Read The Necessary Beggar Online
Authors: Susan Palwick
The Necessary Beggar (25 page)
“Seeds of Kindness,” he said. “That's not a cliché, is it?”
“No. But it's not a pun, either. And it's mushy.”
“Oh. Well, I guess we can't have that.” She turned back to her locker to collect her books, and Jerry said, “Vegetable Love?”
“What?”
“Vegetable Love. You know, the name of that punk band. But it was from a poem first, I think. By somebody named Marvel? Some comics guy?”
Zamatryna shook her head, kicking her locker closed because she needed both hands for the stack of books. “That sounds perverted, which is worse than mushy. Look, it would be nice to keep a verb in there somewhere. Like âgrowing,' you know? An action word.”
“Oh. Okay. You need help carrying those books?”
“No,” she said. Jerry had used up all his synapses remembering the word rivalry, and he was becoming a serious annoyance. “I carry my books every day. I do it all by myself. But thank you.”
“You're welcome. Where are you going now?”
“Math,” Zamatryna said. “Where we're studying the Fundamental Theorem of the Calculus.” She hoped this information might dissolve Jerry's synapses entirely, but it didn't work.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Hey, what about Pruning Pals?”
“What?”
“Pruning Pals. As the name of the gardening club. You know: pals who prune. You know, bushes.”
She was almost at her math classroom, and glad of it. “Er, no. That sounds like we're chopping away at our friends with shears. Because it could mean that we were pruning the pals, not just that we were pals who were pruning.” A teacher walking by gave her a mystified glance, and Zamatryna realized how inane this conversation must sound. Well, it was inane. “And we do more than prune, anyway, so it isn't even accurate. Jerry, this is my class. I have to go inside. See you later.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for explaining that. I'll keep thinking about it.”
“Great. You do that. Thanks for the suggestions.” She escaped gratefully inside, wondering how Jenny put up with this bonehead. Jenny said he was really sweet, but surely she could have done better. What in the world did they talk about? She probably just went out with him because he was the quarterback, a trophy guy. Jenny was very insecure.
Calc was easy. The bio lab was easy. English was beyond boring. When Zamatryna got home that afternoon, feeling as if her brain had been turned into a howling wasteland, she found Timbor sitting at the kitchen table again. He wasn't singing or weeping this time: he was arguing with Macsofo, who was still in his gritty work clothing, gulping hot tea.
“Why are you giving our things away to a crazy woman? Father, it isn't right!”
Zamatryna knocked on the screen door to let them know she was there, and then let herself in. “Uncle Max, what are you doing home so early?”
“I'm sick,” Macsofo snapped. He sounded as if he'd swallowed a collection of nail files. “They made me come home because I'm sick, but that means I may lose some pay, and now I find that Father wants to bring food to some crazy lady! We worked for that food. We are trying to buy our way out of this wretched house, and you go and giveâ”
“Peanut butter and crackers,” Timbor said mildly. “It was Zama's idea. It is a very good idea. Betty can fix herself peanut butter and crackers even if she has no place to cook.”
“Let her go to the soup kitchen!” Macsofo started coughing, and swigged some more tea. “That is what the free food is there for! This is not Lémabantunk, Father. This Betty is no holy Mendicant!”
“She is a person. My duty is the same.”
“Who's Betty?” Zamatryna asked, sitting cautiously at the table.
“The woman from yesterday, the one I saw when the nasty man was in the taxi. I told you about her. I found her today. I found her on my lunch break and talked to her. She was afraid of me at first, because many people have hurt her, but then she told me all about herself. Oh, Zama, she has suffered terrible things!”
“She was probably lying,” Macsofo said.
“I do not think she is capable of lying. She is not quite, how do the Americans say, right in the head.”
“You see?” Macosofo said triumphantly. “Crazy! I told you. Let her go to the hospital, if she is crazy.”
“I do not think it is something a hospital can fix. And I do not think she is crazy. She is simple; she was a child who did not get enough air at birth, I think. Zama, I am going now to bring her the peanut butter. Would you come with me? I think she would like to meet you. She has a daughter of her own; she gave the child to a foster family who could care for it better than she can, but she misses the little girl terribly. It would help her if you were kind to her.”
“Sure I'll go,” Zamatryna said, getting up. She had a lot of questions, but she knew better than to ask them in front of Macsofo, who looked like he was about to combust. “Which car are we taking? Can I drive?” The family had acquired three ancient vehicles, including Stan and Lisa's old van; they kept all three keys on hooks in the kitchen, and anyone who needed a car took whichever was available. Stan and Timbor and Erolorit spent hours working on the cars, patiently keeping them running, coaxing extra miles out of them.
“The Honda, I think,” Timbor said, and Zamatryna's heart sank. The Honda was the most ancient and crotchety of all the cars; on the other hand, it
was also the least valuable, and therefore the best practice vehicle. Her father said that if she could learn to drive the Honda, she could drive anything, which would make passing her driving test much easier.
was also the least valuable, and therefore the best practice vehicle. Her father said that if she could learn to drive the Honda, she could drive anything, which would make passing her driving test much easier.
So she drove the Honda, lurching and scraping the curbs going around corners, while Timbor briefed her on Betty's life. “She is forty-two. Her daughter is twelve, and her parents are dead. Her older brotherâZama, slow down now, here's a stop sign, stop, good girlâher brother, who raised her after their parents died, is also her daughter's father. Now start again: you've stopped long enough. Betty and her daughter are both simple in the brain, yes, but Betty wants the best for her child. Five years ago she married a man who was kind to her, patient with her daughter, and who would stand up to her brother. Slow down, child: you are five miles over the limit. But Betty's husband is one of the gambling addicts, and so he spent all their money, his own pay and Betty's disability check, and also money her brother had given her for the daughter. Zama, remember your turn signals, we are taking a right up here, turn the wheel now, yes, very good. So she left her husband and moved in with an aunt and uncle in Winnemucca, but then they told her she had to leave, because they needed the space for a child of their own who was coming home. So she came back to Reno, but her husband had gone, she does not know where. Zama, now you are going too slowly: speed up just a little bit. And so Betty went to the State and told them to take her daughter because she wanted the daughter to have a home. She told the State she wanted to learn to read and to count, so that people would stop taking advantage of her. But it is not clear that she is able to learn to read or to count, and they have not found a place for her to live yet, and she is afraid to go to the shelters. And so she is thinking of moving back in with her brother, who at least will never turn her away. Left up here; mind the child on the bicycle! Why do parents let their children ride bicycles in the street? Without helmets? I do not understand it.”
“That's horrible,” Zamatryna said. The story had washed over her in nauseating waves as she concentrated on navigating; her hands ached from clutching the steering wheel. “I mean Betty. Not the kid on the bike. Why isn't her brother in jail? Why isn't her husband in jail? Why can't the State find somewhere for her to live?”
“I do not know about the State. I think she does not want to send the men to jail. She does not seem able to be angry at them, although she has acted to protect her daughter. She feels sorry for them; she thinks they cannot help themselves from doing wrong. Look, there she is. Here, Zama. Stop the car.”
Zamatryna pulled over to the curb and stopped the car, and they got out. Betty was sitting on a bench, surrounded by huge black garbage bags. Her face was as black as the plastic and as round as a full moon, and when she saw them and smiled, it was as if that moon had come out from behind clouds. She smelled of sweat and rot; the scent rolled out from her in waves. “Tim. You came back. I didn't think you would. Where's your cab?”
“It is at the company lot, Betty. This is my car. And this is my granddaughter, Zama.”
“You're pretty,” Betty said, nodding. “Zama?”
“Yes, Zama.”
“That's a pretty name. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“My girl's twelve. She's with a family now, so she doesn't have to live out here. Someday I'll get her back, when I have a place again. Her name's Theresa.”
“We brought you some peanut butter,” Zama said, holding out the bag. “And bottled water, and crackers. The crackers will keep a long time, if they don't get wet.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Did you bring a knife for the peanut butter?”
“Ohâoh, no, how stupid, we didn'tâI didn't thinkâ”
“That's all right, darling. I can use my fingers. Or the crackers, but sometimes they break.”
“I'm sorry,” Zamatryna said, feeling wretched. But at the same time she wanted to get away, because Betty's smell was making her sick. “Do you get cold at night? We could bring you a blanket.”
“No, sweetheart, I have blankets.” Betty patted one of her plastic bags with the hand that had been hidden in her lap, and Zamatryna saw that the hand was moving in a constant, spasmodic flutter, although the rest of Betty was as still as the mountains on the horizon. She thought immediately of Gallicina, of the beetle's obsessive X, and her chest tightened.
“Betty,” Timbor said gently, “What is wrong with your hand? Are you sick?”
“No, my hand always does that. It always has.”
Zamatryna swallowed. “Even when you sleep?”
“I guess so.”
“Does your arm get tired?”
“I don't know. It hurts sometimes. Do you want some peanut butter?”
“No,” Timbor said. “The peanut butter is for you, Betty. I will come see you again, eh? I will look for you and find out how you are doing.”
“Thank you, Tim. Thank you, Zama. Good-bye, darling.” And as they were getting back into the Honda, she called after them, “God bless you.”
Zamatryna, her own hands shaky, started the car, but after a few blocks she pulled over and said, “Grandfather, would you drive home?”
“Yes. You are very quiet. Are you all right, Zama?”
“I'm sad.”
“I'm sad, too.”
“Can't we do something for her? Can't we, I don't know, bring her home with us andâ”
“Like a puppy from the pound? She is a person, Zama. And where would she sleep? And how would we convince your uncle?”
“It's not fair.”
“No. It is not. Many things are not.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence, and arrived to find that Aliniana and Erolorit were home, also. Aliniana was cooking, since Harani was working a late shift at the casino; Erolorit sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, while Macsofo nursed the same mug of tea, or another one.
“Uncle Max,” Zamatryna said, “you should go to bed, if you aren't feeling well.”
“I don't want to go to bed. Did you find that woman?”
“Yes, we did. We gave her the peanut butter.” Something in his voice warned her to change the subject. “Where are my cousins?”
“At friends' houses, where other people will feed them, which is excellent, since you are giving our food to bums.”
There was a short silence. Aliniana turned from the stove, and Erolorit looked up from his cards, frowning. “Yes,” Timbor said calmly, “that is how it works. We feed people, and people feed us. Did you take aspirin, Macsofo? It will make you feel better.”
“Do not treat me like a child, Father.”
“Do not act like one, then.”
Erolorit cleared his throat. “I thinkâ”
“Do not try to think, Brother. You are not very good at it.”
Erolorit shook his head. “Macsofo, we are in this house because of charity. We have been givenâ”
“Do not remind me what we have been given! We have been given a debt we can never repay! I hate this house! I hate this country! Taking charity is no honor here, do you understand? It means we are weak! And giving our hard-earned wages to bums makes us fools!”
“Macsofo,” Aliniana said. She had turned the stove burners off; she turned now and put her hands in his hair, stroking. “Dear husband, you are not weak, and your father is not a fool, andâ”
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