Beating Heart (4 page)

W
hen Evan returns from Carrie's, he enters the wide
, quiet hall, which is empty except for a potted plant standing in an alcove. He thinks that the broad wooden floors would be a good place for broom hockey, but feels certain that his mother would have a fit if anyone tried it.

As he shuts the door behind him, Libby comes running down the stairs. “Where did she go?”

“Who?” Evan asks.

“The girl.”

“What girl?”

“Our company.”

Evan looks around. The house is silent, no sound of voices. Down here, he can't even hear the workmen on the third floor. “I don't know,” he tells Libby, but then, curious, he walks over to Mom's office to see who is visiting.

Mom sits alone at her computer. For once she isn't staring at the screen, but is typing. She doesn't look up when they come in.

“Hey, Mom—is somebody here?”

Her fingers keep moving. “What do you mean?” she says vaguely.

“Is somebody visiting or something?”

Flustered now, she stops; her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Just the guys working upstairs,” she says sharply. “And I thought I saw one of them going out to the truck. He may be back by now, though, I don't know. Why are you asking me this?”

“Because Libby said we have company.”

Mom turns to Libby. “We don't have any company, Libby. No one is here.”

“But I saw her when I was playing on the stairs,” Libby says with certainty. “She was standing outside Evan's room.”

Now Mom and Evan are both staring at her.

“You saw someone in the house,” Mom repeats, wanting to be sure.

“Uh-huh. It was a girl. She was wearing a white dress.”

Mom rolls her chair back and stands up. “One of the workmen must have brought in his daughter or something.” She walks through the doorway and out into the hall.

As she heads for the stairs, Libby catches up with her. And after a moment, Evan decides to follow along. He doesn't want to miss a good scene.

“I don't want to be unreasonable,” Mom announces to no one in particular as she heads up the stairs, “but we can't have strange kids running around the house unsupervised.”

“That's
right,
” Libby agrees. She's stomping along eagerly next to Mom.

“Now, you just stay out of it and let me do the talking,” Mom warns her. “Understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

Evan now feels a little like he's in a circus parade, so he hangs back a bit. By the time he gets to the third-floor rooms, Mom is standing with the only workman
up here at the moment, and her hands are on her hips.

But it's her daughter she's looking at. “Libby,” she's saying sternly, “I think maybe it was Mr. Estes you saw on the stairs.”

“It wasn't a man, it was a girl.”

“Hey,” says Mr. Estes. “I used to have a pretend friend when I was her age. His name was Rufus,” he adds to Libby; apparently Mr. Estes is a genial kind of guy. “What's your friend's name, kid?”

“I don't know. She wouldn't answer me.”

“That's okay. Quiet friends are the best kind.” He winks at Mom and Evan, and goes back to his work.

Mom turns on Evan. “Evan, did you lock the door behind you when you left?”

“No. What's the point? The workmen are always going in and out.”

Mom looks even more displeased. She's about to let loose on Evan, he can tell, when miraculously he is saved by Mr. Estes.

“Oh, by the way, Ms. Calhoun,” he says. “We found something behind one of the walls. We weren't sure if
you wanted it thrown out or not.”

He walks over to a pile of lumber odds and ends and picks up a steel box from the floor. He hands the box to Mom. “We were pulling off plasterboard, and there it was. Looked like there used to be a cabinet, maybe a safe, got boarded up.”

“Ooh,” Libby says, wide-eyed. “Is it treasure?”

“Nope—sorry, kid,” Mr. Estes tells her. “Just a bunch of papers.”

“Can I see?” Libby leans over her mother's arm. Mom opens the lid and shows her that it is, indeed, a pile of papers.

“Oh.” Libby is disappointed.

Mom's been thinking. “Okay,” she says, shutting the lid. “Evan. Just to be safe, will you help me check the rooms? And Libby, I don't even know what to do with you. Do you see how much trouble you're causing?”

“I didn't mean to.”

“I know, I know. Just—oh, never mind. Come on, Evan. Mr. Estes, if you hear screams or gunshots, just call the police, please.”

That's Mom's weird sense of humor. Sometimes it confuses people, but Mr. Estes just grins and says, “Sure thing.”

Of course there is no one in the house. Libby loses interest less than halfway through the search and goes off to her room to play.

Downstairs, the search ends back in Mom's office. “Thank you, Evan,” she says, sitting down in her chair again. “Now! If I can just get some work done!” She pulls herself up to her desk, traces of irritation still on her face as she peers at the computer screen, trying to figure out where she was.

Even so, Evan lingers. There's something he feels compelled to point out. “You know, Mom,” he says. “Maybe Libby wouldn't be dreaming up fake people if you'd have somebody over for her to play with once in a while.”

That gets his mother's attention again. She swivels away from the screen and gives him a look that could curdle milk. “Evan. I work at home now. Just because I'm not punching a clock from nine to five doesn't mean I don't have a job. I'm a writer. I have to write.”

“You're also a mother. You could take time to do something for her.”

Mom looks stunned. Just for a moment, though. Then her eyes narrow. “So could you,” she says coldly. “You're seventeen, and it's summer. You aren't in school and you don't have a job. You have a car—which I bought, by the way, and which I keep insured and full of gas. Instead of judging and complaining, why don't
you
take Libby somewhere to play?”

Now Evan is the one at a loss for words. But only for a few seconds. “Because
I'm
not the parent here!” he snaps at her, and then turns to stomp out of the office.

 

Upstairs, Evan slams the door to his room and walks around
fuming for a bit, unable to concentrate on anything.

It's not fair—he did have a job, last summer. He just hasn't gotten around to having one yet
this
summer—but he will. It's not like he
enjoys
having to ask her for money. It's not like he's had a lot of
time
, anyway, the way she's kept him packing and cleaning.

He just wanted to take a break for a few weeks. God. He made good grades all year. Played two different
sports. Worked his butt off. You'd think that would count for something.

Finally he finds himself staring with irritation and guilt at the photo of himself and his dad. It's true: he hasn't done anything for Libby since they've moved. And he should; he's the man of the house now. Instead, he's left Libby to fend for herself. Even more than Mom has, because he has the time.

Dad's there in the photo, smiling. In real life he's gone, off to a hassle-free existence. If he hadn't left, Mom wouldn't be so preoccupied, Evan wouldn't be feeling responsible, and Libby wouldn't be feeling sad. It seems unfair that Evan, Mom, and Libby should be the ones feeling bad and fighting while the one who started it all walked away scot-free.

Evan pulls his keepsake shoebox out of the drawer. He takes the framed photo off the desk and stows it away in the box. As he puts the box back into the drawer, there's a knock at the door.

“What?” he growls.

“Can I come in?” It's Libby.

Evan doesn't really want her to, but he's also feeling
guilty now about never doing anything for her. “All right,” he tells her, shutting the drawer.

“Are you busy?” she asks.

“Not really.”

“Will you play with me?”

“What do you want to play?”

Libby screws her face up in an expression of futile hope. “Dolls?”

“No,” Evan says without hesitation. But Libby is now standing with one hand on the back of the chair, and she's scanning the desktop.

“Where's your picture of Dad?”

“I dunno.”

“You didn't lose it, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, where is it?”

“In a drawer.”

“Why is it in a drawer?”

“Hey,” Evan tells her, “dolls it is. Just this once.”

Libby's face lights up. “Really?”

Evan sighs. “Yeah. This is it, though. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Libby grabs his hand and tugs him to the door. “Come on! Come on!”

In her room across the hall, she digs through her junk and collects a motley armful of dolls and accessories, which she brings to Evan.

“What do I have to do?” he asks her, not touching anything.

Libby already has a plan. “I'll have Lucinda,” she tells him, “and you have Winnebago.” She hands him a worse-for-wear doll with long straight hair.

Evan sits on Libby's bed, looking at the doll as if he's never seen one before. “Winnebago?”

“That's her name.”

“Why?”

“Because it's pretty. Now.” She starts distributing doll clothes. “They're going to go to the ball. Here. Put this on her.”

“On Winnebago.”

“Right.”

Evan sticks the doll's legs into the dress and starts working it up the plastic body. Then he stops. “Promise you'll never tell anybody I did this with you.”

“Okay,” Libby says offhandedly. She's busy dressing Lucinda.

Evan awkwardly gets the dress on Winnebago and fastened. When he's done, he holds her up for inspection.

“Good!” Libby says with satisfaction. “Now. They're going to go to a party. Lucinda's going to wear
this
.” She pulls out another outfit and lays it aside on the bed. “And Winnebago's going to wear
this
.” She hands Evan another dress.

“What about the ball?” Evan asks.

“They already went.”

“You mean we just sit here and change their clothes over and over?”

Libby's intent on Lucinda's party wear. She doesn't look at him. “We can fix their hair if you want,” she offers.

“No. Clothes are fine.” Evan starts stripping off Winnebago's ball gown. “Hey, Lib. You know that girl you saw—you know you just imagined her, right?”

“No.” Libby says it matter-of-factly, while she's dressing her doll. “I saw her. She was standing in the
hall outside your room.”

“Maybe she likes the view of the river, huh?”

“I guess.” She gives it some more thought. “I don't think she has any friends. She's very lonely.”

Evan looks up at that. The doll lies half-dressed in his hand. “What makes you say that? That she's lonely?”

“She looked sad,” Libby answers. “Hey, Evan. Can I have that picture of Dad and you?”

Evan looks down at the doll in his hand. He's thinking,
Libby is the one who's lonely; Libby is the one who's sad.
“Why do you want it?” he asks.

“You're not dressing Winnebago,” Libby points out, and Evan pulls the doll's dress around its shoulders, then fastens the Velcro. “'Cause I like to look at it,” she tells him.

“Why?”

“I dunno. I just do.”

“Let me think about it.” Evan holds out a re-dressed Winnebago. “Here we go. Ready for the party.”

Libby runs a practiced eye up and down his work. “Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Now Lucinda's going to get married. Winnebago can wear this.” She hands Evan a
doll-sized denim pantsuit.

“She's not a bridesmaid, huh?”

“No, she's in the audience.”

“So old Lucinda gets all the glory.”

“There's only one bride dress,” Libby informs him. She sets to work on Lucinda, which takes a little work because the bridal gown has long sleeves, and although Lucinda's arms are very skinny, her hands are rather large. Evan takes his time with Winnebago. He considers making her moon Libby, but thinks better of it.

“Do you think,” Libby asks, “that if Dad had liked me better, he would have taken a picture with me?”

“He did like you, Libby. He still does. He's just…busy right now.”

“He never comes. Or calls. But he
lived
with us when you were as old as me.”

“Hey. Libby. You're not thinking it's your fault Dad left, are you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But it's not. Why would it be? You're just a kid. He's a grown man.”

“I haven't figured it out yet.” She sounds a little
puzzled. “Maybe I was too noisy. Sometimes I didn't know when he made a joke. I don't know.”

“No! Libby, that's stupid. He left because…because…” Evan wishes Mom was dealing with this, because for all her straight-from-a-book counselor-speak, Mom
does
know how to pin words to things. “Well, because he's an asshole. That's all there is to it.”

“You're not supposed to say
asshole
.”

“Sorry.”

“But I won't tell Mom, because you're playing dolls with me.”

“Great. Thanks.”

 

The next morning, on his way to the kitchen, Evan sees that
Mom's already in her office. He stops, lingering outside the door. Mom is staring at her computer again. He waits a few moments, but she doesn't see him. “Mom,” he finally says, “I'm sorry about yesterday.”

Mom turns around. She looks relieved; she's always been big on civility and communication. “Me too,” she says quickly. “You've really been a huge help, Evan. I didn't mean to dump adult responsibility on you.
Don't worry, okay?”