“You know, I don’ really drink.”
“It’s just wine.”
“And the boys will be home soon.”
Mr. Hall lifted the wine bottle, offering to pour.
“Well, maybe one glass.” She left her duffel bag in the foyer.
“How is Jay?” asked Mr. Hall. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Two nights ago, after Mass, someone (maybe Connie, her neighbor, had had company) took Lina’s spot, so she had to park a few units down. As she approached the porch, she heard Jay’s angry voice and stopped to listen. “Why do you talk Spanish to her, Enrique? Talk English.”
“Why you care?” (Enrique’s sad little voice.)
“See? You sound like a fuckin’ wetback. ‘Why you care?’ Say, ‘Why do you care?’ ”
“Guys, I’m home,” Lina had called. She climbed the stairs and stood at the screen door. Enrique was on the floor surrounded by his homework. Jay sat on the coffee table looming over Enrique’s shoulder. He was shirtless, his long brown torso leaning forward, elbows on knees, his big hands hanging.
“Jay?” she said now to Mr. Hall. “He’s good.”
“Still playing basketball?”
“He will once season starts.”
“And what’s your younger one named?”
“Enrique.”
“And . . . the boys’ father?”
Two sips of wine were enough to make Lina bold. Instead of scrambling for an answer, she pursed her lips and wagged her finger scoldingly.
Mr. Hall dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he half-coughed.
For a while they talked about the townspeople they knew in common. “You know Dr. and Mrs. Barnes just celebrated their fiftieth,” Mr. Hall said.
“Yeah, big party.” Lina knew this because she had cleaned their house the next day.
“Fifty years. You know, Lina, Sandra and I . . . our marriage isn’t so much of a marriage anymore. We love each other for what we once had, and for Abby. But we don’t love each other . . . passionately anymore.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if it followed what came before. Like a car with bad alignment, his conversation kept turning this way, and it seemed funnier now than at first, because he was so clumsy, and she was so tipsy. She would never let him in.
They talked on and Mr. Hall refilled her glass. “Not so much, Mr. Hall. I have to drive home.” He was a nice man, just lonely. She would have used his first name if she could remember it. But he didn’t seem to notice enough to say, Oh, Lina, please call me . . . whatever. A lawyer for the city, he was certainly used to everyone calling him Mr. Hall.
“My husband, he got a job in Nevada,” Lina offered when conversation failed.
“And that’s where he lives? Nevada?”
Lina nodded.
“When was the last time he . . . lived here?”
“Long time ago. He’ll come up here around Christmas.” Lina didn’t know why she added this little lie. She didn’t know when Jorge would come around, or, for that matter, if he still lived in Nevada. She called him her husband—she always had; he was the father of her two boys—but he had never married her in the church. Jorge hated priests.
“Do you want to see something really amazing?” Mr. Hall asked in a brisk voice, as if to clear the air.
“Um, sure.”
“It’s upstairs. Bring your wine.”
“I don’ know . . .”
“Come on,” he said, picking up her glass, “you’ll like it.”
He led her up the bright staircase under the skylights and down the hall to the bedroom. He set her glass on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.
“No way,” she said, laughing.
His face was like a baby’s, searching your face and copying your expressions. He laughed, too. Then he remembered. “No, it’s right here.” He opened the drawer, took out a magazine, and patted the bed beside him.
Shaking her head, she sat down and reached over him for her wine as he opened to a page that he had marked with a colored paper. “There’s a new type of train they’re building in Japan. It’s just incredible. The maglev train, they call it. Magnetic levitation. They don’t have wheels. They use electromagnets to levitate over the track.” He pointed to a diagram. “They go superfast. Imagine going three hundred miles per hour, completely smoothly, without a sound, just whizzing by.” He flipped through pages. “They’re going to make one from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. A six-hour drive will be a half-hour train ride.”
Lina burst out laughing, and again Mr. Hall copied her faintly. “It’s so stupid!” she said.
He looked hurt. “What?”
“To pretend that train’s what you brought me up here for.”
He smiled again. “Okay,” he said. He closed the magazine, touched her face, and kissed her.
She laughed and shrugged away. “You shouldn’t kiss me,” she said.
With both hands he gently turned her face toward him again, like Enrique used to when he wanted her attention. He kissed her. She closed her eyes. It stirred her, even though he wasn’t handsome, and she didn’t really like him. She pulled away and looked down. The trembling in her chest had caused her wine to come up a little. She turned away and burped.
He turned her back to him, and went to kiss her, but she pushed him away. Maybe he didn’t take the rules of his church seriously, but she did hers.
“Why you want to do that?” she said.
“Well, I think you’re very beautiful, and . . .”
“And what?” She didn’t believe him.
“And you are like me. We both need to kiss.”
All right, then, she let him kiss her again. A little sadness came with his honesty. She did need to kiss. They lay down on the bed and he kissed her neck and buried his face in her breast. This was so stupid. How far would she let this go? He ran his hand up her leg. That was it.
“Come on, Mr. Hall, let’s stop this.” She grunted to lift herself.
“But why?”
“You know why.”
She left the room and walked down the soft, carpeted steps. She picked up her duffel bag and paused, looking up at the skylights above the stairs. This two-storied room was like a chapel, and it amplified the fluttering of her own breath. Mr. Hall didn’t come to look down at her from the railing. Was he waiting for her to turn weak and come back? Sacrifice her pride for the feeling of being kissed? Give in to sin? She left the house. At least she’d have something to confess this week—kissing a married man. It was so stupid.
THE BELL RANG, and school was out. Now Fred Campbell had missed his chance to speak with Coop before he headed out with the kids. Fred had built up some resolve during his conversation with Dean. They had prayed together, and he had felt like he could do it. He should have gone out to the garage right then, found Coop, and sat him down. But now he’d have to wait another two hours until Coop returned, during which he’d certainly lose his nerve. In the meantime, Karen would have to get dinner on alone. Fred buried his face in his hands and again called on Jesus to help him.
John Cooper, whom everyone, child and adult alike, called Coop, was unaware of the anguish he stirred in the frail heart of his new boss, and if anyone had told him, he would have laughed long and hard. Coop’s hair was gray at the temples, his face was ruddy and usually fixed in a grin that exposed his one false incisor that stood straight and white as a piano key in the jumble of chipped, coffee-stained teeth.
There was tension now in his voice as he laughed, gripped the wheel, shook his head, and whispered, “Son of a bitch.” This wasn’t an expression of anger any more than his laugh was of amusement; they were both tics.
Coop’s route took him out toward Lake Overlook to drop off the rich kids first, before it headed back into town, passing the schools again, for the town kids. This irked him, but it wasn’t his decision, so all he could do was laugh a little. Also, the kids were beginning to act up. The ones up front were quiet as usual, but farther bac
k a couple of sixth-grade boys were playing a game—not much of a game, really—of flinging themselves across the aisle on top of a few girls, who would scream and kick them off but who weren’t so bothered as to change seats. A few bits of paper had sailed through the air, and when you had driven the bus as long as Coop had, you could read the signs that it would be a hard ride. Paper in the air before you even reached the subdivisions was like thrushes chattering in the treetops: a storm was brewing. He might have to stop on the empty stretch and do his little song and dance, but he’d wait and see.
Close behind Coop sat Gene and Enrique, the only seventh-graders who rode the bus on sunny days. “C’mon, Gene,” said Enrique, “help me think about this. What could we do? Something about outer space? The Challenger explosion?”
The idea must have been sour, for Gene’s face puckered. Despite his obsession with space travel, Gene had shown little interest that January when the space shuttle exploded over Florida. Enrique suspected this was because coverage of the disaster pushed the space probe Voyager 2 from the papers, just as it passed Uranus and sent back detailed pictures of its moons.
“The environment, then,” Enrique went on. “Acid rain, solar power, erosion—”
“Hey, Gene. Hey, Gene.” A boy tapped Gene on the shoulder, a sixth-grader, younger than Gene and Enrique, but tall.
“Yes?” said Gene.
“What’s Gene short for?”
“Eugene.”
The boy and his friends broke out in loud, barking laughter and ran back to their seats.
Enrique was quiet for a moment, then said, “Why do you tell them, Gene?”
“He asked and I answered. I can’t help it if he thinks it’s funny.”
“Next time just tell them to bug off.”
When Coop reached the empty stretch, he braked hard, causing a couple troublemakers standing in the aisle to stumble forward. Coop had only two speeds: laughing patiently and putting his foot down. He pulled the lever to put out the stop sign, just to make it legal, and stood. The children were all quiet now.
“Listen up, kids,” he said. “I’ve had enough of your screamin’ and runnin’ around. We’re a long ways from anything. See that silo? That’s the closest little bit of civilization. I’m perfectly happy leavin’ you all here if you’d prefer to walk clear acrost all those corn fields to that silo and see if whatever grumpy old goat roper lives out there wants to give you a ride rest of the way home. You ever done corn toppin’? Well, I have, and this time of year those corn stalks are good and dry and’ll give you plenty of cuts ’long the way.
“This is the first time I’ve had to stop this year. I was under the impression a few of you was growin’ up, but I guess I was mistaken.
“Well, do I have any takers? . . . No? . . . It looks like you’re dependin’ on me to gitcha home, then. I want you to sit there like little ladies and gentlemen until I let you off this bus.”
Coop stood there for a long moment looking at their contrite, downturned faces before he sat down, took in the stop sign, released the brake, and drove on.
The bus was quiet for a minute. Then, starting at the back, there began a soft chant: “Chicken Coop . . . Chicken Coop . . . Chicken Coop . . .” A few of the children made clucking noises.
Coop’s face reddened, and he laughed a desperate laugh. He could handle this as long as it didn’t get so loud.
LINA DROVE DOWN the smooth, black, winding road between the saplings, around the bend by the golf course, then up over the ridge, from which she could see Lake Overlook shimmering under the white sun. Why did Mr. Hall have to say that? Before, it had just been a kind of game. Kid stuff. She had played along; no big deal. Then he had said it: We are people who need to kiss. That made it desperate, like they were addicts of some kind. Lina pulled her crucifix out by its chain to kiss it—as she always did when she felt tears rise—but to do so now, with lips still hot from a married man’s kiss, would be sacrilege. She dropped it back into her collar.
Now that she thought of it, her lips felt roughed up, as if they were torn in a hundred places, as if she could press a napkin to them and leave a lipstick-kiss of blood. When she touched her mouth with her hand, though, it came away dry.
She reached the fork in the road where she had to make the decision and, as usual, took the detour to drive by Carl and Janet’s house—the Van Bekes’. She had always done this—kept her face forward as she glanced up the line of poplars past the fountain to the big white house with yellow trim—when Jay lived there, and ever since. It was a magnet to her. Today, Jay’s car wasn’t there.
Lina pulled into her spot at the same time as Connie. The two exchanged tired smiles, and Connie put her hands to her hair, which had loosened a little from its bun. “How are you, Lina?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Fine. Were you cleaning today?” Connie flinched, as if her own question embarrassed her.
“Yeah, all day, south of town. You know, I can’t just stand up anymore if I’m kneeling on the floor. I have to make a little game plan.” She patted her thighs and laughed.
Connie laughed too, lifelessly. Lina felt sorry for her. So stiff. Lina’s uncle Mario would have said she had a pedo atraptado, a trapped fart. “Well, the boys will be home soon,” Connie said as she climbed the stairs to her trailer.
“Do you want to send Gene over for dinner? You seem tired.”
“Oh, that’s so nice, Lina, but his grandfolks are coming over tonight.”
“Any time,” said Lina.
They had been neighbors for over ten years, and their boys were best friends, but still Connie always kept her distance. In the past, Lina had suspected that this was because she cleaned houses (but Connie herself was a nursing-home aide) or because she was a Mexican (but Connie had had Mexicans from her own church over for dinner). Now Lina knew that it was because she was Catholic. But today there had been something different in Connie’s eye . . . could she tell that Lina had been kissed?
Gene and Enrique walked along the cinder-block wall of the fabric store, through the hole in the chain-link fence, and into the trailer park.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll get to work with Mr. Peterson. He’s nice, right?”
Gene was silent, his brow knotted.
“We can do something on flowers if you want.”
“I’m done with flowers,” Gene said.
“Well, then, anything. Anything you want. I’ll be your assistant. We’ll do experiments. I’ll write the paper all alone, if you want. You can do drawings, and I’ll do the presentation. We’ll win, I promise.”
Since entering junior high only two weeks earlier, Enrique had been wondering what he would do to keep from falling between the cracks. He was too short and chubby for sports, and until high school there would be no school play in which to act. His mom couldn’t afford art lessons or piano or gymnastics, so he never asked, and being first altar boy was something to be hidden rather than flaunted. He did have a good singing voice. Once he sang the Doxology a cappella at Mass, and some old lady had told Father Moore afterward that it made her think there should be a boys’ choir. But now an eighth-grade girl had sung a Christian Rock song at assembly, and even if Enrique mustered the nerve to perform at school, it would now seem like he was copying her. But this—a science fair! Gene was super-smart, especially when it came to science, but shrank in front of groups, and was generally awkward and abrupt. Speaking was Enrique’s talent. Together they could win.
Finally Gene said, “Maybe a nova. I’d like to research a nova.”
Enrique’s heart leaped, although he wasn’t sure if Gene meant the car or the TV show. “It’ll be so much fun. If we win, then we go to State. I think we get money, too.”
Locusts buzzed away as the boys made a place in the shade of Enrique’s house to sit.
“Or a supernova,” Gene said.
Enrique had the vague realization that Gene was talking about outer space but, not wishing to seem stupid, he skirted
the issue. “I’ll bet Miriam’s already got some idea,” he said. “I’ll ask her tomorrow. No, I’ll wait until we have our hypothesis, then I’ll ask her. I wonder who she’s gonna get as a partner.”
Enrique explored one scenario of victory after another until Lina called, “Enrique! You out there?”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“Dinner.”
“Think about our project,” Enrique said, brushing seeds off his pants.
When Connie came to find Gene an hour later, he was still huddled against the wall, brow wrinkled and features pinched, staring at the grass with such concentration it seemed he would set it ablaze.
COOP DROVE INTO the lot that separated the grade school from the junior high, hooked the bus up to the gas pump, and walked toward the garage. Fred Campbell was there, sitting on an upside-down five-gallon bucket. He stood as Coop approached.
“Howdy, principal,” said Coop.
“Howdy. Nice afternoon it’s turned out to be.”
“Yessiree.”
“Was wondering if I could have a little chat with ya.”
“Goodness. By the look on your face it looks like I’m up fer detention.”
Fred laughed breathlessly. A wetness in his nose made the laughter sound like weeping.
“Let’s go in and sit down,” said Coop.
They entered the large, cool garage which doubled as the junior high’s wood shop. In the back corner was a dented old office desk with file drawers that wouldn’t open—Coop’s desk. Coop sat in his chair and put his feet up. Fred sat across from him on a wobbly stool that some kid had made long ago.
“What’s on yer mind, Fred?”
Fred took a deep breath and in a voice that wavered, but had volume, said, “A parent called me yesterday, Coop. Said she saw you at Albertson’s buying beer. That’s your choice, of course, if you care to imbibe, but her concern, that she made mine, was the amount. Said your shopping cart had case upon case of beer and not a whole lot of anything else, and they weren’t regular beer cans either, but the extra-tall sort. Now, as I said, if you care to imbibe, that’s one hundred percent your business, and I’d never bring it up if you were a math teacher or a gym coach or a janitor. But as this parent pointed out, you’re picking our kids up in the morning and riding them home at night, which makes you a special case.”
Lake Overturn Page 2
