This is Just Exactly Like You (20 page)

“You in there?” Butner asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Come on,
jefe
. Help me water the plants. You need a job.”

“I have a job.”

“You need a busier one.” Butner goes to turn the hose on.

“You didn’t water yet?”

“We were covered up right at first. Three trucks in line when I got here. Then we dicked around a while, and then the scooter guy showed up. Just now getting back to the regular same old. Here.” He hands Jack the sprayer. “I’ll hold, you water. Don’t water the birds.”

“I’m not going to water the birds.”

“OK, but we think the wren hatched hers last night. She’s been back and forth a lot. So proceed with caution, know what I’m saying?”

Jack knows what he’s saying. He proceeds with caution. His head throbs, a kind of low dull background noise. Wine and whiskey, Rena and Beth. Butner talks, Jack waters, and he’s more than happy enough not to have to do anything else but hold the hose at the right angle and listen to Butner screed on about tomato fungus, about varieties of heirloom tomatoes, about blood, about Canavan, about how he was
bleeding like a motherfucking cut-open hog. Didn’t you think he was motherfucking bleeding like a hog? I mean goddamn.
They get through almost all of the plants, and they’re out at the roses and maples, Butner holding the other end of the hose off the plants and arguing with himself about how many pints of blood a person holds, when Bethany pulls the wagon onto the lot, which can’t be right. She’s way too early for lunch with Hen. Her being here feels like some magic trick, the tablecloth out from underneath the china. She parks next to a stack of halved barrels they’ve got up front.

Butner looks up. “Oh shit,” he says. “What’d you do now?”

“Nothing,” says Jack. “Shut up.”

“Must have done something, man,” Butner says. Then he says, whispering, “Remember: She’s just as afraid of you as you are of her.”

“That can’t possibly be true.”

“It isn’t,” says Butner. “I was just trying to cheer you up.” He takes the hose from Jack, gives him a big, happy smile, says, “See ya,” and heads off to finish the watering.

He has no idea what she’s doing here. Could be anything: Canavan has died. An intense allergic reaction to the drugs. Or Canavan is miraculously and totally healed. The grinning face of Jesus Christ is in the bloody bandage. Across the lot, Hen comes out of the office, looks both ways, then starts taking laps around the shed. He’s not wearing pants, but he’s got his shirt and socks and shoes on, and a paper crown, like the kind from Burger King. Ernesto must have brought that to him. Jack shields his eyes with his hand. The sun might be getting brighter. Beth is out of the wagon, walking toward him. He could run. Where he’d run to, he’s not sure, but he could run.

“How are you?” she asks. There’s a kind of forced shine to her voice. Not good.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Good,” she says. “That’s really good.” Hen comes around the building, the half-naked king. He stops, touches the spigot for the hose, touches his mouth, starts again. “And how’s Hen doing?” she says. “He looks terrific. That’s a good look for him.”

“He’s great,” Jack says, watching him disappear around the back of the office, materialize again on the other side.

“It’s hot,” she says.

“It is.”

“I didn’t think it was supposed to get hot yet.”

“There’s a tropical storm coming,” he tells her.

“Really?”

“Maybe. It was on the weather.”

“You were watching the weather.”

“Yes.”

“Shocking.” Beth pushes her hair out of her face, squints. “Guess what?” she says. “Rena called this morning. Checking on Terry.”

“That was good of her,” Jack says, readying himself for disaster. “So did Butner, he tells me. You’re gonna need an answering service over there.”

She ignores that. “It was funny, though. About Rena? She was at our house.
Our
house. Yours and mine.”

The breeze picks up, dies back down. “Yeah,” he says. “She would have been.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me why that is?”

“She came by last night,” he says. “After she found out about Canavan.” She doesn’t say anything back to that, so he clarifies. “About you and Canavan.”

“Well, isn’t that just perfect.” She watches Hen. “And now she’s staying with you?”

“She’s not staying with me. She stayed last night. She turned up at the door.”

“That must be a lot of fun for you, Jack.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says. “Maybe you need a couple of yards of pine bark. I have no idea. I can get Butner to cut you a deal.” Butner looks up, waves.

“What the hell was she doing at our house?”

“You really want to do this?” he says. “I mean, we can do this if you want to.”

“Is she there now?”

“I don’t know where she is,” he says. “I have no idea in the world.”

“But she was at our house.”

“Yes,” he says. “She was.” He hasn’t done anything wrong here, he reminds himself. He’s not the one fucking Canavan. He can ride this out. “How’s the patient?” he asks.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” she says. “Or what seems like a lot of it, anyway.”

“You think he’s faking?”

“That’s not what I meant, of course.”

“It’s all an elaborate ruse,” Jack says. “He didn’t even cut himself. It’s all special effects. Smoke and mirrors. CGI.”

She takes a deep breath. “Try not to be a complete asshole, OK?”

“OK.”

“We’re supposed to go to the doctor tomorrow to get the bandages changed. To make sure he’s not getting infected.”

“We are?”

“He is. I’m taking him.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “That ‘we.’ ”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, who’s supposed to take him, Jack? He can’t drive himself.”

“Is that your reason for being over there now? Your new reason?”

“What’s she doing in our house, Jack? What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he says. “She’s not doing anything in our house. No one is. She turned up and got drunk and slept on the sofa. We both did. Get drunk, I mean. I didn’t sleep on the sofa.” Butner’s coiling the hose back up. “And besides, what if there was something going on? Who would you be to ask me about it?”

“I’m your wife. I can ask you anything I want to.”

They stand out there and look at each other. He doesn’t understand what this argument is supposed to be about. Or any argument. Or anything else. He keeps ending up feeling half-insane, or pissed off, or confused. That more than anything else: She confuses the hell out of him.

Ernesto comes out of the office holding Hendrick’s pants, intercepts him mid-lap, somehow gets him to put them back on, and Hen takes off running again. Jack says, “So you just came over here to get to the bottom of things? Reconnoiter?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Outstanding.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says.

“Maybe I don’t get it,” he says. “What is it I’ve done to you this time?”

“Shut up, Jack, OK? Don’t talk. Don’t. Let’s just stand here and don’t talk for a minute. Let’s just try that.”

Hen comes back around the office. “Here,” Jack says. He knows this is a mistake, but he’s doing it anyway. He’s got to find something to hold onto somewhere. “You’ll like this.”

“I thought we weren’t talking.”

“We’re not. But you’ll like this. This is good.” He takes a breath. “Ernesto’s been teaching Hen to speak Spanish,” he says.

She waits a while before she answers. The wind picks up from off the back of the yard. “Speak Spanish how?” she says.

“He speaks a little Spanish now, is all.” He hangs onto it a little bit. “He knows the words for things. He talks to Ernesto.”

“He talks to Ernesto in what way?”

“He just does.”

“Don’t screw around, Jack. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not. He does. It’s impressive.”

“He speaks Spanish.”

“Yes.”

“Hen speaks Spanish.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“No,” she says. “No. Don’t tell me. Show me.” She takes him by the arm, pulls him toward Hen and Ernesto. “Show me right now.”

“OK.”

“Right now.”

“OK,” he says, letting her drag him over. Hen comes around the shed again. “Ernesto,” Jack says. “Beth would like to hear some of Hen’s Spanish, please. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Absolutely,” Ernesto says.

“This isn’t funny, Jack,” she says. “You’re being mean.”

Ernesto catches Hen the next time he comes by, and holds him out at arm’s length. He gets him to look at him, says, “
Hola, Hen.
” Hen says nothing. He’s out of breath.

“
¿Hen, qué es eso?
” Ernesto asks, pointing to Hen’s shirt. Hendrick still doesn’t say anything. Beth stands still, and Jack can tell she wants to believe. Hell, he still wants to believe, too, even though he’s seen it, even though he already believes it. Ernesto takes hold of the shirt, holds it out in front of him. “
Eso, Hen
,” he says. “
¿Qué es eso?
”

Hen makes a small popping sound, then says, precisely, “
Es una camisa.
” His cheeks are flushed.

“
Bueno, hombre. ¿Qué color?
”

“
Azul,
” Hen says, very quietly.

Jack’s ears ring some, and Beth says, “Oh, no,” hand in front of her mouth, and then she says, “Oh my God.”

“
¿Y qué son esos?
” Ernesto asks him, pointing to Hen’s feet.

“
Son mis zapatos,
” Hen says.

“Is he conjugating?” Beth asks. “Is he conjugating his verbs?”

“Not always,” Ernesto says.

“Oh, God,” she says, sitting down on the ground now, holding onto her head. “When did this happen?” she asks.

“Yesterday,” Jack says, then corrects himself: “It’s been going on a while. I found out yesterday.”

“You didn’t tell me. At the hospital, you didn’t tell me. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“I forgot.”

“Bullshit.”

“We were busy.”

“Fuck you,” she says. “My God, fuck you. How could you not have told me?” She reaches out for Hendrick. “Do another one,” she says. “
Otro.
”

“
¿Hablas Español?
” Ernesto asks her.

“
Sí, un poco,
” she says, and then she’s off and talking to Ernesto in Spanish, longer questions and answers Jack can only barely get the gist of. Beth took Spanish all through grad school. Hendrick’s listening to Beth and Ernesto like he might be ready to correct their grammar. Two police cars roar by out on the road, lights but no sirens, and Ernesto points.

“
Policia,
” Hen says. “
Hay una emergencia.
”

Beth looks at Jack. “How are you not amazed?”

“I’m amazed,” he says. “I am. Plenty.” He holds his hand out to Hendrick, says, “Come on, buddy.”

“Wait,” she says, standing up. “Where are you going? I thought maybe I’d go on and take him, find an early lunch somewhere, or a snack or something.”

“Sorry,” Jack says. He wants to take this back now, take it away—it’s not that he wants to hurt her so much as that he’d just like to remind her that he exists. “We’ve got to go,” he says. “We’ve got deliveries, and Hen rides the truck now.”

“
Entregas,
” Hen says.

“Wait,” she says again. “Hang on, OK? Please. Just for a minute. How much has he been talking?”

“Like this,” he says. “This much. Not much more than this.” He wants badly to be able to lie, to tell her it’s been whole sentences, paragraphs, the full texts of Franco’s early speeches. But he doesn’t.

“We should take him to the doctor,” she says.

“No way. Not today. The Beanbags can wait.”

“But—”

“You know what?” he says. She’s the one who showed up all full of questions and accusations. “You go back to Canavan. Go check on him, make sure he’s comfortable. Make sure he’s got enough pillows. We can go see the Beanbags next week.”

“But what if he’s not doing it any more next week?”

“Then he’s not doing it next week. I don’t care. We’ll tell them that he could do it, and that then he couldn’t any more. We’ll see what they say to that. Either way, that ought to be our money’s worth. Or theirs.”

“Jack, you can’t just—”

“I can’t just what?” he asks her. “What is it I can’t do?”

She looks like she’s working on a long list. But she says, “Nothing.” She looks away from him, looks out at the road. The wind blows her hair into her face. “Do whatever you want,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says. “I will.” He turns, takes Hen across the lot, gets him into the truck. Laying this on her like this is probably one better than what he did to Canavan’s yard. He knows that. But he can’t help it. Butner hops up in one of the skids and starts loading the cypress into the truck. When he’s done, he passes a clipboard through the window to Jack, and Jack starts the truck up, full load, and pulls past Beth, who’s walking back toward the wagon, dust and dirt on her ass from where she sat down on the ground. None of this is fair right now. Not any of it. But she can’t hold him entirely responsible. Here’s what he knows how to do, he wants to tell her: Get up, eat, go back to sleep. Get Hendrick dressed, keep him dressed for as long as he can. That’s what he’s grown expert in. Do whatever it is he needs to do, see what’s left standing after he’s done it. Fix it then, if it can be fixed. If it can’t, let somebody else sort it all out.

She stares at them as they come by. Hendrick adjusts his crown on his head, tugging at it until he gets it perfect, until he gets it right.