Slipstream

by Leslie Larson

  It was so cold out in the rain, Inez started to shiver. She had never really spanked Vanessa—just a pat on the bottom or a slap on the hands when she was very young—but now she would have liked to smack her right across the face. Such lies. “What in the world are you talking about?” she exclaimed. “What’s gotten into you? Why are you saying these things?”

  “Because it’s true!” Vanessa shouted back. There was no stopping her now. “He’s doing something out in the garage. At night, haven’t you heard him?” She talked faster and faster, not even lowering her voice when Duane and Brother Lacy came out of the door behind them. “He walks around the house and out in the yard at three in the morning. How can you not know? And he’s been in my room! I swear! I haven’t seen him, but I can tell. I know he’s been in there.”

  “Sister Cullen,” Deacon Lacy said, laying his hand on Inez’s shoulder. He nodded at Vanessa, who made no attempt to hide her wild eyes.

  “It’s true, Mom. I swear,” she pleaded, as if Duane and the deacon weren’t standing right there. Inez had never been so ashamed.

  “What are you doing standing out in this rain? Do you have a ride?” Deacon Lacy said in his deep voice.

  “We’re fine, Deacon. Fine,” Inez said hurriedly. “My husband’s coming to pick us up.” She smiled and nodded at him, then shot Vanessa a warning glance.

  Lacy looked at his watch. “It’s wet, and getting late. I don’t like to see you two ladies standing out here. What time is he coming?” He frowned, the busybody. So stubborn.

  “Really, really. It’s okay,” Inez said, patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry about us. Go ahead. Go on home before you get wet.” She grinned uneasily at him as she secretly squeezed Vanessa’s arm. The young guy, Duane, was eyeing her daughter.

  “Sister Cullen, this is not the best neighborhood,” Deacon Lacy went on, like a dog with a bone. “Now please don’t argue with me. We’ll just wait here until your husband comes.”

  There was no getting rid of him. Cars drove past, spraying water, but none of them was Rudy. Inez was suddenly terrified that he knew about the Avon money, that at that very moment he was in Vanessa’s room, digging in the cedar chest past the layers of sweaters, the blankets and afghans, to find the envelope. She tried to keep her face neutral, to hide her rising panic. Brother Lacy blinked into the rain. Duane glanced out of the corner of his eye at Vanessa, who stared savagely at her feet. It occurred to Inez that if Rudy found the money it might not be safe to go home. Her heart raced. She wondered whether she should tell Brother Lacy, whether she should go to the church for help. An oily, foul-smelling shame welled up in her stomach. A car rounded the corner, its headlights washing over the four of them. It pulled to the curb. Him.

  He didn’t turn the engine off. Brother Lacy opened the door and leaned into the car.

  “Haven’t seen you at services for a while, Brother Cullen,” he said.

  If Rudy responded, Inez didn’t hear it. She was eager to disappear into the car, to get away, no matter what happened. When Brother Lacy straightened up and looked at her, his face was confused.

  Inez slid into the passenger seat. Rudy’s hair was rumpled, like he’d just gotten up from bed. “Get in, get in, get in, get in,” he mumbled, not looking at them but keeping his eyes fixed on the windshield. His hands were locked on the steering wheel. Vanessa got in, slammed the door. The heater was turned up high, stifling after the rain-laden air outside. Without a word, Rudy pulled away from the curb, leaving Duane and Brother Lacy standing on the curb.

  Inez knew then that Vanessa was right. More than that, she realized that she’d known it for a while. Something was up. In the stifling heat that smelled of burnt sugar and sweat, the scalpy funk of unwashed hair, she said a prayer. For God’s guidance. For Jesus’ protection. She was the lamb, he was the shepherd. So often, she reflected as Rudy accelerated around a corner, his lips pressed into an angry scowl, you didn’t get what you prayed for. Later you realized that was because you asked for the wrong thing. Because you couldn’t grasp the big picture, the plan God had for your life. Rudy cursed under his breath, sucked air through his teeth with a hissing sound. Later you might understand. Might see the story laid out for you, beginning to end, the reasons why, the place you were headed all along.

  23

  The frozen raviolis Wylie got at Trader Joe’s were pretty good. He ate them in front of the TV as he watched the evening news. After that he had a bowl of Chunky Monkey. Small, because he was watching his gut. The dogs sat in front of his easy chair and begged, so he let Murphy lick the plate and Elsa the bowl. When they were finished, Elsa rolled over to have her belly rubbed and Wylie saw she had a tick right where her back leg connected to her body. It looked like a lentil, mud-colored and flat. He got the tweezers and for once it came away clean, head and all. At least that had gone right. That was one thing to be thankful for.

  Elsa lay in front of him as he watched the next program, a PBS documentary about Louis Armstrong. He rubbed her chest absentmindedly with his bare feet. Murphy went over by the furnace and jibbled at the dry patch on his back. Wylie had almost made up his mind about the baby. All he had to do was work up the nerve to tell Carolyn. Jesus, what did she expect? He was getting on in life. Fifty-one, for Christsake, and she was no spring chicken, either. The poor kid would barely be out of diapers before he’d be changing theirs. Ha-ha, very funny. Satchmo had four wives. None of them understood that his horn came first. The program didn’t mention whether he had any kids.

  Having a kid would be like starting all over, and Wylie was closer to retirement than embarking on a whole new life. There were plenty of things he wanted to do, plenty he was interested in. Fishing. Cabinetry. Adult school classes in history, maybe. Life drawing, why not? His dogs. Just sitting. The peace, after all the work he’d done in his life. All the drinking and wives and getting up early and coming home late. The struggling to make ends meet and stay sober and just get through one day after another. Now he could get his house and yard into shape. Travel. He’d always wanted to drive cross-country, stopping wherever he wanted, taking his time. Carolyn could come. But not with a kid. Oh no. No, no, no. You could forget about your own life then. Kiss your plans good-bye. Sleepless nights and feedings, always tied to schedules. The three of them stuck in the house day after day. The routine. The worry. All the stuff they’d have to buy: car seats, high chairs, cribs, and toys. Mountains of pastel plastic. Where would they put it all? The clutter and noise. No. Snot, puke, fevers, and shit. Rashes. Falling down and drowning. Not to mention diseases. Choking. That’s if the baby was born normal in the first place, a big if considering their ages plus all the drugs and booze he personally had consumed. Who knew what that did to your chromosomes? And wouldn’t that be nice, to be saddled with a child who had special needs, who would never be able to take care of himself, who would have to be cleaned, fed, and carried around for the rest of his life, or rather the rest of their lives, his own and Carolyn’s, which wouldn’t be long since they were so old. Then the poor kid would have to be institutionalized, and considering Wylie’s savings, which were practically zilch, it wouldn’t be the Ritz, either.

  No, thank you.

  He got up and switched the TV off. His heart was racing, his eye was twitching, his underarms tingled with sweat. What a fucking idiot he’d been. All the times in his life he could’ve gotten someone knocked up and he goes and does it now, when he should have known better, when he’s a fucking old man who can hardly get out of his chair, sitting around with itching dogs eating ice cream in front of the TV.

  Elsa lifted her head and watched him pace back and forth.

  “What should I do?” he asked her. “Tell me.”

  She let her head drop back to the floor and closed her eyes. That did it. He went in the bathroom and brushed his teeth, changed his shirt, locked up the house, and drove to Carolyn’s.

  Her car was there, but she didn’t answer his knock so he walked around the back of the hous
e to her workshop. The storm had picked up and the eucalyptus trees were tossing wildly, their branches screaming and creaking. The workshop was blazing with light; one of the double doors was open. Among the stripped-down tables, broken chairs, iron bedsteads, chests of drawers, and the cans of stain and solvent, Carolyn was sitting on a wooden box with her head between her knees.

  Wylie approached cautiously. “Hey,” he called. “What’s up?”

  “I’m having a little spell.”

  Inside it smelled of wood and turpentine. Even though the door was open, an electric heater glowed next to the table Carolyn was sanding. The fragrance of wet eucalyptus blew in from outside. Wylie stood in the doorway dripping. “You look green,” he said. “You okay?”

  Carolyn nodded miserably. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Ugh. You know. It’s better not to talk about it right now.” She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “What are you doing here?”

  Wylie shrugged. He hitched his pants up, ran his hands through his hair, and shrugged again. He felt shy and awkward. “Just came to talk, I guess,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at the wet, black night outside the door. “Just thought we ought to.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Around nine.”

  Carolyn jumped up as if startled, and Wylie stumbled back against a bedstead.

  “I’m going to barf,” she announced, heading for the door.

  Wylie followed her to the side of the workshop, where she put her hands on her knees and lowered her head. He averted his eyes. There were tall weeds back there: thistle and mustard, some kind of wild pea. It was a hell of a fix, he told himself. A hell of a fix. When she was finished, he laid his hand on her back.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You want anything?”

  “No, I’m okay. I feel better now.”

  Jesus, she was good-natured.

  “You sure?

  “Yeah, really. I’m almost hungry, believe it or not. That’s one of my three states: hungry, sick, or tired.”

  “Isn’t this supposed to happen in the morning?”

  “I think so. I guess no one’s really keeping track in my case.”

  Wylie’s stomach knotted. “I guess we need to talk about this, huh?”

  She nodded grimly. “Yeah, we do. We need to decide.”

  “You want to go in the house?” He fumbled with her elbow in a lame attempt to support her.

  Carolyn straightened up and flipped her hair back. Despite everything, she looked pretty good. Strapping, robust. “Let’s stay out here,” she said.

  She flashed her goofy smile and he caught himself grinning back at her. “We’re in a pickle, aren’t we?” he said.

  “Christ, don’t say pickle,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t mind something to drink. How about getting me a ginger ale from the fridge? There’s more in there if you want one, too.”

  The kitchen smelled like beans. The radio was on, tuned to NPR. The newspaper, along with the remains of Carolyn’s dinner—an almost-empty bowl of bean soup and a few bites of cornbread—were on the little table near the window. Who would want to give this up? He got two ginger ales out of the refrigerator and headed back out to the workshop, where Carolyn had pulled a couple of chairs together so they could look down at the city. Wylie sat down and popped the tabs on the sodas.

  “Nice color,” he said, pointing to a cushion she’d covered in lichen-green corduroy. “I like that.” He pretended to inspect the label on his can of soda. “We had a scare out at the airport today. Some joker left a bunch of powder on the bar. They were afraid it was anthrax.”

  “Was it?”

  Wylie shook his head. “Baking powder. Everybody went nuts for nothing.”

  Carolyn took a long drink of her ginger ale. She covered her mouth to hide a burp, watched the rainfall a moment, and said quietly, “Look, Wylie. Enough chitchat, okay? Let’s cut to the chase.”

  He scanned her body out of the corner of his eye to see if there were any changes. Nothing so far. It seemed amazing, really. Hardly possible. Such a common occurrence, yet the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.

  “I keep thinking and thinking, but the more I think, the less I can make up my mind,” he said. Better to start off slow.

  She nodded encouragement.

  “I just keep thinking about my family, my own family,” he went on. “Mostly the men in my family. A bunch of boozers. My half brother’s in the program, thank God. Just like me. But he’s been in and out of the pen, I don’t know how many times. Same as my father. A boozer. A loser, with a capital L. And his old man, too. Coming and going, moved all over the damn country, and even my great-grandfather, who, from what I can tell, had to get the hell out of Ireland or they were going to put him away, too. So I just figure the buck should stop here, you know? Why pass all this on? Break the chain.”

  Wylie had been staring at a Folgers can of paintbrushes on the floor while he talked; when he looked up, Carolyn was watching him.

  “You know what my dad did once?” he asked with a little laugh. It was funny that he remembered this story now. He felt slightly ashamed telling it, as if he felt sorry for himself and was asking for sympathy. Which he wasn’t. But the night sky and the falling rain made him feel hidden, like it was safe to talk, so he went on. “I think I was about nine or ten. My mom’s mother was dying and she’d flown up to San Francisco to be with her. We couldn’t afford airline tickets for all of us, so my dad was going to drive me and my sisters up in time for the funeral. Well, we didn’t make it far. Just outside Bakersfield he met up with some long-lost buddies and started drinking. My sisters and I waited in the car for what seemed like forever, until after dark. They were just little kids, probably five and seven or something like that. Finally the old man came out, loaded of course, and said that he had business to take care of and we kids were taking the bus up to Frisco.”

  Carolyn bent over and set the soda can on the ground.

  “You okay?” Wylie asked. “You feel sick again?”

  “No, I feel fine.”

  “You bored?”

  “No. Finish the story.”

  “Well, he drove us to the Greyhound station, gave me some cash, and told me to take the girls to San Francisco,” Wylie said matter-of-factly. He took a sip of ginger ale. “Didn’t even get out of the damn car. I was totally freaked out. When I asked him what I was supposed to do, you know—which ticket to buy and what bus to take, he just said, ‘Figure it out.’ Can you believe that? I’ll never forget him saying that.” Wylie shook his head. “‘Figure it out.’”

  “Wow,” Carolyn said quietly. “I can’t believe it. How could he have done that?”

  “I don’t know. Something in him was missing, I guess. He just didn’t care. Or maybe he thought it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe he just thought we’d get there, no problem.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I guess we did,” Wylie chuckled. “I asked someone what to do and we made it to San Francisco. Probably safer on the bus than riding all the way up there with my dad, come to think of it.”

  Carolyn nodded thoughtfully. Only half of her face was lit by the drop lamp that hung from the rafters behind her and he remembered the first time he’d seen her, at a garage sale near the grocery store where he shopped on Saturdays. She’d been on all fours, her head under a table as she pawed through a box of odds and ends. “Whoa! Look at this!” she’d crowed, standing up suddenly and holding up a metal lamp with its cord hanging down like the tail of a slain beast. She’d turned to him with a triumphant grin, and he’d been struck by how happy she looked, for no good reason at all. “Score!” she’d said. “Luck be a lady.” He’d wanted to kiss her then and there, to soak up some of her joy.

  Now she pursed her lips and turned toward him. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of the girl she’d been, gawky and sweet. “But you’re not like that,” she said slowly. “Not at all. That’s not what you’re thinking, is it?”
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br />   “No. Well, not that bad. But—Jesus.” All this talking. Really, did it ever get you anywhere? And was there any way to cram what you felt into words? He tried. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I mean, can you see me as a father? Can you picture me as that kind of person?”

  Carolyn chewed her lips. To Wylie’s horror, tears brimmed in her eyes and spilled down her face. “You’re a great guy, Wylie,” she said. “Too bad everybody knows it but you.”

  Wylie was stunned. He’d never even imagined such a thing. He suddenly felt like crying himself. “You think so?” he said, shocked at how high and thin his voice sounded. He craved a cigarette, though he’d quit smoking over ten years ago. “I don’t know.” He shook his head and looked at his useless hands lying in his lap. He picked at the Band-Aid that covered the cut he’d got during the anthrax scare that afternoon. “I just don’t know. I think it’s too late. Too damn late.”

  “It’s never as late as you think it is,” Carolyn said. “You never know how much time is left.”

  “We’ve never really talked, you know,” he stammered. He gritted his teeth. Clenched and unclenched his hands. Carolyn watched him steadily. He knew so little about what went on inside her head and, until now, that had been just fine. “About us. You know, you and me.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. She leaned back in the chair and surveyed the rafters where she stored lumber and spare parts: chair legs, spindles, drawers, cushions. “I guess we’re kind of chicken-shit. Both of us.”

  Wylie squirmed. The whole second part of his life had consisted of getting over the first part. Now what? Words stuck in his throat. Rather than getting a grip on things, he seemed to have gotten more inept as time went on. He needed to pull himself together, to remember what he’d decided back at his place. Did he always have to be such a wimp?

  “I can’t do this, Carolyn.”

  She leaned forward and put her index finger on his kneecap. “Do I need to tell you I love you, Wylie?” she asked with the concern of a doctor questioning her patient about his illness. “Because I do. In case you didn’t know. I might as well just say it.” He noticed the spokes in her eyes, rods of yellow laid over the brown. “I love you, that’s all.”