I don’t know what I expected. A big house, tennis courts, Doberman pinschers racing out to meet me. But what I see when I reach the last twist in the driveway, which is really no bigger than a path, I’m totally unprepared for.
Bernadette’s station wagon is parked next to other cars—beaten cars that haven’t run for a long time. In addition to cars, there’s a ton of other stuff: a bent baby-carriage frame, a rusty tricycle. In the corner of the clearing—you can’t really call it a yard—is a faded, torn, inflatable wading pool. Next to the pool is a dirty doll, its head cracked open.
The house isn’t a house—it’s a basement. Apparently, someone was going to build a house but ran out of money Or decided that they would rather not pay property taxes. In New Hampshire you have to pay taxes only on a house, not on a foundation. So instead of building, they tar-papered a roof over the foundation—a flat roof that should have been a floor. The tar paper is peeling off.
I am so astounded by what I see that it takes me a moment to realize I can see it. Bernadette flicks her headlights off and steps out of the car. She turns and looks right at me.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?” This is bravery for other than moonlight, it’s dark.
I realize that she can’t identify me while I’m on the driveway For a moment I think of running, just getting out of there. But I don’t.
“It’s Jocelyn,” I say “From Joe’s Grill.”
Her voice calms, but it doesn’t soften. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see where you were going. I wondered if Gabe would be there.”
Just then a deep voice bellows from the basement. “Bernadette, where are you? Who are you talking to?”
A man staggers up from the bulkhead. He walks upright but tilted backward. Like a bear not used to walking on its hind legs. He’s enormous. “Is your mother home?” He slurs his words.
“Not yet, Daddy. She’s still at work. I’m talking to a girlfriend. Just a girlfriend.”
“Lemmee see your girlfriend.” He says it like she brought home some juicy treat.
“I got your Winstons.” She walks over and hands her father the carton the way a mother would hand a baby a set of keys to keep it from pitching a tantrum. I try to imagine Bernadette living in this cellar with that man. I try to imagine the mother who will be returning home. I try to imagine Gabe visiting her here.
The man takes the carton, bends over—seemingly to stop the world from spinning—and then heads back down.
“Obviously, Gabe’s not here,” Bernadette says to me.
Why “obviously”? I ask myself.
I feel lost. I realize that all this time Gabe has been living a life completely apart from me. Our childhood games, our family get-togethers, our working together at the Grill have nothing, not a thing to do with who Gabe is and the life he now leads. I have no idea why he dates Bernadette. It seems to me that if it was just about sleeping with her, he’d have had a one-night stand. That it would have ended long ago. Did he talk to her father when he picked her up for dates?
“Bernadette, there’s a pack missing from this carton!” the man yells.
“They must have opened the carton at the store, Daddy. I’ll go back and get another pack for you later.” Bernadette takes the missing pack out of her peacoat pocket. “Want a cig?” she says.
I remember Theresa in the car. She’s got to be worried by now. But, hell, she could have come with me, right? “Sure,” I say.
Bernadette and I sit up on a boulder. She lights two cigarettes and hands one to me. I actually think the taste of cigarettes, especially the no-menthol ones, is disgusting. But I do what Theresa and I have been practicing. I take a drag and puff out some smoke rings. It’s a cool little trick when you can’t stand the feel of smoke in your lungs.
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Bernadette says. “As soon as I finish school, I’m getting a job, renting a place, and moving my mother out.”
“Does your mother want to leave?”
“She thinks she has nowhere else to go. But that’s not true. She could go far, if she believed in herself.”
I really admire Bernadette at this moment, and I want to tell her, but I’m too chicken. “You must be worried sick about Gabe,” I say instead.
I feel her shrug. “I miss talking to him.”
It doesn’t feel like a complete answer. “Do you love him?” I ask, and immediately wish I could take it back. What a stupid thing to say. I’ve never even asked Theresa if she’s loved someone—not in the way I mean now.
She takes a long drag on her cigarette. She’s decided to ignore the question, I think. But she hasn’t.
“No one gets me and Gabe. They think they do—they think they know all about us. But they don’t know the first thing.”
“Like what?”
I can see her debating with herself—it’s written all over her face: Should I tell her or not? “Well, I’m a virgin, for one thing.”
“You are?” I wish I could have prevented my amazement from showing.
I think that she’s going to say more, but she doesn’t. She has no need to explain things to me.
“My friend’s back on the road,” I say, stamping out my butt. “I better go.” For some reason, I don’t want Theresa to come down this driveway. How Bernadette is seen in Weaver Falls is her choice. I want to keep it that way.
“I’ll walk you out,” she says. It’s clear that Bernadette would rather be anywhere than back in that cellar. As we approach the end of the driveway she backs away from me.
I reach out for the car door handle and ask, “Where do you think Gabe is?”
“At confession.” She throws down the cigarette and taps it out with her Timberlands, expensive shit-kickers. She sees me staring at her boots.
“Gabe bought them.”
“Where do you think he is?”
“Get in, Jocelyn.” Theresa’s had it.
I stand there. I want to know what Bernadette means.
“Ask Father Warren,” she says. Then she turns to walk back.
“Hey!” I hear just as I’m getting into the car. I pop back out.
“I do,” she calls.
It makes no sense to me.