He looked at her as if the question made no sense. “Of course, Cory. We’ll do it.”
*
The town would do it. Within three days of Margaret Knutson’s return home, a community-sponsored fund in her name was opened at the bank, and a committee to plan and coordinate fund-raising events was formed.
Within ten days, a rummage sale and craft fair were held. Timed to coincide with an influx of visitors to a winter sports festival at a nearby resort, they raised six hundred dollars. Change buckets were placed by every cash register in town, and a series of community events—pancake breakfast, spaghetti supper, covered-basket auction, and dance—was scheduled.
“The next time I need a new heart,” Margaret said to Cory and Roxanne, “I will arrange to have it happen in the summer. Look at that snow coming down. Only fools would drive through this to eat spaghetti.”
“Fools,” said Roxanne, “or people who love Margaret Knutson. Good grief, woman, is that husband of yours always so slow getting ready?”
“Always.”
“It’s one of the reasons they quit going to church,” said Cory. “They could never get there on time.” She sat on one of the several chairs that had been arranged around her mother’s bed. Roxanne was sitting in for the evening to keep Margaret company while Mike and Cory went to the fund-raiser. She was one of many friends who had organized a loose system of support so Mike and Cory could have time off from the intense caretaking. But even when a good friend was there to keep her mother company, Cory hated leaving. It was usually fun to hang around and listen while her mother joked or reminisced with friends. But because tonight’s dinner was a fund-raiser for the family, she and Mike felt obligated to go.
“How do I look?” Mike stood behind them, tucking in the tail of his shirt.
Roxanne and Cory whistled, and Margaret shook her head. “A tie? Since when a tie?”
He walked over and kissed her. “The husband of the invalid should look his best. Let’s go, Cory. You’re holding us up.” He wagged a finger at his wife and then looked sternly at Roxanne. “Be good, both of you.”
“We’ll have a great time,” Roxanne said. “After we watch Alien, we plan to call some nine-hundred numbers and talk to young men.”
Cory and her mother laughed while Mike chewed on his lip. “Aren’t you a grandmother?” he asked.
“Three times over,” Roxanne said. “Now get out of here.”
“I know the phone-calling is a joke, but you aren’t really going to watch Alien, are you? It’s pretty scary. She almost didn’t make it through the first time she saw it and she had a good heart then.”
“Mike, please go,” said Margaret. “I’m not going to do anything more exciting than get up and shuffle to the bathroom.”
Roxanne followed them to the door and waited with Cory while Mike went ahead to warm up the car. “You be nice to Mac. He volunteered to help in the kitchen tonight.”
“I’m always nice to him.”
“Too bad things didn’t work out differently.”
“There was nothing to work out, Roxanne. I explained to him that I just don’t feel like dating these days.”
“I know, but Barb said she could tell he was disappointed. I think it would be good—”
Cory pressed her finger against Roxanne’s lips and shushed her. “I sure can tell that you’re somebody’s mother because the advice just flows out of you.” The car horn honked, and Cory zipped up her jacket. “Take it easy, Mom,” she called. “And it’s okay about Mac,” she said to Roxanne. “He knows what’s going on. He understands.”
Mac did understand. During the first week after the family’s return from Wausau, he had called twice and a few times approached Cory at school, sometimes shyly working his way to her side when she was with friends, but more often finding her when she was alone at her locker.
She appreciated his concern and kindness and was always glad to see him, but the strong interest and attraction she had felt during their first conversations had subsided. Her mother was sick and possibly dying. Dealing with a boyfriend, making time for dates, and waiting for phone calls all seemed like meaningless distractions.
“Not now, Mac,” she’d explained when he at last asked her to a movie. “Dating just isn’t where I’m at these days.” And he had said he understood.
The friendship attracted some attention. There were no interracial couples in school and even few interracial conversations. So when Mac sat at her lunch table or walked her from school to her car, Cory could almost count on receiving phone calls that evening from friends.
The calls irritated her, and she had even hung up on Karin, who had said that she would never under any circumstances kiss an Indian. Logan Bennett, a senior who had never done more than nod to Cory at council meetings, called twice to ask her out. When she turned him down the second time, he’d responded curtly, “You like Indians better?”
“Better than you,” she’d answered.
*
“I hope the spaghetti tastes better than the pancakes,” Mike said as they entered the senior citizens’ center.
“A pig roast,” said Cory. “That would be a delicious charity. Do the beggars dare make suggestions?”
“I don’t think so. Look at this crowd.” Mike waved to someone and, at the same time, hundreds of eyes turned on them.
Cory was accustomed to being well known in a small town, but now she was almost a celebrity and she didn’t like it. She felt as if she were constantly being watched, discussed, and evaluated: She’s holding up so well. She’s such a help. She’s slipping in school. Do you suppose she ever cries?
As she felt the eyes watching, she wished she had stayed home. That was a difference the family situation made. Before, she never passed up social gatherings and often turned them into her own party. In a way, these fund-raising events were for her, but they never ever felt like a party.
Mike forged into the crowd—shaking hands, accepting hugs, joking and laughing. Cory held back; she doubted she could fake it tonight.
“I will be personally offended if you sneak away without eating anything.”
Cory turned. “Hi, Mac. Look at you—what a mess!” He was wearing a long white apron that was soaked and splattered with kitchen juices and food bits.
“Chef Mac, please.”
“I didn’t know you cooked.”
“And you probably didn’t know that spaghetti is a traditional Native American dish.”
She sniffed. “Smells like you were on garlic duty.”
“And onions. I chopped about fifteen pounds. That was all they trusted me to do. Actually, I can’t even cook a scrambled egg without ruining it. I always get shell mixed in.”
“Did I really look like I wanted to sneak away?” He was holding a plastic cup. He sipped before answering. “You did. Don’t go.” He pointed across the room. “Sasha and Tony are sitting with Barb’s kids at the table by the podium. Go sit with them. They’re safe.”
“Safe?”
“It just doesn’t look like you are up to forcing cheerfulness tonight.”
“Can you read minds?”
“Another Native specialty. Pretty scary, huh?”
“It is. Oh well, I don’t think I can avoid it any longer. If Mike can do it, so can I.”
“You sit with Sasha and Tony, and I’ll bring the food and join you.”
Cory nodded. “Sounds good. But I’ll need ten minutes to get there through this crowd. Wish me luck.”
It took twenty. People she had known her entire life and people she barely knew wanted to talk, or hug, or introduce Cory to a guest. She smiled and laughed, returned the embraces, and thanked everyone for coming. She was grateful for the support, but it was exhausting.
Mac arrived at the table just as she did. “I could tell you wouldn’t get here that soon,” he said as he set a plate in front of her. He nodded greetings to Tony and Sasha, and spoke to the three children. “Behaving?”
“They’ve been g
reat,” said Sasha. “Tell their mother I’ll baby-sit anytime.” She turned to the three girls seated opposite her at the table. “Sing Mac the song I taught you.”
“Please don’t,” said Tony. “Sorry, kids,” he said to the girls, “but I’ve already heard it fifteen times.”
The middle girl was undeterred. She placed her hands on her hips, sashayed a few times in her seat, then started singing. “My name is Aphrodite, I’m the goddess of love. I get my sexy attributes from Zeus up above. I’ve got the sex appeal—”
Mac stopped her with a raised hand. “Jessa, how old are you?”
“Eight.”
Cory was laughing so hard she spilled food on her shirt. “Darn. Wouldn’t you know I’d wear white?”
“Do you want to hear the rest of the song?” Jessa asked.
“Why don’t you ask Cory about last Halloween—” Sasha interjected.
“Please, Sasha, don’t.”
“When she sang that song—”
“Stop it, Sash.”
“To the high school principal.”
The little girls squealed disbelief, and Mac stopped eating, his fork frozen in midair. “Really?” he asked.
Tony nodded. “It was great. For the Halloween dance last year, Cory dressed up as this incredible, sexy bombshell. You couldn’t recognize her.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Cory said.
“But it’s true,” Sasha said. “She wore a red wig, four-inch heels, and loads of makeup.”
“She stuffed her chest,” said Tony. “Really stuffed. What a difference!”
Cory tossed a wadded napkin at him and, for as long as she could resist, didn’t look at Mac, not wanting to see where he was looking. When she finally peeked, he was smiling right at her.
“Everyone was fooled,” Sasha said. “Donaldson was in the gym chaperoning the dance, and she goes up to him and sings.”
“What did he do?” Mac asked.
“Nothing,” said Cory. “He just looked tired. I think the guy’s been a principal too long. Nothing bothers him.”
“So, you see,” Sasha said to the girls, “I learned that song from Cory K., and now I have taught it to you.” The girls stood up and started bumping hips and singing. Mac finally succeeded in quieting them and they resumed eating. He turned to Sasha. “Thanks for watching the kids.”
“No problem.”
“But,” he paused and seemed to be weighing his words, “a song about sexiness and Greek gods isn’t really appropriate for American Indian kids. I don’t know how their parents will feel about it.”
Sasha paled in distress. “Mac, I had no idea.”
Cory looked at Mac. His face was still and serious, but she discerned something agitating. “Sasha, I think he’s pulling your chain.” Mac’s face relaxed into a smile.
Tony burst out laughing. “Oh, man, he’s got you figured out.”
“I’m sorry, Sasha,” said Mac. “I was teasing. The song is fine. I even bet that in a few days they’ll probably have Barb singing it to them at bedtime.”
“She’ll like it,” agreed Jessa. “She’s always singing songs.”
“Your problem,” Tony said to Sasha, “is that you get your rules out of some ‘How To Be a Liberal’ manual. You worry too much about doing the wrong thing.”
“Too much?” she snapped. “That’s impossible. And maybe you should worry more.”
“Look what you’ve done,” Cory said to Mac. “They’re going to fight.”
Sasha was clenching her fork and staring at Tony. Mac tugged on her sleeve. “Get mad at me,” he said. “I’m the one who was teasing.”
“But he’s the one who enjoyed seeing me get caught. The jerk.”
Tony sat back and stared daggers at Sasha. She turned away from him.
Cory leaned over the table and clasped her hands together. “Please, not in front of the children.” Mac and the girls laughed, and the warring couple softened visibly.
Mac tapped Sasha on the back of her hand. “You owe me.”
“For what?”
“He’ll feel guilty and be nice to you for at least a day now.”
Tony touched Sasha’s neck and lightly massaged. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s such a wimp,” Cory said to Jessa and her sisters, who were watching the scene with wide-eyed rapture. “He should wait and make her work for the apology.”
“Let’s pretend all this never happened,” said Sasha.
“Good idea,” said Mac. “And I don’t believe anyone can care too much about doing wrong things. Or right things. Which would it be?”
“Depends where you are,” Sasha said. “In this sad town people need to worry about why they do the wrong things.”
“Don’t say that,” said Cory. “You’ve only lived here a year. And after what people have done for my mother, no one can criticize. There are plenty of good souls in Summer.”
“Maybe so, but they all live separately. Look around. This is the first integrated event I’ve seen since I moved here.”
“That’s just how things are,” said Tony. “We’ve talked about it a hundred times. It doesn’t make us bigots.”
“Everything’s segregated.”
“By choice. And it’s mutual.”
“Everything except the movie theater and the Dairy Queen. Even the bars are segregated, right?”
“Especially the bars,” said Mac. “I’ve seen that in every town I’ve lived in.”
Sasha turned to Cory. “But not this dinner. You should be proud about that.”
Cory twisted the last strands of pasta around her plastic fork. “I get what you’re saying, Sash, but I don’t really want to view my mother’s illness as a social victory for a racist town.”
“It’s a moral victory.”
“Watch out,” said Tony. “When she starts talking about morality it means she’s shifted into high gear. And then there’s no stopping her.” He looked at the little girls. “Maybe you should sing that song again. I bet Cory would climb up on the table and dance along.” The girls cheered and looked pleadingly at Cory.
“No,” she said. “Simply no.”
Before they could begin begging, their mother appeared at the table. “We’ve had some complaints about the noise level over here,” she said with false sternness. “What’s going on?”
“Sasha taught us a song,” said Jessa. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Save it for bedtime,” said her mother. “Which is coming up very soon.” Her daughters protested, but she silenced them with an upraised palm. “Tony and Sasha, it was nice to meet you, and thank you for sitting with the girls while I was in the kitchen. I hope you didn’t mind that Mac volunteered you.” She turned to him. “I just got a call from Jeff. He says Willy is feeling worse and wants me home.”
Willy was Barb and Jeff’s twelve-year-old son. Barb had dropped off Roxanne at Cory’s house earlier that evening before driving to Dumont’s Meat Locker in Millersburg to pick up the eighty pounds of donated meatballs. She had mentioned then that her son wasn’t well.
“Does he still have his fever?” Cory asked.
“Yes, and my husband says it’s higher. Mac, the girls and I will walk home. It’s only three blocks. If I leave you the keys, would you drive out and get Roxanne? I’d send Jeff, but he’s due at work in an hour.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Girls, thank Tony and Sasha and clear your plates.” They rose obediently, said their thank-yous and good-byes, and cleared their tableware into a large trash bin. They ran toward an exit and disappeared.
Barb drummed her fingers on Mac’s shoulder. “Maybe you can give Cory a ride home.”
“Maybe I can.”
“Good night, kids,” Barb said.
“Time for us to go, too,” said Sasha briskly. “Come along, Antonio. We have more making up to do.”
Tony rose and stacked the empty dishes. “I love this part,” he said. “It’s why I pick so many fights.”
&n
bsp; Sasha hugged Cory. “Be good, you two.”
Left alone, Mac and Cory said nothing until she spilled her water. Mac wiped it up with a handful of used napkins, and said, “I’d like to drive you home. I’m going that way.”
“To get Roxanne. I heard. Mac, why am I so suspicious about all this?”
“About what?”
“Willy’s illness, Roxanne being stranded at our place, Barb asking you to go get her. Was it some sort of matchmaker’s plan?”
He dropped the sodden clump of napkins. “Roxanne’s car is in the shop, Jeff has to go to work, and Willy is definitely sick. There’s no conspiracy.”
She watched his hands as he absently poked at the mound of napkins. Too often lately she’d caught herself staring at the Native American people she saw. She hated herself for doing it, but still she’d steal glances at the kids at school, or Roxanne or Peter when they came to the house, or the women in the stores. She realized that not long ago it was as if they were all invisible to her, people who were there but not seen. Now she couldn’t help but look surreptitiously, fascinated with the faces, body types, and, especially, the varied palette of skin colors. Mac was not especially dark, but he was a deeper brown than she could ever hope to be, even if she spent a lifetime on a sunny island. She wanted to lay her hand next to his for the contrast, but instead curled it into a fist and set it on her lap.
“Are you still here?” he asked.
“I was wondering about…” Redskin. That certainly wasn’t accurate. “Just wondering.”
“About what? You were almost going to tell me.”
“About why you always wear short sleeves in the winter.”
“It’s simple: I’m not a cold guy.”
“I never thought you were.” Mac suddenly chuckled. “What’s the joke?” she asked.
“I was just picturing you dressed up and singing to the principal. Do you still have the outfit?”
“In my closet. You never know when you might need something slinky and sexy.”
Mac raised his eyebrows. “I suppose not. Well, what’s the verdict? May I take you home?”
Cory lifted her cup and eyed him over the rim. “What does it mean if I say yes?”
He shrugged. “Means I get a peek at something slinky and sexy.”
Revolutions of the Heart Page 4
