Everybody's Daughter (6 page)

“Terrific. I’m starved.” He opened the bag and pulled out the contents. Beamer took off her coat and hat and tossed them onto a chair.

“Ah, Bea, fast-food heaven. Double cheeseburgers, fries cooked in animal fat, caffeine-loaded soda.” He grinned at Beamer. “I only eat like this when I’m with you.”

“Enjoy it. I know I do.”

He sat at the table. “Your parents must be heartbroken—their oldest child eating cheeseburgers.”

“It gives them something to discuss with their friends. Now let’s eat.”

While they ate they shared stories, Beamer making Andy laugh with her descriptions of the store’s odd moments, Andy venting his frustration with the kiln’s dysfunction. Beamer had just begun to describe a young customer’s proud display of her string of tiny fish when Andy raised his hands.

“Stop, Bea.”

“Why? She was so cute.”

“This is just like we’re married. It’s like we’ve come home at the end of the day from wherever each of us has been and we’re having dinner and we just can’t wait to talk to each other.” He settled back into his chair. “I kind of like it.”

“I liked it until you mentioned the word
married
.”

“Don’t you ever think about it? About being married?”

“I’m a high school junior, Andy. I never, never think about it.”

“I do sometimes. Someday I’d like to be married, like my parents are, or the way your parents seem to make it work.”

Beamer stuffed her food wrappings inside the bag. “You’ll have to ask Allison, then. I never, never think about it.” The joke failed. He crumpled his soda cup and threw it into the trash basket.

“I need to check the kiln,” he said. When he had again made the adjustment, he rose and turned.

Beamer had moved to stand behind him, and now they were face to face, eye to eye.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. He had a fresh smudge on his cheek. She wiped it away with her thumb.

He relaxed and smiled. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Me too.”

He slid a hand around her neck and pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips.

Beamer stepped back. “Watch the thermostat, Andy. Too much heat can ruin things.”

He grinned. “Okay, Bea. I’ll keep it steady.”

She squeezed his hand and walked away. She stopped at a display shelf of finished pottery pieces and carefully picked up a large bowl with a smooth, even glaze of dark green. The outer edge was trimmed with delicate blue flowers woven into a chain. “This has got to be yours.”

“It is, but why do you think so?”

“It’s so much better than the others.” She replaced the bowl and pointed to the nearest potter’s wheel. “Make me something.”

“Bea, it’s not that simple. It takes days to make a finished piece.”

“I know that. I mean, just make something on the wheel. I want to see how you form it.”

“I don’t like an audience. It’s nothing personal.”

“You do it for the freshman girls, don’t you?”

“I have.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

“I’m wearing a new shirt; potting is messy.”

“Andy, look at yourself. The shirt is filthy. And you can always take it off.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“It will be the only time.”

“Ever?”

“Andy.”

He grinned and peeled off the shirt.

“An undershirt? I’m disappointed.”

“It’s cold in Minnesota. I like to be warm. Now sit down somewhere and be quiet.” He dusted off the broad surface of the potter’s wheel. “I’d rather use the kick wheel, but it’s broken. This electric wheel is okay, but just barely.”

“Broken wheels and broken kilns. Things are in sad shape here.”

He shrugged. “It’s the art department, not the football team.” He switched on the wheel, which began to spin slowly.

Andy opened a drawer in a nearby cupboard and selected several odd-looking implements. Variations on a stick, Bea decided. He wet a sponge and placed everything on a small table beside the wheel.

“I hope there is some clay,” he said. “One of the other students was supposed to have made some.” He opened a large plastic container and smiled. “Perfect.” He straddled the potter’s seat and with a movement of his foot sped the wheel. He placed the clay. “If it’s
not centered, I can’t get it up. Nothing will form.” He cupped his hands around the spinning clay, and in an instant a mud-gray cylinder rose.

His concentration was absolute and contagious. Beamer felt the tension in her own hands as she watched him work. She was amazed as, with the slightest hand pressure, the slightest thumb movement, he commanded the mass up and down, in and out.

His hair had again fallen over his eyes, and he blew upward to displace it. It fell again, and Beamer nearly reached to stroke it into place, then clasped her hands behind her back. She couldn’t disturb him.

He picked up the sponge and held it against the clay’s interior wall. The sides pushed out, guided by his hands. Suddenly he stopped and turned from the wheel. The clay kept spinning.

“It’s a bowl.” He switched off the wheel.

“I can see that. It looks terrific.”

“Clunky and thick, actually. I just don’t feel like doing more.”

“I loved watching you do it. Your hands are amazing.”

He wiggled his clay-crusted fingers. “Magic fingers—all the girls love them. Would you like to see what else they can do?”

Beamer smiled. “Not tonight, Andy, I promised my mother I wouldn’t stay late. It’s snowing, and you know how she worries.”

He rose from the wheel. “Just let me clean up and I’ll walk you to the car.”

Beamer threw away the remains of their dinner, then put on her coat. After washing his hands, Andy crouched by the kiln one more time, made a satisfied noise, then rose. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on.

“Thank you, Andy.”

“For what? Putting my clothes back on?”

“For letting me come here. For letting me watch you make the bowl. Now when I know you’re here, or when I see one of your finished pieces, I can picture you at the wheel.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, Bea, I like you, too.”

“That’s not what I was saying.”

“Oh yes it was. Why don’t you just say it: I like you, Andy.”

She touched his forehead with her own and said unintelligibly, “I like you, Andy.”

He stepped back. “It’s a start. Gets easier the more you do it.”

“Mr. Experience.”

“That’s right.” He took her hand. “Bea, I never thought I’d say this, but for some time now I’ve been glad we moved to Minnesota.”

Beamer zipped her jacket. “Yeah.”

“That’s all you can say? Yeah?”

“I’m glad you moved here, too.”

He crossed his arms and frowned.

“Okay, how about ‘I’m glad you’re here because…’” His hair had fallen over his forehead again in a soft mound of curls. “Because,” she continued in a gentler voice, “I like you, Andy.”

He brightened. “That’s better. Nice and clear this time. Can you say more?”

She stepped forward, kissed him, then whispered in his ear, “You need a haircut.”

Chapter
6

When Beamer got home, her father was sitting alone in the kitchen. Beamer hugged him. “Welcome back. It’s for good, I hope.”

“I hope so.”

“When I left there were at least eleven people here,” she said. “Where are they?”

“I sent them home. Your mother’s in bed.” Beamer sat down. “What’s the scoop on Sandra?” Her father rubbed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s not good. The charge is a serious one, the verdict will be guilty, and she will undoubtedly go to prison.”

“Someone was killed. She deserves it.”

“She didn’t intend to kill anyone, Bea. That is clear, even to the authorities. Otherwise it would have been a murder charge, not manslaughter. She didn’t mean to do it.”

“But Dad, you have to hate what she did. A bomb, for Pete’s sake. And she wasn’t even smart enough to find someone who could make a bomb that would work right.”

“We all hate it. And I’ve told her as much.”

“Then why are you doing this for her? I know, I know. She and Daryl are old friends.”

He lifted her legs onto his lap and massaged her ankles. “Did you knit these socks or did your mother?”

“I did. Answer me.”

“Bea, I do indeed hate the fact that she resorted to violence, even unintentionally. She knows how I feel. Friends are never exempt from judgment, but that doesn’t mean you stop loving them, and you certainly don’t desert them.”

“You’re so noble.”

“Noble, no. Tired, yes.” A smile spread across his face. “And looking forward to reading about my daughter, the child of hippies, in tomorrow’s paper.” Beamer groaned and swung her feet down. “I had almost forgotten.” She said goodnight and got up to go to bed. She stopped in the doorway to say something, but didn’t. Her father was deep in thought.

Once she was in bed, she lay awake, the picture of her father troubling her. Just as she drifted off to sleep, she knew why:
He’s getting old
,
she thought.
They all are. Oh Lord, those people were going to change the world and look at them now. I wonder how it feels to hit middle age and know your dreams just can’t come true.

*

Beamer rose early the next morning. She dressed and slipped quietly downstairs. She wanted to read the paper and be miserable alone, and she knew that once the Woodies arrived for Sunday morning rolls and coffee, she would have no peace. She started a fire in the stove, then put on her coat and gloves and went outside. The morning sky was dark, with only a thin band of light behind the tall pines on the eastern horizon. Two bright headlights emerged from the dark distance. Beamer waved to the truck’s driver as she tossed two bundles of newspapers out the cab window, then sped away. Beamer lugged the papers inside, dropped them by the counter, and clipped the wires. She resisted the urge to rip apart the paper in search of herself and instead made a cup of cocoa. That done, she picked up a paper and sat by the stove.

The story was on page one of the features section, next to a picture of Beamer that Rae had taken in the classroom. Beamer read it through twice, her flush increasing until she moved away from the stove and stood next to the cold window. “Nobody to blame but myself,” she said. She thought then of readers in Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami, all spilling their Sunday coffee and dropping breakfast crumbs across the story of her life.

Daniel’s car turned into the lot as Beamer heard her mother descending the steps. It was too late to bury the papers in a snowbank.

Daniel was accompanied by Maud and Jeffrey and their daughter, Alissa, who sullenly settled into a corner behind the minnow tank to read. Maud took a newspaper and laid a dollar bill on the cash register.

“Is it there?” she said. Beamer nodded.

Mrs. Flynn set clean mugs by the coffee pot. “We might as well put out the open sign.” Beamer nodded and went outside. She dragged the heavy iron easel with the sign down to the roadside. By the time she had returned another car had pulled into the lot. Peter and Sue and their children. Beamer waved and held the door open for them.

“Well?” Sue said.

Beamer shrugged. “Read it yourself.” They went inside.

Beamer busied herself with store tasks while the Woodies read the story. She waited on a few customers and played two hands of crazy eights with Alissa, who lost both and retreated unhappily to her corner. Jenny arrived and was greeted by a loud, indignant, and loving chorus.

Maud put her arm around Jenny and read aloud from the paper. “This is rich: ‘A beguiling woman with a sometimes frightening intensity…’!”

Jenny took the paper. “This is my favorite part. I think she has just captured Moonbeam: This girl-woman—’”

Beamer groaned.

“‘—whose eyes shift in an instant from childish innocence to jaded mistrust…’”

The phone rang. Mrs. Flynn answered, then handed it to Beamer. “It’s Andy.”

“Andy, it’s nine o’clock,” Beamer said. “Isn’t that a little early for phone calls?”

“Jaded mistrust!” he said. “That’s it! That’s exactly what I see every time I make a move on you.” Beamer hung up without responding. He deserved worse. The Woodies were all babbling, passing the article around, enjoying themselves and enjoying reading about themselves. They all deserved worse. Beamer felt as sullen as Alissa. She had only herself to blame, she thought for the millionth time. But as she watched them—they had by then been joined by half a dozen others—she understood why she had wanted to tell her story to Rae Ramone: she wanted the world to know what she was up against.

Daniel put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I’m not so sure,” he said slowly, “that this is a flattering portrait of us.”

Smart boy,
thought Beamer.