The Return of Jonah Gray (12 page)

MAYBE IT WAS THE CONVERSATION IN THE BALL BAR OR
maybe I was just impatient. The next day, I called him again.

“Jonah Gray,” he answered, there at work at the
Stockton Star.

“Hi, I called you a couple of days ago. My name is—”

“Jeffrine,” he said. “I recognize your voice.”

“You do? Right. I guess you must have.”

“What can I do for you, Jeffrine?”

“I just wanted to double-check that you'd sent—”

“Oh, I sent it.”

“Because it hasn't shown up yet. But it's probably stuck in our processing center.”

“I imagine you get a lot of mail over there. The IRS probably doesn't rent the smallest post office box.”

“I think we probably rent the post office,” I agreed. “By the way, I read one of your articles. In the
Star,
” I said.

“You did, did you? Mind if I ask which one?”

I had reviewed them all at that point, so I just chose at random. “The one about the kids spray-painting those poor cows.”

He laughed. “You read that? You must have been doing your homework. Soon, you're going to know all my secrets.”

I smiled to myself but didn't admit that that was the point.

“You'll be glad to hear that the cows were all okay. Turns out there's a non-toxic solvent that gets paint off hair. Or fur. I guess it's cow hair, isn't it?”

“And horse hair and pony hair,” I said.

“Maybe it's only fur after it reaches a certain length,” he mused.

“Actually, there's no structural difference between fur and hair. Turns out it's just a human distinction.”

“Really?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“I've actually researched this topic before,” I said, wondering how eccentric that would make me sound to him—or to anyone, for that matter.

“You researched that? That's one of those things I've always wondered about and you went and figured it out. You never know what's going to come in handy, do you?” he said.

Alone in my cubicle, I felt myself blush. “So what are you working on now? Can I ask or is it a secret?”

“What am I
supposed
to be working on for the
Star,
or what am I actually doing?”

“The latter sounds more interesting.”

“Writing a letter to my sisters.”

“You have sisters?” That was something he'd never mentioned in his writing, nor had they shown up in his tax return.

“Two. Two half sisters actually.”

“Oh, shit,” I said, realizing that I'd completely forgotten to follow up with Uncle Ed about dinner with Marcus the night before. His secretary had called with the details, and I'd written them down, then promptly set them aside.

“What?” Jonah Gray asked. “Is that going to affect my audit? They're financially independent.”

“No, no, I'm sorry. It's not you. I just remembered something. I'm sorry. Your sisters—do they live in Stockton, too?” I asked. Uncle Ed could wait. I'd already missed the dinner.

“Oh, no. One is in Minneapolis, the other's in Boston.”

“Sounds like you've got some wanderers in your family.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“Just brothers. Two. Well, two and a half. Oh hey, this might be your return now.” I said.

From where I sat, I could see Ricardo making his way toward my cubicle, a thick envelope in hand. I stood to meet him, walking with the receiver pressed to my ear, around my desk, to where my cubicle opened into the hallway. In doing so, the phone cord pulled tight and jumped over my mug of pens, upending it.

“Dammit,” I said. I was going to have to move that mug.

“Are you okay over there?” Cliff called through the wall.

“I'm fine, Cliff,” I called back.

“I've got something for you,” Ricardo said, holding out the envelope.

“Jeffrine, it sounds like you're busy,” Jonah said to me.

“Yeah, I'd better go,” I said. I didn't want to hang up, but I was afraid Ricardo would say something that Jonah might overhear. My real name, for example.

“Just let me know if you need anything else from me,” Jonah said.

“Who are you talking to?” Ricardo asked.

I waved him away. “I sure will,” I told Jonah. “It was nice to talk with you again.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, then hung up.

I looked at Ricardo. “What's up?”

“Just bringing you your mail,” he said. “It's hand-addressed, so I thought it might be something interesting.” He handed it to me and waited.

“What?”

“Well?”

“It's private,” I said.

“You're no fun anymore.”

“Was I ever fun?” I asked him.

He considered the question. “I think you could be. There's still hope.”

The moment he was gone, I tore open the envelope and looked at the front page of Jonah's return. I dropped to my chair. He'd made a correction on the copy he'd sent. He'd crossed out the box he'd originally marked and marked “Married,” instead.

I called Martina.

“I don't understand,” she said. “You said he was single.”

“He was. He said he was. He was originally. But between now and then—”

“You're saying he got married in the past week?”

“No. He's been at work all week. He's at work today. And anyway, this is last year's return. I don't know. Maybe he forgot he was married.”

“That's not a good sign. Forgetting you're married isn't like forgetting to buy toilet paper.”

“You think I don't know that?”

I suddenly felt myself teetering on the edge of really screwing things up. I'd forgotten my dinner with Uncle Ed and Marcus. I was being chastised by people I'd never met. I was making excuses to call an auditee and pretend to be someone I wasn't. And I had spent the last week focused on a man who wasn't available. I had always prided myself on my ability to juggle, but it seemed that balls were dropping all around me. They had rolled under couches. They had bounced down storm drains. I had lost all sense of rhythm.

I looked at the first page of his return again, at the copy he'd sent, as asked, front and center on my desk. There was the neatly printed name. The 229 of his Social Security number, 530 Horsehair Road. And now,
Married, filing separately.
If only Ricardo had destroyed another page instead. I could have remained happily ignorant.

“He was single two years ago,” I said weakly. In each of the ten past returns Jeff Hill had looked up for me, Jonah Gray
had
been single.

“A lot can change in two years,” she pointed out. “I seem to recall that you had a crush on some guy named Marvin two years ago. Where is he now? Do you even know?”

“Maybe I need to take the rest of the day off.”

“I'm sorry,” Martina said. “I know you had your hopes up.”

“Plus he's got a dependent.” I hadn't noticed that before.

“You've been mooning over this guy for a week, and it turns out he's married with a kid?”

“That's what it looks like.”

“And that changes things?”

“Of course it changes things!” I'd seen the effects of infidelity within my own family. The very fact that I lived in California was an effect of it. That wasn't a minefield I planned to explore.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jonah Gray,” Martina said.

“The Grays. Happy holidays from the Gray family.”

“At least you're acclimating to the idea.”

“What choice do I have? God, I can't even stand to look at his return anymore.”

“So get someone else to finish it for you. You've done that before.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I mean, I'm probably no longer the impartial auditor he deserves. That's enough of a reason. Maybe Susan. The senior auditor title should grant me a few perks.” Another call was coming through. “Will you hold on?” I asked.

“I'm a busy person, you know,” Martina said. “I was deep into a research brief on the dried beef market when you called.”

I put her on hold. “Sasha Gardner,” I said.

“Sasha?” It was my mother, but her voice sounded as if it were moving through leaves, hard to catch.

“Hi, Mom. Listen, I'm on the other—”

“Sasha, I need your help.” That got my attention. My mother didn't usually phrase requests so plainly. She was better at complex, behind-the-scenes manipulation.

“What is it? What's happened?”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Do you think you could come by the house tomorrow morning? Saturday?” she asked.

“Sure. Why? Did something happen?”

“I just…I need you to…I want to cover the pool.”

“The pool?”

“I can't do it by myself.”

“I thought you had the pool service do that. It's not even Labor Day.”

“Your father and I…we're going to close it early this year. Bring your bathing suit. It's supposed to be nice out.” Her voice sounded near to breaking, which was strange. She'd never been much of a swimmer.

“What time?” I didn't have any other plans, but it still felt like an inconvenience.

“How about ten?”

“You know, I've never put the cover on. I'm not sure how much help I'll be.”

“Ten tomorrow morning,” my mother repeated.

“I'll see you then,” I said. “But I've got to go. Martina's on the other line.”

I thought she'd say, “Oh, Martina,” or “Give my best to that lovely girl,” or something along those lines. But she didn't.

“Ten,” was all she said. Then she hung up, just as Martina had, a while before.

I turned back to Jonah Gray's file, now thick with his completed return, the background information the Service had collected and his ten past filings. I gathered all the elements together and carried them over to Susan's cubicle. Susan wasn't the best auditor around, but she got her work done on time.

“What's this?” she asked.

“I'm reassigning an audit to you,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because…because I think this particular return will be good training.”

“Training?”

“There are a variety of deductions to assess.”

“But I already have a full load.”

“Then you can also consider this a time-management exercise.”

“Did Fred Collins say something about my organization? Wait, is this because I called you a know-it-all?”

“Did you?” I asked, trying to look surprised. “This isn't personal, Susan. It's about choosing the right auditor for the job. We need to work efficiently.”

But back at my cubicle, I found it difficult to follow my own officious advice. I began a new return, but made no headway. I didn't care. My heart wasn't in it.

AT TEN ON SATURDAY MORNING, I PULLED UP TO MY
parents' house in Piedmont. Kurt's car was parked in the driveway, which rankled me a little. My mother hadn't said anything about inviting him down. My mother probably thought that I wouldn't be able to figure out how to cover the pool by myself or that Kurt would. Kurt, who couldn't even change a tire.

Inside, the house felt still, as if everyone were asleep. I headed for the bathroom to change into my swimsuit—I'd say hello afterward—and that's when I heard whispering.

It wasn't normal whispering. It was the tone you might use if you were pissed as hell but there was a kid nearby or someone was asleep or for some other reason, you were trying to keep your voice down. I realized after a moment that the whisperer was Lori, my sister-in-law.

“I don't want to hear it. I really don't,” she snapped.

“But—” That was Kurt.

“Enough!” she said. Her shriek cracked the house's stillness. “We will discuss this at home.”

I turned the corner and saw Lori in the hallway, her arms crossed. She was glaring at Kurt who stood a few feet away, in the doorway of the bathroom. The standoff broke as soon as they caught sight of me.

“Sasha, I didn't, we didn't—what a nice surprise,” Lori said, moving to give me a hug and squeezing a little hard for comfort.

“I didn't know you guys were coming down this weekend,” I said, choosing to ignore what I'd just overheard.

“Well, when Lola called,” Lori said.

“About the pool cover?”

Lori frowned. “She said she needed Kurt's help moving furniture. It sounded important.”

“Did you bring the boys?” I asked.

“Mom took them out for a few minutes,” Kurt said.

I looked toward the bathroom. “Mind if I get in there?” I asked Kurt. “I want to swim while I still can.”

Lori was gone when I emerged, but Kurt was waiting for me, across the hall in my former bedroom. I use the word
former
instead of
old
because the entire room had been redone in the previous year, re-redone to be precise. Anything that once defined it as mine was long gone, packed in boxes in the back of the closet or on shelves in the garage. Only a stuffed bear in a rocking chair alluded to the fact that a child had ever lived there.

Kurt sat in the rocking chair, the bear in his lap.

“What's up?” I asked.

“What an awful morning,” he said.

“Mom asked you here to move furniture? Why didn't she ask Dad?”

Kurt shrugged. “I don't think Dad's even awake yet.”

I looked at my watch and frowned. Our father was a habitually early riser. I didn't know whether he was born to the trait or whether it was a product of an accountant's focus on waste, be it time or money.

“What's so awful?” I asked.

Kurt took a breath. “I need to ask you something,” he said. He dropped his voice so low that I had to lean forward to hear him. “If Lori asks you—I don't think she will, but if she does—tell her that you don't remember when I left the party.”

“The anniversary party?” I asked. “Why?”

“Just say you don't remember.”

“I
don't
remember,” I said. “I know it was before Dad—”

“No,” Kurt snapped. “Just that you don't remember. Nothing extra.”

I sat up. “What did you do?” I asked.

He didn't answer. He stood, handed me the stuffed bear and left the room. I looked at the animal, then arranged it on the chair again. It wasn't mine, nor had it ever been.

 

Soon, my mother and the boys returned. I greeted three-year-old Jackie and five-year-old Eddie with hugs, then marched them off to Lori, who was in the kitchen making a snack. My mother and I followed close behind.

“I'm glad you could come,” my mother said to me. She sounded better than she had on the phone, but she looked tense.

“I didn't realize you had asked Kurt and Lori over, too. I'm sure they could help with the pool cover.”

“You know, I didn't even think of that,” she said, sitting at the kitchen table.

Lori was in the midst of pouring milk for the boys. “I love that polish on you, Lola,” she said.

My mother held out her hands and gazed at her fingernails. “Do you? I thought it might be a little dark when I saw it in the bottle,” my mother said.

“No, it looks great.”

At times like those, I wondered whether Lori and I were even the same species. She had been in the house for less than an hour and could simultaneously care for her children and talk manicures, all while smiling through whatever storm was passing between her and my brother. If I handled things half that well—well, I wouldn't have been behind at work, for one.

My mother caught me squinting at her hands. “Sasha,” she said. “If you ever wanted to come with me to the salon, you know I'd pay for it.”

“You've offered that before,” I said.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” my mother said to Lori. “I'm sure I was just confused. I wasn't paying attention to who left when.”

“It's not your fault,” Lori said.

“What happened earlier?” I asked. But my mother just shrugged and Lori pretended not to have heard me. “So Dad's still in bed?” I tried, when it became clear that there wouldn't be an answer to my first question.

“What? What are you talking about?” my mother asked.

“Kurt said that he thought Dad was still in bed. Is he feeling okay?”

“Oh, that. Of course,” my mother said, settling back down.

“The ankle's okay?”

“Your father's ankle is nearly all better,” she said. I thought her smile looked forced. I wondered whether my parents were also fighting. Maybe there was something in the air.

“Where's Blake?” I asked.

“He's got one of his pageants or something,” Kurt said, walking into the kitchen. I noticed that Lori didn't look at him.

“It's just marching-band practice,” my mother said, waving Kurt off. “You know that.”

“Whatever,” he said.

My no-longer-so-little brother had always been musically gifted and had recently risen from lead trumpet to drum major in his high school's marching band. Being drum major meant leading the band through its half-time twists and turns, using a whistle and working a mace, the giant stick that all the other marchers were supposed to keep an eye on. It was a rare honor for a sophomore to be chosen.

Kurt had been unimpressed by the news, deeming the marching band “a social wasteland” and wondering aloud why Blake hadn't gone out for basketball or soccer or even the newspaper. Even I hadn't expected Blake to embrace the marching band with such fervor. It seemed to me that most musical fifteen-year-olds would have headed for a rock 'n' roll outlet instead. But when I mentioned as much to my mother, she reminded me that the world of the drum major often included majorettes, a siren song for most boys Blake's age.

My mother turned to look through the sliding glass doors, out to the patio. “I really must spend some time tending the garden today,” she said.

I followed her gaze and adjusted my bathing suit. “Maybe I'll get in the pool.”

I dove in and once Lori had dressed Eddie and Jackie in swim trunks and water wings, they barreled in after me. Lori arranged herself on one side of the pool, her legs dangling into the water. Kurt sat on the side opposite in a lounge chair.

My mother busied herself by a grouping of planters. For a garden limited to pots and window boxes, she cultivated an impressive assortment of plants. She was always checking pH levels and adding fertilizer or bone meal and carefully pruning everything back before the basil could bolt or the tomatoes grew leggy. I never understood her willingness to tend each one so painstakingly, only to let it all wither come winter.

Before the start of every growing season, she always picked a single vegetable to try to cultivate, carefully choosing the most expensive or obscure heirloom varieties, the sort you'd never find in a super market.

“It's our family tradition,” she liked to say, though what she planted was always her decision. Each year, it was something new. We ate more kohlrabi in one summer than most people eat in a lifetime. (“It's the early purple Vienna variety,” I remember her pointing out, as if that would somehow make our tenth meal of the stuff novel.) One year, she'd grown Brussels sprouts. That particular year, she'd chosen a fancy breed of broccoli.

Now she sighed. “I'm afraid I've got loopers,” she said.

I swam over and propped my elbows on the pool's edge. “I don't know if that's good or bad,” I admitted.

“They're an evil sort of worm. At least, I think that's a looper. I keep meaning to bring one to the nursery, but with the anniversary party and then your father's ankle and—well, maybe this is not the year for broccoli after all.” She shook her head sadly, but remained where she was, bent over her wan little plants, picking bugs off one by one. A thankless task, I thought, before swimming away.

My mother de-looped for a while longer, then carefully took off her gardening gloves and rose to her feet. She wiped the dirt from her lap, turned around and looked at us. I was still in the pool with the boys. Lori was sprawled across a towel, reading a magazine. Kurt remained in the lounge chair, brooding.

“I'm so glad you could come over this morning. I have to tell you something,” my mother said. We all watched her, waiting. “Your father isn't well.”

“It's not the flu, is it?” I asked.

“He's in the hospital,” she said.

This was how I would find out, wearing a bathing suit, my fingers pruned and pale from the water, the sting of chlorine in my eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Kurt asked.

“Daddy's sick?” Eddie asked, looking at Kurt.

“Not me, honey. Grandpa is. My father.”

“Grandpa's sick?”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“The cancer came back,” my mother said. “It's in his brain now. Dr. Fisher believes he might have six months.”

“Six months?” Kurt asked.

“Left,” my mother said.

“What's in six months?” I heard Jackie whisper.

“Shh,” Lori said. “Just listen.”

“Is that why we're here?” I asked. I wished I were out of the pool, or at least wearing a shirt. It seemed as if I should have been wearing clothes, serious clothes, at such a moment. But I was frozen there.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Kurt asked.

“I just did,” my mother said.

“Six months?” I repeated. “Are they sure? Can they be so sure?”

Anyone who has ever had a relative in remission lives in fear of this sort of news. The phone call from the doctor's office. The routine blood test, sure-it's-nothing, we'll-know-on-Monday call that comes in around lunchtime, as if it's an animate thing that knows just how to kill an appetite. I remember when we found out the first time. My father had had a fever that nagged on too long. Stage-three lymphoma, as it turned out.

But in a way, that initial announcement wasn't the worst because my family was so cosseted in denial. It was a wrong number, a mislabeled file, or else it was a technician's mistake, not cancer at all. It takes time for that stuff to sink in.

One night in January of that same year, I had found my father passed out on the floor of the hallway bathroom, vomit half in the bowl, half out. I thought we'd lost him, and only then did it occur to me that we might. Chemotherapy is literally a mix of solvents, like alcohol. After a time, it will wear away the most stubborn lacquer of denial, whether you're the one taking bitter medicine or your father is.

Only, he had beaten it. He had knocked those angry, replicating cells from his lymph system, and what the chemo didn't dissolve, a surgeon pulled out, leaving my father with fewer lymph nodes but a body no longer at war with itself.

I don't know why I had assumed that it wouldn't return. I think I figured he was so difficult to get along with, the cancer would eventually move on to a more amenable host.

“When did you find out?” Kurt asked.

My father, it seemed, had begun to lose his color vision about a month earlier. My mother said that he thought it was just a side effect.

“Of what?” I asked. “He hasn't been on chemo for four months.”

“Don't be mad,” she said. “It wasn't until it was nearly gone that he really noticed. And of course, he's been having those headaches.”

“What headaches?”

“He didn't mention them?”

“What headaches?” I asked again, though the answer didn't matter. I thought of the deviled eggs he'd found too pale, the stumbling, his fall at the anniversary party, his irrational anger. So there had been headaches, too. It didn't change anything.