CAROL’S STUDENT HAS FEW PROBLEMS with individual words—it is sentences that give him trouble. Donald, her fifty-four-year-old student, begins the new paragraph, reading just above a whisper, then stops before the end of the second line. The Detroit Public Library is busy with people checking out books, and Carol concentrates on the shuffling noise at the circulation desk rather than on the silence in front of her. Donald lowers his head and moves his finger across the page.
“There are fifteen words in this sentence. It’s too long.” He shows Carol the book as if she won’t believe his claim.
“You know the words,” Carol says again. This is their first night working together, and she tries to be patient, but Donald has been complaining about sentence length since they started. “Read it aloud. Slowly. Then you’ll understand what it means.”
“Adults read to themselves,” Donald protests. “I don’t want to read like a beginner.”
Carol knows that in ancient times only the most intelligent people could read without voicing the words. Julius Caesar was considered to be a genius because he read without moving his lips. Messengers would stare in awe as he read the news of the State—his mind understanding, his body not showing any struggle.
Carol keeps her thoughts to herself. She does not like teaching people to read and knows her lack of enthusiasm makes her a less-than-average teacher. She only volunteered for the program because she is attracted to her next-door neighbor, Mitch, who is also doing volunteer work. She thought these nights of charity would bring them closer together. So far this has not happened.
Donald asks if they can take a water break and Carol agrees. When they return to their table, Donald finishes the article and they discuss his understanding of the material. At nine o’clock they carry the books back to the special program desk. Carol takes out his file and records what they’ve read and how much progress she feels he’s made. His former reading teacher has made several notes, and Carol learns that Donald is serious about learning but easily distracted. He is also unusually talkative about his personal life.
Once outside, Donald offers her a ride. It is late June and the sky is full of pastel pinks and blues. The sun, like the kids playing tag in the parking lot, is stalling nightfall.
“My friend’s here.” Carol points to the car parked in front of the library, where Mitch is waiting with his emergency lights flashing. Mitch has told her that he admires the way she cares about her students, and she wants him to see her talking with Donald.
“I look forward to seeing you again.” She dawdles for a moment to impress Mitch.
“Thank you for your help,” Donald says. “You’re a very good teacher.”
Carol blushes. No one has ever praised her for her work. She’s not certain she deserves it, but she’s pleased by the compliment.
“Is that a new one?” Mitch asks when she gets into the car. The air conditioner is on high, and Carol shivers with goosebumps.
“New to me, but not a beginner,” Carol says. “His other teacher just quit the program, so I got him.” Her body adjusts to the cool air, and the bumps on her arm disappear. She asks Mitch how his night went.
“Dull. We went back to the house and watched videos.”
“Did he talk?”
“Three, maybe four words,” Mitch says. “I feel like quitting. If this is what it means to be a Big Brother, I don’t want to do it. I’m not helping him like this.”
Mitch’s little brother is fourteen years old and quiet. He prefers to watch cable TV at Mitch’s house rather than play baseball or visit Boblo Island, an amusement park on the Detroit River—things Mitch had planned to do with him. One night he asked Mitch if he could mow his lawn, and Mitch told him he could do it whenever he wanted. It’s the only thing he shows any interest in.
“You can’t quit. We’re in this together,” Carol says. If Mitch quits doing volunteer work, they won’t have a reason to see each other.
Mitch nods and asks if Carol wants to eat pizza. She agrees, though she doesn’t like the Italian restaurant in their neighborhood. The place is too loud, too bright, and there are always too many people. She and Mitch are not lovers, but Carol has been attracted to him ever since he bought the house next door. He is exactly the kind of person she wants to date. He is kind. He is interesting. He is good-looking. He has a job. He has all his hair and he doesn’t complain about every little thing—a trait she finds difficult to deal with in both men and women, but especially annoying in men. Carol is used to men’s attention, and Mitch’s aloofness confuses as well as depresses her. As it stands, she has no idea whether he finds her sexually interesting, even mildly attractive.
On Thursday the secretary from the Literacy Program calls Carol at work and relays the message that Donald will not be able to make tonight’s lesson. He wants to reassure Carol that he’s serious about learning and that he will definitely be there next week. Carols takes the black magic marker and draws a large X on her desk calendar. Then she calls Mitch and pretends to be relieved that she has a week’s reprieve from the volunteer job. She tells him that she’d still like to get together for dinner. Mitch asks if he and his little brother can watch TV at her house. The temperature at noon was in the upper nineties, and he knows his house will be a hotbox.
“My living room’s not air-conditioned,” Carol says. “We could sit out on the back porch. There might be some sort of breeze.”
“Let’s move the TV into the air conditioning,” Mitch says. “I have to get out of this heat.”
“That’s fine.” Carol is delighted with Mitch’s suggestion and considers it progress that he knows that her bedroom is airconditioned. She thinks again how uncomplicated it would be to start an intimate relationship with Mitch. They are already friends. They are familiar with each other’s tastes in restaurants, movies, and other kinds of entertainment. They own almost identical homes. There would be none of the awkward getting to know one another that Carol finds so boring.
At six-thirty Mitch and Kevin arrive carrying stacks of styro-foam cartons full of take-out ribs. The milk shakes are dripping through the paper bag. They stain Mitch’s clean T-shirt with circles of chocolate. Carol opens everything in the sink and transfers it to paper plates. She has been too hot to think about eating, and she doesn’t know how they’ll finish the heavy slabs of ribs, the quarts of coleslaw.
Mitch spreads a plastic tablecloth on the floor in front of the TV stand and the three of them eat picnic-style watching the news. Mitch is wearing shorts, and the hair on his legs is wet with perspiration. Carol watches him while he eats. Kevin is quiet, but seems pleased with the meal. He is engrossed in the television and seems to get more of the jokes than Carol does.
The food makes Carol listless. The night is duller than she had imagined. She tries to stay awake but nods off during one of the situation comedies. She jerks up when she hears Kevin’s laugh. Mitch is in the kitchen trying to stuff all the paper trash into the small trash can. She opens a garbage bag for him and he fills it.
“It’d be easier to adopt a child overseas,” Mitch jokes. “Think how simple it would be to mail in seventy-two cents a day.”
“That’s not the point.” It occurs to her that maybe the only reason he is sticking out the volunteer job is that he wants to see her. This thought pleases her.
He smiles. “Watching three hours of TV a night is?” He pushes the hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. He is always doing things like this—touching her in small ways that make Carol feel he’d be a caring lover. They are alone. It is just the moment that he should kiss her. She waits, but he goes to the sink and washes the barbecue sauce off his hands.
As soon as Kevin and Mitch leave, Carol goes to bed. She thinks of Mitch’s hand on her face and knows that they are getting closer. The next morning she’s awake by five-thirty, feeling refreshed and ready for the day to begin. She showers, dresses for work, and then sits on the front porch with her coffee and last night’s newspaper. The air is gray, and waking noises strike like echoes as they move across the silent city.
Mitch’s side door slams shut, and Carol watches a woman walk down the drive. The woman smiles and says good morning, but Carol is too surprised to react. Instead she looks down at the newspaper in her lap and tries to understand the bold print of the headlines. Carol hears the sound of an engine, then the hum of tires, as a red Toyota disappears around the corner.
She knows it’s not fair. It’s not fair that Mitch slept with a woman after spending the evening with her. He has never mentioned that he was seeing anyone, and Carol suspects he kept it from her deliberately. She feels betrayed by his touch in the kitchen—betrayed that he would go on to touch someone else more intimately.
Though it is only six-fifteen, Carol decides to leave for the hospital where she works. She doesn’t care how early she arrives. Her coffee cup is half full when she throws it at Mitch’s bedroom window. She wants him to know that she’s seen his woman. The leftover liquid swirls around the cup, but the shot is just short of the window. There is no sound when it lands in the tangled, overgrown bushes.
The temperature crawls past one hundred degrees and stays there as the week begins, then drags on, with the sun piercing steadily. The city traps the heat and holds it in the miles of cement. The windless nights do nothing to cool the air.
Carol keeps an eye out for the woman and her red Toyota, but sees neither. One night, stepping out of the shower, she hears Mitch’s laugh, then the steady stream of his voice through the open windows. She flicks off the light and stands in the darkness, straining to make sense of his words. She is wet, and when the warm night air circles through the bathroom, she shivers. She sees the trail of phone cord as he paces in front of the stove. It is a relief to find him alone. She dries herself with the damp bath towel in the dark, still listening, trying to figure out who he’s talking to.
On Thursday she crosses the front lawn to Mitch’s house half an hour before they normally leave for their volunteer jobs. She makes a reference to the heat, saying that she is anxious to be in the air-conditioned library. Mitch is surly, short-tempered. He tells her that he is too hot and too tired to spend another dull evening with Kevin. Carol suggests they go to a movie theater, and Mitch says it’s either that or the mall. She wants to bring up the woman but doesn’t know how to do it without appearing jealous. Instead, she tells him not to despair. “The heat can’t get any worse,” she promises.
Donald is standing by the water fountain, and when Carol walks into the library, he gives up his place in line.
“I was thinking about your name,” he says.
Carol did not expect him to be there so soon. She is slightly annoyed to see him already.
“Your name is like who you are,” Donald continues. “Care. Caring. Carol.”
“Oh, really?” Carol plans her dinner with Mitch. Since it is her night to pay, she thinks she will suggest a restaurant where they can order a nice bottle of wine. A place where they can be alone.
“It came to me this weekend when I was practicing reading,” Donald shows her a piece of paper with her name written across the top. The О and the L are crossed out and an E has been inserted. “You work just like your name. You care about people.”
Carol is uncomfortable with this praise. She is just about to change the subject when Donald does.
“I’m learning to read because my wife killed herself.” Donald is speaking too fast, and Carol misses the conjunction.
“Excuse me?”
“My wife killed herself last October.”
“I’m sorry,” Carol says. “That must be difficult. To be alone and all.” She makes a vague gesture with her hand as if to include all his sorrow.
“I’m not alone,” Donald tells her. “I’ve got kids. Four kids.”
I’m sure they’re a help.”
“Sometimes,” Donald says. “But mostly they’re a drain. A financial drain.”
Carol nods in sympathy.
“I couldn’t read my wife’s suicide note,” Donald says.
Carol motions for him to lower his voice. He is not bothering anyone, but she feels that the things he is telling her should be whispered—at least talked about in low tones.
“She left it on the table for Julie to find. That’s my oldest, Julie, and she’s always the first one home.” Donald rips the newspaper article into long thin strips, then shapes them into different-sized spheres that remind Carol of spitballs.
“Did your wife know you couldn’t read?” Carol had always assumed that adult illiterates hid the fact that they couldn’t read, especially from people close to them. But through the program she had found that there are just as many who are proud of the fact that they can’t read. One of her students was arrogant about her illiteracy. The student saw herself as a member of a private club—a club with only a few members and the numbers dwindling.
“Of course she knew I couldn’t read. I was married to her, wasn’t I?” Donald arranges the newspaper balls in a line and flicks them with a snap of his thumb and index finger. They fly off the table and disappear into the gray carpet—the same color as the newspaper.
Carol puts out her hand to stop Donald from littering in the library, but he thinks she is playing a game and aims directly at her hand as if it were a net.
“That’s why she wrote the note,” Donald says. “She wanted Julie to read it to me so that I would stop her. She wanted me to get there in time to save her.”
Carol does not encourage him by asking about the note, so when Donald explains what happened, she tells herself that it’s not her fault. Donald talks the rest of the hour, and even though they have read nothing, when she fills out his progress card she checks the box marked satisfactory improvement.
“It’s so sad. Just a sad, sad story.” Carol stops talking to sip her wine. “This guy is absolutely devastated and ashamed that he can’t read. And talk about a punishment. Nothing as simple as losing a job. He couldn’t read his wife’s suicide note and didn’t give it to anybody in time to save her.”
“I don’t get it,” Mitch says. “How could the wife be so sure that he could have saved her?”
“They own property in Milan, just south of Ann Arbor,” Carol explains. “And that’s where the wife said she was going to kill herself. Only she didn’t drive on the highways. She was scared to death of trucks. She thought they’d stray out of their lanes and smash her car into the guardrails. So when she’d drive out to the property, she’d take the back roads.”
“The back roads to Ann Arbor?” Mitch says. “That’s got to take a couple of hours.”
“Right.” Carol tears off a piece of bread and Mitch passes her the butter dish. This small gesture pleases her. It shows her that he is aware of her needs, and she rushes ahead with her story. “That’s what the wife was counting on. She thought the daughter would read Donald the note as soon as he got home. Donald would be frantic, and he’d drive out to the property in time to rescue her. But his daughter got sick, and the neighbor across the street came over to borrow something, and Donald forgot all about the note in his pocket.”
Mitch asks her if she’s going to eat the rest of her chicken. Carol tells him he can have it. She is irritated that he’s not more taken with the story. It is just the kind of thing that they usually share about their volunteer jobs.
“His wife was waiting out in the country listening for car tires on the gravel roads. I can just imagine her sitting there on the grass while the sun went down, waiting for someone to save her. I guess when it got dark and no one had come to rescue her, she decided she had to go through with it. Donald thinks it’s because no one came that she went ahead and killed herself. She must have gotten lonelier and lonelier, thinking everyone hated her. I mean why else would a whole family ignore a suicide note.”
“Did she do it with a gun?” Mitch asks.
“No, she hanged herself.”
“That’s brutal,” Mitch says. “Really brutal.”
“I keep thinking about Donald and how guilty he must feel about the whole thing. He says he’s embarrassed to go anywhere. He thinks people point at him and say, ‘There’s that dumb man who couldn’t even read his wife’s suicide note.’”
“Has he asked you out yet?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It sounds to me like your friend Donald is hitting on you.” “He tells me about his wife killing herself, and you think he’s hitting on me?”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Then tell me what you meant.”
“How about if you tell me how much time you spent reading tonight?”
Carol stammers and Mitch laughs.
“See, I told you.” Mitch cuts her leftover chicken into squares. “The guy’s interested in you.”
“He is not interested in me,” Carol wipes her mouth and then tosses the napkin onto the table. “He’s not like that. He’s just a sad man with real problems.”
“And you’re a young woman willing to listen to him.”
“That’s right,” Carol says. “I’m showing him some compassion.”
“An awful lot of compassion from what I can see.” Mitch smiles.
“Well, at least it’s normal compassion,” Carol says. “What does that mean?”
“He probably doesn’t make his women leave the house at six o’clock in the morning.”
Mitch drops the fork with the square piece of chicken onto his plate. He is quiet for only a moment. “How long have you been spying on me?”
“I’m not spying on you.” The conversation has taken an odd turn, and his anger upsets her. She has no idea how to make herself desirable to this man she wants so desperately.
“What would you call it? Keeping watch on my house?”
“I wasn’t watching your house.” Carol can feel the perspiration dripping from the backs of her knees onto her calves. She remembers the night in the bathroom, but knows that it would have been impossible for Mitch to see her. “I was reading the newspaper on the porch.”
“At six o’clock in the morning? You were out there at six o’clock in the morning?”
“I was up. I wanted to be outside before it got too hot.” Her story is true, but her tone is defensive. She shakes her head as if she can physically get rid of this feeling that she has done something wrong.
They are two blocks from home when Carol apologizes. “I’m sorry I upset you.” She is not used to admitting that she is wrong, and her words sound awkward.
Mitch nods. “It’s me. I’m just hot. Tired, too. Tired of being hot, I guess.”
“Me too,” Carol agrees.
“Hey. I’m off the hook for next Thursday.” Mitch turns down the radio.
“You quit the program?” Carol tries to rid her voice of the tension she feels.
“No, no,” Mitch says. “Kevin got sponsored for camp.” “He’s going to camp?”
“A CYO camp up in Port Huron,” Mitch says. “Right on the lake.”
Mitch pulls into his driveway but does not shut off the motor. They talk in the cool of the air-conditioned car. “I don’t know what Kevin’s going to do in the wilderness. He doesn’t seem the type to go into sports or swimming or anything like that.”
“That’s great,” Carol says. In the side mirror she sees their neighbor, Mr. Schott, and his son playing catch. Their shadowy figures move slowly in the fading light.
“I don’t know how I’m going to live without my heavy metal video fix,” Mitch laughs.
“Won’t the program want you to take care of another little brother?”
“The kids aren’t interchangeable,” Mitch explains. “It’s not like we’re baby-sitters.”
“I know that,” Carol says. “I just thought they might have someone else who needs a big brother.”
“The idea is to form a bond with your little brother,” Mitch says. “Not to overload us.”
“Donald asked me to do him a favor,” Carol says. She had not planned on telling Mitch about Donald’s request, but she wants to show him she understands the role of a volunteer worker as much as he does.
“What kind of favor?”
“I guess his wife was in some financial trouble before she killed herself. She wrote a few bad checks that Donald can’t make good on right now.”
“Is that why she did it?”
“Donald didn’t say that,” Carol says. “There’s this one beautician who keeps calling the house and asking for his wife. Donald can’t bring himself to tell the woman that his wife is dead. He asked me to go to the beauty shop and talk to her.”
“And you’re going to do it?” Mitch asks.
“I think so.” Carol nods even though until this moment she had not planned on carrying out the favor. She had told Donald she was in the middle of a busy work week and that she’d let him know.
“You’ll have to let me know what happens,” Mitch says.
Now Carol has no choice. She must call Donald and tell him that she’ll go through with the favor.
“Be careful.” Mitch turns the key and they get out of the car. “You know how goofy people can be about money.”
“Thanks.” Carol is touched by his warning. She invites him over for a beer. Mitch suggests another night.
Carol’s mood turns sour at his refusal. She wants to ask if that woman is coming over, but she knows it’s none of her business.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Thanks, anyway,” Mitch says. He watches Mr. Schott and his son toss a baseball back and forth. He is calm, clearly unaware how much his casual, non-interested attitude frustrates her.
Carol has never been so forward with a man. Most of the others simply assumed that she was interested in them and took it from there. But with Mitch, she doesn’t know what to say to express how she feels. This night she doesn’t get a chance. Mr. Schott misses his son’s throw, and Mitch runs to retrieve it. The three of them form a triangle and toss the ball back and forth. The rest of the daylight disappears, and soon it is too dark even to see the ball, let alone catch it.
The beauty shop is at the dead end of a one-way street in the center of Ann Arbor. The closest parking structure is full and Carol circles the block three times waiting for someone to leave. Finally she drives down a residential street and parks in the shade of a mountain ash. The shop is a converted Victorian home with window boxes full of geraniums and a white railing up the front steps. Carol tells the receptionist that she’d like to see the manicurist, Pamela. Before she can explain that she doesn’t want to have her nails done, the receptionist calls Pamela’s name on the intercom system. “There’s a walk-in here if you can take her.”
Carol starts to explain that she just wants to talk to Pamela, but the phone rings again and the receptionist flips the large pages of the datebook forward. She puts her hand over the receiver.
“You can go on up.” She jerks her head to the stairs and then resumes the conversation. It is obvious by the fast pace of her conversation that the person on the other end is not a customer but someone close to the receptionist. Carol climbs the dark-carpeted steps to the second floor, where the hand-printed sign directs her to Pamela’s table. Pamela stands up from her manicure stand and asks Carol to take off her rings and watch.
“We give hand massages here,” she explains. “You don’t want any metal on your body.”
Carol slips off her jewelry and sets it next to the dish of soapy water. She feels intimidated by Pamela’s looks. Her hair is wound tight on top of her head, and her hands and makeup are perfect. Nothing is out of place, and Carol feels underdressed, more like a tomboy in her jeans and faded button-down.
Pamela examines her hands, picking the loose skin with a pair of tiny silver scissors.
“I don’t usually get manicures.” Carol feels she must explain why she is here. “Except if I’m in someone’s wedding.”
“Your nails are strong,” Pamela says, not looking up, “but you’ve got bad cuticles. You shouldn’t pick at them.”
“I actually came to see you about a friend of mine,” Carol says. “Donald Rice.”
“I don’t have many men customers,” Pamela tells her. “Men who live in big cities get their nails done, but here in Ann Arbor, we really only get women.”
“His wife was a client,” Carol explains. Pamela places her right hand in a dish of warm soapy water. “Do you remember Evelyn Rice?”
“That woman owes me money.” Pamela wipes her hands on the folded white towel and then flips open the drawer. “Yes, I know.”
“She owes me fifty-two dollars.” She shows Carol her ledger, full of numbers and red marks. She points to Evelyn’s name in the left column.
“She won’t return my phone calls.” Pamela puts the book away. “I call her almost every day, and her husband just beats around the bush about paying me back.”
Pamela begins digging under Carol’s left nail with a long toothpick-type instrument. It pinches Carol’s skin and she pulls away.
“Listen. You tell her that I have to pay rent on this booth. You tell her I want my money. I can’t afford to have people bounce checks on me.”
“She’s dead,” Carol says. “That’s what I came here to tell you. Evelyn Rice killed herself last October.”
Pamela looks at her in surprise. “Dead?”
Carol nods. A strong chemical smell stings her nostrils, and Carol lifts her hand from the soapy dishwater and rubs her nose.
“Perming solution,” Pamela explains, then asks. “Are you related?”
“I’m his reading teacher,” Carol explains. “I volunteer at the local library.”
“Then why’d he send you in to do his dirty work? Why can’t he just call me and tell me what happened? He could have told me his wife was dead. I’ve talked to him on the phone almost every week. I’m a person. I’ve got sympathy.”
“I think he was afraid,” Carol says. “He was afraid to tell you the truth.” Though they are talking about Donald, she can’t help but think of Mitch. She wishes he were here to help explain the situation.
Pamela spreads yellow lotion on Carol’s hands and massages it the length of her arm to her elbows. She circles her fingers around Carol’s wrists until the moisturizer disappears. It smells of cucumbers. The room is air-conditioned, and Carol feels comfortable with this woman massaging her arms. She is so relaxed that she closes her eyes.
“All I was trying to do was collect my money,” Pamela says. “I didn’t mean to call a dead woman’s house.” She shivers as if superstitious. “That poor, poor man. And here’s me calling him about some manicure payment.”
Carol gets home just as Mitch pulls into his driveway. They get out of their cars simultaneously. Carol waves and walks over, full of the story of Ann Arbor and the beauty shop. The sun is bright, and she does not see the passenger door open until she is just up to the car. Carol gets flustered immediately. She starts to retreat, but then feels foolish, as if she has done something wrong.
“I wanted to tell you about Pamela,” Carol speaks directly to Mitch, ignoring the woman as best she can.
“What?” Mitch closes the car door and stands in the street waiting for her to explain.
“Donald’s favor,” Carol holds her fingers stiff, though by now the polish must surely be dry. “It was a little more than I expected.”
“Everything okay?” Mitch asks.
“Yeah. I guess so.” She hesitates, then decides that this is not a good time. It occurs to her that there might never be a good time, that maybe the only choice she has is to give up on Mitch. “I’ll give you the details later.”
“Remember you’re only the guy’s reading teacher,” Mitch warns. He smiles and looks concerned. “Don’t get too involved.”
“Oh, no,” Carol says. She flips her hands around and holds them so Mitch can see the color. Dark mauve. Her nails have never looked so good. Although it does not seem to matter too much right now.
As they had agreed, Carol meets Donald at the restaurant around the corner from her house. She picked a place that would be bright, loud, full of people. The afternoon is hot, the heat has returned as forcefully as it has all summer. It is not quite two o’clock when Carol pushes open the glass door of Costanzo’s and sees Donald sitting in the second booth from the window with a pitcher of beer and two mugs. He stands and shakes her hand and thanks her for being on time.
“You’re a very caring person.” He pours her mug full of foamy beer.
Carol does not usually drink during the day, but she is thirsty and warm from the walk over.
“Did you talk with the girl?” Donald asks as soon as she’s had a sip.
“Yes,” Carol says. The beer is cold, and she drinks in long swallows. Donald refills her glass. “And?”
“And she’s beautiful,” Carol says. “She wants to be a model.”
“My wife never talked about the beauty parlor.” Donald’s tongue slides awkwardly over the last words as if he is not used to saying these kinds of things.
“She’s saving all her money to get into an agency,” Carol explains. She remembers exactly what Pamela was doing with the nail file, then the cream, then the polish when she talked with Carol. “That’s why she can’t afford bounced checks. She’s trying to earn her own way into this agency so they can get her photo work.”
“Did you tell her about my wife?”
“She’s real sorry,” Carol says. Donald fills her half-empty mug. “She said to tell you she’s real sorry.”
“What about the check?”
“Because of what’s happened and all, she says not to worry about the money,” Carol says. “She’s a very fair person.”
Donald claps his hands as if applauding her actions. “That’s so good,” he says. “That’s just great. How am I going to pay you back?”
“I was glad to help.” Carol giggles when the foam fizzles into her nose.
Donald keeps nodding his head, giving her his approval. “You didn’t mind doing it?” he asks.
“It was fine.”
“My wife left me with a financial mess when she died.”
The bartender flips on the television, and Carol turns to look at the images on the oversized screen.
“She wrote checks to just about everybody in this area,” Donald says. “I wonder if you could help me with another favor?”
“What’s that?” The beer is slowing her reactions, and she doesn’t hear him.
“Do you think you could talk to some other people who are bothering me?”
“Collect on another bounced check?” Carol asks. “I don’t think so.”
Donald sits back in his seat. Carol focuses on the television. It is a baseball game. Probably the Tigers, but she cannot be sure. “Why not?”
“Because,” Carol says repeating Mitch’s words, which somehow seem right, “I’m your reading teacher. I’m supposed to be helping you learn to read.”
“But I need other help,” Donald says. “That’s what you’re involved in. Doing charity work.”
“To help you read,” Carol reminds him.
“I needed to read before my wife committed suicide,” Donald says. “Now I need help clearing her debts. This is the kind of help I need now.”
“I don’t know,” Carol says. She feels too guilty simply to refuse, but she knows that her whole reason for volunteering was wrong. It was not to help anyone but herself. She feels selfish and stupid and terribly alone. Donald is obviously disappointed when she tells him that she’ll think about doing the favor.
Carol has rarely been drunk in the middle of the day, and the buzz in her head feels like bursts of wild energy, though a minute later she is exhausted. Yesterday’s unopened mail is spread out on the couch, and she sits down and begins tearing at the envelopes. The mail is mostly bills. She throws the extra envelopes and perfumed advertisements into a pile before letting all the paper fall to the floor.
The afternoon gets warmer and the streets get quieter, as if the whole neighborhood is sleeping through the heat. Carol is sweating before she wakes up. She can smell the beer on her skin, and the dizziness she felt before her nap is gone as if she has sweated all the alcohol from her body. It takes Carol a few minutes to recognize where she is, and another minute before she remembers what day it is.
After a shower, Carol looks through her oversized purse for her hairbrush and realizes she can’t find her wallet. She dumps everything onto the kitchen counter, then remembers taking it out at the restaurant. She knows she’s left it on the dark-red cushioned booth at Costanzo’s restaurant.
The bar is crowded now. The noise level has increased, and the change in lights makes the place look different—not at all like the place where she drank five glasses of beer. She is dehydrated, and when the bartender asks if he can get her something, Carol cannot speak. He pours a glass of water and she drinks it down before she tells him about her wallet. She starts to identify it—gray with a large silver buckle clasp—when he sets it on the bar in front of her.
“We didn’t have a phone number on you,” he apologizes. “But we figured you might come looking for it.”
Carol opens the wallet and checks for her credit cards and driver’s license. Everything is there, even the cash.
She hears Donald a minute before she actually sees him at the side table with a woman. She recognizes the pleading tone of his voice and his words, so carefully chosen.
“I’m afraid to tell anyone about my situation,” Donald says. “I know people point at me and think, ‘There’s that stupid man who couldn’t read his wife’s suicide note.’ You should have seen it at the funeral. I couldn’t stand all the pity people felt for me. Even from my own kids. I’ve got four of them.”
“I’m so sorry.” The woman nods in sympathy.
“There are plenty of problems to deal with when your wife commits suicide,” Donald says and the woman keeps nodding in sympathy and agreement.
All of a sudden, Carol understands what Donald is up to. She sees how he does it, how he manipulates people into doing things for him. She realizes that what she is feeling is admiration. She admires how easily Donald gets people to do things for him. All he does is make it clear to them what he wants. It’s that simple. He tells people what he needs and people help him. Now she must spell it out for Mitch.
The mower is in the middle of the garage. She does not need the light to see the silver metal shining in the glow of the street lamps. She drags it backward to the edge of Mitch’s property and then runs her hand down the side of the machine to find the starter. She pulls the cord and the power kicks as she lets it slide back in. She starts out slowly while her muscles adjust to the vibration and the weight of the machine.
At nine o’clock the night air is full of shadows. The smell of cut grass rises from the ground, a surprising freshness so late in the day. She moves horizontally, getting closer to his house as she finishes each strip. She cannot see her rows and tries to keep the machine as straight as possible. Mitch comes out and watches from the front porch. She waves, the motor vibrating under her arms. He is saying something. She can hear him shouting, but not his words.
He moves his hand across his throat in quick jerky motions, telling her to cut the engine.
“What are you doing?” She shuts off the machine and his words tear through the neighborhood in the sudden silence.
“I’m showing you I care,” she says. “I’m showing you that I care about you.”
“What do you mean you care about me?” He looks puzzled, as if he thinks she’s gone crazy.
“I’m showing you that I want something more,” she says with force.
“You don’t have to cut my lawn,” he says.
“I’ve got to do something,” Carol says. “That’s all I know. I’ve just got to do something.”
Carol pulls the cord. The machine jumps and then starts. The shadows are too deep for her to see his expression, but she imagines it to be one of confusion. She knows she must get rid of this. She must make it clear to Mitch that she cares for him. She takes a deep breath and then, pushing on the long metal handle with all her strength, moves forward toward the edge of the lawn. Mitch follows. If not totally understanding what she is doing, he is at least right there beside her.