by Mary Robison
Phil said, “A lot of my life, as you know, has been spent kicking around, spinning my tires, and going from job to job, which was great, because I learned a hell of a lot about people. I found out about people involved in war—sick people, some of them, and healthy.…”
“Redheaded people and nonredheads,” Jackie said.
Phil went on. “This business with my brother-in-law in Chicago, for example. That got me squared around and I did him a lot of good, though I won’t see a damn lot of money from it. But I did see how you make money,” he said. “You make money with people, princess. And people take to me. They like me. And if being liked isn’t the whole war, it sure as hell is one big battle in the campaign.”
“Boy, this is good for a mix,” Jackie interrupted. He pointed at the cake with his flatware.
Phil kept going. His speech was rushed and urgent-sounding. “I haven’t got a lot of what they call liquid assets,” he said. “But I can read people like you two would read a book, and anything I’d want to get serious about, my people-reading talent would make me a success.
“I’ve got some things lined up for now and some for later,” he said. “Step One, though, is a vet friend of mine who’s in shipping and receiving for a big auto-parts warehouse and who’s going to get me a job as a dispatcher, which I could easily handle. That position opens up in a month or two, when the guy they got now retires.”
“In a month or two,” Jackie said. He rose and changed the Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross record for a Duke Ellington. He put the needle down on “Cottontail,” then sat again behind his coffee cup and plate.
Phil stopped talking and stared at Jackie and then at the record player. “Weird,” Phil said. He sort of shook his head and then went on some more. “Step Two is an idea I’ve had for a long time and which I hope to activate through a contact of mine at the Coca-Cola headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s so simple it’s genius. Dietary Popsicles. You got diet soda, which sells like mad, and you got fat people who suffer more than anyone else in the heat and who could eat a million of these Popsicles to cool down, and never gain an ounce. And it works. I know, because I put Tab and Fresca in my ice-cube trays, and they freeze and they still taste good.”
“I hope you don’t buy any of this,” Jackie said to me. He lifted his coffee cup, and its cork coaster stuck to the cup bottom.
“Naw, naw,” I said.
“You don’t?” Phil said, and looked puzzled.
Jackie and I waggled our heads in the negative.
“You say I lie?” Phil said.
“No, Phil,” Jackie said.
I sucked a breath. “It’s just that people, they don’t ever do what they don’t want to do. And they can’t ever be what they aren’t already.”
Jackie said, “The biggest favor you could do this baby, and its mom, is just to realize that.”
•
The sad thing was, it had been fun listening to Phil. There was great authority in his delivery. For an instant there I had wanted to be him, or at least his age, and have his ideas.
Anyway, his manner became rather formal and unnaturally polite. He suddenly offered to leave because of the “weekend traffic.”
“All right,” Jackie and I said in unison.
Phil stood, put a hand on his head, and smoothed the hair there. I noticed for the first time that day that he had shaved off his beard. He was wearing his pointed boots, beltless slacks, and a canary-colored Ban-Lon shirt. I remembered that these were not clothes he got into on Saturdays, as my dad might have. They were the clothes Phil wore. He loaded up his utility box and put it under his arm, and then he shook hands with Jackie.
“Thank you for the baby presents,” I said.
Phil said, “I’ll be around, almost certainly, tomorrow, princess, with a lot more stuff.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
We heard his car gunning off. Phil had tuned the engine to make a lot of noise.
Jackie paced for a minute or two, and then he said, “Thank God, thank God!”
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“All right, I will,” Jackie said. “Thank God you didn’t make Phil part of the family.”
“Halt,” I said. “Phil is very important to me. When he goes on like that, I don’t really mind.”
“Eleanor,” Jackie said, “he’s a wrong number. Something small and slimy that you throw back. God, what he says about your self-concept.”
“What does he say?”
“Nothing, except that you’re very, very bad off. I can’t explain it if you don’t already know.”
“The psychologist,” I said.
“Yeah, well,” Jackie said. He started pacing again.
“Look, I know I’m not smart,” I said. “I don’t particularly want to be smart. That’s the whole difference between us—I don’t torture myself by going around with people who are smart.”
“That’s right. That’s terrific,” Jackie said before I hurried out of the room.
From my high bed, I had a side-window view of a corner of the big cathedral. The church looked black and threatening, but very meaningful, to me. I decided I’d never move out of the Augusta. Phil would probably continue to come by for a while. Maybe Jackie would stay. Mrs. Dixon would come by, and eventually maybe she and I would have a nice conversation—or a meal together. Or not. There’d be another Mrs. Dixon, surely, if mine tired out. There’d be another Phil.
28
Sisters
RAY SNAPPED A TOMATO from a plant and chewed into its side. His niece, Melissa, was sitting in a swing that hung on chains from the arm of a walnut tree. She wore gauzy cotton pants and a twisted scarf across her breasts. Her hair was cropped and pleat-curled.
“Hey,” said Penny, Ray’s wife. She came up the grass in rubber thongs, carrying a rolled-up news magazine. “If you’re weeding, Ray, I can see milkweed and thistle and a dandelion and chickweed from here. I can see sumac.”
“You see good,” said Ray.
“I just had the nicest call from Sister Mary Clare,” Penny said. “She’ll be out to visit this evening.”
“Oh, boy,” Ray said. He spat a seed from the end of his tongue.
“Her name’s Lily,” Melissa said. “She’s my sister and she’s your niece, and we don’t have to call her Mary Clare. We can call her Lily.”
Penny stood in front of Melissa, obscuring Ray’s view of the girl’s top half—as if Ray hadn’t been seeing it all morning.
“What time is Lily coming?” Melissa asked.
“Don’t tell her,” Ray said to Penny. “She’ll disappear.”
“Give me that!” Melissa said. She grabbed Penny’s magazine and swatted at her uncle.
“Do you know a Dr. Streich?” Penny said, putting a hand on Melissa’s bare shoulder to settle her down. “He was a professor at your university, and there’s an article in that magazine about him.”
“No,” Melissa said. She righted herself in the swing.
“Well, I guess you might not know him,” Penny said. “He hasn’t been at your university for years, according to the article. He’s a geologist.”
“I don’t know him,” Melissa said.
Penny pulled a thread from a seam at her hip. “He’s pictured above the article,” she said.
“Blessed be Mary Clare,” Ray said. “Blessed be her holy name.”
Penny said, “I thought we’d all go out tonight.”
“You thought we’d go to the Wednesday Spaghetti Dinner at St. Anne’s,” Ray said, “and show Lily to Father Mulby.”
Penny knelt and brushed back some leaves on a head of white cabbage.
“I’d like to meet Father Mulby,” Melissa said.
“You wouldn’t,” said Ray. “Frank Mulby was a penitentiary warden before he was a priest. He was a club boxer before that. Years ago.”
Ray stuck the remainder of the tomato in his mouth and wiped the juice from his chin w
ith the heel of his right hand. “Ride over to the fire station with me,” he said to Melissa.
“Unh-unh, I don’t feel like it.” She got off the board seat and patted her bottom. “I don’t see what Mulby’s old jobs have to do with my wanting to meet him.”
“Why do you want to meet him?” Penny said. She was looking up at Melissa, shading her eyes with her hand.
“To ask him something,” Melissa said. “To clear something up.”
•
At the firehouse, two men in uniforms were playing pinochle and listening to Julie London over the radio.
“Gene. Dennis,” said Ray.
“What are you here for, Ray?” Dennis said. “You aren’t on today. Gene’s on, I’m on, those three spades waxing the ladder truck are on.” Dennis made a fan with his cards and pressed them on the tabletop.
“I’m supposed to be buying a bag of peat,” Ray said. “Only I don’t want to.” He went around Dennis and yanked open a refrigerator. Under the egg shelf there was taped a picture of a girl in cherry-colored panty hose. “I’m avoiding something,” he said. He pulled a Coca-Cola from a six-pack and shut the door. He sat down. “My niece is on the way. I’m avoiding her arrival.”
“The good one?” Gene said.
“The good one’s here already. I pushed her in the swing this morning until she got dizzy. This is the other one. The nun.” Ray held the can off and pulled the aluminum tab.
“Don’t bring her here,” Gene said. “I do not need that.”
“Whatever you do,” Dennis said.
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Ray.
“You can bring that Melissa again,” Dennis said.
“I wouldn’t do that, either. You all bored her.” Ray drank from the can.
A short black man came up the steps, holding a chamois cloth. His shirt and pants were drenched.
“Charlie,” Ray said, tucking his chin to swallow a belch. “Looking nice.”
“They got me with the sprinklers,” Charlie said. “They waited all morning to get me.”
“Well, they’ll do that,” Dennis said.
“I know it,” the black man said.
“Because they’re bored,” Ray said. He sat forward. “I ought to go set a fire and give them something to think about.”
“I wish you would,” Charlie said. He pulled off his shirt.
•
“Why the hell is he at the lead?” Melissa said. She was looking at Father Mulby, who wore an ankle cast. They were in the big basement hall at St. Anne’s, and the priest was carrying a cafeteria tray. Fifty or sixty people waited in line behind him to collect plates of spaghetti and bowls of salad.
“Lookit,” Ray said, “you and Sister Mary Clare find a seat and have a talk. Penny and I’ll fill some trays and bring them over.”
“No, no,” the nun said. “It feels good to stand. I’ve been sitting in a car all day.”
“Besides, we couldn’t think of anything to tell each other,” Melissa said.
“Melissa, there’s a lot I want to talk about with you.”
“I’m sure.”
“There is,” Sister said.
“Hey,” Ray said to Melissa, “just go grab us a good table if you want to sit down.”
“I do,” Melissa said. She left her place in line and followed Father Mulby, who had limped to the front of the room and was sitting down at one of the long tables there. She introduced herself and asked if she could join him.
“It’s reserved,” he said. “That seat’s reserved for Father Phaeton. Just move over to that side, please.” The priest indicated a chair across the table.
“O.K., O.K.,” Melissa said. “When he gets here, I’ll jump up.” She sat down anyway. Her long hair lifted from around her throat and waved in the cool exhaust of a window fan.
Father Mulby glanced across the room and lit a Camel over his spaghetti. “I guess I can’t start until everyone’s in place,” he said.
“That’ll be an hour,” Melissa said.
“Here’s Father Phaeton,” Mulby said.
Melissa changed sides. Ray and Sister Mary Clare joined them and sat down, with Melissa in between. Penny came last. She looked embarrassed to be carrying two trays, one loaded with silverware, napkins, and water glasses.
Ray passed the food and utensils around. “Someone will be bringing soft drinks,” he said to Melissa.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No,” Father Mulby said. “We don’t serve coffee anymore. The urns, and all.”
“I’d like to be excommunicated,” Melissa told him. “I want the thirteen candles dashed to the ground, or whatever, and I want a letter from Rome.”
“I don’t know,” the old priest said. He forked some salad lettuce into his mouth. “If you kick your sister or push me out of this chair onto the floor, I can excommunicate you.”
“What’s this about, Father?” said Sister Mary Clare.
“Nothing,” Ray said. “Just your sister.”
Melissa leaned toward him and said, “Blah, blah, blah.” She pushed her plate to one side. “I just have to hit Lily?” she asked Mulby.
“That would be plenty for me,” he said.
Ray said, “Eat something, Melissa. Act your age.”
“Don’t mind me,” she said, leaning over the table. She batted the priest’s eating hand. “Is that good enough?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mulby said.
Father Phaeton, a man with red hair and bad skin, asked Melissa to pass the Parmesan cheese.
“Ignore her, if you can, Father Mulby,” Ray said. “I’m sure it’s her blood week.”
“And the salt cellar, too,” Father Phaeton added.
Mulby jerked forward. His large hand closed down on Melissa’s wrist. “It’s not that,” he said to Ray. “I can tell that about a woman by holding her hand, and it’s not that.”
•
Penny was lying on the sofa at home. She had a folded washcloth across her forehead. Her eyes were pressed shut against the pain in her head, and tears ran over her cheekbones.
“It’s not necessarily a migraine,” Ray told her. He had drawn a wing chair up beside the sofa. “My head’s pounding, too. Could’ve been the food.”
“I don’t think church food could hurt anybody, Ray,” said Penny.
The nieces were sitting cross-legged on the rug. “Why not?” Sister Mary Clare said. “It’s not blessed or anything. I’ve been woozy ever since we ate, myself.”
“I just meant they’re so clean at St. Anne’s,” Penny said. “And none of you are sick like I am. Don’t try to convince yourselves you are.”
“I’m not sick,” Melissa said.
“You didn’t eat a mouthful,” Sister Mary Clare said. She exhaled and stood up.
“I wonder why you visit us every year, Melissa,” Penny said.
“Do you mind it?” Melissa asked. “If you do—”
“She doesn’t,” Ray said.
“No,” Penny said, “I don’t mind. I just wonder if you girls could find something to do outside for a bit.”
“Lily can push me in the swing,” Melissa said. “O.K., Lily?”
Penny said, “You should have talked to Father Phaeton, Melissa. They say he’s dissatisfied with the life.”
“That would have been the thing,” Ray said. He told his nieces, “Maybe I’ll go out back with you, so Penny can get better.”
Penny took his hand and squeezed it.
“Maybe I won’t,” he said. He turned the washcloth on his wife’s brow.
•
Sister Mary Clare stood in the moonlight by a tomato stake. She was fingering her rosary beads.
“Don’t be doing that,” Melissa said. She moved down to the end of the lawn, where it was bordered by a shallow stream. She bent over the water. In the moonlight, she saw a school of minnows swerve over a fold in the mud next to an old bike tire.
Sister Mary Clare followed Melissa and said, behind her, “I won’t be seeing you
again. I’m going into cloister.”
Melissa leaned against a tall tree. She dug her thumbnail into a bead of sweet gum on the bark.
“And I’m taking a vow of silence,” the nun said. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“I think it’s a good idea, and probably what you want. I’m glad.”
“If you care, I’m not very happy,” Sister said.
“You were never happy,” Melissa said. “The last time I saw you laughing was the day that swing broke. Remember that day?”
“Yes. Ray was in it when it went.”
Melissa smiled. “He used to pay me a quarter to sit on his lap and comb his hair.”
“I know,” Sister said. “He still would.”
Melissa hugged herself with her bare arms. “It won’t matter before long. I’m getting old.”
“So is Ray,” Sister said. “But he’s why you come here, I think.”
“So what? There aren’t many people I like, Lily.”
“Me neither.”
“Well, there you are,” Melissa said. “The miracle is, I keep having such a good time. It almost seems wrong.”
“You still do?”
“Every day,” Melissa said, heading back for the stream. “Such a wonderful time.”
29
Likely Lake
HIS DOORBELL RANG AND Buddy peered through the viewer at a woman in the courtyard. She had green eyes and straight black hair, cut sharply like a ’50s Keely Smith. He knew her. She did bookkeeping or something for the law partners next door, especially at tax times. He also remembered her from his wife’s yard sale, although that was a couple years ago and the wife was now his ex. She’d bought a jewelry case and a halogen lamp. He could picture her standing on the walk there—her nice legs and the spectator pumps she wore. She’d driven a white V.W. bug in those days. But it must have died because later he had noticed her arriving for work in cabs.
