The Beach Book Bundle: 3 Novels for Summer Reading: Breathing Lessons, The Alphabet Sisters, Firefly Summer (23 page)
Authors: Anne Tyler,Monica Mcinerney
“Spruce Gum,” Maggie said.
“Pardon?”
She was twisted around in her seat, gazing behind her. She said, “Spruce Gum! That was the cutoff to Fiona’s! We just now passed it.”
“Oh, yes, Spruce Gum,” he said. It did ring a bell.
“Ira,” Maggie said.
“Hmm?”
“It’s not so far out of the way.”
He glanced at her. She had her hands pressed together, her face set toward him, her mouth bunched up a little as if she were willing certain words from him (the way she used to will the right answer out of Jesse when she was drilling him on his multiplication tables).
“Is it?” she said.
“No,” he said.
She misunderstood him; she drew in a breath to start arguing. But he said, “No, I guess it’s not.”
“What: You mean you’ll take me there?”
“Well,” he said. And then he said, “Oh, well, we’ve already pretty much shot the day, right?” And he flicked his blinker on and looked for a place to turn the car around.
“Thank you, Ira,” she told him, and she slid over as far as her seat belt allowed and planted a little brush stroke of a kiss below his ear.
Ira said, “Hmf,” but he sounded more grudging than he really felt.
After he’d reversed the car in a lumberyard, he headed back up Route One and took a left onto Spruce Gum Road. They were facing into the sun now. Dusty shafts of light filmed the windshield. Maggie pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and Ira flipped his visor down.
Was it the haze on the windshield that made him think again of their trip to Harborplace? At any rate, for some reason he suddenly remembered why Dorrie had started crying that day.
Standing at the water’s edge, hemmed in by fog, she had been moved to open her suitcase and show him its contents. None of what she’d brought was much different from any other time. There were the usual two or
three comic books, he recalled, and probably a snack for her sweet tooth—a squashed Hostess cupcake perhaps, with the frosting smashed into the cellophane—and of course the rhinestone hatband that had once belonged to their mother. And finally her greatest treasure: a fan magazine with Elvis Presley on the cover.
King of Rock
, the title read. Dorrie worshiped Elvis Presley. Ordinarily Ira humored her, even bought her posters whenever he came across them, but on that particular morning he was feeling so burdened, he just hadn’t had the patience. “Elvis,” Dorrie said happily, and Ira said, “For God’s sake, Dorrie, don’t you know the guy is dead and buried?”
Then she had stopped smiling and her eyes had filled with tears, and Ira had felt pierced. Everything about her all at once saddened him—her skimpy haircut and her chapped lips and her thin face that was so homely and so sweet, if only people would see. He put an arm around her. He hugged her bony little body close and gazed over her head at the
Constellation
floating in the fog. The tops of the masts had dwindled away and the ropes and chains had dissolved and the old ship had looked its age for once, swathed in clouds of mist you could mistake for the blurring of time. And Junie had pressed close to his other side and Maggie and Sam had watched steadfastly, waiting for him to say what to do next. He had known then what the true waste was; Lord, yes. It was not his having to support these people but his failure to notice how he loved them. He loved even his worn-down, defeated father, even the memory of his poor mother who had always been so pretty and never realized it because anytime she approached a mirror she had her mouth drawn up lopsided with shyness.
But then the feeling had faded (probably the very next
instant, when Junie started begging to leave) and he forgot what he had learned. And no doubt he would forget again, just as Dorrie had forgotten, by the time they reached home, that Elvis Presley was no longer King of Rock.
M
aggie had a song that she liked to sing with Ira when they were traveling. “On the Road Again,” it was called—not the Willie Nelson chestnut but a blues-sounding piece from one of Jesse’s old Canned Heat albums, stomping and hard-driving. Ira did the beat: “Boom-da-da, boom-da-da, boom-da-da, boom! boom!” Maggie sang the melody. “ ‘Take a hint from me, Mama, please! don’t you cry no more,’ ” she sang. The telephone poles appeared to be flashing by in rhythm. Maggie felt rangy and freewheeling. She tipped her head back against the seat and swirled one ankle, keeping time.
In the old days, when she’d driven this road alone, the countryside had seemed unwelcoming—enemy territory. Among these woods and stony pastures her only grandchild was being held hostage, and Maggie (smothered in scarves, or swathed in an anonymous trench coat, or half obscured by Junie’s bubbly red wig) had driven as if slipping between something. She’d had a sense of slithering, evading. She had fixed her mind on that child and held her face firmly before her: a bright baby face as round as a penny, eyes that widened with enthusiasm whenever Maggie walked into the room, dimpled fists revving up at the sight of her. I’m coming, Leroy! Don’t forget me! But then over and over again those trips had proved so unsatisfactory,
ending with that last awful time, when Leroy had twisted in her stroller and called, “Mom-Mom?”—hunting her other grandmother, her lesser grandmother, her
pretender
grandmother; and Maggie had finally given up and limited herself thereafter to the rare official visits with Ira. And even those had stopped soon enough. Leroy had begun to fade and dwindle, till one day she was no larger than somebody at the wrong end of a telescope—still dear, but very far removed.
Maggie thought of last summer when her old cat, Pumpkin, had died. His absence had struck her so intensely that it had amounted to a presence—the lack of his furry body twining between her ankles whenever she opened the refrigerator door, the lack of his motorboat purr in her bed whenever she woke up at night. Stupidly, she had been reminded of the time Leroy and Fiona had left, although of course there was no comparison. But here was something even stupider: A month or so later, when cold weather set in, Maggie switched off the basement dehumidifier as she did every year and even
that
absence had struck her. She had mourned in the most personal way the silencing of the steady, faithful whir that used to thrum the floorboards. What on earth was wrong with her? she had wondered. Would she spend the rest of her days grieving for every loss equally—a daughter-in-law, a baby, a cat, a machine that dries the air out?
Was this how it felt to grow old?
Now the fields were a brassy color, as pretty as a picture on a calendar. They held no particular significance. Maybe it helped that Ira was with her—an ally. Maybe it was just that sooner or later, even the sharpest pain became flattened.
“ ‘But I ain’t going down that long old lonesome road
all by myself,’ ” she sang automatically, and Ira sang, “Boom-da-da, boom-da-da—”
If Fiona remarried she would most likely acquire a new mother-in-law. Maggie hadn’t considered that. She wondered if Fiona and this woman would be close. Would they spend their every free moment together, as cozy as two girlfriends?
“And suppose she has another baby!” Maggie said.
Ira broke off his boom-das to ask, “Huh?”
“I saw her through that whole nine months! What will she do without me?”
“Who’re you talking about?”
“Fiona, of course. Who do you think?”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll manage somehow,” Ira said.
Maggie said, “Maybe, and maybe not.” She turned away from him to look out at the fields again. They seemed unnaturally textureless. “I drove her to her childbirth classes,” she said. “I drilled her in her exercises. I was her official labor coach.”
“So now she knows all about it,” Ira said.
“But it’s something you have to repeat with each pregnancy,” Maggie told him. “You have to keep at it.”
She thought of how she had kept at Fiona, whom pregnancy had turned lackadaisical and vague, so that if it hadn’t been for Maggie she’d have spent her entire third trimester on the couch in front of the TV. Maggie would clap her hands briskly—“Okay!”—and snap off the
Love Boat
rerun and fling open the curtains, letting sunshine flood the dim air of the living room and the turmoil of rock magazines and Fresca bottles. “Time for your pelvic squats!” she would cry, and Fiona would shrink and raise one arm to shield her eyes from the light.
“Pelvic squats, good grief,” she would say. “Abdominal humps. It all sounds so gross.” But she would heave
to her feet, sighing. Even in pregnancy, her body was a teenager’s—slender and almost rubbery, reminding Maggie of those scantily clad girls she’d glimpsed on beaches who seemed to belong to a completely different species from her own. The mound of the baby was a separate burden, a kind of package jutting out in front of her. “Breathing lessons—really,” she said, dropping to the floor with a thud. “Don’t they reckon I must know how to breathe by now?”
“Oh, honey, you’re just lucky they offer such things,” Maggie told her. “
My
first pregnancy, there wasn’t a course to be found, and I was scared to death. I’d have loved to take lessons! And afterward: I remember leaving the hospital with Jesse and thinking, ‘Wait. Are they going to let me just walk off with him? I don’t know beans about babies! I don’t have a license to do this. Ira and I are just amateurs.’ I mean you’re given all these lessons for the unimportant things—piano-playing, typing. You’re given years and years of lessons in how to balance equations, which Lord knows you will never have to do in normal life. But how about parenthood? Or marriage, either, come to think of it. Before you can drive a car you need a state-approved course of instruction, but driving a car is nothing, nothing, compared to living day in and day out with a husband and raising up a new human being.”
Which had not been the most reassuring notion, perhaps; for Fiona had said, “Jiminy,” and dropped her head in her hands.
“Though I’m certain you’ll do fine,” Maggie said in a hurry. “And of course you have me here to help you.”
“Oh, jiminy,” Fiona said.
Ira turned down a little side road called Elm Lane—a double string of tacky one-story cottages with RVs in most of the driveways and sometimes a sloping tin trailer
out back. Maggie asked him, “Who will wake up in the night now and bring her the baby to nurse?”
“Her husband, one would hope,” Ira said. “Or maybe she’ll keep the baby in
her
room this time, the way you should have had her do last time.” Then he gave his shoulders a slight shake, as if ridding himself of something, and said, “What baby? Fiona’s not having a baby; she’s just getting married, or so you claim. Let’s put first things first here.”
Well, but first things weren’t put first the time before; Fiona had been two months pregnant when she married Jesse. Not that Maggie wanted to remind him of that. Besides, her thoughts were on something else now. She was caught by an unexpected, piercingly physical memory of bringing the infant Leroy in to Fiona for her 2 a.m. feeding—that downy soft head wavering on Maggie’s shoulder, that birdlike mouth searching the bend of Maggie’s neck inside her bathrobe collar, and then the close, sleep-smelling warmth of Jesse’s and Fiona’s bedroom. “Oh,” she said without meaning to, and then, “Oh!” For there in Mrs. Stuckey’s yard (hard-packed earth, not really a yard at all) stood a wiry little girl with white-blond hair that stopped short squarely at her jawline. She had just let go of a yellow Frisbee, which sailed shuddering toward their car and landed with a thump on the hood as Ira swung into the driveway.
“That’s not—” Maggie said. “Is that—?”
“Must be Leroy,” Ira told her.
“It’s not!”
But of course, it had to be. Maggie was forced to make such a leap across time, though—from the infant on her shoulder to this gawky child, all in two seconds. She was experiencing some difficulty. The child dropped her hands to her sides and stared at them. Frowning gave her forehead a netted look. She wore a pink tank top with
some kind of red stain down the front, berry juice or Kool-Aid, and baggy shorts in a blinding Hawaiian print. Her face was so thin it was triangular, a cat’s face, and her arms and legs were narrow white stems.