Snow Angels (7 page)

“Please,” she said. “I don't want you moping around here all night. Just don't get into any trouble.”

“I won't,” I said.

“Don't,” she said.

“I
won't.”

We looked at each other, standing by our answers.

“Do you know why we're doing this?” she asked me, and pointed around to the bare walls.

“Because we don't have enough money without Dad,” I said, trying my best.

“Because your father won't forgive me for something I did.”

I did not, at that moment, want to know what that something was. I wanted Warren's mother to pull into the driveway and honk her horn for me.

“I don't expect you to understand any of this,” my mother said, “but I think you should know this isn't my doing or your father's doing but both of our doing. I know what we're doing to you and your sister isn't right, but this is what we've both decided to do.” She took a sip of scotch and gritted her teeth, lit a cigarette and blew a quick jet of smoke. “I was in love with a man. Your father can't forgive me that—not that he's perfect on that score. He's seeing someone and has been for some time. Don't think I'm the only villain in this.”

“You're not a villain,” I said, but dazed, the way a fighter being clubbed against the ropes paws blindly, hoping to tie up his opponent.

My mother put up both her hands for me to be quiet.

“I was in love with a man who didn't even like me.
Isn't that sad? At least some of the women your father loved loved him back. I was in love by myself. It was stupid. There was nothing I could do one way or the other.” She took a bite of her Clark bar. Standing above her, I could see the waxy white line of her part and the gray mixed into her dark roots. She sniffled and cleared her throat. Much too late, the Hardestys' Bonneville turned into our drive, the headlights floating ghostly across the ceiling. “Have you heard enough?”

“I guess,” I said.

“You guess.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don't ever become a woman,” my mother said. She stood up shakily and embraced me. She wasn't crying, she just smelled drunk. “Promise me.”

“I won't,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Now go get stoned with your little friend what's-his-name and don't break any windows.”

Mrs. Hardesty let us off in front of Emily Britain—the school that had sponsored the dance—and we walked through the masked, clutching couples and out the fire door into the pleasing anonymity of the dark.

“Let's break shit,” I said.

“Fuckin A,” Warren said.

The next morning my father came over driving my
Aunt Ida's clunky old Nova. It was a salt-rotted '65 that sat on its rear axle like a crippled dog. In our garage my father had once refurbished a Triumph TR3 which he later sold to help pay for Astrid's braces, and to see him in my aunt's rattletrap was a shock, as if he too were falling apart.

“It's mine now,” he admitted.

“You can't be serious,” my mother said.

“I needed something and she wanted to get rid of it.”

“Don't blame this on me,” she said.

“I'm not,” he said. “It'll fix up. It'll be a perfect car for winter. I'll get something in spring. It's not like I'm going anywhere.”

“That's true,” my mother said.

We did a final reconnaissance of the house, discovering a thermometer stuck by a suction cup to the kitchen window and a plunger for the downstairs toilet that my mother said we could leave. It was a sunny day and the light cut the bare rooms into pieces.

“It looks good,” my father said at the door, but my mother didn't let him linger. She closed and locked it and let the screen spank shut.

“Arthur,” she said, “can you direct your father?”

It did not take long. We had everything we could fit into the apartment in by noon. The few pieces that didn't make it—the kitchen ensemble, two overstuffed
chairs from the rec room, Astrid's bed and desk—we dropped off at a U-Store, my mother draping them with old sheets as if the tiny tin cube were a disused room of a mansion. We made sure we had the key, then rolled down the corrugated door.

Beyond a few children staring at us as my father took off, our neighbors were not interested in us. The super, an older woman in a hunting jacket with a quilted shoulder, came by around five to see if everything was all right. For dinner my mother ordered pizza, which she said we really couldn't afford to do anymore.

“Here we are,” she toasted with her free Coke.

“To Foxwood,” I said.

We drank, but afterward my mother stared into the greasy box too long. She saw that I'd caught her and smiled.

“It doesn't seem real yet,” she said. “It feels like a motel, like we're on vacation. I keep thinking we're going to go home.”

“So do I,” I said.

“But we're not,” she said, trying to be cheery for me. “We're here. This is it.”

“I don't mind it.”

“Of course you do,” my mother said. “Don't be an idiot.”

Monday I waited with the Raybern sisters, kicking
at the gravel. They introduced themselves by saying, “You're new.” We had been in the same grade for a full year yet they didn't seem to recognize me, let alone know my name.

“Where are you from?” one of them said—Lila, I think. She had cat's-eye glasses and a narrow jaw; her teeth were surprisingly perfect.

“I'm from here,” I said. “I've lived here my entire life.”

“Not here here,” said the other one, Lily. She had the same glasses and big eyes and teeth, but her slump was worse, making her look shorter.

“Butler here,” I said. “I'm in Mrs. Reese's homeroom.”

We stood there as the wind pushed the birches, making them creak and tilt like masts. Though it was only a mile from our house, the land seemed wild and foreign, a place I might get lost in.

“Oh, Mrs. Reese,” Lila said, suddenly brightening. “I know Mrs. Reese.”

“Is she the one with the leg?” Lily asked, thinking of Mr. Donnelly, who had a prosthetic foot.

“No,” Lila said, “she's the one with the face,” which, while accurate, was cruel. Mrs. Reese had had a stroke and the right side of her face was paralyzed.

“What time,” I asked, “does the bus usually get here?”

“Late,” they both said.

When I got on, the whole bus was laughing.

I don't remember much of the day. Warren and I probably got stoned and cut study hall; Monday morning was a good time to hang around by Marsden's Pond because only the diehards were out. I ate lunch in the cafeteria—a grilled cheese, corn, a block of Jell-O and two chocolate milks for sixty-five cents. In the afternoon I had music, which I never missed, and then it was time to go home again.

I sat in back by the emergency door with Warren and the rest of my friends. The Raybern sisters were up front on the right side, Lila on the aisle. Warren was recounting the plot of last night's “Banacek,” a football player disappearing from under a pileup. We were all trying to figure out how they'd pulled off the stunt when the driver, Mr. Millhauser, stopped in front of what was now my old house. He reached out and yanked the handle and the door squeaked open.

Instinctively I reached for my case and my bookbag, then remembered. I suppose no one had told him. Our name was still on the mailbox; there was even a
Pennysaver
lying in the drive.

“Arthur?” Mr. Millhauser said, looking up at his mirror.

My friends—all except Warren—looked to me to see what was up. The other kids in the bus were either
whispering or completely quiet. Some were from Lake Vue. I wondered how many knew, and how many right now were guessing. I thought maybe I should just get out and pretend I was going in and then, when the bus was gone, hitch a ride or walk cross-country to Fox-wood.

“Arthur Parkinson?” Mr. Millhauser called.

I looked at the dried swipes of mud under the seat in front of me, the bolts holding it to the floor.

“He doesn't live there anymore,” Warren said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He's got a new place.”

“Arthur?” Mr. Millhauser asked, as if this might be a joke.

I looked up, ready to tell him the truth, but when I tried to speak my voice caught in my throat. I could only nod. In front, Lila Raybern leaned across the aisle and, hiding her mouth behind a hand, said something to Mr. Millhauser. He closed the door and drove.

A
T THE LAST MINUTE
Annie chooses the new Burger Hut up by the high school. It's cheap, none of her friends work there, and it saves her the trip into town. When she calls—from her mother's, since this is for
her benefit—Glenn offers to drive them. He can get his father's car if she doesn't like the truck.

Why don't they meet there, she says, it'll be easier. She doesn't expect any trouble, but if something goes wrong she wants to be able to leave.

“Is that what you're wearing?” her mother asks, meaning her jeans, her black leather jacket hanging in the hall.

“It's the Burger Hut, Ma.”

“I'm sure Glenn will have on something nice.”

“It's not a date,” Annie says. “It's just lunch.”

“He's trying. Doesn't that mean anything to you? I'd think you'd be happy for him.”

“So he has a job. I have a job
and
I take care of Tara.”

“I've heard all of this before,” her mother says. She takes a loaf of white from the tin on the counter and starts making a salami sandwich for Tara.

“I don't want to get your hopes up,” Annie says. Or mine.

“Just be nice this once.”

“I'm always nice,” Annie says. “That's my problem.”

Her mother calls Tara in to eat, lays the plate on the table and sits down. Tara lifts the top slice to see what's inside—just mayo, her mother knows how she likes it.

“He is trying.”

“Will you stop?” Annie says.

Watching Tara is making her hungry. She takes her purse upstairs and checks her face in the bathroom mirror. She looks tired from working last night, puffy. She finds a jar of Noxzema and runs some water, towels off and goes through her makeup case. In the mirror she draws her eyes on, grits her teeth to see how white. It'll do. She tries on two pairs of earrings, decides against them and brushes her hair. She pulls it back with both hands, a rubber band at the ready between her teeth, then lets it fall and spread. Glenn likes it long. Selfishly, she thinks she needs to get it cut.

Downstairs May notices Annie's new face, secretly pleased. As much as Annie complains, she hasn't been the same without Glenn; everyone says so.

As she's getting ready to leave, Tara starts squalling at the table. “I want to see Daddy, I want to see Daddy.” She kicks and cries, making waves in her milk. Annie tries to calm her, though they both know it won't do any good. Tara is screaming now, her face purple, and when Annie reaches for a napkin to wipe her nose, the cuff of her jacket catches Tara's glass and tips it over. The milk pours onto Tara's lap, spatters the chair, Annie's cowboy boots, the floor.

“You little shit,” Annie hisses, and grabs Tara by
the shoulders. She swings Tara out of the chair and stands her against the oven, banging her head on the handle. May wants to stop her but, stunned, can't move. She's never ready for Annie's temper; it reminds her of Charles that one time, lunging across the table to get Dennis. But Charles had a reason and Dennis was grown, though like Tara he didn't dare strike back, did not even defend himself. The milk drips. Tara wails, choking on her sobs. “Cut it out,” Annie hollers, squatting to look her in the eye, and when she doesn't, smacks her on the bottom. “What is your problem? Why are you giving me such a hard time?”

“It's all right,” May says, blotting the mess. Her face is hot, as if she's the one being yelled at, and because she has let this happen, she does feel guilty. Charles never hit her. “You go. I can handle Tara.”

“I want you to apologize,” Annie demands, but Tara can't stop crying. “God damn you.”

“It's just a spill,” May says.

“It's just a spill,” Annie mimics. “Every day it's a spill. My whole life is a fucking spill.”

May comes around the table, trying to calm her down. “It was an accident.”

“It's always an accident,” Annie says, hard, and looks at May as if daring her to hit her. May had been about to touch her on the shoulder, but her hand stops
in midair between them. Annie turns and stalks out of the room and out of the house, leaving the front door wide open, the cold reaching May and Tara in the kitchen.

“It's all right,” May says. “Mommy's not angry at you.

Still standing against the oven, Tara heaves and gulps. May gathers her into her skirt. “It's all right,” she says. “We'll have some lunch and we'll feel better.” She gets her into her booster seat and waits until she's eating again to close the front door. When she comes back, Tara's eyes are red but she's driving her sandwich around the edge of her plate like a train.

“Woo-woo,” she says.

“Woo-woo you,” May says. “Eat your lunch.”

Glenn gets there early, in his Sunday clothes except no tie. He's arranged to take the day off even though he's only begun his thirty-day probation. He's been in this Burger Hut before, but years ago, when it was a Winky's. To him, the real Burger Hut is downtown, across from the parking lot where everyone still hangs out. He and Annie used to end up there after a movie at the Penn. It has a counter and a grill and you have to elbow your way through. This one's typical fast food, a
row of swabbed yellow tables like gym equipment between the window booths. The one he sits down at has salt all over it. He takes a napkin and scatters it, makes sure her seat is clean. The place is relatively empty. Pairs of women have drifted over from the shopping plaza, a couple clumps of kids from the high school, a fat man in a suit and tie having two coffees with his meal. Outside a yellow Midas truck grinds by. Glenn checks his watch and looks at the draft from the traffic keeping leaves afloat over the road. His father's Fury sits in the lot, newly washed this morning, and he wonders if Bomber has enough water. His mother says he's crazy if he thinks Annie's going to take him back. His father understands that he has to at least try.