Everything We Ever Wanted (15 page)

M onday morning Joanna felt Charles’s lips on her forehead. She listened as he shuffled around the house, pulling the shower curtain back, flushing the toilet, brushing his

teeth. She heard him slam the front door, walk down the driveway to get the paper. He climbed back upstairs before he left and loomed in the doorway. “I hope everything goes well in Maryland,” he said. “I’ll come with you next time, I promise.”

She sat up in bed and wished him good luck with his interview tomorrow. When he walked back down the stairs, she flopped back down on the mattress and pulled the covers over her head. She remained in bed until eight, well after he left. When Charles kissed her good-bye, he’d had such a strange look on his face. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe she was imagining it.

She got out of bed, walked to the kitchen, sat down at the island, and dialed his cell. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message saying she wanted him to call. She thought about all the things they’d gone through on Friday night. Looking back on it, she’d acted like a crazy person. Whining because his friends weren’t—what? Kissing her ass? Picking a fight with him about Bronwyn. Nearly telling him about her crush on his younger brother.

What was she trying to do? What were her actions trying to achieve?
The coffee she made was bitter—she couldn’t remember if she rinsed out Charles’s grounds or re-filtered them through. She tried Charles’s cell again. Voice mail. Same with his work phone. It had caller ID, certainly, and he saw her number coming up every time. I’m sorry, she started to text him. She was sorry she was like this, utterly and unchangeably herself, sorry that she was maybe sabotaging this relationship because of a silly fantasy of how reality was supposed to be.
When the phone rang, she jumped. The ringer sounded like a siren. She looked at the caller ID. It was a number she didn’t recognize from an area code in the middle of the state.
The phone rang again. She lurched for it and picked it up. There was static on the other end, a whooshing sound as if the caller was on a train. “Is Charles there?” a woman asked.
“He’s not.” Joanna said. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Bronwyn Pembroke,” the woman said.
Joanna almost dropped the phone.
But it had to be a cruel coincidence. She was probably someone taking a survey. A telemarketer.
“Can I have him call you back?” Joanna whispered.
“Well, no.” The woman sounded dismayed. “I don’t … I won’t really be reachable by this phone. Can you give him a message? I need to change the time that we’re meeting tomorrow. It needs to be nine, not ten.”
Joanna watched her eyes widen in the hallway mirror. The reflection didn’t look like her at all but some other woman, some person she thought she’d never be. She placed the phone back into the receiver.
The kitchen was apathetically still. All the little charging devices for Joanna’s cell phone, digital camera, and laptop blinked red, unfazed. The phone rang again, but she didn’t answer. The machine clicked on. Her voice. Thanks for calling, and then their phone number. Because out here in the suburbs, you didn’t say the Bates-McAllister residence. No one told their last names on answering machines for fear of giving too much away. When it beeped, there was only a dial tone.
When the answering machine clicked off, she grabbed the phone again and dialed Charles’s office number. Voice mail. She dialed his cell phone. Nothing. She listened to his polite, cheerful voice recite his outgoing message. She waited, considering, and then let the phone slip from her fingers. It landed on the floor and skidded toward the fridge. The operator eventually interrupted, warning that the phone was off the hook, and then that grating, pulsing noise began.
Breathing hard, she ran upstairs, opened Charles’s sock drawer and plunged her hands inside, feeling past his socks until she hit the drawer’s fiberboard bottom. She didn’t know what she was looking for. A picture of Bronwyn? A … what, a condom? She ran her hands over his patterned boxers. There was a pair with little dogs on them, a pair with breakfast foods, a pair with paisleys. Finding nothing, she shut the drawer and leaned against it.
A part of her had expected this, and yet she wasn’t ready for it at all. Was this why Charles had abruptly canceled on coming to Maryland? Was this what he was doing after his interview of the people in the nudist colony or whatever it was? He’d probably scheduled the interview in the morning and then blocked off the rest of the day for Bronwyn.
She stopped. Maybe there wasn’t an interview. Maybe the place didn’t exist. Maybe it was a test, something she should’ve seen through. Charles claimed he was staying here because of his job—he’d told her he had something with work that got in the way, and then he’d threatened to quit, and then she said he was being ridiculous. He’d manipulated it around and made it her choice. It was positively Machiavellian. Do the interview, she’d told him. We’ll figure this out later. She’d given him permission.
She had to get out of here. She took Charles’s suitcase because it was nicer. She threw incongruous things into the bag—heavy sweaters, filmy dresses, high heels, a raincoat. Throwing a toothbrush and soap into a toiletry bag took seconds. After a moment, she decided to take some of his things, too—his expensive moisturizer, his Polo cologne, the book he was reading. Then she stood back, both palms on the top of her head. Her mother would be surprised at how early she would be. She might still be asleep, resting up for her big appointment tomorrow. Joanna would make breakfast and coffee. She wouldn’t tell her about this.
The cold outside air made her spasm with shivers. She stood for a moment at the edge of the garage, staring at the houses around her. All the lawns were sickeningly green and even, with the same red flowers in the mulched gardens off the front walks. Why hadn’t just one person planted blue flowers, or yellow? Who lived in these houses?
Joanna squared her shoulders and hit the unlock button on her car key. The door remained locked. She hit it again. Nothing. “Goddamn it,” she whispered, punching every button on the key until the alarm started to sound. The noise was so loud it made her teeth ache. She fumbled with the key chain, desperate for it to stop. Then she noticed movement to her right. Mrs. Batten stood in the middle of her driveway, staring. Her hair was perfectly combed, her trench coat knotted tightly and evenly at her tiny waist, her ballet flats unscuffed. One of her children, the little girl who played in the sandbox, leaned into her, wide-eyed. Joanna hit another button but the alarm kept blazing. Maybe she needed to try it from a different angle. As she stepped around to the other side of the car, her shoe caught on the lip of concrete between the garage and the driveway. Instantly, her cheek smacked the asphalt. There was a gasp behind her.
Joanna groaned and pushed herself up. Somehow the alarm had stopped. Blood was trickling down her knee. She turned around. Mrs. Batten’s eyes were round, but she remained motionless in the driveway, instead of rushing over to see if Joanna was okay.
“What?” Joanna shouted. Her neighbor flinched. “Jesus, what?” Joanna said again. Her neighbor’s eyes averted downward. She hustled her child into her minivan and slammed the door. Joanna hit the key again and the car unlocked, insufferably easily. Then she sat in the driver’s seat without turning on the ignition. If only there was something insulting she could scream out to Batten, safe in the privacy of her car, but the first word she thought of, after bitch, was eggbeater. You bitch, you eggbeater.
A skunk had sprayed in the middle of the night; even the air inside the car smelled of it. Joanna started the engine. It was only an hour-and-a-half drive to her mother’s if she took the highway. She usually avoided I-95, taking the quaint, quiet back roads, but today she didn’t feel like lingering. As she drove, she gnashed her teeth, picturing Charles at work, smiling about his meeting tomorrow with Bronwyn. He was in the clear. When she came to a traffic light, she noticed where she was. To the left of the intersection was the garden center. To the right was the old stone mansion that had been converted into a bedand-breakfast. This was the turn to Sylvie’s house.
Something inside her flipped. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering. It was almost 11 a.m. Who knew if Scott would even be there—his meeting at the school was today. Sylvie might answer the door instead, and then what would Joanna say? That she hadn’t been paying attention, that she’d inadvertently ended up here?
But she’d asked Scott if he’d come, and he said he would. The words had popped out of Joanna’s mouth unwittingly, but maybe she’d meant them.
A car behind her honked. The light had turned green. She jumped, and then put on her turn signal. If Sylvie’s car was there, she would turn around and go back. With any luck, Sylvie wouldn’t see her.
The houses got bigger and bigger, old converted barns, enormous structures behind fancy iron gates, rolling properties with horse stables. She’d never driven to Roderick without Charles—she’d never felt like she had the right to. She made the turn at the red mailbox and started up the winding driveway. The tires crackled over fallen twigs and branches. The trees didn’t have all their leaves in yet; her car was easily visible from the second-floor windows. Sylvie would probably already be on the porch by the time she got to the driveway. She would invite her in, saying what a nice surprise. She wouldn’t ask questions. She would make her some tea and probably show her pictures of the vacation house and say nothing, absolutely nothing, pretending like Scott’s meeting wasn’t today, pretending it wasn’t weird Joanna was there without Charles, not at all.
Only, Sylvie’s car wasn’t in the driveway—just Scott’s. Joanna’s heart lifted, and for a shining moment, she was so overcome with a mix of emotions she put her fist in her mouth and bit down hard. The decision had been made. This was in the hands of something bigger than she was. She parked behind Scott’s car and turned hers off. He probably wouldn’t need a very big bag. It would take him five minutes to put things together, nothing like Charles, who took hours to meticulously iron and fold and pack. She ran her tongue over her teeth,
considering, and then decided not to consider. Whatever. She slammed the door. She knocked and waited. A light came on,
and there he was, opening the door, smiling, as if he knew she was
going to show up here all along.

J oanna, Scott, and Catherine sat in the sail club’s dark, square room, smoke swirling above their heads. A plastic swordfish, blood-red crab, and long-armed stingray were snared in a fisherman’s net strung up on the far wall. There was a Day-Glo mural of a giant squid next to the nets, the squid’s tentacles outstretched wide. Across the bar sat a stringy-haired woman in a faded green tank top that showed off her wrinkled, sun-spotted decolletage.

A large, fleshy-armed man plopped on the stool next to Catherine. He had frizzy gray hair, kind eyes, and a scribbled, massive beard. His gray flannel shirt was enormous, and he wore Teva flip-flops with his jeans. “This is Robert,” Catherine said, gesturing to him. “You should hear his voice. He could get a record contract.”

“Nice to meetcha,” Robert said, reaching out his hand. He had a deep, James Earl Jones voice.
Joanna shook hands, barely feeling his skin. Robert held a pitcher of beer in his left hand, seemingly ordered all for himself. “Well, I’ll be back later,” he said. “You probably have lots to catch up on.”
Then he waddled away toward the octopus mural. Catherine watched him go, patting her hair. “Robert is modest, but he really does sound just like Tom Petty. It’s quite a sight to see.”
Joanna tried to smile, though she felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. When her mother pulled into the parking lot of this place, Joanna had thought it was a joke. sail club, said the squat, windowless building. It was next to a burrito shack called Viva La Mexico! There was a line of Harleys parked crookedly by the door and a piece of paper posted over the handicapped parking sign that said, shoes must be worn at all times. The sign said nothing about shirts.
Inside the close, yeasty-smelling room was a small stage at the front of the bar meant for karaoke. Catherine had marched up to the bar and greeted the sinewy bartender with a big kiss, and a Tom Collins had appeared before her. To say Joanna had been aghast was an understatement. Where was the dockside country club? Where were the aloof men in yachter’s caps? Where were the international glitterati? People stood at the pinball machine and dartboard without irony. In the hall to the bathroom was an old cigarette machine, the kind where one had to insert quarters and pull a knob. Joanna wanted to ask her mother why she frequented a place like this, a place so unexpected for her, but she didn’t know how to phrase such a question. Maybe her mom did have something wrong with her—a brain tumor.
A petite girl in a denim miniskirt was belting out the chorus to Like a Virgin. She pranced up and down the narrow bar area, her limbs wobbly and loose. Scott watched her, sipping his Guinness. “She’s good.”
“Oh, I know,” Catherine said. “She sings all the time.”
“What do you say?” Scott looked at them. “Should we sing something?”
“You sing?” Catherine cried. “I bet you’re good. Joanna and I will sing backup.”
Scott thought for a moment. “I’ll sign us up for something.” He winked at them and slid off the stool, strutting to the front of the bar to signal the karaoke MC, who doubled as the bartender. Several women turned and watched Scott walk the length of the bar. Joanna’s mother set down her drink and breathed in.
“He looks very handsome today,” Catherine remarked. “That was nice of him to come while Charles is away.”
Joanna could feel her mother’s eyes on her, waiting. When they’d arrived at Catherine’s house a few hours earlier, her mother had done a double take in surprise. “Scott?” she’d asked, as if she didn’t know precisely who he was.
“You haven’t forgotten me?” Scott bantered.
“Of course not, of course not,” Catherine said, ushering him in. “You look wonderful, darling.” She turned to Joanna, beaming with curiosity.
“Charles is out of town,” Joanna had explained quickly, loudly. “He had an important writing assignment that came up unexpectedly. Scott was nice enough to keep me company.”
Scott glanced at her, startled, but for once he had the good sense not to say anything.
This was the first time Joanna had brought anyone to her mother’s new house. Catherine welcomed them in unabashedly, yet another departure from how she used to let Charles reluctantly into their house in Lionville, making excuses for the ragged carpet in the den and the pineapple wallpaper in the kitchen. Just like Sylvie, Catherine had inherited this house scot-free from a relative, her great-aunt Marjorie. There was this house, and then there was Roderick. It was something Joanna always thought about whenever she visited.
Since moving in, Catherine had replaced Marjorie’s stuff with the things from her old house in Lionville, the leather furniture, the farmhouse chairs, and the media center that had been such a point of contention between her parents—because of the price, no doubt—when Joanna was a teenager. All of it looked so shabby in the small, square living room with its royal blue carpet and lace curtains. Joanna had never met Great-aunt Marjorie, but she was mystified about who she might have been by the items of hers that still lingered around the house: a one-thousand-piece Eiffel Tower puzzle stacked in the coat closet. A whole drawer full of Hallmark cards featuring a cranky old lady wearing cat-eye glasses and spouting curmudgeonly good tidings. An assortment of Garfield cartoon and joke books on the small, white bookshelf in the upstairs bathroom and stacks of records of pasty-faced crooners Joanna didn’t recognize in the moldy basement. And in a cabinet under a bathroom sink, a small, zippered case full of lubricants, edible body gel, even a pair of padded handcuffs. Catherine had been with Joanna when she’d found the case and had seemed just as shocked as Joanna was. They’d left the case under the sink where they’d found it, not sure what to do with it.
Scott had walked right into the house as comfortable as he was at Roderick. He allowed Catherine to make him a drink. Although he widened his eyes at Catherine’s various medications that were lined up on the kitchen counter and piled in the cupboard above the sink, he didn’t say anything nasty. He didn’t seem appalled to be here, instead sinking onto the couch and accepting a beer. Joanna felt so ambivalent. By this point the high had worn off, and she wasn’t sure if bringing him had been a good idea. But then she thought of the phone call from Bronwyn, feeling justified all over again. Moments later her emotions finished their orbit, and she was back to feeling terrified. What the hell was she doing? What did she want to happen?
Scott returned to his bar stool. “The bartender says we’re sixth in line.”
“What did you pick?” Joanna asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He grinned.
“Great.” Catherine rubbed her palms together. She was wearing dark red lipstick, and her hair was its same ash blonde. She was fiftyfive, but men often thought she was younger. It had been a theory of why she thought she wasn’t 100 percent accepted in their old neighborhood: because all the husbands secretly wanted her and all the wives secretly resented her.
“So did Joanna tell you they’re doing a biopsy?” Catherine said to Scott. “My doctor found a lump, and at first I couldn’t feel it, but now I think I can.” She prodded at the skin right under her arm, not exactly on her boob but close. “The nurse I spoke to on the phone when setting up the appointment told me it was probably nothing and that I shouldn’t panic, but they have to say that, don’t they? I have this wonderful doctor, though, and when I pressed him, he admitted that based on my age, profile, and condition, it’s most likely cancer.”
“Cancer.” Scott whistled. “Damn.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Catherine said, and then gazed longingly at her boobs, as if they were already gone.
Joanna flexed and pointed her toes. A gray-haired old seabird across the bar lit a cigarette. Then Catherine leaned into Scott. “So Joanna told me about the trouble at school. With that boy.”
Joanna widened her eyes. “I didn’t tell her anything,” she pleaded to Scott. “Honestly.”
“Yes you did.” Catherine coolly sipped her drink. “You told me everything.”
The neon Budweiser sign across the bar blinked on and off. Joanna aggressively pulled off a chunk of her place mat. It felt satisfying, so she pulled off another. “I’m sorry.” She looked at Scott.
Scott shrugged. “It’s all right. Whatever.”
“So?” Catherine leaned on her elbows. “What were the boys doing to one another?”
“I think we should talk about something else,” Joanna said loudly.
Catherine’s mouth was a square. “Come on. Like no one has asked him this already?”
Joanna looked away. Everything about her mother was startling her today. The old Catherine, the one she’d finally begun to figure out, wouldn’t have asked something so indelicate. Maybe it was the sail club’s influence. Maybe it was the case of Marjorie’s sex toys under the sink.
The metaphorical elephant had been lingering the whole drive to Maryland. First Scott volunteering to take his car instead of hers, then following Joanna back to her house, then Joanna climbing into his car, and Scott speeding the whole way down I-95 in the passing lane for the pure, aggressive enjoyment of it. The unanswered question hung between them. Had Scott gone to the meeting at Swithin today, or was he missing it by coming with her to Maryland? He’d answered the door dressed in khakis that almost fit. His hair looked different, and after a moment, Joanna realized it was clean. Clearly going to the meeting had crossed his mind. Scott’s phone had rung a few times on the drive, and Joanna saw Sylvie’s name in the caller ID window. Scott had clapped it shut, expressionless.
Scott gazed across the barroom. There was an empty dartboard directly opposite them, a chalkboard beside it, and a Miller Lite schedule of the University of Maryland football season. Another bartender,
a ropy-armed woman with stringy blonde hair that hung in her eyes,
yanked down the tap and shoved a smudged beer mug underneath.
“Actually,” Scott said in a faraway voice. “No one has asked me. You’re
the first.”
Catherine pressed her lips together. “Oh.”
Scott looked at Joanna. “Can you believe no one has asked me directly?”
Joanna sat back in her chair. “Well, I …” She swallowed. “Yes. I
guess I can.”
“So were they beating up one another or not?” Catherine goaded. Scott’s face clouded. He took a breath as if about to speak. Then
there was the sound of breaking glass from across the bar. Everyone
looked over.
A sausage-biceped man in a sleeveless shirt lunged toward another
man in a plaid button-down. “You didn’t just say that,” the first man
said. He had a burly beard that concealed most of his face. “Tell me
you didn’t say that, you piece of shit.”
“You’re the piece of shit,” the plaid-shirted man spat. “You and that
bitch you live with.”
“Oh dear,” Catherine said under her breath. “Not again.” Now the men were shoving each other. One bumped into a stool,
sending it flying. More glass broke. The karaoke ceased, and the girl
on the stage—as well as everyone else in the bar—turned to stare. The
men shouted more, and then the guy in the plaid shirt hit the bearded
guy in the jaw. It made a cracking sound, louder than Joanna would
have imagined. The bearded man in the sleeveless shirt clutched his
face for a moment, but quickly began swinging again. He groped for
a dart on the dartboard and raised it into the air, his eyes loony and enraged. Everyone on the opposite side of the bar moved out of the way. “Let’s just calm down now!” called an anonymous voice. The room began to smell pungently of spilled beer.
“We should get out of here,” Scott said. Robert materialized from out of nowhere, quickly whisking Catherine toward the door. As they made a beeline for the exit, Joanna stared at Scott’s back. What had he been about to say? A denial? A confession? She wondered, suddenly, how she’d feel about Scott if he actually did indirectly abet in this boy’s death. Would her attraction for him instantly vanish?
They could still hear the shouting from the gravel parking lot. Robert helped Catherine into the back seat and patted the hood in farewell. Joanna swung into the driver’s seat. Her ears rang from the loud music. The image of that man’s face as he held the dart swam before her eyes. “Are there a lot of fights at that bar?” she asked, feeling out of breath.
Catherine wrapped her leopard-print scarf tight around her neck. “Oh, some, I suppose.”
“What are you doing going to a bar like that, anyway?” Joanna cried.
“It could’ve gotten dangerous,” Scott added. “Someone might have had a gun.”
Catherine tittered. “A gun? Please. Those two boys that were fighting are best friends. They’ll be drinking together in a half hour!” She leaned forward and touched their shoulders. “You two are so sweet to care.”
Everything was the inverse of what it should be. Joanna rolled the windows down and started to back out of the lot. The night was sticky and unusually warm, and she could smell the salty, swampy Chesapeake a few blocks over. As Joanna peered out into the darkness, she saw the round, glowing eyes of a nocturnal animal staring back at her.
She held its gaze for a moment in silent communion. The animal’s eyes shone like silver. A few seconds passed, and then, given an invisible signal, the animal whipped around and disappeared into the darkness.

E ven though it was only 9:30 p.m., Catherine went to bed as soon as they got home, saying she needed to rest up for her big appointment. Joanna sat on her mother’s tiny screened-in porch drinking a glass of V8, the only nonalcoholic beverage Catherine had in the house. In the distance Joanna heard the steady beeping sound of one of the low bridges rising to let a tall-masted boat through. She could smell the rancid, brackish creek just beyond the trees.

Joanna’s phone rang, startling her. It was Charles. She stared at it, her heart thrumming. After the third ring, she answered.
“How’s your mom?” he asked.
“She’s okay,” she answered automatically. She cursed herself for saying it so nicely. What would happen if she continued to feign ignorance about Bronwyn? Would he admit it on his own? Crack under the guilt and come clean?
She looked through the screen door to the house. Scott was standing over the kitchen counter, pouring himself a drink. Probably Dewar’s Scotch; it was Catherine’s favorite. She hoped he wouldn’t come out. She hoped he didn’t hear her talking.
“So did someone give you a hot ride to Maryland?” Charles asked.
She sat up, horrified. How could Charles know? “W-what?”
“Because your car is still in the garage. You took the train, right?”
The air left her lungs. Right. He was joking. “Yeah. The train. And I called a cab from the house. It was easier than finding parking.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hating that she was lying.
“I guess Scott had his meeting today,” Charles said.
Joanna watched as Scott turned and shut the cabinet. Don’t come out, she silently willed, but he swiveled and headed for the screen door. She balled her fist.
“I don’t know how it went, though,” Charles was saying. “I tried to call Mom, but she was on her way to some party.”
“Huh.” Scott slid open the door and looked at her. She put a finger to her lips, and he nodded. You’re on the phone. I got it. But he didn’t leave.
“I don’t know if she’s talked to him, either,” Charles was saying. “She probably would’ve called me if she did.”
“Uh-huh,” Joanna said. She stared out at the dark backyard. Hank and Carla, the neighbors, kept a parrot’s cage on their back porch; she could see its curved shadow. The parrot often babbled when they left it alone, screaming out Hank and Carla’s names.
“Are you all right?” Charles asked.
Joanna jumped. “I’m fine. Why?”
“I don’t know. You sound … not altogether there.”
“I’m fine. Just … you know. My mom.”
“Do you want me to come down there?” Charles asked.
“W-when?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow morning. I don’t know.”
Her pulse beat so strongly she could feel its steady pace in her fingertips. Did that mean he’d called Bronwyn and canceled tomorrow’s meeting? Or had they met today, and he now had some free time?
She wound a piece of hair around her finger so tightly that it pulled at her scalp. Scott was sitting on the glider, staring. Why didn’t he just leave? Why couldn’t he understand she wanted to be alone?
“I thought you had your work interview tomorrow,” she finally said.
Charles paused. She paused. Neither said anything. She wondered if he knew that she knew. Maybe Bronwyn had called him and said, We’ve got to call it off. I called your house and she answered.
“It’s okay,” Joanna said when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything more. “I don’t need you here. I’m holding up all right.”
There was a sigh on his end. “Well, okay then,” Charles said.
“I should go,” she said quickly. She clapped the phone shut and sat still for a few long moments, a sob building in her chest. She thought the phone might ring again, but it remained silent.
The distant beeping started up again; the boat must be through, and the bridge was coming back down. Joanna stood up, padded into the kitchen, poured out the V8, and replaced it with Dewar’s. Then she went back outside and slumped down on a plastic chair. Scott was smoking a cigarette, making the whole screened-in porch smell of it.
“Was that Charles?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
The wind knocked the long chimes hanging from the porch roof together. A dog barked a few houses down. Catherine’s porch was so small that Joanna and Scott’s knees were almost touching.
“So are you going to tell me or not?” Scott said quietly.
She whipped her head up. “Tell you what?”
Scott’s face was hidden by the shadows; she could only make out the outline of his jaw, the tips of his hair, and the whites of his eyes. “Where Charles’s out-of-town trip has taken him, of course,” he said. “Where he was calling from. What he’s writing about.”
“That just came out. I had to tell her something before she asked.” Scott swirled his glass. She bet he was smirking.
“My mom needs an explanation. Every time she thinks she’s got something, I come down here. But she doesn’t get that not everyone can just drop everything and come. Charles always has something going on, but she doesn’t understand that he just has to work.”
Scott moved slightly, shifting his weight to his left side. She listened as he raised his glass to his lips, pulled the liquid to the back of his throat, and swallowed. “So Charles is working.”
She wanted to hit him. Why bother answering, if he already had it all figured out? “Of course,” she said stiffly.
But then her face started to tremble, first just a little, then a lot. But she wouldn’t let herself cry, not here. She swallowed. “Did you know I grew up not that far from you?”
“In Parkesburg?”
“Lionville.”
“Right.”
She’d never told him this before, so it was curious that he knew this about her. “When I was little, maybe in like third grade, there was a big announcement about the Kimberton Fair. Do you remember the Kimberton Fair?”
“I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been.”
“I got really excited about this fair. There was going to be an amusement park as part of it, and I thought, This is going to be great. An amusement park right down the street from my house! I’ll go every day. I’ll wake up and ride a roller coaster. There wouldn’t be any lines or crowds, it would just be me running free and alone through this enormous park with workers ready to attend to me.”
“I think every kid fantasized about that,” Scott answered.
Joanna uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other direction. “So the fair shows up. I’m so excited I can’t sleep the night before opening day. And I get up really early, before the sun is even up, and I run down there. And there’s already a line of kids waiting. They’d gotten up earlier than I did. I had no idea how—I mean, I guess they just didn’t sleep at all. And so finally someone comes along and lets us all in. There were only five rides, not even a roller coaster. Just a merry-go-round, a Ferris wheel, swings, some lame-ass fun house, and a tilt-a-whirl.”
Her voice caught on whirl, but she swallowed fast, trying to pass it off as nothing. “I only went that one morning,” she said. “I spent the rest of the summer at the pool.”
Scott nodded. He bent his knee in and out, making his joint crack.
“I don’t know what made me tell you that story,” Joanna blurted. “It has nothing to do with anything.”
Scott took another sip of his drink. “Maybe it has to do with a lot of things.”
Joanna picked at a loose thread on the knee of her jeans. She should thank him for accompanying her here, and then go inside to her old bedroom and go to sleep. This could still be explained to Charles. She’d come to the house looking for Sylvie, maybe, but Scott had been there instead. She’d been distraught, and he’d offered to come. She just needed some company, someone to take the edge off her mother. It was hard, coming down here alone every time.
She was still unmarred, unharmed. She could still look Charles straight in the eye.
Scott’s eyes burned into her. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and stared back. Electricity passed through them. She could almost see it, a blue snap through the air. He knew what she wanted. He had to. He knew what was going on inside of her, but he was going to make her work for it. He was going to make her ask.
Hank and Carla’s parrot screeched. The same sob rose up inside of her. She felt so terrible.
The moment broke, and Scott looked away. Joanna lowered her shoulders and looked down, too, disappointed that he hadn’t acted on the moment, then ashamed by her disappointment. She made a tight fist with her hand. “Charles told me about that time you hit him, you know.”
Scott stopped rocking. “Oh yeah?”
“Uh-huh. He said you did it for no reason.”
The ice rattled in his glass. “Is that what he said?”
“Yes.”
“Then he didn’t tell you everything.”
“What’s … everything?”
“There was a reason I did that.”
“And that would be … what?”
He stubbed out his cigarette.
“Come on.”
But he stood, not answering, and opened the screen door and walked inside the house. Joanna felt confused. Did that mean something more had happened than what Charles had told her? Or was that just what Scott wanted her to think?
Scott opened the freezer; cold, blue light shone against his face. She heard the crack of the ice cube tray, and the clank of the cubes hitting the glass. This was probably just a game for Scott. A mind-fuck.
She stood up, too, and made her way slowly down the hall to the first-floor bedroom that was always set up for her. She would sleep on her old childhood twin bed, its creaky mattress as stiff and loud as the paper liner on an examining table at a doctor’s office. Scott, of course, would sleep on the couch.