Night at the Fiestas: Stories (18 page)

“They’ll be here soon,” said Patsy. “Tomorrow, maybe.” She dropped onto a couch.

The bedrooms were the offices and classrooms, ten down a hallway.

“We call the end room!” yelled Morgan, flinging open the door to reveal two single beds. The bedspreads were thin, one pink, one orange, the nubbled chenille stripes grimy. A window between the beds looked out on a dry lawn with picnic tables and a concrete basketball court. Beyond was a chain-link fence, and beyond that the yard of a small house, littered with faded toy trucks.

“I call the pink bed,” said Morgan. “I mean, if that’s okay. You’re the guest.”

“That’s cool,” said Claire, sitting on her bed. She smiled so Morgan wouldn’t notice how disappointed she was by the cabin. It smelled like the dust on a window screen.

The hall was lined with shut doors. “Ta-
da
,” said Morgan, pushing one open. “Wanna go in the boys’ bathroom? We can.”

Inside, instead of three bathroom stalls, like in the women’s, there was only one, plus two urinals along the wall.

“Weird, huh?” said Morgan.

They peered into a urinal.

“They see each other’s thingies when they go. They just pull them right out in front of each other. Gross, right?”

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Claire.

“Doy, on my little cousins.”

“I mean on a grown-up. Like on your dad.”

“No,” said Morgan, shocked. “Have you?”

Claire’s father walked around naked. He said it was natural. He even opened the front door naked, beer in hand. “You don’t mind, do you?” he’d asked the neighbor who came to borrow jumper cables. The man had laughed nervously. “No problemo.” Claire minded. A lot. She had to pretend to be absorbed by the television or her book, all the while being so aware of his hairy red penis swinging around.

“Of course not.” Claire pressed the flusher on the urinal. As the water surged and swirled, it splashed Morgan’s arm.

“Nastaroni!” yelled Morgan and ran out.

“M
AKEOVER TIME
,” Patsy announced.

At the drugstore they put whatever they wanted into the cart. Mud masks, glitter polish, a massive bag of Laffy Taffy, a glass bottle of Jean Naté each for Claire and Morgan. Claire felt rich and glamorous. The three of them laughed and called to each other across the aisles, while all around them dull-faced townspeople were buying toilet paper and laundry detergent, sweat suits and packs of socks.

Claire picked up a package of barrettes.

“Put them in,” Patsy said. She considered the blow dryers, then placed the most expensive model in the cart. “This is our vacation. We deserve quality.”

Back at the church, they spent a long time in the bathroom, makeup and brushes and creams spread on the counter. Claire didn’t know when she’d last been so happy. Shimmering teal eye shadow reached Morgan’s eyebrows and her cheeks were nearly purple with blush. Patsy had given herself Cleopatra eyes and lined her lips in dark red.

“I could do your hair,” Claire offered Patsy.

“Or I could,” said Morgan.

“Super,” said Patsy, handing Claire the brush.

Patsy’s hair wasn’t as soft as Claire expected, but beautiful still. Up close, two or three silver strands shone among the red.

“Girls,” said Patsy, eyes closed, “you don’t know it now, but these are the best days of your lives.”

“Really?” asked Claire. Just yesterday this would have been devastating news. Her whole life she’d been banking on things getting better, but today, hair teased in a high, tight ponytail, makeup so thick her skin itched, Claire could almost believe it.

“Maybe,” said Morgan grimly. She watched with narrowed eyes as Claire wrestled Patsy’s hair into a messy French braid, then sprayed it all stiff.

The phone rang, its sound barely reaching them from the sanctuary at the far end of the long hall, but Patsy continued to apply her mascara.

“We should get it,” said Morgan. “It might be Dad.”

Patsy put a hand on Morgan’s wrist. “Let it go.” She blinked at her reflection.

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, M
ORGAN
and Claire sat in the shade on the concrete steps, watching cars pass. It was hot, and when Claire scratched at her face, the makeup gathered in gluey worms under her nails. Patsy had gone off in the minivan promising a treat, and without her there, all the day’s liveliness seemed to have evaporated in the parched air. It was funny to Claire, this concept of setting up a vacation house—cabin (
why
would they call it a cabin?)—in a place where people lived their lives. In houses all around, women vacuumed and baked meatloaf, kids watched television, men left for work and came home.

“Don’t worry,” Morgan said. “It will be more fun when my dad and my cousins get here.”

“I’m having fun,” said Claire, listless.

Patsy returned with a bag of groceries and Rocket Pops. “You know what we need, girls? A sprinkler party!”

By the time the girls had changed, Patsy was already in her swimming suit, her towel spread on the dry grass. She lay on her back, stretched her toes and pressed her middle with the pads of her fingers, frowning. Her suit was magenta, a one-piece, but not the kind the mothers of Claire’s friends wore when Claire accompanied them to the Deseret Gym, with legs and cap sleeves. It was a regular swimming suit, like Claire’s own mother’s. Morgan looked at Patsy, alarmed, then quickly over at Claire, as if to see if she’d noticed. Claire averted her eyes and pretended to be absorbed in catching the drips on her popsicle with her tongue.

“Go on, girls,” said Patsy, indicating the sprinkler. “Play!”

Claire hooted and splashed, acting out an approximation of fun, trying to lift Morgan’s mood. She was doing this for Patsy, Claire realized, and she laughed more vigorously, until she realized they actually
were
having fun. She grabbed the hose and aimed the sprinkler at Morgan.

“I’m gonna kick your trash!” yelled Morgan and charged her.

Finally, breathless, they dropped onto towels beside Patsy. Morgan’s mascara had dissolved around her eyes, giving her a haunted, dissolute appearance. A woman in a long denim dress passed on the sidewalk and looked at them. Claire imagined how they must seem to her: idle, fascinating, privileged.

Patsy squinted into the sun. “This is nice. Reminds me of when I was a teenager, hanging out at the city pool.” She turned onto her belly and wiggled out of her straps.

Morgan scowled at her mother’s bare freckled back. “Where’s Dad? You said he was coming.”

“Something came up at work. So it’ll be just us girls!”

Morgan glared. “Next time he calls, I want to talk to him.” She stalked to the steps and sat hugging her knees.

Patsy rolled onto her side and smiled at Claire. “Morgan’s very close to her dad. He’s a really good man. He converted for me, you know.” The skin on her chest was even redder than usual and the tops of her small breasts squeezed together.

“Really?” asked Claire. She paused. “Who’s watching Morgan’s sisters?”

“They’re with our neighbor.” Patsy’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Do you think I’d just leave them alone?”

Claire opened her mouth to apologize, but to her relief Patsy smiled again.

“I met Mr. Swanson in college. I was a sophomore and he was a senior. I had lots of boyfriends back then, but he fell in love with me immediately. By the end of the year we were married. Now he’s even more devout than me!”

“Wow,” said Claire. Patsy was talking to her as if she were an equal, a friend. She looked at Morgan, who was glowering on the steps. Morgan swiped at her face, smearing her makeup still more.

“So Will’s your stepdad?” Patsy asked.

Claire inhaled. “Uh-huh.”

“Your mom got a divorce from your real dad?”

Claire nodded. Pieces of grass were stuck to her ankles, but when she tried to pick them off, they clung to her wet fingers. “But it was because he could be really mean.”

“Mr. Swanson’s not mean.” Patsy rolled onto her back, eyes closed to the sun. “So . . . did your mom have boyfriends before Will?”

Claire looked at her thighs. The water was beginning to dry. She felt sticky. “A couple.”

“Did they ever spend the night? Did Will spend the night at your house before they got married? Did they sleep in the same bed?”

Claire didn’t say anything. Her eyes felt hot and she couldn’t have raised her head if she’d wanted to.

Patsy patted her leg, left her hand there, and Claire felt a warm rush in her thighs. “It’s okay, honey. I’m not judging.”

Her voice was so kind. Somehow Patsy understood the shame and was forgiving her.

Morgan stomped over and grabbed Claire’s wrist. “Come on. We need to go for a walk.”

Patsy squinted up. “I’ll come with you.”

Claire didn’t want to leave Patsy’s side.

“No,” said Morgan and yanked. “Why can’t you leave us alone?”

Patsy blinked, her face naked and hurt.

“Ugh!” shouted Morgan, throwing a towel over her mother. “Get
dressed.
”

They walked around the block, but they were barefoot and the pavement was hot. In some places the sidewalk gave way entirely and they had to pick their way through burning dirt. Morgan walked three steps ahead and never said a word and never turned around.

Claire tried to pretend to be interested in the neighborhood: small houses, a boarded-up garage, some little kids in a yard who eyed them suspiciously as they passed. At the next corner, Morgan waited for Claire. She seemed to have softened.

“So when’s the family reunion starting?” asked Claire conversationally.

“Stupid. There
is
no family reunion.”

“What?” asked Claire. “Your mom lied?”

Morgan turned away. Her pale shoulders were hunched and the straps of her bathing suit cut into her soft skin. “She didn’t lie. There must be some mistake.”

Claire hesitated before asking, “Morgan, is your mom Mormon?”

Morgan whirled around. “Of course she is,” she snapped. “Her father is a
bishop
.”

“Oh,” said Claire, suddenly aware that she liked Morgan less. “Why are you so mad?”

T
HAT EVENING AS
P
ATSY
was laying out the fried-chicken dinner from the restaurant near the highway, the phone rang again. “We’ll let it go,” Patsy said. She put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder a moment, then continued setting the plastic sporks on thin paper napkins. The phone stopped.

“I want to call Dad,” said Morgan. They’d washed their faces, but Morgan’s eyes were still shadowed.

Patsy shook her head. “Let’s not bother him. He’s very stressed out with work.”

After a moment she turned to Claire and said, “Maybe you should give your parents a call, let them know you’re okay.”

“It’s fine,” Claire said, feeling Morgan’s glare. “I can do it after dinner.”

“Now’s good,” said Patsy. “Just to check in.”

Claire dialed carefully. Her mother picked up. “Did you call me, Mom? Just now?” Claire could hear Emma and Will laughing in the background.

“No, honey, but it’s great to hear your voice. Are you having fun?”

Claire said she was, then waited for her mother to ask if everything was okay, but she didn’t. “Morgan’s dad couldn’t make it.”

“Oh? That’s too bad. But you’re having a good time?”

There was so much she wanted to tell her mother—about the wine coolers, about how sad Patsy seemed, and how Morgan was angry with her and she didn’t know why—but Patsy and Morgan were both watching. “We did makeovers today. We ran in the sprinklers.”

“That sounds terrific, sweetie.”

“Yeah.” Claire allowed a silence, into which her mother ought to have read that everything had gone wrong.

Instead, her mother said, “I better go, honey. I’ve got to put Emma to bed, or she’ll be a grouch.”

When Claire dropped the phone into its cradle, Patsy said, “Bon appétit!”

The fluorescent ceiling panel seemed very far from the table and the flickering dim light made Claire sad. Morgan was silent as they ate. Claire kept glancing at her, but she didn’t lift her gaze from her mashed potatoes.

Morgan was a brat. She was spoiled and didn’t know how good she had it, having Patsy as her mother. At least Patsy wanted to spend time with Morgan. At least Patsy
tried
.

“This is delicious,” Claire told Patsy. She paused. “I think you’re a really good mom.”

“Thank you, Claire.” Patsy smiled gratefully and looked more beautiful than ever. They both considered Morgan, who appeared not to have heard.

But when Patsy took the dirty paper plates to the kitchen, Morgan looked right at Claire. “Just so you know, you’re going to be cast into Outer Darkness.”

“Outer Darkness?”

“That’s where the bad people go, the people who deny Jesus. There’s nothing there. Just dark.” Morgan’s gaze was very still and certain. “
We’ll
be in the Celestial Kingdom. My mom and dad and my sisters and me.”

“That’s not true,” said Claire. Surely she’d have heard of this before.

Morgan pressed her lips and nodded, as if to say it was a shame, but it wasn’t up to her. “It’s definitely true.”

Claire thought of her conversations with Will about galaxies beyond the Milky Way, how when he explained infinity she felt so queasy and anxious she had to push the idea from her mind. The notion that she could end up in that emptiness was terrifying. Panic tightened around her chest.

She imagined them all, Morgan and the girls from school with their pretty haircuts and orthodontia and ironed floral dresses, all of them being lifted above her, led through the Celestial Curtain, which glowed white with warmth and life, while she, with her tangles and off-brand Keds and too-short jeans, was sucked into the cold darkness of space. Floating around like an astronaut who had come untethered, without even stars to orient herself.

“Ice cream!” sang Patsy, sweeping in and placing a paper bowl in front of each of them.

Claire felt close to tears. “Maybe it’s just a story.”

“It isn’t a story,” Morgan said. “It’s revelation. God told Joseph Smith personally.”

“Morgan,” warned Patsy. “What are you talking about? We don’t need to talk about that.”