“Sure.”
They walked outside, down the sidewalk with its leering jack-o’-lanterns. “I have a confession,” he told her. “It’s about my truck.”
“Your truck? What about it?”
They walked over to it. “Does this truck look familiar?”
She walked around the truck looking it over. “My father had a truck like this.”
He told her how he’d bought it from Otto. “I’m pretty sure it was your father’s.”
“Oh, my God, that’s so weird.” Excitedly, she started pointing out things she recognized, a tiny dent on the rear panel, the remnants of a bumper sticker that had some antiapartheid slogan on it. “I put that on right before I went to college. This is so amazing. Can I get in?”
“Please.” He opened the door for her and she climbed up onto the seat, jumping around like a kid, opening the glove compartment, unrolling the window. He pulled down the visor and showed her the photograph. “It was right there when I bought it,” he explained. And then added, a bit awkwardly, “I didn’t feel right about taking it down. And then of course I met you.”
She sat back, shaking her head. “Life is so weird.”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I thought it might seem very odd.”
“What’s odd is that my father and I weren’t close, we hardly spoke to each other, that’s the truth. I would never have thought he’d do something like this.”
“You were his good luck charm.” He handed her the picture. “Here, you keep it.”
She studied the Polaroid, shaking her head. “I made that skirt. We had Home Ec back then—sewing. I made it out of my favorite pair of jeans. Look at me. God. That’s my rabbit, Bonnie. She had hundreds of babies. You’d walk out in the back field and see all these fluffy white bunnies, like snowballs in springtime. It was crazy.”
He watched her face, her eyes shining even in the darkness of the truck.
“You know what they say? Things happen for a reason.”
“I know. I believe that.” She looked at him.
“It’s got to be fate. There’s no other explanation.”
“Fate or coincidence,” she said, grinning.
“Ah, you’re a skeptic.”
“I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m going with fate.”
She looked down, almost shyly, and said, “I’m glad you are.”
He would have liked to have kissed her then, but he had no right. She gave the picture back to him. “Keep it up there, okay?”
“Are you sure?”
She thought for a moment. “Unless you mind?”
“No. I don’t mind. I’ve gotten kind of used to you up there.”
He slid the picture back under the elastics. Then he started the truck and took her home.
29
They stole pumpkins from Maynard’s pumpkin field and you had to carry the heavy thing back into the little clearing, through the alley of hulking pines, and you carried your pumpkin like a baby. Hers was fat and round and orange and she was already in love with it. Marco had handed out the pills that his friend so and so had sent him all the way from Seattle, and the pills made them feel wicked and bright and toxic all at once, buzzing up in her head like neon, and they were all viciously happy. Dear mother, dear mother, dear mother. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! So the object of the game was to roll your pumpkin to the finishing line, and the grass was thick and wet and terribly green and you could smell the dark earth beneath it, the cold funk of mushrooms, and she got down close to her pumpkin with its cold bumpy skin and wished it good luck. Whoever won the race got to use the ax. Teddy had brought the ax from his grandfather’s barn and had made a show of it, dragging one of his feet like the hunchback of Notre Dame. The pumpkins were wet and slippery and it wasn’t easy rolling one through the grass. The pills had turned them into ravenous donkeys, braying and snorting and laughing all the way up to the finishing line—finishing line or firing squad, Willa thought, drifting behind because she didn’t want to win. Ada would be the winner. Ada couldn’t help winning; it was what she did best. Ada stood up in her Ugg’s and smoothed out her clothes. The laugh burst out. “Ada gets to use the ax,” Teddy declared, his eyes bugging out maniacally. “But first we have to decorate.” He handed out Sharpies and everyone drew faces of people they hated on their pumpkin, mostly teachers, emphasizing various imperfections like Mr. Miller’s hooked nose, or Mrs. Riley’s mustache, or Mr. Jernigan’s horse teeth, or Ms. Hancock’s unibrow, and Willa did Mr. Heath, because she did hate him now for what he’d done to her, she hated him terribly, and Teddy did Mrs. Heath, because her every waking moment seemed dedicated to making his life miserable, and when they were done they backed away and appraised their work, guffawing because it was terribly funny. Teddy went for the ax, walking in his loping way, and handed it to Ada and said, “It’s up to you, Ada.” Ada seemed uncertain, as if she now regretted winning, and she studied the pumpkins carefully, trying to figure out which one to pick. Not one but both her parents had been represented, the Lord and Lady of their illustrious school. Ada staggered forward like some deranged princess, the ax a burden in her scrawny hands, and everyone started to cheer her on. Chop, chop, chop! She chose a pumpkin, putting her foot down on top of it, and you could tell it was Mrs. Heath because of the mole Teddy had drawn on it—he’d made the mole unnecessarily bulbous, with a few hairs shooting out of it like porcupine quills— and everyone went silent because it was a surprise and not a surprise that Ada would pick her own mother. In a way everybody hated Ada’s mother and in another way they loved her too, because she was a really good teacher and everybody did pretty well in her class, aside from Teddy, who couldn’t read very well and refused to use punctuation and talked back to her every chance he got—but she had done well, she had gotten A’s, and if you had a problem like you didn’t feel well or couldn’t concentrate, Mrs. Heath always let you out. She would say something like, “Go and sit in the sunshine for a few minutes, maybe you’ll feel better.” And so Willa felt sorry for Mrs. Heath because her daughter didn’t appreciate her and her husband was a creep. Ada brought up the ax and swung it down, but the blade missed and curled open a hunk of grass and it heaved open like a gash. Undeterred, she brought it up again, heavy in her arms like it might pull her over backward, wobbly-legged, and whoosh it came down again through the air into the pulpy flesh of the pumpkin. Thwack. It made a dull sound when it hit, like a body gushing open, revealing its glittering belly of seeds, the pale, slippery jewels, and little pieces of pulp flew up into their eyes. Ada hacked that pumpkin up and she laughed and laughed and she hacked it up and up and up some more and she laughed again. I hate you I hate you I hate you! she cried. She cursed it. She muttered terrible things.
“Ada,” Willa said. “Ada, you can stop now. Ada, please, please just stop!”
And Ada turned, her eyes dim and vacant, and she smiled a little and threw down the ax. “She deserved it.”
They watched her walk away. Willa called after her, but she didn’t turn. She just kept walking, into the greedy dark.
They went after her. They followed her through the trees and caught up and took hold of her and helped her walk. Teddy said the pills weren’t good, it was Marco’s fault, and Marco said to go fuck yourself, and he went off with Monica and it was just the three of them, her and Teddy and Ada. Then they went along the lake to bring Ada home and they could hear the sound of loons. It was a crazy sound, Willa thought, and she felt that things could never be the same.
There was a thick fog. They walked along. She saw the moon bright upon the water and she heard the birds swoop down. Ada muttered. Something about an accident on a lake. A girl, her babysitter, who’d drowned. “I saw her dead,” she said. “I saw her when they pulled her out. She looked so cold. She was blue.” She pulled on the sleeve of Teddy’s coat. “We found a little kitty once in the woods. It was so cute. We used to feed it. I tried to find it. After she died, I went to the woods. I looked
for it. But it never came . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were distant, vacant. Then she looked at Teddy. “Why don’t you love me?” she said to him, walking backward into the lake. “Why don’t you love me?”
And Teddy tried to grab her.
“Why don’t you love me? I’m too ugly for you!”
“No, Ada. Get out of the water.”
“I’m so ugly I could puke.”
And then she did. She puked in the water. Teddy grabbed her and pulled her out and they waited for her to stop. They walked on. Finally, the Heaths’ house appeared, the little cottage, as in a storybook, only it was dark, just the dim light over the door, blinking like an eye full of dirt.
They went in. It was very late. The house was dark. A band of light ran under the door of Mr. Heath’s study and up the narrow opening. Willa could see him bent over his desk, the floor littered with crumpled papers. They crept upstairs to Ada’s room and put her to bed. Down the hall, emanating from the master bedroom, was the blaring tone of the TV, indicating that the station had gone off for the night. Willa thought of going in and shutting it off, but now they could hear Mr. Heath downstairs, walking across the creaky wood floors, then the crash of ice on the counter, then the cubes tumbling into his glass. She thought he might be an alcoholic and it made her sorry for him, but then her pity was replaced with anger. Stealthily, she and Teddy descended the staircase and crossed the living room to the door. Teddy made it out, but just as she was about to cross the threshold Heath grabbed her wrist.
“What a nice surprise,” Heath said, almost gravely.
“We brought Ada home,” Willa managed. “She’s sick.”
Heath stood there. “I hope there wasn’t any drinking involved. I wouldn’t want to have to suspend you.”
“No.”
“I’ve been wanting to speak to you.” She could hear the liquor in his voice. “I have things to say to you.”
“I have to go,” she said.
He staggered backward slightly with his arms open like a man asking to be shot. “I want to explain.”
“Don’t.”
“I made a mistake.”
“It’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t.
“Please,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.” The words came out silently, and she doubted that he had heard her. She pulled free of him and ran out the door.
“What was that about?” Teddy asked.
“Nothing.”
They walked up the hill under the black trees. Willa debated telling him about Mr. Heath, but couldn’t bear the thought of uttering the words. They went to his house. Outside, in the wind, he kissed her. “You can stay here,” he said. She was too messed up to go home. It would upset her parents. For Teddy’s sake, she was a good actress; she looked his mother in the eye. I need to call my parents, she said, but Claire said she’d do it for her, why don’t you just get in bed. Claire took her hand and brought her to the guest room and helped her into bed. She covered her, like a mother, pulling the covers up. “Good night,” she said, and turned off the light and closed the door. Willa lay awake, her mind reeling. In the room next door, she could hear Claire talking to Teddy about the Ecstasy. Claire said she didn’t like him doing pills, she expected more from him, and it would only get him in trouble and hadn’t he been in enough trouble already? “How do you expect to get into college?” she asked him.
“I’m sorry,” Teddy said. “It was stupid.”
But Willa knew Teddy didn’t really mean it. Doing the drugs had been fun.
She could hear Claire on the phone, calling her parents, but thank God she didn’t say anything about the pills. Teddy’s mother was cool; she wouldn’t do that.
Tomorrow is Saturday, Willa thought, closing her eyes.
In the morning, they had breakfast with his mom, buttered toast and hot cocoa. She thought Claire was very beautiful and Willa decided she was going to grow her hair long like hers and wear it in a braid. Teddy had a chocolate mustache. He smiled at her across the table. Then, out of the blue, Mr. Gallagher showed up. He drove a truck. He pulled up and came to the door in his scraggly wool sweater, an oatmeal-colored hat with earflaps. He was like an overgrown boy, she thought. In his arms was a big white rabbit.
“I couldn’t resist,” he said, grinning, and Claire started to laugh.
“Where on earth did you find it?”
“Over in Richmond. I couldn’t believe it—some guy selling rabbits on the side of the road. It felt like destiny.”
“Yes, yes, it was clearly destiny.” Claire took the rabbit in her arms.
“He’s so cute,” Willa said, petting the bunny. “What are you going to name him?”
“How do you know it’s a him?” Teddy said. “Do we have scientific evidence?”
They all looked at the rabbit, trying to determine its sex, but none of them could.
“How about Bonnie,” Gallagher suggested.
“Bonnie is such a good name for a rabbit.” Claire put the rabbit down. It jumped all over the house. “Oh, my goodness. Bonnie, you get back here!”
“Bonnie he is,” Teddy said.
Claire scooped up the rabbit, then went over and kissed Mr. Gallagher on the cheek. “Thank you for this.”
“It’s my sincere pleasure,” he said, and did a little bow.
They spent the afternoon together, all four of them. Teddy and Mr. Gallagher skateboarded in the old pool. The pool had been drained years before and was full of cracks and piles of dead leaves. Teddy was good on the board. He could do all sorts of tricks, but Mr. Gallagher was pretty hopeless. His incredible height made him wobbly.
It was a wonderful day, the last good day, she would remember later, that they would have together.
The sun lit up the sky. The grass was long and tickled her calves. Claire made cookies and Willa and Teddy got to lick the bowl. They were like puppies, licking the big wooden spoons, their fingers. She hadn’t felt so good and happy in a long time, and she could almost forget what Mr. Heath had done to her in the van. She could almost pretend her life was normal.
It got late and Mr. Gallagher offered to drive her home. In his truck, he played the radio, the classic rock station. “Brown Eyed Girl” came on and they sang it together, extremely loudly, out the windows of the truck. At the house, her mother came out and invited Mr. Gallagher in for a drink, which, to Willa’s surprise, he accepted. He looked a little shaky at first, and when her mother asked him if anything was wrong he said, no, just a little light-headed from a day out in the sun, it was surprisingly warm for the first of November, was it possible that this was a version of Indian summer? And her mother said, yes, it seemed like Indian summer indeed, and they went out onto the porch and drank lemonade and watched the sun sink down into the field while the horses slept on their feet, swatting flies with their tails.
Part Three
Attachment Disorder
[sculpture]
Claire Squire, Suffer the Consequences, 2006. Plaster and gauze, 60 x 24 x 18 in. Collection of the artist.
The figure of a naked pregnant woman standing alone, her belly full and round and crawling with graffiti: cunt; pussy; auntie; ho; doggie; mama; baby; punta; chica; chick. The expression on her face is one of caution, fear.
30
On the day Luther Grimm’s dog escaped, it ran into a school playground and took off the ear of a five-year-old girl who’d come out for recess. Teddy and his mother had seen the report on the morning news. They showed the child in the hospital, the hysterical mother. They still hadn’t found the dog. They were offering a reward.
After school, he walked through the woods behind his grandfather’s house to see for himself. This time, the woods were quiet, save for the groaning of the old trees. When he got to Grimm’s yard, there was no sign of the dog. A police cruiser was parked behind Grimm’s pickup truck. The door of Grimm’s house opened and the cops came out and Luther Grimm was with them. He brought
the cops over to see the tree where he used to chain up the dog. Grimm’s face looked blurry and wet. He was clutching a handkerchief. He kneeled down and showed the cops how the chain was broken. “He’s a good dog,” Grimm was saying. “He’s just a puppy. He don’t mean nothing. He don’t mean it.”
Teddy stood there and watched Grimm go back into his house. Something didn’t seem right. He wondered where the dog was now.
On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, the school did its own version of Thanksgiving, and everyone had to contribute to the meal. Three long tables were set with real china on white tablecloths and it was like a big deal and people were supposed to dress up. Teddy wore the jacket he’d worn to his grandfather’s funeral. Even Mr. Gallagher had put on a tie and he’d trimmed his beard. Teddy sat next to Willa and they held hands under the table, their hands twisting together like two desperate spiders. He could feel her needing him. “You make me feel safe,” she said into his ear. She seemed distracted, he thought, like she wanted to be someplace else, all jittery in her seat. Her face so pale and this nervous look in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He wondered if she were in some sort of trouble. On Halloween, when they’d taken Ada home, he’d overheard Heath asking her to forgive him and she’d stood there shaking her head. Forgive him for what, he wondered. And she’d walked up the hill with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mr. Heath stood up at the head of the table next to his wife. Even though he was all dressed up, there was something ragged about him, Teddy thought. He caught Mrs. Heath staring off into space while her husband gave a speech about the importance of being thankful. Teddy knew it was good advice, but somehow, coming from a douche bag like him, it felt watered down.
Later that afternoon, Willa took him riding. They rode her horse bareback and he got on behind her and held her around the waist. He could smell her right at the neck, a sweet baby scent, and felt like their bodies were one. He held her tight. They galloped across the wet field.