The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “Daddy, you’re selling the house. Remember?”

  “Just say the word and I’ll take it off the market.”

  She shakes her head, says her life’s out there in California. And besides, she doesn’t expect Annie or me to juggle our lives because of her. “But I was thinking that maybe Mama could come out and be there for the delivery. Stay with me for the first week or so when I come home with the baby.”

  “I bet she’d be happy to do that,” I assure her.

  “Well, first things first,” she says. “I haven’t even told her I’m pregnant yet. I’m a little nervous about doing that.”

  “Don’t be, Ari. She’ll respect your decision. I’m sure she’ll be very happy for you once she gets used to the idea.”

  “Hope so,” she says. She stands, says she’s going to go change for the beach. But halfway up the stairs, she stops and looks back at me. “Daddy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think Mama was a good mother?”

  The question comes out of nowhere. “Well, why don’t you tell me?”

  “No, she was,” Ari says. “I just wanted to hear what you thought.”

  “Because?”

  No reason, she says. She was just wondering.

  While she’s up there, I pack her a snack in case she gets hungry while we’re at the beach: another banana, a granola bar, a couple of paper cups and the ginger ale. I wish I’d bought a plastic bottle instead of glass, but I can wrap it in a towel and it should be fine. . . . Was Annie a good mother? Yes, overall. Sure, the kids frustrated her sometimes—Andrew more than his sisters. There were those evenings when she’d meet me at the door when I got home and start her litany of complaints before I could even put down my briefcase and take off my coat. But I couldn’t blame her. I was so work-driven back then. I’d leave the child care to her pretty much, then try to spell her on weekends. It got harder for Annie once she started making her art. She’d be upstairs with them all day long when what she really wanted was to be down in the basement working on those shadow box things she was doing. . . . And it wasn’t like she’d had much role-modeling to draw on either. Her own mother had died so young. And after her father hit the skids and they removed her from the house, those foster moms probably weren’t the best role models, either. But given all that, Annie did fine by our three. . . .

  And hey, it’s not as if I was Father of the Year. Things would come up at work and I’d end up missing one of Ari’s recitals or Marissa’s gymnastics meets. One of Andrew’s Little League games or, later, one of his wrestling matches. The night the twins graduated from high school, I remember, there was a crisis with one of my patients, and I ended up getting there late. Annie was so pissed at me, she hadn’t even saved me a seat. I missed the speeches, but at least I was there to see them get their diplomas—sitting by myself up in the balcony of the auditorium. It didn’t seem to bother the kids, but Annie gave me the silent treatment for the next couple of days.

  I’m just not sure why, out of the blue, Ariane asked me that about her mother. Is it nerves? Hormones? Or maybe she’s promising herself she’s going to be a different kind of mother—less high-strung, less fly off the handle. Fear of the unknown; that’s probably all that she’s feeling. Annie felt that, too. And when she was in labor, she was mad as hell. . . .

  We’re in the delivery room and her labor’s not going well. “Do you see what you’ve done to me? We’re never having sex again! . . .”

  But as soon as Ariane was born, she was crying tears of joy. And a few minutes later, when things became touch and go with Andrew—the umbilical cord had gotten wrapped around his neck—she pleaded with the doctor to save her baby. By the time we took them home from the hospital, she was madly in love with those two kids. Possessive of them, even, when my mother came up to help. Mom had planned to stay two weeks, I remember, but she went home after the first one. They’d had a fight while I was at work. “In all my years, no one’s ever spoken to me like that,” Mom told me when I was carrying her suitcase out to the car. She was in tears. “I was just pointing out that they’d be safer on their stomachs when she put them down, and she turned into a crazy woman.” Being a mom just took Annie some getting used to, that was all. Some fine-tuning. It wasn’t the first time she had had one of those little bouts of hers, and it wasn’t the last time either. But when she’d get like that, I’d remind myself about all the upheavals she’d had to weather as a kid. Unexpected change was what always seemed to rile her up. Frighten her. I think that was what was always underneath that anger of hers: her fear. I wonder if Viveca’s ever seen that side of Annie.

  “Daddy?” Ariane calls down. “Do you think I need a sweatshirt?”

  “No, you should be good.”

  But when I go upstairs to change into my trunks, I stuff one into my backpack for her just in case. She’s still my little girl. I like taking care of her, and I love it that she’s here. . . . And hey, I can understand why, when she’s ready to have the baby, she’d want her mother to go out and help her instead of her old man—that maternal thing. But I’m a free agent now. If Annie can’t swing it, I could go out there and pitch in. . . . Okay, Grandpa, you’re getting ahead of yourself. First let’s see how Annie reacts. I just hope she’ll be as cool with it as I said she would be. Should I call and give her a heads-up? No, it’s Ariane’s news. She should be the one to tell her.

  Let’s see. Do I have everything? Sweatshirt, towels, snacks, sunblock. The beach chairs are already out in the car. I guess that’s it. I grab my stuff and walk down the hall. Poke my head in her room, but she’s not there. “Ariane?”

  “In here,” she says. I follow her voice to the unused bedroom where I’ve stashed those paintings I hauled up here. When I unpacked the car after I got here, I stacked them against the wall, but Ari’s laid them out on the king-size bed. “Have you seen these, Daddy?” she asks. “They’re amazing.”

  “I not only saw them,” I tell her. “I brought them up here.”

  “You did? Why? As a favor for Viveca?”

  “Nope. She doesn’t even know about them.” She looks at me, confused. “You know that ramshackle old cottage out in back of our house?”

  She nods. “Andrew’s secret clubhouse.”

  “It was until your mom caught him and his friends messing around down there and had me board the place up,” I remind her.

  “I forgot about that. God, when they’d come back up from there, they reeked of weed so badly that you could almost get high from the fumes. Didn’t someone die at that old house once? Drown in a well or something?”

  “Yup. The artist who painted these, as a matter of fact. Poor guy couldn’t sell any of his work in his lifetime and now they’re worth big bucks, according to Viveca.”

  “Wait. Didn’t you just say she doesn’t know about them?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  I tell her about the day her mother and Viveca came to the house on their way to the Gardner Museum. About Viveca’s discovery of The Cercus People. “Read the back.”

  She does. “And Joe J was . . . ?”

  “The guy who painted all these. You see that big one leaning against the chair over there? The Garden of Eden painting? Look at Adam’s face. Now look at the men’s faces in some of the others. Notice anything?”

  “It’s the same face,” she says.

  “Right. Jones’s face, I’d be willing to bet. He paints the skin gray in a lot of them, but look at the facial features and the texture of the hair.”

  “He was black?”

  “Yes. Had a white woman living down there with them—him and his brother. Back then, of course, that would have rattled people’s cages.” She says that sounds more like the South than Connecticut. “Ha! Don’t kid yourself.”

  She puts The Cercus People back on the bed. Scans the others. “They’re creepy but kind of cool, too,” she says. “Like scenes from dreams you have but can’t quite get the meaning of. I like how he distorts the figures—al
most as if you were looking at them in a fun house mirror.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that was intentional. He was self-taught, had had no training. Which is what Viveca specializes in, you know? Outsiders, primitive painters. I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head when she saw that painting we had. She’d been looking for works by Jones for years, she said. She wants to buy it from me, but I’ve held off selling it to her.”

  “Why?”

  “You want the truth? Because she wants it so badly.” I look away from her look of disapproval. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am being childish.

  “Are you going to let her know about all these other ones?”

  “I don’t know yet. Haven’t decided.”

  “But why did you bring them up here with you?”

  I begin to gather them up, stack them. “Because the house is on the market. People traipsing in and out, walking the grounds. And then, with the wedding coming up, who knows who might be over there poking around?”

  “Daddy, the wedding guests will be at Bella Linda. The only people who’ll be at the house are Mama, Marissa, and me.” I carry the stacks over to the other side of the room, lean them back against the wall. Turn and face her.

  “But I’m sure Viveca will be over there with you guys. I just figured if I brought them up here with me, I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

  She gives me a skeptical look. “Daddy, I’m sure she’s not an art thief. Are you going to keep them? Sell them?”

  I shrug. “Don’t know yet, honey. Hey, I thought you and I were going to the beach.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrew Oh

  Casey-Lee’s in a pissy mood because she suggested we go to that new Japanese hibachi place for dinner and here we are at the Olive Garden instead. “Oh, I don’t really care, sugar,” she’d said when I picked her up. “We can go there if you want.” So we did and now she’s got an attitude. Well, it’s not going to get any better when I tell her I’m reconsidering my decision—that I might cancel our weekend plans and go back there after all. Use one of those tickets she sent. There’s a part of me that’s curious about this Viveca. The woman Mom changed her whole life for. But I don’t know. Maybe I should just stay put. Either way, I’d better make a decision pretty soon. Their wedding’s only four days away.

  A waitress approaches—a pretty, dark-eyed Mexican. Nice, fleshy body. A C-cup, maybe. “Hi, folks. I’m Xan and I’ll be your server tonight. How y’all doin’?”

  “We’re just fine,” I tell her. “How are you?”

  “Great! Well, I’m a little nervous, actually. I’ve been shadowing another waitress all week. This is my first night going solo.” I ask her how it’s going. “So far so good,” she says. “Can I get y’all something to drink to start you off?”

  I turn to Casey-Lee. “White wine?” She nods. “A glass of pinot grigio for the lady and a Lone Star for me.” Casey-Lee likes things traditional. Likes me to order for both of us.

  “You got it,” the waitress says.

  Casey’s off tonight. Fidgety. Going out in the middle of the week’s probably a mistake. She’s already told me she’s tired, and that she still has her lessons to plan for tomorrow, and things to cut out for some bulletin board she needs to put up before the school’s open house on Thursday. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey what?”

  “You look very pretty tonight. Is that a new dress?”

  She rolls her eyes. Says I asked her that the last time she wore it.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “By the way, you look handsome in that shirt. When I was in Brooks Brothers, I couldn’t decide between the blue check and the green check. But I’m glad I went with the green. It’s a great color for you.”

  “Well shucks, darlin’. That’s mahty nice of you to say so.” She cracks a smile. Gets a kick out of it when I talk Texan to her. I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. “So how are things going with your new class?”

  She makes a face. Says she wishes she was still teaching third grade. “Kindergarteners are still such babies at the beginning of the year. I had two of them crying today because they missed their mothers and another who wet her pants. And that boy I was telling you about? Jett?”

  “The one with the ‘alternative’ parents?”

  “Uh-huh. He kicked another child while they were in line at the drinking fountain. A girl, no less. Epiphany, and she’s as sweet as they come and hadn’t done a thing to provoke him. When she started crying, he stood there denying it, and I told him I’d seen him do it with my own eyes. He’s going to be trouble, that one. And when I called home and talked to his mother, she was like, ‘Did he have something sugary for snack? Because sugar makes him ornery.’ Instead of, ‘We’ll give him a consequence’ or ‘Did he hurt that poor little girl?’ ”

  “Did he?”

  “Just her feelings,” she says. “But that’s bad enough. I mean, last week Jett’s mom complained because I was having her son recite the Pledge of Allegiance along with the other children, but now it’s okay for him to assault another child because the room mother brought in Apple Newtons and Hi-C? I can just imagine what she’s gonna bring in when it’s her week to be room mother. Tofu, probably. Edamambo or whatever they call it. Like that’d go over big with the children.”

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “Meet the mother halfway, Marian said. Have him stand with the others but just not recite the pledge. So what can I do? She’s the principal. I just wish she wasn’t so wishy-washy. I been thinking more and more about getting my master’s in administration instead of reading. I tell you one thing. If I was in charge at that school, things would be different. I’d back my teachers, not tell them to bend over backward to please the parents. I mean, if she doesn’t want me to teach her son to show some respect for the flag, maybe she should homeschool him out at that organic farm thing they’re part of. But anyway, that’s enough about school. How was your day?” I open my mouth to tell her, but notice that she’s looking over my shoulder. “Oh . . . my . . . Lord,” she says.

  “What?”

  “There’s Miss Bascomb, my old earth science teacher.”

  I turn to see who she’s looking at. “The woman in the red dress?”

  “No, the next table over.” I spot two heavy-set women, both of them in jeans and orange T-shirts, matching close-cropped gray hair. They’re drinking Lone Stars, too. “Well, I guess I owe my girlfriend Janisse an apology. She always used to insist that Miss Bascomb was one of those.”

  One of those lesbians, she means. It feels like a gut shot. Like she’s slamming my mother, even though she’s probably not even making the connection. “Got your gaydar up, huh?” I say.

  “I used to tell her, ‘Janisse, just because she wears pants all the time and has posters of the Cowboys and the Spurs all over her classroom, that doesn’t prove a thing. Maybe she’s just a sports fan. Maybe skirts make her look too hippy.’ And Janisse would go, ‘Girl, you’re just naïve. She’s got a softball trophy on her bookcase. Drives a muscle car for crying out loud.’ Whenever Janisse had to go to her room for extra help, she’d make me go with her even though I was getting straight A’s in science. She was afraid Miss Bascomb would try and recruit her.” Okay, that’s enough, I feel like saying. But what the hell am I getting so defensive about? She’s not the one who’s connecting the dots between those two dykes over there and my mom. I am. It’s my problem.

  Our drinks arrive, and when the waitress goes to put down Casey’s wine, she spills a little on her. “Sweet Jesus, look what you just did!” she says, loud enough so that the people at the next table look over. Casey’s sopping at the spill like she’s gotten half the glass dumped on her instead of just a little dribble. The waitress apologizes and rushes off to get her some extra napkins. “It’s okay,” I assure Casey. “White wine’s not going to leave a stain.”

  “It most certainly will, Andrew. Do you realize how delicate sil
k is? That’s what I hate about these chain restaurants. It’s not only that the food is so-so, but the service is unprofessional.” In other words, this never would have happened if we’d gone to that hibachi place.

  “She’s new,” I remind her. “She’s nervous.”

  “Oh, then I guess that gives her the right to slop whatever she wants on her customers. Well, there goes her fifteen percent tip.”

  When Xan returns with more napkins—a stack of them—Casey instructs her to make sure she reports the spill to her manager. “I’ll try and treat the stain when I get home, but if it doesn’t come out, I’ll have to bring it to the dry cleaner’s and give y’all the bill.”

  Xan yes ma’ams her. Apologizes again. She asks if we need a few more minutes or we’re ready to order. “Babe? You know what you want?”

  She slaps her menu shut. “Just a Caesar salad,” she tells me.

  “Appetizer- or entrée-size, ma’am?” the waitress asks, short-circuiting Casey’s preferred ordering process.

  “What?”

  “Did you want the smaller Caesar or—”

  “That’s all I’m having. A Caeser salad, dressing on the side.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dinner size then. Did you want anchovies on that?”

  Casey shoots her a look like she’s an imbecile. “No, I do not, thank you.”

  “Okay. Got it. And you, sir?” I order the seafood ravioli, Alfredo sauce instead of marinara. “Good choice,” she says. “That’s my favorite dish on the whole menu. Any appetizers for you guys?” Ooh, boy. She’s just hit another nerve. Casey hates it when people refer to women as “guys.” Blames the “feministas” for the fact that everyone does that now. I’ve heard her pal, Dr. Laura, use that word, which is probably where she got it. Casey thinks that woman walks on water.

  “What do you think, babe?” I ask her. “You feel like splitting an order of calamari?”

  “Those deep-fried rubber band thingies? I don’t think so.” Now I’m an imbecile, too.