Property Of, the Drowning Season, Fortune's Daughter, and At Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  “Almost there,” Al says mournfully.

  They turn onto Chestnut Street, go half a block, then pull into the driveway. Ivan is out on the front porch, waiting for them maybe, or just getting some air. He stands up when the car pulls in. Charlie is afraid to look at his father, but he does anyway. His father looks just the same as he did when he drove Charlie to the bus, only now he’s wearing a blue shirt, beige slacks, and loafers without any socks. He stands in front of the house and doesn’t move; he’s frozen in place. Charlie starts to open the car door before the car comes to a stop. As he walks to his father, the patch Charlie’s grandmother stitched on his jacket begins to glow like a piece of ashy, forgotten meteor.

  Charlie does his best not to talk to anyone for the rest of the evening, and as soon as he can, he escapes up to his room. When Amanda comes to his room, the light is off and she can’t make anything out.

  “Are you here?” she says.

  The window is open and the white rice-paper shade moves back and forth, hitting against the sill. The children’s grandfather is spending the night, and he and their mom and dad are out on the porch, drinking beer and talking low. So low, Amanda is pretty certain that they’re talking about her.

  “I’m here,” Charlie says.

  For some reason he doesn’t want to take any of his clothes off before going to bed, not even his jacket. Amanda sees the phosphorescent dinosaur patch and she follows it to the bed. She sits down on the edge of the bed, and, though her eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, she can feel Charlie’s presence.

  “I guess you didn’t get to spend a lot of time at the museum,” Amanda says.

  “Two hours,” Charlie says.

  “That patch is pretty neat,” Amanda says. She can see his face now.

  “How do you feel?” Charlie asks Amanda formally.

  “They’re all crazy,” Amanda says. “I’m fine. I’m great.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie quickly agrees.

  “I wish I could have gone to New York instead of going to that disgusting hospital,” Amanda says.

  Amanda is the one who really should have gone to New York. She’s the one who’s so wild to live there.

  “See anybody famous?” she asks.

  She is a maniac for famous people and has already seen George Burns, James Taylor, Sting, and Carol Channing, all walking down the street, and nobody, except for Amanda, even stared at them.

  “Nah,” Charlie says. “It’s too close to Labor Day. All the famous people go to their vacation homes.”

  “Mick Jagger goes to Montauk,” Amanda says wistfully.

  They listen to the rice-paper shade hitting against the sill.

  “I wish it was the beginning of the summer,” Charlie says.

  They can hear their father’s raised voice outside; he is arguing with someone, their mom or Grandpa Al, but they can’t make out the words. They don’t want to.

  “Don’t tell Mom,” Amanda whispers. “My throat hurts.”

  Charlie reaches into his pocket; behind the dinosaur patch he bought for Sevrin there’s a roll of Life Savers.

  “Here,” he says. He puts the roll of Life Savers into Amanda’s hand and recoils when he feels how cold her hand is.

  “You can’t catch it from touching me or anything like that,” Amanda tells him.

  “I know,” Charlie says, embarrassed. He wasn’t afraid of that, he was afraid of the cold. He thinks of his tyrannosaurus walking on the icy ground as the sky fills with shooting stars. “You can keep the whole roll,” he says.

  Amanda takes a cherry Life Saver and pops it into her mouth. “Thanks,” she says.

  Since they told her, Amanda has been afraid to go to sleep, but she’s always tired early. She stands up now. Her eyes have adjusted and she can see Charlie, huddled against the wall, still wearing his jeans and his jacket and his sneakers.

  “I just wanted to find out how New York was,” Amanda says.

  Charlie reaches into his pocket and feels the edges of Sevrin’s dinosaur patch.

  “I got you a present,” Charlie says.

  “What’s the joke?” Amanda says.

  “No joke,” Charlie tells her.

  He moves to the side of the bed and throws his legs over, so his feet reach the floor. He hands Amanda the dinosaur patch, which glows through its cellophane.

  “I’m going to put this on my gym bag,” Amanda says.

  “Great,” Charlie says.

  “Is this really for me?” Amanda says.

  “I gave it to you, didn’t I?” Charlie says.

  “What’d you do, put poison on it?”

  “Look, if you don’t want it, just give it back,” Charlie says.

  “No way,” Amanda tells him. “Thanks, beetle brain.”

  “You’re welcome, dogface,” Charlie counters.

  “Just remember,” Amanda says, “no backsies.”

  “All right, all right.” Charlie kicks off his sneakers and, realizing how warm it is tonight, takes off his jacket and stretches out on his bed.

  “No backsies,” he agrees.

  CHAPTER 5

  Polly has always taken the children shopping to Bradlee’s for new clothes and school supplies, and she doesn’t intend to stop now. The parking lot is a madhouse, but even before they get there Polly’s so tense that her neck aches. A nervous childhood habit of hers has returned; she has begun to grind her teeth.

  “Mom!” Amanda shouts, when a Volvo backing up nearly hits them.

  Polly doesn’t slow down. She’s been cheated out of everything else, she’s not about to get cheated out of the parking space she spies in the second row. She pulls in so fast that the children are jettisoned forward before being pulled back by their seatbelts.

  “Good going, Mom,” Charlie says from the backseat.

  Polly is sweating hard. She would have killed to get this parking space. All over the lot there are mothers whose only concern is finding the right-size corduroy slacks and sweaters. Polly and Ivan have met with Ed Reardon three times this week, and he’s let them know that the biggest threat to Amanda right now is pneumonia. Their decision to let her go to school is a dangerous one, not for the other children but for Amanda, who could easily pick up any of the multitudes of viruses that so often sweep through classrooms. But how can they keep Amanda from the one thing she wants that she can still have? Afraid that she’ll pick up a stomach virus any other kid would be free of in twenty-four hours but which might keep her in bed for weeks, do they isolate her completely? That can’t be kindness.

  It can’t be what’s best.

  Last night, at supper, they talked about the gymnastics finals, which are always held in June. Not only does Amanda believe she’ll be in the finals, she’s certain she’ll win. She is already planning her floor-exercise routine for the first meet at the end of September, practicing on the gray exercise mat down in the basement, playing her tape, Madonna’s “True Blue,” so often that Polly already knows the song by heart.

  As they walk from the car to the store, Polly has to fight off the urge to touch Amanda. Buying Amanda new school clothes feels like signing her death warrant; what Polly would like to do is keep her daughter home and lock all the doors. She can’t understand how Ivan can continue to go to the institute every day, even though they have promised to go on with their normal lives as best they can, because as far as Polly is concerned her work is over and done with. She would not spend one minute in the darkroom Ivan made out of the laundry room in the basement if that meant a minute away from Amanda. Everything that excludes Amanda is wasted time. But, of course, Polly knows she’s not allowed to let anyone see that nothing but Amanda matters.

  Inside Bradlee’s the air conditioning is turned on high and the fluorescent lights flicker. Polly grabs a shopping cart and heads directly to Preteen Girls. Charlie, who hates new clothes, has already slunk away to the school-supplies section. Amanda begins to look through a rack of dresses, all of which seem to be purple and which, at lea
st to Polly, look exactly the same. As Polly tosses several pairs of tights into the cart, Amanda comes over with two of the purple dresses.

  “Not both,” Polly says automatically.

  Instantly, she regrets what she’s said. What the hell difference does it make if Amanda gets both dresses?

  “I need them both …” Amanda begins, with a whine.

  “All right,” Polly says quickly, before Amanda can explain. She takes the dresses, drapes them over the cart, then moves on to pajamas. She looks up to see Amanda studying her. Before Polly can roll the cart over to the next aisle, Amanda comes over and takes one of the dresses out of the cart.

  “This one’s not so great,” Amanda says.

  “Yes, it is,” Polly tells her.

  Polly tries to grab the dress back, but Amanda is too fast for her. Amanda returns the dress to the rack, and while she’s there she meets up with someone she knows, another sixth-grader ready to be outfitted for fall. Polly watches carefully to see if somehow the difference in the girls, one sick, one well, shows. This girl, whoever she is, is not as pretty as Amanda, and when her mother tells her it’s time to go she gives her mother a sour look. Then she says something that Amanda finds hysterically funny, and they both hide their faces and giggle. Some anti-mother crack, no doubt.

  Polly was never taken to shops to be outfitted for school. Her mother made everything by hand, and Polly despised every stitch. The clothes Claire made were too sophisticated; when the other girls were wearing pink plaid, Polly wore a black velvet skirt with a matching cloche. She had dropped waists when crinolines were in. She wishes now that she still had those clothes, realizes that her mother had a real talent for fashion. Nothing her mother made could have survived; Polly treated them all horribly, spilling ink on them, tearing hems as she undressed.

  “You big careless girl!” Claire had yelled once, when she found a white satin blouse she’d finished only days before where Polly had left it, jumbled into a ball on the floor. Later, Polly had seen her mother crying as she ironed the blouse. Her mother was then the same age Polly is now. Ironing, her hair pulled back with combs, Claire had seemed so old. Polly remembers thinking how ridiculous it was for a grown-up woman to be crying in the kitchen.

  While Polly is watching the girls, Charlie dumps a looseleaf notebook and a Terminator lunchbox into the cart. The crash makes Polly jump.

  “Don’t sneak up on me!” Polly says.

  “That’s Janis Carter,” Charlie says of the girl Amanda’s met. “She has a Great Dane that’s bigger than she is. It’s smarter than she is, too.”

  She’s not smart, she’s not pretty, she gives her mother sour looks. A great big careless girl who will live till she is an old woman and has great-grandchildren gathered around her.

  “Go get two pairs of jeans and a sweatshirt,” Polly says. “Meet us on line.”

  Charlie stares at her, puzzled.

  Polly reaches for two packages of flowered underpants and a nightgown with purple ribbons.

  “I don’t know what kind to get,” Charlie says.

  “Amanda!” Polly calls. “We have to go.”

  Amanda says good-bye to her classmate and starts toward them.

  “Mom,” Charlie says, “I don’t know what kind of jeans to get.”

  “Don’t act like such a baby!” Polly snaps. “Get whatever you see.”

  Amanda has reached them. “I need a really big looseleaf,” she tells Polly.

  “All right,” Polly says.

  With the air conditioning turned up so high, Polly wonders if Amanda is shivering. Amanda leads the way down the aisle, and Polly follows. On the way to the school supplies, Amanda is waylaid in the jewelry department. Polly helps her to choose three bangle bracelets, all in different shades of purple. As she turns back to the cart, Polly sees that Charlie is still standing where she left him, in the girls’ department. Polly has forgotten, this is happening to him, too. She thinks of the way he followed her everywhere when he was a toddler. The other mothers she knew used to laugh and call him her little duck. “Quack,” he would call to her when he needed her at the park, and the other mothers would laugh and Polly would too, but somehow it broke her heart to know that he would soon talk, like anyone else, that he’d stop following her and clinging to her legs.

  When he sees her looking at him, Charlie takes off for the boys’ department, disappearing into the racks of hooded sweatshirts and windbreakers. It is much too cold in Bradlee’s. Polly cannot stand it. Amanda slides bangle bracelets onto her arm, one after another. By the time they have picked up some notebooks and pens and head for the cashier, Charlie is waiting for them, with one pair of jeans that won’t fit him till next September and a dark blue sweatshirt just like one he already has.

  As soon as they get home, Charlie goes down to the basement. He hates his mother, and his sister. In fact, he hates everyone. He can’t believe he can feel such horrible things, but he does. He doesn’t plan to steal his mother’s camera, but when he sees the open door of the darkroom he knows he’s going to do it. The camera’s a Minolta, much too expensive for Charlie to fool with. He slips it into his backpack and waits till it’s quiet upstairs. Then he goes up to the kitchen and quickly dials Sevrin, but no one answers. So Charlie goes to the pond alone, determined to get a photograph of the turtle. He realizes that no one will miss him, no one will notice he’s gone. His mother is no more interested in him than she is in her camera. Maybe, just maybe, Charlie won’t even bother to return it. He’ll see how long it takes for Polly to discover what she’s missing.

  Now that Polly’s given it up, Betsy Stafford has taken over photographing Laurel Smith’s readings herself. The new client, the skittish one, has agreed to let her sessions be photographed, but it hasn’t been working out well. When Polly took photographs you couldn’t hear her footsteps; she often wore a gray cotton shirt that seemed more like a curl of fog than a piece of clothing on a human form. Betsy’s presence is thick, like the murky grounds in the bottom of a coffeepot.

  “Go ahead, act natural,” Betsy says to the new client, but Betsy’s not exactly fading into the woodwork. She curses to herself each time she uses the camera, and she’s had to start and restart the tape in her cassette recorder twice. Laurel Smith can feel beads of perspiration on her forehead and at the base of her neck. It is the Friday of Labor Day weekend, and the beaches are so crowded there’s an echo in the usually quiet marsh. Laurel has found a great deal of resistance in this new client. She seems overly willing to please, but there’s something set about her; she’s someone who believes in only one way of doing anything at all, whether it’s how to store butter or how to reach a departed spirit. This is their second session, and Laurel has had no luck at all in reaching her daughter, a twenty-year-old Boston College student, lost last summer when a sailboat turned over in deep water.

  Halfway through this reading, Laurel begins to lie, tentatively at first, and then, when her client leans forward, riveted, with more confidence. She closes her eyes and imagines that she’s twenty again; her voice becomes breathy and higher-pitched as she describes the sunlight filtering through the clear water, through the bright white sail of the boat. As she’s describing her feeling of weightlessness, Laurel opens one eye and sees Betsy watching her. Betsy’s mouth is pursed; she knows Laurel is lying.

  “I’m sorry,” Laurel says suddenly. “I just don’t see her anymore. I can’t reach her.”

  When the new client leaves, Laurel doesn’t charge her. Betsy grumbles as she packs up her equipment, and, to avoid her, Laurel goes into the kitchen to make iced coffee.

  “I’d love some of whatever you’re making,” Betsy calls when she hears ice cubes hit against a glass.

  Laurel takes down another glass and fills it with that morning’s coffee. She is disgusted with herself; fakery is all over her, covering her with a layer of foul-smelling dust. She wants to take a shower. She wants to cut off all her hair with a hedge clipper and scatter it for the birds to
weave into their nests. With a long silver spoon Laurel mixes cream into each drink. She can hear Betsy rattling around in the living room. Betsy soon comes into the kitchen and stands with her back against the refrigerator.

  “You don’t think you might be losing the knack, do you?” Betsy asks as she reaches for one of the iced coffees.

  Laurel’s shoulders stiffen. “It will be easier next time, when Polly’s with you,” she says.

  She is regretting this arrangement with Betsy. The idea of a book about her made her temporarily insane, fed some part of her that wants fame and money. She wonders if she’s being punished for her greed. This is not her first disastrous reading; for weeks Laurel Smith has been lying to her clients, telling them whatever they want to hear. But this is the first time she has actually spoken in a lost spirit’s voice; she feels like an actress in some horrible nightmare of a play.

  “Polly’s not coming back,” Betsy Stafford says now.

  Laurel slips her sandals off so she can feel the cool linoleum. In the winter she puts down hooked rugs to keep her feet warm.

  “Her daughter is terminally ill,” Betsy tells Laurel. “It is truly unbelievable. She had a blood transfusion before they did any testing, and now she has AIDS.”

  Laurel Smith lets that sink in. She wishes she had moved the pink silk lamp Polly liked so much so it could be included in some of her photographs.

  “And the worst of it is,” Betsy says, “her son is my son’s best friend. They’ve shared lunches and God knows what else. Her kid has slept in my house half the summer. They may have shared the same bed.”