Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (6 page)

Ezra’s fingers loosened on the string. The arrow sped in a straight, swift path, no arc to it at all. As if guided by an invisible thread—or worse, by the purest and most natural luck—it split the length of the arrow that Beck had already jammed in and it landed at the center of the bull’s-eye, quivering. There was a sharp, caught silence. Then Beck said, “Will you look at that.”

“Why, Ezra,” Pearl said.

“Ezra,” their sister Jenny cried. “Ezra, look what you did! What you went and did to that arrow!”

Ezra took the straw from his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he told Beck. (He was so used to breaking things.)

“Sorry?” said Beck.

He seemed to be hunting the proper tone of voice. Then he found it. “Well, son,” he said, “this just goes to show that it pays to follow instructions. See there, Cody? See what happens? A bull’s-eye. I’ll be damned. If you’d listened close like Ezra did, and not gone off half-cocked …”

He was moving toward the target as he spoke, oaring through the weeds, and Jenny was running to get there first. Cody couldn’t take his turn at shooting, therefore, although he was itching to. He was absolutely obligated to split that second arrow as Ezra had split the first. It was unthinkable not to. What were the odds against it? He felt a springy twanging inside, as if he himself were the bowstring. He bent down and pulled a new arrow from the tube and fitted it to the bow. He drew and
aimed at a clump of shrubbery, then at his father’s dusty blue Nash, and then at Ezra, who was already wandering off again dreamy as ever. Longingly, Cody focused on Ezra’s fair, ruffled head. “Zing.
Wham
. Aagh, you got me!” he said. Imagine the satisfaction. Ezra turned slowly and caught sight of him. “No!” he cried.

“Huh?”

Ezra ran toward him, flapping his arms like an idiot and stammering, “Stop, stop, stop! No! Stop!” Did he really think Cody would shoot him? Cody stared, keeping the bow drawn. Ezra took a flying leap with his arms outstretched like a lover. He caught Cody in a kind of bear hug and slammed him flat on his back. It knocked the wind out of Cody; all he could do was gasp beneath Ezra’s warm, bony weight. And meanwhile, what had happened to the arrow? It was minutes before he could struggle to a sitting position, elbowing Ezra off of him. He looked across the field and found his mother leaning on his father’s arm, hobbling in his direction with a perfect circle of blood gleaming on the shoulder of her blouse. “Pearl, my God. Oh, Pearl,” his father was saying. Cody turned and looked at Ezra, whose face was pale and shocked. “See there?” Cody asked him. “See what you’ve gone and done?”

“Did
I
do that?”

“Gone and done it to me again,” Cody said, and he staggered to his feet and walked away.

On a weekday when his father was out of town, his mother shopping for supper, his brother and sister doing homework in their rooms, Cody took his BB gun and shot a hole in the kitchen window. Then he slipped outdoors and poked a length of fishing line through the hole. From the kitchen, he pulled the line until the rusty wrench that he’d tied to the other end was flush against the outside of the glass. He held it there by anchoring the line beneath a begonia pot. When his mother returned from shopping, Cody was seated at the kitchen table coloring a map of Asia.

After their homework was finished, Jenny and Ezra went out back. Ezra had been showing Jenny, all week, how to hit a Softball. (It seemed her classmates chose her last whenever they had a game.) As soon as they had walked through, Cody rose and went to the window. He saw them take their places in the darkening yard, bounded on either side by the neighbors’ hedges. They were a comically short distance apart. Jenny stood closest to the house and held her bat straight up, gingerly, as if preparing to club to death some small animal. Ezra tossed her a gentle pitch. (He was no great player himself.) Jenny took a whizzing swing, missed, and retrieved the ball from among the trash cans beside the back door. She threw it in a overhand so stiff and deformed that Cody wondered why Ezra bothered. Ezra caught it and pitched again. As the ball arched toward the bat, Cody felt for the fishing line beneath the begonia pot. He gave a quick tug. The windowpane clattered inward, breaking in several pieces. Jenny spun around and stared. Ezra’s mouth dropped open. “What was that?” Pearl called from the dining room.

“Just Ezra breaking another window,” Cody told her.

One weekend their father didn’t come home, and he didn’t come the next weekend either, or the next. Or rather, one morning Cody woke up and saw that it had been a while since their father was around. He couldn’t say that he had noticed from the start. His mother offered no excuses. Cody, watchful as a spy, studied her furrowed, distracted expression and the way that her hands plucked at each other. It troubled him to realize that he couldn’t picture his father’s most recent time with them. Trying to find some scene that would explain Beck’s leaving, he could only come up with
general
scenes, blended from a dozen repetitions: meals shattered by quarrels, other meals disrupted when Ezra spilled his milk, drives in the country where his father lost the way and his mother snapped out pained and exasperated directions. He thought of once when the Nash’s radiator had erupted in steam and his father, looking helpless, had flung his suit coat over it. “Oh, honestly,” his mother had
said. But that was way back; it was years ago, wasn’t it? Cody journeyed through the various cubbies and crannies of the house, hunting up the trappings of his father’s “phases” (as his mother called them). There were the badminton racquets, the butterfly net, the archery set, the camera with its unwieldy flashgun, and the shoe box full of foreign stamps still in their glassine envelopes. But it meant nothing that these objects remained behind. What was alarming was his father’s half of the bureau: an empty sock drawer, an empty underwear drawer. In the shirt drawer, one unused sports shirt, purchased by the three children for Beck’s last birthday, his forty-fourth. And a full assortment of pajamas; but then, he always slept in his underwear. In the wardrobe, just a hanger strung with ties—his oldest, dullest, most frayed and spotted ties—and a pair of shoes so ancient that the toes curled up.

Cody’s brother and sister were staggeringly unobservant. They flitted in and out of the house like birds—Ezra playing his whistle, Jenny singing parts of jump-rope songs. Cody had the impression that musical notes filled their heads to overflowing; they left no room for anything serious.
Auntie Sue got dressed in blue
, Jenny sang,
put on shoes and rubbers too …
Her plain, flat voice and heedlessly swinging braids somehow reassured him. After all, what could go so wrong, when she skipped past with her ragged rope? What could go so very wrong?

Then one Saturday she said, “I’m worried about Daddy.”

“Why? “Cody asked.

“Cody,” she said, in her elderly way, “you can see that he doesn’t come home any more. I think he’s left us.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cody told her.

She surveyed him for a moment, with a composure that made him uneasy, and when he didn’t say any more she turned and went out on the porch. He heard the glider creak as she settled into it. But she didn’t start singing. In fact, the house was unusually quiet. The only sound was his mother’s heels, clicking back and forth overhead as she put away the laundry. And Ezra wasn’t playing his whistle. Cody had no idea where Ezra was.

He went upstairs to his mother’s bedroom. She was folding a sheet. “What’re you doing?” he asked. She gave him a look. He settled in a ladder-backed chair to watch her work. She was wearing a housedress that he very much disliked, cream colored with deep red streaks across it like paintbrush strokes. The shoulders were shaped by triangular pads that unbuttoned and removed when it was time to wash the dress. Cody had often thought of stealing those pads. With her shoulders broadened, his mother looked powerful and sharp and scary. On her feet were open-toed shoes and short white socks. She traveled rapidly between the laundry basket and the bed, laying out stacks of clothing. There was no stack for his father.

“When is Dad coming home?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, “pretty soon.”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Cody looked around him and noticed, for the first time, that there was something pinched and starved about the way this house was decorated. Not a single perfume bottle or china figurine sat upon his mother’s bureau. No pictures hung on the walls. Even the bedside tables were completely bare; and in all the drawers in this room, he knew, every object would be aligned and squared precisely—the clothing organized by type and color, whites grading into pastels and then to darks; comb and brush parallel; gloves paired and folded like a row of clenched fists. Who
wouldn’t
leave such a place? He straightened, feeling panicky. His mother chose that moment to come over and smooth his hair down. “My,” she told him, smiling, “you’re getting so big! I can’t believe it.”

He shrank back in his seat.

“You’re getting big enough for me to start relying on,” she said.

“I’m only fourteen,” Cody told her.

He slipped off the chair and left the room. The bathroom door was closed; he heard the shower running and Ezra singing “Greensleeves.” He opened the door just a crack, snaked one arm in, and turned on the hot water in the sink. Then he traveled through the rest of the house, from kitchen to downstairs
bathroom to basement, methodically opening every hot water faucet to its fullest. But you couldn’t really say his heart was in it.

“Tull?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Is this the Tull residence?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Darryl Peters,” the man said, showing a business card.

Cody took a swig of beer and accepted the card. While he was reading it, he sloshed the beer bottle absently to get a good head of suds. He was wearing dungarees and nothing else; it was a blistering day in August. The house, however, was fairly cool—the living room dim, the paper shades pulled all the way down and glowing yellow with the afternoon sun. Mr. Peters looked in wistfully, but remained on the porch with his hat in his hand. He was way overdressed, for August.

“So,” said Cody. He nudged the screen door open with his bare foot. Mr. Peters caught hold of it and stepped inside.

“Would your mother be in?” he asked.

“She’s taken a job.”

“Well, then, your … is Ezra Tull your father?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Brother. Ah.”

“
He’s
in.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Peters said.

“I’ll go get him.”

Cody went upstairs and into Jenny’s room. Jenny and Ezra were playing checkers on the floor. Ezra, wearing shorts and a sleeveless undershirt full of holes, stroked his cat, Alicia, and frowned at the board. “Someone to see you,” Cody told him.

Ezra looked up. “Who is it?” he asked.

Cody shrugged.

Ezra rose, still hugging the cat. Cody went with him as far as the stairs. He stopped there and leaned over the banister to
eavesdrop, grinning. Ezra arrived in the living room. “You want
me?
” Cody heard him ask.

“Ezra Tull?” said Mr. Peters.

“Yes.”

“Well, ah … maybe there’s been a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“I’m from Peaceful Hills Memorial Gardens,” Mr. Peters said. “I thought you wished to purchase a resting place.”

“Resting place?”

“I thought you filled out this mail-in coupon: Ezra Tull, your signature.
Yes, I would like an eternal home for myself and/or my loved ones. I understand that a sales representative will call.
”

“It wasn’t me,” said Ezra.

“You didn’t fill this out. You’re not interested in a plot.”

“No, thank you.”

“I should have known,” said Mr. Peters.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra told him.

“Never mind, I can see it’s not your doing.”

“Maybe when I’m older, or something …”

“That’s all right, son. Never mind.”

Cody climbed to the stuffy, hot third floor, where Lorena Schmidt sat on his bed with her back against the wall. She was new to the neighborhood—a tawny girl with long black hair, one lock of which she was twining around a finger. “Who was that?” she asked Cody.

“A cemetery salesman.”

“Ugh.”

“He came to see Ezra.”

“Who’s Ezra?”

“My
brother
Ezra, dummy.”

“Well? How should I know?” Lorena said. “You mean that brother downstairs? Blondish kid, good-looking?”

“Good-looking! Ezra?”

“I liked his kind of serious face,” Lorena said. “And those pale gray eyes.”

“
My
eyes are gray.”

“Well. Anyhow,” Lorena said.

“Besides,” said Cody, “he gets fits.”

“He does?”

“He’ll fool you. He’ll look as normal as anyone else and then all of a sudden, splat! He’s flat on the floor, foaming at the mouth.”

“I don’t believe you,” Lorena said.

“Some people think he’s dangerous. I’m the only one brave enough to go near him, when he gets that way.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Lorena said.

She twisted around to the head of Cody’s bed and lifted a corner of the window shade. “I see your mother coming,” she said.

“What? Where?”

She turned and flashed him a grin. One of her front teeth was chipped, which made her look unstable, lacking in self-control. “I was teasing,” she said.

“Oh.”

“You ought to’ve seen your face. Ha! I haven’t even met your mother. How would I know if she was coming?”

“You must have met her,” Cody said. “She’s a cashier now at Sweeney Brothers Grocery. Folks around this neighborhood call her the Sweeney Meanie.”

“Well, we do our shopping at Esmond’s.”

“So would I,” said Cody.

“How come she works? Where’s your father?”

“Missing in action,” he told her.

“Oops, sorry.”

He gave a casual wave of his hand and took a swallow of beer. “She runs the cash register,” he said. “Look in Sweeney’s window, next time you go past. You’ll know her right off. Walk in and say, ‘Ma’am, this soup can’s dented. Can I have a reduction?’ ‘Soup’s soup,’ she’ll say. ‘Full price, please.’ ”