“It is, but why do you think so?”
“It’s so much better than the others.” She replaced the bowl and pointed to the nearest potter’s wheel. “Make me something.”
“Bea, it’s not that simple. It takes days to make a finished piece.”
“I know that. I mean, just make something on the wheel. I want to see how you form it.”
“I don’t like an audience. It’s nothing personal.”
“You do it for the freshman girls, don’t you?”
“I have.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
“I’m wearing a new shirt; potting is messy.”
“Andy, look at yourself. The shirt is filthy. And you can always take it off.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“It will be the only time.”
“Ever?”
“Andy.”
He grinned and peeled off the shirt.
“An undershirt? I’m disappointed.”
“It’s cold in Minnesota. I like to be warm. Now sit down somewhere and be quiet.” He dusted off the broad surface of the potter’s wheel. “I’d rather use the kick wheel, but it’s broken. This electric wheel is okay, but just barely.”
“Broken wheels and broken kilns. Things are in sad shape here.”
He shrugged. “It’s the art department, not the football team.” He switched on the wheel, which began to spin slowly.
Andy opened a drawer in a nearby cupboard and selected several odd-looking implements. Variations on a stick, Bea decided. He wet a sponge and placed everything on a small table beside the wheel.
“I hope there is some clay,” he said. “One of the other students was supposed to have made some.” He opened a large plastic container and smiled. “Perfect.” He straddled the potter’s seat and with a movement of his foot sped the wheel. He placed the clay. “If it’s not centered, I can’t get it up. Nothing will form.” He cupped his hands around the spinning clay, and in an instant a mud-gray cylinder rose.
His concentration was absolute and contagious. Beamer felt the tension in her own hands as she watched him work. She was amazed as, with the slightest hand pressure, the slightest thumb movement, he commanded the mass up and down, in and out.
His hair had again fallen over his eyes, and he blew upward to displace it. It fell again, and Beamer nearly reached to stroke it into place, then clasped her hands behind her back. She couldn’t disturb him.
He picked up the sponge and held it against the clay’s interior wall. The sides pushed out, guided by his hands. Suddenly he stopped and turned from the wheel. The clay kept spinning.
“It’s a bowl.” He switched off the wheel.
“I can see that. It looks terrific.”
“Clunky and thick, actually. I just don’t feel like doing more.”
“I loved watching you do it. Your hands are amazing.”
He wiggled his clay-crusted fingers. “Magic fingers—all the girls love them. Would you like to see what else they can do?”
Beamer smiled. “Not tonight, Andy, I promised my mother I wouldn’t stay late. It’s snowing, and you know how she worries.”
He rose from the wheel. “Just let me clean up and I’ll walk you to the car.”
Beamer threw away the remains of their dinner, then put on her coat. After washing his hands, Andy crouched by the kiln one more time, made a satisfied noise, then rose. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on.
“Thank you, Andy.”
“For what? Putting my clothes back on?”
“For letting me come here. For letting me watch you make the bowl. Now when I know you’re here, or when I see one of your finished pieces, I can picture you at the wheel.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, Bea, I like you, too.”
“That’s not what I was saying.”
“Oh yes it was. Why don’t you just say it: I like you, Andy.”
She touched his forehead with her own and said unintelligibly, “I like you, Andy.”
He stepped back. “It’s a start. Gets easier the more you do it.”
“Mr. Experience.”
“That’s right.” He took her hand. “Bea, I never thought I’d say this, but for some time now I’ve been glad we moved to Minnesota.”
Beamer zipped her jacket. “Yeah.”
“That’s all you can say? Yeah?”
“I’m glad you moved here, too.”
He crossed his arms and frowned.
“Okay, how about ‘I’m glad you’re here because…’” His hair had fallen over his forehead again in a soft mound of curls. “Because,” she continued in a gentler voice, “I like you, Andy.”
He brightened. “That’s better. Nice and clear this time. Can you say more?”
She stepped forward, kissed him, then whispered in his ear, “You need a haircut.”
Chapter 6
When Beamer got home, her father was sitting alone in the kitchen. Beamer hugged him. “Welcome back. It’s for good, I hope.”
“I hope so.”
“When I left there were at least eleven people here,” she said. “Where are they?”
“I sent them home. Your mother’s in bed.” Beamer sat down. “What’s the scoop on Sandra?” Her father rubbed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s not good. The charge is a serious one, the verdict will be guilty, and she will undoubtedly go to prison.”
“Someone was killed. She deserves it.”
“She didn’t intend to kill anyone, Bea. That is clear, even to the authorities. Otherwise it would have been a murder charge, not manslaughter. She didn’t mean to do it.”
“But Dad, you have to hate what she did. A bomb, for Pete’s sake. And she wasn’t even smart enough to find someone who could make a bomb that would work right.”
“We all hate it. And I’ve told her as much.”
“Then why are you doing this for her? I know, I know. She and Daryl are old friends.”
He lifted her legs onto his lap and massaged her ankles. “Did you knit these socks or did your mother?”
“I did. Answer me.”
“Bea, I do indeed hate the fact that she resorted to violence, even unintentionally. She knows how I feel. Friends are never exempt from judgment, but that doesn’t mean you stop loving them, and you certainly don’t desert them.”
“You’re so noble.”
“Noble, no. Tired, yes.” A smile spread across his face. “And looking forward to reading about my daughter, the child of hippies, in tomorrow’s paper.” Beamer groaned and swung her feet down. “I had almost forgotten.” She said goodnight and got up to go to bed. She stopped in the doorway to say something, but didn’t. Her father was deep in thought.
Once she was in bed, she lay awake, the picture of her father troubling her. Just as she drifted off to sleep, she knew why: He’s getting old, she thought. They all are. Oh Lord, those people were going to change the world and look at them now. I wonder how it feels to hit middle age and know your dreams just can’t come true.
*
Beamer rose early the next morning. She dressed and slipped quietly downstairs. She wanted to read the paper and be miserable alone, and she knew that once the Woodies arrived for Sunday morning rolls and coffee, she would have no peace. She started a fire in the stove, then put on her coat and gloves and went outside. The morning sky was dark, with only a thin band of light behind the tall pines on the eastern horizon. Two bright headlights emerged from the dark distance. Beamer waved to the truck’s driver as she tossed two bundles of newspapers out the cab window, then sped away. Beamer lugged the papers inside, dropped them by the counter, and clipped the wires. She resisted the urge to rip apart the paper in search of herself and instead made a cup of cocoa. That done, she picked up a paper and sat by the stove.
The story was on page one of the features section, next to a picture of Beamer that Rae had taken in the classroom. Beamer read it through twice, her flush in
creasing until she moved away from the stove and stood next to the cold window. “Nobody to blame but myself,” she said. She thought then of readers in Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami, all spilling their Sunday coffee and dropping breakfast crumbs across the story of her life.
Daniel’s car turned into the lot as Beamer heard her mother descending the steps. It was too late to bury the papers in a snowbank.
Daniel was accompanied by Maud and Jeffrey and their daughter, Alissa, who sullenly settled into a corner behind the minnow tank to read. Maud took a newspaper and laid a dollar bill on the cash register.
“Is it there?” she said. Beamer nodded.
Mrs. Flynn set clean mugs by the coffee pot. “We might as well put out the open sign.” Beamer nodded and went outside. She dragged the heavy iron easel with the sign down to the roadside. By the time she had returned another car had pulled into the lot. Peter and Sue and their children. Beamer waved and held the door open for them.
“Well?” Sue said.
Beamer shrugged. “Read it yourself.” They went inside.
Beamer busied herself with store tasks while the Woodies read the story. She waited on a few customers and played two hands of crazy eights with Alissa, who lost both and retreated unhappily to her corner. Jenny arrived and was greeted by a loud, indignant, and loving chorus.
Maud put her arm around Jenny and read aloud from the paper. “This is rich: ‘A beguiling woman with a sometimes frightening intensity…’!”
Jenny took the paper. “This is my favorite part. I think she has just captured Moonbeam: This girl-woman—’”
Beamer groaned.
“‘—whose eyes shift in an instant from childish innocence to jaded mistrust…’”
The phone rang. Mrs. Flynn answered, then handed it to Beamer. “It’s Andy.”
“Andy, it’s nine o’clock,” Beamer said. “Isn’t that a little early for phone calls?”
“Jaded mistrust!” he said. “That’s it! That’s exactly what I see every time I make a move on you.” Beamer hung up without responding. He deserved worse. The Woodies were all babbling, passing the article around, enjoying themselves and enjoying reading about themselves. They all deserved worse. Beamer felt as sullen as Alissa. She had only herself to blame, she thought for the millionth time. But as she watched them—they had by then been joined by half a dozen others—she understood why she had wanted to tell her story to Rae Ramone: she wanted the world to know what she was up against.
Daniel put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I’m not so sure,” he said slowly, “that this is a flattering portrait of us.”
Smart boy, thought Beamer.
“Why do you feel that?” asked Jenny.
“Well, this bit on the money.” Daniel traced his finger down the newsprint until he found the paragraph. “Here we go:
‘The alternative economic philosophy that inspired the foundation of the commune manifested itself in an old-fashioned capitalistic result: money. After several years of steadily increasing sales and profits, the commune’s two businesses, Better Butter, Inc. and Nature’s Nursery, were sold. Each venture was reported to have netted the commune over $300,000. But the biggest prize was to come. Almost twelve years after the first building was raised and the first well sunk, the group voted to disband. Woodlands was sold to a Chicago real estate developer for nearly half a million dollars. “Faith into Action” was now a credo that each of the ex-commune members could chant all the way to the bank.’”
Daniel slapped the paper. “She makes it sound like we got rich! Like we sold out at the first sign of good money. What she doesn’t say clearly is that the money was split into nineteen shares.” He refolded the paper neatly. “My plumbing customers will really be slow to pay now.” He smiled at Beamer. “But it is a lovely portrait of you, Merry Moonbeam. Maybe you should autograph some of the papers for the customers. I’m sure they’d love it. Charge for the autograph; it’s an old-fashioned capitalistic thing to do.”
Beamer was saved from responding by her father’s appearance. “Didn’t I just send all of you home?” he said to nobody in particular. No one answered. He sat on the counter, drank coffee, and read the article. Beamer stood next to him. He made a few noises, and twice looked questioningly at his daughter. Jenny leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “I thought that was especially insightful of our Moonbeam,” she said. Mr. Flynn pushed her hand away and continued reading. At last he finished.
“Well,” he said, “it’s accurate, but it’s all wrong.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” asked Beamer. “I tried to get everything straight.”
“Oh, not anything you said, Bea. That’s all fine. The reporter’s understanding of it. She just didn’t understand anything she was hearing.” He shrugged.
“But I guess you can’t explain faith to people who don’t have it.”
“She knew that!” Jenny practically shouted. “She said to us, ‘You people really believed in something,’ and she realized she didn’t even know what.”
“Oh, Moonbeam of the shifty eyes,” said Daniel, “why couldn’t you make her see?”
Beamer felt flushed, felt chilled, felt frozen, felt like taking a swing at someone. “Not me,” she said, speaking slowly and tersely. “I couldn’t. Because I don’t believe either. Not any of it. That’s the problem. I never asked to have any of you in my life, and I’d just as soon do without you now. Whatever it is you pathetic old hippies had and whatever it is you think you’ve got now, I don’t believe in it.” Beamer slammed her cocoa mug down on the counter. The dark liquid splashed onto the stack of unsold newspapers. She walked away, then turned around. “And I hate my damn name!”
She bolted into the back room, where she quickly put on her ski clothes. She was outside strapping on her skis before any of the Woodies had taken a deep breath. She sprinted away, sixteen years of anger and frustration blinding her, so that as she skied along the path toward the woods she was guided by instinct alone.
Chapter 7
Beamer halted at the north shore clearing. She turned to look homeward and saw several cars leaving the store’s parking lot. The Woodies were gone, at least for the day.
“Good riddance!” she shouted. Though the friends would undoubtedly discuss the morning’s outburst among themselves, Beamer knew that none of them would ever directly mention it to her. Now that her unhappiness was open, it would fester like an untreated wound.
Beamer resumed skiing, following her customary route into the woods. When she broke into the open at Wilton Lake, she stopped. Smoke was rising from the chimney of the Dunn cabin, and she could see a small car parked under the carport. In the rush and confusion of the past week she had forgotten to mention to anyone that someone was using the cabin. “Avoid strangers,” she whispered; then, gambling that the inhabitants weren’t hit men or Brink’s thieves, she skied toward the cabin. As she approached she saw a young man stacking firewood, ordering the tumbled pile of split logs into a useful pyramid next to the front door. It looks like he’s actually living here, she thought. I wonder who he is. Skiing closer, Beamer allowed herself to be noticed. The stranger smiled, removed a glove, and offered a bandaged hand, keeping it outstretched and bare while he waited for Beamer. They shook hands.
“Hello,” said Beamer.
“Hi. Good day for skiing.”
Beamer nodded. “I was circling the lake when I noticed life in this cabin. Are you living here?”
“I am. I’m Martin Singer.”
“Merry Flynn. We’re sort of neighbors. My family has the bait shop on the highway.”
“I know. I saw you there this morning; I was buying a paper. Quite a crowd for a Sunday morning.”
“Mostly friends. I didn’t see you there.”
“I saw you. You were playing cards with your sister.”
“She’s a family friend, not my sister. When did you move in?”
“Ten days ago.”
“Is the cabin yours?”
“My father’s. He inherited it from an uncle. Maybe you knew him?”
“Not really.”
“Crazy, that’s the family’s story.” Martin clapped his hands and blew across his fingers. “This is silly—why don’t you come inside? I’m hungry, and I’d love some company.”
Beamer considered the offer. Visiting a strange male in a lonely cabin deep in the woods was probably not smart. This is my day not to be smart, she thought. Besides, he seems harmless.
A cat bolted out the door as they entered. Beamer moved to catch it. “It’s okay if she goes,” said Martin. “She comes back.” He pulled the door closed behind them and grinned. “My women usually do.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I get things. The tea water is hot, so it will just be a minute.”
Beamer slipped out of her ski boots and left them next to a jumbled pile of socks, sneakers, and boots by the door. She looked for a closet or hook for her jacket, found none, so laid it with Martin’s on the chair. She began browsing.
She had trespassed here a few times on hiking and skiing trips with friends. They had looked in through the windows and once, caught in a rainstorm, had forced the frail lock and sheltered inside. The lock had slipped easily; others had been in before them.
She recognized the few pieces of big furniture—the scarred table and chairs, the lumpy and worn armchair, the iron-framed bed in the corner. They had all belonged to old Mr. Dunn. Everything else she knew must be Martin’s, and the place was cluttered with his belongings. Books were piled on the table, clothes heaped on the bed, papers strewn on the floor, socks hung to dry on the baseboard heater. A disassembled bicycle hung on hooks on a wall, and a small but probably growing pyramid of beer and soda cans stood in a corner.
This is sexist, thought Beamer as she surveyed the clutter, but I don’t get the feeling there are any women living here. A crystal vase holding two very dead roses stood on the telephone table next to the bed. Beamer tapped the vase, and petals fell off onto a piece of paper. She brushed the petals aside and quickly, inadvertently, read the writing on the paper. “Melissa, Meredith, Kara, Breanna,” she read silently. Each name was followed by a phone number. Beamer shook her head. This guy doesn’t waste any time, she thought. She looked around the room. “A bachelor pad,” she whispered. “I’m in a real-life bachelor pad.” Still, she had to admit it was warm and comfortable. And quiet—no cackling horde of Woodies. I like it, she decided, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She lifted her hands to warm in front of the briskly burning fire.
Everybody's Daughter Page 5
