“Charles, darling, the fish was delightful,” said Charlotte, who puckered her lips and kissed the air in front of her.
“Thank you,” he said, embarrassed by her public gesture, but pleased with her compliment. She had stopped drinking after her picnic-table confession. For someone prone to excess, Charlotte was increasingly careful with alcohol. After John’s memorial service, she had just two glasses of wine at dinner, announcing her switch to water, announcing her intention of going through this event relatively sober. If there was a reason for this, other than an emotional reaction to her father’s passing, Charles couldn’t figure it out. Helen had insinuated that Charlotte’s second husband, Jeremy, was an alcoholic, but Charles had only met him once.
“And you adorable boys,” Charlotte said, raising her water glass. “Here’s to the fishermen.” Everybody raised their glasses, and Todd and Ned blushed. Helen and Pammy stood and started to clear the dishes from the table. Daniel stood, too, and grabbed some plates. “Sit, sweetheart,” said Charlotte. “That’s women’s work.”
“You know me,” said Daniel, walking into the kitchen. “I just love being where the women are.”
Charlotte laughed. “Shall I help?” she called to her sisters.
“Why start now?” Pammy answered. “You’d ruin a forty-seven-year streak.”
“Aren’t you cute!” called Charlotte.
“You sure are,” Daniel whispered in Pammy’s ear. She turned from the sink to face him, but he had already returned to the dining room for more dishes. Pammy looked at Helen to see if she had taken in Daniel’s remark, but half her body, including her head, was in the fridge, moving things around, making room for leftovers.
After Helen’s cheesecake, which everyone applauded, prompting Helen to stand and take a bow, Pammy returned to the kitchen to finish the dishes, and everyone else scattered. The boys went outside to find their summer friends for a game of capture the flag. Charles took Claire to the porch. And Charlotte went out the front screen door, crossed the right of way, and sat on the cement steps that led to the beach for a cigarette. After Helen put away the food, Pammy told her to “do a Charlotte,” meaning grab a cup of coffee and sit on the porch while someone else did the work. Pammy wanted to be in the kitchen alone. She wanted Daniel to join her. After a few minutes, he walked in. “Coffee ready?”
“Just about,” said Pammy, hands and forearms in the sink full of dishes and soapy water. “You know where the mugs are, right?” She looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t move, she said, “I can get them.” She took her hands out of the water and wiped them on her apron.
“Stay right where you are,” said Daniel, walking up behind her. He lined his body up with hers and then slowly pressed his front into her back. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Pammy felt his callused hands on her upper arms, his stiff penis in his shorts. “I’m horny,” he said in her ear.
“Tell me about it.” Pammy pressed her ass into him.
Daniel laughed, moving away from Pammy, and retrieved the mugs from the pantry. He filled them with coffee and poured skim milk into a small pitcher. Sliding two packets of sweetener into his front pocket, Daniel headed for the door. Just before he walked back into the dining room, he turned and looked at Pammy, who was still looking at him. He blew her a kiss and then closed the swinging door behind him.
Helen woke in the middle of the night and checked her watch. The illuminated hands pointed to just after three o’clock. She lay in bed, thinking about the day, hoping to drift back to sleep when the creaking started. At first, the noise was low and irregular, as if someone were rolling over in bed. Quickly, the creaking became louder and more rhythmic. Helen knew instantly whence the sound came. “I can’t believe they’re fucking in there,” she said first in her head and then aloud.
“What?” asked Charles. He rolled over to face her, but kept his eyes closed.
She and Charles were in Thomas’s room until his arrival. After that, Helen would go back in with Pammy, and Charles would sleep on the couch in the den. They had volunteered to do this, to split up, so that the others could be together, could feel comfortable in their old rooms. “Charlotte and Daniel. They’re in there screwing.”
Charles opened his eyes and listened. “Yep,” he said. “They’re definitely screwing.”
“And now the moaning.”
“Helen.”
“Come on, Charles.” Helen was whispering. “My sister is forty-seven years old and still acts like a recalcitrant teenager. She has never helped anyone but herself around here, and she continues to get away with it. The same rules never apply to Charlotte.”
“She’s different, Helen.”
“Why is she different? Charlotte has been labeled different or impossible or stubborn since the day she was born, and the rest of us have had to put up with it. I think it’s a lot of crap. I’m different. You’re different. Everybody can be different, Charles. It’s just that some of us work harder at it than others. She’s so busy trying to be different, or irreverent, or funny, or sexy, or young, she doesn’t know her liposuctioned ass from her elbow.”
“Her life hasn’t been easy, Helen,” said Charles, putting his arms around his wife.
“And whose fault is that? I didn’t start sleeping around when I was fifteen. I didn’t go from one boyfriend to the next, depending on the car they drove or the presents they produced for me. Those were choices she made. If she couldn’t make a scene, she simply wasn’t interested.”
“Are you envious?”
“Don’t start that, Charles.”
“Hey, she’s been free and easy her whole life, Helen. She lived in Greece when you were home with two young children. She traveled the world, while you stuffed and licked envelopes for the King Street School PTA. She vacations in a sunny place every winter, while you make chicken soup to take to your mother. I can see where envy might creep into the picture.”
“I wouldn’t trade my boys for a few trips around the world.”
“She might,” said Charles.
“What do you mean?” Helen’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She could make out his face, see his eyes.
“Charlotte wanted to have children and she couldn’t, Helen.”
“How do you know that, Charles?”
“She told me. Remember when I talked to you and Pammy in the kitchen about Charlotte’s wanting to have children? When I went back out to cook, I made a flip remark about her choosing not to. She told me she’d had four miscarriages.”
“What?”
“Exactly.”
“Why didn’t she ever tell me?”
“Maybe the perfect sister wouldn’t be the first person you’d run to with problems.”
“I’m not perfect, Charles.”
“You look pretty close in her eyes, honey.”
“Crap,” said Helen. “I had no idea.”
The moans emanating from the room across the hall became louder. Helen listened again and could hear Daniel saying, “Oh baby,” again and again, as the creaking bed lightly bumped against the wall. Creak, bang, creak, bang. Oh baby.
Helen reached out for Charles’s face. She put her hands on his cheeks and gently drew him to her. She kissed him on the lips. “It’s contagious, isn’t it?” she said.
“Tell me we’re going to have sex in the same house as your mother.”
Helen slipped off her pajama bottoms. Claire slept soundly in her room, as did Todd and Ned downstairs. Pammy, down the hall, was wide-awake, listening to the sounds of lovemaking and pretending Daniel was having sex with her.
CHAPTER 16
1973
Thomas dashed down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. He poured a glass of orange juice and drank it down in three gulps. He grabbed two pieces of bakery bread from the drawer and put them in the toaster. Tucking his shirt in while he waited, Thomas stared at the toaster, willing it to pop up his breakfast. “Thomas,” Claire whispered, as she walked into the ki
tchen. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, except I’m late. I just remembered I switched with Alan and have to drive the first delivery truck today. I have to be at the bakery in ten minutes,” he said, buttering his toast.
“Do you want a ride?” Claire tied the belt of her bathrobe.
“I picked my car up last night. It’s running beautifully.” Thomas gave his mother a two-fingered salute. “I’ll see you later,” he said on his way out the back door.
Outside, the blackness startled him. For an instant, day became night, making Thomas believe he was on his way home from work, rather than vice versa. He looked at his watch, which read 4:21 in illuminated numbers. He had just nine minutes to get to the bakery. Warm toast held by his teeth and lips, Thomas reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his keys. He jogged through the wet grass to his green Pinto, which, with the interior light on, was waiting for him. “Shit!” he said.
He sat in the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed behind him. The light went off. Thomas put the key into the ignition and turned it. Like an old man with a chest cold, the engine coughed and sputtered. When it died, Thomas tried again and then again. On his fourth attempt, something caught. Thomas pushed the gas pedal to the floor, feeding the engine. A tremendous zoom shattered the early morning quiet, and Thomas backed the car out of its slot and onto the street. Jerking the car into gear, Thomas flew past the house, buckling his seat belt as he drove.
Walter Sloan was waiting in the truck when Thomas arrived at Sloan’s Bakery. Thomas checked his watch. It was 4:32. He parked his car and then ran to the truck. “You’re late,” Mr. Sloan said.
“I know that, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Are you ready to go now?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve never been more ready,” said Thomas, smiling.
“Don’t get cute with me, Thomas. I need delivery drivers who can be here when I want them here. If you’re going to be two minutes late, you might as well be an hour late.”
If I had known that, Thomas thought, I would have slept another forty minutes. But he said nothing. Walter Sloan was not finished.
“There are plenty of eager young men out there, looking for jobs like this. The pay is good, and the hours are even better.” Thomas coughed. “You’re here early in the morning and out by lunch time. Nothing to do but lollygag all afternoon. Swimming, tennis, golf, whatever you’re in the mood for. That’s what I call free time.”
“I work another job, Mr. Sloan.”
“In the afternoons?”
“Yes. I drive a delivery van three days a week for The Gazette.”
“And how long does that take?”
“I deliver about three hundred papers, which takes anywhere from two to three hours. And sometimes, like last night, I deliver pizza.”
“Good Lord, boy. Why all the jobs?”
“I like money, Mr. Sloan,” said Thomas.
“So do I, Thomas. But you didn’t catch me working three jobs when I was eighteen. What do you do with the money?”
“Spend a little, and bank the rest. I’m learning about the stock market, with my dad. When I feel knowledgeable enough, I’ll invest. My dad has a great broker in New York. This guy knows the market like the back of his hand.”
Mr. Sloan chuckled as he stepped out of the truck. “I’m sure he does, Thomas. Now, get in that truck and deliver my stuff before you get the back of mine.”
“Thomas! You’re up!” Thomas leaped out of his chair at Village Pizza and walked to the counter. “Take this pizza to 47 Sharon Avenue. You know where that is?”
“Sort of,” said Thomas, who had no clue.
“It’s in The Flats. Take a left on Cashew; go all the way to the end; take a right on whatever that street is, and Sharon will be on the right. Got that?”
“Absolutely,” said Thomas.
He jogged the large pizza out to the car, turned on the radio, perpetually set to his favorite rock station, and pulled out of the parking lot. He had no idea where Cashew Road was, but he did know how to find The Flats. He drove to the railroad tracks and crossed them. The houses, lawns, and driveways were smaller on the other side, and the cars were bigger. Thomas began looking at street signs: Pearl Street, Diamond Avenue, Ruby Court. Surely the developer of these tiny houses had an ironic sense of humor. Thomas drove around for another five minutes, crisscrossing the streets, working his way through the neighborhood. Finally he saw Cashew and followed it to the end. He took a right, and saw Sharon on the right. Number 47 Sharon was a four-room ranch situated between two identical houses. The trio stood so close to each other, they looked like life-size versions of the miniature wood houses on a Monopoly board. This, Thomas thought, was no Marvin Gardens.
Thomas parked the car on the street and checked his watch. He left Village Pizza twenty minutes ago, so he would surely deliver the pizza within the thirty-minute time limit. Mr. Gingerella’s promise to his customers—a hot pizza delivered in less than a half hour or receive it free—was seldom broken because the delivery boys paid for late pizzas out of their salary and tips. Thomas walked the pizza to the front door and rang the bell. Within seconds a small child, who Thomas guessed was no more than four, opened the door. “Hi,” said Thomas. “I’ve brought your pizza.”
“Terrific,” said the girl, opening the door wide. “Come right in.”
Thomas, who was six foot, three inches tall, ducked his head and stepped across the threshold. He stood in the living room and smiled at the little girl, who was staring at him. “Is your mom home?”
“She’s in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll run and see what’s taking her.”
Seconds later, a petite woman with long dark hair and large brown eyes walked into the room. She smiled at him, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth. “I had the radio on,” she said by means of an apology. “I was absorbed in a news story.”
“That’s okay,” said Thomas, blushing due to her beauty. “Your daughter took care of everything.”
“So, she’s paid you then?” The woman raised her eyebrows at Thomas.
“Well, no . . .”
The woman laughed. “I’m teasing you,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”
Thomas looked at his watch. “Nothing, actually,” he said, wanting to please her. “I was a little late. This one’s on me.”
“No,” she said, reaching into a side table drawer for her checkbook. “You found us quickly. Sometimes the pizzas don’t come until the next day.”
It was Thomas’s turn to laugh. “It’s my pleasure,” he said, handing her the pizza. “It’s sort of cold. You’ll have to heat it.”
When she reached under the box to take it from him, her fingers briefly covered his. He slid his hand out from under hers. “Got it?” he asked, again blushing, this time from her touch.
“Yes, and it is still warm.”
“Barely,” he said.
“Thank you. You’re sweet.”
“And handsome,” said the little girl. “Stay and have some pizza with us.”
Now, the woman blushed. “This is Amy,” she said, looking at the child. “She’s my daughter and my social director. And I’m Anna.”
Thomas bent down and shook Amy’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Amy. I’m Thomas.”
“Can you stay?” she pleaded.
“I’d love to,” said Thomas, meaning it. “But I’ve got more pizzas to deliver.”
“Come back again,” said Amy.
“I will,” said Thomas.
For the next week, Thomas’s thoughts returned several times a day to 47 Sharon Avenue, precocious Amy, and her beautiful mother. He pictured himself delivering another pizza and staying with them. They would have a jolly dinner, the three of them, and then Amy would go to bed. Anna would then take Thomas by the hand and lead him to the worn blue and green plaid couch in her paneled living room. She would tell him the story of her husband, who impregnated her and then disappeared. A single tear would roll down her cheek. Thomas w
ould move closer to her, encircle her with his arms, and hold her while she wept. Soon, she would stop crying and begin apologizing for her emotional display. And Thomas, in an effort to quiet her, would kiss her. And, naturally, she would kiss him back.
Thomas had no idea why she, Anna, affected him this way. He’d met her just once, and briefly at that. She was lovely to look at, which accounted for some of his attraction. But there was something else—was it maturity? The high school girls, even the college girls who called themselves women, were certainly immature in comparison to Anna. Anna was a mother, raising a child, apparently on her own if her daughter asked Thomas to stay for pizza. This meant Anna must have a job to provide for her daughter, unlike the girls at the beach. Many of the girls didn’t work, relying on their boyfriends or fathers to get them what they needed. The high school girls who did work put in no more than twenty hours a week, usually babysitting, scooping ice cream, or waiting tables. The college girls worked in banks or other air-conditioned occupations, dressing in skirts and low-heeled shoes and, consequently, considering themselves very grown-up. But they were just as unmotivated as the high school girls. No one had any vision for the future, except for Thomas. Anna, after just five minutes, seemed to be more like him than any girl he had ever met.
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