Look How You Turned Out (23 page)

"Cause he's got a girlfriend."

"I can imagine. He's always been good."

"I'm glad you know."

"Don't worry, I didn't come along to cause trouble. I just wanted to see him. Tell him what I said. See you if I could. Just see how you turned out. Forgive me sweetheart. I know it's selfish."

I want to say, 'that never stopped you did it…selfish?' But I don't say that. I'm already running out of steam.

I still don't trust her for anything. But…she's kind of pitiable. "You have other family?" I say. "You have kids?"

She smiles a little. "Just…you."

"That's probably good…right?" I don't say it mean, just stating a fact.

But her smile is sad. And I know then, I don't want to hurt her.

Later, in bed, in a nest of red brocade, I lay beside him, half on, half off, our arms and legs as entwined as our hearts.

It's here where it all makes sense…by not having to make sense at all.

I have told him, in a voice small but strong. He's taken it seriously, is worried I'll be hurt. He puts his pain on me, I know, and sees Ranita, through all that glass, Angela, Juney, little me left behind, and Artie, and himself. He's my protector, he wants to fix, he knows he can't, but he'd like a shot, he'd always like a shot.

What does she want? What does she expect? How can she ask? How can she be? –he says all this.

Is there a way to make sure she never slips through again, her kind never slips through? That's what he's asking.

And here's what I know…she couldn't give me what she didn't have.

And I'm not her.

I leave Marcus, and he mumbles, he doesn't want me to go but assumes it's nature calling and slurs, "Hurry back," as he rolls onto his stomach, and I look at him for a moment, his hair against the pillow.

I love.

So I go in the bathroom and wash my face and hands, then I dress quietly and tiptoe out of there down the hall to Juney's room.

He doesn't like to close his door, feels too cut off from Marcus, Marcus says, not Juney, but don't I know that, don't I know most everything about this little turd? So I push his door a little, and I see him easy in the nightlight, and the flashlight under his sheets, left on, and the puppy that's supposed to be in his crate is sleeping on him, now wiggling awake to tell me hello, and that wakes Juney enough that he rolls on his stomach much like I just watched his father do.

I kneel beside his bed, my hands open to the dog, and I guess it is a prayer. He's been given to me for a time, this kid named Juney. Deserve it? No one deserves such a gift, such a responsibility, not really, but then it's not about perfection, it's about willingness and effort and sincerity…and humility. It's humbling.

He's looking at me. Just like that he's looking at me.

"What are you doing?" he says deadpan, the pup licking his face, right in the kisser, and he laughs and sits up and holds the pup.

I get off my knees and sit on the edge of his bed. "I um…couldn't go to sleep without talking to you first," I say.

"What?" he says with dread.

"It's about my mom showing up that way," I say.

"What about her?"

"Well…the son thing."

He closes his eyes. "Shut up," he says, the puppy wiggling in his hands.

"Let me say something…Juney."

He opens his eyes. He's looking at me, and there are dread and hurt.

I swallow. "I love you."

He groans.

"Listen to me. I'm not like my mom. I'm nothing like her."

He just stares at me, his cheek getting licked.

"You…and your dad," I cross my heart, hold up my fingers in the Girl Scout pledge. "For life.

"You and your dad…Juney…I want to try and be a good mom…but I hadn't asked if it was okay to call you…. I didn't know how you would feel. I thought…it has to happen on its own, in time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Me…being your mom. And you…being my son."

"Go away," he says, his eyebrows crinkling.

I'm making it worse. "I'm not. That's what I'm trying to say."

He looks at me for a minute. "You're weird."

"I know," I agree. "It will take time, right?"

"So what are we?" he asks. "At school…?"

"Friends for sure," I say. "But just say step-mom. It's the truth."

"Then you say step-son, right?"

"Well, can I? It's okay?"

"Grampa Artie already talked to me," he says. "When you went out to the car for his food."

"What did he say?"

"He said I hit the lottery. He said you did too."

I laugh but tears come, and I sniff. "Well…he's a little biased about me, but I did get a twofer with you and your dad."

"What's a twofer?" he asks, and the puppy attacks him, and he laughs.

"Two for one," I say.

"So…okay," he says trying to contain the wiggler.

"Here," I say. I hold Scrapper on his back and scratch his stomach.

"Are you gonna have a baby or something?"

"What?"

"You're holding him like a baby."

We're quiet for a minute, watching Scrapper hold very still, his mouth open. "Sometime it could happen," I say without looking at him at first.

He groans, but he's smiling. "Brats around here just like you," he says.

"Or like you," I say.

I tickle him a little, but he blocks me with his elbow and says, "Don't. They're not getting in my room."

"They? You think I'm gonna do it more than once?" I ask.

He laughs. "Probably. There's a kid at school with seven. They break all his stuff."

"Zombie plague. Prepare yourself."

He groans. "I'm gonna live with Granma."

"Oh no, you're not," I say yanking the pillow from under his head. "You're mine, you're mine, admit it."

The puppy is overwhelmed. It's climbing on him, and he scoops it up and speaks softly to it.

Point made I guess. I take the flashlight he's left on and click it off and put it on his nightstand as I get on my feet.

"Tomorrow after school we're going shopping for your dad. So have some ideas," I say.

"I know what he wants," he tells me grinning. "Xbox One."

"Oh yeah? Imagine that," I say.

He's smiling big as I tuck him and his dog under the covers.

When I get back in our room, Marcus is coming out of the bathroom. "Nice save," I say.

"What?" he says. I guess he wants to pretend he wasn't listening outside Juney's door.

"You're getting Xbox One," I say.

"I better not be," he says grabbing me and falling onto the bed.

We lay there a minute, breathing.

"He loves you too," Marcus says, a soft kiss on my hair. "How could he not my Bedilia?"

We're quiet for a while, and I think we'll go to sleep now.

"What do you want for Christmas," he asks.

I have everything I want. "A Kitchen-Aid," I say. I know it's expensive, but I'm being honest.

"A red one," I say. "And I like that glass bowl."

"Serious?" he asks up on his elbow.

"Yeah," I tell him. I'm serious.

He makes a humpf sound, drops beside me, and we get as close as possible.

Yeah, I'm a million surprises. Mostly to myself.

In the morning, Marcus plans to drive Juney to school so I can come along and see his classroom and meet his homeroom teacher.

I am happy to do this, excited even. I take extra time to braid my hair and wear my nice boots. I have to go to work at eleven to get ready for the lunch crowd, and Marcus is bringing Juney to me after school before he goes to work. We'll eat at the diner again, and Juney will have to do his homework, then we'll go see Artie. And we have some shopping to do.

My life…my beautiful life. My rich…life.

So I'm in the bathroom at the mirror when he knocks. I'm doing my version of make-up—mascara and lip gloss. My moisturizer is over at Artie's. Well, I have to tackle that place pretty soon, get his tree ready, clean out the frig, move my stuff over here.

I open the door expecting Marcus to tell me it's time to leave.

He smiles at me and…I'm smiling at him. He's in jeans and a sweater, a black sweater, sleeves pushed up his forearms, and it shreds my brain. He is so handsome I just want to drop everything and admire him.

"Bedilia?" he says. "I brought you a coffee. You like this vanilla kind, right?"

"Yes," I say. "Thank-you Mr. Handsome Sweater. I don't usually drink in the potty room, though."

He laughs, is looking at the cup. "Well…I drink my shower water sometimes…," then he looks up, "…Mrs. Beautiful…Blouse."

I picture him in the shower, his open mouth filling with water...but the black sweater can't be worn in the shower so my pictures are conflicted.

"Bedilia?"

"The dresser will do. And thanks again."

"Artie told me I should do this every morning," he says taking the few steps to the dresser to set the cup there. "Yeah."

"He did? Why would he tell you that?" I'm like…astonished.

"He texted me this morning…my duties at the station, like I need him to tell me. Then later he texts, 'Bedilia likes that fruity coffee. Vanilla. You should bring her one. Every morning.'" He digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls a little, then hands me the phone so I can read the text.

"My dad…needs to get a life. He's like cray-cray sitting in his backless gown being Yenta." I hand the phone back like it's a hot potato.

Marcus laughs. "Yeah…and about last night…if Juney ever gets out of line…don't take that. If you can't say anything, then tell me. I want him to be respectful, you know?"

"He is respectful," I say.

"I couldn't say anything because…."

"You were eavesdropping," I finish.

"Yeah, but…he knows better than to tell you to shut-up. And there was something else…just don't let him…."

"He's fine. Don't talk to him about it," I say to him.

He gathers me against him, big breath, big sigh. "My Bedilia…."

"We're working it out. You have to let us," I say, and I dance a little against him, and he moves easy with me, we're swaying side to side, just love, just love.

"I don't want him to get in this habit of talking to you like…a grade school kid," he says with his cheek against my hair.

"Maybe that's what I am…inside."

"You know what I mean, Bedilia." His hands slide down my back. He likes to do that.

"This sweater makes me…hmmm, feel a little older," I say rubbing my hand on his back.

"After we take Juney…," he turns us toward the disheveled bed that would already fail the black-light test.

"Are you out of your mind? I've got so much to do! You're going to help me move in here."

"Oh. I like that," he says. "But we've got some shopping to do, right?" We're still dancing.

"You definitely do," I say. "But…yeah. We have to divide and conquer. I have to work some."

Now he stops so we stop. He pulls back to look at me so I comply.

"You don't need money. What do you need, baby?" Now he's digging for his wallet. "I'm not big on credit cards."

"Well, I kind of am."

"I prefer to use cash. It hurts more to spend real money. You tend to keep track."

"You're so cute," I say, kissing his open lips. "A credit card is how you keep track. It's called a statement…available online. You pay it off end of the month so you can use the card for free."

"But you still don't feel the pain of spending like you do with cash."

"Dad," Juney calls from the kitchen, "we're going to be late."

"To be continued," he says shoving some bills in my hand.

"And this is Mrs. Stover," Marcus says, like she and Juney's class should all give me a round of applause or something.

Juney's teacher, Mrs. Fisk, is trying very hard not to be dazzled. Not by me, the eclipse, but by him, the sun, also known as the acting sheriff of our town. I suppose it will go with the job of 'wife,' now, the constant tolerance of other women being jolted out of their hum-drum expectations by the sight of my man.

The black sweater shows between the sides of his leather jacket. Yes, the merciful side of me can hardly blame any female for the primal stutter he inspires deep within her hallowed halls.

If she collects herself quickly, I can respect her shock, her struggle. But if she persists, she is going down.

This woman, Mrs. Fisk, seems determined to remember herself, the wedding ring on her finger, her calling as teacher, her mother, her father, perhaps her priest. Anyway, she's obviously seen Marcus before, come to terms with the fact that he exists, so she avoids looking straight at him, looking instead at the nearest kid and yelling at 'Bobby,' to get in his seat.

She clears her throat and compliments Juney on being a good student. She seems like a nice person (unless you're Bobby). She remembers to explain to me how homework is posted and where to speak with her on-line. She gives me a copy of the school's policy on administering medications and some of the paperwork left over from the beginning of the year when I was in Chicago being wayward. Now I clear my throat.

Juney is trying hard not to be proud of us, his parents. Parents? It's such a freak out for me. I am a parent. It's just…ridiculous. I'm happy and mutually proud of him, and I feel like a total fake.

I keep looking at Juney. I pat my stomach like I'm checking that area on him for the puppy. He smiles and looks away from me. I hope he doesn't think I'm trying to tell him I'm pregnant because I'm not.

I'm really not about to begin the zombie invasion.

Marcus has backed his truck as close to Artie's front door as he can, and we've filled it with my stuff. Some I've bagged for Goodwill, and he'll dump that off later on the way to work, he says. I lived quite well in Chicago without it, so why resurrect it now? That's what I tell him…so I can tell myself. Clutter is unmade decisions, and I am a decision-making machine.

But I do not want to strip this room too much, make it too stark when Artie can eventually stump his way up here again.

Maybe by then it will seem old hat that I'm a married woman. To him and to me.

But I bag the room, and as far as the furniture, I've taken my cedar chest, of course, my vanity table. I've taken my desk and my Starry Night print. And my luggage, not that it matches. Some of it was Artie's gift to me at high school graduation. Now it's all packed for the biggest journey of my life—across the street. Trophies in a box, yearbooks and awards are shoved under the bed to be dealt with some other time. I can't imagine bringing them to Marcus's, can't imagine pitching them. They just belong here, in Artie's house, under his roof. That's all I know for now.

So I'm all moved in by the time I have to leave for work. Marcus has filled half his closet with my things. There's been enough room because neither of us is what you'd call clothes hogs. He cleans a few odds and ends out of some of the drawers, and there's plenty of those. He's right there when I unpack my underwear, my bras. He's interested in them, of course, apparently happy to have such taking up residence in his room. I see the set Myron bought for my disastrous second night with him. I hadn't thought about it, not when I packed. Of course, he picks this out.

"Hey, what's this? Doesn't look like something you'd buy."

"Well, it wasn't from Artie," I joke in this ridiculous voice.

"Looks like something I'd buy," he says, smiling big.

I grab it from him…almost. He holds the bra and panty set out of my reach.

"I thought they were pretty, but they're not comfortable," I say.

"Guess not. Not much to…them," he says blocking me and holding the things in his big hands while he takes a closer look. "Damn."

"Okay, you're perving now," I say trying not to panic. I don't know why. They can't talk.

"Special occasion?" he asks. He's still smiling, but not really, and they're crushed in his closed hands.

I'm through talking. I'm holding my hand out…like gimme.

He takes a last look and turns them over. I proceed to rip them into even smaller pieces and throw them in the bathroom trashcan.

"What was that about?" he asks.

"I don't like them, and I know you were going to want me to wear them for you."

"Waste of time," he says folding his arms. "They'd just be in my way."

We have a bit of a stare off then.

He doesn't say anything about it. He could. I haven't been very cool, and he's no fool.

"I've been thinking about the mixer," I say.

"What about it?"

"Take it to the station and let her come for it. You don't have to be there."

"That what you want?"

"Yes."

"Done."

What matters the most to me as we bask here in this soft place--Him. Me. Ours—Juney, Artie. Two houses and a road between. This place he protects and I serve—Lowland. His mother.

And mine? I wonder if she's still around. Did she ever get here…with Artie? Did she ever feel anything close to what I know now, what I share now with Marcus? Did she know this sweet place, and if she did…if she ever did…how did she go away?

Only she can tell me. How badly do I need to know?

I need only one thing, only two, only three…and maybe four. I do not need these answers.

But I may want them.

I'm all peace and love and Merry Christmas as I take orders and bring people the ample plates of food Teresa and her crew of one put out. And around two Marcus enters and he looks like he's been up to something. Maybe it's the pink mixer…or maybe he went Christmas shopping.

We do smile at one another, and I lead him to a booth, a little extra joy in my hips, and he follows and whispers, "Pretty cute," and I ask what can I get you, and he doesn't answer right away, just looks at me, lips deliciously sealed and so I suggest the special and he says he's had that. It's his favorite.

Snap, crackle, and pop. That's how it is between us. I'm smiling big as I put in his order.

"Someone's in a really good mood," Teresa says at the window.

"Yeah, this is for Marcus."

"Oh," Teresa says, drawing out the oh.

I take him his drink, and he looks around quick and grabs my wrist. "I hear they've got a closet…."

"Yeah, I went there with this boy once…."

He's looking at me, and I'm smiling. He lets go of my wrist and sits back.

"I can't talk about it," I whisper messing with his silverware. "Later…."

He takes a long drink. I try to remember I have other customers. Someone comes over to speak with Marcus. It's that way for him, for Artie. If they want down time, they have to leave town. Artie stuck in that hospital room, it's one long parade of his cronies, old guys who help him keep law and order. In their dreams.

So I am humming along, doing my job. I've just laid Marcus's chicken and dumplings before him when she comes in.

She sits in my section. It can't be on purpose, she wouldn't know, but what is she doing here…in Lowland…still? The Uptown Motel, she said. I pictured her gone, having realized at the hospital it was too awkward. I tried not to picture her at all.

I think of handing her off, but it would be weird and why should I do that. I look at Marcus, and he's trying to eat while two guys bend his ear, and I think this is stupid, so I walk to her table.

“Hello,” I say. “I thought you were gone.”

She says, “Please sit for just a moment. Maybe I can do you some good.”

She's been back to the hospital to see Artie, to say good-bye. She's leaving now. She just needed to come back.

"What are you looking for?" I say.

She is shaking her head. "Bedilia, Artie told me how it was, how you did it…you went to college, you finished, you had a great job in Chicago. He said you turned down a proposal from a wealthy, successful big-shot because this was where you belonged. Everything I wanted…you had…briefly. And you came back here."

Now she seems open to my response. Like I should explain myself? I don't know what this is about.

"Dad says too much sometimes," I say.