Authors: Joyce Maynard
You hear about the guy they’re looking for that jumped out the window at the prison? the back-to-school shopper asked her friend. I can’t get his face out of my head.
He’s probably halfway to California by now.
They’ll get him eventually, the first one said. They always do.
The worst part is knowing a person like that has nothing to lose anymore, the other woman said. They’re going to do anything. Life, to a person like that, is worth about ten cents.
Her friend had more to offer, but I missed it. I had reached the front of the line now, paid my money, ran out with the groceries. For just a moment, I couldn’t find our car, then I spotted them. Frank had driven around the side of the building, where the Home Depot was. They had one of those swings made of cedar logs set up in the front, an end-of-season sale. The two of them were sitting in it, and he had his arm around her. The car was turned off, but with the key in the accessory position so the radio could still play, and the song was “Lady in Red.”
They didn’t notice I was back. I pointed out that we should get on home before the ice cream melted.
I
T WASN’T ALL THAT LATE
when we finished the pie, but I told them I was tired. I went up to my room and put on the fan. It was nine o’clock, but still hot enough that I took off all my clothes except my boxers, and put a single sheet over myself.
I had my issue of
Mad
magazine, but I had a hard time concentrating. I was thinking about the photograph of Frank on the front page of the newspaper that morning, and how the paper had sat there all day without one of us opening it to read the whole story. I knew from the headline there was a search going on, and that he’d killed someone, just not the particulars. In a funny way, it seemed rude to read about it, with him right there.
Downstairs, I could hear the murmur of their voices, and the sound of running water as they cleaned up, but not the words they were saying, and this would have been true even if the fan was not on high. Later, the voices said less, but there was mu
sic—an album my mother loved, Frank Sinatra singing ballads. Good dancing music, if a person knew what they were doing.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I was sleeping when I heard the sound of feet on the stairs. The night before, he had stayed on our couch, but this time, along with the familiar sound of my mother coming up, there was another footstep, heavier, and his low voice, that seemed to come from another whole place, somewhere deep and dark and still, like a cave or a swamp.
Still no words, just their two voices, and the hum of the fan, and from outside the open window, the sound of crickets, and a car on the road, though never as far as our driveway. Someone—probably Mr. Jervis—had a ball game on, that he must be listening to out in his yard because it was cooler there. Now and then I heard the sound of cheering and knew the Red Sox must have done something good.
Someone had run the shower, and the water had kept running for a long time, longer than any shower I ever took, so long for a moment I wondered if something had happened and I should get up and check to make sure we didn’t have a broken pipe, but another part of me knew not to. Moonlight was coming in the window now. Her bedroom door creaked open. Organ music from the ball game on the radio. The voices again. Whispering now. The only words I could make out:
I shaved for you
.
The place where my head lay, against the thin wall of my tiny room, backed up against the headboard of her bed, on the other side. Over the years, I would sometimes hear her voice as she slept—the kind of murmur a person makes in the middle of a dream. I must have been familiar with the sound her bedsprings made, or the winding of her alarm clock, and afterward, the ticking, but I had never thought about those things any more than I thought about the sound of my own heart beating. My room was close enough to hers that I could hear all these things,
hear the sigh she sometimes made drawing back the sheets, the sound of her water glass when she set it on the table, or the creak of the window when she opened it to get a breeze, as she did now. Hot night.
She must have heard the sounds from my room too, though this had never occurred to me before. Now I thought about the nights, recently, when I’d moved my hand over my unfamiliar new body, my breath becoming rapid, the short, low whoosh of air that escaped from my lips when it was over. Only now did I think about it, because now there was a voice on the other side of the wall, murmuring, and hers murmuring back. No longer even words. Sounds and breath, bodies moving, the slap of the headboard against wallboard, and then a single long cry, like a bird in the night who had spotted its mate, or a nesting loon when an eagle flies overhead. Distress call.
On the other side of the wall, hearing this, I felt my body stiffen. I lay that way for many minutes—ball game over now, voices in the next room stilled, with no sound but the whirring of the fan—until at last, not soon enough, I fell asleep.
S
ATURDAY
. W
HAT WOKE ME WAS
the sound of knocking on our door. I knew, from the smell of the coffee again, that Frank must be downstairs, but he couldn’t answer it, and I figured my mother would still be asleep. I ran downstairs in my pajamas and opened the door. Not all the way, just partly.
My mother’s friend from before, Evelyn, was standing on the front step—the first time she’d come to our house in almost a year, probably. The oversize stroller with Barry in it was a few inches below, on the cement walk leading up to the door. One look at Evelyn and you knew, she was in rough shape—that crazy perm of hers shooting out in all directions and her eyes sort of bloodshot. I knew, from all the hours I used to hear her talking to my mother, those times she came over, that Evelyn only slept a few hours every night.
I’ll tell you one thing, Adele, she used to say. Life’s no day at the beach.
I need to talk to your mom, she said. No need to ask if she was home. Even though we hadn’t seen her for months, Evelyn knew how it was here.
She’s sleeping. I had stepped outside, rather than invite her in, knowing Frank was there in the kitchen. Making French toast or something, from the smell of the butter on the pan.
I just got a call from my sister in Mass, she said. Our father had a stroke. I need to get down there.
This wouldn’t be a trip for Barry, she said. I was hoping your mother could look after him for the day. Both my regular sitters went away for the long weekend.
I looked behind her, toward her son. It had been a while since I’d seen him. He was bigger than I remembered, with a faint down of hair on his lip now. He was waving his arms, as if bugs were swarming around him, though they weren’t.
I packed a lunch for him, she said. His favorite foods. He’s had his breakfast and diaper change. Your mother wouldn’t have to do much. I could be back by dinnertime if I take off now.
Inside the house, I could hear the radio again, that classical station Frank favored. From the top of the stairs, my mother was calling down, Who is it? Then she was in the doorway too, still in her bathrobe. Her face had a softness to it. There was a mark on her neck. I wondered if he’d put one of the scarves on her again, too tight, but from the looks of her, she was OK. Just different.
It’s not the best timing, Evelyn, my mother said.
They’re not expecting my dad to hold on long, Evelyn told her.
Normally I wouldn’t think twice, my mother said. It’s just not a very good time right now.
My mother looked in the direction of the kitchen as she spoke. The smell of coffee. The sound of Frank, whistling.
I wouldn’t ask if I had other options, Evelyn said. You’re my one hope.
I want to help you, my mother said. It’s just hard.
I promise he’ll be good, Evelyn said.
Evelyn was smoothing down Barry’s hair as she talked. Remember Henry and his mom, Barry? And all the good times you two used to have?
OK, said my mother. I guess we could handle this. For a little while.
I owe you, Adele. Evelyn tipped the front two wheels on the stroller up onto the stoop, so for a second, Barry’s head seemed to be almost upside down. He made a noise a little like the ones I’d heard on the other side of the wall the night before. Just sounds, but maybe they were joyful. Hard to say.
Hey, Barry, I said. How’s it going?
I owe you, Adele, Evelyn said again. Anytime I can take Henry for you. (Like I was the equivalent of Barry. Like I’d ever want to spend a day at their house.)
I know you’re in a rush, Evelyn, my mother said. So don’t worry about anything else. We can get Barry’s chair inside. Henry’s really strong now.
I should get myself to the highway, Evelyn told her. The earlier I get on the road, the sooner I can get back. Put his chair in front of the TV and he’ll be happy. He loves cartoons. And then there’s the telethon. Jerry Lewis.
Don’t worry, my mother said. We’ll take him from here.
Back in the days when Evelyn and her son used to come over more, my mother used to say we needed to make our house handicap accessible, but then they stopped coming by and we
never did. Now we had to lift Barry’s special hi-tech chair up the steps and into the living room.
The chair, with Barry in it, was heavier than we expected. After Evelyn drove away, Frank came out from the kitchen. He lifted the chair right up off the ground and carried it into the house, but gently. He took care, when they got to the living room, that Barry didn’t hit his head on the sides of the door. After Frank set him down, he adjusted Barry’s head, which had flopped over to one side in transit.
Here you go, buddy, he said.
I turned on the set.
Through the passageway, into the kitchen, I saw Frank and my mother. His hand reaching to open a cupboard over the stove, brushing across her neck, as if by accident.
She looked at him.
Sleep well?
She just looked at him. You know the answer.
It was Frank who fed Barry his breakfast. Evelyn had told us he’d eaten already, but when he saw the French toast, he got excited, so Frank cut a couple of slices into small pieces for him. For the second time in a day and a half, he was feeding someone here, but with Barry it was different. When Frank had placed the spoon between my mother’s lips, the sight had seemed so intimate I had to look away.
After the meal was over, Frank carried Barry into the living room and set him and his chair in front of the television. His mother had put a windbreaker on him, and a cap, but we took these off. Already, though it wasn’t even seven thirty yet, the air was heavy with moisture and heat.
You know what I think you could use, buddy? Frank said. A nice cool sponge bath.
He had gotten a bowl out of the cupboard then and filled
it with ice cubes and a little water. He brought the bowl in the living room, along with a hand towel, that he dipped in the cold water before wringing it out.
He unbuttoned Barry’s shirt and drew the cloth over his smooth, hairless chest, his neck, his bony, birdlike shoulders. He drew the cloth over Barry’s face. The sound Barry made suggested he was happy. His head, that so often seemed to roll around with no particular pattern or connection to the rest of him, seemed more steady than usual, his eyes fixed on Frank’s face.
It’s got to feel hot in that chair, huh, buddy? Frank said. Maybe this afternoon I’ll carry you up to the tub, give you a real bath.
More noises from Barry. Joy.
On the front page of the paper, another story about record temperatures, anticipated traffic jams on the highway to the beach, danger of blackouts from overuse of air conditioners. But all we had was a fan.
I want to take a look at your leg, my mother said to Frank. Let’s see how it’s healing.
He rolled his pants leg up. The blood had dried along the cut place. In other circumstances, this would have been an injury that warranted stitches, but we all knew that wasn’t an option here.
The place on his head where the glass had slashed into his skin no longer looked alarming either. If it wasn’t for the place in his belly where they’d cut out his appendix, Frank said, he’d be splitting that wood for us. There was a satisfaction to be had in splitting wood, he said. Get all your anger out, in a way that didn’t hurt anyone.
What anger is that? I asked. I didn’t want it to be about me, something I’d done. I wanted him to like me, stay around. I already knew he liked my mother.
Oh, you know, he said. Late-season Red Sox. Every year, around this time, they start screwing up.
I didn’t think that was really it, but I didn’t say anything either.
Speaking of baseball, he said. Where’s that glove of yours? After I help your mother with a few chores, what do you say we throw around the ball a little?
Barry and I watched
Fantastic Four,
and
Scooby-Doo
. Normally my mother would never have let me watch so many cartoons, but this was a special situation. When
Smurfs
came on, I tried changing the channel to a less babyish show, but Barry started making a squealing noise, like a puppy when you step on its paw, so I let him watch that one. The show was just finishing when Frank came back down the stairs from wherever he’d been, helping my mother, to say he was in the mood for catch, how about it?
I told him I was terrible at sports, but Frank told me not to say those words. If you act like something’s too hard, it will be, he said. You got to believe it’s possible.
All those years in stir, he said. I never let myself believe I couldn’t get out. I just bided my time and thought positive. Looked for my opening. Made sure I’d be ready, when it came along.
None of us had brought up the topic of the escape until this. It surprised me that Frank would talk about it.
I didn’t know my appendix was going to be my ticket, he said. But I was ready for that window. I’d gone through it a million times already in my head. I’d worked out all my moves—the jump, and how to land it. I would have got it right, too, if there hadn’t been a stone under the grass, where I wasn’t counting on one. That’s what did my ankle in.