Baker Towers (12 page)

He watched her undress. Her casual nudity still startled him. Her habit was to sleep late, skim the newspaper and paint for an hour or two, all without putting on a stitch of clothing. In their own apartment, with the shades drawn, it excited him. Here in his mother’s house it seemed wrong.

“What’s the matter?” Marion asked.

“Nothing.” The truth—that he wished she’d put some clothes on—seemed foolish and neurotic. She certainly would have thought so.

She climbed under the covers and rolled onto her side. “I won’t sleep. I’ll just close my eyes.”

He closed the door softly and went downstairs. The kitchen was empty. At the doorway to the parlor he paused. His father’s chair stood in the corner, the old console radio beside it. Since his death George had visited a half-dozen times, but he’d never seen his mother sit there. He wondered if anyone ever did.

He went out the front door and sat on the porch swing. His sister Joyce was coming up the hill, a pocketbook over her arm.

“Hey there,” he called.

She shielded her eyes from the sun. “Georgie! When did you get here?”

She hurried up the porch steps and accepted his kiss on her cheek. Unlike his mother and Dorothy, who nearly smothered him with affection whenever he visited, Joyce did not like to be touched. He sensed she’d be perfectly happy with a handshake, but that offended his sense of correctness. She was his sister, after all, and a girl.

“Holy cow,” she said. “Is that your car?”

“Yep.” He couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. “It’s a forty-eight. Brand-new.” He looked her up and down, a mousy little thing in a gray skirt and blouse. Her blond hair was set in tight waves. “You did something to your hair.”

She waved her hand dismissively, as if the topic were of no interest.

“Sorry to kick you out of your room,” he said.

“I don’t mind. I’m happy bunking on the couch.” She peered through the screen door. “Where’s your wife? Jeepers, I can’t believe you’re married.”

“She’s upstairs resting.”

Joyce seemed confounded, as if only an invalid would sleep in the middle of the day. “Is she sick?”

“A little headache, is all.”

They sat on the swing. “What’s the big idea, running off and getting married? We didn’t even know you had a girl.”

George smiled. “How did Mama take it? She didn’t answer my letter.”

“How do you think? She had a bird. And Dorothy had ten fits. Why the big secret?”

“It wasn’t a secret. It just happened very fast.”

“Love at first sight?”

“Something like that.” He lowered his voice. “Look, don’t say anything to Mama, but we didn’t exactly get married in the church. Marion’s family is Presbyterian, and I didn’t want to rock the boat. Keep it to yourself, okay?”

Joyce gave a low whistle. “Oh, boy. I see why you did it on the Q.T. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word.”

He grinned. “Where’ve you been all afternoon? Have you got a secret, too?”

“I enlisted.”

He laughed appreciatively. Too late, he saw her flinch.

“You’re serious? Enlisted in what, for God’s sake? Haven’t you heard? The war’s over.”

“There’s a women’s unit in the air force.” Her voice was calm but firm, as though she were explaining it to a child.

“Joyce, are you crazy? Why would you do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I’ve only been talking about it for five years. Remember all those letters I wrote you?”

“Sure I remember. I thought it was cute. I figured you’d outgrow it.”

“I’m eighteen.” An edge crept into her voice. “Same as you were, when you went.”

“That was different,” said George.

“Because you’re a boy?”

“Because I was drafted, for God’s sake! There’s no way in hell I would have gone if I’d had a choice.” Across the street Mrs. Stusick looked up from her rosary. He lowered his voice.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into. Trust me, the military is no place for a girl.”

“Well, the air force disagrees.” She rose. “I expected this from Mama and Dorothy, but not you. I thought you of all people would understand.” She went into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.

George hesitated. He ought to go in and talk to her, but what more could he say? What would his father have said?
You can’t go. I forbid it.
Except that George wasn’t her father. He wasn’t even much of a brother. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, then remembered where he was. There’d be hell to pay if his mother smelled smoke on his clothes.

He’d met WAVEs in the navy—stateside, before he shipped out. He remembered a particular dance at Norfolk that seemed to be crawling with them. He had tagged along with a couple of buddies, flush with beer and springtime and weekend freedom. They were green then, unaccustomed to drinking. It had struck them as comical to see girls in uniform; they’d complained loudly that the uniform skirt was too long. He thought of Joyce’s skinny legs, her bony knees covered with childhood scars, like a little girl’s.

He went around to the back of the house. The small yard was in need of mowing. His brother Sandy sat on the back steps, bouncing a ball off the sidewalk, his skinny arms burned brown by the sun.

“Whatcha doing?” said George.

Sandy turned. His hair was pale as cornsilk, his blue eyes startlingly clear.
Like Daddy’s,
George thought.

“Come on.” He fished in his pocket for his keys. “Let’s go for a ride.”

T
HEY DROVE THROUGH
the center of town and out the other side. George accelerated at the bottom of Indian Hill. A stand at the top sold frozen custard. It was a good-enough excuse for a drive.

Sandy fiddled with the radio, pressing the dial tabs. Each tab corresponded with a jazz station in Philadelphia; in Bakerton they yielded only static. Finally he located KBKR, the town’s AM station. The Benny Goodman Orchestra was playing “Moonglow.”

George wanted to laugh.
Nothing happens here,
he thought.
Nothing ever changes.
Years had passed, the world had been transformed by war, and still Bakerton was listening to “Moonglow.”

“That’s an oldie,” he told Sandy. “I remember it from when I was in high school.”

Sandy nodded politely.

“What grade are you in now? Seventh?” He was ashamed he didn’t know.

“Sixth. I got left back.”

“Nobody told me that.” George glanced at him. “What happened? Did you fail a subject?”

“English and arithmetic. Miss Peale,” he added, as though that explained it.

“That dinosaur? She must be a hundred years old.”

Sandy laughed, pleased. “She’s not so bad. Anyways, it wasn’t her fault. I didn’t try very hard,” he said cheerfully.

At the top of the hill George pulled into the parking lot. He thought of his father, who’d drilled Dorothy on multiplication tables until she cried. He wondered who had taught Sandy the multiplication tables. Nobody, he guessed.

They got out of the car and stood at the window. George ordered two vanilla cones.

“Thank you,” Sandy said politely. He ate quickly, like a dog gobbling its food.

“Sandy,” George asked. “What do you remember about Daddy?”

The boy stared.

“Anything?”

Sandy pondered this a long time. “I remember the funeral,” he said at last. “There was a big snowstorm. After church, Mama let me take out my sled.”

They were standing there eating their custard when a woman approached, pushing an empty stroller, holding a baby on her hip. It was a moment before George recognized her. Her red hair was tied back with a kerchief, and she had filled out some. Her breasts were twice the size he remembered—the few times he’d worked up the nerve to touch them, they had barely filled his hands. Only her face was the same. She still looked eighteen years old.

“Ev,” he called out.

“Georgie?” She looked stunned, flushed from the exertion of pushing the stroller up the hill. Her hand went to her hair. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

They embraced briefly, an awkward moment as she shifted the baby to her other hip. The child wore a blue sailor suit. His mouth had left a
wet stain on Ev’s blouse. Their hair, George noticed, was the same shade of red.

“Who’s this fellow?” he asked.

“Leonard.” She smoothed the baby’s hair. “We named him for Gene’s dad. He was two in March.”

“March,” George repeated. Against his will he found himself counting off the months. Gene had come home from France in the summer. He and Ev hadn’t wasted any time.

“What are you doing in town?” she asked.

“In for a visit.” His custard was beginning to melt. He was aware of it dripping onto his hand. “How’ve you been?” And then: “How’s Gene?”

Her blush intensified. “He’s home sleeping. He’s on Hoot Owl. At the Twelve.” She smiled nervously. “I hear you’re going to medical school.”

“Not yet. There’s a bunch more classes I have to take first. I have a long ways to go.” He fumbled in his pocket for a napkin. “Where are you living these days?”

“We have an apartment over Bellavia’s.”

“No kidding,” said George. His grandparents had lived on the same block, above Rizzo’s Tavern.

“My dad had a fit,” said Ev. “ ‘What are you doing over there with the Eyetalians?’ ” she mimicked. “But honestly, Georgie, they couldn’t be nicer. Well,
you
know.”

He smiled. She had always made a special effort with his mother. He’d been grateful for it.

“Well, I should get going. He’s a little fussy.” She bent and placed the squirming child in the stroller. “It was nice seeing you, Georgie. I’ll tell Gene you said hello.”

He watched her push the stroller up the hill. Her broad behind was shaped like an upside-down heart. He’d spent his adolescence imagining her naked, or trying to; he’d come up with a picture that was part Ev, part Betty Grable—to his mind, exactly how a girl should look. The picture was hazy now; Marion had erased it with her long belly, her sleek thighs. Ev’s small-town beauty was no longer what he wanted. She belonged in that apartment above Bellavia’s, in the life she’d chosen when she picked Gene over him. He no longer blamed her for that. If anything, he was grateful. Whether she knew it or not, he owed his life to Ev. Her betrayal had allowed him to escape.

“Come on,” he told Sandy. “Let’s hit the road.”

It wasn’t until later, driving down Indian Hill, that a thought occurred to him. He hadn’t even told her he was married.

H
E WOKE EARLY
the next morning, dressed and headed downstairs. His mother stood in the foyer, pinning a scarf over her hair. He went back upstairs. Marion lay on her side, breathing deeply.

“Honey,” he whispered. “Honey.” He touched her shoulder, gently at first. She gave a low moan.

“Marion, wake up.”

She stirred slightly, then opened one eye.

“Get dressed, darling. It’s time for church.”

“Tired,” she said.

“What’s the matter? Did you take a pill?” He got up and rummaged through her overnight bag: cigarettes, cosmetics, her diaphragm in its blue plastic case.
Why’d she bring that thing?
he wondered.
Did she really think she would need it?

Finally he found the bottle. For years she’d had trouble sleeping; her doctor had prescribed a sedative, which she took several times a week. She’d been awake at dawn; George had heard her in the bathroom. If she’d taken a pill at that hour, she might easily sleep half the day.

She rolled over onto her back, naked. A moment later she began to snore. George dressed and closed the door behind him.

“Marion’s not feeling well,” he told his mother in the kitchen. “She won’t be coming to church.”

Rose eyed him suspiciously. “Georgie, you want to tell me something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife. She going to have a baby?”

He thought of the diaphragm in its case. His faced warmed. “No, Mama. Why would you think that?”

Rose shrugged elaborately. “How come you get married so fast? And now she don’t feel good in the morning.”

She’s doped up on sleeping pills,
he thought but didn’t say. Having his mother think Marion was pregnant, while embarrassing, was preferable to the truth.

Rose smiled broadly, her face flushed with delight. “She don’t eat enough. She got to eat more.”

“I’ll tell her,” said George.

W
HEN THEY CAME HOME
from church Marion was waiting for them on the porch swing.

She wore the same clothes as the day before, but at least she’d combed her hair and put on lipstick. Her eyes were puffy from sleep.

“Good morning,” said George. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

“I am.” Her skin looked slightly gray. Across the street, a car was parked in front of the Stusicks’. George wondered if it belonged to Gene, if he’d brought Ev and the baby to his mother’s for Sunday dinner.

From inside came the metallic clang of pots and pans, Rose and Joyce bustling around the kitchen. Marion rubbed her temples. “Dear God, what is all that clatter?”

“Dinner.” A Bakerton girl would have risen to help, but coming from Marion, the gesture would have been ridiculous. Her kitchen skills were limited to opening a wine bottle.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

“At this hour? I couldn’t eat a bite.”

“Try,” said George. “Please.”

“Why on earth?”

“My mother thinks you’re pregnant.”

Marion hooted, a shrill laugh that ended in a cough. “Oh, that’s delightful.”

He felt his pulse in his temples. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, George. You’re not serious, are you?” She stared. “For heaven’s sake, do I look like the maternal type?”

George smiled uncertainly. He’d never given much thought to children, and Marion had seemed equally indifferent. Since the wedding she’d continued using her diaphragm, at least most of the time. He took that to mean her attitude was casual.
If it happens, it happens,
he’d told himself.

Now he thought—he couldn’t help it—of Ev, the red-haired child she’d made with Gene.