Any Day Now (7 page)

“Poor old guys,” said Jackie.

“She still asks me every time she sees me, ‘Been to mass lately?' Like it's the only thing that makes a person a good person, you know?”

“Ma doesn't even ask any more,” Jackie said, moving down his body, lips to skin. “Still,” and she stopped for a moment, “She's come through more than I expected. With Joey.” Jackie had hardly spoken about Joey since that first night. And he hadn't brought it up. Why, when it only seemed to bring her down? “She even babysits more than before. Though it's pretty much shattered her little
mémé
ideas about how kids are supposed to be.”

“Hey,” she added softly, sitting up to look at him, “I've got a confession.” His heart stopped. It was too soon. “My real name's Jacinthe. I hate it.”

He laughed, relieved. “Benoit,” he said and put out his hand.

“That's my dad's name,” she said. “Don't make me cry.”

And because it was all moving too fast, he started singing. It was the only song that was right there available to him, though he thought later he might have gone too far with the bare-your-heart lyrics: “But the love that I've found ever since you've been around has put me on the top of the world.”

Maybe, she said when she slipped out at 3:00 a.m., maybe they could drive up to Drummondville some weekend. “Explore our roots, you know?”

But the next night they couldn't even make it as far as the bar: babysitting snag. Her mother had to visit a cousin in the hospital and Joey's dad wasn't answering his phone and even the friend from the bar, Lise, wasn't free.

“Bring him along,” said Ben.

“It's a bar,” she laughed.

“Well, tomorrow then. We'll find something kid-appropriate.” He couldn't avoid the boy forever and it did look as if they were going to be a thing for a while. And maybe it would even do Joey some good having a man around, and be good for Jackie, too, just a bit of relief, another adult, someone to count on, and it was time to take some responsibility. Dayna always said he was grown, but not grown up. Ben was working himself up while trying to work himself down. The kid was on meds of some kind to keep him manageable, Jackie said, and he was nine, for chrissake.

A new A&W was having its grand opening in West Springfield on Saturday and Jackie thought Joey might enjoy the first day's hoopla. “He likes balloons,” she said. “And he's crazy for burgers.”

Ben arrived first and nabbed a table. Orange and black balloons covered the ceiling, black and orange crêpe paper dangled from the on-the-wall menus. Still it didn't look as garish as the A&Ws of his youth. One wall was covered in a sepia and pale-orange photo of a sixties drive-in — such innocent days! — when he was too little to know the difference between Coke and root beer, between anything really. A girl behind the counter kept looking at him expectantly.

They were late. Ben was almost ready to call Jackie at home when he saw her in the parking lot. She was hunched over something on the just-poured asphalt. He couldn't see what exactly because her back blocked his view, and then he saw a stocky boy — looking closer to twelve than nine — straighten up, dart away and run around the car.

From Jackie's outstretched arms Ben could read her exasperation. He left his sweater on the table and went outside. The boy came running straight for him, but then he streaked past and ran to the door. Jackie came up, walking quickly. There was a different set to her face, everything on alert.

“Double and triple shit,” she said. “He's having one of his days.”

“It's OK,” he said, and she looked at him, doubtful, hopeful. They went inside. Joey was sitting at the table Ben had been sitting at.

“Hey, how did you know this was exactly the table I was saving for us?” Ben asked. The boy looked at him. He didn't look anything like Jackie, except maybe in the colour of his eyes and hair. He had a large, mobile, nearly plastic face: sweet one second, menacing the next.

“Hey, dumbhead, I'm smart, that's how,” he said.

“Joey,” Jackie said to him in a low voice. “That is no way to speak to another person, especially an adult.”

“OK, dumbhead, whatever you say, dumbhead.”

And then it was silent, Joey studying Ben, Jackie watching Joey, Ben trying to breathe and smile and look pleasantly at them both.

“So, what's it gonna be?” Ben asked. “Your mom says you love burgers.” But Joey had begun to drum his hands on the table, softly at first, then so hard and so loud that people at the next table turned to look at them.

“Stop that, Joey,” Jackie said. The boy didn't, closed his eyes, tilted back his head. Drummed, drummed.

“I said stop that, or I'm going to take you home.”

Joey lowered the volume, but kept rapping.

“Why don't you go up and order for us?” she said to Ben. “OK? Can you do that? Will you do that?”

“OK,” Ben said.

“Joey and I are going to go to the bathroom. I know he has to go.”

“He can't go by himself?” Ben asked.

Jackie looked hesitantly at Joey. “The last time we were in a restaurant, he went all over the bathroom floor.”

Joey stopped rapping, looking defiantly at Ben. “I was real mad,” he said. “She's a bitch.”

“That's a terrible thing to say to your mother,” said Ben, and Jackie shot him a warning look.

“She's gonna pay for telling,” Joey said.

“OK,” Ben said. And he got up to go to the counter and Joey and Jackie moved toward the restrooms at the back. Ben watched as Joey stopped dead and Jackie tugged at him. When they finally made it to the women's room, Ben looked up to consider his choices. Sure, he thought. We can do this. There was a Papa Burger, a Mama Burger and a Teen Burger. He almost laughed at the cartoon faces that went with each: Mom wore a pillbox hat, Dad was bald and benign. The teen was an apple-cheeked lad with freckles. There was even a Grandpa Burger — Gramps looking just like Dad, except he was all white. This was the biggest burger on the menu, a triple-decker, as if one had earned the right to gorge by making it this far in life.

The girl behind the counter was waiting for him as she'd been since he'd walked in. “May I take your order now?” she asked.

The door to the bathroom was closed, but he could hear protesting voices. No, he thought. We can't do this. “Sorry,” he said to the girl and turned and walked out of the restaurant and got into his car and backed out. He turned onto the street. He tried not to imagine Jackie's face when she came out of the bathroom. Tried not to imagine the scene Joey would now kick up. God, she deserved better.

“Feel equal to high and splendid braveries.” The quote Dayna had taped to her computer came back like old catechism. It had still been there on the stick-it note when he'd packed it up for her. Well, now he knew: He wasn't equal to such things. His hands shook on the wheel, but he didn't turn back.

Things had slowed down for Suzanne, way down. We stood in the entryway to her Beaches home — me holding the foil-covered lasagne, the one my mother always made for indisposed friends, Suzanne leaning against the leaded windows, not quite inviting me in.

I commented on her seeming serenity, how good she looked, considering. (Should I take the pan into the kitchen, put it on the counter? She was making no move to take it from me. Did she
see
it?)

“That's what losing a husband will do to you,” she said and smiled so fully I wondered if she was on something. Then the smile vaporized, leaving something in its place it would take me weeks to forget and the rest of the visit to describe to myself. Something like...

She
was
looking good. Lean in a low-cut black leotard and tight black jeans, black flats like ballet slippers. Funeral wardrobe by Danskin. Suzanne had always been pretty in a clean, blonde, Anglo-Saxon sort of way, but now she looked more complicated, beautiful even. I felt a jab of jealousy. My husband, Jerome — a keen observer of women and their changes — would note how tragedy had redefined her. He would say,
Now
she has become interesting. The old, old feeling came whispering back.

Then I remembered and felt terrible. Young husband. Cancer of the colon that went everywhere. Three kids. And one of the girls was trouble before any of this, my son had told me. Socialization problems, special schools.

I attempted to balance the pan — lasagne is not light — on my forearms. There was nothing in the entryway but an empty umbrella stand and a disconnected Hoover. I could see the kitchen from here. Suzanne followed my eyes around her house, but still made no move. And then I saw it: a wasp hovering behind her head, nearly banging itself against the window. A wasp! It was late October. Through the glass I also saw two cats, one black, one white, creep out from bushes and stare each other down.

“It happened so fast,” said Suzanne.

Fast? Her husband had been dying for more than a year and a half. Fast was my brother, Pete, flying off his motorcycle two years ago and dying in the ambulance. Hands in his leather gloves, head butting the wind, new boots a little tight in the instep, ten minutes before.

The wasp was doing strange things. It wasn't flying or buzzing, just continuing to hover near Suzanne's head. “Did he know…” I began, but Suzanne was already nodding. She'd probably been asked everything in the past month, hundreds of well-intentioned, backed-into, outrageous questions. (“Had you made love recently?” “What was the last thing he ate?”)

“Oh, yes, he knew,” she said, still nodding. “He was ready, and — ” that straight-through-me look again — “he was trying to get me ready.” Something like, something like…

“How? What was he saying? What was he doing?” I heard myself ask in the overly concerned tone I use when I'm really working at things, and I wondered as I'd wondered all morning, as I'd boiled the noodles and sautéed the garlic and steamed the spinach, whom exactly I was doing this for. Suzanne and Jerome were the ones who played in the orchestra together. And as far as I knew, Jerome hadn't done a thing for Suzanne since she'd lost her husband, other than show up five minutes late for the funeral. We'd met the husband exactly twice: symphony picnic and last year's Nutcracker party. A real family man, everyone said. A real pity.

“Do you know what he told me the day before he died? Of course, I didn't
know
it was going to be his last day,” Suzanne said, looking for a moment pissed as hell. “He said, ‘I want you to promise me you'll go out and buy the kids really nice shoes for my funeral. I don't want them walking into St. Boniface's in running shoes.'”

For some reason, my eyes filled at this, and the wasp began trying to wedge itself into the joint of the window, the place where the leading met the wood. I'd never seen a wasp in a vertical position before. I'd never seen a wasp this close. I tried not to cry. Shoes, goddamn shoes.

“Suzanne,” I said. “There's a wasp behind your head.” And Suzanne turned, more slowly than I'd ever seen anyone turn their head at alarming news. It took years for her to turn her head.

“It's dying,” she said. And we watched together as the wasp, again and again, tried to find the right angle, the right place, a microscopic place, to put itself.

A tall boy came in. “Hi,” I said.

“Look, it's dying,” said Suzanne and pointed.

The boy, sweetly handsome, hair flat in places, sprouting in others, came close.

“It's dying,” Suzanne said.

“Yick,” said the boy and left.

“It must be hard for them,” I said.

“A lot of people feel sorry for us. But I don't,” Suzanne said, still staring at the window. She was watching the cats, too, now cavorting on the neighbour's walkway. But her real attention was, like mine, on the wasp. It hadn't died yet. This might take all afternoon, I thought, and felt panic at the possibility of being locked in this entryway for hours with my lasagne and this fierce stranger.

“Because you had so much?” I murmured. “With Grant? As a family?” Talk about backed-into questions. I had no idea what I was talking about.

“Still
have!”
she corrected, looking as if she'd like to kill me.

Galvanized at last, I extended the lasagne, my leaden offering. But she was back on the wasp, the cats as sideshow. For the next five minutes we stood and watched the wasp in the window. One wing twitched. The other vibrated softly. The butting became nudging, became rocking. But it did not become peace. I thought I heard music. A piano. Chopin or maybe Scarlatti.

“Someone's practising,” I said. “One of the kids?”

“No,” said Suzanne.

It felt like the end now. For blessed seconds no part moved.

“Please also thank Jerry for me,” said Suzanne, speaking to the window.

“Jerry?” I said.

“For the basket. Remember? The kids loved the chocolates,” she said.

“I'm glad,” I said, madly reviewing all my acts of kindness in the past weeks and not finding this one. I had sent no basket.

“And all the notes and e-mails,” she said. “Jerry's such a sensitive man.” And now she turned so I could see that, yes, her face had become exquisite through irredeemable loss.

The wasp died as my own heart petered out. Still, it didn't fall to the ground, held against the glass perhaps by the sheer will to not be forgotten just yet.

“It's dead,” she informed me. “I'll take that.”

I put the pan in her hands.

“Tell Jerry I'll give him a call when I'm more myself,” she said. “And really, thank you,” she added, looking at me with something that registered almost as warmth. It was then that I saw the triumph beneath everything else. (I'm still here! I haven't died!) “People have been so kind,” said Suzanne.

I let myself out the front door, my arms light as wings.