Authors: Callie Wright
I looked at the clock on the microwave—6:03. “Maybe he went to Teddy’s game,” I offered.
“No,” said Mom. “Remember? Apparently he’s meeting your coach.”
We waited half an hour, then Mom called Seedlings—no Mrs. Baxter. After four rings, her call rolled to voice mail. The phone at Klawson’s Hardware rang and rang.
It was the second time in as many weeks that Dad had skipped dinner, in spite of the household rule. Even Mom, who worked half an hour away, managed to carve out an hour for our family dinner, while Dad, who worked six blocks from here, was the one who’d made the rule.
“I guess we’ll leave a note,” said Mom. “He’s probably on his way.”
In the car, Mom crept along, pausing at intersections and scanning the sidewalks for Dad. Wispy clouds had gathered at the horizon, and the late-day sun cast an orange glow over the streets, pushing the shadows east. I watched the silhouette of our car rolling over the road, Mom’s head darkening the neighbors’ lawns on Susquehanna.
“Here’s Elm Street,” said Poppy. He’d pomaded his hair and run an electric razor over his white bristles. Nonz would’ve said how handsome he looked, but since she wasn’t here to see him, I didn’t think he looked handsome at all. “Here’s a mailbox,” he reported.
I cracked my window to drown him out but right away Poppy said he was cold and Mom told me to roll it up. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and wondered how I could use news of my exhibition match to see Sam.
At Gabriella’s, Mom dropped Poppy and me at the curb and told us to wait while she parked. Poppy hadn’t brought his walker, and he clung to my arm. It was like he’d completely forgotten he’d whacked me in the head two hours ago, and I tried to sidle away but he held on.
Jess greeted us warmly at the hostess station. “Obermeyers!” she said, draping her arm across my shoulder. “Welcome.” She brushed a corkscrew curl back from her face. “I see you ditched your brother tonight.”
“He’s at an away game,” I said. She smiled, displaying two rows of straight white teeth.
“Jess,” said Mom, “do you know my father, Bob Cole?”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said Jess. Poppy bowed slightly, the skin next to his eyes crinkling as his white eyebrows rose on his forehead.
Jess took three menus from the hostess stand and Poppy held out an arm to let her pass, then stepped behind her as if they were off to do the dip.
I didn’t move.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mom.
The way Poppy had insisted on combing his hair and putting on a jacket, like he had someone to impress; the way he’d refused to bring his walker, saying it would make him look bad; the way he hadn’t once mentioned Nonz since he’d moved in with us; and he hadn’t apologized for hitting me—I wanted to tell Mom what’d happened, but I thought maybe it was my fault, so I said nothing, only fell into line behind her, keeping a body between Poppy and me.
We filed past Mr. and Mrs. Henderson—my school nurse—sharing a bottle of red wine. Sometimes Mrs. Henderson let me lay on the cot for an hour or two without asking any questions. I waved and Mrs. Henderson waved back. Then Mom spotted someone she knew—an older couple I didn’t recognize, who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Nonz and how beautiful the service had been.
“This is my daughter, Julia,” said Mom. I slouched into her, the closest we’d come to a hug in ages. I could feel her collarbone pressing into my shoulder blade, her skirt button on my hip. She held my shoulders tightly with both hands.
At our table, I took my seat by the window with Mom opposite and Poppy in Teddy’s chair to my right. Jess started to clear Dad’s silverware but Mom said, “You can leave that—Mr. Obermeyer’s meeting us here.”
Jess nodded. “Chardonnay?” she asked.
“Please,” said Mom.
I ordered a Shirley Temple and Jess winked. Around Christmastime, she’d started making my Shirley Temples with champagne instead of ginger ale, a private present to me, since I was pretty sure Teddy’s Cokes were still virgin.
“Mr. Cole, can I bring you something?”
“Dewar’s,” said Poppy. “With a splash of water.”
“Dad,” Mom asked, “do you want me to read you the menu?”
“I think I have my glasses in here somewhere…” He burrowed for his reading glasses, first in his khakis, then in his cotton zipper jacket, plunging his hand into each of his pockets until he produced a pince-nez.
I looked out the window at a dusky, quiet Main Street. In two months there wouldn’t be a single free parking spot down here. Families of tourists wearing baseball caps and MLB jerseys would make the hajj in fleets of minivans, their windows soaped with the words
Cooperstown or bust
. Sometimes I’d get caught in one of their photographs—me trying to get an ice cream at the Red Nugget, them trying to get a shot of the Hall of Fame—and I’d imagine going off to the developer’s in whatever town, whatever state. In two years, Sam and I would be leaving for college, and it wasn’t nearly long enough. I closed my eyes and pictured his champagne mouth on mine, his liquid hands under my shirt.
“Hey,” said Mom.
I sat up, startled.
“I asked you how school was.”
I confessed right then to library detention—I needed her to sign the form for homeroom tomorrow, and with two glasses of wine under her belt, now was a good time.
Mom leaned forward and I slid down in my chair. “Why?” she asked.
“I threw an apple across the cafeteria.”
“Julia.” All disappointment and shock.
“I won’t do it again,” I promised, slurping through the straw.
Poppy read, “Mushroom and peco—”
“Pecorino,” I interrupted. “It’s cheese.”
“Rizzz…”
“Otto,” I finished. “It’s a rice thing.”
Poppy shook his head, moved his finger down the page. “Roasted half chicken,” he read. That was mine. With
pommes frites
. “Not for me, I don’t think.”
Mom rolled her eyes but didn’t engage. Instead, she lifted her empty glass to Jess; Jess pointed to me, and I nodded, too.
“Do you want to go ahead and order?” Jess asked when she returned with our drinks.
Mom checked her watch and handed her menu to Jess. “Filet mignon,” she said. “Medium rare.”
Jess turned to me; I nodded: chicken.
“Mr. Cole?” she asked.
“Let’s see,” said Poppy. “Where was I? Ah, here.” He removed his glasses and looked up. “How’s the lamb?” he asked.
“It’s great,” said Jess. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“Are you guaranteeing that?”
I looked at Mom, but she was staring off across the room.
“Yes,” said Jess. “Guaranteed.”
“And what’s behind this guarantee?” asked Poppy, holding the menu to his bony chest. “Money back? Free dessert? I was in insurance for forty years,
mademoiselle
, and a guarantee is a guarantee.”
“Poppy,” I said. “How about if it’s not good, you can tell us about it all the way home?” Then the Shirley Temple got hold of me and I shot my hands in the air, shaking and waving my arms, and shouted, “I GUARANTEE it!” Like the guy on the Forever Leather commercial? Only no one recognized it.
“Julia,” said Mom sharply, but I didn’t care—Jess was mine, and I was tired of sharing.
She left to put in our orders and no one spoke. I tried to make my second drink last by sipping through the straw and counting to ten between sips. The room was starting to spin and I couldn’t feel my shoulders. To steady my vision, I shut one eye and rotated my head, telescoping the room.
“Maybe we should call home,” said Mom.
“We haven’t eaten,” said Poppy.
“Call,”
I said, “Not
go
.”
“Relax,” said Mom.
I tossed my napkin on the table. “I’ll call,” I said.
I threaded through the dining hall to the hostess station, telling myself Dad would answer. Or better yet he’d walk in the door. But the light over Main Street had turned from orange to gray, and I knew he wasn’t coming. Dad was a note-leaver, a phone-homer, a check-inner, always modeling the behavior he expected from us, he liked to remind us. He was not careless, not forgetful. He just wasn’t here.
I dialed our number and held the receiver to my ear. After six tolls, the machine clicked on and I heard my voice telling me to leave a message. I pressed the flash button and dialed again, this time Sam’s mom’s number. Sam picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” I said. I could hear him chewing, potato chips or something. “What are you eating?”
“Cornflake catfish.”
“Perkins,” I said.
“Mayhi,” Sam agreed. “What’s up?”
“Can you pick me up in an hour?”
“Where are we going?”
I shrugged, but Sam couldn’t see it.
“Hello?”
“To play tennis.”
Sam gulped, liquid jogging in his throat. “We just played,” he said.
“I didn’t.”
“Fine,” said Sam. “The BASS’s ass will be there. Wait on the porch.”
* * *
When we came in from dinner 59 Susquehanna was all lit up, but Poppy announced he was exhausted, going to bed, and we let him go. I followed Mom back to the kitchen, where we found Teddy bent over the island, nursing a Stewart’s milk shake. The hips and knees of his gray baseball pants were dusted red, and his dirty stirrups were perched on the rungs of my stool.
I shoved Teddy to one side and sat. “Can I have a sip?” I asked.
“Don’t use my straw.” I forked off the top and took two gulps. “That’s enough,” said Teddy. I took one more gulp before he snatched it back.
“Have you seen your father?” asked Mom.
Teddy jerked his head toward the ceiling.
“He’s home?” I asked.
“Showering,” said Teddy with a mouthful of ice cream.
Mom kissed the top of Teddy’s head at the place where his part whipped into a cowlick. “Did you win?” she asked.
“Perfect game,” said Teddy.
“Fun,” said Mom, but Teddy was like,
No, Mom, a perfect game is a blah blah blah.
No one was listening, except, apparently, Dad, who came down the stairs just then, newly showered, and said, “What’s this about a perfect game?”
His hair was damp, his feet bare.
“What happened to you?” asked Mom.
“Nothing,” said Dad, frowning. “I was at work.”
“You didn’t pick up when I called.”
“When did you call?”
“Six thirty,” said Mom. “It went to voice mail.”
“I guess I didn’t hear it.” Then, “I left you a message.” Dad pointed to the machine. “I told you I’d be late.”
“Hugh,” said Mom, “it’s almost nine o’clock.”
Sam would be here any second. “I have to go,” I said, moving toward the staircase.
“I guess you heard Julia’s good news,” said Mom.
“No, what?” Dad turned to face me, lacing his hands behind his back: the undivided-attention pose.
“Tell him,” said Mom, and the desperation in her voice startled me, stopped me cold.
“I have an exhibition match,” I said.
Dad’s eyes flashed wide, then quickly narrowed into something like panic. “That’s fantastic, Jules,” he said, but his voice came out high and thin.
“That’s great,” said Teddy, missing everything. “You should treat it as a legitimate competition. Maybe if you win, your coach will put you on the team.”
“I’m surprised her coach didn’t tell you,” said Mom evenly. “At your meeting at the hardware store.”
Dad moved around behind me, pinning me between my parents. “I forgot about that, actually. Did he call here?”
“He came by,” said Mom. “To tell Julia about the match.”
Seconds passed, and the only sound in the room was the last of Teddy’s milk shake bubbling through his red straw. After a final slurp, he stood and placed one hand on the bottom of the cup and with the other cradled its side. “He pulls up,” Teddy announced. “He fakes.” It was like he was in a different kitchen with a different family. He launched the cup toward the open trash compactor and we heard it bang the side of the garbage, then bounce twice on the floor. Teddy thundered after it. “It’s a put-back,” he cried. “And the crowd goes wild!” He cupped his hands over his mouth and
ahhhhed
, cheering himself on. “The effort,” said Teddy, “the relentless effort,” heading now for the stairs. “He never gives up,” Teddy reminded us. “His focus is unparallel.”
I changed quickly, then went outside to wait for Sam. The moon was a pancake in the sky. I stood at the curb and looked back at our house, where the white porch rail was offset by the tidy green lawn. I closed one eye, trying to focus against the pull of champagne still bubbling around in my head. Upstairs, my parents’ bedroom was lit up, bright yellow, and I thought it was true that you couldn’t tell much about a family from the outside.
I heard the Badass Scirocco Scirocco before I saw its headlights and was standing in the street when Sam pulled up.
“You’re walking,” said Carl from the passenger’s seat. “Otherwise one of us has to get out.”
I knew right then the night wasn’t going to end well. My ticker-tape tally of Sam—a running log of his gestures and responses, glances and touches, where he sat, how he walked, who he talked to, where he looked, when he laughed; his whole self, his every move; his very Sam-ness in relation to me—took a hit for a loss, plummeting on the news that when I’d tried to put us in the same place at the same time, he’d brought Carl.
Sam opened his door and stepped out, pressing the lever to release the seat back. “I’ll get in back. You can practice your driving,” he said, taking my racket with him.
I settled in front, warm where Sam’s body had been. Behind me, his knees punched knots in my back and his breath puffed lightly on my neck.
“No Leaping Stall-Outs,” he cautioned. “You almost ended the BASS last time.”
I toyed with the gearshift. “Will someone put it in first for me?”
“Can’t,” said Carl. “You have to learn.”
So I stepped on the clutch and pushed the gearshift into what I hoped was first while Carl covered his mouth, trying not to laugh.
As we stuttered forward at about two miles per hour—a classic Shake and Bake—I caught sight of my brother stationed on our porch, standing sentry in his baseball uniform. What must we have looked like, goofing around in Sam’s car? Children, I figured. Carl snorting with laughter, in danger of drooling; Sam saying, “You’re in third, tardmore,” the deepness of his voice belying the puerility of his words. Even if Teddy had been listening, we were coming in on our own frequency, Radio Slitter.