The Hole We're In

by Gabrielle Zevin

  The next morning, Roger rose before dawn. He took a shower and felt an almost pleasure at the sting of soap against his sore body. He shaved his face carefully, as if his life depended on not nicking himself. He combed his blond hair and applied his usual pomade. He looked at himself in the mirror: he was still young, strong, and healthy. He had failed God and his family, but he would make amends.

  He put on his best suit. Then he sat by George’s bedside and waited for her to rise.

  The moment her eyes opened, Roger took her hand and said, “I know about the tithe. I know about Vinnie’s credit cards. I’m starting to get a pretty good picture of the financial ... uh, situation.”

  “I can explain—”

  Roger interrupted her. “Don’t. It’s my fault as much as yours. What I need to know ... What I want you to tell me about is Patsy’s abortion.”

  “Patsy?” George’s voice was thick with sleep.

  “Don’t try to protect her. I know about it, George. I saw the charge on Vinnie’s credit card statement. I know what you did: how you tried to cover it up.”

  George sat up in bed. Her body felt heavy. Her breasts felt tender, almost like she was getting her period. Her nightgown was blue flannel with sheep on it. It was incredibly soft because it was incredibly worn. There was a tear in the fabric near her pubic area, and the hole embarrassed her. She was embarrassed to be having this conversation while dressed this way. “Please, Roger, can’t I just take a shower first?”

  Roger shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just let me take a shower first. I smell weird.”

  George tried to stand, and Roger pushed her back onto the bed.

  “I need to know now. When did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  George sighed and covered the hole with her hand. “She didn’t.”

  “What do you mean she didn’t?”

  “I noticed.” George curled her knees up to her chest and put her head between them down the neckline of her nightgown. She inhaled, and got a whiff of her own vagina. She exhaled, and the gown billowed around her like a hot air balloon. When her children were still children, she would take them under the blankets and tell them stories by flashlight. She found it easier to spin a tale with conviction when it didn’t have to bounce around an entire room, an entire house, an entire world.

  “I noticed,” George repeated, her voice muffled by the nightgown. “When she was getting fitted for her bridesmaid dress. She’d gained an inch in the waist. At first, I thought it was because she wasn’t cheering anymore, but then somehow I knew. I just knew.” George lifted her head out of her gown and looked at Roger to see how the story was playing. She began to weep. “I just knew ... I asked her ... And she told me she wanted to have an abortion ...”

  Roger slapped George across the face with the back of his hand. “How could you let this happen? Do you want our daughter to go to hell?”

  “What was I to do? We’ve got no money. I’m a forty-seven-year-old temp; you’re in school and you’re never home. I was all alone. I did the best I could.”

  “And the boy ... Who was he?”

  “Some guy from school.”

  “The black guy?”

  “Huh?”

  “The one Carolyn—my boss—saw her with at the university swimming pool. I asked you about it. Remember?” He grabbed the collar of George’s nightgown and pulled her toward him.

  “Yes, Roger. That’s him.”

  “Why did you lie when I asked you about it?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! You tell one, you have to keep telling them. Please, Roger, you’re choking me.”

  Roger released George’s gown and she fell back against the head-board. The skirt was flipped over her head, exposing her stomach. She didn’t bother to right it.

  Roger went downstairs and came back with a bag of frozen peas for George’s face. “Come on. We’re going to be late for church.”

  In the car, Roger said to George, “She’ll have to be sent away.”

  “Shouldn’t she finish out the school year first?”

  “No.”

  “But Roger, what’s done is—”

  “No.”

  George sighed. Her cheek hurt. Roger had never hit her before. Her cheek hurt, and the pain made it uncomfortable to move her jaw very much. “Where will you send her?”

  “Back to my mother’s in Tennessee.”

  “You won’t tell your mother about the abortion, will you?”

  “Of course not. I never want it spoken of again.”

  “What will you say to her, then?”

  “I’ll tell her that Patsy’s been running wild and needs discipline.”

  “Let me be the one to tell Patsy,” George said. “You’re too upset. And what’s happened is as much my fault as hers. I shouldn’t have let it happen. It’ll be easier coming from me.”

  Roger considered this request as he made a right turn into the church parking lot. They were running late, so all the spaces were filled. He’d have to make a U-turn and park at the strip mall across the street. The strip mall had recently made it known that they would prefer the Adventists not use their parking lot, as Saturday was their busiest shopping day. Sunday would be one thing, but these crazy Saturday Christians were an incredible inconvenience. “Yes,” he agreed. “You should be the one to tell her.” He drove across the street and said a prayer that he wouldn’t get towed.

  May

  May 23, 1999

  Harland,

  Well, by now you’ve no doubt noticed that I’m not at school. Ha. And I don’t know what all you were told about my leaving, if anything. But it obviously was not by choice. I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you. I wish I could have called you or gone to see you in person, but Mom told me I was being sent away and next thing I know I’m on a Greyhound bus to Buckstop, and that’s that. And like, the whole time my dad won’t even talk or look at me. The only thing he says is he hopes I’ll have some time to reflect over what all I’ve done and to pray.

  I don’t want to burden you with my troubles, but things haven’t been all that great for me here. I’m staying with my grandmother in Buckstop as aforementioned, and I never really liked her all that much to begin with. Like, when she tried to hold me as a baby, I’d cry. She smelled funny and her clothes were always scratchy or something, I don’t know. But I swear to God, I never noticed how crazy she was till just now.

  So I get to her house and the first thing I notice is the smell. It smells like the special wing at school. Like microwave popcorn and ammonia. So basically, like piss or like someone trying to cover up piss.

  And the first night I’m here she’s all like, “Patsy, your daddy says you’ve been flying too high and getting too big for your britches in your fancy city school.”

  I had a laugh at that, ’cause it’s not like Texas is exactly Vegas or wherever.

  She’s all, What’re you laughing at? And I say, Nothing, ma’am. And she says, Your face is smiling so you must be laughing at something. And I’m like, No. And whatever, it goes back and forth like this for a while. And then she sends me to my room without dinner, which is ridiculous ... I mean, I’m an adult for God’s sake. So I wake up hungry in the middle of the night and I take a Polly-O string cheese and a yogurt from her fridge and the next morning, she says, “Patsy, we need to have a serious talk about your morals.” And then she calls me a thief! And that afternoon, this big-ass padlock shows up on the fridge. But the hilarious part comes the next day. She forgets the combo and then the old bitch has to break off her stupid lock with a crowbar.

  I laughed at that, too. (Inside, this time. I’m learning.)

  But then the day after that, she forgets that she broke the lock and she accuses ME of breaking the lock. And she chases me up the stairs with her creaky bad hip and she locks me in the bedroom. And that’s the first time I notice that there’s a lock on the OUTSIDE!!! of my freaking door. And well, so it goes.


  She burned all my clothes in a metal bin in the backyard, ’cause apparently I was showing too much arm and boob (like I even got that much to show!). And then the next day, she’s all like, Why don’t you have anything to wear?

  There’s no television here, just a single radio that’s usually tuned on choir music or, like, people yelling. Once, when I thought she was asleep, I tried to change the channel to something decent. But the next thing I know something hits me in the back of the head. It’s an apple! She threw a Red Delicious at me! The old woman’s got pretty good aim, I must admit.

  Well, I finally got to talk to my mom last Friday. And it don’t look like they’re going to let me come back anytime soon. Maybe for Helen’s wedding, but I guess you’ll most likely be graduated and gone by then.

  I’m not ashamed to say that I cried a little when I was talking to my mom. I basically begged her to let me come back, but whatever, not gonna happen. So yeah, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see you again. Unless you come to Tennessee or something, but even if you did, I’m being kept on a pretty tight leash. Like, the only time I’ve gone out is to church and that’s about it.

  I don’t want to get all dramatic about it, but yeah, I miss you. And I hadn’t gotten a chance to teach you the backstroke yet so I hope you’ll manage to pick it up somewhere or other.

  Love,

  Patsy

  P.S. I really hope you’re not going to prom with freakin’ Janet Johnson—I know for a fact she’s had her eye on you all year.

  P.P.S. If you’re considering it, you should know that I cheered with Janet for two years, and she gets BO something fierce, and also her mom’s a total bitch.

  Patsy put the letter in an envelope and sealed it, but Grandma Fran wouldn’t give her a stamp and Patsy didn’t have the money or the freedom to buy one of her own. For the first but not the last time, she wondered how it was that life could seem so expansive one moment and so infinitesimal the next.

  On Saturday, Fran took Patsy to church. Marcus, the son of the minister, was there. He was best friends with Patsy’s old boyfriend and had basically known Patsy her whole life. He smiled at her. Patsy nodded because, since coming to Fran’s, she had learned that not smiling was usually the smartest choice.

  After church, Fran spoke to the minister about something dull and liturgical, and Marcus was able to get Patsy by herself.

  “Heard you were back in town.”

  “Apparently,” Patsy said.

  “Well, can you come out with us?”

  Patsy shook her head. “I’m being punished.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I was dating this black guy,” Patsy said. “And I lied about it, I guess.”

  “Aw, that doesn’t seem all that bad,” Marcus said.

  “Reckon my dad thought so.” Patsy shrugged. For the last fourteen days, she’d gone without television, privacy, and regular meals, and consequently she’d had plenty of time for the prayer and reflection that her father believed her to so desperately need. So she’d prayed and reflected and what she’d come to was this: people did what they could live with; all sin was relative.

  June

  AT THE WEDDING, the groom’s lips were chapped; the bride’s shoes hurt; the napkins were embossed; the pastor was paid off; the signing board was warped; the bridesmaids’ dresses were wrinkled; the house was still Caliente; there were neither swans nor a pond; the bride’s brother wasn’t speaking to the mother of the bride; the father of the bride wasn’t speaking to the maid of honor; the bride would have preferred not to be speaking to the mother of the bride, but couldn’t avoid it; the mother of the bride wept for reasons both apparent and not; the bride wept, too, but no more than most; the grandmother’s dress had an insidious watermark; formal photographs were organized like military campaigns; and the wedding was, in general quality and overall effect, like most any other wedding in the history of weddings.

  The week after the blessed event, the mother of the bride put the house on the market:

  1205 SHADY LANE. BRING YOUR SUITCASE AND MOVE RIGHT IN. VIBRANTLY HUED 4 BR, 2½ BA HOME ON LARGE, LANDSCAPED LOT. SHORT, TWENTY-MINUTE DRIVE TO UNIVERSITY. EXCELLENT PORTER ISD SCHOOLS. HOUSE PAINTED AND FLOORS FINISHED IN LAST YEAR. GREAT FOR A LARGE FAMILY OR ONE JUST STARTING OUT. OWNER WILL CONSIDER ALL REASONABLE OFFERS. LET’S MAKE A DEAL.

  July

  AT HER MINISTER’S suggestion, Grandma Fran paid for Patsy to be sent to Christian Soldiers Bible Camp in Alabama again.

  While there, Patsy made a leather wallet, rode horses, threw a pot, swam, and spent an awful lot of time on her knees praying. She felt like someone in an ad for herpes medication minus the herpes. Still, it beat being at Fran’s. Bible camp people might be crazy, but at least they were consistent.

  Her ex-boyfriend, Magnum, was also in attendance as a counselor in the boys’ division. He avoided her for the first three days but sidled up to her after the Wednesday Night Abstinence Rally.

  “You look skinny,” Magnum said. “What’re you, like, anorexic now or something?”

  “My grandmother’s starving me,” Patsy said.

  “Ha. What happened to your new boyfriend?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” she said.

  “What happened? He dump you?”

  Patsy shrugged. “Nothing happened.”

  “So, I was wondering if you wanna be partners on the trip to Wildwater Theme Park?”

  “You gonna cry if I say no?”

  Patsy agreed, mainly because Magnum was a counselor, which meant he’d get to ride in the air-conditioned minivan as opposed to the rented school bus. And the truth was, she’d always found time spent with Magnum to be pleasant if not exactly earth shattering. He was no Harland, but Harland wasn’t around. Magnum was sweet and a bit dumb. He had nice hair and round shoulders and soft hands and he would probably make some girl a perfectly acceptable husband some day.

  The second-to-last night of camp, Magnum took her to an abandoned cabin in the woods behind the mess hall. He offered her a joint, which she accepted.

  “You going back to Buckstop Academy next year?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You’re pretty, Patsy,” he said, while stroking her hair.

  “Rub my neck,” she said.

  He did.

  Somehow, Patsy’s shirt came off. And then Magnum’s pants. And then Patsy’s skirt. And then his hand between her legs—soft and damp and the slightest bit sticky. And then she slipped off her underwear. And then he slipped off his. And then Patsy asked him if he had something. And Magnum said yes. And Patsy lay down on a cot that had dead leaves stuck to one end. And Magnum asked her if she was sure. And Patsy said yes. And Magnum asked if she was worried about God. And Patsy said, “No, I’m not sure if I even believe in him anymore.” So, Magnum climbed on top. And Patsy moaned a bit. “Go slower,” she said. And Magnum did his best to take note. And the whole thing was over in 113 seconds, which Patsy knew because she’d been counting.

  “Poor Patsy, you’re bleeding,” he said. Magnum kissed her stomach and her thighs.

  “It’s my first time,” she said.

  “You didn’t do it with that other guy?” Magnum couldn’t help smiling at his conquest.

  “He wouldn’t,” Patsy said. “But you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, Magnum. I wanted to, but he thought we should wait.”

  Magnum kissed Patsy on the mouth. “I’m gonna marry you, Patricia Pomeroy.”

  “Sure you are.” Patsy laughed at him, though his words made her depressed beyond belief. The cabin felt too small. She felt like she was shrinking, like she might wake one morning and find that she’d disappeared. She would have cried, but she didn’t want Magnum to think it was about the sex, or worse, about Jesus. I could marry him, she thought. I could marry him, and if I did, I wouldn’t want him to be thinking how I cried that first time every other time we did it.

  Jesus, she thought, I really could marry him.


  “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s crazy,” she said.

  “What is?”

  The connections, she thought. Or the lack of them. The discontinuity. How it was impossible to understand how a person got from point a to point b, even if you were that person and you had been there for every, every step. How there were unseen and mysterious forces beyond yourself. How you ran into a woman with no nipples and two weeks later you found yourself on a Greyhound bus bound for Nowheresville. How your father stopped speaking to you. I am sixteen years old. An ex-cheerleader and an outcast. My parents are bigots. I’m not sure if I believe in God, not my dad’s God at least. I just lost my virginity to a boy I don’t love, and the way things go in this part of the world, I’ll probably end up married to him. I’ll probably have three kids before I’m twenty-five. I probably won’t ever see anything but the back room of a Slickmart.

  “Uh, Patsy? Still there?”

  “I fell from the top of this pyramid last year and everything since then’s felt sort of like a dream,” she said with a giggle.

  “You’re really baked, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty much,” she said.

  August

  Like Patsy, Roger had spent most of the summer in prayer, though his prayers were a bit more adamant and significantly more specific than hers. He prayed for Patsy’s soul and the soul of her unborn baby and the souls of unborn babies everywhere; he prayed for George who had allowed Patsy’s sins to happen and who had stolen money from their son and, even worse than that, the church; he prayed for Carolyn Murray and himself (though murder/abortion and thievery were far worse than adultery in Roger’s moral universe); he prayed that he could somehow find it in himself to forgive his wife and daughter; he prayed that the house would sell; he prayed that they could pay all their bills; he prayed to earn enough money to return to Tennessee; he prayed, in short, for a miracle.

  Then, one came.

  While Patsy was away at Christian Soldiers Bible Camp, Roger’s mother fell down the stairs, lapsed into a coma, and died. (It turned out, as Patsy certainly could have guessed, that Fran had dementia and what may have been early-onset Alzheimer’s.) Roger was named the executor of Fran’s estate. Fran had left $15,000 to each of the grandchildren, with a month-old codicil on Patsy’s specifying that her portion “be used to continue the religious education that this young person is in such deep need of.” To Roger, Fran left everything else, which included her house and a $75,000 life insurance policy.