Beating Heart

by A. M. Jenkins

  Of course there is no one in the house. Libby loses interest less than halfway through the search and goes off to her room to play.

  Downstairs, the search ends back in Mom’s office. “Thank you, Evan,” she says, sitting down in her chair again. “Now! If I can just get some work done!” She pulls herself up to her desk, traces of irritation still on her face as she peers at the computer screen, trying to figure out where she was.

  Even so, Evan lingers. There’s something he feels compelled to point out. “You know, Mom,” he says. “Maybe Libby wouldn’t be dreaming up fake people if you’d have somebody over for her to play with once in a while.”

  That gets his mother’s attention again. She swivels away from the screen and gives him a look that could curdle milk. “Evan. I work at home now. Just because I’m not punching a clock from nine to five doesn’t mean I don’t have a job. I’m a writer. I have to write.”

  “You’re also a mother. You could take time to do something for her.”

  Mom looks stunned. Just for a moment, though. Then her eyes narrow. “So could you,” she says coldly. “You’re seventeen, and it’s summer. You aren’t in school and you don’t have a job. You have a car—which I bought, by the way, and which I keep insured and full of gas. Instead of judging and complaining, why don’t you take Libby somewhere to play?”

  Now Evan is the one at a loss for words. But only for a few seconds. “Because I’m not the parent here!” he snaps at her, and then turns to stomp out of the office.

  Upstairs, Evan slams the door to his room and walks around fuming for a bit, unable to concentrate on anything.

  It’s not fair—he did have a job, last summer. He just hasn’t gotten around to having one yet this summer—but he will. It’s not like he enjoys having to ask her for money. It’s not like he’s had a lot of time, anyway, the way she’s kept him packing and cleaning.

  He just wanted to take a break for a few weeks. God. He made good grades all year. Played two different sports. Worked his butt off. You’d think that would count for something.

  Finally he finds himself staring with irritation and guilt at the photo of himself and his dad. It’s true: he hasn’t done anything for Libby since they’ve moved. And he should; he’s the man of the house now. Instead, he’s left Libby to fend for herself. Even more than Mom has, because he has the time.

  Dad’s there in the photo, smiling. In real life he’s gone, off to a hassle-free existence. If he hadn’t left, Mom wouldn’t be so preoccupied, Evan wouldn’t be feeling responsible, and Libby wouldn’t be feeling sad. It seems unfair that Evan, Mom, and Libby should be the ones feeling bad and fighting while the one who started it all walked away scot-free.

  Evan pulls his keepsake shoebox out of the drawer. He takes the framed photo off the desk and stows it away in the box. As he puts the box back into the drawer, there’s a knock at the door.

  “What?” he growls.

  “Can I come in?” It’s Libby.

  Evan doesn’t really want her to, but he’s also feeling guilty now about never doing anything for her. “All right,” he tells her, shutting the drawer.

  “Are you busy?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  “Will you play with me?”

  “What do you want to play?”

  Libby screws her face up in an expression of futile hope. “Dolls?”

  “No,” Evan says without hesitation. But Libby is now standing with one hand on the back of the chair, and she’s scanning the desktop.

  “Where’s your picture of Dad?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You didn’t lose it, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “In a drawer.”

  “Why is it in a drawer?”

  “Hey,” Evan tells her, “dolls it is. Just this once.”

  Libby’s face lights up. “Really?”

  Evan sighs. “Yeah. This is it, though. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  Libby grabs his hand and tugs him to the door. “Come on! Come on!”

  In her room across the hall, she digs through her junk and collects a motley armful of dolls and accessories, which she brings to Evan.

  “What do I have to do?” he asks her, not touching anything.

  Libby already has a plan. “I’ll have Lucinda,” she tells him, “and you have Winnebago.” She hands him a worse-for-wear doll with long straight hair.

  Evan sits on Libby’s bed, looking at the doll as if he’s never seen one before. “Winnebago?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s pretty. Now.” She starts distributing doll clothes. “They’re going to go to the ball. Here. Put this on her.”

  “On Winnebago.”

  “Right.”

  Evan sticks the doll’s legs into the dress and starts working it up the plastic body. Then he stops. “Promise you’ll never tell anybody I did this with you.”

  “Okay,” Libby says offhandedly. She’s busy dressing Lucinda.

  Evan awkwardly gets the dress on Winnebago and fastened. When he’s done, he holds her up for inspection.

  “Good!” Libby says with satisfaction. “Now. They’re going to go to a party. Lucinda’s going to wear this.” She pulls out another outfit and lays it aside on the bed. “And Winnebago’s going to wear this.” She hands Evan another dress.

  “What about the ball?” Evan asks.

  “They already went.”

  “You mean we just sit here and change their clothes over and over?”

  Libby’s intent on Lucinda’s party wear. She doesn’t look at him. “We can fix their hair if you want,” she offers.

  “No. Clothes are fine.” Evan starts stripping off Winnebago’s ball gown. “Hey, Lib. You know that girl you saw—you know you just imagined her, right?”

  “No.” Libby says it matter-of-factly, while she’s dressing her doll. “I saw her. She was standing in the hall outside your room.”

  “Maybe she likes the view of the river, huh?”

  “I guess.” She gives it some more thought. “I don’t think she has any friends. She’s very lonely.”

  Evan looks up at that. The doll lies half-dressed in his hand. “What makes you say that? That she’s lonely?”

  “She looked sad,” Libby answers. “Hey, Evan. Can I have that picture of Dad and you?”

  Evan looks down at the doll in his hand. He’s thinking, Libby is the one who’s lonely; Libby is the one who’s sad. “Why do you want it?” he asks.

  “You’re not dressing Winnebago,” Libby points out, and Evan pulls the doll’s dress around its shoulders, then fastens the Velcro. “’Cause I like to look at it,” she tells him.

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. I just do.”

  “Let me think about it.” Evan holds out a re-dressed Winnebago. “Here we go. Ready for the party.”

  Libby runs a practiced eye up and down his work. “Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Now Lucinda’s going to get married. Winnebago can wear this.” She hands Evan a doll-sized denim pantsuit.

  “She’s not a bridesmaid, huh?”

  “No, she’s in the audience.”

  “So old Lucinda gets all the glory.”

  “There’s only one bride dress,” Libby informs him. She sets to work on Lucinda, which takes a little work because the bridal gown has long sleeves, and although Lucinda’s arms are very skinny, her hands are rather large. Evan takes his time with Winnebago. He considers making her moon Libby, but thinks better of it.

  “Do you think,” Libby asks, “that if Dad had liked me better, he would have taken a picture with me?”

  “He did like you, Libby. He still does. He’s just…busy right now.”

  “He never comes. Or calls. But he lived with us when you were as old as me.”

  “Hey. Libby. You’re not thinking it’s your fault Dad left, are you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  �
�But it’s not. Why would it be? You’re just a kid. He’s a grown man.”

  “I haven’t figured it out yet.” She sounds a little puzzled. “Maybe I was too noisy. Sometimes I didn’t know when he made a joke. I don’t know.”

  “No! Libby, that’s stupid. He left because…because…” Evan wishes Mom was dealing with this, because for all her straight-from-a-book counselor-speak, Mom does know how to pin words to things. “Well, because he’s an asshole. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re not supposed to say asshole.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But I won’t tell Mom, because you’re playing dolls with me.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  The next morning, on his way to the kitchen, Evan sees that Mom’s already in her office. He stops, lingering outside the door. Mom is staring at her computer again. He waits a few moments, but she doesn’t see him. “Mom,” he finally says, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  Mom turns around. She looks relieved; she’s always been big on civility and communication. “Me too,” she says quickly. “You’ve really been a huge help, Evan. I didn’t mean to dump adult responsibility on you. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Okay,” Evan says. But he’s still worried.

  “You don’t have to take care of Libby. We’ll be fine. After I get this manuscript in the mail, I’ll work on some play dates for her.”

  But Evan’s been thinking. He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to get a job and help out.”

  “No.” Mom’s wearing her put-your-foot-down look. “We’re all right for now, promise. I want you to be free to enjoy your senior year. And Libby—well, I’ve got to get this book out first.” The last words are a little strained, and her gaze darts over to her computer screen.

  “Are we low on money?” Evan asks.

  “No. No. Not yet.”

  Evan has noticed that she doesn’t seem to be doing much typing lately. Mostly she’s been sitting and staring in front of the computer. Now he also notices that the number of gray strands in her dark hair has grown, and that her eyes look tired. “Are you having trouble writing or something?”

  Mom doesn’t answer for a moment. “It’s just that I want this book to do as well as the first one,” she finally says, as frankly as if Evan is an adult. “We got lucky that I happened to write something that was picked up for a couple of talk shows. We got lucky that it was on the best-seller list for a few weeks. But now…this isn’t a hobby anymore, it’s my career. It’s all on the line—I’ve dropped everything for this; I’ve put everything we have, as a family, into it. And I’ve got to keep producing.”

  “I think they’re hiring night stockers down at the grocery store.”

  Mom gives him a pained look.

  “I’m talking about me, not you.”

  “Oh. No. We’re all right. Promise.”

  Evan nods, and Mom turns back to her work. He notices the steel box sitting on the shelf next to her desk, among stacks of paper—used and unused—reference books, and boxes of printer supplies. “Have you looked in that box?”

  “Yeah.” Mom’s frowning at the screen, one hand on the mouse.

  “Are you going to use it for ideas to write about?”

  “No. I’m working on something already, and it’s a little deeper than…” She rolls her chair over, opens the box, and hands Evan a newspaper clipping.

  “‘Mr. Robert C. Shannon,’” he reads, “‘son of Mr. and Mrs. Shannon of York, Pennsylvania, is visiting Mr. and Mrs. G. J. Royce.’ Man, they didn’t have much going on in this town, did they?”

  “Apparently not.” Mom rolls her chair back over to the computer. “You can take that upstairs,” she says, with a glance at the box, “and look through it if you want. There’s a few old photos. It’s an interesting slice of daily life, but I can’t use it.”

  “Didn’t you say your new book is about religion or something?”

  “The need for religious tolerance.”

  “Right. Okay. I guess I might take it up, then. Do you need it back?”

  “No. Just be careful; the papers are fragile.”

  Evan carries the box with him to the kitchen, and sets it on the counter while he gets himself the usual glass of milk. After putting the empty glass in the sink, he debates whether to call some friends to see if they’re up yet or to go back to his room and hang out until later in the morning.

  He ends up taking the box upstairs, where he turns on the radio to hear the last part of his favorite drive-time show. As he listens, he sits at his desk and opens the box. Inside are papers, as his mother said: letters and newspaper clippings. He digs through to find the pictures she mentioned. Both are old-time studio portraits. One, in a brown cardboard cover that opens like a book, is of a family: the father, with a sweeping mustache, seated; the mother standing behind him; the daughter standing at her father’s knee. All are looking directly at the camera.

  echoes

  draw up

  in

  faded wisps

  little girl

  hair the color

  of cotton

  woman

  hair shining and neat

  smooth and slender hand

  on the man’s shoulder

  stiff in a suit

  hands on knees

  The other picture is a portrait of a fair-haired girl, and the first thing that pops into Evan’s mind is the sexual dreams he’s been having for the past weeks.

  She is perhaps about Evan’s age. She could be an older version of the girl with the family—her hair is a little darker, but still obviously blond. She is carefully posed, face in the center of the frame, head tilted delicately at an angle, lips curved in a not-quite-smile. One hand is poised so that the arc of her fingertips seems to just barely brush her chin. She is beautiful.

  daytime,

  I was

  dutiful,

  waiting

  with bowed head for

  my future to lay itself

  in my lap,

  sitting

  careful and subdued

  face under hat brim

  hands under gloves

  heart under linen and silk

  while sun and clouds passed me by,

  draping

  my manners like a curtain between

  myself

  and

  the world.

  alone at night,

  my mind composed its own

  vine-twined towers

  rose-grown balconies

  romantic, daring rescues

  Evan lays the photos aside and pulls the box closer. On top is the newspaper clipping his mother showed him. The date at the top is May 2, 1897:

  Mr. Robert C. Shannon, son of Mr. and Mrs. Shannon of York, Pennsylvania, is visiting Mr. and Mrs. G. J. Royce.

  It sounds impressive, Evan thinks. Like the president or something. You’d think the guy was a CEO, or a bigwig back East, and that’s why it was in the paper—except that the clipping seems to be a whole column of who’s visiting who. There really wasn’t much going on back then.

  I remember he was

  so beautiful,

  strong and lively

  he woke the settled air

  stirred the muffled bindings

  of the house

  He sets the clipping down and picks up one of the letters. It’s written by a woman and fairly dull, except for a bit toward the end:

  …I feel certain that if only Robert can stay with you for a few months, away from bad influences while his father calms down, then all will be well and we can reasonably discuss what to do about school in the fall. Robert is not bad, just high-spirited and impulsive.

  Ooh, little Robbie Shannon’s been a naughty boy! thinks Evan. Sounds like the guy got expelled. But the rest of the letter gives no clue:

  Your darling girl has blossomed so in the past year or two; if only Robert had a chance to do the same. I have been heartened to hear how your guidance has enabled Cora
to set aside her childish disposition and take up womanly tasks and ways. What a good example she would be for my Robert! The presence of a virtuous female always has a naturally gentling effect on boys; I can certainly attest that Robert never gets into any trouble here at home when he is under my influence.

  I am certain that Robert would not be the only one to benefit from this plan. Cora would find in my son the protector and guardian she would have had, had she a brother.

  I know I can be frank with you. Mr. Shannon feels strongly that Robert should go to live with his grandfather. Mr. Shannon has always believed that sparing the rod spoils the child, but Robert’s grand-father is of an even sterner generation, and I fear his use of some of the crueler methods of discipline that were in use during his own childhood….

  Evan wonders what “crueler methods” might be. He wonders if Cora was the hot chick in the picture, and almost feels a twinge of…something.

  Possessiveness?

  Ridiculous.

  He shuffles through more of the letters, looking for clues, but finds none. In fact, most of the letters are not very interesting; they contain mostly daily trivia and religious platitudes couched in heavy Victorian language.

  He leafs through a few more; then, bored, decides to go grab a snack and see if Mom’s off the computer so he can get online. He leaves the papers scattered on his desk.

  I remember

  his face was young

  but his eyes were

  wise

  when we sat, prim,

  I couldn’t help

  sneaking a glance at him.

  He saw me,

  smiled, said nothing,

  and didn’t seem

  to mind.

  The days passed and

  when he spoke, the sound of