Ordinary People (21 page)

 

He undresses in the dark, listening to the silky rush of her breathing. Regular and smooth. She falls asleep in seconds. Another thing to be layered protectively over with logical reasons, so as not to come upon it in an unguarded moment: she did not stop in the den on her way to bed. Maybe she assumed the light had been left on for him. She must not have looked in his room, either; or she would have noticed that he was not in bed. He had asked on their way upstairs, “Did you hear your mother come in?” Conrad had said no.

Wouldn’t she think it strange, him sleeping on the couch at whatever time she had come in? Wouldn’t she have wakened him to ask—at least—
What the hell is wrong with her?

“Okay, I guess we’re off. You’ve got. the number, haven’t you?”

He helps his father load the last of the suitcases into the trunk; slams the lid down. “Yeah. Have fun. Play good.”

“I’ll try.” His father reaches for his wallet. “Let me give you some money.”

“You already did. This morning, remember?”

“You sure that’ll be enough?”

“Plenty.”

His mother comes out of the house, carrying her coat. She is wearing a dark green dress, banded with white at the throat and wrists. Her hair falls loosely, hiding her face, but he knows the expression she is wearing: a look reserved for airports and other public places—remote; responding only to inner sounds today. They are a complete contrast in attitudes: his father jokes with ticket agents, starts conversations with other passengers. On the plane he will talk to the stewardesses, ask them where they are from, how they like their work. His mother will remain cool and aloof, as if she is alone on the plane. It is not her fault. She can’t help it if she is afraid of strangers.

“Good-by, Mother,” he says.

“Good-by,” she answers. “Be nice to your grandmother.”

She gets in the car, shutting the door. Sun glints off the side window, obscuring her from his view. That’s it. She is afraid of strangers. Why hasn’t it ever registered before?

“The flight gets in Wednesday at four. You wait here, okay? We’ll go out for dinner.”

“Okay.”

His father smiles at him. “Listen, don’t let her push you around too much. Five days, you can stand it for that long, can’t you?”

“Right.”

He looks at his watch. “You heading over there pretty soon?

“As soon as you get out of the driveway.”

His father gives him a helpless grin. He can’t resist organizing. Likes things nice and neat. “You got plans for this weekend?” he asks.

“I thought I’d cruise through town, run a few red lights, smoke some hash, get a couple girls in trouble, nothing special, why?” He smiles. “Quit worrying. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m not worrying. Just take care, okay?”

“I will. See you Wednesday.”

He waves them out of the driveway, then goes upstairs to his bedroom to get his own suitcase, thinking with longing of the comfortable silence of the empty house, of playing the stereo in his room and eating salami sandwiches, drinking beer, coming and going as he pleases but this wouldn’t work. His father wouldn’t go under those conditions and he had told him no, he wouldn’t mind staying with his grandmother and grandfather, in that house on Green Bay Road that reeks with the too-sweet smell of her perfume, so that even the walls seem coated with it. It will cling to his clothing when he leaves. He loves his grandmother, but talking to her is like being on a loaded quiz show; her questions defy answering. “Have you completely lost your senses?” is one of her favorites. She uses it on his grandfather like a weapon; a whip to keep him in line. With him, the words are gentler, but the technique is the same. Maybe that is where his mother learned that there is danger in revealing too much; in giving his grandmother ammunition.

 

 

Seated across from him at dinner, she eyes him sternly. “You’re letting your hair grow, aren’t you?”

“I don’t let it, Grandmother, it just does it. All on its own.”

“Well, I hope you’re not turning into one of those hippie freaks. Howard, he needs some more meat.”

“No, thanks. I’ve had plenty. No more.” Hippie freaks. She is ten years behind the times. On everything. In fourth grade she wondered why they didn’t wear short pants to school; in junior high, why they had abandoned rubber boots and raincoats.

“Where’s your appetite?” she demands. “How can you put on weight, eating like that? At least have more potatoes and gravy.”

He allows her to refill his plate, even though he is full, doesn’t really mind her bossing him around. Last year, when the hole was closing over his head, there were no lectures, no words of criticism from anyone. He reads this as a statement of his good health. Today he is capable of improvement.

“How were your grades last semester?” she asks. He answers with his mouth full, a feeble attempt to assert himself. “Not bad. Two C’s, a B, and an A.”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head.

His grandfather says, “Ellie, please. Let him eat.”

“I’m wondering,” she says, “what ever happened to all those A’s? I remember you getting all A’s and at the same time you were playing golf, swimming, taking guitar lessons, tennis lessons—”

“Sounds like I was overprogramed.”

She sniffs. “Overprogramed. What’s that? Keeping busy is not being overprogramed, Conrad. What are you doing with all your time?”

“Nothing much,” he says.

“Ellie, for pete’s sake—” his grandfather says. Too late. She is already launched into the lecture of the Easy Life and he half-listens, as he pushes the peas and carrots around his plate.

“... and you have absolutely no worries whatsoever about food, or clothing, or shelter. You are so protected, you can’t even imagine what it was like in the old days, I mean, you should just thank your lucky stars every night—”

“My what?” he asks. “My lucky what?”

She stares him down. “You heard me. I don’t believe you properly appreciate your advantages, Conrad. Being born into a good family. Having a head on your shoulders—”

“Is it fair to count that? Everybody’s got one, Grandmother.”

Her lips fold in. “All right. Make fun. It’s the thing you do best anyway.”

He grins, coaxing a smile from her at last. “Thanks. It’s nice to be good at something.”

 

 

That night he picks Jeannine up at work. The sign in the bakery shop window says CLOSED, but the woman behind the register smiles and motions him to come inside. He remembers what Jeannine told him the first time he came to pick her up: that the woman warned the rest of the girls to keep an eye on him while she got to a telephone. She thought he was planning to stick up the place. “He has a furtive look,” she had said.

He liked that image of himself as the bakery rip-off man: the girls cowering behind the counter, in front of the neat, brown loaves of bread, the sticky-sweet cinnamon buns. Everything waiting for his greedy hands. “Okay, girlie, get those danish twists off the counter and into the bag, no funny business!”

Jeannine waves from the back room. “Be right out.”

“How about a cookie?” the woman asks.

“Sure. Thanks.”

He takes it, even though he is not hungry; he is stuffed, from dinner. Still, it is rude to refuse. Like refusing her friendship, her trust.

“Want the rest of this?” he asks in the car.

“Ugh. No. I don’t think I’ll eat another cookie as long as I live. Your parents get off all right?”

“Yeah, they left.”

“How is it going?”

“Oh, fine. I got real tough with the old lady right away.”

“I’ll bet.” She slides over closer to him, squeezing his arm.

“What’ll we do? Good movie in Lake Bluff. Starts at nine-fifty.”

“I should go home first. Just to let her know.”

They ride the rest of the way to her house in silence, her hand on his arm, the soft purr of the heater backing up the music on the radio. As they round the corner, she suddenly sits up very straight in the seat. “Damn,” she says. “Oh, damn.”

A black Buick is parked in the driveway.

“Looks like you’ve got company.”

She gets out of the car the instant he pulls it to the curb. He reads in the light from the street lamp the car’s Ohio license plates.

“Is it your father?”

“No,” she says. “Not my father.”

The porch light is on. The door opens as they come up the walk.

“Hi, honey.” Her mother stands in the doorway. “You remember Mr. Ferrier, don’t you?”

The man is light-haired and heavy-set, with a rough, outdoor look about him. He reaches out to take Conrad’s hand, smiling broadly.

“Jen, you’re prettier than ever. Nice to meet you, Conrad. Jarrett, you say? Any relation to the Jarretts who own the drugstores in Akron?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He smiles at the man. He always admires these take-charge guys, they make awkward situations, like meeting people, fast and simple. He glances at Jeannine. She is not smiling.

Mrs. Pratt says, “Paul and I were thinking about going to get a quick bite to eat. Honey, would you mind keeping an eye on Mike?”

“I don’t know,” Jeannine says stiffly. “We were going to the show.”

Her mother laughs nervously. “Honey, Paul’s on a business trip. He’s only here for tonight. He’s leaving tomorrow for Minneapolis.”

“I’ll bring her back early, Mother,” the man says, winking at Conrad. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s up to Con.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. He looks swiftly from mother to daughter.

“Good, then,” Paul says. He gathers Mrs. Pratt’s coat from the arm of a chair. “See you later. See you, tiger.” He reaches around the couch to ruffle Mike’s hair, and they are gone, out the door. It slams behind them.

Mike peers over the back of the couch. “Can we have popcorn tonight? Mom said.”

Jeannine doesn’t answer; she stands, staring at the television screen, her hands at her sides, lips pressed tightly together.

Conrad waits, feeling awkward, as if he has come in on a movie in the middle. He peels out of his jacket and drops it on a chair. “Let’s make popcorn,” he says.

She looks at him. “I’ll make it, you stay here. Mike, turn down the TV. It’s too loud.”

She disappears into the kitchen and Conrad sits beside Mike on the couch.

“What’re you watching?”

“Nothin’. Friday night stinks. Hey, you wanna hear me play the guitar?”

“Hey, yeah. When did you start?”

“Couple weeks ago. Mom bought me a guitar. She says if I do good, she’ll buy me a better one for my birthday.”

He listens to the chords: C and G, D and A. E minor. A minor. After each chord change, Mike looks up, expectantly.

“Fantastic.” He rewards him. “Terrific.”

“Nah. But I don’t think it’ll take me long to get good, do you?”

“Nope. Anyway, you got time. You’ve got your whole life, right?”

Mike hands him the guitar. “Now you play something,” he orders.

He entertains him with a Simon and Garfunkel tune he still remembers, then some James Taylor, John Denver, a little Eric Clapton, for good measure.

“Hey, you’re really good, you know?”

He hands the guitar back. “It’s not hard,” he says. “You keep working at it. You’ll be able to do it in a while.”

In the kitchen, a cupboard door bangs.

“I’ll go check on the popcorn,” he says.

She has her back to him, all business.

“Jen, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m acting dopey tonight. Just forget it, ignore it, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “He seemed like a nice enough guy to me.”

“Well, he’s not!” she snaps. “A man who dates a married woman, in my opinion, is not a nice guy.”

“I thought your parents were divorced.”

“They are! Now they are! They weren’t before he came along. He was a friend of my father’s—” She stops abruptly. “I’m sorry, this is all very boring for you.”

“I’m not bored.”

“Well, you should be. I am. And I don’t like acting like this over it. And especially I don’t like it, in front of you.”

“Why, in front of me?”

He moves across the kitchen, toward her, and she quickly turns her head away. She is crying. “Oh, damn!” she says, “I’m sorry, I can’t help it, oh, damn.”

He puts his arms around her. “It’s all right,” he soothes. “It’ll work out all right.”

“I don’t think so.” Her voice is husky. “I kept hoping something would happen, I kept thinking they would decide to get back together, and I know,
I know
that’s just stupid! It’s stupid even to think about it! They don’t love each other. They just don’t and that’s that, so why do I make such a big deal of it?” She pulls in her breath, and her arms are around his waist, her head on his chest. He stands, holding her; tests the feeling of someone leaning on him, looking to him for support. He feels as if he could stand here holding her forever. Her lashes are wet, golden in the harsh overhead light. He lifts her chin with his hand and kisses her. Her face is tear-streaked, her mouth loose under his, turned slightly down. He has never felt so strong, so needed.

Audrey pours him a cup of coffee.

“Not much to celebrate with, is it?” She smiles at him. “Ward’s going to stop for beer on his way back. He and Beth went riding. He’s been dying to show her that horse.”

He leans back, relaxed. “That’s okay, I can wait. I’ll just sail along on this high for a while.”

“Seventy-one, that’s really good, isn’t it? I’m not much of a golfer.”

“It’s the best I’ll do in this thing, I’m sure. I was playing over my head today. God, it was beautiful out there, too. Summer comes early around here, doesn’t it?”