Snow Angels (8 page)

She's late—only ten minutes, but he's sensitive. She doesn't take the empty space on either side of the Fury, instead swings into a spot against the window, the Maverick's front tires hitting the concrete stop, rocking the car back. She gets out and slings her purse over her shoulder and heads purposefully across the lot, then sees the door and angrily reverses direction. By her stride, Glenn can tell she's pissed off. He's not ready for this, but stands to welcome her, unconsciously brushing at his jacket. She opens the door and scans the crowd with the same impatience. He's overdressed—again—and curses first his luck and then his stupidity. He waves and she sees him.

She doesn't offer her cheek, doesn't even sit down.

“Tough day,” he asks.

“Your daughter,” she says. “And my mother on top of her. I don't want to talk about it. Did you order yet?”

“I was waiting. What do you want, your usual?”

“Sure,” she says, dropping her purse on the seat and taking off her jacket. “Vanilla shake though. My face has to be good for work.”

He heads for the counter, hoping she won't call him back to give him money.

At the table Annie lights up and pulls a silvered-paper ashtray in front of her. On the way over she zipped into a Stop-n-Go for a fresh hardpack of Marlboros and had one in the lot with the car off, torturing herself for hitting Tara. She hates losing control like that, but she gets worked up and Tara won't listen. “Do you think I like to yell at you?” Annie screams. She wonders how much Tara understands, how much she'll remember. Annie can't reach that far back, only to first grade, her classmate Vanessa Cheeks standing in the middle of the room, reddening as she pees on the floor.

It's cold next to the window, and she drapes her jacket over her shoulders. She looks around; there's no one who knows them. She doesn't know what she
wants from this lunch, why she's here. She's tired of her life being fucked up.

Glenn comes back with the shake and a numbered pickup slip. “I thought you quit.”

I m just upset.

“What was the trouble?”

“She wanted to come too. Actually she wanted you.”

“I know how that can get,” he says. “She does that with me all the time. ‘I want Mommy, I want Mommy.' It's normal according to my mother.”

“Yeah,” Annie says. She's heard enough of Olive's wisdom; she doesn't need advice from a woman who's never given birth. She puts out her cigarette and starts on her shake, hoping he'll let it go.

“You're still mad at her.”

“More at myself. You know how I am. I get frustrated and lose it.”

“When she gets like that there's nothing you can do.”

“And my mother acts like it's all my fault.”

“Like she never yelled at you,” Glenn jokes.

“You know what,” Annie says, “I really don't think she did.”

“That's ridiculous. That's what parents do, yell at their kids.”

“You don't yell at Tara half as much as I do. You're her fun daddy, and I'm mean mommy.”

“Only because I'm not home anymore.”

“Even when you were there you never yelled at her. You left that up to me.”

“You're right,” he admits. “You're better at it.”

“Thank you,” Annie says. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“I know,” she says, “I was just kidding.”

A speaker over the counter blurts a number she can't make out.

“That's us,” Glenn says, and goes up. Annie watches him, thin in his good slacks, and wonders what kind of drugs he's on. He's so calm. She knows he's in treatment for his depression. When she heard he'd tried to kill himself, she didn't exactly feel guilty but unobservant. All winter he'd been on the couch. She'd come home from work and he'd be lying there in the dark with the lights out and a bottle on the floor. He'd say crazy things like “Did you ever think you were Jesus?” Maybe he needed the church all along. It's just sudden, his belief. She's seen this sort of thing fall apart on him before. Still, he seems so sure. Annie doesn't want to admit her mother is right, but he really seems to have cleaned himself up.

When he comes back with the tray, she asks, “You're working.”

“At the junkyard. It's a nothing job but the money's good. Actually I like it. I was going crazy staying home.”

The word “crazy” makes Annie flush and she takes a bite of fries. There's just one bag; they're sharing.

“I'm going to move out as soon as I get enough money.”

“Where would you go?” Annie asks, ready to deflect the wrong answer.

“In town. I don't know.”

The burgers are hot and just as good as the real Burger Hut. Hers is medium, the outside charred, just how she likes it; he's remembered that she loves onion and hates tomato. Eating, she notices that he's looking around like she is, checking everyone out as if they're spies.

“I feel like we're onstage,” he says.

“Like they all know our business.”

“Exactly,” Glenn says.

Annie hasn't felt this comfortable with him since they split. She wonders if she should be honest and tell him about Brock, tell him not to get his hopes up, though she knows she won't. There's no reason. They eat, neither of them taking the last fry.

“So,” Glenn asks after they've balled up the wrappers
and jammed them in the cups, “how are you doing?”

“Okay,” she says. “You know. Work, Tara.”

“Would you like to maybe see a movie with me next week?”

“I'm probably on.”

“Your mom says you have Thursdays off.”

“Not always,” Annie says, damning her. “I'll have to check my schedule.”

“Or do you just not want to go with me? I'd understand.”

“It's not that. It's complicated.”

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” she says automatically. “It's just strange being asked out on a date by your husband. After everything.”

Glenn sees he's beaten and slides the tray to the edge of the table. He gets up. “Well, think about it.”

“No,” she says, “I'll go. If I'm off.”

“Great,” he says, “okay,” and stands there with the tray, dizzied by his luck. He remembers he's supposed to throw the garbage away and locates a can, fits the tray into a stack on top. When he comes back to the table she's pushing her arms through her sleeves, getting ready to leave.

“Here,” she says, and gives him three ones.

“The whole thing only cost two-fifty.”

“You can pay for the movie,” she says.

He holds the door for her, looks back into the Burger Hut to see if the crowd is still watching. In a booth opposite he recognizes Don Parkinson's kid. Glenn can't remember his name. He waves. The kid looks straight through him, turns his face away and digs into his burger.

It puzzles Glenn but it's not going to ruin his mood. He catches up with Annie at the Maverick. He doesn't screw things up by pressing for a kiss, just thanks her for coming, says she didn't need to pay.

“What are we seeing on Thursday?” Annie asks.

“Anything you want.”

“You pick,” she says. “Those are my conditions. And please, wear jeans.”

In his father's car Glenn goes over the date—her anger, the vanilla shake, how she said yes while he was holding the tray—follows it beginning to end between exits until he knows it like a favorite song.

Sunday they see each other when Glenn picks up Tara. He brings a huge stuffed bunny Annie thinks is too expensive, meaning she can't afford it. When they first separated, Glenn sent her a check every month, but during his problems he stopped. Unbeknownst to him,
his father offered her money, which she indignantly refused. She's a month behind on the rent; luckily the Petersons—her landlords, since they convinced old Mrs. Peterson to leave—are in Florida. She can stall them indefinitely, but Christmas will be coming up before long. A month and a half, and Annie hasn't started shopping. Saturday mornings Tara sits on the couch eating dry cereal and after every talking doll and remote-controlled car commercial points and announces, “I want that.”

Tara won't let go of the rabbit. “Bun-bun,” she croons to it, and how can Annie take it away? Besides, everything's been going so well. She doesn't want to fight anyone right now. She remembers her father on Easter helping her fill her basket in the backyard. He carried her on his shoulders and outraced her brothers to the next egg. The gift's not malicious, Annie thinks now: Glenn's a father and Tara's his daughter. Yet it's still annoying. She recognizes his helplessness but doesn't understand it. A mother, she can't imagine being so in love that she'd be unable to say no to someone.

When Glenn asks, Annie says yes, she's free Thursday. She can see he's excited, almost as happy as her mother was. “Oh honey,” her mother said, hugging her, “that's so good,” and Annie had to calm her down. Annie's not sure if she should be excited herself,
if this is a step in the right direction. She thinks how bad last winter was, this spring; she still hasn't fully recovered. But she does need help with Tara, and the money would come in handy. He's good around the house.

It's too cold for the lake, Glenn says. He's thinking about the new Aquazoo in Pittsburgh and wonders if Tara is too young. Annie wishes he would stop calling on her to make his decisions, but says sure, she'll get a kick out of it. She waits until they're gone a good fifteen minutes before taking a shower and changing into something Brock hasn't seen.

She takes the back way through Renfrew and gets to Susan's early, before Brock. The lot is half-full; the Steelers are playing the Raiders late. Annie doesn't want to go into the office. The reservation is probably under a fake name anyway. She sits in the car with the motor off and the radio on until she begins to worry about the battery. A low, rent sky slides above the TV antennae. Brock has never been late before, or she's never been early. A heavy man in a green mackinaw and a Kenworth cap slips into Room 6, followed ten minutes later by another man she swears she's seen at the country club. The keys are sweaty in her hand. Beside the office stands a blue phone booth.

She knows the number by heart, having called Barb nightly through her hard times. Annie crouches down
in the booth, hoping no one can see her. It's like a mystery on TV, the sniper and the dangling receiver. She hopes he isn't sick.

“Hello,” Barb answers sharply.

“Barb,” Annie says, improvising. Barb's supposed to be doing brunch at the club; yesterday she double-checked the roster. “Good. I tried you at work.”

“Annie,” Barb says with an edge that shocks her heart, makes her face flush. “I don't think I want to talk to you right now. Right now I'm talking with Brock. I will talk to you because I have some things I need to say to you but I can't do that right now.”

Annie stands in the booth, the protective metal cord cold on her arm. She doesn't want to believe this news. She's never thought this far ahead.

“Barb, I'm sorry.”

“I don't care whether you're sorry or not. I don't care what you say to me anymore.” She hangs up, leaving Annie staring at the parking lot, her car mixed in with the others before the blank, ugly face of the motel.

“Fuck,” Annie says, still holding the phone. She leans her forehead against the dial and shuts her eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

When she gets home Brock's Charger is in the drive. Brock is sitting tailorseat on the hood, staring at the beer in his lap. He has a fresh scratch on his forehead, another on his jaw. The backseat is piled with clothes, albums, a stereo. She thinks of all the stuff Glenn left behind, the dusty boxes in the basement.

“I hope you don't think you're going to stay here,” Annie says.

“I don't have anywhere else to go.” At least he's not drunk, Annie thinks, just crushed. She wonders if he loved Barb after all, but is too scattered herself to feel sorry for him.

“What about your aunt's?”

“She doesn't want to see me.”

“I can't,” Annie says.

“A week. Just until I get a place. I'll pay rent, I'll do the dishes. One week, I promise.”

“What time is it?” Annie asks, and looks at her own watch. “Come in and we'll talk. Leave the stuff here.”

Inside she gets a beer. He's forgotten his, and paces, and she makes him sit. They take opposite ends of the couch, as if they're breaking up. Brock hasn't kissed her yet, and won't.

“What happened?” Annie asks.

“It was stupid. She found a carbon from the motel
in the wash. It was all balled up but she could read it. She popped it on me and I didn't know what to say.

“So you told her it was me.”

“I couldn't lie to her.”