“An interview. It should be pretty interesting. Her name is Alice McCay. She graduated from Radcliffe in 1925, and for her honors project she wrote a series of health-food booklets. 1925! Way ahead of her time.”
“Too bad. She probably missed out on making a lot of money.”
“Why don’t you come along? The store isn’t very busy.”
“Martin, I get to meet enough weird people here. I don’t need to go looking for them.”
Martin leaned across the counter, smiled, and said softly, “Please?”
*
“How far down this road do we go?” Beamer said.
“Seven miles. Not much of a road, is it? That’s why I’m glad to have you along, Merry dear, to help push me out of the snowbank when I decide to visit one.”
“Oh, great. Forget my wonderful self. It’s only my body you want.” Beamer slumped. What a dumb thing to say.
Martin laughed. “If it was your body I wanted, and I’m not saying I don’t, I would—” The rest was lost in a burst of swearing as the wheel slipped and the car skidded off the road.
It took them twenty minutes to push clear—the car was small, but the ditch and snow were deep—and Alice McCay was waiting anxiously outside her house. “I had just about decided you weren’t coming,” she said. “People often change their minds. It’s so far. Next spring I just might sell the place and buy a condo in town. I’ve been told I can make a small fortune selling to some young people from the city who want a summer place. Come in, please.”
Alice captivated them with her history. Two days after her Radcliffe graduation, she had married a young New York stockbroker. “A suitable match,” she explained. “My parents were hoping that after I married I’d settle down and start eating meat again.” Two weeks after the wedding her husband quit his job and they moved out to Minnesota, where he became a foreman on a logging crew. “He was suitable,” she reminisced happily, “but not in the way my parents hoped for. We had fifty years together. Good ones.”
The walls of her house were lined with photographs, old ones that told the history of the north country. While Alice talked, she walked Martin and Beamer around the house, using selected photos to illustrate. She stopped in front of a large one. “That was when we were clearing a road between here and the Bena mill, on Lake Winnibigoshish. We found this marvelous stretch of virgin white pine, but no roads for hauling. Dynamite, that’s what we used—dynamite. Blew ourselves a road. Two men died, and I buried them.”
“You were part of the crew, then?” Martin asked.
“I cooked. This cabin was the lodge. It held thirty men for a meal.” She pointed to another photograph, which showed two long rows of bearded men seated at tables, staring at the camera. “July 4, 1928,” Alice said. “During the day, when they were gone, I’d get things done.” She smiled proudly. “Like this building. I roofed it myself. Laid the boards, cut the shingles, nailed every one of them in place. And I was five months pregnant. Twenty years later I did it again. The roof, not the baby. I’ve practically rebuilt this place twice by myself, but the roof was the hardest.” She buttoned her sweater. “Come take a look.” Martin and Beamer exchanged glances, then Martin clipped the tape recorder to his belt. They went outside.
“I built these steps,” said Alice. “I go up often, though usually not in winter.” They negotiated the snow-covered steps carefully, then climbed onto the roof. It had a shallow pitch and a wide, level perimeter fenced for safe standing. “How silly of me,” said Alice. “Of course you can’t see the shingles on the roof with all the snow. Still, the view is wonderful.” She swept her arm through the air. “Look at that. After finding this place, I never once thought about going back east. Sometimes I come up here just hoping I can die looking at the view.”
The view was spectacular—a panorama of lakes, hills, forest, and endless sky. It was all familiar scenery to Beamer, but even she silently acknowledged that this particular vista was unusually striking. She looked at Martin and Alice. They were staring out at something.
“Music,” said Alice. “I can’t look at this country from this spot without hearing music. Sometimes just a soft flute, sometimes a whole orchestra.”
“You’re right,” said Martin.
“Flute today, I think,” said Alice. “Listen.”
While the old lady closed her eyes and listened to her private music, Martin fumbled with his tape recorder. Beamer swallowed a smile and resisted hissing, “Liar.” She suspected he heard nothing.
Martin and Beamer refused Alice’s supper invitation and said goodbye, promising to return.
“The late winter storms will be coming soon,” Alice said as she walked them to the car, “and then you might want to use a snowmobile. The snow just gets so deep on this road. That’s how my granddaughter gets in and out. She lives in the village. She wants me to join her, but I won’t until I have to. Well, however you do it, come if you can. I’m always here.”
Beamer and Martin reached the outskirts of Grand River before speaking.
“Neat lady,” said Martin.
“Sure is. You were shameless, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“All that business about hearing music on the rooftop.”
“There’s nothing wrong with letting people hear what they want to hear. It’s a useful technique.”
“Well, it worked. You charmed her socks off. She’s a bit older than your usual victims, but I bet the young ones tumble just as easily.”
“Nobody’s a victim. Everybody I interview—”
“I wasn’t exactly referring to interviews.”
“—and everybody I play with is a willing participant.”
“Participant in what?”
“Crazy times, quiet times.” He faced Beamer and smiled. “The quiet times are best.”
“Watch the road, Martin, and quit leering. Hey, we turn that way to go to the bait shop.”
“I’d like to drop these tapes off at the station before I take you home. You could come in with me and see for yourself how crazy the place is. Would you mind the delay?”
“If it’s not too long.”
“When’s Andy coming for you?”
“Seven or so. I don’t want to be late, Martin. I need to get home to eat and change.”
He glanced at her. “You don’t need to change; you look fine. But then I suppose you like to look special for the steady sweetheart.”
“Don’t be obnoxious, Martin. And as a matter of fact, I do like to look nice for Andy. What’s wrong with that?” she challenged.
He didn’t immediately answer. “Merry, why don’t you cancel?”
“What?”
“Call Andy and cancel. Then we don’t have to rush anywhere. I’ll buy you supper and take you to a party I know about. And you won’t have to change.” Beamer spotted the bright lights of the radio station’s call sign, four blinking orange letters on the roof of a small cinder-block building. “Andy wouldn’t be too happy.”
“Forget Andy. What about you?”
“Martin, I want to be with Andy, and I don’t want to be late.”
“The party should be a good one.”
“We’re going to a party. A birthday party.”
He snickered. “Ah, a birthday party.” He pulled into the station’s parking lot. “Merry, have you ever partied past midnight?”
“No, I haven’t. And even if I wanted to, tonight wouldn’t be the night. Tomorrow is the Community Fund fundraising breakfast.”
“Oh, no, I’d forgotten. I bought a ticket last week from some guy who coaches kids’ hockey. Six bucks. Are the Woodies involved?”
“They have been since before the commune closed. Everyone thought it would be a good way to make friends with the townspeople. Mom and I are serving at seven.”
Martin parked the car in a handicapped spot next to the station door.
“Not here,” said Beamer.
“It’s just for a minute. I’m getting you home fo
r that date.”
“Not in the handicapped space.”
Martin cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her. “Your virtue,” he said after he pulled back, “is inspiring.”
“Now are you satisfied, Martin?”
He looked puzzled.
“You got your prize.”
He shook his head slightly. “Andy’s got the prize.” They climbed out of the car and walked to the station entrance. Martin paused at the door. “How about a consolation promise?”
“What?” Beamer asked suspiciously.
“Pick me up tomorrow morning and I’ll go with you to the breakfast.”
“That would be nice.”
Martin opened the door. “There might be some good stories there.”
The radio station was chaotic. Beamer had never been there before, but Martin had often described the frenzied atmosphere. She backed into a corner, watched, and listened. Martin disappeared into the editing room. Beamer stepped into the reception area and stretched out on the only piece of furniture, an old sofa.
Someone came in. Beamer rolled her head and smiled. It was Elizabeth, the station’s program director. Elizabeth sat on the windowsill and lit a cigarette. She exhaled onto the glass, then smeared the fogged spot with her hand. One Saturday night Martin had brought her out to the bait shop. Elizabeth had been guardedly quiet through dinner, but by the time Mr. Flynn was serving tea and baklava she was sharing her life story. Beamer had gone to bed early that night and lain a long time listening in her room, wondering at the strange people her parents attracted and comforted.
Elizabeth put out her cigarette, letting the butt sizzle against the cold, moist glass. “Martin is a saint,” she said.
Beamer sat up. “Are there Jewish saints?”
Martin entered, paused to lay a hand on Beamer’s shoulder, then went to Elizabeth. “You okay?”
Elizabeth lit another cigarette. “My mother should be half so kind as you. And my husband half so smart.”
Martin sat on the sill. “Go talk to Rupert. Apologize. For me. If you don’t, he’ll ruin all my tapes and botch up everything for everybody for days.”
“He’s fired.”
“You can’t fire your own husband. Just apologize.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “For you. Why don’t you go tell him?”
“Please come too.”
“Calm him down first, then I’ll grovel and apologize.”
Martin nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and left. Elizabeth shook her head. “So smooth, so manipulative.”
“Rupert?”
“No, dear, Martin.”
“A minute ago he was a saint.”
“He’s complex, of course. Attractive men always are. But he always manages things to his view. Do you want to know how he does it?”
Beamer was quite certain she didn’t, but she had long ago learned from listening to the Woodies that once a confession, manifesto, or statement was begun, its delivery was unstoppable. “How does he do it?” she said wearily.
“It’s that flattering way he listens—it makes the men feel wise and competent and the women feel like they’re being seduced.” She rose and moved to the door. “Be careful, young lady. What he wants may not be what you want.” She left the room.
Beamer checked her watch. “Darn you, Martin,” she said. “You promised.” She went to look for Martin but found no one, and was deterred from searching further by the sound of angry voices coming from a nearby room. Finding a phone in an empty office, she called Andy. His youngest sister answered the phone, and as she yelled his name it was echoed by a succession of family members. The long wait until he came to the phone was punctuated only by the little girl’s intermittent giggles.
“Hello?” Andy said finally.
“It’s me. I’m at KKKJ. Could you pick me up here? The sooner the better.”
“What are you doing there?” He sounded unhappy. “Martin dragged me along on an interview and now he’s tied up and I can’t get home. I know it’s early, but can you come?”
“Well, you’ll have to wait until I cover my wet and nearly naked body. I was in the shower.”
Later, when Andy walked into the station, he looked at Beamer and came to a stop. “Hey, don’t bother to dress up or anything. It’s only Sarah’s birthday party.”
“Not only will you have to put up with my clothes, but I don’t have any money on me. You’ll have to buy supper.”
Andy whistled. “You mean I actually get to pay your way for once? Are you sure you want to do this? I might demand a lot in return.”
Beamer rolled her eyes. Andy’s still wet hair had been frosted lightly by the cold air; she felt tempted to lift her hands and gently crush the crisp cap of blond curls. “Let’s go,” she said, leading him outside.
Chapter 11
“This music is awful,” Andy shouted in Beamer’s ear. Beamer hushed him, then rose from the sofa and made her way across Tyler’s crowded living room. Sarah was standing in the doorway, directly under a sprig of mistletoe, accepting birthday kisses from any boy who tried to enter the kitchen.
“Christmas was weeks ago,” Beamer said to Sarah. “Where did Tyler get the mistletoe?”
“He saved it just for the party. You can have it next week for yours.”
“No birthday party for me.”
“Just a nice quiet time with Saint Andrew?”
“Something like that.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Sounds like fun. Why don’t you at least make him get off the sofa and come give me a kiss? My day won’t be complete until he does.” Someone turned the volume of the music higher and the crowd whooped as a favorite song began. Beamer shrugged a noncommittal response, eased around Sarah, and went into the kitchen. Tyler and Sarah had been going together since eighth grade, and every year they gave each other a birthday party. Together they had an unusual mix of friends, and Beamer always looked forward to their parties.
She helped herself to two large slices of cake and, balancing the plates on top of cups of soda, cautiously made her way back toward the sofa. Halfway, she stopped to observe Wendy riffling her long fingers through Andy’s hair. Andy was not unhappy.
“Here’s your cake,” Beamer said when she stood in front of him. “That looks like fun,” she said to Wendy.
“Confetti,” Wendy said. “Somebody popped a bag all over him. There was just a ton of it in his hair.”
Andy grinned at Beamer. “It’s gone now.”
Wendy hopped off the sofa. “That was fun, Saint Andrew. Let’s do it again.” She was quickly lost among the dancing bodies.
Andy took his cake. He ate a bit and made a face. “Carrot cake? For a birthday?”
“You’ve always liked carrot cake.”
“Well, yeah, but you should have chocolate for a birthday.”
Beamer slipped a finger into his shirt collar and lifted out a tiny confetti square. “She missed one.”
“I was saving that one for you.” He spread the collar open and peered down. “I think there may be more.”
Beamer laughed. “By the way, Sarah wants a kiss.”
“Looks like she’s getting enough. Doesn’t Tyler mind?”
“The mistletoe was his idea.”
“You can spread diseases that way.”
“We’ve all had chicken pox. Don’t be so old.”
“I just think Tyler should be jealous.”
“What would you know about jealousy?”
They squared off with looks, then he rose, walked resolutely through the dancers, and approached Sarah. The kiss was a long one. As Beamer watched them, she pinched the rim of her plastic cup until it cracked. “Tie game, Andy,” she whispered sharply, the words unheard through the loud music. “Now you can stop it.”
Andy finally stepped away from Sarah and returned to the sofa. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Let’s dance.”
“Let’s go.”
“Andy, we’ve been here forty-five minutes an
d almost that entire time you’ve sat like a lump on the sofa. Try to have fun.”
He brought his face near her own. “Bea, I don’t like the music, I don’t like the cake, I don’t like the keg of beer in the bathroom. You can ride home with Sarah or you can ride home with me. I’m leaving.” She watched him return to Sarah to say goodbye. Sarah made a face at Beamer, then grabbed Andy’s arm as he started to head for the closet. He shook free and disappeared through the crowd in a hallway. Sarah pretended to pout.
Beamer stayed on the sofa. Tyler came and signaled an invitation to dance. She shook her head. Finally Andy appeared in the front hall with both their coats.
Beamer swore under her breath. “I should have gone with Martin tonight,” she said aloud, though no one could hear. She rose and inched her way around the dancers, then turned to wave to Sarah, who was busy with another kiss.
Beamer took her coat from Andy. “Okay,” she said. “You win.”
They didn’t speak as they walked to the car, or during the first five miles out of town. Beamer watched Andy while she searched her own feelings. The lights from the dash cast an eerie illumination on his face. “Thanks for leaving,” he said at last.
“I wish you hadn’t asked, Andy. I wish just once you could loosen up around my friends and accept them. And I don’t mean loosening up the way you did with Wendy and Sarah.”
“That’s not it, Bea. That’s not why I was feeling so lousy.”
“Why, then?”
“I wanted to be with you.”
“Well, you were!”
He pulled the car over onto the shoulder. He closed his eyes and gripped the steering wheel.
“What’s wrong?”
He slapped the wheel. “Are you dense? Are you just plain dense? You spent the whole day with Martin. Is it too much to ask that you spend a few hours with me? Just me?”
He shifted and drove back onto the highway. More miles passed in silence. Barely slowing to a safe speed, Andy turned the car into the store driveway. It began a light spin, and they skidded sideways to a spot almost in front of the store door.
“Oops,” said Andy, and he grinned sheepishly at Beamer. “A little fast, I guess.”
She smiled and leaned over to kiss him. He pulled her close, and his thumb rubbed her neck while they kissed.
Everybody's Daughter Page 8
