City of Boys (33 page)

The children’s eyes flick to Nancy, who stares at Anne a moment, then sighs. —Whatever, she says, and the children allow themselves cautious little smiles before they go back to their food.

Andy picks up his fork, leaving a bright orange lump of macaroni on the table, and Anne can feel the pressure of looks from David on one side and Nancy on the other. No one other than the children seems very happy with this development, but they all finally begin to eat again, and Anne keeps her eyes on the bowl of peanuts for most of the rest of the meal.

—You know, Nancy says in the kitchen as they make coffee, —you shouldn’t have said you’d take them to the carnival. Andy was supposed to do that. She turns the gas off and picks up the kettle, then puts it back on the stove. —He really was, she says. —I know you don’t believe me, but he really did say he’d do it.

—Well, Anne says, —it didn’t look like he was going to. And tomorrow’s the last day.

—I know that, Nancy says. —Jesus. Who else wants to tell me that? She rattles aside a stack of bowls and corrals four coffee cups. —But doesn’t it mean anything that he said he would and didn’t? she asks. —Doesn’t that mean anything?

—I don’t know, Anne says. —I just don’t see why you couldn’t have taken them before now. Those carnivals are usually around for half the summer. You could have taken them.

—Yes, Nancy says calmly. She pours water over the coffee grounds and waits while it drips through. —Yes, I could have. But I didn’t.

She turns, and Anne is jarred by the sudden anger in her face. —You don’t understand, do you? she hisses. —You don’t understand. She shakes her head and goes back to the coffee, calm returning as suddenly as it left. —No, she says. —You don’t. No one does. She lifts the plastic filter from the pot and stops on her way to the sink; blackish water still drips through the filter, splattering on her white sneakers.

—Look, Nancy says. —Taking them or not taking them is not the point. There will be other carnivals. They have a carnival every year. How many carnivals did we get to go to? We survived. That’s not the point. The point, she says, waving the filter in the air, —is something else entirely.

—What? Anne says. —What
is
the point?

—That’s the problem, Nancy says. —I’m not exactly sure yet. I’m just not exactly sure. But it’s bigger than some carnival. She stares at the coffee filter. —I’m sure it is. I really am.

—You’re dripping coffee, Anne says, and Nancy looks down at the spots on her shoes, then glances around for a place to put the filter. Finally she sets it carefully inside a pot on the stove, while Anne pours out four cups of coffee. Nancy
watches Anne, then picks up the bowl of peanuts from the counter.

—No one ate these, she says. —I guess I can give them to the squirrels. She stirs a spoon through the peanuts. Light flashes off the buttons of her shirt, and Anne imagines Nancy dressing this morning, choosing this outfit, gazing at herself as she buttoned the shirt, dressing for another day with a man she already knows is going to leave her.

Nancy goes to bed early; she is tired, she says, smiling at David. She is always tired, she tells him, but with a glance at Andy, who is already in front of the television. When Anne follows David into their room, she is sure Andy is watching them; she feels an urge to cover her back, but when she turns to say good night, he is looking at the television, his head a dark blot in the middle of the glowing screen.

They are staying in one of the children’s rooms, but Anne can’t tell which child it belongs to, since the room is so orderly: books are lined up evenly on little shelves; the closet door is closed, with not an article of clothing in sight; even the toys are neatly arranged in a plastic basket in the corner. David leans against the pillow and watches Anne undress with a kind of clinical disinterest, as if he is curious about what color her skin might turn out to be. It makes her self-conscious, and she unbuttons her shirt slowly.

—You know, he finally says, —she treats those kids like pets.

He is right, she knows he is right, but she does not want to agree with him. She feels as if somehow he will hold her responsible for it, and she wants to tell him that she and Nancy were not, as children, treated like pets, that this is something Nancy came to all on her own, something that
Anne had nothing to do with, but she knows that whatever she says, when he looks back on this trip he will say, —Oh yeah, Anne’s sister treats her kids like pets, and he will look at Anne, and somehow this will forever be a part of who he thinks she is.

She lays her shirt over the back of a chair, and reminds herself that just a few hours ago she decided to leave him and that just a few hours from now she will. Cincinnati, she says to herself, and she thinks of the peanuts, all humped up in a bowl in the icebox–but the thought offers little comfort in the face of how he must be seeing her at this moment.

—Oh now, she finally says, —oh now. She turns to face him, but he is looking down at a large colorful book, one of the children’s, with bright orange tigers leaping across the cover. He smiles up at her.

—But she sure is pretty, he says, and snaps the book closed.

He falls asleep quickly and, lying beside him, Anne plans her future: first she will clean out her apartment; she thinks about all the things she will discard, organizing garage sales, making donations of clothing and furniture to churches. From now on her life will be uncluttered, like a big empty house, full of room after room of nothing but space; in her mind it is all so clean and ordered and easy that when David stirs beside her she is startled; she had thought he was already gone.

When she wakes, it could be any time at all: it is dark and quiet, and the shadows cast by the children’s things are sharp and clean; the only thing out of order is a lumpy shape in the corner, which she realizes, after a moment, is her shirt, draped over the chair. She turns to David, who is sleeping peacefully, with no thoughts for how many miles he
has put on his car, or how much hair he has lost today. He is safe and happy; asleep, they are all safe and happy, at least for now, all of them incapable of feeling or causing hurt, responsible for nothing that happens in the world, and–as long as they sleep–nothing can happen. Anne will not have to tell David she is leaving him, Andy will not leave Nancy, the children will not have to endure whatever disappointment awaits them next.

Anne turns on her side and sees a streak of light under the door, coming from the living room just outside. Quietly she gets up and slips out the door, closing it gently behind her. Nancy is sitting, hunched over, at the secretary, writing. She hasn’t heard Anne, and she writes quickly across a piece of paper; when she reaches the bottom, she turns it over and continues, not looking up, hardly breaking her stroke. Anne watches for too long to feel she can turn back, so she shuffles her feet on the carpet until Nancy looks up. —What are you doing up? Nancy asks. —You’re supposed to be asleep. She puts her pen down and looks at the page she has already half covered with writing.

—A nightmare, Anne says. —What are you writing?

—Oh, Nancy says, —nothing. She folds the paper in half, then quarters. —A letter, she says, then looks up hopefully. —Do you want to read it?

—I don’t know. I guess so.

—Okay, Nancy says, and unfolds the letter. Even from several feet away, Anne can see that the page is covered, top to bottom, with a tiny crabbed script, not at all like the large looping handwriting of Nancy’s letters; there is almost no white space on the page at all.

—I’ll read it to you, Nancy says. —Dear Andy, she begins, then stops and looks up. —It’s to Andy. She clears her throat. —Dear Andy. First of all, she reads, —no one cares
about Vietnam anymore. Everyone is bored by it. I’m bored by it. The kids are bored by it. Anne and David are bored by it.

She stops again. —You
were
bored by it, weren’t you? she asks. —I could tell David was just being polite.

She doesn’t wait for an answer and goes back to the letter.

—Vietnam was a long time ago. Second. The way your skin smells. This has always bothered me, even before you started at the plant, but it’s gotten worse. I was noticing it tonight at dinner. She looks up. —Did you notice that smell? It’s like some kind of food, she says. —Or animal. It’s weird.

She looks back at the letter, then shrugs and puts it down.

—Anyways, she says. —It’s just more like that. It tells him how I feel about him. She looks at Anne calmly, as though Anne should have some particular response to this, and Anne tries to imagine what it could be.

—Why don’t you just tell him? she finally asks, and Nancy shakes her head. —If I tell him, she says, —he’d know. Then he’d leave right away. She looks down at the letter.

—The thing is, I’m waiting for him to actually leave. I know he will. He could be going any day. She looks around the room. —He doesn’t like it here. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love the kids. You can tell, can’t you?

She looks down at her lap. —So anyways, she says, —when he goes, I’m going to give him this. I want him to know I felt the same way about him. I don’t want him to think I love him if he doesn’t love me.

Anne wonders if anyone can hear them talking, Andy, or the children. —Why don’t you tell him then? she says. —When he goes.

Nancy shakes her head. —Don’t you see? If I tell him then, he won’t believe me. He’ll say it’s just because he’s leaving. But this–she taps the pages she’s written–this has dates.

She pulls open the drawer of the secretary and takes out a stack of papers, then holds them up and flips through them. There are twenty or thirty pages, all covered with the same cramped writing.

—These all have dates, she says. She leafs through them, and looks up at Anne. —You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you? I know it must seem that way. I just don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s breaking my heart. He can leave if he wants, I can’t stop him, but I don’t want him to think that.

She adds the pages she’s just written to the stack. —I’m right, aren’t I? she asks. —Aren’t I?

She gazes at Anne, her face tired and drawn in the bright light, and Anne wants to say, Yes, you are, or, No, you’re not—she doesn’t care which—but neither seems to be correct; she wants a third choice. The confusion makes her long for the solid wall of David’s back, the warm pillows, and she stands with her hand on the doorknob behind her, turning it gently, unable either to answer or to move.

—What about the kids? she finally says, because that is all she can think to ask.

—The kids? Nancy says. —Why do you keep talking about the kids? This is not about the kids. This is between me and Andy. The kids are fine.

She reads over the page she’s just written, then looks up. —But I’m not, she says. —I’m not. What else can I do?

Anne realizes that the color of the nightgown Nancy is wearing, a bright yellow-green, is all wrong for her; it makes her skin look worn and pasty. In another color, she might look fine and happy and bright, and Anne wants to tell her this. Just change the color of your nightgown, she wants to say, and everything will be fine, but she stands at the door, twisting the knob back and forth, while Nancy gazes up at her, waiting for an answer.

* * *

When Anne wakes in the morning, David is already up, sitting on the edge of the bed. A few soft dark hairs are scattered across his pillow, and she looks away quickly before he turns and sees her noticing them. She can feel a storm rising: the air is heavy and electric, and her skin feels like a rain cloud, puffy and dense. Soon they will be going, soon they will arrive home, soon everything will be changed. David turns when she moves.

—Hey, he says, —it’s going to storm. If we leave right away, maybe we can beat it out.

—Okay, she says. —Let’s just get some coffee first.

—You don’t mind skipping that circus?

She doesn’t want to tell him that she had forgotten about the carnival, even for a moment, but the thought of it fills her with weariness. —Oh, she says. —I can’t. I promised.

She can see that he is about to object. The later they leave, she knows he will say, the later they will arrive, and it will be dark and stormy and they will be tired for work tomorrow, but finally he sighs.

—Whatever, he says. —Andy and I can talk about Nam some more.

He stands and walks across the room flatfooted, without a thought that she might be watching; there is something touching about his lack of self-consciousness. She looks back to the few hairs left on his pillow; each one is like a little needle in her heart. She wishes now that she had at least tried the boiled peanuts last night, or laughed when he bought them, and she realizes suddenly that leaving him is not going to be as easy as she had thought. Perhaps today is not the best day for it, perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, after they are safe home, out of the storm. She blows the hairs from the pillow as he bends to put on his socks.

* * *

—Well, Nancy says when Anne comes into the kitchen, —you’re finally up. She takes an English muffin from the toaster and adds it to a plateful already on the table, then smears jelly across each one. The children sit at the table, watching Nancy, their hands hidden in their laps.

—There’s a storm coming in, Nancy says. —You’ll probably want to leave right away. She hands a muffin to each child, and they begin to chew without looking at Anne.

—Oh no, Anne says. —I think we have time for the carnival. I’m sure we do.

Even the restrained flash of surprise that runs across the children’s faces doesn’t restore her enthusiasm for the carnival, which seems, in the gloomy light of day, a bleak prospect at best. She tries to remember what stirred her to offer to take them; surely they’ll have forgotten it in a few months, maybe less. Nancy shrugs.

—It’s your time, she says, and looks at the children. —I suppose they’d better hurry and get ready. Shoes, she says.

—Long pants. And I guess I’ll have to dig out their raincoats.

She takes a sip of her coffee and looks out the window at the yard, but does not move.

The carnival is even smaller than it appeared from the road; there are only a few unstable-looking rides, several games of chance, and under a red-and-blue awning, a small petting zoo, which seems to consist mostly of domestic animals–some goats, a sheep, a few ducks, and, surprisingly, a llama, poking its head up hopelessly over the wire of its cage. A few fragments of families wander around aimlessly from attraction to attraction; the air is swollen with rain about to fall, and it is clear that the carnival is preparing to fold up—some of the tents are already closed.