“Nah,” Lobel clapped Seth’s shoulder. “Let’s keep it in the family. They’re all reading you anyhow. As far as I can tell, that’s how the jackals got the story in the first place.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad about that?” A child’s life was at stake. For all anyone knew that Rosko woman was senile.
“Not at all, son.” Lobel had to be gracious, considering that he was asking what he was asking. “You do your job.”
“Of course I will,” said Seth.
Lobel beamed as if he’d heard a promise. Seth walked him out. Nicky tried for his attention. “I’ll have your editor back in two shakes,” Lobel said, and something ugly bloomed in Seth’s gut hearing the title. They waited for the elevator. No one ever took the stairs in The Commons. Lobel asked, “You kids settling in all right?”
“We’re renting a place about ten miles south.”
“Rockpoint Townhomes?”
“Parklands.” Seth fumbled a little for the development’s name, though he passed it twice a day, spelled out at its entrance in an ornate font. So many places here were like that. Grandly labeled and fenced in, as if the gate itself made what lay beyond worthy of taxonomy and display.
Lobel nodded. “Nice area. My pool guy put theirs in, too. Though between you and me, it’s a buyer’s market. You and Alison should look into something permanent. Especially if you want children.”
Seth could rip out that tongue like a fat, wet root.
“No rush, though. You kids enjoy each other a while first. You’ll miss it after, being just the two of you.” The elevator door opened and Seth wanted it to swallow his boss. Hoagland Lobel stepped on. He held a hand out to stop the sliding doors. “I see Alison now and again. Thought she couldn’t top that old Hollywood stuff she dug up, but this Adah Chalk—I’ve half a mind to rename Centerville Commons Adahstown, seeing as it’s her hundred fiftieth birthday next month. That’ll distract from all this fuss. A little rebranding goes a long way.”
Adah Chalk came West as a mail-order bride.
Adah Chalk saved the herd from a flash flood.
Adah Chalk ran the telegraph office, cured rattler bites with a secret poultice, taught English to migrants, drove the first automobile for a hundred miles, corresponded with Susan B. Anthony, won blue ribbons with her slices of lemon pie. Dear God, was he ever sick of Adah Constance Ragsdale Chalk.
The elevator door strained against Lobel’s hand. “Adahstown. Or maybe Adahstowne with an E. One or the other. No tofu, now. Which do you think is best?” Lobel was all unweighted affability. Evidently, it had not occurred to him that Seth might have a conscience.
“I’d say check with Ali,” Seth said. “She’ll know what’s in keeping with the period.”
“Will do, partner, and thanks for the talk.”
Partner. The doors closed.
C U NEXT TUESDAY
Secanthelpit: mother teresa!
LilyBee: So very not in the mood.
Secanthelpit: nah, i kid. it’s genius. like those pageant chickies. philanthropy stops the h8ters dead. This tyson thing’s a gift from the cybergods. mater and paterfamilias will HAVE to let you back. lipsticklil 4eva!
LilyBee: If you’re going to use words like paterfamilias and philanthropy I suspect you can also use caps like a big girl.
Secanthelpit: i wonder tho if comparing him 2 anne frank was a little much.
LilyBee: Anne Frank! Anne Frank!!
Secanthelpit: Sorry, Your Capslockness. Truly and sincerely.
LilyBee: Shut up. It takes maybe one second more to get things right. It leaves an impression. Think about it like a signature perfume.
Secanthelpit: think about it like ur parents only LET u have lipstick because u scammed them in2 thinking it would make u grammar girl.
Yes. Because Sierra cared so very much about Lipstick. You’d think her best friend would have dedicated five minutes to posting a general notice. No, Lily hasn’t gone Amish; no, Lily hasn’t gone to military school. She’s been falsely accused and misses you all like moisturizer. She’ll be back as soon as she can. In the meantime, remember: Even with the Most Delicate of Dusting Brushes, Thou Shalt Not Apply Multiple Tints above the Crease. But no. Sierra was busy. Apparently slurping on Rocky’s fat stupid tongue took an inordinate amount of time.
Secanthelpit: Hello? Lily?
Secanthelpit: r u there?
Secanthelpit: Are you there, I mean. See? You win.
Secanthelpit: r u happy now? teehee.
LilyBee: I’m looking for something for my gran, okay?
The laptop weighed thirty pounds and was burning up her legs, which was biologically unjust. Guys didn’t have to deal with that. Guys got a lucky protective mat of leg hair. She Googled Benjamin Thales the commons Arizona news interview. Pages loaded in slow mo and yielded only permutations of the whole Rosko story. That and a YouTube tour of The Commons where some fake cowboy they’d hired to play the CEO steered a golf cart around, heehawing his way through The Full Life Community You’ve Been Working Toward. Outside, Nicky Tullbeck was long gone. In the kitchen, Gran waited for Ben, her sneakers laced and double knotted. Lily tried creepy old man knows way too much about missing girls.
No way was she going to search for cunt on her grandmother’s computer. Even if she cleared the history, therein lay the road to traumatic pop-ups. She heard the sound of it though, in the clattering of her fingers across keys. Cunt, cunt, vinegary old cunt. C U next Tuesday was the closest she’d come to hearing anyone actually say it, and that was just Sierra on the subject of a girl who’d had the audacity to sit beside Rocky in study hall, sharing her flashcards of irregular German verbs.
Lily typed out cunt but didn’t hit return.
Here was a violation of all the laws, of cheese, of logic, of basic linguistics. To refer to something so objectively excellent as if it was nothing.
Worse. As if it was vile.
Lily deleted the word with four stabbing keystrokes. She tried crazy old man says c*nt on the news. The asterisk looked wrong, like it was trying to turn the nastiness into Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.
Secanthelpit: u find it?
LilyBee: Not yet.
Secanthelpit: what was it? knitting needles? granny panties? hemorrhoid cream?
LilyBee: That’s my gran you’re talking about.
Secanthelpit: some1s in a mood. need me 2 lend you a tampon?
Lily wondered if anyone had ever called Sierra a cunt. If anyone had called her one without her knowing it. Or those vanished girls Ben Thales had been rabid about. Lily’s back ached. She’d read somewhere that a woman with presence never let her spine rest against the back of a chair. It had seemed like good advice to internalize, particularly since she was shorter than she’d liked. Still. It turned slouching into something only boys could get away with. Sad but true: hunching girls look like they’re embarrassed to have breasts.
Boys.
She bet Nicky was off somewhere watching the Thales clip again. She bet he was smirking.
She bet Rocky would be watching it within the week. Ditto the smirk.
LilyBee: Sure, lend away. I promise to return it when I’m done.
Secanthelpit: eeeew. whats with u?
LilyBee: I’m busy. I told you.
Secanthelpit: fine. ta. meeting R in a sec
LilyBee: I see ROCKY gets caps.
Secanthelpit: always, lady, always.
LilyBee: Great. Have fun. Say hi for me. See you next Tuesday.
Secanthelpit: thought u weren’t home till next month at least?
LilyBee: Sorry. That’s what I meant.
Secanthelpit: counting down 2 it!!! c ya!!
LilyBee: I’m really sorry I wrote that.
LilyBee: Really, really.
LilyBee: Sierra?
LilyBee: I didn’t mean it.
LilyBee: I’m worried about my gran.
Secanthelpit: Secanthelpit is offline and will not receive your message.
LilyBee: She’
s really into her neighbor.
Secanthelpit: Secanthelpit is offline and will not receive your message.
LilyBee: He’s a dick.
It didn’t have the same effect. Dick cock balls. The words were brassy and arrogant and only anatomically related to cunt.
LilyBee: He’s a worm.
Secanthelpit: Secanthelpit is offline and will not receive your message.
LilyBee: A weak wan flaccid little worm.
“Well.” Gran was in the doorway. “It looks like we’ve been stood up.” She said it twelve times calmer than Sierra would’ve if Rocky (a) deigned to agree to a standing date and (b) broke it. She brushed her hands like a gymnast chalking up. She rocked up on tiptoe. Lily clamped the laptop shut. Mom and Dad would have a fit at that. House rules: all Internet business is to be conducted in communal areas. Gran shot her a look. Gran had probably heard the whole Safe Cyber Choices lecture in excruciating detail. Poor Gran. She must’ve made the parentals’ shit list for letting Lily within fifty feet of a functioning computer. She hadn’t said a word though. Every cell that comprised Lily hoped her grandmother had never been called cunt.
“Good,” Lily said. “I’m glad.”
“What?” Gran frowned.
“I said, good. I don’t like him.”
“Ben?”
“He’s sketch city.”
“I hope that’s slang for generous neighbor.”
A pause. A sigh. Gran sunk back on her heels and it was amazing the height that she lost.
“No. I didn’t suppose it was. Lily, I’m—”
“He’s always around and I saw a—”
“I’m sorry.” Gran shook her head, all highlights and shine. Maybe Mona Rosko wasn’t the brave one, letting her color leach away like autumn in reverse. Maybe Gran was, holding on to brightness while it lasted. “I’ve left you on your own too much. I should’ve—”
“That’s not why I don’t like him. He—”
“I thought you might want the space.” Another sigh. “I know you’re having a prickly time of it back home.”
“I’m not. I’m fine.”
“Your folks said a change of scene would be just the trick. Sunshine, sleeping in. A chance to take your mind off things. The last thing I wanted was to smother you, but if you prefer”—she spread her arms wide—“this old girl’s ready to smother away.”
“Gran. They didn’t pack me off here like a delinquent.” They’d sent her down for Gran’s sake, so she wouldn’t be alone as her first year without Grandpa passed. An open-ended ticket because it was anyone’s guess how much she’d hurt, and how long.
“Nobody thinks that. Nobody.”
“I’m not some kind of project.” Lily was fine. Better than fine. She was SAT word superlative.
“Of course you aren’t. You’re a welcome guest. Always. Whatever the reasons.”
“You’re the reason.” Only: Dad and Aunt Manda’s plan came right on the heels of Headmistress Brecken’s office. “You’re the project.”
Gran’s expression was unreadable, or maybe Lily was lousy at reading them.
“I’m here because of you. They wanted me to check you’re okay. And I’m going to tell them no, you aren’t. I’m going to tell them you had a boyfriend over.”
“Lily.”
“I’m going to tell them about the walks and the barbecue. You cooked him Grandpa’s favorite biscuits.” Great. Another five seconds and she was going to cry. Four seconds. Three. “I hate him. He’s always staring. He’s got this creepy thing about girls. And he was vile to Ms. Rosko. He called her”—she wasn’t going to say it in front of her grandmother—“the C word.”
“I’m sure he’d never.”
“He did. On television. A vinegary old—”
“Lily.”
“I’m going to find it.” She opened the computer. “It’s online. You’ll see. I’m not making it up. And he went off about all these missing girls. Gran. He’s the emperor of sketch.”
Gran shut the laptop, hard. She slid it across the table, yanked the plug out, and tucked it under her arm. “Enough. Ben Thales is a good neighbor. There must have been some misunderstanding.”
“Yeah. Because so many things sound like—”
“Blunt.” Gran’s voice was light.
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”
“Stunt.”
“No, wait. I can. He’s the boyfriend. He’s got a penis and he calls you on the telephone.”
“Grunt. Runt. Punt.”
“He’s so cute and he takes you places in his car.”
“Brunt. Lily, I made the damn biscuits for you.” She held the computer tight across her chest and drew a serrated breath. “Twice. I burned the first batch.”
And here were the tears, only a bit behind schedule. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was my pleasure.” Gran set down the laptop.
“I’m not making it up. I wouldn’t be able to even think that up.”
“With your grades? And I’m sure they teach fiction in that fancy school of yours.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“Anything can be funny if you box it hard enough.” Her dorktastic grandmother assumed a Tae Bo stance. “Anything,” she repeated, and she punched at the air.
“Grandpa.”
“Dropped dead while I was in line for the ladies’ room.” She let out a mordant chuckle. “Not even a real washroom. A bank of Port-a-Potties.”
“It’s not funny.”
“No, but I try.” Gran’s fists flailed. Jab-jab-uppercut. Lily recognized the combo from Sierra’s stepmom’s DVDs. She mirrored it. Gran repeated it, faster now. “That’s my girl. Ben’s a friend and—you know what the stupidest thing about this year was?” Her hands stilled.
Lily shook her head. She stood by one arm of the sofa, Gran at the other, and she remembered the star and crescent bookends Gran gave her when she was tiny and wanted to be an astronaut.
“People who said if you need anything, ask.” Gran snorted. “Like I’d done this before. My God. I could barely butter my own toast and they wanted to know what I needed.” If the moral of the story was that she needed Ben, Lily was going to do the following things in quick succession: hurl, pack her bags, and hitchhike to the airport. “Ben never asked,” Gran said. “Ben never gave me a look like the one you just did if I found something to laugh about. He was—a presence. He’d drop by.”
Great. So he was moving in on her from the start. “That only—”
“Wait.” Gran held up a shushing finger. “He’s a friend. No, a friend. And I won’t have you up in arms over an unkind thing he said to a woman who never even sent a card. No, wait.” The finger again. “I know that woman has burdens of her own, and I know that child’s turned your head. I don’t understand it, but I know, and I’d never stand in the way of your trying to do them a kindness.”
“But he—”
“He has opinions that are damn close to my own after those redneck things she said to my favorite granddaughter.”
“I’m your only granddaughter.” The relief on Gran’s face at that weak old joke was ridiculous. Lily swallowed down her next barb and the morning passed with an awkward string of moments nobody commented on. Mona Rosko emerged for her paper and Gran turned on the oldies station. The per-vet collected his mail. Lily didn’t say a word. The refrigerator schedule advertised a one o’clock beading class and Gran suggested they grab a bite beforehand. Lily agreed, even though her stomach felt gnawed away from within. Gran offered to let Lily drive the cart and Lily pulled off giddy teen with panache. Gran whipped out her camera for a picture. Lily giraffed her neck so there’d be zero chance of double chin. She asked if the camera was a real camera for the sake of having something to say.
“It’s digital. I’ve been digital for years.” Gran slid into the cart beside her. The seats were hard and plastic and much too hot. “I can program my own DVR, too. This is no ordinary grandma you’re dealing wit
h.”
“I didn’t mean—it looked like a real one. The shape of the lens and all.”
Gran laughed, the same chesty huh-huh as Dad. “I like that you call the old ones real. Your kids sure won’t.”
“I’m not going to have kids.”
“Oh, not for ages. And it’ll be a different row to hoe for you. But there’s always the sperm bank.” To deserve all this, Lily must have been Stalin in a previous life. Everyone else made it to adulthood without once hearing their grandmothers say the word sperm. Gran winked and handed over her key ring. Junk outnumbered the keys: a plastic-encased school picture each of Lily and her cousins, a breast cancer awareness ribbon, and frequent shopper barcodes for half a dozen stores. Lily put the cart in reverse and focused on her guts’ hard, bright, budding feeling. Pearl-like, it grew, layer by layer of bitter nacre. One layer for Rocky. One for Ben. One each for self-absorbed besties and anonymous complaints and parents with ulterior motives. One for the C word. Another for a batch of burned biscuits.
PEOPLE WITH NOTIONS
THE PHONE AGAIN. NATURALLY, VERONICA. It was the landline, after all, and only she and robocalls used it. Ronnie, pissed off, and on schedule. Someone had sent her the link. “Hello?” Might as well get this over with.
A silence.
“Veronica?” Ben kept his voice pleasant. When Ronnie was in a state, you didn’t offer extra ammo.
He heard her breath.
And then the blare of a dial tone. Typical Veronica. In the thin, fraught months before their marriage ended, she’d imbued the silent treatment with so much elegance he’d almost had to admire it. He dialed her number, a subtle bud of defensiveness starting. Voicemail. His breath caught, reflexive, at her recorded voice. And then the pang. No fool like an old one. Corbin instead of Thales got him every time. His hand was still on the phone—an ancient thing from their old den, none of the screens and bells and whistles you got these days—when it jangled back to life.
“Hello?”
Another protracted silence. The ungenteel clearing of a throat. She had a finicky way of rubbing her neck when she did that, as if such sounds were beneath her.
You Could Be Home by Now Page 8
