All Your Pretty Dreams (10 page)

Ahh
.
Jonny let this new information
settle around them. Claude and Nora. Why not? But it didn’t quite
compute somehow. These were his grandparents, people of the old
mold, uncomplicated souls who belonged together,
forever.

Their last dance in the
church had seemed to epitomize love, a lifetime of togetherness. A
pure sort of devotion rare these days. What an idiot. He was still
the dazed optimist who saw what he wanted to see, the romantic who
could write a chirpy little memoir called
The Cuppie Years: A Tale of Pretense and
Clogging
. He rubbed his face. Maybe love
came and went. His grandmother deserved happiness, didn’t she? Of
course she did.

And who could blame Claude,
in the winter of his life? An old man, eyes bright, color in his
cheeks. Jonny admired the old guy. The flirtation, baked-goods-love
or whatever, looked good on him. As Jonny walked away Claude was
chuckling. He fingered his playing cards and smacked down a Jack of
Hearts.

Jonny drove slowly through
the blocks of storefronts of downtown Red Vine. This took about
forty-five seconds. He felt the tug of the Owl Bar. He didn’t want
to go back to the familial dwelling just yet, its dust and gloom
and— coffee. Lenny could generally be found at a back table.
Parking space was not at a premium.

But the bar was deserted
except for Walter. “Planning the concert,” he told Jonny. “Moved it
to the lake. The city park.”

And praise be for that.
Under the pine trees in the large picnic area a canvas tent was
going up, with a stage under it. Jonny was impressed. No landfill
concert, no wafts of garbage through the crowd. He had to give
Lenny more credit.

The candidate stood with a
clipboard and a baseball cap near the tent, giving orders to
several senior citizens. One was setting up folding chairs, another
working on tablecloths. Lenny threw up his free hand in a wave. “My
man! Back in God’s country.”

“
The Twins didn’t feel the
spirit.”

“
Well, the Twinkies, what
can I say? Come look at the stage.”

They examined the wood
risers and flats. A banner for Farmer’s Insurance hung across the
base. There would be some electrical issues around the stage, cords
strung for blocks, but otherwise it would work. Lenny answered
questions about ice and coolers from an earnest middle-aged couple
wearing lederhosen and knee socks, then turned back.

“
I found somebody to play
with you since your dad’s out. My sister’s friend, Audri with an
‘i.’ She sings with a band. Kind of a punk but you might hook up,
you never know. God knows I tried.”

“
Hold on. Dad’s
out?”

Lenny grimaced. “You better
talk to him yourself. See you at six.”

On Birch Street Jonny saw
the drumstick first, dangling from the arched trellis of pink roses
like an errant branch, smooth and thornless. On a shrub rose a
snare drum was pierced through by a branch. What was going on?
Everything was still, no voices from the house or the motel. A
cymbal was stuck on edge in the mud. In a patch of grass a metal
stand, twisted.

Hesitating on the step,
Jonny listened. What was happening inside? Somebody had gotten so
angry they’d thrown the drum set out. Ozzie? Margaret? Somebody
else? What sort of argument had gone down in the house where nobody
raised their voice?

Was this the part where he
backed away and drove off into the sunset? God, it was tempting.
The pit of his stomach clenched. He wasn’t that kind of a guy. He
wished he was— nothing could be better than to be a free spirit,
devil-may-care, a man without a country. Travel the world, broken
hearts in his wake. Could he just give it a try, please?

He sighed. Nobody
devil-may-care had ever grown up in Red Vine, Minnesota.

“
Anybody home?”

The parlor exploded with
roses. Sweet scents hung thick in the air. Big bouquets in vases,
doilies on chair backs, everything tidy and in its place. Margaret
kept the parlor dusted and bright, in case somebody dropped in. No
broken dishes, nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybe it was nothing. A
percussion-hating vandal broke in. Or, Ozzie had decided to give up
percussion once and for all. He wasn’t playing tonight because his
drum set was broken. Muffled noises from the kitchen. Pushing
through the door, he saw Carol Chichester and his mother sitting at
the table, cradling coffee mugs, surrounded by drifts of wadded
tissues. Carol looked up.

“
It’s Jonny,” she
whispered to Margaret, waving him in. “He’s back from
Minneapolis.”

His mother put her face in
her hands and sobbed. Noisy, grunting sobs.

Tragedy swirled in his
mind. Who had died? Who was maimed? Where was Wendy? He’d never
seen his mother cry, not like this. People didn’t cry in his
family, not in front of others.

“
What’s
happened?”

Carol took his arm, leading
him back through the kitchen door. When the door finished swinging
she said, “Your dad, he—”

“
Is he all
right?”

Her eyes squinched. “Oh,
yes. He’s just fine,” she said acidly. “He’s having a fling with
Loreen. Your mother just found out.” Jonny felt his chest squeeze
shut. He took a step back. “She found them together last night, in
Loreen’s car, right outside on the street. Under the streetlight.
For anyone to see.”

“
Under the—?”

She frowned. “Do I have to
spell it out for you? It’s been going on for months. There was a
fight last night. We don’t know where he is right now, probably
at
her
place. And
to think your mother invited her to the rose meeting as a favor to
him, because he said she liked roses.”

“
Loreen Nielsen? The
church secretary with the—?” ‘Big ass’ is what he was going to
say.

“
The tramp.” Carol crossed
her plump arms. Her face was blotched, her watery eyes rimmed in
red, her hair uncombed. She wore a man’s cardigan that hung almost
to her knees. “I’ve got to get back to your mother.”

“
Where’s
Wendy?”

“
Sleeping over at Darcy’s.
She hasn’t been home.”

Carol swung back through
the door, leaving Jonny beside the dining table. The room looked
stripped of its soul, not a fork out of place. On closer look, one
chair leaned against the windowsill, its leg broken. The splintered
wood lay on the carpet. If only his nice, boring family had chosen
another time to fall apart.

Wendy arrived about two,
dragging an old pillowcase of girl things, groggy from lack of
sleep. Jonny, who had left to get a plate of eggs and bacon at
Sid’s and returned full of grease and ready to rumble, followed her
up the stairs.

She turned on him on the
landing. “What the hell?”

“
Keep moving,” he told
her, pushing her up the steps. “I have to talk to you.”

She fell on her bed,
exhausted, rubbing her eye makeup in wide circles. He told her the
news, short and not-so-sweet. She stared at him, uncomprehending,
then her face cracked. She rolled over, scrunching her blanket,
crying hysterically. He patted her knee until she kicked
him.

Somehow he thought she’d
take it better.

Chapter 8

The hairdresser poised his
scissors over her head and frowned. “We’ve been busy at the sink,
have we?”

“
Don’t ask, Ricky.” Daria
stood to one side, rolling her eyes at him in the
mirror.

Isabel crossed her arms
over the leopard-print plastic poncho and scowled at both of them.
Her hair wasn’t that bad. Just a couple inches of skunk stripe. She
was going to cut it herself. She’d had her scissors ready this
morning but her sister caught her in the act.

Who knew you could travel
inside the same country and the change could make you queasy?
Isabel closed her eyes and felt real nausea. Was it the city or the
smell of perms? Only last night she’d been all cozy in Motel Moldy,
tucked away in the countryside of polka and mosquitoes. Only
yesterday she was a scientist, a researcher, a camp counselor. Only
yesterday she was hidden from her people: one sister and one
homicidal hairdresser.

“
Iz. Isabel! Tell Ricky
what you want.” Daria poked her shoulder. Her sister wore a red
mini and black high-heeled boots with a flimsy top that managed to
make her look both trashy
and
pregnant. Neither described Daria. Rich and
bossy, sure. High maintenance, oh yeah. Her nails were perfect, not
to mention her highlights. “We don’t have all day.”

“
Off with the black,”
Isabel told Ricky. He was exotically dark and wore blue eyeliner
and pointy sideburns. “Give it your best shot.” She kept her voice
low and disinterested. How she looked seemed irrelevant. She’d
driven half the night and this was her reward.

Ricky ran his fingers
across her scalp, ruffling her hair. “Of course, sweetheart. You’ve
got the best.” Daria wandered off to read some high quality
magazines about plastic surgery and orgasms, which she felt
compelled to share.

Isabel closed her eyes
again. She shouldn’t have come back. Was she a pawn of her sister,
a pale shadow compared to bright, brassy Daria who talked so loud
and walked so fast? Everything Daria did was bold and exciting.
Isabel balled her fists under the plastic poncho. She wasn’t
anyone’s pawn. She was fine by herself, more than fine, strong and
busy and getting on with
real life.
But around her sister, and her mother, she felt
smaller, duller, tarnished. As if someone had dimmed the
lights.

It was the city too. She
felt good in the countryside, free of the tethers of convention and
society, the heaviness of responsibility, the pressure to succeed.
The palpable competition— who made the most money, who had the
fanciest car, who was just born rich and lucky and attractive. You
could live your life without all the toys. She was doing it. A life
of science, of knowledge, of wonder, of— of insects.

“
Now what?” Daria was
asking.

“
A little bleachy-peachy
from Ricardo’s honey pot,” Ricky said. He was using a paintbrush on
the black ends. Her hair was short and shaggy, hugging the back of
her neck short on top. She blinked at herself.

“
The waif look. I love it,
Ricky,” Daria said with what sounded like fake
enthusiasm.

A shampoo and blow out and
it was done. Ricky beamed. Isabel thought it looked boyish, hair so
short, but it would be easy to take care of. She felt exposed after
months with long hair and hats. Daria shoved a makeup kit at her as
she went into the bathroom to change.

Isabel stood in front of
the mirror and put on mascara for the first time since she left
Spain. She found brown eye shadow then dabbed a little concealer on
the purple under her eyes. Okay. Now she didn’t look like a boy,
but that was enough. Makeup was for people who weren’t happy with
themselves, like Daria and Edie. She brushed off her neck and put
her sweatshirt back on.

“
Let’s see.” Daria grabbed
her. “Not bad. Wait.” She rubbed something on Isabel’s eyebrow.
“Now, clothes.”

“
I told you. I’m not
wearing your clothes.”

She dragged Isabel out
onto the sidewalk. “Those are fine for Minnesota. For
bee people
.” She frowned
at Isabel’s cargo pants. “You are so thin, honey. I wish I had arms
like yours. Here we are. No complaining now, my treat.”

An hour later they left the
shop with three shopping bags, one containing Isabel’s old clothes.
Isabel had refused to buy a skirt of any length or color, but
relented on a pair of shorts and two pairs of slacks, jeans, a
short-sleeved sweater, three t-shirts, and a blouse. She wore the
gray slacks and a pink t-shirt with squiggles of silver on it. And
new sandals that felt good even if Daria cringed at the sight of
her toenails.

The hospital was affiliated
with the University of Chicago, in a cluster of hospitals and
clinics. Daria never stopped talking as she drove, parked, and
dragged Isabel into the building. There was so much to catch up on,
none of it affecting Isabel much, so-and-so’s wedding, so-and-so’s
fall designs, so-and-so’s blog.