs fell. All life reduced to dust, blown about by a poisoned wind.

What was the use of wondering? Let go, let it go. You'll have the answers soon enough.

His eyes and ears searched the dark, not for rescue but for acceptance.

A
very woke with a start and was stunned to find he was still alive.

His first thought was, My God, we're still here! He rolled over to embrace Sarah but stopped himself. Not wanting to wake her, he resisted the urge to run his palm down the smooth curve of her shape, shoulder to waist, or over the soft hill of her hip. It was early enough to slip out, he decided, while everyone else was still asleep, and watch the dawn he hadn't expected to see come up on the lake.

He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and padded barefoot through the house. He was tempted to check the TV or turn on the radio for news, but he didn't want to wake Emilio, who was tossing fitfully on the sofa.

Blue Boy heard him coming and chattered to be uncovered. “Morning, fella. Take a look,” Avery whispered as he lifted the cover from the cage. “We made it to another day.”

He unlocked the back door, crossed the screened porch, and let himself out, reveling in the feel of the grass beneath his feet, the scented breeze rippling the lake's surface, and the squawk of the night heron scolding the tardiness of his daytime replacement.

He sat down on the bench and breathed in the muck-sweet air hanging over the water in delicate wisps. He watched the soft advance of the dawn ripening the clouds and lake from pale to pure peach, lavender to plum. Then he stood to watch the sunrise coming up over his own rooftop. Suddenly it struck him. How oddly quiet the morning was. No jet engines rumbled overhead. No new contrails scarred the sky.

But was this just the calm before the coming firestorm? Was the war machine still out there, revving its engines? Or was it possible they'd brokered a peace? That prospect filled him with an enormous, a momentous, sense of hope and gratitude—to God in His heaven, to President Kennedy, even to crazy old Comrade Khrushchev, if that was the case.

He rose, exulting in the idea that maybe, just maybe, all was not lost.

And then he heard the scream from the house.

He broke into a run—off the dock, up the dew-slippery slope of the lawn, banging open the screen door onto the porch, through the kitchen's swinging door into the dining room, and barged into the living room.

Sarah was in the entrance to the hall, hand at her throat, vibrating with anger and upset.

Beside the sofa, Emilio stood in his pale-blue pajamas, with the wide-eyed look of a prisoner facing a firing squad. Beside him, Charlotte, dark hair tousled about her face, red robe revealing a bit of white nightgown underneath, glowered with outrage.

“It is not, it is
not
what you think!” his daughter screamed.

“What
I
think? What I
think
is”—Sarah was yelling at fever pitch—“this is
all
your
father's
fault! You—” She jabbed an angry finger in Avery's direction. “
You
allowed this to happen. While I was sleeping,
you
let this happen in our home, our
home
!”

“Mom!”
Charlotte was pleading. “We didn't…Dad didn't…”

“Oh, no!
No!
Of
course
not! Dad never does anything wrong in
your
eyes, does he?”

“C'mon, now, darlin'.” Avery stepped toward her to lay a calming hand on Sarah's shoulder.

She shook him off violently. “
You
c'mon, Wes Avery! For seventeen
years,
I've tried—oh, how I've
tried
—to fight this girl's nature with good nurturing, to build some sort of moral bulwark against her inborn inclinations. You know what I mean. You know
exactly
what I mean.” She was spitting with a fury he'd never seen before. “And the minute, the
second
I'm unavailable, the very first chance you get, you put this little romance together—and you not only suggested it, you
encouraged
it by inviting this…this slick young spic—”

“Sarah!” Avery thundered, cutting her off.

She was hysterical, her face drained of color, her eyes bloodshot. She was sweating and trembling, and staggering forward, arms outflung.

In the movies, Avery thought, the man slaps a hysterical woman, first one cheek and then the other, until she “comes to.” But he'd never in his life struck a woman. He wasn't about to begin now.

“Sarah,” he insisted levelly, “you need to calm down.”

“You want me
calm
? Call the doctor! Have him come over and fill me up with
happy
pills! Maybe send me to the
loony
bin! That would simplify everything, wouldn't it? For you and for this little…” She shot Charlotte a scorching look.

What had she seen? What in the world did she think they'd done?

The fierce and feral thing that he'd only glimpsed yesterday seemed to have taken her over completely today. In the far reaches of his mind, he heard the doorbell ring.

Steve
flashed through his mind, come early to pick up The Admiral. But Steve would never bang like that.

“Oh, here he is
now,
I'll bet!” Sarah pushed past Avery and staggered toward the front door. “Good old Doc Mike come to carry off crazy old Sarah. I won't go, Wes. I
won't.
And I'll tell you something else.” Her fingers were clawing at the lock, attempting to lock the doctor out, not realizing she was instead unlocking and releasing the door. She turned back to glare at him, eyes crazed, chest heaving, gasping for breath. “I am
done
! I can
not
…I
will not
raise another
whore's
child!”

At that moment, the door swung open and standing there, eyes wide with horror…Kitty.

Sarah froze. In a long, slow pivot from Kitty to Avery, her blazing eyes branded him her traitor. Then the sound, an injured animal's shrill heart-wrenching howl, filled the room. Without warning, her body pitched headlong. She began to convulse in movements that were as unnerving as they were unnatural.

Kitty stepped in briskly, saw the folded sheet on the entry bench, and seized it. Dropping down beside Sarah, she secured, in a few deft twists, Sarah's wildly flailing arms and stopped her hands from clawing at her eyes.

Avery, Charlotte, and Emilio stood rapt, trapped in place until Kitty looked up and ordered, “Call the doctor! Tell him we need an ambulance!”

“Go get Doc Mike,” Avery barked.
“Run!”
he added as together they flew out the open door.

Sarah continued to buck and groan on the floor, eyes rolled back to the whites, tongue like a separate thing trying to escape her mouth.

Avery dropped down opposite Kitty, unsure whether or where to touch Sarah to soothe her. “H-how did you know what to do?” he asked Kitty.

“Army nurse, remember? She's like a soldier in shell shock. Most important thing is to keep her from hurting herself. Stroke her hair. It might calm her.”

Avery did what he was told. “There, there, darlin',” he crooned, and it did seem to help settle her, some.

“Wes, when you said she wasn't well…” Kitty's face was flushed with remorse. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault; this has been…” He didn't have the words.

“I never would have…” Kitty's eyes darted toward the door. “Look, you need to stay right here. If she starts to get agitated again, keep her from rolling into the table.” She was rising to her feet, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

“Where are you going?”

“My car's blocking the drive. I-I'm going to move it…for the ambulance.”

“But I…” Avery looked from Sarah, who was keening and rocking side to side, to Kitty, who was halfway out the door.

“Stay with her, Wes. I'm sure the doctor's on his way.”

Through the open doorway, Avery heard her run to the car, open and slam the door, start the engine, slide it into reverse. Moments later he heard footsteps running up the drive. Charlotte, Emilio, and Martell burst into the room.

“How is she?” Charlotte demanded, breathless, eyes on her mother.

“A little better, I think.”

“Ambulance should be here shortly.” Martell was feeling for Sarah's pulse at the juncture of her neck and jaw.

“Where did Kitty go?” Emilio asked.

“Putting her car on the street,” Avery answered.

“No, she's not,” Steve announced from the doorway.

“She took off when we pulled up,” Lilly added. She reached out, touched Martell lightly on the shoulder. “I'm a nurse. How can I help?”

Sometime during the confusion that accompanied the arrival of the ambulance and Sarah's transfer by the paramedics to the gurney in the back, Charlotte, intent on going to the hospital, disappeared. She returned in jeans and a red Fighting Eagles sweatshirt. Emilio emerged from the powder room dressed for church.

It was Steve's idea that Lilly drive Avery and Charlotte to Florida San. “Ain't an ambulance driver alive who can lose or outrun her,” he said. Meanwhile, he volunteered to get Emilio to the church and to remain available for whatever was needed afterward.

The ride to the sanitarium in Lilly's Firebird passed in a blur. Avery kept his eyes glued on the shadowy movements of the paramedics barely visible through the ambulance's back window. At the emergency entrance, they unloaded Sarah swiftly and wheeled her through the double doors, directing Avery, Charlotte, and Lilly to the lobby.

The intake counter was buzzing with the news: “Y'all hear about Cuba? It's all over the radio.”

“Khrushchev backed down! He's pulling the missiles outta there!”

“Everybody's thrilled except Castro,” an orderly said. “Seems like he's the only one really
wanted
a war.”

“Oh, I'm certain there were others,” a nurse said grimly, “who'll live to fight another day.”

The world was saved—but somehow Sarah was lost, Avery thought. Would they ever get her back?

The next several hours were a haze of worry. After Lilly called her own hospital, and learned she was no longer needed at the coast, she took charge of Avery and Charlotte.

“You two sit here and hold on,” she told them gently. “I'm going to chat up the nurses, see if they'll check with the doctors, find out exactly what's going on back there.”

Although hard information was sparse, and delays overlong, she was a fountain of reassurance to their mounting concerns. “Sarah will be fine. You'll see. But unfortunately, this nerve business takes time. She's the patient, but you're the ones whose patience will be tested.”

When, at last, Martell emerged to introduce his friend, Dr. Jake Walton, head of the ward, they were told Sarah was sedated and resting comfortably. Martell urged them to go home.

But Avery resisted. “I have to see her. I need to be here, to explain, when she wakes up.”

“Oh, she won't be waking up anytime soon.” Dr. Walton shook his head. “And when she does, tomorrow maybe or the next day, we'll want her to remain calm.”

Lilly ushered them out the door and insisted on driving them through the Steak 'n Shake—“You may not feel like eating now, but you'll thank me later”—then drove them home.

Avery and Charlotte invited her in, but Lilly refused. “It's been a rough day; you two need some rest.”

Once inside the house, Avery discovered he “might be a bit hungry after all.”

Charlotte told him to sit down in his usual place at the dinette, while she unpacked the take-out burgers and fries and set out the chocolate shakes.

Unexpectedly ravenous, they blessed Lilly for her foresight and wolfed down their burgers. Afterward, Charlotte cleared the table then sat back down, hands clasped, eyes focused and unblinking.

“He was crying, Dad,” she said simply.

“Who?”

“Emilio. I heard him early this morning. He was sobbing. Worried sick over his family in Cuba.”

“You can't blame him for that.”