Everybody's Daughter

by Marsha Qualey

  “Yes. I wasn’t impressed.”

  “The snowmobile races should be starting. That’s weird enough to be fun.”

  “What’s so weird about it? They have them every weekend.”

  “This is different. They race over the pond.”

  “But it’s mostly open water.”

  “That’s right.”

  Andy stopped walking and was immediately bumped from behind. The person swore and passed. Beamer grabbed his elbow and pulled him along. “They race their snowmobiles on water?”

  She nodded. “They go one-on-one. They start on snow, race along a twenty-foot path, then hit open water. It’s about a thousand feet across to solid ground. Some of them don’t make it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They try to race their machines across open water. By momentum, mostly. The driver often ends up swimming to shore. The snowmobile is marked with a little float that shows where it sank so they can tow it out.”

  “Grown men and women do this?”

  “They even pay. There’s a fifty-dollar entry fee.”

  Andy let out a low, soft whistle. “I think I’d rather eat some hot dogs.”

  They purchased their food and carried it to an empty table. As the snowmobile race began, a crowd formed near the pond, which left the booths and food stands almost empty.

  “Lousy day for a picnic,” Andy said. He blew on his bare fingers, then laced them around his cocoa cup.

  “No, it’s a perfect day. It’s warm enough to be outside comfortably, but not so warm that the snow gets soft and messy. If—” The roaring sound of snowmobile engines interrupted. Andy turned and looked toward the pond.

  “How can we carry on a conversation with that din?”

  “You’ll get used to it. There, they’ve stopped already.” The engines were silent, but the crowd watching the race had erupted into cheers, laughter, and applause.

  “Did someone just sink?”

  “Probably.”

  Andy swore softly. “What idiots,” he added.

  “Lighten up, okay? I feel like dumping you in a pond.”

  A dog came and sniffed at their table. Andy prodded it with his boot. “Beat it, mutt,” he said. The dog left.

  “What is your problem today?” Beamer said. “I’ve never seen you like this. Time of the month or something?”

  Andy sipped his cocoa and stared at Beamer. “My problem is you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last week when you left me at the hospital, where did you go?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I was watching the game with your brother today. He said he had to cover for you at the store last Sunday because you were having lunch with Martin. Is that right? You rushed away from me so you could go have lunch with him?”

  “We had pie, not lunch.”

  “Oh, that makes a difference.”

  “Andy, if you are going to throw a tantrum every time I see him—”

  “I don’t care if you see him, as long as you see me. As long as you want to see me.” His voice softened. “And I don’t know if you do.”

  He had left a perfect opening. Beamer cautiously entered. “Actually, you’re making this easy.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to wait until later, but I guess I might as well do it now. I want to break up, Andy.”

  He groaned. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? It is Martin. I’ve been a fool all along, right? It’s Martin? That guy has just breezed in and ruined everything.”

  “It’s not Martin.”

  “Why, then?”

  Beamer poked a hole in her hot dog bun with her little finger. “I just think I should care more.”

  “What?”

  “If we’re going to keep on the way we’re going, I think I should care more.”

  “Care more? I don’t buy it, Bea. All those times together, all the talks. Saying goodnight in the back of the bait shop. Don’t lie to me.” He leaned forward. “It’s because I brought up sex, right? But we settled that. We won’t.”

  “Andy, it has gotten to be too much. It’s like you’re suddenly wrapping your arms around me and instead of feeling good, it’s just too damn tight.”

  A wind gust blew over Andy’s half-empty cocoa cup. He let it lie, the cocoa dripping onto the snow.

  “You’ve broken up with Allison and you’ve told me you love me. And I feel like I should do something for you. But I can’t.”

  “It’s the Woodies,” he said, his words clipped.

  “They have nothing to do with this, Andy.”

  “Maybe not directly, but they’re there.”

  “How so?”

  “Bea, you have worked so hard for so long at not loving the Woodies that now you can’t even admit you love anybody. You can’t throw them out of your life, so instead you get rid of me.” He dropped his hot dog onto his plate and drummed a quick, hard cadence on the table with his fingers. He didn’t look at Beamer, who was watching him intently. “You’re lying to yourself, Bea. It’s a big lie.”

  Andy rose and walked away. Beamer stayed at the table, staring at the remains of her lunch. A raucous roar from the pond signaled the sinking of another snowmobile. She had been planning this all week. Planning what she’d say, when she’d say it, anticipating his response. It hadn’t gone right, but it was done. Still, it would have been easier if he hadn’t cried.

  Chapter 18

  Beamer did not look forward to school on Monday. She called Sarah after returning home from WinterFest and announced her breakup with Andy; she was certain that everyone would know by Monday. Everyone did, and everyone wanted details. “There’s nothing to say,” Beamer said repeatedly. “We just broke up.”

  The heavy questioning persisted only through lunch hour; then it was old news. Beamer was eating lunch with friends in the cafeteria when she saw Andy across the crowded room. He was sitting alone, eating and staring at nothing.

  Someone tapped Beamer on the shoulder. She turned and saw Josh Samuels, athlete extraordinaire, honor student, and tenor soloist. Josh straddled the chair next to Beamer’s. “Is it all true,” he said, “what I hear about you and the sensitive artist?”

  “All true.”

  “They say you’re not talking about why. I bet I know why.”

  “Tell me why, Josh.”

  “It’s that Martin. Everyone has been waiting for the two of you to give up that brother-and-sister act.”

  “No, Josh.”

  He leaned closer. “Then I’ll guess again. Andy came out of the closet, right? Confessed he likes boys better than he likes girls?”

  Beamer leaned back in her chair. “Oh, Josh. You are such an idiot.”

  He shrugged. “He’s a strange one, that’s for sure. Anyway, what really matters is now you are free. So let’s do something this weekend.”

  Her friends were picking up their lunch refuse and pretending not to listen. Beamer stood up. “I’m free, Josh, but not interested.”

  That week Beamer turned down three other boys when they suggested a movie, a party, bowling on the weekend. She said no to Sarah’s suggestion that they crash a dance at the community college, and she told Wendy that she didn’t think she could make it to her birthday celebration.

  After classes on Friday she hurried to her bus, wanting to avoid Andy, whose last class was held near her locker. Martin was standing close to the buses. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “Something came up with a friend at school and so I’m going to Chicago for a while.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “Probably not. Anyway, it’s a good excuse to get away. Sort of a spiritual sabbatical.”

  “Tell the truth now: you just can’t take the cold. What about your show?”

  “Elizabeth is going to substitute. Will you feed the cat? Here are my keys.”

  “Sure. You could have just left them at the store.”

  “I was in town and I wanted t
o say goodbye.” Beamer’s bus was about to leave. Martin touched her shoulder lightly, and Beamer boarded. She watched him until he was out of sight, then sat still with her eyes closed. Winter break started Wednesday. Nearly two weeks of no school. She had been looking forward to it, but now, with Andy out of her life and Martin gone, the vacation would be empty, long and lonely.

  *

  It was a long vacation. During the days Beamer worked in the store, and at night she retreated to her room. She read, cleaned her desk, reorganized her bureau drawers, ripped down all her posters, and thought about painting the walls. She knit a cap for Johnny and started a sweater for her father.

  Josh and two other boys called and asked for a date. She turned each one down. On Friday Sarah invited her to go shopping and restaurant hopping in Minneapolis for two days. Beamer said no. On Saturday Jessie suggested they go skiing. Beamer said no. On Tuesday night a carload of friends stopped at the store and urged Beamer to join them for pizza and dancing at a club in a nearby town. Beamer said she didn’t feel well, and went to bed at nine.

  She was finally getting sleepy at ten-thirty when her mother walked into her room.

  “Don’t you believe in knocking?” said Beamer.

  “I read somewhere that a good clue a child is using drugs is when he never comes out of his bedroom.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s not the problem, though, is it?”

  “What problem? I don’t have any problem.”

  “Why don’t you call Andy? Seems to me you miss him.” Mrs. Flynn sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Thanks for the advice, Mom, but you don’t know anything about it.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “And have you share my feelings and the details of my life with Peter and Sue and Jenny and Maud and every Joe Blow who stops by for a can of worms? Sorry, Mom, but this is my life and I’m holding on to it.”

  If she had poked her mother in the eye, the pain could not have been more obvious. Mrs. Flynn rose. “I don’t think I’d do that,” she said softly. “I have some sense.”

  Beamer sat up. “Mom, look—don’t get too frantic over me. I’m okay. I’m just bored. I guess that’s why I’m so sulky. If I miss anyone, it’s probably Martin. He’s the one I did things with this winter.”

  Mrs. Flynn turned slightly and light from the hall illuminated her face. Quickly and clearly concern wiped away the hurt in her expression. “Martin?” She crossed her arms, as if that act of restraint could stifle the words that were ready to come. “Well,” she said lightly, falsely, “if boredom is your problem, the cure for that is to do something.”

  “I will.”

  Mrs. Flynn began to leave the room, then paused. “Did he mention to you that he would be seeing his old girlfriend in Chicago? He told Jenny they’d run up a fortune in phone bills during the past few weeks. I hope it works out. Goodnight, dear.” She closed the door, sealing the room in darkness.

  Beamer lay back, no closer to sleep than she had been at noon. His old girlfriend? she thought. Well, why not? That’s fine with me. After all, Martin had nothing to do with why I broke up with Andy. I’m certain of that. She punched her pillow into a mound. I think.

  The next morning Beamer waited until she was reasonably sure that Sarah was awake, then called her. Sarah complained about the early phone call. “It’s nine-thirty, for Pete’s sake,” said Beamer. “I’ve already sold buckets of bait.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Any chance you’ll run into Josh today?” Josh and Sarah were neighbors.

  “Maybe. He usually goes with my brother to the gym to play basketball.”

  “Well, do me a favor and tell him that I’m still free and suddenly interested.”

  *

  Simpson’s was packed with its usual crowd. Beamer studied her barely touched slice of pie, then offered it to Josh, who ate it. They picked up their checks and coats and walked to the register. Beamer was behind Josh and felt dwarfed by his linebacker’s bulk; he was the only date who had ever made her feel so small.

  They paid, then Josh said, “Just a minute” and pushed through the crowd toward the restroom. Beamer leaned against the wall and waited, exchanging greetings with anyone she knew who passed by or yelled from afar. A classmate pulled her knit cap down over her face. Beamer had a few nasty thoughts about boys who weren’t as funny as they thought, then lifted the cap. She was face to face with Andy.

  He smiled. “I guess that means he loves you,” he said.

  “Rodents don’t have feelings,” she joked.

  A girl appeared next to Andy. “Oh, hi, Beamer. Uh, Andy, I guess I’ll go and warm up the car.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Jacqueline.”

  Beamer watched the girl leave. She knew her only slightly, but wasn’t surprised to see her with Andy. Jacqueline Snow was also an aspiring artist, and she was the daughter of Evelyn Snow, a painter of such renown that she was no longer ever labeled “Indian artist.”

  “Don’t let me keep you, Andy.”

  “You won’t. You’re here with Josh, right? I’m surprised.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not surprised to see you with Jacqueline. You two make a nice couple.”

  “May I call you tomorrow?”

  “Please go, Andy,” Beamer whispered.

  “Beamo, let me tell you something. Sort of a warning.”

  “Jacqueline’s waiting for you.”

  “There are two kinds of guys in the world. That’s it—two. The guys who can’t wait to get in the locker room and talk about what they do with their girlfriends, sexually speaking, and the guys who don’t. I don’t.”

  “And Josh?”

  “I don’t.” Andy turned and left.

  Josh returned, took her arm, and guided her out of the restaurant. “Did you and the sensitive artist have a nice talk?” he asked.

  “Not especially.”

  While they paused to put on gloves, Beamer looked down the street. Snow was falling heavily. She saw a lone figure jogging along and for a moment thought it was Andy. She quickened and flushed. The man’s face was illuminated under a street lamp as he reached a waiting car, and Beamer relaxed as the stranger drove away.

  “Hey, are you still here?” Josh said.

  Beamer looked at him. “I’m sorry, Josh. I guess I’ve been pretty lousy company tonight.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t matter.” He stroked her neck above the collar of her unzipped jacket. “I figured all along it would get better later.”

  Beamer gently pushed his hand away. “Not a chance, Josh. Not a chance. Would you mind taking me home now?”

  Daryl and Sandra’s car was parked among others in the store’s lot. For once Beamer was glad to see the cars still there. She pre-empted Josh’s inevitable request for a kiss or a lingering goodnight.

  “Josh, it looks like trouble again with family friends. It might be better if you didn’t come in. Thanks for everything; I needed to get out.”

  She was out of the car and walking toward the door before he had done much more than mumble, “Sure, Beamer.”

  She entered through the back door. Children’s voices came from the store. The grown-ups were upstairs. She put away her coat and gloves, then sat on the sofa to remove her boots. She sat still for several minutes, warming her toes in her hands and thinking about the evening. Poor Josh. It was a bit cruel to go out and get his hopes up. Well, I will not feel too guilty. He’ll find a party to go to and have a better time without me.

  She leaned back, resting against the coats piled on the sofa. She smiled slightly, remembering the number of times she and Andy had ended their evenings right here, avoiding the Woodies, talking and otherwise prolonging their goodnights. Then Beamer exhaled sharply and rose abruptly. I’m glad I did it; let Jacqueline enjoy his company. She pushed open the door to the hall and climbed the stairs.

  The Woodies were in the kitchen, gathered around the table listening to Sandra. Beamer paused just outsid
e the kitchen. Sandra was telling about the protest and the bomb.

  Daryl was staring at his wife, and Beamer’s father had a hand on his shoulder. Beamer listened to Sandra but watched the two men. They had been college roommates for two years and teammates on a notoriously bad football team. Now they were sitting with their friends and wives, listening to a story of manslaughter.

  Candles burned on the table, the only light in the kitchen. The soft, flickering light played tricks: gray hairs were hidden, wrinkles smoothed. Beamer saw a room full of young dreamers.

  Sandra finished. For a moment no one broke the silence. Then there was a bustle of action because no one could speak: Jenny stepped behind Sandra and gently massaged her shoulders; Peter collected tea mugs and carried them to the sink; Daniel stowed uneaten food in the refrigerator; Sue turned on a light; Maud blew out the candles, one by one.

  Beamer went to her room. She watched through the window as the Woodies left—in families, in pairs, alone. Her parents escorted Daryl and Sandra, the last to go, and waited without their coats in the falling snow as their friends drove away. When the car had disappeared, they turned to each other and embraced, then walked hand in hand to the store.

  Beamer returned to the kitchen and began tidying up, emptying cold tea into the sink and loading the dishwasher. She heard her mother enter and waited for her to speak.

  “Bea, darling, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I peeked in earlier. Where’s Dad?”

  “He went to the Wyatts’ to get Johnny.” Mrs. Flynn sat at the table. Beamer joined her.

  “It looked like a pretty quiet group here tonight.”

  “Sandra and Daryl were here.”

  “I saw.”

  “She’s decided to plead guilty. She’ll be telling her lawyer on Monday.”

  “Why? I would have thought it would suit her purpose to have a public trial. It would give her a chance to publicize her cause.”

  “Right now she’s more concerned about her family. She’s convinced she’ll be found guilty anyway, and she’s decided she just wants to get on with it.”

  “What’s next?”

  “She’ll plead, she’ll be sentenced, she’ll go to prison. Evidently the minimum sentence for manslaughter is four years, and even with parole she can expect to serve almost three. Three years in prison. Minimum.” Beamer had a memory flash—a fleeting, vivid picture of the young Sandra leading the children in the commune preschool in dance and games, her caftan swirling about her in waves of brilliant color. Three years in prison.