| |
Kate
––––––––
MS. VAN BUREN glowers at her soprano soloist. Her left hand rises and slowly turns, unspooling the girl’s voice from her like a shimmering thread. Lucy directs the rest of the choir to remain hushed and low, while gracefully sweeping the thin baton in her right hand like a magic wand. Samantha’s jaw and the muscles beneath her chin and throat tremble with vibrato, her eyes at once frightened and brave. As the girl’s lungs forge into territory previously unheard by the Larson family, Lucy wistfully mouths the German lyrics in a silent duet. She extracts something nearing a swooning scream from the girl and gently lets her back down again. When Samantha crescendos to an even higher note, Lucy nods, eyes closing gratefully.
Kate pulls her pashmina shawl up over her bare shoulders. Her heart is pounding with something close to outrage, her brain telling her to calm down; Lucy had conducted the baritone in the third movement just as passionately. She glances around to see if anyone else is finding this uncomfortable. But Erik, Claudia, Bert, Brace, Jamie? They all look rapt and not the least bit disturbed so much as astounded. Samantha’s voice is no longer Samantha’s, or at least not what it was only months before. It is now fully-formed. Adult. Complete.
Kate sniffs at her own selfishness. There was a time, back when Samantha’s face was small and round, painted with pizza sauce from cheek to cheek, and her little voice sang out across the dinner table, so sweet and clear and Kate would think, we made this little creature. What was the day when Samantha began to make herself? Kate doesn’t know sometimes which is more worrisome: the thought of Samantha sitting in a forest somewhere with a clipboard, surrounded by silverback gorillas or walking a campus, surrounded by horny frat boys. Every day she feels whatever control she has slacken a bit more.
The next movement grows and grows into such madness—Lucy whipping the baton angrily at each vocal group—that the pianist and cellist are scarcely capable of underpinning the clamor. They watch their conductor in a controlled panic and Kate begins to doubt how much power over this multi-armed beast the woman actually has. Samantha had said that Ms. Van Buren learned choral direction at Sojourn Reclaimers, and that it was the best thing that came out of her time there, but Sojourn wasn’t exactly churning out Leonard Bernsteins.
Entrenched in the cacophony, Samantha exchanges illicit grins and eyebrow flutters with Jamie. Whether or not Lucy is competent or not, they are damn near rocking the rafters. Then comes the final song, an anthem, which raises goosebumps on Erik’s forearms. Kate runs her hand across them and he smiles down at her.
She had never seen Grace Lutheran’s congregation leap to their feet before. They’d given standing ovations for sure, but it was usually a kind of whack-a-mole event, with everyone afraid to dedicate. But today even Brace yells, “Bravo! Heck, yeah! Bravo!”
––––––––
THAT EVENING, KATE stares at the beginnings of Claudia’s quilt until her eyes cross and the colors bleed together.
Screams rise from the basement. Kate tries to ignore them.
“It’s possible I’m a little jealous of Lucy.”
“You mean envious,” Erik says from the kitchen. “Jealousy would be if Lucy was yours and you didn’t want Sam to have her.” The phone rings and he picks it up.
“Um, sure,” she mumbles and rolls eyes.
Downstairs, Samantha’s screams have turned to laughter. She, Jamie, and Lucy are playing World of Warcraft in their separate homes across town and it is difficult to concentrate with the hoots and boasts, swords clanking, fireballs crashing and dramatic Elvin music overloading Samantha’s computer speakers. Kate had earlier popped her head into the bedroom to see if they needed a fourth and was met with a blank stare and then Samantha screamed out, “Heals! I—need—heals!”
I could be the healer. How hard can it be?
Erik talks politely into the phone, but there’s an edge to it. Kate can see him shake his head, like, come on, come on. He pulls out a drawer, grabs a bottle opener, and slams it back in. He brings the phone to Kate, but doesn’t meet her eyes. “It’s your mom, wants to know what Brace wants for graduation.”
When Kate puts the phone to her ear, her mother is still chattering, “ . . . you could send him down here for a few weeks. The beach would do him good. And you know how he loves Disney—”
“Hi, Mom. Yunno he hasn’t liked Disney since he was nine. But he needs a new laptop. So maybe some help on that?”
“Oh, hi, sweety. Why don’t you have Erik email the specs to your father and we’ll just buy the whole thing. And what about Samantha, what’s she going to want for her sixteenth?”
“Hmm. She’ll be getting her license, so maybe a helmet and fire retardant suit?”
“Ohhh, I remembered when you first started driving the Beetle. I never slept.”
Kate sighs.
“Katie, you still there?”
“Yeah. Hey, Mom, you remember Lucy?”
“Who?”
“The girl who got expelled. The girl I—”
Her mother moans. “Dear lord, that Van Buren girl. She had some grit, that one.”
“I’ve always wanted to tell you how much that sucked. What you did.”
The line is quiet for a moment. “Well, now, Katie. Things were different back then. And frankly, if a boy had been convincing you to sneak out of the house, we would have been just as concerned. Your dad swore the two of you were ready to jump that night.” Her mother chuckles a bit. “But you’re right. We shouldn’t have forbid you. We have a few gay friends now and I always bring that mess up when I have one too many glasses of wine. As though I’m confessing my sins.”
“I loved her, Mom.” Kate pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Wait, you’re not gay are you?”
“No. I mean, I was, I mean, everyone is not just—anyway, my point was, it was a big thing to me and you treated it like we were horrible monsters.”
“Wow. This I didn’t expect . . . well, I’m so sorry, Katie.” Kate can hear the tears forming in her mother’s voice as they always have when she wants to avoid confrontation. But it leaves her cold, hasn’t worked in years. “I know that’s why we never talk.”
“Oh, Mom. That’s not true.”
But it is.
“Even after you met Erik, and we knew you were finally happy again, you weren’t the same girl to us. Your father said it was just part of growing up. But that look in your eyes. Do you still hate me, Katie?”
“No, Mom,” Kate says monotone, “of course not.”
“You cried so much over that girl. And I blame myself. I do. But you know, memory passes such a harsh judgment. Your father and I didn’t have time to think it all through, how it would affect you.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kate admits. The anger reserves of her youth have nearly dried up. “I’ve been there with the kids sometimes.”
“You know, I knew a black boy in high school. And my parents forbid me from seeing him too.”
“No way.” Kate sits back in her chair. “You never told me that.”
“It was a tragedy. He got bullied something awful. Jumped off Maiden Leap. Marcus. Marcus Robeson. He was a sweetheart of a boy. We were never that serious, mostly just friends, but I still think of him.”
“Oh, my God, Mom. I’m so sorry. Wow.” Kate grows silent. She had conflated the boy with the legend of Wicasa so long ago. No one talked about it anymore. He’d been lost to the ages. Conveniently.
“Well, you see why I didn’t want you up there.” Her mother sniffles. “But anyway, honey, when it comes to Lucy, we’re doing as we were taught in church when it came to the gays.”
“So, what, you don’t think it’s a sin anymore?”
“Oh, Katie, we don’t read the gospel like that these days. We’ve joined a more open Presbyterian assembly, I’ve told you that. Now, why don’t you all come down this summer? We can talk about this over a pitcher of sangria, just you and me.”
“Yeah, okay. I dunno. Not sure we can afford it.”
“You know you don’t have to pay for much. Don’t close me out, Katie. It’s time we moved on from this.”
“Do you still think about him?”
“Marcus? Sometimes,” her mother says airily. “Marcus Robeson. More as I get older. There’s a black man who works at the Publix who has the same sort of way about him, same kind eyes, and I think, I wonder if that’s what he would look like now, with a paunch and grey in his curls.” Her mother’s voice is so thoughtful; it’s like talking to a stranger, an equal. “Well, you know, he was in Bert Larson’s class, he could tell you more about him.”
“Oh, maybe I will. I’m sorry I let you down, Mom.”
“You didn’t, sweetheart. We did. Just come visit. Okay?”
––––––––
THE NEXT MORNING, the tinkling bell over the Gonzo Fox’s door is way too chipper for Kate’s liking.
“Well, look who it is, dear,” Mark says. “Didn’t we used to know that couple?”
“Ha,” Kate says.
Erik meanders out back to the back lot and the cache of vintage farm implements. He promised to wait until the kids were grown to redecorate the rec room with sharp, rusty tools, but the date is looming.
“We thought you were avoiding us,” Ray says.
“Why would I do that?” Kate’s stare darts up and down the shelves. “Been busy with hockey and the play and stuff.”
“And stuff,” Mark says. “I heard you had Lucy over for dinner, how did—?”
“Great. Any quilt orders?”
“Not yet.” Mark wanders off toward the register and dons his reading glasses.
“Don’t mind him,” Ray says, “he’s just a little tense with the protest coming up. Hey, you said you wanted to see a photo of Jeremy.” Ray reaches into his back pocket and extracts his wallet. “Had his second birthday, last month. It’s a little pixilated. Downloaded it off the adoption site.”
“Oh my gosh.” She turns it to make the most of the skylight. “He’s beautiful. Awww, I remember that stage. So messy.” Kate grins at the photo of a pudgy toddler stuffing his face with cake, a dab of pink frosting awarding him a clown nose. “You didn’t say he was African-American.” She immediately thinks of her mother’s boyfriend—falling, falling—and wonders if things have changed enough in this town.
“I know, I know. Mark never wants to tell people. As if that one last detail is going to send everybody over the edge. Only putting off the inevitable.”
Kate waves him off. “It will be fine. The Holstedts adopted two Chinese kids. Everyone treats them cool.”
“Yeah, well, the Holdstedts are straight Catholics.”
Mark strolls back over, throws an arm over Ray’s shoulder. “Yep, we were just sitting around one night and thinking, gee, how can we make this more complicated.”
“So, is it really going through?”
“We think so.” Ray grins. “Thanks to our friends vouching that we won’t corrupt the little guy.” He reaches for her arm. “Thank you so much for talking to the social worker.”
“Of course.”
“Gotta be on my best behavior,” Mark says. “I promised not to get arrested at the protest.” He ruffles Ray’s hair and turns to Kate. “You’re still coming, right?”
“Yeah,” she says hazily.
“You getting pressure from the senator?”
“No. She was strangely calm when I told her I’d be there.” Kate scuffs her sneaker on the dusty floor tiles. “It’s Lucy.”
Mark groans.
Ray thumbs over his shoulder. “Um, got a new batch of estate sale crap. I’ll just . . .”
“She refuses to come,” Kate says, watching Ray leave and wishing he wasn’t. The man is definitely Mark’s better half.
“Well, of course. What did you expect?” Mark says. “She’s happy in the closet. Why do you care so much?”
“Why don’t you? You were as close to her as me.”
“Yeah, and then she left and never talked to me again. And I lived through those years with you, if you’ll recall, before Erik came along. You lost all perspective. Lucy just toyed with you like any senior boy would have.”
“That’s not true. She went to the mat for me and all I did was—”
“You only remember it differently. How about First Ave? Remember when she blew us off and went to blow some coke instead? Remember baking her that cake? You don’t remember crying all the way home and telling me you’d never love anyone else?”
“Well, that’s kinda fuzzy, actually.” She flutters the jewels dripping from a baroque pastry stand with her fingers, where Ray stacked dozens of vinyl records to resemble a black cake.
“For good reason. Why would you want to dredge that all back up with her now?” Mark leans back on the record shelf. “Remember how I got my ass kicked in high school? Now those guys are all divorced losers and drunks who couldn’t afford to buy a floor lamp from me. They wouldn’t know a Tiffany from a Target. They see me today and treat me like a king. Why would I reverse that?”
“It wasn’t like that with me and Luce. She suffered for me. She got run out of town.”
Mark shrugs. “That’s what happens when you light the Principal’s office on fire.”
“Lucy did not set that fire.” Kate thumbs through record albums, pushing the stacks back and forth, puffs of mildew make her nose twitch.
“I can’t believe you’re still defending her. The night janitor barely got out with his life.”
“Oh, please. He was fine. They put it out before it got to their precious gym floor.”
“You sure seem to remember a lot about it.”
“How could we forget? Besides, Lucy was with me that night.”
Mark tilts his head. “What? No she wasn’t.”
“We were in the woods. We went all the way.” She whispers, “It was—amazing.”
“Stop right there.”
Kate shakes her head. “Remember, I had just turned sixteen, and I’d been on my best behavior for over a month. Mom and Dad let me have the car ’cause they thought it was all over once Lucy got suspended. But the first thing I did was drive to her. We heard the firetruck from the park. I drove home and she did too, but . . . I guess they came for her.”
Mark crosses his arms; his eyes on her grow stony. “And you didn’t step up to provide her an alibi.”
“I was too afraid. Ashamed. I lied to everyone. Even you, because I knew you would think I was a shit.”
Mark stares out the window with the fear of their past in his eyes. “Well, she could have set it before she met up with you. Who else would have done it?”
“Who knows? It wasn’t much of a crime. For all we know, Principal Juhl left one of his cigars burning and Lucy had to take the fall for him.”
“He died of heart failure five years ago, so there’s no asking him.” Mark sighs. “Oh man. Poor Lucy.” He can’t seem to look at Kate now.
“You see why I can’t give up on her? She deserves our friendship.”
“Maybe we both sold her out.” Mark grimaces. “Dammit, Kate. I don’t know. Maybe it all was for the best. I remember the summer you got engaged. You changed, for the better. It was like the first time I saw you as a woman.”
Kate’s lip curls. “You sound like my mother.”
“Well, Lucy’s turning you into that kid again.”
“God, you’re so morose.”
“Kate, you need to be careful. Lucy’s—she’s not all that she seems.”
“Give me some credit.” This conversation is desperately in need of changing. “Hey, what do you know about Marcus Robeson?”
“The guy who jumped?”
“Yeah. Got any old newspapers about it?”
“God, I wish I did. It was rumored he was gay.”
“You think everyone is gay.”
Mark looks over his glasses. “Aren’t they?”
“Seriously though.”
“You could check the library or the Dispatch online.”
“I did. They don’t go that far back.”
Erik shuffles back in with a long, two-man saw, which sheds dust with every wobble.
“Five bucks,” Mark says.
“Really? Cool.” Erik opens his wallet, fishes out a bill for Mark, and gazes proudly at the massive saw beside him like he’d reeled in a prize-winning shark. He turns to Kate. “Hey, hon, did you see all those quilts back there? Looks like you got some competition now.”
“What?” Kate balks at Mark, heads toward the storage room that opens to the back lot.
Mark bolts from behind the counter and blocks the doorway. “Yeah, um. Those are just some old rags I found in an estate sale.”
Kate peers over his shoulder. Stacked over four feet high, there must be nearly a dozen quilts wrapped in plastic. The top one looks familiar. Although, the double wedding ring pattern is a popular choice. But the colors, the purple and gold she’d chosen specifically for Mr. and Mrs. Lund’s fiftieth wedding anniversary . . .
“Are those all mine? Why are they here? I thought you sold those months ago.”
“Um, yeah,” Marks says. “They’re returns.”
“What?”
“Kate, they weren’t what they ordered. You keep redesigning what people ask for. They’re a little too—too abstract for traditional tastes.” Mark shows his teeth, as if he’d eaten something rotten. “Like, Betsy Lund had no idea what that those white things were.”
“They were diamonds.”
“Well, she thought they looked like bird droppings.”
Erik looks at Kate; she can swear he’s thinking: Gee, how do you fuck up a quilt?
Kate pulls out her checkbook and scrawls quickly. She rips the check off the pad and tucks it in Mark’s oxford pocket. “You are the last person I need lying to me.”