“This up ahead all right?” Hector asks. I tell him that’s fine, and he signals and pulls into the parking lot of a Friendly’s.
While his mother hustles Africa inside, I climb out of the backseat to stretch my legs. Hector gets out, too. Lights up. I bum a cigarette from him and do the same. I’m excited about the wedding, but nervous, too. It was stupid of me to try and quit a few days ago. If I need a little nicotine to get through the next few days, then so be it.
I watch Hector as he scans the area. Home Depot, the Olive Garden, Nordstrom’s, and Macy’s up on the hill. “Welcome to suburbia,” I say.
“People here got money. Right, Miss Oh?” I’ve given up trying to get him to call me Annie. “I read in the Post that Connecticut is the richest state. Richer than New York, even.”
“Well, the big money’s downstate: Greenwich, Darien. This is a more middle-class area. And there’s plenty of poverty in Connecticut, too. Especially where we’re going.” Not that he’ll see any of that this weekend. Even scaled down like I requested, the reception is costing Viveca fifty thousand dollars. That’s another thing I finally gave up on: paying for half. “Sweetheart, don’t worry about it. I can write some of it off as a business expense,” she insisted. But two hundred dollars a plate for the wedding supper? Krug champagne at three hundred dollars a bottle? Ridiculous.
A rusty car with a rumbling muffler pulls into the lot. A black girl in a cap and uniform gets out and runs toward the building. Late for work, I figure. Hector’s watching her, too. No wonder. She’s got a cute little figure. “I worked at one of these Friendly’s places once,” I tell him. A few days ago, I read a headline in Viveca’s Wall Street Journal: FRIENDLY’S CHAIN LOSING MARKET SHARE.
“You did? I wouldn’t have guessed that, Miss Oh.”
“No? Why not?”
“Well, you know. I’ve heard what rents go for in your building.”
“Oh, I didn’t come from money, Hector. In fact, I was piss poor. Used to be thrilled when the big spenders came in and left a whole dollar for a tip.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re such a good tipper now, huh? Because you remember what it was like.”
I smile, shrug. Exhale.
“So you have family coming to your wedding?” he asks.
“New York friends, mostly. But my kids will be there, and my brother and his wife. Oh, and the man who gave me my start as an artist.”
“Yeah? Your teacher?”
“No, he was the judge for an art show—the first one I ever entered. When he picked my work for a prize, I was shocked. But that blue ribbon validated me. Encouraged me at a time I was thinking about giving up. He’s quite elderly now, but he’s coming. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“That’ll be nice then, huh? Seeing him again?”
“It will. I’ll make sure I introduce you. His name is Mr. Agnello.”
Hector’s smile fades away. “Yeah, but I was thinking, Miss Oh, that maybe I shouldn’t go tomorrow if it’s real fancy. I brought a pair of dress pants and my silk shirt with me, but I don’t have a suit.” I tell him what he’s packed will be just fine. That I want him to be there. “Okay then. You think they’ve got an ironing board at that motel we’re staying at? Because I just put them in a Safeway bag and they’re probably going to be pretty wrinkled.”
“That’s not a problem, Hector. Tell you what. When you drop me off, come in and I’ll press them for you and put them on a hanger. Then you won’t have to worry about it.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that, Miss Oh.”
“It’s not a problem. It’ll take me all of five minutes.”
“No, that’s all right. Maybe Minnie can iron them for me.”
“Well, we’ll figure it out.”
“So your kids are coming, huh? That’s nice. How many you got?”
We’ve already had this discussion, but I guess he doesn’t remember. “I have three, the same as you. I know you’ve met my daughter, Marissa.” Your doorman’s hot, I recall her saying, as boy-crazy as ever.
“The one who lives in the city. Right?”
“Uh-huh. And I have a son and another daughter. Ariane’s in California and Andrew’s stationed down in Texas at Fort Hood.”
“He’s military?”
“That’s right. A lieutenant in the army.”
“Nice,” he says. He tosses his cigarette on the ground and puts it out with the toe of his shoe. It’s the same butterscotch-brown leather I used in the assemblage I sold a few years back: that sad-eyed steer’s head I bought from a taxidermist and framed in shoes and coiled leather belts. . . .
“Good news, sweetheart,” Viveca says when she calls me at the studio. “I just sold your Wild, Wild West piece to an investment banker from Wyoming. He came into the gallery and walked right to it without so much as glancing at anything else. I told him forty thousand, figuring I’d go as low as thirty-two or thirty-three. But he sat right down and wrote me a check without even blinking.”
“He’s from Wyoming?”
“Uh-huh. Jackson Hole. He said he and his wife are friends with the Cheneys.”
“Did he understand that I was making a protest statement?”
“To tell you the truth, that never even came up. But art is in the eye of the beholder, right? And a sale is a sale. Don’t work too late tonight, darling. Okay? I asked Carolyn to work a little of her magic, and she’s gotten us a nine P.M. reservation at Jean-Georges so that we can celebrate.”
Recalling that conversation, the old doubt creeps back into my thinking. We’re a mismatch, Viveca and me. Why in the world are we getting married? And why Three Rivers where my old life was? . . . Because we can’t get married in New York. And because when we visited Orion that time, she fell in love with the place. The deer, the babbling brook out back. And the painting—the Josephus Jones she’s talked about incessantly. No, that’s not fair. This isn’t about business. It’s about us, about Viveca meeting my kids. Oh god, I hope the dinner goes well tonight, never mind the wedding tomorrow. . . .
I would have invited Hector to tonight’s get-together—Minnie and her boy, too, if they’d wanted to come—but I didn’t think Viveca would want that. So instead I’ve reserved them rooms at the Best Western on Route 32. I’ll give them a little dinner money, too. There’s an Applebee’s next door and one of those buffet places just down the road in that strip mall. There’s an arcade there, too, now that I think of it. Africa will like that. And maybe Hector can check out the casino tonight if he wants to. I can leave him the car. Ride over to the restaurant with Andrew and the girls.
Speaking of who—whom?—maybe they’ve called. I grab my cell phone out of the car and check to see if they’ve left me a message. But no. They must still be on the road. I try Marissa’s number. She’s the one who’s always got her cell phone on. . . . But not this time. That’s odd. Oh well, they’re probably traveling through a dead zone. The service around here can be iffy. At the beep, I leave her a message. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Just wondering how you guys are doing. Call me when you hear this. Okay?”
Next, I try Viveca. She drove up and checked in at Bella Linda last night because she wanted to go over all the last-minute details with them. She’s a little out of her element, not dealing with New Yorkers—a little untrusting that a staff at a rural inn is going to deliver on her expectations. Well, she was the one who wanted quaint, east-of-the-river Connecticut. Rustic décor, sheep grazing in the meadow. If the service is a little more laid-back than Manhattan or Westport, then so be it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. How’s everything going?”
“Fine, sweetheart. Except for the flowers. I distinctly told that florist we wanted calla lilies for the tables, but he said he couldn’t get them from his supplier, so he substituted hydrangeas. He got a little defensive when I told them that just wasn’t acceptable, so he’s called around and located what we wanted from a different company. He’s assured me they’
ll be delivered in time tomorrow.” Well, okay. Now she’ll have her calla lilies. Why is she giggling?
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. I’m just a little tipsy, and Lorenzo’s sitting here being Lorenzo. He drove up last night, and we’re having lunch. You know what a naughty boy he can be. He insisted that we had to have champagne with our salads. Are you at the house yet?” I tell her no, still on the way. Tell her about Africa’s having to come along last minute.
“Oh, dear,” she says. I can probably guess what she’s thinking: that it’s not exactly a children’s affair. That she told me to hire a car service instead of involving our help. “Well, when you get in, let me know and we’ll drive over there. I’m dying to show Lorenzo the Josephus Jones. He says he and Marcus might be interested in it, provided we can get your ex to budge on selling it to me. What’s the address? Wait a sec. Let me get something to write it down.”
Oh, shit. That was Orion’s one condition: that she not come over to the house. It seems silly, but I’ve given him my word. “You know what, Viveca? Why don’t you two stay put and let me bring it over there? I uh . . . I haven’t been to Bella Linda since they renovated. I’d like to see what they’ve done.”
“All right then. What? Wait a minute, Anna. What did you say, Lorenzo?” More laughter. “Lorenzo said to tell you that we discovered a creamery down the road from here that has homemade peach ice cream.” I know the place she’s talking about: Blue Slope Dairy, the place with the petting zoo the kids loved. “I’ve warned him that it’s probably got so much butterfat in it, he’s going to ruin his boyish figure. Wait a minute, sweetheart. What, Lorenzo? . . . Oh, yes, all right. He says he wants to show you his new tattoo. It’s a sunburst circling his navel. Marcus has a matching one. They got them in Chinatown.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s been lifting up his shirt all morning to show everyone. The little bumpkin at the front desk got so flustered when he showed her, I thought she was going to need smelling salts, poor thing. Of course, if he keeps eating ice cream while he’s here, those abs he’s so proud of are going to disappear.”
When I look up, I see Minnie hurrying Africa back toward the car. Good god, what has she bought him now? “Okay, I’d better go now, Viveca. I’ll call you when we get to the house, and then I’ll have Hector drive me over.”
“And don’t forget to bring the painting,” she says.
“I won’t.”
Minnie swings the back door open and orders Africa to get in back with me and her, and to sit in the middle. When he objects, she warns him not to give her any lip. He’s holding one of those waffle cones—two scoops of candy-studded pink ice cream. “That’s a big cone for someone your size,” I tell him. “What kind did you get?”
“Bubble gum.”
“Oh, my. Is it good?” He nods. The sickening sweet aroma of his treat fills the backseat. Minnie orders him to buckle his seat belt, and as he struggles to do so one-handed, his ice cream comes perilously close to falling off the cone and into my lap. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing at!” Minnie says. She’s armed herself with an inch-thick stack of napkins. “And don’t slobber on yourself. I only got two sets of clothes for you, one for today and one for tomorrow. I better not have to be washing out no laundry in the sink.”
Hector starts the car and heads out of the parking lot. That cloying bubble gum smell is the same as the amoxicillin I used to have to give my kids when they got ear infections—when I’d be cooped up all day in the house with them, spooning that stuff into them and fighting to keep the thermometer in their mouths. I crack open my window to let in some fresh air. Close my eyes and see, again, that pediatrician’s waiting room. What was his name? Dr. McNally—that was it. God, I hated going there. Whoever was sick that visit would sit on my lap, clinging to me, while whoever wasn’t sick yet played on the floor with all those germy toys and runny-nosed other children. Home again, I’d be managing the sick bay all day long, and then Orion wouldn’t get back from work until after I’d gotten the kids down for the night. He’d sit there at the kitchen table, eating his warmed-up supper and looking through the mail and the magazines, nodding and half-listening as I stood there, complaining about what a hellish day I’d had. I can only remember one time when he called in and stayed home with the kids when they were sick—the time I got called for jury duty. Sitting in that courthouse all day, among the pool of prospective jurors, was like a vacation. I remember how disappointed I was when, at the last minute, they settled the case and dismissed us. And when I got home, Orion was so put out about his long day tending to their needs, he’d acted like I was supposed to award him a medal for valor. . . . I open my eyes again and look down at my hands. They’re fists.
We’re not even back on the highway yet, and Africa’s already fighting a losing battle against his cone, licking and slurping at the melting ice cream that’s dripping onto his shorts. Minnie’s looking out the window, watching the stores go by, oblivious. Oblivious, too, to his just having bitten off the pointy end of his cone and begun sucking out the ice cream from the bottom. Andrew used to do the same thing, and it would drive me up the wall.
Andrew: I’m excited to see him, but a lot of my apprehension about the next few days centers around him—how he’ll react to Viveca, and she to him if his disapproval is obvious. And now he’ll have Lorenzo to deal with, too, I suppose. Lorenzo’s such a flirt. Why did he, of all people, have to drive up here early? . . . I just hope Andrew didn’t feel he had to come because she sent him those plane tickets. If she had only told me she was planning to do that, I would have said it was a bad idea. His conservative Christian fiancée had a ticket, too, but she isn’t coming. Is she busy, or is she boycotting?
Hector eases back into the flow of traffic on the interstate. Africa hasn’t paid me much attention on this trip, but now that he’s riding in back, he’s staring at me. Wearing his ice cream mustache and studying me with those big dark eyes of his. Instead of returning my smile, he asks me how old I am. “How old do you think?” I say. “Take a guess.”
“Eighty?”
His mother swivels back toward him, mortified. “Miz Anna ain’t no eighty! Thass rude! You say you’re sorry.”
“It’s fine, Minnie.” I give him a smile. Tell him I’m fifty-two.
“How come you just gettin’ married if you old?”
Minnie frowns and opens her mouth again, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “Well, honey, I was married before, but I got divorced. So now I’m marrying somebody else.”
“Him?” he asks, pointing up at Hector.
“No, no, the woman I live with. The one your mother works for.”
“Oh,” he says. “You got kids?”
“Yes, I do. Hector and I were just talking about—”
“They got Xbox?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Probably not, though. They’re grown-ups. My son is in the army.”
His eyes widen. “How many bad guys he kill?”
“Well, he doesn’t fight in the wars, honey. He works at a hospital in Texas. Do you know where Texas is?”
He shakes his head. “How come you marrying a lady?”
“Mind your bidness, Africa! Eat your ice cream!”
“No, it’s okay. We’re getting married because we love each other.”
“Oh,” he says. No longer interested, he puts the bottom of his cone to his lips and sucks some more. “Hey!” he protests when his mother yanks it away. “Gimme it back, Mama! It’s mine!”
“You don’t know how to eat a ice cream right, you can go without.” She puts her window down and throws the cone out onto the highway. When Africa begins to cry, she asks him if he wants her to give him something to cry about. Starts swiping at his mouth with her stack of napkins. “Look at them shorts,” she sputters. “You wearin’ more than you ate. You ain’t been nothin’ but trouble this whole trip. I oughta have Mr. Hector pull over and drop you off on the side of the road.” I hold my to
ngue, but what a horrible thing to say to the boy. Was I ever that rough on my kids?
After Africa stops sniveling, the car becomes quiet except for the hum of the tires on the road. Suddenly, I’m jarred by a memory I wish to god hadn’t resurfaced. . . .
I’m at the wheel up front and the three kids are in back, the baby strapped into her car seat, finally asleep, and Andrew and Ariane on either side of her. They’re peevish, both of them. They’ve been at each other all day, and I’m sick of it. “If you two wake up your sister, you’re going to be sorry you did,” I warn them.
“You’re ugly and stupid,” Ariane tells her brother.
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“Ow!” In the mirror, I see them reaching past their little sister and hitting each other. “Mama! Andrew just scratched me!”
“Goddamn you two!” I slam on the brake. Pull off the road and face them. “I’ve had it with both of you! Get out of the car.” They look at each other, shocked. “You heard me. Out!” And when they obey, I gun it. Glimpse their fear in the rearview mirror. Good! Let them be scared for a few minutes. Maybe that will teach them.
Half a mile down the road, I take a right, and then another. One more and I’ll be back there. But when I pass a secondhand store I’ve never seen before, I brake. Put the car in reverse. The baby’s still asleep, so I get out with the motor running. This is just the kind of place where I’ve found some of the raw materials for my best work. GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! a sign in the window says. I don’t have time to go inside—I have to get back to the twins—but I can at least take a quick look at the stuff that’s out on the sidewalk: used pots and pans, old Life magazines, a rack of clothes, a wooden coat tree. A man comes out and sees me eyeing two hideous-looking animals, dead and stuffed—a weasel of some kind and . . . is it a wolf?
“Coyote,” the man says. “And the other one’s a fisher cat. There used to be plenty of them around here, but you don’t see them much anymore. I can let you have them both for seventy-five bucks. They’re worth more.” When I shake my head, he says okay, fifty then. I tell him I’m in a hurry but that I’ll be back. I run to the car and take off.