Hoosier Daddy

by Ann McMan

  “In the room, Friday Jill. The elephants in the room.” She looked at me over her shoulder. “You know . . . the ones we haven’t talked about.”

  “Oh. Those elephants.”

  “As opposed to which other ones?” she asked. “Or are you going to try to tell me they’re indigenous to southern Indiana, too?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not the last time I checked.”

  El perused my modest wine stash.

  “You think we have elephants?” I asked.

  She held a bottle of red zinfandel. “Only about as many as there were in A Passage to India.”

  That was one of my favorite books. “I only remember one elephant in that.”

  “It only takes one.”

  I pointed at the bottle she was holding. “Is that the one you want?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.” She slid it back into its spot and pulled out another bottle to examine. “Oh, I like this one.”

  It was a pinot, and one of my favorites. “I do, too.”

  She handed it to me. “Sold.”

  I took it from her. “It’s not the good one.”

  “Are there bad ones?”

  I shrugged. “More expensive ones.”

  “That doesn’t make this one bad.”

  “No . . . just cheaper.” I turned the bottle over and read the label. “I’d say that this one is about the third rung on the MacMurray Ranch ladder.”

  El crossed her arms. “Funny. I’d never have pegged you as a wine drinker.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen you drink beer.”

  I smiled. “Have you ever looked at Aunt Jackie’s wine list?”

  “She has a wine list?”

  “Oh, yeah. But it’s only about three or four boxes long.”

  “Boxes?”

  I nodded.

  El laughed. “Okay. I see your point.”

  “Wanna take this back to the porch?”

  “That’d be nice. We can join Fritz . . . and the elephant.”

  “Maybe we should take four glasses?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I opened a drawer and pulled out my corkscrew. “Wanna grab the glasses? They’re in that cabinet over there next to the icebox.”

  El walked to the cabinet and opened the tall door. She pulled out a glass and held it up to the light. “These are beautiful. What are they?”

  “They were Grammy’s.”

  “They look like old Tiffin glass.”

  “I think that’s right. I think they were wedding gifts. Most of them came from the Montgomery Ward catalog.” I smiled, remembering when Grammy gave them all to me. “Half of them were still in the gift boxes. She never used them, as far as I can remember. She always said they didn’t hold enough iced tea to suit her. So she gave them to me a couple of years ago.”

  “There must be a dozen of them in here.”

  “Sixteen, actually. Isn’t it strange to think that service for twelve used to be the norm?”

  El laughed. “Not in my family. We bought everything by the dozen.”

  “I keep forgetting that you have so many siblings.”

  “I wish I could.”

  We walked back out to the porch. El sat down on the swing again, but this time, she left space for me to sit beside her. I took the hint.

  “You didn’t like being part of a big family?” I started to open the wine.

  “It wasn’t so much that. It was more the total lack of anonymity. I always felt exposed—like I was living my life through all of them. Even in school, I was viewed as a subset of my brothers and sisters.” El shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I was like the human embodiment of whatever lurked beyond the ellipsis at the end of the family sentence.”

  “Is that why you don’t live near any of them?” I asked.

  “It’s why I don’t live any place.”

  “Because you want to be anonymous?”

  “I used to think so.”

  I handed her a glass of wine. “But you don’t want to be anonymous now?”

  El gazed back at me for a moment. “Not right now. No.”

  I knew we were treading on dangerous ground, but I didn’t really care. I held up my glass.

  “Here’s to discovering . . .” I searched for the right toast. “Happier punctuation marks?”

  El laughed and clinked rims. “I’ll drink to that.”

  We tried the wine.

  El gave a little moan. The sound of it stretched across the swing and vibrated along a path that ended up someplace near my toes.

  “Good?” I asked.

  “Oh, god. Yes.” El tipped her head back against the swing. “I am so tired.”

  “Long day?”

  “Long life.”

  “You talk like you’re a zillion years old.”

  “Sometimes it feels like it.”

  The music changed. Ella became someone else. It was a bluesy sound— edgier, with more overtones of swing. Like Bessie Smith on steroids.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  El looked toward the table where I kept my iPod dock. “The music?”

  I nodded.

  “It sounds like the Red Hot Skillet Lickers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She laughed. “Lavay Smith. They’re a San Francisco band.”

  I listened for a moment. “I like it.”

  “I can’t take credit for it. It’s Pandora.”

  “How did you manage that?” I asked.

  “It was easy. I saw your dock over there and just stuck my phone on it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all. But how’d you figure out my password?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t have to. I was able to connect to an open network.”

  “You found an open network?”

  “Apparently. I think it belongs to someone named Eubanks?”

  “Eubanks.” I thought about that. “You mean Uebinger?”

  “Yes. That was it.”

  “Really?” I shook my head in wonder. “Lurleen Uebinger has Wi-Fi?”

  “Is that a surprise?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t even know she had indoor plumbing.”

  El laughed.

  “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. You’d be amazed by how a lot of people out here still live.”

  “No I wouldn’t.” El set her wine glass down. “I’ve worked in some areas that would make Gibson County look like Manhattan’s gold coast.”

  “America’s auto workers,” I mused. “Overpaid, but still underprivileged.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” she quipped.

  “It sounds depressing.”

  “It is,” she agreed.

  “So why do you keep doing it?”

  She gave me an amused look. “Doing what?”

  “You know . . . agitating.”

  She sighed. “I honestly don’t know.”

  We sat quietly for minute or so, just listening to the music. The Skillet Lickers were racing toward a rollicking finish. At our feet, an oblivious Fritz continued munching on his chew bone. This one still looked mostly intact. Grammy must have hooked him up with it when she dropped him off earlier on her way to the fish fry.

  “Why’d you leave Ithaca?”

  El looked at me in surprise. I hadn’t meant to just blurt the question out like that.

  “I’m sorry if that’s too personal,” I added quickly.

  “It’s fine.” She touched my knee. “You can ask me anything.” I could tell by her expression that she was being sincere.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Why did I leave Ithaca?” She picked up her drink but didn’t sip from it. Instead, she gently twirled it, causing the purple-red liquid to swirl and coat the sides of the glass. She held it up in front of her face and looked at me through the lines of receding color. “Nice legs for a third rung.”

  Of course, it was impossible for me not to drop my gaze from her glass to her o
ther set of legs—the set that would inhabit the top rung on any scale.

  She caught me staring. I looked up at her with what I was certain was a guilty expression. But her gray eyes were anything but accusing. They were translucent. Open.

  “The short answer would be to say I left after the divorce. End of story.”

  Divorce? El had been married?

  “What would the long answer be?” I asked.

  El looked dubious. “You really want to hear it?”

  I nodded.

  She sighed and slumped a bit lower into the swing. “It was an old story. He was a professor of mine—one of my dissertation advisers, actually. It was wholly inappropriate. But then, so was I. I was running pretty hard and fast in those days—away from everything and toward nothing . . . except what I thought everyone wanted me to do.”

  “What was that?”

  “Get married and make babies, of course. Catholic family. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well,” she sighed, “I got it half right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I managed to snag a man, but he was more than twenty-five years my senior. That kind of took the whole let’s get pregnant thing off the table.” She smiled. “That part actually worked very well for me. In retrospect, I realized that I chose him very carefully. Besides, Ivor already had kids who were nearly my age. It wasn’t something he was interested in, either.”

  “Ivor?”

  “Oh. Yes.” She laughed. “Ivor Halvorsen. A luminary in international labor relations. He was a visiting professor at Cornell.”

  I was still trying to wrap myself around the revelation that El had been married. To a man. To Ivor.

  “Are you all right?” El touched my leg again. I wasn’t aware that I had been staring off into space.

  “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I was just . . .”

  “Trying to imagine me married?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You never thought about it?”

  “For myself?” I pointed a finger at my chest. “God, no. I have a hard time even committing to buy a dozen eggs.”

  El laughed.

  “You find that humorous?”

  “And profound. Believe me . . . there are a lot of similarities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Both are extremely fragile. A lack of moderation with either can ruin your health. They each begin to stink without proper care.”

  I was incredulous. “You’re awfully good at making lists.”

  “I’m a Leo. It’s what we do.”

  I shook my head. “I’m a Libra.”

  “Ah. See? That explains everything.”

  “It does?”

  She waved a hand. It was easy to imagine her in front of a classroom. “Of course. Libras are indecisive and incapable of commitment.”

  “That’s not true. We’re people who crave balance.”

  “Oh, horse hockey. Libras are wimps who won’t go left or right because they’re terrified of making the wrong decision.”

  “See? Balance.”

  “See? Paralysis.”

  I huffed. “Leos are bullies.”

  “No. Leos are leaders.”

  “And bullies.”

  “We’re not bullies. We just have the ability to present compelling arguments for whatever we want to do.”

  I laughed. “Must be nice.”

  “Sometimes it is,” she agreed.

  “Well, clearly, as a person incapable of decisiveness, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Don’t worry.” El bumped my shoulder. “You’re trainable.”

  “I hope so.” I drained my wine glass and picked up the bottle. “My track record hasn’t been the greatest.”

  El held out her glass. I topped it off, then refilled my own.

  “Are we talking about relationships again?” she asked.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Apparently. You still haven’t told me who Misty Ann is.”

  “She’s no one.” I felt bad about the words as soon as they left my mouth. “That’s not true. She’s . . . fine. I just made a bad decision and got involved with someone I shouldn’t have.”

  “We’ve all done that.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’ve sort of elevated it to an art form.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid of getting hurt.”

  “Don’t these bad decisions ever end up hurting you?”

  I looked at her. “They all do.”

  El chewed the inside of her cheek. “Then it sounds like your strategy isn’t working very well.”

  “You might say that.”

  “Maybe it’s time to try a different approach?”

  I thought about a variety of different approaches I could try right then, but opted to sip my wine instead. El was right. Libras are wimps.

  “What approach?” I asked. “I don’t think marriage would work out for me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about marriage,” she replied. “And by the way, marriage didn’t work out so well for me, either.”

  “What happened?”

  “With Ivor?”

  I nodded.

  “We lasted about two years. Barely. Turns out he was gay, and so was I. The difference was that he knew it and I didn’t.”

  I was confused by her explanation, and it must have showed on my face.

  “Ivor wasn’t looking for a wife, he was looking for a companion. He knew I was gay long before I did. I suppose he thought it was an arrangement that would work well for each of us.” She shrugged. “Our relationship was never sexual . . . that should’ve been a clue for me. But frankly,” she looked at me, “I was just relieved that it wasn’t something he seemed to be interested in.”

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “Figure it out?” El asked.

  I nodded.

  She sighed. “We were friends with another couple—both professors. They had an open relationship . . . not uncommon at Cornell. She was only too happy to help me find my way.” She raised an eyebrow. “See? I told you that you weren’t the only one who made bad decisions.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Believe me . . . I couldn’t get out of Ithaca fast enough. And to be fair, I really wasn’t cut out for life in the classroom. I needed more real world experience. I wanted to do more than just talk about labor relations. I wanted to make a difference—not just spend my days deconstructing failed case histories on a white board for a roomful of bored twenty-somethings.”

  “So you became an agitator.”

  She held up her finger. “A divorced agitator.”

  “Who likes girls?” I asked.

  “Who likes a certain girl,” she added. “A lot.”

  There we were again. Right back where we started. It was the same place El and I always ended up: the center point of our circle.

  I looked down at my lap. I knew El was waiting for me to say something, but I was too afraid of saying the wrong thing . . . or the right thing.

  Libras. Wimps.

  “Does that scare you?” El asked in a soft voice. I barely heard it above the music. It was Bobby Darin now . . . searching for happiness beyond the sea.

  Things didn’t work out so well for him, either . . .

  “Friday Jill?” El asked.

  I looked up at her. “Yes. It scares the piss out of me.”

  “Why?” She touched my hand.

  “Because you’re leaving.”

  “I can come back,” she said.

  “You won’t.”

  She looked confused. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, come on.” I waved a hand in frustration. “Who comes back to Indiana? This is a place people leave. Not a place people stay.”

  “You stayed.”

  “I don’t count.”

  El squeezed my hand. “To me, you do.”

  I sighed, knowing it sounded every bit as morose as I felt. “It’s a losing propos
ition.”

  “Why do you say that? We wouldn’t be the first two people to deal with distance as a relationship factor.”

  “It’s not just the distance. I work in a truck factory, El. You’re a labor organizer.” I paused. “Anything about those two facts seem at all irreconcilable to you?”

  “Not really. You forget. I live in a world where irreconcilable differences are a starting point for negotiation.”

  I had to laugh at that one, even though I knew I was sinking deeper into the mire of hopelessness.

  “There’s no arguing with you.”

  El smiled. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.”

  I shook my head. “What makes you so sure this can work?”

  “What makes you so sure it can’t?”

  “Because things like this don’t happen to me.”

  El looked confused. “Things like what?”

  “Things like you.”

  El sat there quietly for a moment, then pulled out the gaping neck of my Salukis t-shirt. She tucked her chin back and took a long look inside.

  “Nope. It’s me, all right. Nobody else in here.” She released the shirt. “Sorry. Looks like things like me can happen to you.”

  “El . . .”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “Stop trying to end this before it even gets started. You’ve been like someone on a seesaw—one minute you’re up, the next you’re down. It’s making me crazy.” She set her wine glass down and moved closer. “And it’s a colossal waste of time.”

  Her proximity was causing all kinds of signal flares to ignite. Sparks were flying off in all directions. But what were they warning against? And instead of running for cover, why did I suddenly have a desire to join in, fire up a few more, and sit back to watch the show?

  Already the patterns of light were spectacular.

  El kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and watched as an endless cascade of blue-and-white flowers blazed and exploded against the night sky inside my head.

  I remembered the very first time I saw fireworks at the Princeton fairgrounds. T-Bomb and I were lying on an old army surplus blanket that Grammy had spread out over the wiry grass. It was the fourth of July, and everything around us was alive with color and flashes of light. The loud booms went on and on. The hot summer sky was transformed into an electric canvas, painted by a thousand different brushes. It glowed and vibrated. We were positive that the ground beneath our backs would be changed forever—that so much color and light falling to earth would have to transform the monotonous miles of cornfields into something magical. Something extraordinary.