“Very funny, Mac.” She pulled two books from her locker and slammed it shut. She started to walk away. Mac grabbed her arm.
“Cory, I think the note is awful. But I’ve heard crap like that my whole life, and you can’t let it get to you. Then they win.”
“You should be angry.”
“Who the hell says I’m not?” They froze as their words slammed into each other. People passing in the hall turned and looked at them.
Tony whistled. “You two sound like Sash and me. Must be love.”
The warning bell rang and Cory and Mac resumed breathing. “See you at lunch?” she asked.
“No. I have to start an extra-credit project in English. After the last test I’m desperate.”
“Which means,” said Tony, “he has slipped to a B-minus.”
“I’m leaving after fifth period. I’ll call you from my brother’s, okay?”
“If you want to.”
Tony tugged on Mac’s arm. “Say good-bye and let’s get to lab.”
Cory turned the other direction. Mac stopped her.
“Please don’t get mad at me because you’re hating someone else. They win that way, too. Promise?”
His glasses had slipped. Cory tapped her own nose to signal, and he pushed them up. “I promise,” she said.
The next morning another white triangle was jammed into the door frame of her locker. Cory pulled it loose and unfolded it carefully, as if she expected filth to spill onto her hands.
Indians carry diseases.
Whores should be prepared.
She crumpled the paper and dropped it into her bag. She spun the lock around until it clicked and released. When she pulled open the gray door she felt something spill out and fall on her feet. People around her laughed. A mound of condom packets covered her shoes.
“Hey, I want some!” a voice called. Cory, forcing herself to crack through the anger and embarrassment, finally moved. She reached down, picked up a handful, and threw them with all the force she could muster. She did not scream.
*
“At least they weren’t used,” said Sasha.
“Ha ha,” said Cory. She twisted the phone cord around her wrist. Sasha had been sick that day and had missed school. As soon as Cory reached home in the afternoon, she had called her with the story.
“But this is good because now we can figure out who’s harassing you. All we have to do is track down who’s been buying a lot of condoms. Who has your locker combination?”
“You.”
“No way, Cory K.”
“He probably just slipped them through the vents. It must have taken a long time. There are forty-three, not including the ones I threw down the hall. Evidently he has a favorite brand because they’re all the same: Mighty Max, multicolored.
“Forty-three! What would that many cost?”
“I have no idea, Sasha.”
“Do you still have them?”
Cory scooped up a handful of the foil squares. “Right here on the kitchen table.”
“What did you tell your parents, that it was homework?”
“I haven’t told them anything. They went to Wausau to the doctor and aren’t back yet.”
“Is something wrong?”
“A low fever that won’t go away. It could be nothing, it could be serious.”
“In case it’s serious, here’s some advice: don’t leave the condoms on the table. Your mother’s heart couldn’t handle it.”
After saying good-bye, Cory remained seated at the table and absently arranged the condoms in lines and circles. What would Mac say about this? She was glad he hadn’t been there when she opened her locker. The embarrassment could have been fatal. As she debated how to tell him, the phone rang, and she smiled as she picked it up. She had thought of the perfect joke.
Mike’s greeting was immediately chilling. They should have been returning home by now.
“Her doctor put her into the hospital for the night.”
“Only a night?”
“I hope so, but he said that they might have to transfer her to Minneapolis to the transplant unit. He’s worried she can’t wait much longer. If there’s no heart to harvest they’ll have to put in an artificial one. He thinks an infection has set in, which could indicate organ failure.”
With a mad mental dash, Cory recalled the heart specialist’s warnings about infections: a weak heart is prone to bacteria, the bacteria weakens it further, the other organs don’t get the blood they need, and the resulting organ failure, gone unchecked, is fatal.
“I’ll come tonight.”
“There’s no need. Wait until tomorrow. Then we’ll know more. Please let Rob know what’s going on. We’re in Room 257 if he wants to call.”
“Okay.” She pictured Rob upon hearing the news: any room he was in would suddenly be too small.
“Is everything there all right?” Mike asked.
She looked at the condoms. “Just fine. Everything’s fine.”
She called and left a message with her brother’s wife. Then she cleared the table, sweeping the condoms into a bag. She took that to her room and had just finished stuffing it into the crowded sweater drawer of her bureau when the phone rang again. This time it was Mac.
In their rush to share news about his brother and her mother, she forgot about the surprise in her locker. Mac was especially concerned about her mother.
“I don’t know if I should be here or there,” he said. “With my brother or with you.”
“You’ll be home soon.”
“Home? I guess so. Yeah, I’ll be home soon.”
That night Cory slept in the rollaway bed. It had the faint smell of perfume. She watched the fire burn low, and just before the last flame sank into embers she reached up, tapped the dream catcher, and sent it spinning.
*
Cory skipped school the next morning and drove to Wausau. At five past nine she pushed open the door to Room 257, nodded to her mother’s roommate, and walked to the far bed. It was empty.
“They took her to intensive care at about seven-thirty,” the roommate said.
Cory turned and raced out. Her mother’s room was filled with busy white coats. One of them redirected Cory to the door.
“I’m her daughter,” she protested.
“I’m her doctor,” the coat said. “You must wait outside.”
Cory found Mike in the lounge. “I skipped school,” she said. “I just knew I should be here.” He rubbed his unshaven face. She wondered if he’d heard her.
“Overnight,” he said. “Overnight she turns blue and yellow. Blue from bad circulation, yellow from liver failure. That fast.” Cory took his hand and they waited.
At eleven-seventeen, Margaret Knutson died of massive organ failure. When the doctor came to Cory’s and Mike’s chairs, kneeled, and told them, Cory checked her watch. Study hall. Her mother had died during study hall.
8
Cory grabbed a handful of cloth and held her skirt down against her thigh. Twice already the wind had made it billow up, lifting the hem nearly to her chest and flashing the slip. If the minister didn’t finish soon, they’d all be blown out of the cemetery.
Other women were also having trouble. Cory bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing when she spotted one of the nursing home residents struggling with the wind. The woman’s left hand was slapped against shiny black dress folds that threatened to balloon, while her right hand pinned a large hat to her head. A black purse swung from the raised hand and rhythmically batted the woman’s face, nudging her glasses farther and farther out of place across the bridge of her nose. Finally, the woman gambled: she swiped her hand down and repositioned the glasses, then returned her hand to her head. The purse swung wildly with the sudden movement and knocked off her glasses.
The hat had already blown askew and was held precariously in place over her left ear by a single hatpin.
Cory turned to look elsewhere. The minister, drowned out by the wind, was saying something, a soundless intonation over the casket. It could likely be heard only in the Upper Peninsula. Probably more prayers, more blessings, more kind and hopeful words about her mother’s soul. The minister had quite a lot to say about Margaret Knutson, though she had never met the woman. The local pastor was vacationing in Hawaii, and Mike had arranged for a substitute from another town. Cory released her bite and breathed deeply. Just get through it, she chanted silently. Just get through it. Once again she felt close to crying; once again she vowed she would not.
Mac had known she wouldn’t want to cry, not in front of all the people. He had called every night from his brother’s new place to see how she was doing. Yesterday he had offered again to return in time for the service.
“You’re sweet, Mac,” she’d replied. “But you don’t have to. There are almost too many people around right now. Rob and his wife and Mike’s kids and their families. I’ll see you in school on Monday.”
“Here’s a suggestion,” he said, “because I know you won’t want to cry with all those people watching. You’d rather die first.”
“Bad joke, Mac.”
“Sorry, unintended. Okay—when you think you can’t fight it anymore just look at the priest—”
“Pastor. When we’re anything, we’re Lutheran.”
“Whatever. Just look at him and imagine he’s doing the service wearing nothing but bikini briefs. It’ll work. No way you can cry.”
Women ministers were still uncommon around Summer, and Cory hadn’t expected one today. Too bad Mac wasn’t there to enjoy following his own advice. The fresh wave of grief subsided and Cory smirked through the remainder of the interment service. Twice the minister caught her eye and returned Cory’s grin with a puzzled smile.
As soon as the final blessing was spoken, people turned and walked away. The March wind was cold and the prayers had gone on too long. Cory didn’t linger either; she would come back soon on her own.
Alicia was walking hesitantly over the crusty snow toward the nursing home van. Cory caught up with her and took the woman’s arm. Alicia smiled down at her. “Thank you, dear. This ground is treacherous.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Those of us who are still ambulatory never miss a funeral. And we did so care for your mother. Terrible day for a burial, though. The wind is nasty. I saw you try not to laugh when Winnie’s hat nearly blew away. I told her not to wear a hat.”
“Are you coming over to the house? Everyone’s invited, and there’s a ton of food.”
“I think not. Church and a tramp through the snow are more than enough activity for us. Besides, it’s almost time for afternoon medications. We can’t miss our pills. We might up and die.”
A nursing home aide was smoking a cigarette by the van, and he flicked it into the snow as they approached. “Time to go back,” he said. “You’re the last one.”
Alicia looked at Cory. The old woman’s purple lips curved into a slight smile. “All these funerals. It sometimes feels like I
will
be the last one.” She kissed Cory. “She was too young. I wish it had been me.” Alicia waved away the aide and climbed by herself into the van. She sat down and stared straight ahead.
“Cory!”
She traced the call and saw Sasha and Tony waving from his car. She walked toward them, stopping several times to accept condolences and shake hands.
“Oh, man,” she said to her friends when she finally reached them, “I’m starting to get depressed.”
Sasha and Tony smiled at each other. “We thought so,” said Sasha. “We have the remedy. Get in the car and we’ll take you back to the house.”
Cory looked for Mike and spotted him walking away from the gravesite. He had one arm around Rob and was holding his youngest grandchild in the other. She waved to catch his attention, then signaled her intention to leave with her friends. He lifted his arm from her brother and blew a kiss in reply.
Sasha followed Cory into the back seat. “That’s right, leave me alone up here,” said Tony as he started the car and drove away. “I don’t get to drink and I sit all alone.”
“Drink?” asked Cory. “Who’s drinking?”
Sasha lifted aside a blanket on the floor to reveal a six-pack of beer. “We are. Pop a cold one.” She twisted a can loose and handed it to Cory.
Cory rolled the sweaty can in her hands. “I don’t do this.”
“Neither do I. I don’t even know what the stuff tastes like. But…” Sasha’s voice cracked, and Cory looked at her. Tears were running down her cheeks. “But my best friend buried her mom today, and I didn’t know what to do to make anything seem better.” She wiped off the tears and snapped open her beer. “I was never taught to pray.”
Cory snapped open her own beer and took a long drink. She liked it better as more went down.
Tony took them on a slow and meandering two-beer drive to Cory’s house. By the time they arrived, cars had already filled the driveway and lined the side of the road that led to the house. Tony dropped them off and drove away to find a parking spot.
“Hold me up,” said Cory.
“Nobody gets drunk on two beers,” said Sasha. “Just remember that.”
Mike opened the door. “It’s about time.”
Cory nodded. She didn’t want to speak. He would know, instantly.
“Where have you been? People want to see you.”