But there’s no reason for Sherrie to know. Not that she’s normally jealous. But Swenson hasn’t forgotten the effect that Angela’s name had on Magda. Even if Sherrie understands that he’s simply doing a favor for a talented student, it’s still ammunition to stockpile for future use. What does he mean, he doesn’t have the time to pay the bills or empty the dishwasher? He’s got the time to drive some kid sixty miles to Burlington. But it’s not just any kid. Try telling Sherrie that. Isn’t he allowed to drive to town without having to clear it with her? What does Sherrie think he does all day? And what does Sherrie do? Flirt with cute students who turn out not to have heart conditions?
Although he hasn’t slept, he pretends to be slumbering soundly when Sherrie wakes and gets out of bed. He ignores the seductions of coffee and burrows into the covers until he hears her car pull out of the driveway. Then he wants to jump up and run out and confess what he’s doing today, because if he doesn’t tell Sherrie, the trip to Burlington will appear to mean something, especially if someone sees him with Angela and tells Sherrie, or if he and Angela die in a car wreck on the road and his death becomes some Jackson Pollock horror legacy for Sherrie to live with forever. He longs to chase after Sherrie and shout what he always says when she leaves: Drive slowly! Be careful! Ruby used to say that what he really meant was: Please don’t die. But doesn’t it seem…counterintuitive to run into the driveway half-naked and tell your wife that you love her and, by the way, you somehow forgot to mention that you’re spending the day in Burlington with a female student? Why say that the student is a female? Because by that point Sherrie will ask.
With rare, adult self-control, Swenson resists the impulse. After a while he gets up and showers and lets the hot water needle him into steamy bliss. So he’s unprepared for the shock of wiping the steam from the mirror and confronting the smeary face of an ugly old man: graying, blotchy, with thinning pasted-down hair, wattles under his chin, thick whiskers sprouting from black craterlike pores. He angles back the tip of his tongue. That filling is really loose. Oh, dear God. He used to be reasonably good-looking. He picks up a jar of Sherrie’s face cream, studies the label, and shudders. He finds a pair of clean blue jeans, sucks in his belly, zips his fly, puts on a black T-shirt, his brown tweed jacket. That’s it. He’s not going to change clothes again. Not one more peek in the mirror.
It’s only nine forty-five. He’s early. He drives slowly. He’s still early. Who are all these voyeurs, detectives, and spies cleverly disguised as teachers and students, all displaying an unnatural interest in Swenson, peering into his car, stopping conversations to watch him cruise by? He feels like a pederast trolling the schoolyard. What if someone sees him? Does he stop and wave? Hey, it’s not a crime to give a student a ride.
At precisely five after ten, he swings past Angela’s dorm, convinced she won’t be there. She’ll have overslept or forgotten. They’ll have gotten their signals crossed. He’ll call her or she’ll call him. They’ll straighten the whole thing out. After that he’ll be off the hook. They won’t have to reschedule.
His breath catches when he sees her sitting on the hood of a parked car. She’s wearing her black leather jacket and a short black skirt. An expanse of shockingly white leg reaches down to the tops of her black engineer boots. Something’s different. She’s dyed her hair an unflattering hornet-colored blue-black. Swenson’s touched to think she might have done it for the occasion. Kicking the side of the car with her heel, she’s smoking and glowering at the street. She tenses when she sees his car and peers warily inside. When she sees that it’s Swenson she grins instinctively, like a kid, a lapse for which she compensates by flicking her cigarette butt over the roof of his car.
“Good morning,” Swenson says evenly. Get in the car, little girl.
Angela slides off the hood, causing her black pleated schoolgirl skirt to ruck up almost to her waist, revealing the same striped boxer shorts she wore last week on top of her jeans. The shorts slide a few inches down her bare hips. Swenson looks away.
Angela throws herself into the front seat, winging her head on the door frame.
“Jesus Christ.” She rubs her head.
“Are you all right?” he says.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m great. Actually. I didn’t think you were coming.”
“It’s only five after ten.”
“I didn’t know what time it was. I just didn’t think you’d come.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re a guy,” Angela reminds him.
“Well, here I am. Guy or whatever. Where to? Computer City?”
“Go for it,” says Angela. “Thank you. Really. I mean it.”
Swenson guides the car gingerly along the college road rippled with speed bumps. He doesn’t have to wait long for his bad luck to show up, driving a black sedan. From the opposite direction. Bump bump. With any luck, they’ll pass each other in the middle of a speed bump, slowly enough for the other driver to get a good look at him transporting a minor off campus.
It’s more than bad luck. Look who’s been selected from the entire Euston community to be driving that black sedan. If it’s not going to be Sherrie, then how about Lauren Healy? He can’t ask Angela to scrunch down in the front seat. He gives Lauren a hearty wave. Hi there, they haven’t seen each other since Swenson disgraced himself at the Benthams’ dinner party. Lauren scrutinizes Angela as if to make sure that she’s not a kidnap victim signaling for rescue, then peers curiously at Swenson and makes a small, stiff gesture halfway between a wave and salute. Swenson waves and drives on.
“Whew,” says Angela. “That was close.”
“Fasten your seatbelts,” Swenson says. “We’re in for a bumpy ride.”
Angela doesn’t get his Bette Davis imitation. Sherrie would. But so what? There are more important things than having seen the same movies. Angela fastens her seatbelt.
“Thank you,” Swenson says.
Even with the heat on, it’s chilly in the car. Still, Angela struggles out of her leather jacket. Swenson reaches over to help her, and the backs of his knuckles graze her neck. She twists out of the coat, sending his hand down the length of her arm, bare beneath the short sleeve of her black T-shirt. She flinches as if he’s struck her.
“Ow.” She turns to show him a bandage on her upper arm. “I got a tattoo. I’d let you see, but it’s still sort of swollen and gross.”
Poor kid, she’ll be stuck with it now. He hopes someone used sterile needles. Where did she get it, anyhow? Certainly not on campus. She found a ride to get tattooed but not to buy a computer.
“A tattoo of what?” he asks.
“I wanted to surprise you. Actually, it’s your name.”
Swenson says, “You’re joking, right?” Is she out of her mind? She could be mad and he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know one thing about her. Happily, the road’s empty enough so he can have his moment of panic without plowing into an oncoming car. Angela laughs. He notices she’s not wearing any facial jewelry except for one ruby dot in the white plush of her earlobe.
“Joke,” she says. “Only kidding. The truth is: It’s an egg. A cracked egg with a little chicken peeping out. I made a vow to God that I’d put the image on my body if He helps me finish my novel.”
Does Angela really believe in a God who so wants her to get tattooed that He’ll ghostwrite her book? “I guess it’s a good thing we’re getting you a new computer. Otherwise you could wind up tattooed head to toe.” This makes no sense, but Angela giggles obligingly. They ride past the weatherbeaten barns, the herds of shivering cows picking over the bare meadows, the isolated trailers coughing tarry smoke.
The silence seems unbreakable. Swenson’s heart skips warningly. Has he drunk too much coffee? He hasn’t had any coffee. That must be the problem. Maybe they’ll stop at a diner. He likes the idea of ordering eggs and home fries while Angela flips through the tableside jukebox and the farmers at the counter watch the free entertainment.
Finally, he asks, “So how’s your semester going?” How could they have regressed to this point since Angela’s confession that she thinks about him all the time?
“Mostly terrible. Except for your class, obviously. But you already know that. The real hell is studio art. Last week we had this assignment to do clay sculptures of American icons? All the other kids did these total clichés—torches, eagles, flags—”
Angela’s nervous delivery—a breathy, rattling staccato—makes Swenson oddly happy. Why should he be the only one who’s anxious?
“I did a McDonald’s Super Value Meal Number 7. It was cool, I got the Coke and the straw and the french fries and burger perfect. And that asshole, excuse me, Professor Linder got totally pissed. He said I was being irreverent and trying to annoy him.”
What kind of art teacher is that? How superior Swenson feels. He orders his students to break the rules. He isn’t threatened by their talent. He should call that moron Linder and ask him what he’s doing, though really he should be thanking him for making Swenson look good. So Angela’s taking creative writing and studio art? What are her parents buying with the long hours her stepfather—or father—spends counting pills and typing labels?
“Do you know what you’re going to major in?” he asks. Another loser question. The line that failed to pick up girls at mixers when he was in college.
“I have till the end of this year to declare. I don’t know. What do you think about me majoring in creative writing?”
“The obvious choice. Except for one little problem. There is no creative writing major.” The subject’s been debated for years at department meetings. The rest of the faculty—especially Bernie—has fought against it, partly as a way of letting him know what they really think of his so-called field of expertise. Swenson and Magda don’t argue too hard. Why would they want the extra work of reading student-thesis novels?
“Oh,” she says. “I thought there was. I thought they said that when I applied. Well, then, it doesn’t matter. I’ll pick the easiest subject so I have time to write. That’s all I care about. I get up in the morning and if I can write that day, I’m in a good mood. I’m happy!”
Swenson remembers how that used to feel: the pleasure, the excitement of starting a day’s work, the almost physical sensation of slipping into another world, into madness, really, imagining voices, one of those psychoses that deludes its victims into thinking the world makes sense.
Already they’re passing the burned-out shell of the Wendover Country Inn and Tavern. In its former life, as a roadhouse, always more tavern than inn, it marked the halfway point between Euston and Burlington. As a child, Ruby knew to look for it on their drives into town. Now, still boarded up, years after a suspected arson, the rambling, roofless structure fills Swenson with dread. Is it the thought of Ruby or the fact that the trip is half over?
Angela crosses and uncrosses her legs. She says, “Writing is better than anything. I mean, even better than sex.”
Swenson shoots her a quick look.
“Well, maybe not that,” she says. Once again they fall silent.
“Do you know what kind of computer you want?”
“I don’t care about speakers and graphics. Fancy video games. All I want is a big screen and lots of memory so I don’t have to keep deleting stuff to put more of the novel on it. That’s what happened with the last one.”
Swenson says, “You used up all the memory?”
“I write a lot,” Angela says.
Why isn’t Swenson jealous? She’s writing, and he isn’t. Why? Because he’s grateful to her for reminding him what this little field trip is about. Student writer and dedicated teacher working overtime.
They ride in companionable silence the rest of the way to Burlington until Swenson pulls into the wasteland of Computer City’s huge lot.
“Are they open today?” asks Swenson.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” she says.
The cavernous hangar of a store is nearly deserted except for a cluster of salespeople in Computer City kelly green, clustered near the service desk, a manager yelling at a guy wheeling a hand truck loaded with boxes, a few customers taking early lunch breaks to shop for home computers, two high school techies cutting class to check out the new equipment.
Swenson scurries after Angela, who’s striding fiercely across the vast store. The salesmen stop what they’re doing to take in the flash of white thigh, the keys on a heavy cord bouncing against one hip, the black socks sticking over the tops of the boots. And who do they think Swenson is? Some old lecher purchasing electronics for his young punk girlfriend? What fool would try to buy the affections of a girl who, you can tell from aisles away, is pure attitude and trouble? They probably think he’s her father. Well, go ahead, let them. Swenson could be her father. He might as well allow himself the pleasure Ruby cheated him of when she took her high school computer to college rather than speak to him for as long as it would take to ask him to buy her a new one.
A salesman approaches Angela. By the time Swenson catches up, Angela and a young man whose name tag says Govind are deep in conversation. The Indian kid’s acne-scarred, friendly face is rigid with embarrassment as he tries to shrink his tall, skinny frame down to Angela’s size. He wants to be helpful, to do his job and not have to deal with the shortness of the customer’s skirt, the white legs, the boots.
Aside from that, Angela’s the ideal customer. She knows exactly what she wants. The whole transaction takes minutes. Govind figures out what she needs and only then looks at Swenson—Dad—for agreement and approval. Swenson nods. Of course. By all means. My daughter’s got this together.
When Angela takes out her credit card, Swenson discreetly drops back and lets her collect herself as the salesman dashes off to get printer cables. Smart girl, she politely refuses the in-store service plan.
Govind smiles. “I have tried,” he says.
“I’ll swear to it,” Angela says.
He passes her the credit slip. “Enjoy,” he says.
He gives them directions to the drive-in pickup window, presses the receipts into Swenson’s hand, and wishes Angela good luck.
“You’re a prince,” Angela tells him.
“It is only my job,” he says, glowing with bashful pride.
Angela and Swenson leave the store far less quickly than they walked in, an almost postcoital languor dragging at their steps.
“That was easy,” Angela says. “Everything should be so easy.”
Swenson drives around to the side of the building. Like circus clowns, they both jump out at once. Angela grabs one of the smaller boxes, shoves it into the trunk. All these cartons can’t possibly fit, but it’s Swenson’s job to try. He wills himself into a state of physical competence in which he can muster up the testosterone-linked ability to judge spatial relations. He hasn’t forgotten that story about her damaged, wheezing dad. At last he’s able to close the trunk. See! She needed him here. She may know her way around the brave new world of megaherz and RAM, but he’s had to walk her through the simple old-fashioned geometry of squeezing bulky objects into a small cramped space.
“Well!” he says. “All rightee now! Should we get some lunch?”
“I don’t think so,” Angela says. “I’d be nervous to leave this stuff out in the car.”
“This isn’t exactly the South Bronx. It’s Vermont, remember? You could leave it in the backseat with the door unlocked, and it would still be there when you came out.”
“That would be asking for trouble,” she says.
“Okay,” says Swenson. “How about we drive partway back to Euston and stop at some country diner where we can watch the car from the window—”
“I’d rather not. I’d be too worried to eat. Maybe if you’re hungry we could find a McDonald’s or something with a drive-through window.”
“I’m not that hungry.” Swenson can’t believe he’s begging this skanky kid to have lunch with him after he’s driven her sixty miles and wasted h
is whole day. Still…he’s disappointed. He’d so clearly imagined the shocking warmth of the restaurant after the cold outside, the smell of coffee, the soothing aromas of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the jukebox. He feels like a kid whose date has announced she wants to go home early.
“The sooner I get back the better,” she says.
“I understand that.” He can’t help sounding annoyed, or tromping on the gas as he pulls out of the lot. Angela has to brace herself to keep from falling against him.
Swenson turns onto the cloverleaf that leads out of the business strip. The highway narrows into the potholed two-lane county route.
“Anyway,” says Angela. “Listen. You could say no. But I was hoping you could help me carry this stuff into my dorm room. And help me set it up. I’ll understand if you say no. I don’t want to take up your day.”
Swenson waits a beat. “I don’t think I’d be any help setting up a computer. My wife had to put mine together. I was totally useless.”
Idiot! Why mention Sherrie? What’s he trying to communicate? Any normal male would take on the task of computer setup, whether he knew how or not.
“That’s all right,” says Angela. “I could probably set it up. You could just give me moral support.”
“That I can do,” says Swenson.
“I know that. That’s what’s so great about you. No one’s ever taken the time to encourage me or help me.”
Swenson says, “It is only my job.” Was the Indian accent a mistake? Will Angela think his Govind imitation is racist? Or is it a sign of a shared history that’s accruing minute by minute, uniting them, a common past that’s already a source of private jokes?
Blue Angel Page 17
