Property of / the Drowning Season / Fortune's Daughter / at Risk

by Alice Hoffman

“Sue Sherman could rate really high on her vaulting.”

  “You could be right,” Jack Eagan says. “Do me a favor.”

  Amanda nods, speechless.

  “If you’re going to wear that necklace to the Clarkson meet, wear it inside your leotard. I don’t want a mutiny just because one girl is wearing jewelry. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Amanda says. She had no idea she’d be allowed to go to an away meet with them; she hasn’t really been certain that she’s still on the team anymore.

  “If you get a chance you might want to mention tucking her legs in to Jessie,” the coach says. “She sure doesn’t listen to me.”

  “If you want me to I will,” Amanda says.

  “Atta girl,” Jack Eagan says. “I knew I could depend on you.”

  Polly is waiting for Amanda after practice, parked in the semicircular driveway reserved for buses right in front of the school. It kills Polly to see how slowly Amanda is walking, but she stays where she is instead of jumping out to help; she lets the motor idle. She can no longer tell the difference between her anger and her sorrow. Her house might as well say CONTAMINATED on the front door. When she walks into a shop, even when she goes to the gas station to fill up the Blazer, people ignore her, people she’s known for years, neighbors she used to have coffee with, shop owners who know her by name. If Amanda had cancer or a brain tumor, they’d be bringing her casseroles and cakes. They’d be filling up her gas tank for free.

  Polly hates her neighbors, but it’s herself she blames. She’s guilty even in her dreams. Last night she dreamed there was a deserted silver trailer on the edge of town. Everyone in town knew about the trailer; they tried to stop Polly from going inside, but she opened the metal door. Inside there were piles of filth, the kitchen cupboards held no food, there was no running water, a dozen white cats darted beneath the furniture.

  The woman who lived in the trailer tried to hide herself once the door had been opened. She was skin and bones, along her arms were welts the color of violets. The whole town knew about her; it was they who kept her there. Shut the door, they called to Polly. Shut it fast.

  Polly stood in the doorway and cursed everyone in town; frogs came out of her mouth, and her words turned into wasps. She vowed she would find this woman a decent place to live, even if no one else cared. She would get her food and water, heat, a bed with clean sheets. The woman crawled out from her hiding place; her face was wet with tears. In gratitude she reached up for Polly and kissed the back of Polly’s hand. In her dream, Polly grew cold because she knew what no one else in town knew. She knew that the minute everyone’s back was turned, she would find some running water, the hotter the better, and wash away that kiss.

  When she woke from her dream, Polly was sick to her stomach. She still despises herself for her own dream, she feels tainted by her own night fears. It’s as if the idea of a plague can unlock a terrible, deep panic that no one can stop, not with hard facts or with dreams. More than ever, Polly is convinced that she did not protect her baby, she could not stop this from happening to her little girl.

  Amanda is beaming when she gets into the Blazer. Jessie actually listened when Amanda suggested she tuck her legs in tighter for her backflips. Amanda can’t stop thinking about the coach asking for her help. She feels very grown-up, like an assistant coach or something.

  “You’ve got to talk to Dad,” Amanda tells Polly as soon as she gets into the car. “I have to go to the Clarkson meet. The coach is depending on me.”

  “I’ll discuss it with him,” Polly says, knowing Ivan won’t like the idea.

  “Don’t discuss it,” Amanda says. “Tell him he has to let me go.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Polly says.

  Today at lunch Polly met Laurel Smith at the South Street Café, across the street from the gift shop. Laurel wore a plaid skirt and a bulky gray sweater and her hair was twisted into French braids. Polly was struck by how young she looked. Polly has begun to wonder if women without children don’t age as quickly; they’ve had all those extra years of sleeping through the night.

  Polly ordered a spinach salad and coffee, Laurel a hamburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. It was less like eating lunch with a friend than taking one of her daughter’s pals out for a treat. After they’d eaten, Laurel pushed her plate away, then leaned toward Polly, her elbows on the table.

  “Amanda has a wish,” Laurel said.

  Polly put her coffee cup down. She didn’t want to hear about wishes; one more thing Amanda wouldn’t be able to have.

  “She wants her braces off,” Laurel Smith said.

  They stared at each other and then they both burst out laughing.

  “Not Bruce Springsteen over for dinner?” Polly managed to say. She knew from the pitch of her laughter that she was getting hysterical. “Not a trip to Hawaii or Disney World?”

  Polly gasped for breath. Laurel handed her a glass of water and she gulped some down.

  “Oh, God,” Polly said. “It’s such a little wish.”

  And now, driving home with Amanda, Polly tries to think what her last wish would have been when she was eleven going on twelve. She would have wanted to be taken out to a nightclub, to be allowed to stay up till midnight and drink pink champagne with cherries floating in the glass. Given the choice of anyone, she would have wanted her father to be her date for the evening. He would have worn a tuxedo, the kind with tails, she would have worn a pair of blue silk high heels.

  “I just hope the meet isn’t on the same day as the orthodontist,” Polly says at a stop sign on Ash Street. She looks over at Amanda, who’s staring at her. “You didn’t think you were going to wear your braces forever, did you?”

  Amanda leans over and throws her arms around Polly. “You’re the greatest mother in the world,” she crows.

  Polly laughs and untangles herself from Amanda. “I’m driving!” Polly says, but she reaches for Amanda’s hand and squeezes it.

  “It can’t be on the same day as the meet,” Amanda says. She thinks it over. “It has to be before.”

  “Dr. Crosbie may be busy,” Polly says. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “He just has to take some pliers and pull them off,” Amanda says. “Maybe he can do it today.”

  Polly grins and tells Amanda she’s certain the orthodontist is booked for this afternoon, but as soon as they get home she phones Crosbie’s office. She’s shocked to discover his appointments are filled, not just for today but for the next three weeks.

  “We can’t wait three weeks!” Polly tells his secretary. “My daughter is dying! She can’t wait three weeks.”

  Crosbie’s secretary puts Polly on hold, and while she’s listening to the taped Muzak, which is automatically switched on, Polly opens the refrigerator so she can think about supper instead of Amanda. There’s enough lettuce and cucumbers for a salad. There’s a small steak she’d like Amanda to have, but it’s not enough for all of them and she doesn’t want Amanda to feel uncomfortable about being singled out for a special meal. Polly decides she’ll just make her quick meatloaf. She’s mixing breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese into the chopped meat when the secretary finally takes her off hold to tell her there are no appointments. Polly rips a paper towel off the roll above the sink and wipes off her hands.

  “He must have an appointment free for her,” she tells the secretary.

  “I just want to make certain. This is Amanda Farrell we’re talking about, right? Dr. Crosbie can’t see her,” the secretary says firmly.

  “He has to make time for her,” Polly says.

  “Dr. Crosbie isn’t seeing patients with AIDS,” the secretary says.

  Polly hangs up the phone and sits down. Of course, she thinks. She can even understand it. She just can’t believe it. There are still some breadcrumbs on her hands. She can hear Charlie down in the basement, and she wonders if he’s spending so much time alone not out of choice, because he’s lost Sevrin, but because the kids at school don’t want any more to do with him th
an Dr. Crosbie wants with Amanda. Polly goes downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Charlie has all four hamsters in one cage while he cleans out the other two cages. His field mice are in an old bird cage and he’s already fed them and filled up their water bottle. Polly goes over to him and grabs him. Charlie faces her, frightened.

  “Are the kids saying anything to you?” Polly asks.

  “What kids?” Charlie says.

  “The kids at school!” Polly says. “Are they not friends with you because of Amanda?”

  “I’m not friends with them,” Charlie corrects her. Then he adds, “Your fingernails are hurting me.”

  Polly drops his arm.

  “They wouldn’t play with me before we had the assembly, but they’re okay now,” Charlie says. “Not that I care. I mean, I need them if I want to play soccer, but that’s all.”

  Polly sits down on a wooden stool. Charlie watches her, sweating. Most of what he’s told her is the truth, but he’d say anything to get her out of the basement. The Minolta is on the shelf by the hamster food. Next to the camera are two rolls of undeveloped film and a light meter he stole from the darkroom, which he’s been hoping to use the next time he goes to the pond.

  “People are stupid,” Polly says.

  “Yeah,” Charlie quickly agrees. If she turns her back for a minute, he thinks he may be able to throw a plastic garbage bag over the camera.

  “They’re frightened when they shouldn’t be and they’re not frightened when there’s really something to be scared of.”

  “I know,” Charlie nods.

  That’s when Polly sees the Minolta.

  “People are definitely weird,” Charlie says.

  If this were July or even the beginning of August, Polly would have his head for fooling around with the Minolta. She’d ask him why in hell he didn’t ask her first. Why he thought she’d ever let him use it when there’s an old Polaroid she might consider lending him. But it’s October, and it’s cold down here in the basement, and she doesn’t care about her camera. Although, clearly, somebody does. The Minolta is in its case and the rolls of film are in a neat line.

  “Do you ever see Barry Wagoner? Isn’t he in your class?” Polly asks.

  “Barry’s a jerk,” Charlie tells her. “I’ve got to finish these cages, Mom. I’ve got two males in together and they might beat each other up if I don’t move them soon.”

  Polly nods and goes upstairs. She can hear the cassette player in Amanda’s room whirling backward, rewinding a tape. She can hear the clang of metal as Charlie empties out old cedar chips from a cage into a trash barrel. Polly gets out the Yellow Pages and riffles through until she finds DENTISTS. She calls the three orthodontists she finds listed on the North Shore, but not one will agree to see a patient who isn’t his own. Polly puts the Yellow Pages away after that.

  These days it’s dark by five-thirty; Polly watches the light fade and she’s still sitting in the kitchen when Ivan gets home from the institute. As soon as she sees him, Polly begins to sob. Ivan sits down across from her at the table and watches her cry.

  “Are you all right?” he says when Polly stops sobbing.

  Polly nods and tells Ivan that the one wish Amanda has will never be granted; no orthodontist will touch her.

  “Oh, yes they will,” Ivan says darkly.

  He gets up and goes to the phone.

  “Crosbie won’t do it,” Polly tells him.

  “Fuck Crosbie,” Ivan says. He dials Brian’s number. He has to wait for Adelle to carry the phone into Brian’s bedroom. He tells Brian exactly what they need, an orthodontist who’s willing to work on an AIDS patient, and Brian tells him he’ll have to call around and get back to him. When he hangs up the phone, Ivan realizes that Polly’s been studying him.

  “The friend you bought flowers for,” Polly says.

  Ivan goes to the refrigerator and gets himself a beer “Let’s not cook tonight,” he says. He feels a sharp pain all along his spine. “Let’s get pizza.”

  “He’s the one who’s dying,” Polly says.

  “That’s right,” Ivan says savagely. “The one who’s twenty-eight years old.”

  Polly nods to his beer. “Can I have one of those?”

  Ivan brings another beer to the table.

  “Is your friend a dentist or something?” Polly asks.

  Ivan laughs in spite of himself. “He worked on an AIDS hotline. He has friends.”

  “Oh,” Polly says. She thinks it over. “Good.”

  Ivan is out picking up the pizza and Amanda is setting the table when the phone rings.

  “It’s Brian,” the voice on the other end of the line says.

  “Brian,” Polly says. “Oh, Brian.” She can’t believe how young he sounds, how far away. “Ivan’s out, he’s getting a pizza.”

  “That’s okay,” Brian says. “You’re Amanda’s mother, I can give you the secret password. It’s Rothstein.”

  “Oh, God,” Polly says. “The orthodontist.”

  “Bernard Rothstein,” Brian says. “He’ll do it.”

  Polly is waiting out on the porch when Ivan gets back. They stand with the pizza between them; heat rises from the cardboard box.

  “He called,” Polly tells Ivan. Ivan reaches and touches her face; her cheek is cold and soft. “He found someone,” Polly says.

  “That’s good,” Ivan says. “That’s real good. I was a madman. I was ready to kill some poor innocent dentist.”

  Polly can’t help but laugh. “Stop it,” she says.

  “I mean it. Some poor unsuspecting jerk would be filling a cavity and in I’d walk with a shotgun.”

  Polly is laughing so hard he can’t understand what she’s saying.

  “What?” Ivan says, mystified.

  “You don’t have a gun,” Polly manages to say.

  “A bow and arrow,” Ivan says. “A fly rod.”

  The back door opens and Charlie leans his head out. “Mom?” he says, puzzled when he hears Polly laughing.

  “Who were you expecting?” Polly says. “Count Dracula?”

  “Is that Mom?” Amanda says.

  Amanda has come up behind Charlie and she peers past him, out to the porch. Polly spins around in a silly dance; the children can just about make her out in the dark. Ivan laughs low down in his throat; he sounds the way he used to.

  “They’re crazy,” Amanda whispers to her brother.

  “Yep,” Charlie says. “They sure are.”

  The day before Amanda’s appointment with Dr. Rothstein, Polly phones Ed Reardon to let him know that they won’t be home at the time he usually comes over. Ed has gotten into the habit of stopping by the house on his way home for dinner. Sometimes he and Polly have a beer together; they sit at the kitchen table and talk about perfect vacations. Polly’s first choice is France; Ed always argues the merits of a month in Edgartown. Neither of them will get to half the places they’ve talked about, not alone, not together. Ed isn’t fooling himself; he knows theirs are less the conversations of lovers than of two people at a wake. And besides, he’s a man who fulfills his obligations, even though lately he feels like a charlatan. He’s supposed to be able to cure his patients and he can’t, and yet for no reason at all people continue to believe in him. Tonight he is a special guest, a witness really, at a school board hearing. It’s the school district’s policy to hold such a hearing should a petition surface like the one asking for Linda Gleason’s resignation. Two more children have been pulled out of Cheshire, but other than that the furor is dying down a bit, or maybe it’s simply gone underground. Some of the teachers who signed the petition against Linda Gleason have gone out of their way to be friendly to her; maybe they’re embarrassed, or maybe they’re just afraid for their jobs. After the hearing, Ed and Linda Gleason walk out to their cars together. It’s a damp night, and the air smells like woodsmoke.

  “Thanks for supporting me,” Linda says. “Little do they know I’m thinking of quitting.”

  “Me too,” Ed sa
ys.

  They both take out their car keys.

  “Not that we will,” Linda Gleason adds.

  At home they both have children waiting, suppers in the oven, still warm.

  “We could get in our cars and drive to New Mexico,” Ed says. “It would take them years to find us.”

  Linda looks at him carefully. It’s hard to tell whether or not he’s kidding.

  “Forget about all this for a night,” Linda advises him. “Take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”

  “I’d still feel the same way,” Ed says.

  Of course, he doesn’t mention wanting Polly beside him in that car headed to New Mexico. Ed knows that to say it out loud would make him seem like a desperate man. He goes on with his life, with his responsibilities, as best he can. He goes home, he gets into bed beside his wife, but he doesn’t feel that he’s where he’s supposed to be until the morning, when he drives to the Farrells’. Ivan has been making pancakes; he’s still wearing an apron.

  “A day off,” Ivan says as he lets Ed inside.

  “For some of us,” Ed jokes, but he’s shocked seeing them all together for breakfast. He has been thinking of them in pieces instead of as a family. Polly waves from the counter. She’s pouring boiling water through the coffee filter; she’s wearing a linen suit and high heels. Ed can’t remember ever having seen her so dressed up before. He feels dazed. Something inside him rattles as Charlie and Amanda argue over who gets the syrup first.

  “Just in time for breakfast,” Polly tells Ed.

  Ed stands behind Amanda and gently puts his hand on the base of her neck. He squeezes slightly, as a greeting, but also to feel her swollen glands. Amanda has taken two bites of her pancake, that’s all.

  “No time for me,” Ed says. “I have approximately three hundred office visits today.”

  He’s going to get into his car and drive to his office. He’s going to see patients all morning, then order a sandwich from the South Street Café and have it at his desk. At a little after six, he’ll drive home. He knows what he’s going to do and when he has to do it, and none of it includes running off. Not to New Mexico, or Martha’s Vineyard, or France.