Love Stories in This Town (11 page)

What guests? Sissy didn't ask. She wasn't very friendly with the other wives, it was true. Sissy liked to read murder mysteries, but motherhood had made this—her favorite pastime—nearly impossible. So she sat at the Exxon pool, trying to be happy that Emmett had friends, trying to believe that Preston Junior's shouting did not portend a loudmouth buffoon. When Emmett was invited for a play date, Sissy idled uncomfortably in the Kaysens' entrance hallway, Preston Junior on her hip, unsure whether she was supposed to stay or go. The world of expat mothers was so confusing! In Midland, she would have known what was expected of her: cookies and some juicy gossip.

After ten minutes of awkward conversation with Brigit Kaysen, no offer of drink or cookies was forthcoming, so Sissy airily alluded to a busy afternoon and left, peeking through the hedges for a last glimpse of her eldest son, who did not seem to notice her departure.

Even the baby seemed sick of her, trying to escape at the community grocery store while she placed an order for a beef fillet. (“I will call you when the beef arrives,” the butcher told her. “It will be sometime in the future,” he added.) When she sat down on the floor with the baby, recognizing as she had not with Emmett the limited amount of time “peekaboo” would delight a child, he wanted only to waddle away from her, into the living room, where he would upend his father's collection of Yemeni artifacts or poke his finger into an electric socket.

Preston had almost finished the still when one of his trucks broke down and he had to go to Agedabia for some parts. They had been in Brega for four months now, but Preston had not learned a word of Arabic. Well, okay, he had learned
two
words:
salaam alaykum
, which meant “hello.” But repeating “hello” wasn't going to get Preston a good price on a muffler, so he needed to bring a translator. During Ramadan, Preston's translator could only travel at night, so they headed off as the sun set, unlikely cohorts on a road trip.

It was the first night Sissy had been alone since they arrived (via Europe—she had seen the inside of the Freiburg airport; apparently that was as close to glamour as she was going to get), so Sissy took out her cigarettes before Preston's taillights had disappeared from view. Her boys knew their father abhorred cigarettes—well, Emmett knew—but they would keep her little secret.

She gave them a bath, feeling tranquil as they splashed with frenetic joy and she smoked. Sometimes it was easier just not to have Preston around. He came home all worked up and grouchy and she had to appease him
and
deal with the boys. Not only did he not know how to change a diaper, he didn't even want to
hear about
dirty diapers or bottles or any bodily function. She had to be flirty and fascinated by his deadly-boring stories of plant calamities, and she had to keep the boys sweet and powder-scented. With him gone, she could let them run wild. She could join them, making goofy faces, singing songs, pretending a cottage cheese container filled with bathwater was a banana split. Or she could ignore them and read
The Murder at the Vicarage
.

In the bath, Emmett made up elaborate adventures, moving his plastic figures through the air, saying, “Aaaah! Don't worry, I'll save you!” He was lean like his father, his skin the color of uncooked chicken. The baby's dimpled bottom was pink and solid when he stood up, shouting, pounding the water with his fists.

Sissy could still feel the slow burn in her throat, still hear Preston Junior's happy sounds, though she had not had a cigarette in twenty years and Preston Junior was grown now, with a goatee and a smirk.

That night in Brega, after the boys were asleep, Sissy walked into the kitchen with a lit cigarette and rummaged in the refrigerator for soda water. When she stood, inches from the stove, she saw the Fractional Distillation Still bubbling away on the front burner. “Christ!” she yelled, throwing the cigarette into the sink and dousing it with water. A family from Houston had blown up their house the month before, trying to make booze. Sissy had seen the young daughter at the pool, her arms and legs in bandages, her skull bare where her hair had been burned off. The parents were still in the hospital, Sissy learned, and the girl was tended to by a grandmother, who fed the girl ice cream from a plastic spoon.

In the kitchen, Sissy put her hand to her chest. A slide show of horrific images played before her eyes: the explosion, ambulances, her beloved boys burned and in pain, or worse (losing either child was simply unimaginable). She took the wet cigarette and hid it in the trash can, underneath coffee grounds. Then she went and stared at Emmett and Preston, wondering how she had been so blessed.

•  •  •

Baby Louis began to cry, and Lola struggled to wake. Sissy picked up her grandson, remembering to support his wobbly head. “Go back to sleep,” she told Lola, who stood and shuffled toward her bedroom. But she couldn't stay quiet for long, of course, Emmett's Lola. “I'm exhausted,” she said.

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Sissy, almost touching Lola's sweaty hair but refraining. How could she explain the joy of that evening while Preston was away, the contentment she had felt sitting on the toilet seat, lighting one cigarette from another, oblivious? It hadn't mattered that they were in Libya. It could have been anywhere, this perfect bubble of contentment. Lola wouldn't understand that although Sissy had never passionately loved her husband, traveled to Venice, or gone river rafting, Sissy could hold the memory of that Brega evening like a secret diamond. Two naked boys in a bathtub—that, in the end, was everything.

“Will it always be so hard?” asked Lola. Louis and Lola were looking at her now, and Sissy felt an unfamiliar thrill.

“Go to sleep,” said Sissy. “I'm here.”

Grandpa Fred in Love

He had met her online, my father told me. Her name was Beverly. “This time it's different,” said my father. He was perspiring a bit, standing on the doorstep of my Austin, Texas, house.

“I'm happy,” I said, “I'm so happy for you.” Behind my father, a crew of illegal immigrants was unloading chain saws and ladders, about to go to work on my neighbor's tree. It was sick, my neighbor had told me, and so it had to go.

In his tight ROTC shirt and surf shorts, my neighbor's son, Bam, watched an immigrant scale the enormous pecan, gripping the trunk with his thighs. Bam wanted to graduate from high school and battle the insurgents. He and the immigrant were wearing the same wraparound sunglasses.

“Yeah,” my father said, “it's amazing.” He threw his hands open, then clasped them together. He rubbed his palms against each other like he was trying to warm them, though it was already unbearably hot and muggy. “How about a cup of joe for your old man?”

“Oh,” I said, “I'm just … I have to take Louis off to school. I'm sorry.” A bit late, my dog, Daisy, barked at my father twice, then wandered back into the living room.

“Wow,” he said, “Miss Off to School.” The steely meanness in his voice confirmed that he was drunk.

“Where did you find, urn,” I said. “Do you have a computer?”

My dad smiled condescendingly. “I have a computer,” he said. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit, but it was wrinkled and smelled bad.

“Okay, great,” I said. I started to close the door, muttering platitudes.

“Mom?” called Louis from the kitchen table, where he was masticating a plum. Julia, the baby, shrieked.

“I see you're in your nightgown,” said my father. “Come on, let me in.”

I sighed. “Lola?” called my husband, Emmett.

“I'll cut to the chase. I need a ride,” said my father.

“A ride,” I repeated.

“Lola?” called Emmett.

“Beverly,” said my father. “She lives out in Baytown. It's our first F2F.”

“Mommy,” said Louis, “who's here?” He ran in from the kitchen, crashing against the couch and then my leg. There was fruit all over him. He wore Batman underpants and his Indian headdress. “Chain saw!” he screamed, pointing to the tree crew.

“It's Grandpa Fred,” I said, trying to refocus his attention.

“But
why
is it Grandpa Fred?” he asked.

“Ho ho there, Chief!” cried my father. “How, Chief Louis! Are you going to put me in your cauldron and boil me up?”

Louis's eyes grew wide. “Dad,” I said, “I really have to go now.”

“How about lunch?” said my father. “My treat, honey.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Honey,” said my father. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked so tired.

“Lunch?” I said.

“I'll be at Ginny's Little Longhorn,” said my father. “Noon?”

“Okay,” I said, “okay.” I shut the door.

“Mom,” said Louis, “did Grandpa Fred say something about a treat?”

“No treats,” I said.

Louis ran back into the kitchen, colliding with the table and then yelling, “I need a Band-Aid!”

The baby, strapped into her high chair, looked at Louis with surprise.

“Smile, baby,” commanded Louis.

“She'll smile,” I said.

“But
why
will she smile?” said Louis.

Emmett came into the room freshly shaven. “Your father,” he announced, “is an asshole.”

As promised, my father was sitting at a table at Ginny's Little Longhorn, nursing a glass of amber liquid at the crack of noon. The baby wriggled in my arms. “Oh Christ,” said my father. “You can't bring a kid in here! Jesus.”

My hand tightened around Julia's fat thigh. “Just tell me what you want,” I said evenly.

My father sighed. “Sit down,” he said. “Here, I'll take the kid.” He reached out, exposing dark spots under his arms.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“Remember when you were skinny?” said my father. “You had that job, at the ASPCA? Remember that?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. “Actually, I'm in veterinary school.”

This was either something my father could not understand or didn't want to. He drained his drink and looked around for the waitress. “Did you hear me?” I said. “I'm going to be a doctor. A veterinarian.”

“That's swell,” said my father.

A woman with a great deal of blond hair approached the table. She held a spiral notebook and a pen. “Greetings,” she said, looking me up and down.

“Hi,” I said. “Urn, I'll have some fries.”

“This is a bar,” said the woman.

“A saloon,” my father corrected, winking.

“We don't have food,” said the woman. “Unless you count chili on Chicken Shit Bingo night. But it's not Chicken Shit Bingo night. And you don't mind my saying so, this is not a child-friendly establishment.”

“I'll have a beer,” I said.

My father lifted his empty glass. He shook it, and the ice clattered from side to side. I sat down.

“Where's the boy?” asked my father.

“You mean Louis?” I said. “You mean your grandson, Louis?”

“Who the fuck else would I mean?” said my father.

“He's at nursery school,” I said.

“Nursery school?” said my father.

“Remember? Like Christ's Church,” I said. The baby began to wail. “You used to drive me some mornings,” I said, “to Christ's Church. In the convertible.”

“I'll get right to it,” said my father. “I'll cut to the chase.” I bounced Julia, but she did not stop crying. Her face grew red.

“I can't drive,” said my father. “I lost my license. …” He closed his eyes and waved his fingers. “Anyway,” he said, “I told Beverly I'd come. I really think this is love, honey. I don't know if you can understand that.”

“Dad,” I said, “I'm married. I understand love.”

“Right, sure,” said my father, dismissing Emmett and our ten years together with a swipe of his glass. “So it's just a few hours away. I want to start this out right. I mean, I can't take a bus, you know!” His voice grew louder and louder, competing with Julia's cries.

“You could be sober,” I said, standing. I slipped Julia onto my hip and swayed. Pain shot through my back, and the baby opened her mouth and screamed. She had two bottom teeth. “I have to nurse her,” I said.

“For the love of Christ,” said my father disgustedly. I bit my tongue. Literally, I did: I bit my tongue. “Your mother never did that with you,” mused my father. “Bottles and bottles of milk.”

I thought of my mother for a moment, alone in her condominium. I vowed to call her that afternoon, and I knew what she'd say when I did: “Lola! What a fabulous surprise!”

I walked out of Ginny's Little Longhorn. The hot air slapped me in the face. I got in my minivan, started the engine, and latched Julia onto my breast. She was almost a year old—not too old to nurse. Not quite a year old.

When Julia was sated, I settled her in her car seat. Her head tipped over and rested on her chins. Her mouth was slack, eyes closed. She had a bit of brown hair, and it curled away from her face. Her nose was a tiny comma, though her presence in my life seemed to be more of a period, or an endless ellipsis. My “semester off” had ended four months ago, and the thought of all the years I still had in front of me was daunting.

But I'd made it through the first day of Anatomy, when I'd met my dog cadaver, George W. I'd studied the bodies of cats, goats, even a horse. The horse cadavers were stored in a walk-in freezer, held upright by meat hooks. Each morning, we'd wheel our cadaver to the front like dry cleaning. I was happy to be studying something clear and tangible: how to set a bone, remove a tumor, even how to euthanize. When I brought Daisy to the vet, I'd sit in the waiting room and think,
Someday, I'll be the one behind that door
. I'd return to school in the fall, or perhaps the spring.

I got back in the driver's seat and fiddled with the radio. Billy Joel, NPR, some country singer, Red Hot Chili Peppers, some country singer, Mexican. Back to Billy Joel on his down eastern Alexa, cruising through Block Island Sound. In the rearview mirror, I looked strangely pretty, flushed and dewy. A young mother, a doctor-to-be. I straightened my glasses.

My father was knocking on the window of the minivan.

“I'm sorry, Dad,” I said, opening the glass a few inches. “The baby has an appointment with the pediatrician this afternoon. My hands are tied.”

“Hm,” said my father thoughtfully. “I did wonder …”

“Wonder what?” I said, my voice brittle and frightened. My father held my gaze. For this, I loved him.

“I did wonder,” he said softly, “about the baby.”

My breath caught, and then resumed. “Get in,” I said to my father. I didn't need to ask him twice.

As I drove down Burnet, I thought about the pool party. Something had happened at the pool party. It was a work event for Emmett, welcoming a new researcher to the department.

I hadn't known if there would be swimming. I had dressed Louis in a polo shirt and khaki shorts and squeezed the baby into a dress with matching bloomers. I brought bathing suits for the kids in my enormous bag, which also held diapers, swimmy diapers, wipes, fruit snacks, Operation Iraqi Freedom figurines from our neighbor Bam, mini cheese circles, assorted sticks that Louis had handed me
(Mom, this one is a sword, not a gun!)
, a small sock or two, receipts, a tampon, half a bagel, and an orange. That bag—and the car, which I treated like an extension of my bag—drove Emmett wild.
I mean
, he'd say, some Saturday when he'd drunk too much coffee and paced around for too long,
something spilled in there, some juice … and you never even cleaned it up!
It wasn't juice, I didn't tell him. It was ice cream, from when Louis had upended a bowl of cookies and cream on my lap. I hadn't cleaned my lap, either.

“Hold my hand,” said Emmett, after we parked and unstrapped the children. For a moment, I thought he was talking to me.

The Austin Country Club reminded me of the Apawamis Club in Westchester where my mother worked as the tennis pro after Dad left us, and I felt a twinge of dusty shame. I had hated hanging out at Apawamis, where I couldn't order a snack with my member number. After her lessons, my mom might get a free Fudgsicle to share with me, but it was always a favor, never an entitlement.

At the party, Emmett chatted with his colleagues. I sat by the baby pool watching Louis splash around in his Bob the Builder bathing suit. I held Julia in my lap. At some point, Emmett brought me a plate of barbecue and a plastic fork, but no napkin.

Above the big pool, there was a diving board. Kids hurled themselves into the water, crashing as cannonballs. Louis watched hungrily, and when some smaller kids jumped from the board to their parents, he begged for a turn. “Get your daddy,” I told him. Emmett was listening to his boss intently, an oatmeal cookie in his hand. Conversation about the war drifted in my direction:
Stable government in the Middle East … Exxon chomping at the bit … Lord knows, you can't shock-and-awe twice
.

I knew my husband believed we had to stay the course in Iraq. He was not the type to cut and run, even if the situation sucked. And sure enough, Emmett's voice rose above the din:
At some point, though, a mistake becomes a decision, whether you like it or not
. In this, my husband and I were fundamentally different. In my opinion, a mistake required a getaway.

Louis ran at top speed from the baby pool to his father, leaping into Emmett and almost knocking him down. Emmett bent to talk to his son.

“How old is the baby?” said a heavyset woman in jeans, easing into the chair next to me.

“Her name's Julia,” I said, turning her to the lady, so she could see her chubby cheeks and bright eyes. “She's eleven months. Eleven and a bit.”

Her smile faltered, but she reached out a jeweled finger. Julia ignored it.

“She's … is she sitting up? Crawling all over?” said the woman.

“Oh, well,” I said. I speared a round slice of sausage with my fork, dipped it into thick sauce. I ate the sausage and stood. The woman smiled politely, and I walked toward the diving board.

It was getting dark, and the lifeguard had climbed off his chair and was standing by the side of the pool, his red flotation device under his arm. Most kids were out of the water, lounging on the lawn in drying bathing suits.

Emmett was in the pool, his milky skin almost blue in the evening light, his sandy hair wet. He was inches from the end of the diving board, where Louis crouched nervously. I stood next to the lifeguard. “It's his first time off a diving board,” I said.

“Yikes,” said the lifeguard.

Emmett coached Louis to sit on the board, his legs dangling. My son extended a foot, and my husband pulled on the toes. Then he moved a few feet back.

“I should stop this,” I said to the lifeguard nervously. He didn't answer, just watched intently.

Emmett said, “One, two, come on, Louis! Louis, on three!”

“You don't have to jump!” I cried, but Louis half-fell, half-jumped into the water. I grabbed the lifeguard's arm.

The woman appeared at my side. “It's none of my business,” she said. “But maybe you should have the baby evaluated. I'm a neurologist. It's important to detect, um. The earlier the better …”

I didn't look at the woman. I looked at the pool. Emmett lunged for Louis but missed him, and he sank like a stone, his blond hair visible and then less so as he descended. Emmett dove underwater, and for a moment everything stopped. The woman was still talking. Julia rested her head on my sun-warmed shoulder. Emmett surfaced, my son sputtering in his arms.

•  •  •

I told my father to fasten his seat belt and I rolled the window back up and put the car in reverse. To reach Baytown, we would head south, and then east.

“I'm supposed to meet Beverly for lunch tomorrow,” said my father. “We can make a day of it, get some authentic Tex-Mex. I'll find my way back, Lola, you don't even have to wait around.”

“Baytown's just three hours,” I said. “I'll take you there, but then I have to come home.”

“Did I say Baytown?” said my father. “I meant New Orleans.”

I didn't answer.