South of Superior (33 page)

That was sobering. At a time like this—when she needed all the help she could get—it was something to pay attention to.

Madeline's life became divided into before the accident and after, as if a cleaver had been whacked through it. Pretty soon it was hard to remember a time when she hadn't been responsible for Greyson. Her goal was to get into a routine: school, hospital visits, meals, chores, getting the hotel in order. The hardest thing was trying to keep Greyson on a reasonable emotional balance, but she just kept putting one foot in front of the other, telling herself that things would work out.

She started collecting bids for work on the hotel. The apartment hadn't sold yet but she was going forward anyway. Like Gladys said from the start, the scope of the work was huge. The roof, the wiring, the heat—all nonnegotiable, they had to be fixed. It was going to be so expensive that every time she looked at the numbers her heart seized. The cleaning she could do herself, the gutting of the charred paper and plaster and lathe in the attic, and the interior painting and papering, too—eventually—but there was no way she could tackle the outside, not physically or financially; it would have to wait. The most important thing was getting ready to open, which she wanted to do by Thanksgiving.
I need a job
, she'd told Gladys and Arbutus.
I want to take care of Greyson for as long as he needs me. I still want the hotel, and I'm sure my apartment will sell, so what do you say?

They said all right. She could act as if she owned the hotel already. They'd pitch in any way they could. Arbutus said this with all her natural warmth and openheartedness; Gladys was a different story. She was polite now. She'd talk to Madeline almost naturally. But Madeline was sure she hadn't forgiven or forgotten. She was behaving well for Greyson's sake, and that was all that mattered.

Pete was helping too. He was buying Arbutus's house, but he'd wait to move in Until Madeline moved out. He was staying in a rented cabin and helping Madeline with handyman tasks. He said it was good to have a job, even if it didn't pay. Madeline's protests, her worries that this was Unfair to him, could only evaporate in the face of his good humor. “It's good to be needed,” he told her one day when it was just the two of them in the hotel, looking at the boiler. “I've been bored these last few years. I don't like working on the newer cars much, they're all computer chips. I'm not a rich man but I'm comfortable. I like being here. Let me help.”

Then there was Paul. Every Monday (his day “off” once he got done at the prison), he took Greyson for the afternoon. Plus he'd started opening at four instead of noon on weekdays, and when he wasn't visiting Randi he was with Greyson for whatever time he could spare. Sometimes they stayed at the hotel and played games or practiced the harmonica (a suprising talent Paul possessed and which Greyson aspired to). Sometimes they went to Garceau's, where Madeline imagined Greyson colored or played computer games while Paul paid bills. Whatever they did, Greyson always seemed steadier after spending time with him, and she was grateful.

The more Madeline saw Paul with Greyson, the more she liked him. He had a generosity of spirit that drew her, as well as a lightheartedness she might not have predicted. One day she watched him teach Greyson how to play “Yellow Submarine” on the harmonica. Paul's face was solemn as he stomped his foot in time to the beat and bellowed out the few words he could remember to keep Greyson on track, but his eyes had been shining with delight. She saw that he was perfectly aware how ridiculous he appeared, and that he was enjoying it.

It hurt a little, to think of him loving Randi. She did not admire herself for this. The good news was that he no longer seemed angry at her. She was thankful for that.

The other good news was that Pete was going to fix Paul's truck.

He thought he could get all the parts with the money Madeline'd given Paul all those weeks ago, and he didn't care if he got paid for his labor. He just shook his head in a way that allowed no conversation when she fretted about it. He liked a challenge, he said, liked the work itself. The guy who owned the tire shop down in Crosscut was a friend of Paul's, and he said Pete could work on the truck in one of his bays, after hours.

Despite all the things that were going right, sometimes Madeline was transfixed with terror at all that might go wrong.
Stop
, she told herself whenever she began to think that way. Either things would work out or they wouldn't. Sufficient Unto the day was the evil thereof. The evil
and
the good.

A month after
the accident, Randi was still at War Memorial in the Soo. She was asleep when Paul appeared at her room one day, a small bunch of flowers from the hospital gift shop clenched in his fist. He realized he was strangling them. He found a glass of water to stick them in and sat down by her bed. When she woke Up and saw him, she frowned.

“You don't have to come all the time, you know. You were just here, like, day before yesterday.”

“It's nice to see you, too. How are you doing?”

“I'm great.”

“You look good,” he said, but she just gazed at him as if he was an idiot. “I hope you can come home soon,” he tried, but that was wrong too because she wasn't getting out anytime soon and they both knew it.

“Yeah, I'll bet.”

“Don't be stupid, of course I do.”

“Stupid, that's me.”

“Randi—”

“You gonna tell me I didn't screw Up?”

He didn't know what to say, and so said nothing.

Her laugh was bitter. “See? There you have it.”

Paul ignored this. Maybe she'd snap out of this mood if he gave her a minute. But Randi just closed her eyes and acted like he wasn't there. Finally he said, “If there's anything you need—”

“There isn't.”

“Why are you being like this?”

She looked at him hard, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're mad at me.”

“I am not—”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't lie. At
least
do that. I thought that was your big thing. No regrets, no lies. Don't you have some kind of quote for that?” She shifted onto her side with difficulty and stared off toward the door.

“I'm not angry,” Paul said angrily. “I came to see you, not argue.”

Randi sighed. Then she said, “I don't want you to come anymore.”

“Oh, really.” A war of feeling erupted inside Paul. Hurt, anger, confusion, and—relief. He wanted to take the relief and strangle it. Relief was not an acceptable feeling in these circumstances.

“I don't want to be a burden.”

“Oh for God's sake, you sound like an old woman.”

“I can sound any way I want to, I'm the one stuck in this bed feeling like crap.”

“Whose fault is that?” Paul snapped.

“See? You're mad at me.”

Paul groaned.

“Look,” she said, after a moment. “I know you're mad. You're mad I screwed Up, mad I'm in trouble, mad about the accident, all of it. I kind of don't blame you. But I'm mad, too. You're here like it's a duty. I don't want to be anybody's duty.”

“You're not a duty.”

Randi sighed and closed her eyes again.

Paul reached out and touched her hair—cropped short since she'd been in the hospital. It felt soft and bristly. “This is just a hard time. We'll work it out.”

She shook her head. “No. We won't. You're too old for me, Paul. You're too serious. You're too—” She made a face and gave Up trying to explain what was wrong with him.

“I know how you feel, you know. When I was in that accident as a kid, I was in the hospital for weeks. I hurt, bad, and I hated everybody. I remember how it is.”

Randi closed her eyes for a moment, as if to shut him off, like a TV or a radio. “Stop.”

“I'm just trying to say, I get it.”

“I don't
want
you to get it.”

“Randi, come on.” He tried to take her hand but she jerked it away.

“Look. I have all kinds of trouble to wade through. I don't want to have to go along feeling grateful to you the whole way.” She shut her eyes again.

Paul waited, but she didn't open them. Finally he got Up to leave. When he was at the door he stopped. “Why'd you do such a dumb thing, anyway? That's what I want to know. Things were good with Us, I thought. Why get mixed Up in this? Did you want the money, or what? You could've asked. I could've lent you some.”

She shook her head, and tears leaked from her closed eyes.

“
Why
, Randi?”

“I don't know,” she said finally. “Because it's what I do. I screw Up.”

“Randi, that's not—”

“I don't
know
. I didn't think I'd get caught. The money—that wasn't it. Not really. I like Leon and them. They asked me could I get them some stuff. And I did. That's all.”

 

 

One afternoon Madeline
put down her scrub brush and collected Greyson from where he was playing train with a row of cardboard boxes, and headed across the street. Mary was lounging in her lawnchair with Jack tied nearby. It was a bright day, mild for early October, the sunshine making everything clear-edged. Madeline thought of how to paint that—sharp outlines, primary colors. The light made the world seem unambiguous. Of course that was an illusion, but illusions had their place.

Greyson went and sat in the dirt just out of range of Jack's teeth and Madeline settled down into Mary's spare lawnchair with elaborate gestures of comfort, stretched her legs out and her arms Up over her head, groaned a loud
ahhh
that made Greyson giggle.

“You're cheerful,” Mary said, giving her a look that was both skeptical and indulgent. Madeline didn't mind that. Mary was older and had seen more. In a way she was Madeline's lost past. If Jackie Stone had stayed in Crosscut, local women—tough northern women like Mary and Arbutus and yes, even Gladys, women with big stoic hearts—might have looked after her when she was a child. They might have raised and taught her to some extent, kept an eye on her. Even though she'd had something else good in its place, it gave her a right feeling to be watched over by them now.

“Sheriff been here yet?” Madeline asked.

“Nope. Late today.”

“What a coward.”

Mary gave her a look. “Thought you didn't like con-fron-tations.”

Madeline had confessed that one day. “Aw, that was somebody else,” she said, grinning beneath the brim of her hat. The hat was white with lime polka dots and had a huge floppy brim. She'd found it in the hotel, still in a crinkled, yellowed cellophane wrapper—an old piece of inventory, circa 1970 probably. It had made Greyson laugh when she put it on so she wore it whenever she could. She shoved it back on her head, slumped in her chair, tucked her thumbs in her belt loops, and said, “Let's give 'em Hell,” drawling like a gunslinger on one of the old Westerns Greyson and Arbutus liked to watch together. He giggled.

“You're not supposed to say Hell.”

“Oh, you hush. Go make yourself useful, why don't you, go over to Albert and get Us some peaches.”

He scrambled Up and came to Madeline for money. She gave him a ten-dollar bill—cautiously, though she tried not to let him see that, because she had so few of them left. He trotted away and Madeline sighed. “What'll his life be like, I wonder.”

“Just like it is, I guess.”

“Mmm.”

“Could be a whole lot worse.”

“Seems like it would be nice if it was a whole lot better.”

“Randi ain't a bad girl, but she doesn't know which end is Up, really.”

Madeline didn't respond to that. Randi was going to be released from the hospital later in the week and moved to the AFC home in Crosscut where Walter lived, courtesy of the State. She didn't belong in a home for the mentally impaired, but if she didn't go there she'd have to stay in the Soo, so much farther away from McAllaster and Greyson. Randi had been assigned a social worker, who went through a great deal of effort to arrange this. Randi seemed indifferent, but Madeline was grateful. It would simplify her schedule and cut down on the gas and mileage. Of course Greyson would want to see his mother more than ever, which was maybe not so good for him, but Madeline couldn't tell him no. She thought that he saw Randi both too much and too little. Just enough to Upset him and knock him—and Madeline—constantly off balance. And as for Randi, she almost seemed not to care what they did.

Her court date was months off still. Madeline thought she'd end Up doing time at the county jail in Crosscut, or if her luck was really bad, the women's prison downstate. Mabel Brink said that her great-nephew, who was a police officer, claimed that the district attorney was making a name for herself as being tough on drugs. As little as Madeline liked the things Randi'd done, she feared for her. She found herself hoping the court would go easy on her, and not only for Greyson's sake.