Страница 18 из 79
Red and Abby left her upstairs to deal with the boys, who were walloping each other with pillows while Heidi, a flibbertigibbet collie, danced around them, barking hysterically. They went down and sat in the living room. Neither of them had any chores to do. They just sat looking at each other with their hands folded in their laps. Abby said, “Do you think this is how it will be all the rest of our lives?”
Red said, “What?”
Abby said, “Nothing.”
Stem and Jea
Over supper, there was a great deal of talk about accommodations. Abby kept wondering if one of the boys shouldn’t be moved to her study. “Maybe Petey, because he’s the oldest?” she asked. “Or Sammy, because he’s the youngest?”
“Or me, because I’m in the middle!” Tommy shouted.
“That’s okay,” Stem told Abby. “They were sharing one room at home, after all. They’re used to it.”
“I don’t know why it is,” Abby said, “but these last few years the house has just always seemed the wrong size. When your father and I are alone it’s too big, and when you all come to visit it’s too small.”
“We’ll be fine,” Stem said.
“Are you two talking about the dog?” Red asked.
“Dog?”
“Because I just don’t see how two dogs can occupy the same territory.”
“Oh, Red, of course they can,” Abby said. “Clarence is a pussycat; you know that.”
“Come again?”
“Clarence is on my bed right this minute!” Petey said. “And Heidi is on Sammy’s bed.”
Red overrode Petey’s last sentence, perhaps not realizing Petey was speaking. “My father was opposed to letting a dog in the house,” he said. “Dogs are hard on houses. Bad for the woodwork. He’d have made both those animals stay out in the backyard, and he’d have wondered why we owned them anyways unless they had some job to do.”
The grown-ups had heard this too many times to bother commenting, but Petey said, “Heidi’s got a job! Her job is making us happy.”
“She’d be better off herding sheep,” Red said.
“Can we get some sheep, then, Grandpa? Can we?”
“This chicken is delicious,” Abby told Nora.
“Thank you.”
“Red, isn’t the chicken delicious?”
“I’ll say! I’ve had two pieces and I’m thinking about a third.”
“You can’t have a third! It’s full of cholesterol!”
The telephone rang in the kitchen.
“Now, who on earth can that be?” Abby asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Red told her.
“Well, I’m just not going to answer. Everyone who’s anyone knows it’s the supper hour,” Abby said. But at the same time, she was pushing back her chair and standing up. She had never lost the conviction that someone might be needing her. She made her way to the kitchen, forcing two of the little boys to scoot their chairs in as she passed behind them.
“Hello?” they heard. “Hi, De
Stem and Red glanced toward the kitchen. Nora placed a dollop of spinach on Sammy’s plate, although he squirmed in protest.
“Well, nobody thought … What? Oh, don’t be silly. Nobody thought—”
“What’s for dessert?” Tommy asked his mother.
Stem said, “Ssh. Grandma’s on the phone.”
“Blueberry pie,” Nora said.
“Goody!”
“Yes, of course we would have,” Abby said. A pause. “Now, that is not true, De
After a moment, they heard the latching sound of the receiver settling back into its wall mount. Abby reappeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Well, that was De
“Huh! He’d damn well better,” Red said, “because I won’t be up that late.”
“Well, maybe you should meet him, Red.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ll go,” Stem told her.
“Oh, I think maybe your father, dear.”
There was a silence.
“What was his problem?” Red asked finally.
“Problem?” Abby said. “Well, not a problem, exactly. He just doesn’t understand why we didn’t ask him to come stay.”
Even Nora looked surprised.
“Ask De
“He says he would have. He says he’s coming now, regardless.”
Abby had been standing in the doorway all this time, but now she made her way back to her chair and fell into it heavily, as if the trip had exhausted her. “He found out from Jea
Nora started reaching for people’s plates and stacking them, not making a sound.
“What wasn’t true?” Red asked Abby.
“Excuse me?”
“You said, ‘That’s not true, De
“See how he does?” Abby asked Stem. “Half the time he’s deaf as a post and then it turns out he’s heard something all the way off in the kitchen.”
“What wasn’t true, Abby?” Red asked.
“Oh,” Abby said airily, “you know. Just the usual.” She placed her silverware neatly across her plate and passed the plate to Nora. “He says he doesn’t know why we had Stem come when … you know. He says Stem is not a Whitshank.”
There was another silence, during which Nora rose in one fluid motion, still without a sound, and bore the stack of plates out to the kitchen.
Actually, it was true that Stem was not a Whitshank. But only in the most literal sense.
People tended to forget the fact, but Stem was the son of a tile layer known as Lonesome O’Brian. Lawrence O’Brian, really; but like most tilers he was sort of standoffish, fond of working by himself and keeping his own counsel, and so Lonesome was the name everybody called him. Red always said Lonesome was the best tile man going, although certainly not the fastest.
The fact that Lonesome had a son seemed incongruous. People tended to look at the man — tall and cadaverously thin, that translucent kind of blond where you can see the plates of his skull — and picture him living like a hermit: no wife, no kids, no friends. Well, they were right about the wife and perhaps even the friends, but he did have this toddler named Douglas. Several times when his sitting arrangements fell through, he brought Douglas in to work with him. This was against the rules, but since the two of them never had any cause to be in a hard-hat area, Red let it pass. Lonesome would head straight to whatever kitchen or bathroom he was working on, and Douglas would scurry after him on his short little legs. Not once did Lonesome look back to see if Douglas was keeping up; nor did Douglas complain or ask him to slow down. They would settle in their chosen room, door tightly closed, not a peep from them all morning. At lunchtime they would emerge, Douglas scurrying behind as before, and eat their sandwiches with the other men, but somewhat to the side. Douglas was so young that he still drank from a spouted cup. He was a waifish, homely child, lacking the dimpled cuteness that you would expect in someone that age. His hair was almost white, cut short and prickly all over his head, and his eyes were a very light blue, pinkish around the rims. All his clothes were too big for him. They seemed to be wearing him; he was only an afterthought. His trousers were folded up at the bottoms several times over. The shoulders of his red jacket jutted out from his spindly frame, the elastic cuffs hiding all but his miniature fingertips, which were slightly powdered-looking like his father’s — an occupational side effect.