I open the stall door. I step out, blinking against the harsher light.
Linda is bracing herself against the sink. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat. Her arms are covered with little red welts from the hot rims of plates.
“I can’t even believe you’ve been in here this long,” she says. “We’re practically dying out there, and you’re sitting in here.”
“You told me to,” I mutter. But then I glance at my watch. It’s been close to twenty minutes that I’ve been in here.
Linda must be too wiped out to yell. She speaks softly. She sounds discouraged, not mad. Disappointed.
“I want this for us this summer.” She plucks a paper towel from the dispenser, turns to the sink, runs cold water over the towel, swabs her face, and dabs at the welts on her arms. “We need this, you and me. And it’s not just about money or discipline, Penelope. We need to make something work together again.” She stuffs the paper towel into the overflowing garbage can, then snags another paper towel and holds it out to me. “Wipe your face, and get back out there.”
I’d say something if I knew what to say. But I’d be talking to a swinging door.
Already, Linda’s back out there.
Nine
My first official shift ends with a bang, not a whimper, at 10:45 p.m. when I drop an entire tub of dirty dishes on the kitchen floor.
Isaac stares at me like I’m a cockroach lurking in his daily special. Caitlin swears a blue streak under her breath. Linda says, “Go. Home. To. Bed.” her hands pressed to either side of her face. With her mouth open in horror, she reminds me of that famous painting The Scream. But Linda doesn’t scream. Not right now at least. She just says,
“Tomorrow?” Caitlin, Isaac, and I groan in unison.
Linda plants her hands on her hips. “Oh, we’re not getting off that easy. We’ll make a waitress out of Penelope yet.”
Then Linda gets to work cleaning up my mess. I offer to help, but she practically shoves me toward the door.
“Take the VW,” she says. “Isaac, you’ll give me a ride home?”
“You bet,” Isaac says grimly. “If it’ll get her out of here.”
“Now, now. That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” Linda says, but she sounds grim herself.
As I flee, I hear Caitlin and Isaac laying odds on my failure. Caitlin gives me a week, tops. Isaac, three days. I’m nobody’s favorite except Linda’s, who says with hesitation that I’ll be fine. We’re cut of the same cloth.
I’m at the back door when I remember my bag. I go back inside to get it, skulking past Linda, Isaac, and Caitlin. I left it under the bar, I remember. I slink through the dining room and duck past Tom, who’s still busy eyeballing the TV. I grab my bag, then turn to leave again.
That’s when I see her, hanging where only Tom typically looks.
Justine.
In the photograph nailed there above the upside-down wineglasses, she stands at Red Earth’s bar beside a guy I think might be a much younger version of Tom. In his white T-shirt, he looks like a sweet greaser, giving my grandma a big, adoring grin. She is looking straight into the camera, forcing a tight, weary smile. Her hair has been whipped into a Jackie O. flip. Only Justine’s widow’s peak keeps it from being solid Jackie O. There are dark circles under Justine’s eyes. Her heart-shaped face is sunken now, and lines etch her mouth. She is Justine—I think I’d recognize her at any age, even eighty years old. But she is not Justine too. At least she is not the same Justine that sits at the dressing table in my photograph at home. This Justine is miserable.
From the hairdo, the sheath-like style of Justine’s dress, and the swelling in her belly, I’d say this picture was taken in 1969, just before Linda was born.
“Tom?”
He turns from the TV. He frowns, seeing me. “I thought you were gone.”
“Almost.” I point at the photograph.
Tom flicks his eyes where I’m pointing. Then he fixes his gaze on the TV again.
“A real lady,” he says gruffly.
I clench my hands and wait for more. But Tom won’t look at me. From the set to his shoulders, I know not to push it.
I stumble off to the VW. I back out of the parking lot. I drive toward home, speed through the dark, cooling night. I try to remember how easily David drove his scooter, how it felt to hold on to him so tightly while he did.
Home, I park the VW in the garage.
Inside the house, I realize I haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon. I’m bleary and numb. Except for my feet. They’re like burning-hot bricks. I drag off my Doc Martens, collapse into a kitchen chair, and prop my feet on the table. Now what? Is it exhaustion or adrenaline or anger that’s making me vibrate?
Somehow I’m on my feet again. I stuff my face with dry cereal. Drink a large glass of orange juice, then another. Eat a few tablespoons of peanut butter swiped on a bruised banana. I try drawing a portrait of Tom, but all that comes out are two eagles that look like buzzards on Popeye-like arms.
I stagger to my bedroom and drop down at my desk. Open my laptop.
I catch my breath.
There’s an email.
Hey there, Penna.
I don’t have much time. I just want to give you this little look into my life, since you want to know. Get this. My bunk is really uncomfortable, you know? If I weren’t so beat from the heat today, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even beat, it’s hard. But at least lying there I can look at your pictures. I’ve got this wall beside me, and I’ve covered every square inch with you. You’re the last person I see falling asleep, the first person I see waking up. You get more beautiful very day. You’re beauty, Penna. Just like I always said. Remember that, no matter what happens. I still believe that.
And there’s an attachment. A drawing.
There he is—sketched in black marker, a mix of fine point, medium weight, and broad stroke—my favorite superhero, David’s manga look-alike. He’s wearing camouflage and (as if he’s been talking to Ravi too) a billowing superhero cape. His hair is thick and curly again. He kneels over two little vines, just planted, it looks like, from the way little mounds of dirt are sketched up around them. Manga David is twining the vines around the bottom rungs of an old ladder, which is propped against the side of a tent.
David always helped Bonnie with the little garden she kept in their backyard. Tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans—it’s hard to tell from the drawing which vegetable these little vines are. But it looks like David is trying to bring a little bit of his backyard to Iraq.
I rattle off an email. I tell him I love his email and drawing. Draw more, I beg. I tell him about Red Earth. It’s not so terrible, I say, which I probably wouldn’t have said if I hadn’t seen David’s drawing. When someone you love plants vegetables in the middle of a war zone, how can you complain about your job? I tell him I can’t wait to hear his voice. I miss him. I love him. All that and more.
I press Send, and the email whooshes away into the great beyond.
I throw myself on the bed, then. I smell like the daily specials. I cover my nose with Plum Tumble and try to breathe through my mouth. I can’t stop thinking about David’s drawing. I feel guilty and hopeful and inspired all at the same time. I feel such love for him, a love that’s getting stronger because of all this, not weaker, the way I was afraid. There. I’ve said it. I was afraid of that—being weak—almost as much as I was afraid of David getting hurt, or worse. Almost. But in the middle of the night, at the darkest hour, this is what it’s coming down to inside me: love.
•••
I can’t sleep.
I get up and sit down at my desk again, open a new document, and start typing.
Dear Mrs. Weaver,
I think we might be related. I think I might be your granddaughter. I think I live in your old house in Killdeer now and sleep under your quilt and look at your picture. I think we have other things in common too. I would very much like to talk with you. Will you email me or write me back if you have a
ny connection to Killdeer, Oklahoma? I’ll write my phone number below, should you prefer to call.
Sincerely,
Penelope Weaver
I copy this over and over, until I’ve copied enough letters for every Justine on my list. Then I print them all.
Linda is home. She made the right choice and didn’t interrupt me. She ate and showered, watched a little TV. I can hear her now, faintly snoring beneath her covers. It’s nearly two in the morning, after all, and she wants to be rested for tomorrow.
As should I.
I think of the tender way the figure in David’s drawing bowed over those little plants.
I stick all the letters in envelopes and address them.
Only when I’m sealing the last envelope do I remember the envelope beneath the attic floor.
Even David would say, “Enough already,” I tell myself. And I fall into bed.
•••
Penelope,
You were sleeping so hard, I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll come and pick you up at 3:30. Things will go better tonight. I promise.
Mom
I discover her note—and her previously unsung ability to read the future—on the kitchen table when I grab my breakfast or lunch or brunch, I guess it is, of old, cold pizza.
Chomping on the last of the crust, I look out the window and spot the clockwork lady passing by. She’s got more energy than I do this morning, that’s for sure. The attic seems a long way up—the Mount Everest of Killdeer, Oklahoma. I watch the old lady disappear around the corner. Guess I’ll take my inspiration from her. From David.
I go back into my bedroom and check my email. Nothing. Facebook. Nothing new there. Cell phone. Ditto.
Moving on.
Still wearing my pajamas, I tug on a pair of thick socks, go into the hallway, pull the cord to the attic’s trapdoor, jump out of the way as the attic ladder descends, and climb up.
Linda must have been up here in the past few days, because she’s taped thick plastic over the hole in the broken window. Now there’s barely enough dusty light to see by. My socks snag on the wood planks as I hunch around, looking for the loose floorboard.
When I find it, I lift the board aside and, quick as I can, plunge my hand into the hole and draw out the envelope. No scorpions or spiders on the attack, but I sneeze at the dust. Holding the envelope close, I scuttle across the attic, climb back down the ladder, and go back to my room.
If it’s nothing more than some old tax document or bill of sale, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It has to be more.
Turns out it is.
•••
January 10, 1945
Sweet Justine—
Thank you for the gloves! They sure help, these winter nights. Remember how we once thought Europe would be like something out of a fairy tale? Well, it’s a bitter cold fairy tale. I’ll say that for it.
I think about our honeymoon all the time now.
Remember that souvenir shop in the Badlands, and the funny plaster airplane, how I got you to climb into it with me? You climbed right up in that ticky-tacky thing. You slid right down in front of me, closer than life. I can feel you against me now.
All the other tourists stared. Remember? We might as well have had tin cans dangling from our waists and Just Married painted across our backsides. We were that much of a sight to see—a real treat, right up there with Yellow Rock Drug’s claim to fame: free ice water, fresh donuts, and bottomless cups of coffee, and all those wooden Indians and totem poles.
I tickled you and I wouldn’t stop, not even when you begged.
I think it was in the Badlands when we started saying we were dropping in on George, Tom, Abe, and Teddy.
And then at Mount Rushmore, we left our old Ford parked in the little bit of scrub-pine shade that we could find. (How’s the radiator doing, by the way? Remember it gets thirsty. Give it a drink.) It was a long hike into the park, but you never complained. Just like you don’t complain now about my being gone now. Brave girl.
First thing I want to do when I get home? First real thing? I want to go back to Yellow Rock. I want to have our honeymoon all over again without knowing we’ll have to leave each other so soon after.
Take care of our little house, brave girl. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
Always yours, as you are always mine—
Owen
•••
Always yours, as you are always mine—
Owen.
For you, because of you.
David.
I have to find Justine.
I look again at the envelope. It’s addressed to a Mrs. Justine Delmore. She lived at this address then too. Owen must have lived here before he went to war.
So this was their house first. Hers. Not my grandpa’s. The house must have been hers when he married her. Not that it matters really, but still.
I go to my computer and find Justine Delmore. Not Justine Blue or Justine Weaver. Justine Delmore. When she left my grandpa, she left him this house and took back Owen’s name.
Justine Delmore lives in Yellow Rock, South Dakota. She has an address and a phone number. A newspaper article pops up too, a feature in the Yellow Rock Times.
Turns out she is a librarian in Yellow Rock, a member of the local chapter of the GSW (whatever that is). And an artist. The brief article celebrates Justine’s retirement from the library. She has donated a painting for the entryway. The article includes a tiny, fuzzy photograph of the woman who must be Justine standing next to the painting. She looks bird-like. In any strong wind, it looks like, she could just blow away.
My heart starts thudding in my chest. I can feel my pulse in my throat. A white cloud of hair frames her aged face. But the girl in her painting—I recognize that blue dress from the photograph on my desk. The girl balances on the rails of the train tracks that divide the canvas, her arms stretched wide. With her left hand, the girl reaches toward a steep bank of jagged yellow rock. With her right, she reaches toward red clay plains and the little gray house there that is Linda’s and mine now.
“What are you doing?”
From behind me I hear Linda’s voice, sharp with frustration.
In a flash I put my computer to sleep. I spin around in my chair.
“It’s time to go, and you’re still in your pajamas.” Linda folds her arms, juts a hip. “Snap to it.”
When I say that I’ll be ready before Linda knows it, she turns on her heel and storms off. I hear her in the kitchen, stuffing things she thinks she doesn’t want or need into the recycling and garbage. When she gets in a fury like this, she thinks everything is junk. She throws important stuff away.
I don’t try to stop her. I get ready as quickly as I can, almost before she knows it. This seems to satisfy her. At least she doesn’t say a word all the way to Red Earth. She doesn’t ask me about the painting on my computer screen of a girl balanced on train tracks, reaching between here and there.
Ten
Linda was wrong. It may be my second day working, but I’m still the worst thing to hit this joint since the waiter two years ago who hid vodka in his OJ and served food with the shakes, only to finally pass out cold on top of the elementary-school principal’s order of home fries.
This according to Caitlin, who is covering my butt again.
“You need help,” Caitlin says, ringing her tray with glass after glass of Long Island iced teas. “I mean, this is so not your calling. I’m either going to strangle you or we are going to let loose after work. I think we’d better let loose, don’t you?”
She strides off, delivering the drinks to her table and going to one of my tables to take the order I would be taking if I were a better waitress.
Tom watches me from across the bar. He is staring at me. I chew at my lip, waiting for the slow burn of fury to rise in his eyes. But instead he just shakes his head.
“Like that—” Tom clears his throat huskily. “Standing there like that—”
Behind Tom the TV
blasts another war clip—this one from Afghanistan. “The real hot spot,” the reporter proclaims as the camera pans a barren cliff, then zeros in on the mouth of a cave and the group of bearded men huddled there, machine guns clutched to their chests.
“All worn out like that,” Tom finally says. “Well, you look so much like her, young.”
“Like who?” Though, of course, I can guess. I just want to hear him say it, that’s all. Do I look like Linda or Justine, or both of them finally meeting in me?
I expect Tom to turn back to his sink full of dirty glasses or the footage that’s spinning now about Iran.
But he keeps looking at me. He says, “Like a person who might let bad things get the best of her if she’s not careful. That’s who.”
Only then, when he’s delivered a sharp blow to my ego, does he turn back to the sink.
•••
Linda is running herself ragged, trying to do all of her job and most of mine, trying to prove that she’s right: we can do this, together, again.
Isaac finally hunts me down and stops me in my tracks. He takes the jumble of menus I’m holding. I’m supposed to be seating the little crowd that is waiting with increasing irritation at the front door. But given the fact that I’m also supposed to be clearing tables, I haven’t gotten around to it yet.
“You’re sweating,” Isaac says, “which is not terribly appealing to our clientele, I’m sure.”
While He Was Away Page 9
