All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  They hadn’t had the best reception at the Owl. No wonder, after calling out the bartender. The entire burg seemed to be conspiring against her. Yet there were three weeks to go on the field work. No— four! She had to hold the crew together.

  Although she was suspicious of his motives— there was a weird gleam in his beady eyes— Terry might just be bored too. Beyond polka mass there was nothing going on in Red Vine. The weather had turned rainy and cool, spoiling plans for swimming and picnicking. Isabel had no intention of socializing with the students. She wanted to get away from them. Her sanity demanded it. Yet here she was, with Terry at her elbow.

  Outside at last a thin rain misted her face. Low clouds hung over the lake, and a chill seemed to seep up the hill through their summer clothes. The congregation mingled around three tables filled with coffee urns, pastries, and juice. The girls took off like a shot for the food. Most of the crowd was elderly like the couple dancing in the aisle. There they were, huddled near the Spoon River Retirement Home van. The old woman clutched onto the codger to foil another escape. Ozzie and Wendy were giving them hugs. Margaret too.

  Isabel looked around for the accordion player. The old man, who Jon introduced as a Knobel, must be his grandfather. He wasn’t too bad on the instrument. She’d give him that. He had a nice voice, and she liked watching him sing. But that band. The father flailing away on the drums like he was in a heavy metal group and the girl on the trumpet screeching like a banshee.

  Isabel found a tree to lean against. The thought of family obligations like Jon’s made her wince. Her parents wouldn’t understand this field study, or living in a wreck of a motel in the sort of town that celebrated— in every sense— a polka mass. The one thing they understood was money.

  Money made you soft, and stupid. It sapped the will to make something out of yourself. And it made you mean and hard. She couldn’t believe it when Edie and Max showed up at Urbana for Family Weekend, unannounced, her junior year. They’d never taken the slightest interest in her college experience. They met Alec that weekend and everything changed.

  Until then she would have called Alec a common man, immune to the lure of shiny objects. After the visit he cut out newspaper pictures of Edie and Max at charity functions, and Daria with her latest handbag creation. Poor Daria, prancing around in stilettos like a trained monkey.

  They graduated, stayed for grad school. She studied pollinating insects, he studied wolf biology. In January he left for three months to go to the upper peninsula of Michigan and track wolves. They spent a night at her parents’ over spring break. Was it the creamy alfredo at dinner? Whatever the cause, the dream that night woke her, sweating, heart pounding. Alec rifling through her purse, pulling out money and credit cards and pearls (as if!) licking his lips. Beside her he slept, a thin smile on his face. Four days of beard gave him a brushy look. Wolf.

  Back at school, she kicked him out. He stomped around the apartment in new Italian loafers, then threw a box of clothes into his Jeep. He hooked up with one of Daria’s friends, several years older and a universe away in society and wealth.

  Then, the final chapter: Vegas.

  A roll of drumbeats made Isabel twitch. Back in Minnesota, girl. A deep voice announced the polka band’s intent to commit music in a tent on the lawn. The Knobels had moved onto a stage. They cranked up a polka and several old couples swung around a wooden dance floor. So the polka went on… and on. Oh, Lord.

  Terry appeared at her elbow. He smoothed down a tie he must have found at Kresge’s bargain bin. “Hey, do you know the difference between an Uzi and an accordion?” He grinned, his appalling haircut setting off his chubby face. Several people turned to listen. “The Uzi stops after twenty rounds!”

  Isabel winced. She had to make it through this month. Terry’s stupid jokes weren’t going to help. There was the accordionist, in tight black pants, blue shirt rolled at the cuffs, and a string tie, up on the stage. This was the first time she’d seen him in daylight. She watched him push in and out on the bulky instrument. Terry came up behind her and said he was headed to the beer tent.

  Well, why not? It was ten already. The morning clouds were burning off, promising a day of stultifying humidity. Isabel stood in line behind a couple farmers and bought a cup of lukewarm ale. For a good cause, she thought, dropping her change in the bowl on the table. Dana and Kate were across the lawn at the coffee table, eating pastries. She joined them, watching the old people do the polka. They looked like they’d been dancing together their entire lives. The band played what sounded like the same song over and over. When they took a break, Jon unstrapped his accordion and made his way to the beer tent. His sister put down her trumpet and jumped into the muscular arms of a high school boy.

  “All the men are going to check out the tractors,” Terry said. “Fancy a gander?”

  “Give me a report.”

  Terry stalked away with a look of evil delight on his face. Isabel hoped he didn’t vandalize any prize tractors. She concentrated on her breakfast of champions. Already she felt a little light-headed. When she looked up from the dregs of her beer, feeling the sun break through low clouds, Jon stood near her. She blinked, trying to smile.

  “So, suddenly a polka fan,” he said, staring again at her hair.

  What had she said? “Well. Nice work.”

  He walked away. Why had she said that? She didn’t like accordion music, and certainly was no fan of polka. Still, she had to counter the Terry Factor.

  Jon headed toward the group of people near the bus. She watched as he kissed the old couple who danced in the church. How suffocating, all this family so close together. He couldn’t be proud of that sister with her slutty clothes. Or Ozzie, such a stingy bastard, always complaining about their toilet paper use, telling them to turn off their lights, making them wash their own sheets and towels. Look at him now, chest puffed out, taking all the praise for the band. And Margaret, in that sack of a dress. Isabel’s mother was obsessed with the latest in everything but that dress hadn’t been in style twenty years ago.

  A woman stepped up behind Jon. He whirled around with a strange look on his face. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Margaret beamed a toothy smile. He reddened, awkwardly patting the woman’s back. Short with a cap of mousy brown hair, she wore a long grey skirt with a sleeveless white blouse, so plain she could be the wife of a conservative politician or a snake-handling preacher.

  He pried her arms off his neck. The short woman threw herself against him again, pressing her cheek against his chest.

  Dana and Kate were also watching. Isabel inched toward them, picking a bite of something buttery off Kate’s plate. Dana was talking, in her gossipy, bullet-fast way. “My sister knows her, takes her Kevin there. She’s into clogging.”

  “Jogging?” Kate asked.

  “Clogging, you know, like tap dancing. Riverdance, only not that cool. Ruffles and bows. My grandma learned how to do it sitting in her chair at the senior center. For the exercise, they told her. Ha.”

  “I like tap dancing,” Kate said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “God, no. Folksy, big skirts. If she looked like the Lord of the Dance I might give it a try.”

  They all turned to look at the clogger. Jon bent down to listen to her. Her mouth moved nonstop, her hand on his arm. His mouth was screwed to one side. Isabel asked, “Are you talking about her? With the accordion guy?”

  The only Minnesotan in the field crew, Dana had grown up forty miles away. She told them she’d met this woman while visiting her sister in Minneapolis. Dana picked up her nephew at preschool one day and laughed to her sister about the Shirley Temple sendoff one of the teachers had given the kids, complete with cockeyed sailor cap. She does it every single day, her sister exclaimed, then told Dana to be on the lookout for Cuppie Knobel in Red Vine this summer.

  “Even her haircut looks like a cupcake,” Dana said.

  “So she’s related?” Isabel asked. She looked away, embarras
sed at her interest.

  “His wife.”

  “I talked to him in the parking lot yesterday. He’s so nice.” Kate sighed. “Too bad he’s married.”

  “And that you go to school in Utah.”

  “This summer is not going as I planned.”

  “There’s always Terry,” Isabel said.

  Dana was looking over Isabel’s shoulder. “Speaking of lover man,” she whispered.

  Isabel took off for the coffee. She dumped out the last of her beer, poured coffee, and kept her head down. So she wasn’t wrong about Terry. She kept moving. At the edge of the grass she looked up. Terry was talking to an old man by the beer table. Jon stood by the bus with that short woman hanging on him. Isabel had a view of their backs, his strong, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Beside him the wife looked like a child. Being named Cuppie had stunted her for life.

  Jon glanced over his shoulder and caught Isabel’s eye. She put her cup to her mouth and scalded her tongue. Over a loudspeaker a woman’s voice announced that bingo was starting in the parish hall. An exodus of women began. Dana and Kate fell into line.

  So he was married. Good. She had quite enough on her plate, with these hormone-fueled students, field data to collate, and a leaky motel to navigate. Not to mention planning next year’s seminars and her thesis. If he hadn’t been married, well, it would have been the same. She was too busy for relationships with anybody.

  Not to mention a disaster in that department.

  Chapter 5

  The small parlor of the house on Birch Street— Margaret preferred ‘parlor’ to ‘living room’— entertained only the occasional rose group meeting or Jehovah’s Witness. It was a stuffy, old-fashioned room with flowered wallpaper and hand-me-downs. The sofa and chairs belonged to Nora and Reinholt before they upgraded to crushed velvet. They were as hard and unforgiving as a Minnesota winter. The boxy arms were good for sitting on though when you had an overflow crowd like today.

  Everyone from the polka mass had wanted to come back to the house after the band quit playing, like the old days. Nora and Reinholt went back to the home. But Stumpy and Louise took up lots of room and Irene fidgeted with a fake smile on her face. Irene who didn’t really like big groups, not to mention “the in-laws,” Cuppie’s parents, who had jumped on a weak invitation. And their daughter of course.

  Margaret went back to the kitchen to make coffee. Jonny followed her.

  “Put some crackers on a plate,” she told him over her shoulder, fiddling with the coffeemaker. “And see if there’s cream cheese.”

  “Mom. What did I tell you about me and Cuppie? Remember? It’s over.”

  She laid her hands on the coffeemaker, as if willing it to reveal its secrets. “I’m just as surprised as you are. I never told her to come.”

  “But you told her about the polka mass.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t interfere with my children’s love lives.

  “Then how did she know?”

  “Well, I might have said something to Flora at Wal-Mart last week. It’s not like polka mass was a secret.”

  “What did you say to her?” His voice was low, and angry.

  “Nothing much. That you would be back.”

  “And—?”

  Margaret poured water into the maker and turned it on. Then turned it off again and got the big red Folger’s can out of the fridge.

  “Mom.”

  “What? Oh. Flora asked how you were doing. I just said, fine, he’s fine. Living with Artie and Sonya for now. That’s all. She said Cuppie was very upset, and terribly lonely. I—“

  “You what?”

  “I might have said that you were too.”

  Jonny sat down hard in a wood chair, his hand on his forehead.

  “I’ll just take some munchies out.” She whispered as she backed through the door, “She just wants to talk.”

  But he didn’t. Cuppie had years to talk to him and she had declined to do so. Jonny couldn’t think of one thing to say to her.

  She’d surprised him on the sidewalk, tapping his shoulder, calling his name in her baby-doll voice. Sabotaged him in front of his parents, his grandparents, his sister— the whole frigging town. What could he do? It was a strike force. She was a pint-sized nuclear device. He had to let her hug him with that lily of the valley perfume that made him nauseous.

  Jonny stared at the worn spot in the linoleum in front of the sink. How had it come to this, made sick by someone you thought you loved just months ago? Was it really possible to fool yourself, to not know your deepest emotions?

  A man could be an idiot. He was an idiot. For eight years he would never get back.

  The polka mass had gone better than expected. He hadn’t flubbed anything. His father had been pleased. And to see his grandparents together, dancing like they were young, made it all worthwhile. It gave him hope. You could be lucky. You could find someone who understood you, someone who would always be there for you. Jonny was inclined to be optimistic. That was why he stayed married so long. He was sure things would get better.

  The feeling of angry regret flooded back. In the parlor Cuppie’s mother chattered about the city election. Jonny hadn’t mentioned Lenny’s fundraiser. Maybe he could do it alone. The togetherness of playing with his family left him exhausted.

  The door swung open. Before Jonny could escape, his father stalked into the kitchen, a dark look on his face. “You can help with the women’s work. Get moving.”

  Jonny brought the cups and saucers, creamer and sugar bowl, out on a tray and set it on the table with the lace shawl and vase of roses. In the front yard with its rose-covered arch, the sagging gate swung, the paint long gone from the pickets. Jonny sent up a prayer for something to happen— a tornado, an earthquake, maybe a fire— anything so he wouldn’t have to sit down, wouldn’t have to pour, wouldn’t have to talk. Cuppie sat six feet away, motionless, hands folded in her lap. He felt her eyes on him. All their eyes.

  Flora St. John said in a perky voice, “Cream and sugar for me, Jonny. You remember!”

  Ozzie held the coffee pot aloft. Jonny couldn’t move. He was trapped, a grown man in his childhood house, a boy again, inert, unformed. The air felt electric, like right before a storm. He wanted to bolt, out the door, down the street. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all.

  His father poured coffee into a porcelain cup with roses painted delicately on the side then grumbled, “Do it. Cream and sugar. Move.”

  Somehow they all were subdued by caffeine and sugar. Jonny’s hands shook as he handed Cuppie her coffee. More needed to be made. He got it going in the kitchen and stared at the back door. Maybe he could walk away. Like he’d done in Minneapolis. Just walk away.

  “Need some help?”

  Cuppie let the door swing closed behind her. She looked pink from the heat. His heart stopped. His worst nightmare, alone with Cuppie again.

  “I got it. Thanks.” It came out more grateful than he felt. To his chagrin she folded her arms and leaned against the table, staring at him.

  “You look fantastic. You’re so fit, have you been running? Or is it just Sonya’s cooking— she always made the strangest casseroles. Is that a new shirt? Love the color. I’ve missed you, honey. Freckles just sits on your chair, keeping it warm for you.” Freckles was her cat, a huge orange tom with stripes, not spots. When Cuppie left for clogging competitions they had a strained relationship, he and Freckles.

  “He’ll get over it.”

  At nineteen he had agreed to marry her. What a phrase, at nineteen, as if you took stock of yourself, measured your life, your future, looking steely-eyed into the maw of space and time. As if you made choices, when all you did was hang on, neither boy nor man, thrust forward by hormones, adrenaline, and vague notions of cars, regular sex, and rivers of beer. Jonny was more mature than most boys his age. So said his mother and father. So said Cuppie, and her parents. He was young to get married, but they were both so mature— so said them all.

&nb
sp; He’d had a few other girlfriends in high school but he’d only had one real girlfriend, the kind who let you do anything. He and Cuppie fooled around all the time in her room, with her parents downstairs watching television. Small and squealing with breasts like ripe apples and a bouncy, gymnastic way about her, she laughed a lot during sex, slapped him playfully on the ass, did things he’d only read about in magazines. She told Ed and Flora that Jonny tickled her, or read her the funnies. If they were fools to believe her, he was a bigger fool, but a happy one. His friends told him he’d be a jerk to give all that up.

  During semester break his freshman year they got engaged. Her parents gave her a ring, her great-grandmother’s. On a sweltering July day they danced the polka and cut angel food cake. He didn’t remember the ceremony but the party was a blast. If this was the way married life was, he’d thought, it’ll be great.

  Romantic. According to Artie, that was his problem. Love would conquer all, including clogging, tomcats, and incompatibility. He didn’t really know Cuppie. She was his bed partner, his cook, his movie date, his wife. She arranged their apartment, their meals, their vacations, their friends. They did whatever she wanted, and he couldn’t figure out how to stop her short of handcuffs. It was his fault for letting it go on. Everything was his fault in the end, because he had been an idiot at the beginning.

  “Oh, honey,” she was saying in the kitchen, stepping toward him. “You look so sad.”

  “I’m not. I couldn’t be happier.” He moved away. She was toxic.

  “How can you say that?” She pouted.

  “Because I wanted out and I am out. I told you. It’s over.” He was at the door now but turned back, feeling the heat in his face. “Why are you here?”

  “To see you, of course. I—”

  “Why now? It’s been months.”