At Risk

  “How about a cheese omelet?” Ivan asks.

  “Great,” Polly says. “Thanks.”

  Ivan beats eggs in a bowl they received as a wedding present, although they no longer remember from whom.

  “My father should have lived someplace where he could have had a lawn,” Polly says.

  “Why?” Ivan asks as he searches the refrigerator for cheddar cheese. “He probably would have cemented it over. Neater that way.”

  Polly laughs. “You’re right.”

  Ivan holds up a chunk of cheese dotted with green mold. “When is this from?” he teases Polly. “Nineteen thirty-four?”

  “Mold is good for you,” Polly tells him.

  “Oh, really?” Ivan says. “Why don’t we let your mother examine this? Let’s get her opinion on people who store moldy food.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Polly grins as she goes over to Ivan and tries to get the package of cheese away from him.

  “I’ll bet your mother cleans out the whole refrigerator when she sees this,” Ivan says.

  He’s holding the cheese in one hand way up over his head. He keeps Polly away with his free hand.

  “Over my dead body she will,” Polly says. “Give me that!” Polly jumps up and manages to get the cheese, then she collapses against Ivan, laughing. “You creep.”

  “How about scrambled eggs instead of an omelet?” Ivan says.

  Polly’s still trying to catch her breath. She nods her head. “You always made the best scrambled eggs.”

  “If you like burned food,” Ivan says.

  “Which I do,” Polly tells him.

  They’re standing close together, their shoulders touching.

  “Exactly why I married you,” Ivan says.

  Polly feels embarrassed; being in love seems an illicit thing, it’s not for them but for people who aren’t afraid of fevers, who don’t shudder in the dark.

  “The TV was still hot when I woke up this morning,” Ivan says.

  “David Letterman.” Polly nods. A show Charlie’s not allowed to watch.

  “Now he gets to sleep past ten,” Ivan says. “He’s not supposed to do that until he’s a teenager.”

  “I’ll get him,” Polly says.

  “That’s it, wake him up,” Ivan agrees. “He’s certainly done it to us enough times.”

  Polly goes upstairs. Through a hall window she can see her mother, down in the yard, hanging Ivan’s shirts on the line. There are still some purple asters along the fence, and, near the back door, a few October roses.

  “Time for breakfast,” Polly says as she knocks on Charlie’s door. She opens the door before Charlie can answer, then makes her way in the dark over the sneakers and socks and comic books on the floor. She snaps the shade up and opens the window. The smell of sneakers is strong in this room, and it’s mixed with the scent of cedar from a bag of wood chips Charlie’s supposed to keep downstairs, near his hamster cages.

  It feels like any other day, a normal day they might have had before August. For a moment, Polly allows herself to feel lucky. Her daughter is out at the mall buying cassettes, her husband is in the kitchen making breakfast, her parents are far enough away from the house so they can’t actually bother her. Polly smiles when she sees Charlie snuggle down under his quilt, but she goes over and pulls the quilt off him.

  “This is what you get for staying up late,” Polly says.

  Charlie reaches for the quilt and pulls it back over him. “I don’t want to get up,” he says. “It’s too cold in here.”

  Polly has begun to pick up some of the dirty clothes scattered on the floor. Now she dumps the pile she’s collected on the top of Charlie’s bureau. She goes over to the bed and leans down so she can touch Charlie’s forehead. He rolls away, but Polly can already tell. He has a fever. A bad one. Polly runs out to the bathroom and gets the thermometer down from the medicine cabinet. She sees the toothbrushes hanging from their rack and immediately thinks of what Ed Reardon said at the school board meeting. There have been siblings who used each other’s toothbrushes without contracting AIDS. Polly runs back to Charlie’s room and makes him sit up and open his mouth so she can take his temperature. His pajamas are soaked with sweat.

  “Oh, shit,” Polly says.

  She feels behind Charlie’s ears and along his neck. His glands are swollen. When she takes the thermometer out of his mouth it reads 102. She helps Charlie lie back down, covers him with a second blanket, then runs to the stairs.

  “Ivan,” she calls.

  “Breakfast,” Ivan shouts from the kitchen.

  “Ivan!” Polly screams.

  Ivan runs from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs, a spatula in his hand.

  “Charlie’s sick,” Polly says.

  Ivan takes one look at her, then runs up the stairs. He goes past her, into Charlie’s room. Polly follows him so closely she bumps into him when he stops.

  “Are you okay?” Ivan says to Charlie.

  “I’m sick,” Charlie says.

  “I’ll get you some Tylenol,” Ivan tells him.

  Polly follows Ivan back into the hallway and grabs him.

  “He’s got it,” Polly says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ivan says. He goes into the bathroom and gets the Children’s Tylenol. Polly comes up behind him as he bends over the sink to fill a paper cup with water.

  “He’s got it,” Polly says. Her voice breaks and she grabs Ivan so hard the paper cup falls into the sink. “He got it from her.”

  Polly sits down on the toilet and begins to wail. Ivan closes the bathroom door and sits down across from her, on the rim of the tub.

  “He has a cold,” Ivan says.

  “It’s just the way she was!” Polly cries.

  “Stop it,” Ivan says. “Do you want him to hear you?”

  “I should have sent him away,” Polly says. “Oh, God. I should have made him stay in New York.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Ivan says. “He has a fucking cold! He has the flu! What should we have done? Put Amanda in quarantine? You sound like all the rest of them.”

  Polly looks up at him, riveted.

  He’s right.

  She gets up and wipes her face with a towel, then goes into their bedroom. Her hands are shaking as she dials Ed Reardon. He tells her not to worry, he’ll be over in five minutes or less. Polly hangs up the phone. Then, afraid to go into Charlie’s room and let him see how scared she is, she stands in the hallway. Ivan has gone down to the kitchen. Now he returns with a tall glass of orange juice and some damp dishtowels to help cool Charlie off.

  “Go downstairs,” he tells Polly. “Relax. Eat your burned eggs.”

  Polly tries to laugh but her voice cracks in half.

  “Your mother’s in the kitchen all by herself. She knows something’s up.”

  “God,” Polly says. “I can’t talk to her.”

  It takes Ed Reardon four and a half minutes to get there. He’s wearing old jeans and a gray sweater; he’s been out in his yard all morning, raking with the kids. This time Mary blew up; they’re expected at her sister’s for lunch, and if Ed’s not back by then, they’re leaving without him.

  “He has all the same symptoms,” Polly whispers to Ed in the hallway.

  “The flu’s going around,” Ed says. “Everyone I saw yesterday had it. Is he under 103?”

  Polly nods. Ed puts his arm around her for a moment, then goes into Charlie’s room.

  “Trying to get out of raking the lawn?” Polly hears Ed say to Charlie.

  When Ed starts to examine Charlie, Ivan comes out. Polly is sitting in the hall, her back against the wall.

  “You’re making it worse for yourself,” Ivan says. “Go downstairs.”

  Polly doesn’t answer him.

  “Or will you only do what he tells you to do?” Ivan says with real bitterness.

  “I’m not going to respond to that,” Polly says.

  Ivan sinks down next to her on the floor.

  “Don??
?t do this,” he says.

  “What am I doing wrong now? Polly says.

  “You’re breaking us up,” Ivan says.

  Polly looks at the floor. “I’m not doing it,” she says. “It’s just happening.”

  “No,” Ivan tells her. “It doesn’t just happen. You have to help it along. You have to give up on it.”

  As soon as Ed Reardon comes out of Charlie’s room, Ivan and Polly both get to their feet.

  “The flu,” Ed says. “I’m going to run an AIDS test just for everyone’s peace of mind.”

  “Meaning I’m crazy,” Polly says.

  “Anyone would have had the same reaction,” Ed says. “I see these symptoms every day in kids, I have for years, only now the first thing I think is AIDS. It’s on our minds. You did the right thing to call me. I’m going to send a blood sample to the lab and try to rush them. I want you to know I’m a hundred percent certain it’ll turn up negative.”

  Polly nods, comforted. Before they go downstairs, Ed says, “I don’t want Amanda sleeping here tonight. I don’t want her exposed to the flu. I don’t want to risk another bout with pneumonia. Don’t get her worried. Act as if it’s a treat for her to spend the weekend with a friend. If there’s no one you trust for her to stay with, I’d just as soon have her in the hospital as here.”

  Claire and Al are in the kitchen, rattled by the doctor’s presence.

  “What the hell is going on?” Al asks.

  “The flu,” Ed says. “You’re doing a great job out there. Want to come over and rake a few in my yard?”

  “Polly?” Claire says anxiously.

  “Everything’s fine,” Polly says. There are burned eggs in a frying pan on the stove. Untouched coffee and toast on the table. Polly puts her arm around her mother, and she’s surprised by how small Claire seems. “Really.”

  That night Charlie’s fever breaks, but Amanda is still allowed to spend the night at Laurel’s, and she’s thrilled. Laurel makes up a bed for her on the wicker loveseat and they have homemade pizza and real lemonade for dinner. Laurel doesn’t have a cassette player, so they sit in her car to hear Amanda’s new tapes.

  “This is how it would be if we were roommates,” Amanda says. “Our boyfriends would have just left.”

  “They would have given us diamond necklaces,” Laurel says.

  “And pink and yellow roses,” Amanda says.

  “They’d give us white sports cars,” Laurel adds. Her Datsun’s battery is wearing down just from using the cassette player. “Porsches.”

  When they see the first star they both make a wish.

  “Tell me what yours is,” Laurel says.

  “I can’t,” Amanda says. “It’s too stupid.”

  “I won’t laugh,” Laurel says. “I promise.”

  “I wished I could have my braces off,” Amanda says.

  “That’s not stupid,” Laurel Smith tells her.

  “It isn’t?” Amanda says.

  “It’s a great wish,” Laurel says. “Honest.”

  As they’re walking back to the house the phone rings. It’s Polly, for the third time, just checking on Amanda.

  “She worries all the time,” Amanda says when she gets off the phone.

  “She probably just wanted to say good night,” Laurel says.

  Amanda goes into the bathroom and gets undressed. She’s borrowing one of Laurel’s nightgowns, and even though it’s too big, it’s beautiful; it’s made out of soft pink flannel with a collar of lace. She’s been given her own towel and washcloth and a little soap in the shape of a seashell. When she comes back into the living room, Amanda is so tired her eyes are closing. Laurel tucks her in beneath a cotton quilt.

  “Wait till you hear the birds in the morning,” Laurel says as she lowers the shades behind the couch. “They’ll wake you up at dawn, so just go back to sleep.”

  “I’d rather get up and watch them,” Amanda says.

  “Then go to sleep now,” Laurel tells her.

  Laurel turns out the lights and starts for the bedroom, with the cat, Stella, dodging her steps.

  “Laurel?” Amanda calls.

  “Everything all right?” Laurel asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” Amanda says. “I was just wondering if you could leave a light on.”

  Laurel feels along the wall, then switches on the bright overhead light.

  “Wait a minute,” she says. She goes into the bedroom and unplugs her lamp with the pink silk shade. Then she puts it behind the wicker couch and plugs it in.

  “There,” Laurel says, pleased by the rose-colored cast of light from the lamp.

  “You’ll talk to me, won’t you?” Amanda asks.

  Laurel sits down on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

  “No,” Amanda says. “I mean afterward. When I’m dead.”

  “Honey, I can’t do that,” Laurel says evenly.

  “Yes, you can.” Amanda sits up and leans forward. “That’s what you do. You’re a medium.”

  “They were dreams,” Laurel says. She takes one of Amanda’s hands in her own. “That’s all they were.”

  Amanda pulls her hand away and studies Laurel. “Maybe you could. You could if you really wanted to.”

  It’s late now and there are night herons in the marsh, searching the shallow water.

  “No,” Laurel says. “Not even if I really want to.”

  “I thought you’d be able to talk to me,” Amanda whispers.

  Laurel swallows hard, then shakes her head no. Weak with disappointment, Amanda leans back, her head on the pillow.

  “I’ll dream about you,” Laurel tells her.

  “You will?” Amanda says.

  “Always,” Laurel says.

  “You don’t really have to stay with me until I fall asleep,” Amanda says.

  “That’s okay,” Laurel tells her. “I don’t mind.”

  Amanda keeps her eyes closed, and after a while she hears Laurel get up. Laurel pulls the quilt over Amanda’s shoulders, then goes into her bedroom and closes the door. But that’s all right, Amanda knows she’ll be able to sleep. She wishes she could stay here forever because she’s not as afraid as she usually is at night. As she falls asleep, Amanda is absolutely certain she’ll be the first one to wake up in the morning; she’ll be the first to hear the birds call.

  But Ed Reardon may be the first person awake in town; he’s up long before dawn. He took Charlie’s blood sample to the lab himself and told them to rush it so Polly wouldn’t have to wait till Monday for an answer. They’ve promised to call in the test results by ten today. Ed Reardon knows he can’t have fallen in love with Polly, but that’s what it feels like. He’s too raw; he’s showing things he shouldn’t. Mary wouldn’t talk to him when she and the kids got back from her sister’s, and Ed didn’t even try to approach her. Now she comes downstairs in the dark and finds him in the kitchen, having a cup of instant coffee. Mary goes to the stove and puts up a kettle for real coffee.

  “Is there something I should know about?” Mary says.

  “It’s a quarter to six,” Ed says. “I don’t want to fight.”

  Mary sits down across from him at the table. “Just tell me,” she says.

  She looks pretty with no makeup; she smells like sleep.

  “Just tell me now and I won’t ask you again,” Mary says.

  Ed knows that she means it. She doesn’t hold a grudge, she forgives easily, and she’s honest enough to expect other people to be equally honest. Ed knows that he’s married to her. Whether or not he wants to be at this moment doesn’t really matter.

  “There’s nothing you should know about,” he tells her.

  At a little after ten Ed calls Polly to let her know that Charlie’s test results are negative.

  “Thank God,” Polly says. “I was going crazy. I was crazy.”

  “If his fever’s broken and he’s not coughing you can have Amanda come home,” Ed says.

  “How did you get
the lab to run this on the weekend?” Polly asks him.

  “I told them it was for you,” Ed says.

  They’re both silent then. Charlie has the TV turned up and Claire is running the water in the sink. Mary and the kids are getting dressed so they can drive out to a farm and choose their pumpkin for Halloween.

  “Well,” Polly says finally, “I guess I’d better go.”

  “Me too,” Ed Reardon says.

  He listens to her hang up the phone, then he hangs up. He takes his jacket from the hall closet, then gets the car keys and goes outside.

  “I don’t believe this,” Mary says when she comes outside and finds him in the car. “Get in,” she tells the kids. “Are you actually coming with us?” she asks Ed.

  He doesn’t know whether he is or not until he turns the key in the ignition.

  “Of course I am,” Ed says. “Where else would I go?”

  In Morrow, on Sunday, the market doesn’t open till noon, and that’s where Polly heads as soon as her parents leave to drive back to New York. Amanda will be back for dinner, and Polly wants everything to be special. God knows what Laurel Smith let her eat last night. God knows what they talked about.

  Polly pulls in and parks, then gets a cart someone’s left in the parking lot. She takes her shopping list out of her jacket pocket as she walks toward the market.

  “It is you,” Betsy Stafford says. “I wasn’t sure from a distance.”

  Polly keeps walking, pushing her cart up the ramp to the sidewalk, headed toward the electronic swinging door.

  “Polly, we have to talk,” Betsy says.

  You bitch, Polly thinks. She rolls her cart faster. The wheels squeak.

  “I know you’re mad,” Betsy says.

  Polly stops, frozen. If she had a gun she would turn and shoot Betsy and think nothing of it. She would stay on to see the blood.

  “I panicked,” Betsy said. “I’m still panicking.”

  Polly turns then and looks at Betsy. Betsy’s cart is filled with bags of groceries. Polly can see a sack of oranges, a gallon of chocolate-chip ice cream, rolls of paper towels.