Everybody's Daughter

by Marsha Qualey

  “She’s going to live,” said Andy when he called Beamer the next morning, “but she may need a new nose.”

  “Please, Andy, play it straight for once.”

  “Okay. Concussion, dislocated shoulder, internal bleeding, facial lacerations, broken nose. She’s alert and really mad at herself. She’s never liked cats, you know, and none of us can figure out why she bothered to save that one.”

  “It sounds awful. How are you doing?”

  “I’m feeling very guilty. About your birthday. Look, Bea, I’ve got to be with the kids tonight. Do you mind? Dad’s at the hospital, and someone’s got to feed them. They’re pretty scared. My grandmother is arriving later. Maybe when she gets here I can run your present over. I’m sorry, Bea.”

  “Oh, Andy, do you think it matters when your mother is in the hospital?”

  “Well, there’s always next year, right?”

  “Sure. I’ll expect you to fly home from college for the day. Just go take care of your family. And when you see your mom, give her my love.”

  She hung up the phone. A customer came to the counter, and she rang the sale without a word or a smile. She felt as if she had been dumped into a pit. A stinking pit. Her Saturday night escape from the store was something she depended on. A stinking pit.

  “Figures,” she muttered. “Well, happy birthday to me.”

  Three neighboring towns were sponsoring fishing contests that weekend and the store was busy with fishermen replenishing their bait and refreshments, replacing lost hats and mittens, smoking cigarettes, and waiting to hear the odd bit of gossip or fishing news. Beamer was netting a serving of minnows for a customer when Jenny and Martin entered the store. They stood inside the doorway, stamping their feet clear of snow and slush. Martin waved his red-mittened hands to Beamer. Beamer nodded and smiled, then lifted the heavy water-and fish-filled bait bag up to the nozzle of the oxygen tank and squirted in a measured dose of the gas. She twirled and knotted the bag, then led the customer back to the counter and rang up the sale. The man left and Beamer turned to Martin.

  “Where have you been all day? I was hoping to get some skiing in during lunch break.”

  Jenny stepped behind the counter and put her arm around Beamer. “Don’t be so selfish. Our good friend here has been with me. Where’s Carolyn? I’ve just got to show her our treasures.”

  “She’s in the back. I’ll buzz her.” Beamer pressed a button on the counter, and in a moment her mother appeared, carrying a large cardboard box. She set it on the counter, greeted her friends, then turned to her daughter. “Do you want to put out these chips? I’ll cover the register.” Beamer nodded, pushed the box to the end of the counter, and started clipping bags to the wire rack.

  “Carolyn, just look at the good stuff we got in town,” Jenny said. She handed over a large shopping bag.

  Beamer’s mother opened the bag and lifted out several skeins of colored yarn. “Very nice,” she said.

  “Martin has convinced me that I should learn to knit,” said Jenny.

  “I want a sweater,” said Martin. “No one has ever made me a sweater.”

  “Stay for supper and we’ll have your first lesson,” said Mrs. Flynn. “Beamer is a wonderful teacher.”

  “Mother…” said Beamer. She did not want to share her birthday with every stray cat, no matter how old a friend. And she certainly did not want to spend it teaching knitting.

  “Well, no, then, but come for cake and I can get you started after that.”

  Jenny turned to Beamer. “Are we allowed to mention your birthday, or will you snap off this old hippie’s head?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Happy birthday, Merry.”

  “Call me Beamer, Jenny.”

  “May I ask why Martin gets the privilege of using ‘Merry’?”

  Beamer looked beyond the expectant faces. Where was a customer when she needed one? “I don’t know, Jenny. Maybe because he’s not one of you.”

  Jenny gave this some thought. “No, he’s not. But that’s probably why we all like him so.” She turned to Mrs. Flynn. “Anyway, I won’t be by tonight until later. I have a date.”

  Mrs. Flynn opened the register and started counting bills. She eyed Jenny. “Do I know him?”

  “No, you don’t. He’s entirely new and entirely wonderful.”

  Mrs. Flynn closed the register. “Well, come in back and tell me more.” She picked up the stack of bills. “Martin, could you help Beamer for a while? The clerk went home sick before lunch and we have just been swamped.”

  As they left, a group of fishermen entered the store. For several minutes Beamer and Martin were busy heating sandwiches, fries, and cocoa in the microwave. When the customers had gone, they sat by the stove.

  “So I’m not one of you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Is that why you find me attractive?”

  “Who says I do?”

  “Not even a bit?”

  Beamer shrugged.

  “I guess I won’t pursue this any further. Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No present, I’m afraid.”

  “None expected.”

  “I only spend my money on girls who find me attractive. What did your parents give you?”

  “What they always give—space.”

  Martin laughed. “No, really.”

  “I got new skis at Christmas. They’re for my birthday, too.”

  “And from Andy?”

  “Nosy, aren’t you? I don’t know yet.”

  “When are you going out?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I thought you and Andy had plans.”

  “His mother was in an accident last night, and she’s in the hospital. He’s babysitting.”

  “Oh, Merry, that’s too bad. Your birthday.” Beamer lifted her feet and rested them on the stove. “Feel sorry for Mrs. Reynolds, not me. Mother has been bad enough all day. She can just barely contain her pity.”

  “Okay, no pity.”

  “Martin, do you want to do something? A movie, maybe?”

  Martin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Merry. I have a date.”

  Jenny and Mrs. Flynn returned. “Time to go,” Jenny sang out. Martin rose, tapped Beamer softly on the shoulder, and followed Jenny out the door. Beamer resumed clipping chip bags.

  “Jenny said that Martin has a date tonight,” said Mrs. Flynn, “so I guess you won’t be going out. Well, you can always join us.”

  Beamer smashed a fist on top of a bag of cheese curls. “Oh, great. Of course it’s Saturday night and of course everyone is coming over with whatever weirdos and bums they’ve picked up and of course you’ll drink wine and tea and listen to folk music and play charades. Like you have done every Saturday night of my life. No thanks, Mom. It’s just not fun.”

  *

  They closed the store at dusk. Mr. Flynn left to get Johnny at hockey practice. Beamer refused her mother’s suggestion of a card game and went to her room. She paused at the door. “I spend too much time in here,” she said, then stepped inside and lay on the bed. She was still lying down when her father and Johnny returned, and Beamer listened while her brother reported on his afternoon, her mother exclaimed about his new cuts and bruises, her father prepared supper. “There is this void,” she whispered. “This huge, dark void between my life with my family and their friends and my life the way I would like it to be. All these people—I wish someone would explain them to me. Better yet, I wish someone or something would come and change it all. Just make them all go away. Or take me away.”

  After a while Beamer rose from her bed and went to the kitchen. She put her arm around her father. “Oh, yuck, Dad. Tofu ravioli?”

  He stopped grating cheese. “You like it. You have always liked it.”

  “It’s my birthday, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then let’s all go to Bernie’s Club and eat steaks.” Her family froze while considering this minor rebell
ion. The phone rang, releasing everyone from having to respond. Beamer answered. It was Sarah.

  “Hey, Beamer, is it true you’re not going out with Andy tonight?”

  “True. Didn’t you hear about his mother?”

  “Sure, but it’s your birthday, and now that you are the only woman in his life you can demand something special.”

  “Sarah, the poor woman is half dead.”

  “You need cheering up.”

  “I’m plenty cheerful.” She grinned at her father, who was watching her as he crumbled dried herbs into the tomato sauce.

  “Well, anyway, you’re not going to sit alone on your birthday. What about gorgeous Martin?”

  “He’s doing something. Typically, involving women.”

  “I told you long ago to make your move.”

  “Move to California, that’s what I’d like to do.”

  “So do you have any plans?”

  “The Woodies will be here.”

  “Oh, great, plotting revolution again? Forget that. Jessie and I will be by at six. Don’t eat supper.”

  Beamer hung up the phone. “Plans have changed,” she said. “We can skip the steaks.” She paused a moment before leaving the kitchen, eying each of her parents as if to dare them to ask something, anything: What plans? What friends? What party? Who’s driving? They seldom asked; the family had rules, and it was assumed that she would observe them. She closed the kitchen door behind her and retreated to her room.

  Chapter 14

  Jessie’s car flew out of the bait shop parking lot, swerved a bit on a patch of ice, then straightened. Beamer rested her head against the cold glass of the car window. “What’s the plan?” she said.

  The others laughed. “Just wait, just wait,” said Sarah.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Be patient. There’s a lot to look forward to.” Jessie turned up the volume of the radio. “Turn it down,” said Sarah. “I hate that song.”

  “Tina Turner? She’s great!”

  “She’s older than my mother.”

  Jessie turned off the radio and the conversation drifted along to new couples, college applications, the new biology teacher, and Pat Lambert’s expulsion from school for drinking in the locker room. Beamer relaxed. She was soothed by the talk, her girlfriends’ energy, the night speeding by.

  The car pulled into the well-lighted and crowded parking lot of a country tavern. Beamer knew it only by its suspect reputation.

  “Tinker’s Tavern? Come on, you guys, I don’t drink.”

  Sarah turned and made a face. “The entire population of the high school knows you don’t drink. Don’t worry, we’re not here to drink.”

  “What then?”

  Jessie pointed out the window. “Culture.”

  Beamer looked at a large sign. BEEFCAKE BONANZA, 9 MEN 9, TONIGHT ONLY! she read. She slumped in her seat. “Oh, no. Strippers.”

  They climbed out of the car and joined the throng crowding the still-closed entrance.

  “They’ll never let us in,” said Beamer. “Don’t you have to be twenty-one?”

  “No problem,” said Sarah. “My cousin’s boyfriend Paul is the bouncer at the door. He told me this afternoon that he’d wave us right through, but that we had better not try to order beer.”

  Beamer felt a tug on her elbow. She turned to face Wendy.

  “Happy birthday!” Wendy exclaimed. “I didn’t think you’d come, but Sarah said you would, and I said you wouldn’t, and I was wrong!” She dropped the cigarette that had been burning low between her gloved fingers and ground it into the snow with her foot. “This will be fun.”

  Beamer shrugged. “I’m not convinced.”

  “Just what do we do if we see any of our teachers here?” asked Jessie.

  Sarah shrieked. “Can you imagine? Miss Harold?”

  “Or old Frigid Farley?” said Wendy.

  “Or,” Jessie said, lowering her voice, “what about our mothers?”

  They grinned at one another. The door opened then and the many women moved as one toward it. “Not my mother,” said Beamer as the crowd surged, sucking her and the others into the tavern. “She’s home eating tofu.”

  They were nodded through by Paul, and they quickly found an empty table.

  “This is good,” said Sarah. “It’s not too close to the front. If we make fools of ourselves, we don’t want everyone behind us watching.”

  “I sincerely doubt that anyone will be watching us,” replied Jessie.

  “Food,” said Beamer. “I need food. You told me not to eat.”

  Wendy handed her a menu. “That’s because the sandwiches here are great. You eat, we pay. Happy birthday.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “Bart likes it. There’s usually a pretty good band playing.”

  “Bart? Who’s Bart?”

  Sarah signaled for a waitress. “Where have you been, Beamo? She’s been dating him since October.”

  “Dating?” said Jessie. “Ha! There are other words for what she’s doing with Bart.”

  “Beamo, ignore what you hear,” said Wendy. “Try the roast beef.”

  “Whoa,” said Jessie. “No meat for Beamer.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “Where have you guys been?” said Sarah. “Beamo here is the hot dog queen of Grand River. In the past year she has been eating meat like a prehistoric carnivore.”

  “I’ll have the roast beef,” Beamer said to the waitress. “And a Coke.” The others ordered sandwiches and soft drinks.

  “You know, Beamer,” said Sarah, “I never could figure out how a vegetarian could run a bait shop. Isn’t that just dealing in dead animals?”

  “Hey, not our bait. It’s fresh.”

  “But you’re promoting the killing of fish, aren’t you?”

  “True. But after years of soul-searching my parents decided that eating fish was okay. For other people, that is. Their diet is still pure soybeans and nuts.”

  “What’s the difference between eating a fish and eating a cow?”

  Beamer shrugged. “They’re the first to admit that their philosophy isn’t pure. We all just make our choices, I guess.”

  Wendy grabbed Beamer’s arm and pointed at the stage, where a trio of dancers had appeared. “And my choice,” she said, “is the one on the left.”

  With the first gyration the crowd roared and began a ceaseless, rhythmic hand-clapping. Beamer munched her meal and watched the dancers. The music was loud, the costumes brief, the guys young, oiled, and good-looking. “That’s not dancing,” she whispered to Wendy during one number. “He’s just doing aerobics.” Wendy shushed her, then shouted out a lewd invitation to the dancer that was lost in the general uproar. Beamer turned to Jessie, who seemed to be the only one besides herself maintaining a sense of decorum. “Are they going to strip?”

  “Later, I think. They want the crowd in a frenzy first.”

  “A frenzy? What do they call this? Oh, no, look at that!” she said as two women rushed the stage and reached for a dancer, who adroitly wiggled away.

  During the first intermission Beamer questioned Wendy about Bart. “Well, who is he and how did you meet him?”

  “He graduated from Pine Grove last year and is going to the community college. We met at a party last fall at the park.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “We’re serious about having fun.”

  Martin’s philosophy. Beamer considered it while sipping her soda slowly. The ice had melted, which watered down the flavor. She made a face.

  Wendy laughed. “Look at her—she has to think about having fun.” Wendy shook her head. “Loosen up, Bea. A little pleasure would do you no harm. And it doesn’t look like your chances for that are good with Andy.”

  Beamer didn’t want to talk about Andy. “Back to Bart,” she said. “I don’t understand it—you’ve been going with a guy for four months and I don’t even know about it.”

  Wendy lit a cigarette. “That’s
because, dear girl, if you are not off someplace being chaste with Saint Andrew, you’re playing with that friend of yours—the one on the radio.”

  “Martin.”

  “Yes, Marvelous Martin. No one ever sees you anymore. You play softball during lunch hour, you take the first bus home after school, and you hide on the weekends.”

  Beamer rubbed her eyes. The cigarette smoke was thick and irritating. “I’m not that bad.”

  “You are that bad. Of course, if I were dividing my time between two boys, no one would ever see me either.”

  Jessie wrapped ice cubes in a cocktail napkin and handed them to Beamer. “Here, hold this against your eyes. It cools the burning.”

  “Don’t bother her about Martin,” said Sarah. “She assures me it’s a platonic relationship.”

  “Is it?” asked Jessie.

  The melting ice soaked the napkin and started dripping down Beamer’s wrist. She opened her eyes and blinked. The burning was gone. “Yes,” she said. “It is very platonic and very innocent.”

  “I bet,” said Wendy. “Innocent with Martin like it’s innocent with Andy.”

  Wendy had put her burning cigarette in an ashtray next to Beamer, who pushed it across the table and waved away the column of smoke. “It is innocent, Wendy,” she said. Nothing you’d understand, of course, she added silently.

  Wendy picked up her cigarette, inhaled, and released a series of small rings. “Then you’re a fool.”

  Beamer was relieved when the music resumed. She’d never actually liked Wendy.

  Two numbers into the second set, Wendy rushed to the stage and held up a five-dollar bill. The dancer grabbed the bill and placed it between his lips, then unsnapped the leather-and-rhinestone side snaps of his silk briefs. He tossed the briefs into the audience. The audience increased its roar and speeded the pace of its clapping. A G-string. Beamer wondered if it was called something different on a guy. Maybe a G-thong? The dancer sashayed toward the edge of the stage, turned his back to the crowd, untied the string, and waved it above his head as he quickly exited. The audience erupted.

  Beamer slumped in her seat. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to Jessie.