Good to a Fault (33 page)

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Lorraine said over and over until the scream faded out. It was almost a relief to be able to lie back and cry, but she knew it would give her a headache, so she stopped. She stroked Dolly’s hair and face, and kissed her, and got them both calmed down. She had made $80 at that day’s house, and the woman had tipped her twenty bucks. It was worth it, but it was hard.

“I can’t,” she said, muffled in Dolly’s hair, but the words dissolved into salt. She just had to calm down, and be good for the kids.

I
ris Haywood had invited Clary over for dinner. “I’m sorry Paul was not able to come,” she said when she was taking Clary’s coat. “I hear it can be very painful!”

What can be painful? Clary did not feel that she could ask. Iris might not know that she and Paul were not—whatever they had been—any longer. Or maybe she’d engineered the dinner to bring them back together, and Paul was choosing to stay away. She went in to the Haywoods’ living room to meet the others. She had a lump of coal in her chest all the time now anyway, a cold charcoal briquette. But she would eat politely.

Paul could not go to dinner because he had shingles. He stayed at home instead, lying carefully on the bed, trying to read Milton. Might as well, while suffering anyway. From time to time boredom and pain would connive to make him get up, and he would range down to the kitchen for water, avoiding the living room where Clary’s carpet lay, or up to his study to stab at the keyboard until the pain in his side was too bad.

He was in a worse temper than he ever remembered being, and he had lost, it seemed, the ability to pray for himself. Because he was carrying too much bile, he was too angry. He felt that this—everything—was Lisanne’s fault, but knew that it was not, it was the combination of all the various stresses he had been under over the last year or so, made manifest on his body. His hair had begun to fall out in clumps.

Hopkins was better than Milton:
I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me.

He pulled his shirt up to look: thin lines of blisters, like cold sores, running down the right side of his chest. Hideous. Metaphorical. He had not allowed himself to long for Clary. Instead, these scabbing sores, external evidence of his interior pain. The pain was crazy. He’d been to see Hughes and dutifully accepted painkillers, not intending to use them, but he had twice doubled the dose, last night and again early this morning. They sent him sinking back down into sleep, and that was better than lying awake, frozen in place to prevent another of the jarring, searing stabs that accompanied every movement. He tried to breathe slowly. The tingling on his neck was troublesome because he thought that might mean more of them. He had heard of a woman, a parishioner’s mother, who had developed shingles
behind her eyes
. The thought of that almost made him weep, he had to pull himself back from the brimming brink. It was possible, the doctor had said, that he would be among the half of those who develop shingles in whom the pain persists for months, for years. Turning his shirtless torso in front of the mirror to search for another line of small fluid-filled blisters, he begged his body not to be like that. Before he could stop himself he said,
Please, Binnie,
although he did not believe that she listened to his petitions—a private saint, his own, sitting on a white kitchen chair at the curling edge of some cloud. He could see her, elbow leaning on the cloudbank, cheek cupped in her hand, watching him. No, he could not see her. She was nowhere to be seen, but had returned to God to be subsumed into the divine and would not be waiting for him when he died himself; that was a feverish dream to dwell on, Binnie sailing up in a boat to help him over that black river. Helping Lorraine, too, probably, who had come so close to drowning in it.

Back in bed, awake, he lay carefully on his other side, trying not to think about Binnie any more because it did no good, as it did no good to think about Lisanne. He could think about Clary, a little. Her eyes, the sweetness of her eyelids. But a too-deep breath was too much pain. He lay still, and willed himself not to think at all.

Clary saw the children every time she was at Brundstone: Wednesdays and Thursdays. It was like probing a sore tooth with her tongue, almost pleasurable. She had not even said hello—she thought they might be worried about whether they should speak to her, so she was careful not to run into them. They looked tired and unhappy, but she might be imagining that. They were still themselves. They took the bus now, so she never saw Lorraine or Clayton. Thinking about Lorraine still gave her a sharp shiver of antagonism, but she tried to work on that too.

The library at Brundstone had long windows onto the concrete courtyard, and the weather at the end of March was warm enough to leave them open while she worked: one box of uncatalogued books emptying, one box of catalogued books filling, the library silent. School librarian seemed like the perfect job, from that peaceful part-time seat. The other schools were easy too, but Brundstone was home.

From time to time she saw Ann Hayter, and wondered if Ann recognized her. She guessed not, from Ann’s dull animal stare. One day she passed by as Ann was bending to the water fountain, and saw that there were marks on her neck. Dirt? Bruises. She stopped and turned to talk to her, but Ann slid away back to her classroom. Finger marks? If they were bruises, she should do something, help Ann, even if she couldn’t help the others. But she couldn’t. Ann was not hers. Dolly and Trevor were. And Pearce.

She could be wrong, and then there would be all kinds of trouble; she didn’t know Ann’s parents, except the mother was so odd, or unhappy. It would be better to leave it.

Iris Haywood stopped by the library the next day, Thursday, to talk to her.

“I want to tell you how glad I am that you’ve been able to help us out
here,” she said, in her stooping, graceful, authoritative way. “It’s hard to compliment people, but I think you are
good
, and I wanted to tell you.”

Then she moved on, a full-bodied clipper ship navigating the hall.

Clary blinked. She was not good. She got what she wanted by manipulation and sweetness and good grooming. There was no good in her. She wanted Pearce back. She had selfishly wanted him the whole time, and then Trevor, and finally even Dolly, and what had she done? Tried to run their lives, and then sulked when they said no. That
redound
woman had been right—she had done nothing for them that was not self-serving, and then she’d had the nerve to be angry with Lorraine.

Disgusted with herself, Clary went home at the end of the day and dug out the Family Services woman’s card. Bertrice.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, calm this time. “I think there’s something wrong with a child at the school where I work, but I’m not a teacher, and I don’t know the proper protocol, or who I should talk to. Should I go to the principal?”

Bertrice told her no, to call emergency social services, and gave her the number. “You do have an obligation,” she said. “If you become aware of a problem. But it’s kept confidential, don’t worry. They won’t know it was you who called.”

That wasn’t the point, but it made Clary feel like a prying busybody. But she kept seeing Ann’s neck, bent over the water fountain, and the long reddish-brown marks, so she called and spent an awful fifteen minutes giving names and details and her suspicion. It seemed thin. Then she hung up and walked around the empty living room, unhappy about everything. Sun sliced through the dining room’s western window. The world was hopeless.

Out the front window she watched Mr. Bunt crashing into the driveway with his Hemi truck and Mrs. Bunt, a moment later, parking Clary’s mother’s car in its new home in front of their house. Poor frazzled Mrs. Bunt struggled back and forth with bags of groceries while Mr. Bunt vanished inside the house. Everybody’s life was miserable.

A noise at the back pulled her away from contemplation of the Bunts: Mrs. Zenko, back from London, coming through the garden way with Jaffa cakes and Branston pickle in her hands. Clary’s mother’s standing order.

Clary sat down on the back steps, took the pickle jar in her lap and said, “I missed you so much. But you’re too late, everybody’s gone—what will I do?”

Mrs. Zenko sat beside her and said, “Never mind. You come to enjoy being alone. I was quite glad to leave my daughter’s place, when the time arrived.”

Clary leaned her head against the stair railing. She was not ready to be Mrs. Zenko yet, she thought.

N
obody was around. Early enough on Sunday morning. Mrs. Pell went up the back alley and paused behind the workshop. Not for long, in case that meddler, Mrs. Zenko, was out hanging laundry on the line. That’d be like her, nose into everything. Couldn’t just use the dryer like everybody else.

Mrs. Pell unlatched the gate and lifted it up awkwardly on one bent arm, to stop the metal from grating on the cement sidewalk at the bottom, and went along, hugging the side of the shop close to the bushes. It wouldn’t be locked, she hadn’t locked it when Clayton hustled her out of there, and she did not think Clary would have. Open—in—shut. Enough light through the blinds to see. The TV was still there, but no sheets on the bed. She stumbled along to the back of the building, to unbar the alley door. There, she’d be set in case she needed to get in the back way another time.

She sat on the bed picking her teeth—a popcorn hull from last night. She had to go to the toilet in a minute. Those kids, always nagging to get into the bathroom. An old woman ought to be able to count on a bathroom to herself. It might be a question of rent. After spending money on the kids
all those months like it was going out of style, Clary might welcome a little income. Say $100, or $75. Light and water included.

Mrs. Pell sat on in the morning twilight of the workshop, nobody bugging her. She’d sneak in and out, sneaky-snake back and forth. Nobody needed to know where she was.

Dolly was awake, lying in the bottom bunk. If she closed her eyes, she could still think she was at Clary’s house. There was no going back there, she knew that. She couldn’t even go to the library at school now. She wished Keys Books was not closed, and hoped the guy was not dead yet, but he probably was. She shouldn’t need books now anyway because everything was better: her mom was back, they were safe in Moreland’s house, they didn’t need first and last month’s rent any more. That money could stay in the bear’s butt at Mrs. Bunt’s house. No need for any of the things she knew from people’s houses, all their secrets. That made her think of Ann, and she turned over in bed. No goodbye, nothing, moved away on a Thursday night. Ann could have come here, Ann’s mother didn’t care where she went. Those two girls in the other duplex were mean; one of them had hit Trevor. She could hear his poor stuffy nose snoring on the bunk above her. These sheets still smelled almost like Clary’s house.

Her mother came softly in and sat on the edge of the bed. It was so early in the morning that Dolly thought her mom might have been awake all night.

“Hey, have you seen Trevor? I can’t find him anywhere,” her mom said.

“What?” Dolly sprang up in bed.

“April Fool!” she said. “He’s asleep, don’t worry.”

Dolly laughed. It had fooled her, even though she’d just heard him breathing over her head. She couldn’t think of anything to joke back with, though. She stared at her mother’s face, the same as before if you didn’t count the baldy hair. She remembered the day they went to the hospital the first time, after the accident. She shuffled her legs over to make more room, and reached for her mother’s cold hand.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“School,” Dolly said. “Stuff.”

“Are you sad these days? Everything’s pretty different now, from Clary’s.”

Dolly sat up and leaned on her mother’s chest. “It’s better now,” she said. Liar.

Later, when her mom walked down to the bulk store with Trevor and Pearce, Dolly decided that she should go visit Mrs. Zenko, who was old. Nobody would be mad at that. She had her bus pass. Maybe Clary would come over while she was there.

She swung onto the 1:12 bus and up the steps, flashing her card at the driver but mostly ignoring him; you didn’t have to be friendly when you had a pass. She sat by the back door, in a sideways seat, and passed the time reading the ads. There was a boy in one of them, leaning back on a rock laughing. He looked like her dad when he was a kid, if he’d had a different life. Along 8th Street, the place Keys Books used to be was open again already, a cell phone store. She should get that money out of Mrs. Bunt’s bear after all, and go find the Keys Books guy and give it to him. Except he might be dead.

The bus stopped at the corner by the school. She could see Clary’s house from there.

But she was shy to go there, now that she could see it. She climbed down the stairs and off the bus, since she’d pulled the cord, but she couldn’t make herself walk down the street once the bus wheezed away.

She was an April fool to come. After a minute she crossed the street to the other bus stop, hoping it would not be the same driver when the bus came back. Then down the block a dumpy figure inched out of the alley—Gran, her feet bad, it looked like. Dolly walked over to meet her and gave her an arm.

“Huh!” her gran said. “What are
you
doing here?”

“What are
you
doing?”

Neither of them answered. Three-legged-race, they made their way back to the bus stop. They didn’t have long to wait. On the way back down 8th Street, Dolly looked out the window and saw her mom and dad walking along from the bulk store with the boys. Her dad was carrying Pearce on his shoulders, and Trevor had a cinnamon bun.

“You got to watch him,” her gran said. “He lies, you know. And he steals. He’s stolen money from me.”

“I know,” she said. Gran always talked about her dad like that. “I’ll be careful.”

There was that same laughing boy ad on this bus too. People were so screwed up.

Paul drove to the superstore. He was having some difficulty remembering to feed himself. After communion, while he was finishing the Host (torn pita bread, not papery wafers, in this historically careful time), he had thought, that’s what I need. Good bread.

As he drove down 8th Street Paul saw Clayton and Lorraine walking along in the persistent sludge of old snow, finally melting now. Clayton had Pearce perched on his shoulders. Lorraine held Trevor by the hand. Maybe there was something wrong with their car. Strange to see them, and not be able to wave or stop and talk—strange ever to have known them in the first place, he supposed.

Stopped at a red light a few blocks farther on, he looked up and saw Clary Purdy walking west. Maybe there was something wrong with
her
car. He had not seen her for weeks. He really had to give her back the carpet—he remembered the strength of the tendon tensed in her inner thigh. She was wearing the taupe wool coat with the black velvet collar, long black boots: she looked like a Canada goose, a helpless, honking goose. He felt a painful contraction in his throat. Over-dressed, over-precise—he could see her getting old, alone.

In three minutes she would walk straight into the Gage family. He did a wildly illegal U-turn and stopped ahead of her.

He leaped out and leaned on the car. “Can I give you a ride?” he called. “Please?”

She stood still, bewildered.

“I—needed to ask you—I had a question,” he said.

She remained serious, but she came over to the car, contained and careful. No goose. He held the door and kept her attention in time for the Gages to pass by, oblivious.

“Do you think,” he began, pulling away from the curb with no idea what the rest of the sentence would be—anything—“That I could take Mrs.
Zenko out for dinner? When she’s back from London?” Ludicrous thing to ask.
Fool.

“Well, I guess so,” Clary said. “She is back. I walked over to church with her this morning.” He watched the flush climb her face. “The Ukrainian Orthodox,” she added.

Because she could not go to his church anymore.

“You sound awful,” he said, to relieve her discomfort.

“I have a cold,” she told him.

She was not looking at him. His elbow was too close to hers. He pulled himself in. “I didn’t mean awful, just sick. You sound hoarse.”

“Are you sick? Iris Haywood said you were in pain, but I was too shy to ask why.”

“Oh, it was shingles,” he said. “Nothing, really. They’re almost gone.”

They had arrived at her house. She thanked him, still without meeting his eyes, and got out of the car. He watched her go up the walk and into her empty, echoing house. He was an idiot.

That was horrible, Clary thought. She took off her coat in the silent house, pulling off her protective outer skin. She would not let herself even begin to think about Paul’s face and his fingers on the steering wheel, the spiking thorn of not being with him, and all that being wrecked. The only thing harder would have been running into Lorraine, her most constant dread. She felt tired, and as foolishly heartsick as a velvet clown.

His eyes were set deeper in their hollows; even his hair was patchy. Everything was so hard on him. She went to fill the kettle at the kitchen sink and looked out absently on the garden.

There were footprints in the clean old snow all over the back yard. From the back alley gate around the workshop; in meandering arcs around the garden and up to the windows of her house. Like a large, curious rabbit had come sniff-sniffing around her house, to see who was there, what was happening. April Fool.