She’d told herself she could consume as many zombies with her dim sum as she wanted. She wasn’t Mark’s role model, and she’d never stood on a roof and leaned over the edge. But she’d managed to sip only half her drink and then switched to tea, pushing her glass across the table for Emerson to finish for her. “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow,” she’d said, even though he hadn’t requested an explanation.
Elyse was already at Mark’s apartment when Becky arrived. Elyse looked lush and radiant in an emerald-green sweater and tight jeans, her hair a glossy tumble of black waves, her eyes bright as stars on a clear night—definitely not the picture of a student who had just crawled out from under an oppressive schedule of final exams.
Becky herself looked wan and limp. Except for last night’s outing with Emerson, she’d barely been outdoors for the past week. She’d been studying, taking exams, finalizing her Bimbum game, and reviewing her graduate school acceptances. So far she’d received three, with a few more pending. One of the acceptances was from MIT.
Staying on for her doctorate would be easy. She knew the school, the profs, the neighborhood. But how could she remain in Cambridge while Elyse flew off to Paris?
Maybe that was why Elyse looked so energized: she was gearing up for her next adventure, preparing to hurtle herself into experience. She was so unlike Becky, who was such a tool, never even approaching the edge of the roof, let alone leaning over it.
Cambridge was safe. Paris—or hell, even Cal-Tech or RPI—seemed a lot like the edge of a roof to Becky.
Mark’s roommate Aston had taken over the living room: two suitcases, a laptop bag, a backpack, a canvas tote lumpy with oddly shaped contents, and a couple of cartons had converted the floor into an obstacle course. He meandered through the maze created by his clutter, ranting about how his ride was late and he couldn’t find his favorite scarf and other matters worthy of histrionics.
“Is he moving out?” Becky asked.
“Nah, just being theatrical,” Elyse muttered.
“Where’s Mark?”
“In his bedroom, finishing up his packing. How do I look?”
“Fabulous,” Becky said. “As usual.”
“I’m going to seduce him while we’re home over break,” Elyse whispered, stepping out of Aston’s path as he wound his way through the room, declaiming in plummy tones about the whereabouts of his cell-phone charger. “I think we can move things forward, now that he’s finally sober.”
Becky hoped he was sober. As long as he was shut up inside his bedroom, out of view, she couldn’t be sure. Amazing how Elyse could trust the entire city of Paris, and Becky couldn’t even trust Mark to stay clean for two days. His last AA meeting had been less than forty-eight hours ago; Becky had rendezvoused with him at the Tang Building afterward and accompanied him to the café in the Strata Center, where she’d nursed a mug of cocoa while he’d slugged down two cups of coffee.
He swore that he abstained between meetings. She was cynical enough not to believe him—at least not completely. She didn’t want to be disappointed. Mark, she knew, was someone who could disappoint. Better not to trust him too much.
“I can’t wait to see Florie,” Elyse went on, trembling slightly, as if her body couldn’t contain all the energy inside it. “I mean, married! I wonder if she’ll have a big rock on her finger.”
“We’re talking Florie,” Becky said. “Do you honestly think she’d marry someone who’d buy her a rock?”
“I honestly think she wouldn’t marry anyone,” Elyse said, sounding less bitchy than philosophical. “I hope she understands that when you get married, you’re supposed to have sex.”
“She’ll figure it out,” Becky said.
“The guy she’s marrying had better be patient.”
“Forbearing,” Becky agreed.
“Small,” Elyse said, grinning wickedly.
Mark’s bedroom door opened and he emerged, a duffel slung by its strap over his shoulder. His hair was a mess of curls, his jaw stubbled, his jeans droopy enough to brush against the floor at his heels, which left the hems thready and fringy. But his eyes were clear and focused, and he smiled when he saw Becky. “Hey, when did you show up?”
“Minutes ago,” she said, refusing to acknowledge how relieved she was that he wasn’t hung over, let alone tanked.
Visiting his family sober was going to be a trial for him. He’d told her about his perfect older brother, the Yalie, the lawyer who never passed up an opportunity to point out what a thorough fuck-up Mark was. “He can’t be perfect if he treats you like that,” she’d argued. Mark had only laughed.
But he was starting the holiday sober, and that was something.
“Did you empty your fridge?” Elyse asked him. “If you leave stuff behind, it’s going to spoil. Like milk.”
“I’m not going to bring the milk home with me.”
“Then let’s dump it,” Elyse said, snagging his hand and dragging him into the kitchen.
Becky settled on the sofa, listening to Mark and Elyse bicker amiably about what to dump and what to leave in his refrigerator and watching Aston zigzag through the living room, fretting over whether his mother would like the sea-salt grinder he’d bought her, wishing his father played golf so Aston could give him balls for Christmas. Becky smiled privately, wondering if Florie was going to give her husband-to-be balls for Christmas, or whether he already had an adequate complement of balls. If Elyse weren’t policing Mark’s refrigerator, Becky could have shared that observation with her. They could have smirked together.
Mark’s sister-in-law phoned him from her car to report that she was double-parked in front of the building, unable to find a parking space. The refrigerator abandoned, Elyse, Mark, and Becky gathered their things, wished Aston a happy holiday, and headed down the stairs.
Mark’s sister-in-law didn’t look too pregnant seated behind the wheel of a silver Camry, but she was wearing a puffy down parka which would make anyone look fat. She pushed a button on the dashboard to release the trunk latch. Mark loaded their stuff, then sat shotgun next to his sister-in-law, while Becky and Elyse climbed into the backseat and thanked her multiple times.
“Tracy,” he introduced her. “Elyse and Becky.”
“We’ve met,” Tracy said, twisting to peer over her shoulder before she adjusted her seatbelt.
Mark frowned. “You have? When?”
“You were drunk,” Elyse reminded him.
Too bluntly, Becky thought, although she didn’t add a comment to soften the edge of Elyse’s accusation. Yes, he’d been drunk that morning. He’d been hospitalized. He’d been a disaster. Could Tracy detect a difference in him today? He’d been sober for nearly three weeks. Could she tell?
Whether he was sober, whether his family noticed, whether they cared—it wasn’t Becky’s problem. It wasn’t her business. How had she become so involved in his substance-abuse issues? Why had she had cocoa at the Strata Center with him two days ago? Why had she enjoyed the cocoa better than the zombie she’d had with Emerson last night?
Why was she so tense? Why couldn’t she be aglow with the holiday spirit, like Elyse? Why was she worried about her graduate school applications when she’d already been accepted into three excellent programs? Why did she keep staring at the back of Mark’s head, aiming her thoughts directly at his skull as if she could penetrate it? Those thoughts were, don’t drink while you’re home. Don’t blow it. Don’t make us come running to the hospital again.
Not her problem. Not her business.
During Becky’s childhood, Wheatley in the winter had resembled a set from a Disney Christmas movie, snow swooping across lawns and layering roofs like cupcake frosting. At least that was how she remembered it: leafless trees and conical firs shaping graceful silhouettes against the snow, fragrant wreaths hanging on doors, tiny white bulbs sprinkle
d like fairy dust through the shrubs on the town green. Maybe it had never been so picturesque, but through a child’s eyes everything had seemed magical.
Becky no longer had a child’s eyes. Her adult eyes saw the low, lumpy mounds of slush bordering the roads like stained mashed potatoes. The boughs of the fir trees drooped and sagged. Blotches of dead grass peeked out of gaps in the snow. At the town green, she could detect the wires snaking through the shrubs, holding the lights in place.
I am not in a holiday mood.
“So, do you want to call Florie, or should I?” Elyse asked, then answered herself. “You call her. She likes you better than me. Find out when we can see her and check out her ring. Find out if we’re going to be bridesmaids. You probably are. Me . . . yeah, if she asks you, she’ll ask me. I think she’s kind of afraid of me.”
“She’s not afraid of you,” Becky countered. “She just doesn’t like you.”
Elyse laughed, reassuring Becky that her comment had come out funny rather than bitchy.
Tracy dropped Elyse off first. For the first time that morning, Elyse seemed to deflate. Her gaze shuttled back and forth across the street, her mother’s house, her father’s house, her mother’s. “Joy to the world,” she muttered. “Katie and I have to do two Christmases.”
“I know.” Becky gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I’ll rescue you. We’ll go out with Florie to celebrate her nuptials.”
“And persuade her to pick pretty bridesmaid’s dresses for us. God knows what she’d choose without our guidance.” She leaned forward, poking her head between Mark and Tracy in the front seat. “Thanks so much, Tracy. I really appreciate the ride. You—” she turned to Mark “—I will be in touch with.” She planted a loud kiss on his stubbled cheek, then let herself out of the car.
The backseat seemed enormous without her in it. Mark had climbed out of the car to help Elyse with her bag, an unexpected gesture of chivalry that boded well for Elyse’s hopes of sleeping with him. Once he slammed the trunk shut, they stood chatting for a moment by the rear bumper, their voices entering the car in indecipherable syllables.
“So,” Becky said, figuring that if Mark and Elyse could chat, she and Tracy could, as well. “How are you feeling? With the—you know, pregnancy.” Too forward? Too nosy? Small talk didn’t come easily to her.
Tracy didn’t seem offended. “Better than a month ago,” she said cheerfully. “I’m vomiting less.”
Wonderful. “I think Mark is looking forward to becoming an uncle.”
“Is he?” Tracy peered over her shoulder. “I worry about him.”
We all do. “He’ll be fine,” Becky said, hoping Mark wouldn’t prove her a liar.
“He just . . . I don’t know, I always picture uncles as being goofy and wild and playful. Mark needs to be more playful, don’t you think?”
Did more playful mean more drunk or more sober? Becky didn’t know. Her supply of banter had run dry.
Fortunately, Mark swung open the door and settled back into his seat, sparing her the need to respond. She watched out the side window as Elyse trudged up the front walk to her mother’s house, lugging her suitcase. Like the doting parent she was destined to become in a few short months, Tracy waited until the front door opened and Elyse stepped inside before she started the car.
Becky told her to take a left, heading back toward the town center. Her mind raced to come up with a route to her house that wouldn’t include Baker’s Hill Road. But once the car passed the town green and the high school, Baker’s Hill Road was really the only way to reach her part of Wheatley.
From her vantage seated behind Mark, she couldn’t see much of him other than his curly shag of hair and the top of his shoulders. But she could detect a stillness in him as the car cruised up the hill. Because it was a winding back road, more snow edged the shoulders, and less slush. The fields spreading out on either side of the two-lane asphalt were mostly unbroken; some hoof prints from passing deer, a narrow double track where someone had cross-country skied. The road ascended, veering left and swaying right, up to the crest of the hill.
She looked at the tree.
It was totally bald, not a leaf in sight. Around the base of the trunk the snow was lumpy, following the contours of the roots that ridged the soil. If she brought a candle here, she’d have to stabilize it by digging the glass base into the snow. Would the heat from the candle melt the snow?
“Becky,” Mark said, then turned in his seat to face her. She focused on the stretch of his seatbelt across his right shoulder. “Can we . . . ” He gestured toward the tree as Tracy drove past it. “You know. While we’re home? Can we do that?”
She understood that he didn’t want to mention the April tree ritual in front of his sister-in-law. She appreciated his discretion. The ritual was something she couldn’t explain, the one irrational, insane activity she made room for in her logical life. Elyse might run off to Paris. Florie might impulsively marry. Becky had only this—the tree, the candle, the rhymes.
Apra apra dida may. “We’ll have to see how our time goes. With our families and all,” she said.
“Because—I mean, you sort of promised.”
If he stopped drinking. Yes, she had sort of promised. “Okay,” she agreed. “We’ll figure something out.”
“I really want to do that,” he said, sounding more earnest, more solemn, more intent than she’d ever heard him before. More sober.
“Then we’ll do it,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“THEY’RE NICE GIRLS,” Tracy said, sounding only the slightest bit condescending, as if she was old enough to be their mother. Mark reminded himself that he was three years older than Elyse and Becky, and Tracy was three years older than him. Six years older didn’t give her the right to judge them.
And of course, nice was the last word he’d use to describe either Elyse or Becky. Elyse was soft and kind but also manipulative and grasping. Becky was colder than the stalactite icicles clinging to the eaves of his parents’ house, glittering like daggers in the sunlight.
Tracy parked in the circular driveway and shut off the engine. “The dark haired one is gorgeous. You have something going on with her?”
He wasn’t used to Tracy being so nosy. But then, he wasn’t used to any of this: being conscious enough to notice the icicles, the gray-blue slate of the front walk, the leathery leaves of the rhododendron bushes flanking the porch. Being sober was like donning corrective lenses after years of wearing smudged plastic sunglasses. Everything was so bright and clear his eyes ached.
His mother rushed into the foyer to greet him as he entered the house, and he endured a smothering hug from her. “I’m making that garlic chicken you and your brother love for dinner,” she reported, even though it was not yet lunch time. “That’s what you smell—the garlic.”
What he smelled was home, the scents of lemon furniture polish and evergreen trees and his mother’s familiar floral shampoo. Not necessarily a good smell or a bad smell, just . . . home. Now that he wasn’t wasted, his senses were sharper. The world had turned high resolution.
“And I figure garlic is good for the baby,” his mother continued, beaming at Tracy’s abdomen.
“It’ll keep the vampires away,” Tracy played along.
Mark felt a little overwhelmed. If he could, he’d bolt from the house, run back to Baker’s Hill Road, and stand under the tree. He couldn’t remember all the stuff Becky had done beneath those arching limbs—a candle, some chanting, everyone holding hands. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d felt different standing there. Closer to his fate. Closer to his truth.
Unable to flee, he hoisted his duffel off the polished marble floor and headed up the stairs to his bedroom.
The room seemed even more barren than he remembered. An old baseball bat stood in a corner. A framed print
of a sailboat hung above the bed, its mast leaning slightly, the water green and gray beneath a sky graced with puffy clouds. Elyse, the art expert, would consider it trite.
His bed was too neatly made, the blanket too smooth, the pillows fluffed too evenly. The drapes were drawn open, his windows overlooking the snow-crusted backyard.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Tracy filling the doorway. Before, she’d been too petite to fill it, but with the pregnancy she had increased her mass, broadening at the hips. She’d removed her jacket and he could see the round beneath her sweater. Not quite a basketball, but bigger than a melon.
She stared at him quizzically.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, then shook her head and smiled. “You’re looking good.”
He shrugged. Being complimented by his sister-in-law embarrassed him. He didn’t believe he deserved flattery. Guys who killed people didn’t look good.
His discomfort must have registered on Tracy, because she laughed nervously and fussed with her hair, which fell straight and lanky around her face. Hadn’t it been wavier the last time he’d seen her? Had she straightened it? Or was it some sort of pregnancy thing, that as her body got bigger her hair got smaller?
Or was he just misremembering? Had he been so blotto the last time he’d seen her that her hair hadn’t registered accurately in his brain?
“I mean,” she clarified, “you look healthy.”
“As opposed to, in need of hospitalization?”
“Seriously, Mark. Are things going better for you?”
He shrugged again. “Yeah. I guess.” Three weeks without a drink. He’d finished his coursework for the semester. He’d pulled some overtime at the supermarket. He had the tree to look forward to, Becky and her goofy ceremony.
The April Tree Page 28
