Bystanders

by Tara Laskowski

  Lulu,

  You are probably feeling very overwhelmed right now with my contact. I am sorry. I know this is hard, and I don’t even know what I will say to you when I see you.

  Harold

  The postcard was a picture of Bash Bish Falls, one of the places they’d visited on their honeymoon in Massachusetts all those years ago. One end of the postcard was frayed from handling at the post office, but it was definitely a new postcard, bought recently. She imagined Harold standing at the falls, remembering their honeymoon, the creaky bed in the only hotel room they could afford at the time, those cherry pastries they shared at a picnic in the park. She imagined him now—older? wrinkly?—rooting through the postcards in the park’s gift shop. Was he revisiting all their favorite landmarks?

  And “Lulu”? Had he ever called her that? It sounded familiar somehow and yet it didn’t. Harold had never been one for nicknames, really. Not in their later years together anyway.

  She began to get hung up on trivial things. Like how much more it would cost her at the grocery store if she had to buy food for both of them again. And how he’d never really liked mushrooms—she’d been eating portabellas regularly now for eight years—how would that work? A very jagged resentment poked at her insides. No way, Jose. If he had done this to her, he was going to have to deal with the way things have changed since he’d been gone. She went to book club night. She didn’t drink much. And yes, she slept with three different pillows and the down comforter on top of her no matter how hot it was outside.

  Nati kept trying to tell Evelyn, but it came out all wrong and she chickened out. “Evelyn, about your father. I think he’s here,” she said one night while they were watching Wheel of Fortune.

  “No, you dummy. Don’t buy a vowel.” Evelyn turned to her mother. “Oh ma, really?”

  Nati was puzzled by the sympathy in Evelyn’s voice, but she continued. “I just—I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s…around. He might be coming here.”

  “Mom, this happened to a friend of mine’s mother after her husband died. I think it’s totally normal. You see things—you want to see things. Sometimes it happens right after the death, but sometimes it happens years later.”

  Ghosts. So Evelyn thought she was seeing ghosts. Nati laughed at the thought of Harold haunting her. Closing doors. Leaving dishes in the sink. She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid, Ma,” Evelyn said sleepily, lying back against the couch. “You just miss him is all.”

  ***

  The third letter came a week later in a plain white envelope. It didn’t address her at all. It simply said: I’m coming to see you on Wednesday. I hope you will let me explain things. If you don’t answer, I’ll know what to do. H

  Wednesday.

  She carried around this knowledge like a giant wart on her face. Every reference someone made to time, Nati felt self-conscious, nervous, ashamed. Patricia said, “Those shipments of strapless bras are coming on Friday—do I need to come in over the weekend to help with them?” and all Nati could think was that by then, she would know if this was all true or not. She and Evelyn were watching a game show on television and one of the commercials advertised a new show starting Wednesday evening—maybe Harold would be there watching it with them.

  But she didn’t miss him. Evelyn was wrong. She was anxious, angry, sure, curious, but miss him? She wanted to smack him clear across the face and tell him where he could shove his notes.

  ***

  When Veronica came in to pick up her special order, she asked to try on the bras before buying them and blushed deep as though she was asking something inappropriate. Nati set her up in the biggest of the dressing rooms and left her there. She got caught up with several other customers and phone calls, and a good while passed before Nati remembered Veronica again. She went back to check on her. The door to the changing room was still closed. Nati tapped with her knuckles. “Everything going okay in there?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Veronica’s voice was falsely cheerful, but she sounded like she had acquired a sudden cold.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  Nati opened the door and saw Veronica crying on the bench in the bra (which fit wonderfully, Nati noticed).

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  She shook her head.

  “It looks gorgeous on you,” Nati said, but that made her cry even harder. Nati sat down beside her, patted her hand.

  “It’s been half a year now. And this is the first time I’m coming—this is the first time I’ve actually cared at all…” she looked up at Nati. “He’s never seen—he doesn’t know.”

  “A new man?”

  Veronica nodded, blushed. She had an interesting way of blushing—dark and scarlet. It spread quickly like a rash up the woman’s neck and into her cheeks.

  “If he’s worth his salt, it won’t matter a lick.”

  “Oh god, it has to matter, doesn’t it?” Veronica looked down at herself. “I mean, what if it does matter?”

  Nati shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess he’s not worth it then.”

  “And what if he’s mad I kept the secret for so long? Oh my.” She started crying again, worse this time, a wave of red nose and watery eyes. “Oh my, look at me. Oh, I’m so sorry. I just. Well, it’s just.”

  “People can surprise you all the time,” Nati said. “Do you want to hear a crazy story?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “My husband, he was—he is—a fisherman, always liked that sort of thing. He disappeared eight years ago and everyone thought he was dead.” She paused. “But he’s not.”

  Veronica looked puzzled through her tears. “How do you know?”

  “He contacted me. He had to pretend he was dead all this time because he had bad people after him. Gambling debts.” Harold always did like his monthly poker games; it could be true.

  Veronica’s eyes were wide. “So you didn’t know?”

  Nati shook her head.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Nati shrugged.

  “Aren’t you mad? I would be…but, I mean, if you’re not mad, then maybe he won’t be mad at me. It’s been like two months. He’s starting to suspect something’s wrong, I know. I should’ve told him.” She sighed. “Oh, you don’t think he’ll be mad, do you?”

  “I have no idea what he’ll be,” Nati said, thinking about Harold. And what if he didn’t want to come back home? All this time, in a snuff about him wanting back in, the gall of it all—but what if he didn’t want back in? Nati felt fear flickering in her belly. What would she do then? “But if he doesn’t want you, then he’s damn fool stupid.”

  Veronica frowned, back in her own thoughts and problems. Nati regretted saying anything at all to her. “I thought I was dead,” Veronica mumbled. She fingered the lace of one of the gowns and sighed. “Anyway, thanks for your help and all. I’m just—I’ll finish up here. I’m sorry to take up your time.”

  “You’re not—it’s fine. Just take your time,” Nati said. She felt irritated with Veronica and with herself. But didn’t you just hear what I told you? My husband is alive. That newscaster man would’ve cared. He would’ve told her story, and maybe she would contact him herself one of these days. Maybe this Veronica would see the story on TV and then she would realize.

  ***

  When Nati came home from the store Wednesday, Evelyn was already making dinner. “I thought I’d surprise you,” she said, seeming more cheerful than the previous days. She licked sauce off the spoon and set it down next to the baby monitor on the counter. “It’s this spaghetti squash recipe I’ve been meaning to try. Spaghetti squash and meatballs.”

  “Oh, sounds good,” Nati said. Her stomach was so in knots she wasn’t sure she could eat one crumb of bread, but she didn’t want to disappoint her daughter
. Evelyn was whistling as she puttered around the kitchen. Whistling! Imagine if she knew what could happen tonight! Evelyn turned and smiled, and Nati felt even worse about not telling her before, not preparing her. There had just never been a good time.

  “Go ahead. Get changed or whatever. It should be ready when you come back down.”

  She went upstairs. She tried throwing up, but there was nothing. She hadn’t eaten all day.

  In the closet, she sifted through her clothes, irritated. Everything seemed dowdy, ugly, plain. Or on the other stratosphere, too fancy. Wouldn’t Evelyn be surprised if Nati came downstairs wearing a sequined gown she’d bought for a wedding three years ago? She settled for a nicer blouse with a cityscape of Paris and her nicest pair of jeans. No need to dress up, anyway, she reminded herself. Not for him. Why did he deserve that?

  Still, she felt silly refreshing her makeup, like this was some date. She looked at herself in the mirror. Old. What had she looked like eight years ago? Would he be disappointed? Would she? “Ridiculous,” she said again to her reflection. “You are the dumbest broad on the block.”

  On her way downstairs, Nati heard a loud ding from Evelyn’s room. She had left her computer on. Ding. Ding. Again the noise. Nati went in, the blue light of the screen making everything seem a little distorted. There was a small box open in the middle of the screen. Tiny conversation bubbles were popping up one after the other, each one sending a loud ‘ding’ into the room. Before she could decide what to do, if anything, she couldn’t help but notice the words on the screen, labeled from “Ben,” Evelyn’s husband’s name.

  I’m sorry.

  I know it’s hard 4 u, especially so far away.

  I still want 2 B in MMs life.

  Nati backed away, her face flushed like she’d been caught doing something bad.

  Downstairs, Evelyn had the table set with the nice china. Her daughter’s cheerfulness now seemed false to Nati, the smiles forced. Were her eyes a bit puffy? “We should eat before she wakes up,” Evelyn said. She held up a bottle of red wine. “Drinks!”

  “What is all this fuss for?”

  Evelyn shrugged. “I felt like cooking. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.” Nati forced herself to smile. “This will be great.”

  “Yes!”

  They ate quickly, Evelyn constantly looking at the monitor for any sign of movement.

  “Are you okay?” Nati asked her. She thought about what she’d seen on the computer. She didn’t know much about technology, sure, but some things didn’t need fancy computer programs to come through. Something had happened. Something bad. And Evelyn didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Of course,” Evelyn said, too fast. She had a glass of wine, took a large drink from it. “Why?”

  “Just want to make sure.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  They sat there. Nati filled the wine glasses again. It seemed painful, the silence. All this between them, seeping into the air. It made Nati think of the time, after Harold’s 40th birthday party, that he’d accidentally knocked an entire bottle of red wine off the dining room table. She’d dabbed and dabbed at the stain, but it had never really come out. Just tell her, she thought. Tell her.

  “I’m glad you came,” Nati said finally. “It’s nice to have you both here.”

  Evelyn nodded in that distracted way Nati was becoming used to. “I’m so tired.”

  “Babies will do that to you.”

  Evelyn sighed, ran her fingers through her bangs. “Tired. Overwhelmed.” She sat back in her chair, looked up at the ceiling. “Did you ever want to…ever wish you could go back and do everything different?”

  “What?” Nati laughed anxiously. “No. Not really.”

  “Well, not everything.” Evelyn looked into Nati’s eyes, very serious, focused. “Just…some stuff. Just—wish you could go back and do things over, see what else might’ve happened.”

  My god, Nati thought. Why didn’t I tell her before? What is wrong with me? Always with the “leave it alone, it will all work itself out” mentality. She felt like someone had set fire to the middle of her back. Panic.

  Evelyn was still talking. “I’m just…I feel like a terrible mother. All the time. I feel like—a terrible person. I just wish…”

  “Oh, Evelyn, everyone feels that way sometimes.” She leaned forward, put her hand awkwardly on top of her daughter’s. She was surprised at her own gesture, surprised too when Evelyn flipped her own hand and squeezed Nati back. She could hardly believe her daughter was talking to her about this, and now, of all times. She didn’t know what to say, but Evelyn didn’t seem to mind.

  “Everybody? Really?” Her eyes flooded suddenly with tears. “Did you ever…It’s just, sometimes I feel so angry. So tired.”

  “This is all normal, it’s all just an adjustment. You’ll be fine.” She leaned over then and hugged Evelyn. Over Evelyn’s shoulder, she saw the portrait of the three of them that the church had taken many years ago. Evelyn smiling with a mouthful of braces, Harold with that big goofy grin he used to always give for pictures. “It’s the good people, the strong people, that stick through the hard times,” Nati said to the portrait.

  Evelyn was crying harder now. Nati got up to get a box of tissues. “Oh, mom—I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Evelyn said, blowing her nose.

  The doorbell rang. Nati met Evelyn’s eyes. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She felt it all unraveling there before her, all of it, like a big ball of yarn down a hill that she couldn’t catch. She leaned across and squeezed Evelyn’s hand. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.” Trying to convince both of them, maybe.

  She thought about what Evelyn had said about going back, doing it all over. See what else might’ve happened. She thought of an article she’d read once—some science fiction piece or philosophy—something about all the different worlds out there that disappear every time you make a decision, all the doors that close that you can never go back to.

  The doorbell rang a second time. Evelyn pulled her hand away, wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Mom, you should get that.”

  Nati looked up at the picture again. She saw the doors, the universes, flash before her eyes—all of them, all at once. All the stories that newscaster would never write, dissolving like a Kleenex in water. And all the other possibilities opening up, unfolding like a flower. For all the times before when she didn’t know what to do, this time everything was perfectly clear.

  Nati shook her head at Evelyn. “Nope,” she said. “Whoever it is, it’s not important. You were telling me something.” She tipped the wine bottle and topped off both their glasses. “So go ahead. It’s just you and me. I’m listening.”

  Scabs

  These days Jack only stopped by the house to visit Ma when he knew his father was out drinking. He handed her his copy of The Times Leader and she sat down, adjusting her reading glasses. She always went through the pages looking for his byline. “Word is they’re bringing in more security,” she said.

  “Probably,” he said. “Ever since they took the fence down, the picketers have been trying to come around the back entrance again.”

  Ma always had food ready for him. This time it was haluski, and the smell of butter and cabbage made Jack’s stomach growl. He’d missed that when he was away at college, one of the only things he’d missed about home.

  Ma pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose and looked up at him. “Are you okay, Jack?”

  He took from the cabinet an old McDonald’s glass with Mickey Mouse’s face faded into the side, and opened the freezer for ice. “Dad still eats all those TV dinners all the time?”

  “I only buy them when they’re on sale.”

  “They must be on sale all the time then,” Jack said.

  “Have they been bothering you at your new apartment?” she
persisted, and something in her voice made him turn.

  “Have they been bothering you again?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Ma? Have they been calling again?”

  She shook her head. “Well, just once. The other night. Your father answered it.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Jack turned back, trying not to get angry. He imagined his father answering the phone. Your son’s a goddamn scab. It was better his father answered it than Ma, though it probably affected his dad more. Jack working for the newspaper despite the union strike fueled the fire and bruised his father’s ego at the same time.

  Jack studied the refrigerator, always covered in magnets and clippings and photos. A photo of him from childhood carrying his favorite toy frog that he slept with until its stuffing came out. More recent photos of cousins. A story about five ways to reduce stress. A cross that someone had made out of yarn and a plastic grid. Prayer cards, and a schedule for St. Mary’s special masses. A handwritten note by his dad that read, “Don’t use to much electricity.” The spelling error annoyed him, and he thought about correcting it just to piss his dad off.

  “So he’s still being stubborn about everything?”

  Ma shrugged, looked down. The newspaper rustled between her hands. “I don’t know if stubborn’s the word, Jackie.”

  “Bull, Ma. Bull.”

  “Jackie, not in this house. Please. We’ve heard enough these last few weeks.”

  The anger in his mother’s voice worried him. He couldn’t have her abandon him as well. Not now. Not after everything. “Ma,” he said softly. “You’ve got to tell me if they keep bothering you, okay? I thought moving out would stop it. I’m sorry.”

  She smiled. “I’m fine, Jackie. You know that. We’re all fine.”

  But they weren’t, not really. Jack wished he hadn’t needed to come back to Wilkes-Barre after college. It was the last thing he’d wanted to do—admit defeat. Let his dad see him vulnerable.

  His father liked to frequent the American Legion, where he and all the other veterans would sit on fake leather stools, drink foamy beer in the middle of the afternoon, and complain about injustices that didn’t really affect them. Lately, Jack imagined, many of those conversations revolved around the newspaper strike. Jack pictured his dad rattling on to the boys about his no-good son and betrayal.