There goes that smile. Damn it. Here she is wearing the face of a wild woman, having just played through her mind all the hassle of getting a new bank card, after spending the past ten minutes fuming and sweating. Of course it’s him. And he is lit up with that look that says she’s wonderful anyway.
No, of course not. There must be another reason for all that hope in his eyes, something that has nothing to do with her. He must have come straight from the school, which probably let out a few minutes ago. He’s just glad that the day’s over.
“Hey, Jodie, how are you?”
“Oh, same as always—trying to get shopping out of the way.”
He is four years younger than Mack, two years younger than she is. Full, blond head of hair, tawny, long-fingered hands. He places one of them on the truck fender, the other in the pocket of his jacket, a tan suede that gathers at his slim waist. “I usually get here right at suppertime,” he says, “when everybody else discovers that there’s nothing at home to eat.”
“I try to avoid that time of day—too dangerous.” She laughs.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“No. Everything’s loaded.”
His eyes linger on her for just a moment longer. “Do you ever get a break?”
She is startled by such a frank question and decides to treat it lightly. “A break—what’s that?” She laughs a little and hopes he’ll stop looking at her so intently. He smiles and finally shifts his gaze to the fender and his hand on it.
Jodie tries to bring the conversation to conclusion. “I’m fine—just a busy day—you know, shopping day.”
“Good. I hope you stay fine.” He reaches for the empty cart and pulls it away from her. “I’ll just grab this.”
“Go ahead.”
“Nice to see you, Jodie.”
“You too.” She watches him turn and wheel the cart toward the store entrance. He’s still smiling. She calls after him, “Watch out for those moms with toddlers.”
He laughs into the wind and waves back at her.
In the silence of the truck cab, she allows herself to sigh. Her heart stays revved up as she drives across the parking lot. The afternoon is as dark and chill as evening, thanks to a cold front that blows in atop a dense bank of clouds. Jodie takes the east entrance so that she can cut over to the filling station on the next street. After that stop, she drives the few miles back to Beulah and takes the street that cuts straight through the town, then turns off of it to drive past Rita’s, sees the car gone, and so doesn’t stop. Her mother-in-law is likely at some neighbor’s administering medicine or a meal. Much of the time she’s not home, but Jodie and Mack both drive by anyway, a habit so entrenched that their vehicles would take that route even with no one at the wheel.
The only stop after that is the post office, and when she finds their box empty she remembers that Mack has resumed this duty; the post office lies on his route home from Hendrikson’s. “Well, gee, I guess I can finally go home now.” She talks to herself a lot, certain that it helps her maintain a sense of humor. By now she is over the adrenaline rush from both the lost ATM card and the Terry encounter. She is ready to go home and arrange the groceries in her cupboards, an action that involves order and thus some comfort.
She is almost past the old town square when a patrol car slowly turns the corner and passes her. Stan the deputy is looking toward the band gazebo that stands near the center of the little park. Jodie follows the direction of his gaze and sees several kids around the gazebo. In the same moment she categorizes them as high school students, she sees Young Taylor sitting on the gazebo steps. She has to look twice to be sure, because he and two other kids are in black garb and dyed hair. But her son’s stance is unmistakable. The kid standing closest to him is a girl in black fishnet hose, leather boots, tattooed arms that are bare to the weather, and enough eye makeup for the entire senior class. She and Young Taylor are smoking while the third member of their party exchanges words with several boys who stand near the sidewalk, a pickup parked at the curb behind them.
Jodie rolls down the window to hear what the kids are saying. It’s too windy to hear words, but it’s clear that the conversation is hostile. Jodie watches the patrol car pull a U-turn and head toward the truck. She pulls into a parking spot in front of the pharmacy, which puts her on the side of the square that’s to the left of Young Taylor and his friends. She turns in the seat to watch. The boy in black takes a few steps toward the ones by the vehicle. By now Jodie has recognized all but one of the kids. They’re just students, not known for trouble. She trains her gaze upon Young Taylor, hoping that he stays seated. Stan gets out of the patrol car and walks up to the group on the sidewalk.
There are raised voices, still unintelligible, and arms pointing back and forth between the kids at the curb and the boy in black. Stan walks closer to him, and Young Taylor rises from his place on the gazebo steps.
“No, just stay there.” Jodie’s words whisper out the open window and are absorbed into the wind. Above the little park, ancient oak branches sway in slow motion. Jodie is ready to jump out of the truck and prevent Young Taylor from tangling with Stan. But he and the officer never get closer than ten yards or so. Young Taylor is talking but in that offhand way of his, not making direct eye contact, hunching his shoulders and drawing on the cigarette. The boys on the sidewalk have moved closer, but Stan turns and walks back toward them, and they slowly back up and get in the truck.
Then Stan turns and shouts something at Young Taylor, the girl, and the other boy. He shouts not in anger but to be heard over the weather. Still, Jodie can detect the sternness in his voice. He takes a few steps toward the three and motions them out of the park. Then Young Taylor begins to argue, raising his arms in protest and finally looking at the officer.
“Taylor, just keep your mouth shut.” Jodie’s hands grasp the handle of the truck door. Just as she’s ready to go intervene, Young Taylor and his crew stride quickly across the bare lawn and away from Stan. Stan watches them for a moment, and Jodie is sure that he sees the finger that Young Taylor flips in his direction. She holds her breath. “Just let it go, Stan, please.” Stan gets in the patrol car and backs into the street. He drives in the opposite direction the kids are walking, but he watches a few more moments before continuing his rounds.
Her heart is racing again. The events of her afternoon clash, and she can’t make sense of their sequence. She wishes right then that Terry would walk up to the truck and sit in the cab with her. They could talk about these troublesome kids. He’s a teacher, and she’s a mother. She knows that she won’t go home to Mack and tell him what she has just seen. She won’t tell him about Terry in the parking lot. She won’t even mention the missing ATM card. All of these things that make her catch her breath must remain in her heart and roam only in her thoughts.
She wants to drive to the other side of the square and catch up with Young Taylor, order him to get his butt in the cab and explain himself to her. She wants to look more closely at this trashy girl he’s hanging out with—she thinks it’s Lydia Streeter, a sophomore. And the other kid is Kyle something or other. But right now she’s afraid to come upon the three of them together. She’s never been afraid of her own kid before. He’s never looked so sinister before either. Maybe Rita’s fears about drugs and so forth are well founded. Maybe it’s time to do something more forceful with Young Taylor, like forbid him to wear freaky clothing or to spend time with these friends. How do you do that with a seventeen-year-old who is taller than you are?
It is four o’clock by the time she’s on the last mile to home. Her radio is on, and she sings some forgotten song about devotion, about the blood of Jesus and the rescue of those who are perishing. She’s forgotten the verses, but she joins in on every chorus.
Mack
He feels worse all through dinner. He is sure that the kids and Jodie are talking over and around him. Everything that comes up in the conversation is a topic of which he is nearly ignorant. He has to ke
ep asking questions. They answer and then just go on talking.
“Mom, I’m skipping supper tomorrow,” Kenzie says when she gets up from the table.
“You’ll be somewhere?”
“Not really.”
“She’s fasting,” Young Taylor says, tapping his fork against the knife that crosses his plate. “Aren’t you, Kenzie?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you?” Jodie asks. Kenzie glares at Young Taylor.
“It’s all right if you are, I just want to know where you’re going to be.”
“With friends probably, at the church.”
“But, you know, fasting doesn’t count if people know about it. You’re supposed to do that stuff in secret.” Young Taylor pretends concern, raising eyebrows at his sister.
“Just cool it.” Jodie takes the fork from his hand and gathers his plate and other silverware.
“You’re not trying to lose weight, are you, Kenz?” Mack tries to catch his daughter’s eyes. She seems distressed at all this attention. “No, Dad, we just fast so we can pray together. Christians have been doing it for centuries. Jesus talked about it. It’s not so weird, there just aren’t many people who do it anymore.”
When they get ready for bed a few hours later, Mack sits on the chair and takes off his boots. He sighs loudly, as a signal, then says, “I’m going to talk with Kenzie about all this church business. Or maybe I should talk with that youth pastor or whoever he is.”
Jodie twists from the open closet door and frowns at him. “Why would you do that?”
“She spends all her time at the church! That’s not normal, even for a religious kid. She’s going overboard with this stuff—like kids that end up in cults, led by maniacs who convince them to wait for flying saucers or to poison themselves.”
“Mack, there is nothing bad going on here. I can remember going through a real religious spell when I was about Kenzie’s age, and she went through some sort of experience a few months ago, when she went to the revival over at the Baptist church with some of her friends. She really went through something, and we have to respect that. She’ll be fine.”
“Religion is okay in regular doses, but when a kid that age is so wrapped up in it, it’s some sort of escape.” He turns to point a finger at Jodie. “And a church leader who encourages kids to spend all their time praying or fasting or whatever is taking advantage in some way. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
“No. You can’t do that. This is Kenzie’s thing, and you just stay out of it. I’ve talked with the pastor over there and met the youth pastor. They’re fine. They’re just trying to give the kids healthy ways to spend their time. They organize cheap trips to Des Moines to go to rallies or sometimes just take the kids together to a movie or something. They sponsor lock-ins where the kids all spend the night together, usually on prom night or some other time when they’re under pressure to go out drinking or sleeping around. You just leave it alone.”
“All I want to know is what they’re teaching about fasting.”
“She goes without food for a day every month or something. That is not extreme. It’s for prayer time.”
“All I hear from her is Jesus, Jesus. She’s got to learn to keep her mind on what’s going on here and now.”
She stands near him then, full of exasperation. “If her grades aren’t suffering and she’s not getting in with the wrong kids, I see no reason to interfere.” She pauses and then averts her eyes from him, turning back toward the closet. “Little wonder she obsesses over Jesus. All the men in this family have checked out.”
“Oh, well, there we have it.” Mack brings a hand down to slap his thigh. “One more thing that’s my fault. My kids are off doing things I don’t even know about—because nobody bothers to tell me anything—and it’s automatically traced back to me. I can see where this is going.”
She takes a breath and begins to answer, but he cuts her off.
“I spend my days building arguments to defend myself, giving myself reasons to explain things that happen that have nothing to do with me!”
“I’m not saying it’s all your fault. But you have to understand that the child’s lost an uncle and aunt and her cousins, and in some ways she’s lost you too. She’s just fourteen. She can’t just suck it in and go on.”
“She hasn’t lost me. She never lost me.”
“Yes, she did. When you wanted to die, you turned your back on her. No one blames you—you were ill and couldn’t help it. But to a kid it feels like rejection when a parent doesn’t want to stick around anymore.”
He looks at her a long moment. “I’m back now. I’m right here. Does that even count to anybody here?”
Her lower lip sucks on the upper one, to keep words in, but it doesn’t work. He can see that he is about to regret his insistence.
“Nothing counts right now,” she says, a shirt in one hand, hanger in the other. “I can’t afford to hope, Mack. I can’t bring myself to rely on you. Sometime I will, but not now.”
“Then why am I here?” He is louder than he means to be, and he glances toward the hallway and the kids’ rooms.
She is calm, as she always is. Calm and unmoved. “You’re here because this is your home.”
“But why? Why do you even want me back?”
“Mack, how am I supposed to answer that? What am I supposed to say? This is hard for everybody, you know that?”
“But especially for you, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Don’t start this. Don’t start this.” Her hand is up like a shield. “Don’t make this my fault.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Because we all know it’s my fault, right?” He jams a finger into his chest. “I’m the problem here.”
“You’re saying that—no one else is.”
“No one else is saying anything, not to me anyway. I’m just the crazy guy come home to live. But no one’s talking to me about anything.”
She waves her arms. “What are we not talking to you about? Are we having secret discussions behind your back?”
“My guess is that you are.”
“Oh!” She claps both hands to her head and walks to the window. “Please, please don’t get paranoid on me. Please don’t do that.” She swings to look at him. “Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes, I’m on my meds. I’m doing everything the friggin’ doctors tell me to do. I’m doing everything Mom tells me and everything you tell me. I’m being good!”
“Stop this!”
“You stop it!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop…” he wanders to the opposite corner, searching wildly for the thought he needs. “Stop treating me like I don’t count anymore. Like you can’t count on me—you said that yourself.” He leans against the wall, bone-tired.
She puts down her flailing arms, walks back to the bed, and sits down. She doesn’t look at him but stares out at the beanfield. Her voice softens. “There’s a difference between not counting on you at all and not being willing to give you major responsibilities. I’m not going to ask you to jump in three weeks after getting home and take over finances, medical stuff, the kids’ troubles, and all the rest. For one thing, I’d like to give you more time to get settled. For another, all those things are so critical that you can’t let up the least little bit and keep up. I spend hours and hours a week dealing with all this. I’ve kept up with it for about three years now, and it’s hard to just give it up and trust it to somebody else. I have my systems worked out.”
“So what is it you can’t count on me for, if you’re not expecting me to do any of that?”
“I’m not sure. Just never mind.”
“I can’t ‘never mind’ when you say something like that. Look, I know you’re mad as hell about all this—all of it. I know you’ve had to carry everything for a long time, and I think it is time that I take over something. I’m not the invalid everybody seems to think I am.”
“It hasn’t been that long, babe
, since we were sitting up with you and hiding the guns.”
The silence that follows expands between them. His words come out short, bitten: “So every time you need to win an argument now you’ll be throwing that in my face?”
Color rises in her cheeks. She gets up from the bed and walks past him to the door. “If that’s what you think I’m doing, then we’ve got no more to say to each other.” He listens to her angry steps descending the stairs. There was a time when he would have heard sniffles too, but as far as he knows, she hasn’t cried in a very long time. This in itself is reason enough to believe that she has withdrawn from him completely. His pain does not hurt her anymore. And she no longer responds with pain, but with anger—refined and practiced and filled with words so articulate they are sharp.
He looks at the bed, the dresser and closet, the chair, finally the window that faces the fields and fading sky.
This is not his home anymore. He finds no comfort here.
PART TWO
DISORIENTATION
4
Vinita Hampton Wright Page 10
