Somebody Else's Daughter (18 page)

“Fine.”

“You never told me it was Willa.”

“Didn't I?”

“That was a surprise.”

“She's come a long way. You shouldn't underestimate her.”

“I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I thought Bette would have gotten it. Or Ada.”

“They wanted Willa.” He looked at her with watery eyes. His face looked depleted, bereaved. He finished his drink.

She went to the stairs and called for Ada, but the girl had her headphones on and couldn't hear her. Climbing the stairs she felt enervated, as if the night from that point on would demand impossible endurance. She stood outside the door and said her daughter's name and knocked. She didn't want to barge in. The last time she'd done that she'd caught Ada eating donuts. When she'd cleaned her daughter's room the next morning, she'd found a collection of empty junk-food bags shoved under the bed. It was a wonder they didn't have mice. The door opened and Ada stood there, the tiniest orange remnants of Cheetos around her mouth.

“We're having dinner,” she said.

“I'm not hungry.”

“You will come down and sit at the table, whether you're hungry or not.”

Ada scowled at her, but did what she asked.

They sat around the table. She served her family dinner. She'd had too much to drink and the table seemed wobbly. She watched as her husband and daughter began to eat. Maggie took a pork chop and some potatoes and some green beans and looked at the plate. The food was nicely presented, she thought. She'd done a good job. It was a lovely meal.

She forked a green bean and put it into her mouth and began to chew. It felt like a piece of rubber, she thought. She used her teeth. Her tongue always seemed to get in the way. It was a diligent little muscle, her tongue, and her epiglottis too created problems. The epiglottis was a nasty little thing. Slimy and officious. Recently, she'd become terrified of swallowing. It was something she kept to herself. Something she couldn't discuss. As the food filled up her mouth, mixing with saliva, she had to remind herself to let it all slide down her throat into her stomach, where it belonged. Sometimes her timing was off.

“Are you all right?” Jack was looking at her.

She coughed into her napkin. “I'm sorry. I'm fine. It went down the wrong pipe.”

“Get your mother some water.”

Ada put the glass down in front of her. Maggie could feel her staring with contempt. The girl backed away from the table and went upstairs. A moment later the door slammed.

Jack finished his drink. “It was delicious, Maggie,” he said. “Once again, you've outdone yourself.”

Attention Deficit

[sculpture]

Claire Squire, Spanking Machine, 2000. Beeswax and microcrystalline wax, 4 x 14 x 3 ft. Collection of Millie and Wilbur Rice.

Three children stand with their legs spread apart, encouraging the fourth child to crawl through the “spanking machine.” The standing children, two boys and one girl, share an almost feral exuberance as they await the girl crawling through their legs. On hands and knees, the girl enters the punitive tunnel, wearing an expression of cautious anticipation.

15

Late in September the fields began to turn from green to yellow. Already there were turkeys. They walked in formation like soldiers, or grammar school children. An ancient Japanese maple shimmered with crimson leaves. Three crows watched over the house from the top of an oak tree. They screeched at the sight of her, gossiping in rude shrieks, swooping across the sky in arcs of sooty bravado.

Claire had made a place to work in the barn, the floor was clear. Already she had begun to light the woodstove, carrying the wood from the pile into the barn. Her arms were strong. When she woke in the morning the sky was pink.

She had sent her landlord in Los Angeles the money she owed him, and had arranged for her work to be delivered. The sculptures had been locked away for over a year and her landlord had threatened to throw them in the Dumpster if she didn't pay. That morning they arrived, it was a Saturday, two Guatemalans in a Ryder truck with fifteen sculptures. Teddy heard the racket and came down to watch. The men hardly spoke English and she gestured emphatically as she instructed them where to pull the truck. When they opened the trailer, she saw her work in a heap, a pile of broken bodies—legs, arms, a foot, a torso. Some of them were nearly intact, crammed into the darkness.

“At least they're free,” Teddy said, putting his arm around her.

“Free at last.” She had no one to blame but herself.

“You'll fix them,” Teddy said.

The men were careful, gingerly carting the pieces down a ramp, placing them gently, apologetically, around the space.

“We should celebrate,” Teddy said. “Let's make pancakes.”

Ever since Teddy was little, pancakes were the way they celebrated things—little milestones like losing a tooth or learning to tie shoes or whenever she sold a piece. They fed the men and watched them drive away in their noisy truck. Then she went into the barn and inspected her work. The sculptures were battered and broken, crippled, but she would fix them, she would make them better. And then, somehow, she would find a place to show them. It was something she could do, she thought. Her way of making a contribution, if that was worth anything. Sometimes, in her darker moments, Claire doubted the value of her work. It was difficult and consuming and she spent most of her time alone, cut off from the rest of the world. What was she trying to do or say? She would ask herself the question over and over again, but could never find an answer that justified the effort. When people asked her about the work, why her sculptures seemed doomed or sad or perverse, she had a variety of theoretical reasons at her fingertips, but they didn't really mean much to her. The people would nod as if they understood, but they didn't, not really. And often she didn't either. It was instinctual, making art. You had a hunch about something and you went for it. You were like one of those wild police dogs, searching for something—something terrible or something beautiful. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it made sense to her, and sometimes it made her weary and she felt all of the unsolvable problems of the world filling up her heart like so much rainwater. Still, she felt compelled to do it, to say something, to seek the truth, to find her own way.

The barn was a good place to work. It was better than L.A., with its surplus of glossy criminals. And Teddy was happier here too. For the first time in his life, he seemed interested in school. He had never liked it before, except nursery school in an old church where all the other children spoke Spanish. But after that, in grade school, he had floundered. He couldn't sit in his seat, he couldn't listen. He was
bored.
His teachers were mean. Nobody liked him; he didn't have any friends. It broke her heart, but she didn't have the time or money to be able to change it, and each day, month after month, he became more despondent until, finally, he just didn't go. She'd get calls from the school, where was he, and she'd have to drive around to find him—usually at the skateboard park. “You have to go,” she'd tell him, “it's the law,” and he'd shake his head and refuse. “I'm too stupid,” he'd say. “I can't learn anything.”

But at Pioneer he was different, engaged. They were reading
The Odyssey
and his tutor had gotten it for him on tape, and he walked around with headphones, listening to it. One afternoon, he missed the bus and she went to get him at school. She pulled into the circular driveway, around an island of drooping peonies. It was late and most of the kids had gone home. She spotted her son, kissing a girl under an umbrella. The girl was wearing black high-tops with her uniform, a plaid skirt and white blouse. Her hair was tied back in a shoelace. Her arms were draped around Teddy's shoulders, his hands swimming at her hips. Witnessing their intimacy made Claire's heart stop a moment. It was real, natural,
appropriate,
and she was happy for him. In contrast, her own lack of intimacy was abnormal, she knew. It had been years since she'd been with anyone, and it had turned her hard and a little cold.

The girl caught her staring and then Teddy turned and smiled. Feigning distraction, Claire rattled the pages of her newspaper. “Hey.” He rifled through his papers to show her his grade—an A. The first in his life. It was from his writing teacher, who didn't believe in grades in the first place. “Everyone got an A,” he said. “But still.”

He smelled of patchouli, the girl's scent. A moment later, a pickup truck pulled up behind her and the girl got into it. Claire watched through her rearview mirror. The man behind the wheel looked rough, an employee, she surmised. The truck pulled out and the girl waved. “Her name's Willa,” Teddy said. “After the writer. Willa Cather?”

“Interesting,” Claire said.

“Her
real
mother named her.”

“What do you mean, her
real
mother?”

“The one who had her. She's adopted.”

“You mean her
birth
mother.”

“It was part of the deal,” Teddy explained. “They had to keep her name for some reason. Maybe because she died.”

“Who died?”

“The mother.”

“Really? That's sad.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “That's all she knows.”

Claire pulled out onto the road; she knew what was coming.

“She doesn't know her father either.”

“You mean her
birth
father.”

“Right.”

Teddy looked at her, waiting. “What about mine?”

“What?”

“
My
birth father?”

Claire had been three months' pregnant when Billy had called her from Mexico to tell her that he'd gotten busted with some pot and was going to prison for twenty years. “Take care of yourself,” he'd said to her. “Hasta luego.”

Claire had never told him she was pregnant. It had been an accident, anyway, and to this day he didn't know. Teddy's father may as well have been a sperm donor.

“I've told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“Your father was a good friend of mine,” she said. “We were very young. I was your age. Try to imagine that for a minute.”

“I know, Mom. But where is he?”

“We lost touch a long time ago, Teddy.”

Unsatisfied with her answer, Teddy crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “I want to find him.”

She didn't have the heart to tell him his father was in jail. “Okay.” He looked at her. “Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

She pulled into the driveway and he got out and slammed the door, as if finalizing the decision, and she sat there for several minutes, feeling as though she'd got the wind knocked out of her.

Willa Golding was a brown-eyed, autumn-haired girl with creamy skin and long, elegant limbs. She moved like a horse, a young mare. He brought her to the house. They crept up to his room and closed the door. They walked in the fields together with their heads down. She lived in a house down the road, Teddy said. You could see the horses. One night he called from the girl's house. It had begun to rain; he didn't want to ride home on his bike. “Come and get me,” he said.

Claire was in the barn, working, covered in plaster. She worked like a doctor through the night, tending her broken work. She rinsed off her hands and threw on an old raincoat, her father's felt hat. Lightning filled the sky. The Goldings lived up the hill, a mile from the house. Turn at the white fence, Teddy had said, the long dirt driveway over a wooden bridge. She could see the horses in the field, lit up in the storm, their hides shimmering.

The house sat high in a clearing, all lit up. They were having a party. The windows were fogged. Teddy hadn't mentioned a party. Cars were parked on the lawn. Even from inside the car she could hear the band. Swing music. She pulled the car up under the porte cochere, where the caterers had parked their trucks. There was a side door to what looked like the kitchen—the servants' entrance. The band was playing Cole Porter: “Night and Day.” She tried Teddy's cell phone, but he wasn't picking up. She sat there for a moment, feeling undignified in her work clothes, the old coat. The wipers swished, keeping time. One of the caterers appeared at the side door in her white apron. She went to get something out of her truck. Claire leaned out the window to ask if she'd seen Teddy, but the woman shrugged, she only spoke French.

Once more, Claire tried the cell phone. Infuriated, she got out of the car and went to the door and looked through the screen. The kitchen was bustling. What a fancy party they were having. The caterers were hard at work, bringing out trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Claire stepped inside as the waiters in their penguin clothes took out the trays. The music stopped and some of the musicians sauntered through the kitchen in their black suits and red shirts with unlit cigarettes in their mouths and went outside to smoke. Alone in the kitchen, Claire could hear what sounded like an argument coming from the butler's pantry. A swinging door connected the two rooms, and through the circular window Claire saw a man and woman hissing at each other in the dim light. It wasn't nice to be snooping, Claire thought, but the savage nature of their fight compelled her, and neither of them had any idea they were being watched. They were fighting bitterly, their teeth flashing, their voices sharp.

“Can I help you?” A voice startled her, a French accent.

Claire turned around to face a man, one of the catering staff. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Are the Goldings . . . ?”