Everything Beautiful in the World

by Lisa Levchuk

  “I was wondering something,” I begin. “Tell me if it is a stupid question, because it probably is a stupid question.”

  She looks at me and says that I can ask her a question.

  “Do you know anything about Limbo?”

  “Limbo is, I believe, the sort of halfway house for unbaptized souls,” she says. She doesn’t seem exactly sure, which worries me because you would think that a nun would be sure about something like Limbo.

  “What do you think is the worst sin that a person can commit?” I ask her.

  “I guess that would be a mortal sin,” she says.

  “Like murder,” I say.

  “Well,” she says, “more like premeditated murder. I don’t know about crimes of passion.”

  She is sitting there thinking about the questions, I can tell, but I’m starting to think that the black dress really is just a black dress and that she isn’t a nun at all.

  “Is there something special I should call you?” I ask her. “Do you go by Mother?”

  “Why would I do that?” she asks, surprised by the question.

  I feel like an idiot. Why in the hell did I think she was a nun? She must think I’m some kind of lunatic.

  “I thought you were a nun,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says, and laughs. “I got you with the cross.”

  “And the black clothes,” I say. “Minus the veil.”

  “Have you done something wrong?” she asks.

  “Well,” I say, both relieved and disappointed that she isn’t a nun. I simultaneously liked and feared the idea that, as a nun, she might have special powers of forgiveness. “I’m not exactly baptized and I didn’t visit my mother in the hospital. I visited her now, but today was the first time.” I leave out the stuff about Mr. Howland.

  “If there is a God, I doubt he would actually send people to Limbo,” she says.

  “Kids used to tell me that Limbo was for people without limbs, and it did scare me, but I don’t believe it anymore. I’m not exactly sure what I believe in terms of religion,” I tell her.

  “Faith is complicated,” she says.

  I keep waiting for her to try to convert me or something, but she doesn’t seem the least bit interested in saving my soul.

  “Do you believe in God?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she says. “I do.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” I tell her. “I wish I did.”

  I want to ask her opinion on what happens to people after they die, but I’m not sure I’ll get the kind of answer I’m looking for, so I don’t.

  I almost tell her that my mother might be dying, but I check myself because I’m getting tired of people feeling sorry for me about that. I keep my mouth shut and watch the smoking and stinking refineries outside the window. I used to call it the inside-out world because it looks like a factory was turned inside out, exposing all the stuff you aren’t supposed to see. I think that’s why I’ve always liked this part of the turnpike, because the real stuff is right there and you know what you are getting. It isn’t some glass building with a manicured lawn or a painting hanging on a cream-colored wall; it is the pipes and smoke and steam and fire. It is the truth, and I like that.

  We finally exit the turnpike for the parkway, leaving behind the refineries and the other signs of industry. After a short stretch on the parkway, we get on Route 9 and make about four thousand stops. We don’t miss one crappy town. I turn back to the woman next to me, who seems to have just woken up, and she says hello again.

  “Were you asleep?” I ask her.

  “I think so,” she says. “Did we pass Lakewood?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Are you still worried about Limbo?”

  “Not so much,” I tell her.

  “Rotten things happen,” she says. “No need to take it on yourself.”

  “I do that sometimes.”

  “I bet you do. Is your mother very sick?” she asks.

  “Pretty sick,” I say. “She slept through most of my visit.”

  “Well, I hope she feels better soon.”

  “Me, too.”

  By the time we finish our conversation, the bus is wheeling around the turn into the station.

  “Nice meeting you,” I say, though I realize that I didn’t meet her.

  “You, too,” she says. “And don’t worry so much.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  My Father

  I GET OFF THE BUS thinking that I am glad to be away from New York City. It is a short walk to my father’s law office, but I take my time because the sun is starting to go down and the colors are very beautiful. There is a chance that I am in deep trouble for running away, but on second thought, it probably doesn’t matter to anyone after all. As I approach my father’s office, I see Karl somewhat slumped over on the side steps and then I see my father standing on the porch. I suddenly get a terrible feeling that my worst fears are about to come true—visiting my mother has caused something terrible to happen to her. My dad waves his arm as if to call me over to him, and I realize if I go to him he might tell me something I can’t hear right now. So I run. That is what I do. I run the other way about as fast as I can. My father is yelling my name, but I won’t turn around. There is no way that I am going to turn around ever again.

  I don’t have a plan, but I do know that I intend to keep going no matter what. I turn down Cottage Street and run past the church where I didn’t get baptized but that my parents took me to every now and then. I loop around back to Main Street and put my thumb out for a ride; despite the fact that I have never hitchhiked, I am not the least bit afraid of what could happen. A boy who looks maybe a year older than me pulls over in a wrecked-up Celica, a car as old as Mr. Howland’s but not nearly as nicely kept. Also quite different from Mr. Howland is that the song playing on the tape deck is “Blinded by the Light,” a song by the Boss himself off Greetings from Asbury Park. Normally a cautious person, I decide pretty quickly that this boy isn’t going to drive me out to Goose Pond and murder me and chop me up in a million pieces and throw my parts into the swamp for kids to ice-skate on when the pond freezes. I would describe him as the boy version of me.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  Not having a destination in mind, I settle on the pharmacy. A freezing cold dose of Emory might not be the worst thing right now.

  “Farmington,” I tell him. “You know that strip mall where the pharmacy and the Cumberland Farms is? I work there and I’m late for my shift.”

  “I live up that way,” he says.

  This means that he must have money, even though he drives a wrecked-up beater. All the people who live in Farmington have money, whereas most of the people who live in my town don’t have money. My father is one of the few people I know who has a lot of money. I wish I could show this kid my car so he could see how nice it is.

  “Where do you work?” he asks.

  “Farmington Pharmacy. Do you ever go there?”

  “Not really,” he says. “I think I’ve been in there once or twice with my mother.”

  “A lot of people’s mothers go there,” I say. I don’t mention that Emory is having affairs with most of them.

  The kid’s face is pretty handsome, I must say. But he is too big for this car. He has to bend his neck to fit into the driver’s seat. He is also extremely thin; his legs are skinnier than mine. He’s wearing moccasins, and that is how I know for sure that he doesn’t go to my school, because no one in my school wears anything other than work boots or sneakers, except for Mr. Howland, of course, who wears Italian loafers, or at least he says they are Italian loafers.

  “Where do you go to school?” I ask.

  “Christian Brothers,” he says.

  It occurs to me that he might be able to solve the mystery of Limbo if I ask him, but I don’t feel like opening that can of worms again.

  “What’s your name?”

  “John,” he says.

  “I’m Edna,” I tell him.


  “That’s a weird name,” he says. He doesn’t say it meanly. He says it like it’s a name he hasn’t heard much before. “It’s sort of old-fashioned.”

  “I was named after my mother’s best friend. She died in a car crash.”

  For most of the conversation we are sitting at a traffic light right in the center of town. It is somewhat awkward, more awkward when I tell him that I am named after a dead woman who wrapped her car around a tree. I’m worried that my father is going to start looking for me, so I make sure I’m slumped down in my seat. It won’t be dark for a while yet.

  “Believe me,” I say, “I don’t exactly love having an old-lady name.”

  John laughs a nice laugh that sounds like a snort. He has a really beautiful smile. His teeth are straight and white, like mine.

  “Have you ever been to the Moon?” I’m wondering if I’ve ever seen this kid before.

  “The Moon? Do you mean like space?”

  “No,” I say, “that place out by Goose Pond where people hang out. They just call it the Moon because it has craters.”

  “I don’t think so,” he says.

  The funny part is I would have sworn that he was the kid looking at me that night at the Moon, the kid I snubbed.

  “Where do you go to school?” John inquires.

  I tell him.

  “Wow,” he says.

  “What?”

  “That’s supposed to be a tough place. We played you guys in basketball, and after we beat you we had to be escorted out to the bus for our safety.”

  “That sounds about right,” I say.

  I don’t tell him that Barbie and I volunteered to be the statisticians for the basketball team, and that we both used to enjoy watching our team start fights. It was the best part of the game. Every season we would go through a period when we weren’t even allowed to have fans—only the teams, coaches, and the all-important statisticians could attend.

  “Have you ever heard a song about a guy who is trying to save a prostitute named Roxanne?” I ask him.

  “You mean that Police song?” he says.

  “Is that who sings it?”

  “Yeah,” he says, “they’re really good. The whole album is good.”

  I make a mental note to buy that album.

  We get to the fancy strip mall in Farmington and he pulls up to the pharmacy door. I’m not really sure why I chose this as a destination, but I figure it is probably as good as anywhere, given the circumstances.

  “Hey,” he says, “I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but are you dating anyone?”

  I may be paranoid, but I think he is looking at my Mr. Howland bracelet.

  “Why? Did you want to go out with me?”

  I blurt the question out so fast that he almost misses it. It is an alarming moment for me, because I had no idea I was going to suggest that he take me out. On the one hand, it seems like a perfectly normal thing, but on the other hand, my life is feeling rather complicated and even this small interaction feels kind of scary. The weirdest part is that my eyes are welling up with tears.

  “Actually, I was about to ask you to a movie next Friday,” he says.

  “Okay,” I answer. “I could go to a movie.”

  “Do you want to give me your phone number or something?” he asks.

  I’m wondering why this moment feels stranger than having sex with my art teacher; a simple request for a phone number from a pretty handsome guy seems like a normal teenage thing.

  So I tell him my phone number and he tells me that he is going to call me. I jump out of the car like it is going to explode and run to the door of the pharmacy. When I look back, he’s still sitting there and he waves at me. He continues to look pretty good, but I know my mind can change.

  Work

  IT IS A RELIEF to be where things seem like they always seem. Emory is smiling and talking to someone’s mom over the pharmacy counter. Dale is doing a complex task that I probably never will master, and the temperature is slightly above freezing. I walk down the aisle where we stock the most expensive toothbrushes in the world. Emory sees me and gets a perplexed expression on his face. As I said before, his steady consumption of vodka and V8 doesn’t keep him from staying on top of the schedule and other mundane things pretty well. In fact, other than his repeated car wrecks, there is very little sign that he is perpetually buzzed.

  “What in the world are you doing here on a Friday night when you are not on the schedule?” Emory asks.

  “Are you sure I’m not working?” I ask.

  “Go have a look.”

  I walk into the office where Emory keeps the insulin refrigerator and I’m tempted to take out one of the brown medicine bottles filled with vodka, but I resist that urge and instead look up at the schedule that Mrs. Mooney, the assistant pharmacist, who I never see because she only works in the morning, makes each week. Naturally, my name is not on the schedule for today. I am surprised because I had almost convinced myself it would be there. It occurs to me I could write my name in since I don’t feel like going home, but it would be obvious, because Mrs. Mooney’s handwriting is about a thousand times neater than mine. Emory comes back while I am studying the schedule.

  “What are you really doing here?” he asks.

  Emory is exhibiting his spooky sixth sense about me. As I wonder what to say, I decide I would like to stay in the pharmacy for the rest of my life. Everything I would need to live is right here. There is water and milk and instant coffee and crackers and candy and cigarettes and all the Pepto-Bismol I could ever need in case of my stomach sickness. There is a stereo and a refrigerator and, for the times when I need a sense of accomplishment, the vacuum cleaner. There are vitamins and pens and paper and even tennis balls. What need would there be for me to leave?

  “I am a fugitive,” I tell Emory.

  “Smiley, what in the good Lord’s name are you talking about?” he asks.

  “I ran away from my class trip.”

  “You did what?”

  “I took off from New York without my class. I took the bus back, and then I hitchhiked here. I think my mother might have died.”

  I didn’t expect myself to say that last part. But it is what I’ve been thinking since I saw my father looking so wrecked outside his office. Again I feel the tears coming on, and I stuff them back down my throat. It is clear that Emory doesn’t have any idea what to say to me. Because I am not a woman he is trying to seduce and not one of his freakish family members, he doesn’t know how to communicate with me. I’m supposed to be wisecracking Smiley, the girl with no problems. He looks at me with a serious expression.

  “You could do me a favor,” he says.

  “Okay.” I’m relieved that Emory has a task for me.

  “Take these pills over to Button Up Milton on Main Street.”

  Emory calls the pharmacist in my town Button Up Milton because other than the fact that his name is Milton, he wears those old-fashioned pharmacy shoes with buttons on them, not the fancy suede bucks that Emory wears. He hands me a white paper bag with a note stapled to the top.

  “Take my car,” he says.

  The thought of driving Emory’s car isn’t exactly appealing, but I don’t have many options.

  Outside, I examine the car. One of the headlights is smashed in, and the trunk lid is held down with a bungee cord. I climb in and sink into the plush red driver’s seat. On the inside, it looks like a perfectly normal car. You’d never know how many accidents it had been in. I adjust the seat so that I can see over the large red dashboard.

  This other pharmacy is only about ten minutes away. When I push the button for the radio, I figure that Elvis Presley is bound to be singing, but the radio is set to the same light FM station we listen to in the pharmacy. Exiting the parking lot, I go in the opposite direction from my destination, heading out toward the mall. As I approach Mr. Howland’s house, I slow down. There are no cars behind me, so I can really crawl. Mrs. Howland’s car is in the driveway, and there are still clo
thes scattered around below the upstairs window. I see a blue blazer hanging off an azalea bush. The glass on the picture of Paul Gauguin working in the bank is cracked down the front. There are some of Mr. Howland’s drawings propped up against a willow tree. I think about taking the Paul Gauguin poster, but I resist when I remember the story my mother liked so much. I think about the trouble that woman got in for robbing the scarecrow, and my new goal is to try to avoid this kind of trouble as much as possible. Just for laughs, I pull farther into the Howlands’ driveway, safe in the anonymity of Emory’s death car. As I turn the car around, I yell “Take ’em!” as loud as I can out the window.

  A few miles down the highway, I glance over at the graveyard that I’ve passed about a zillion times. My fear of death is great, and I have never once had the urge to enter a cemetery. But this time, I decide to look for my brother’s grave.

  I park Emory’s car under a tree and begin wandering around. It is amazing how many dead people there are in this cemetery. I find a gravestone, a kid-size gravestone, but it is for a girl who died when she was a baby. She only lived about a week and didn’t even have a name yet. As I wander, it dawns on me that I will never find my brother’s grave; I don’t even know if I am in the right graveyard. I sit down on a cool patch of new grass and watch some people putting flowers on a freshly dug plot. Normally, I’d get an attack of hypochondria or something in this situation, but I find myself feeling pretty good. There are flowers popping up through the ground all over the place.

  When I get back into Emory’s car, I open the sunroof and search the dial trying to find any Elvis Presley song I can. My car likes George Thorogood, and it seems to me Emory’s car would want to hear some Elvis. I drop off the bag of pills with Button Up Milton and marvel at the seriousness of this other pharmacy. The official shoes and the official coat that Button Up Milton is wearing make me feel like I’m in a pharmacy from the past, the kind of pharmacy that existed before the 1960s, back when things seemed more organized and less chaotic. But even if Emory is the kind of guy who keeps vodka in the insulin refrigerator and puts shoe polish in his hair and jacks up prices and sleeps with customers, he seems a much better boss for me to have than Button Up Milton.