Shotgun Lovesongs: A Novel (9 page)

“I love your house!” Felicia said graciously, and a little too exuberantly. Though, to her credit, I appreciated the enthusiastic effort.

“Uh, maybe I’ll just go find Hank,” Kip said, before retreating back out the front door.

I yelled up to the kids to come down and greet Felicia, but my plea was met with stony silence. I could imagine them up there: Eleanore surfing on Henry’s computer while Alex leafed through pages of books he could not yet read, or both of them playing in their “fort”: a collection of duct-taped-together cardboard boxes that formed a matrix of listing rectangular tunnels.

“Oh,” Felicia said, “never mind me. Let me give you a hand with things.”

And that is how it came to be that Felicia and I were drunk an hour before dinner was supposed to be served.

I had returned to the chicken and was frantically washing dishes and there she was: one of the bottles already uncorked, a smile on her face, asking, “Where are your glasses?”

I paused with the knowledge that our good stemware was probably dusty in a cupboard I was too short to access without a chair.

“Well, I think…”

“All I need is a juice glass,” she said. “Or a jelly jar, maybe?”

I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms, and looked at her, with a smile of my own.

“I have to tell you,” she said, “I’m ready to tie one on tonight.”

“All right, then,” I said. “Let’s light this candle.”

These men, these men who have known one another their entire lives. These men who were all born in the same hospital, delivered by the same obstetrician. These men who grew up together, who ate the same food, sang in the same choirs, dated the same girls, breathed the same air. They move around one another with their own language, their own set of invisible signals, like wild animals. And sometimes, it is enough for them just to be in one another’s company, walking through the forest, or staring at a television, or flipping steaks on a grill. I’ve seen them do it. Entire days spent splitting cords of wood with maybe a dozen words shared between them. Were it not for the smiles permanently etched into their faces, you would think they were bored with each other, or that some unspeakable hatred raged between them. I peered out the window toward the pole-building. I could see Henry’s footpaths through the snow, the brown stains in the snow where he dumped coffee out of his mug on the way back to the house. I imagined him out there now, joined by Kip, inspecting some motor, some transmission. Maybe Kip holding a funnel while Henry poured motor oil. Maybe Henry saying, “Kip, can you grab me a three-sixteenth and maybe a quarter.” And maybe Kip, eager as ever: “You know, Hank, I got a guy who could probably get you a good deal on a new John Deere.” And maybe Hank, ignoring the question, well aware we couldn’t afford a new tractor: “You sure you’re all right in here with those clothes on? I could get you a pair of work bibs or something?” Then Kip: “No. It’s all right. Hey, did you see the Girouxs bought the Everetts’ land? Give those two a couple a years and they’re going to own everything!” And Henry, focused entirely on the machine before him: “Is that right…”

I am not a jealous woman. I know that I’m desirable and intelligent and strong and sexy. So most of the time, I roll my eyes at Henry and his friends. And truth be told, Henry is, as I have said, a good man. He isn’t out all hours like the Giroux twins, chasing tail and winking at barmaids. He works too hard for that kind of shenanigans. But early on in our marriage, it seemed that he shared an intimacy with those guys—with Lee, with Ronny, with the Girouxs, even with Eddy or Kip—that was enviable. And I wanted that familiarity, that ability to run together, to move together without ever talking. That kind of stillness.

The bottle of Oregon pinot noir was empty, our glasses full, sloshing as we gestured wildly in the kitchen. Felicia had put a Van Morrison record on the player. She sat perched on a chair, her knees up, her long elegant feet pointed out in either direction.

“I mean,” Felicia said, “how can I compete with the history they have? How can I?”

“You’re not in competition,” I said. “You’re part of it all now.”

“Come on,” Felicia snapped back, “that’s bullshit! You’ve all been giving us the cold shoulder. I’m not an idiot.”

It was true, of course, and I could not meet her eyes right then, because I knew there was a good chance they’d be misty. I took a deep sip of wine, choosing my words carefully.

“The thing is…” I said calmly, flatly.

I tell my children: when you’re caught in a lie, or when you do something wrong, just
stop
. Don’t make excuses. Don’t keep talking. Don’t try to explain yourself. Just own up to what you’ve done wrong. When you do that, things inevitably work out better. You
look
and
feel
better. More likely than not, you also catch the other person off guard.

“I’m sorry, Felicia,” I said. “I’m sorry that these last few months have been pretty rough for you. Henry and I … we definitely could have been better friends to you and Kip. And I’m sorry. That’s my fault.”

“I just don’t
understand
. What did we do wrong? Was it the paparazzi? Because, I mean, that was
not
my idea! And can I tell you something, because it’s eating me alive and I need to tell someone: Kip spent too much damn money on that fucking mill, and now we’re in over our heads. If it wasn’t for my job, we’d be sunk.
He
called those magazines and tabloids because they paid him some kind of finder’s fee, which he dumped back into the mill,” she said. “The whole thing: moving here, the mill, the big wedding, that fucking Cadillac monstrosity out there—all of it’s a big goddamned mess!”

I heard the back door open, and the scuff of size-twelve Red Wing boot treads on the rug.

“They’re back,” I whispered.

“Let him hear me,” Felicia brayed, “what the shit.” She took a sip of wine, then nearly spit it out for the giggle suddenly overtaking her. “What bitches we are, huh?” she said. I loved her impishness right then, the fact that her lipstick was no longer perfect, that the kohl outlining her big brown eyes was now smeared.

“Hey Beth,” Henry said. “Uh, can I give you a hand with dinner?”

*   *   *

There is nothing low rent or undignified about the word
pasta
. It’s a noble word, a noble food. On television, I see celebrity chefs churning out their own freshly made pasta, talking about the food culture of Italy, and how pasta is this soothing culinary balm that nurtures and restores the Italian people. These chefs dress up their pasta in a million different ways: with fresh herbs, with fresh seafood, with garden-grown tomatoes. It’s all so wholesome, so easy, so elemental and picturesque.

And yet, when I tell another mother at a PTA meeting, or a church function, that I was tired the night before and the only meal I could prepare for my children was macaroni and cheese, I can see the disappointment and judgment registering on their faces. Never mind that macaroni
is
pasta.

The kids had finally emerged from their rooms, rubbing their bellies like hungry refugees and opening the refrigerator to stare blankly, helplessly into its milky light.

“Mom,” they whined, “we’re starving.”

It was by now half past eight, and their mother was on her way to Drunktown.

“Mac and cheese?” I asked.

They nodded enthusiastically.

“Do me a favor then, and set the table for us, huh?” I asked. “And go find Kip and Felicia. Introduce yourselves.” They went off toward the china cabinet. It is a wonder how
trainable
children can be. It doesn’t matter that they ignore fifty percent of the requests I make of them. What matters, what thrills me, are those moments when I watch them dutifully arranging plates and silverware on the dining-room table like two well-mannered little domestics.

I set a pot of water on the stove, sprinkled a handful of salt over it, and cranked the heat.

Just then I felt Henry slip his cold, dry hand around my waist and he whispered into my ear, “Everything okay?” I peered over his shoulder to the dining room, where Kip and Felicia stood beside the record player, and I could see they were quietly arguing. Her finger was pointing into his stomach like a revolver. I thought,
These are real people. Look at them: they’re arguing right here in our house, just like real people do
.

“Your hands are cold,” I said, shivering. “I love you. But get those mitts off me.”

I kissed Henry on his chin, his whiskers cool and sharp. He smelled of fresh air and diesel and old hay.

“Besides, you probably oughta go rescue Kip,” I said. “Why don’t you two go into town and grab us some beer and wine. I might have dinner ready by ten.”

“We’ll have to rush,” Henry said. “The liquor store closes at nine.”

“Then rush,” I said.

I watched Henry walk toward Kip and Felicia, and then the two men were gone, out the front door, the dull roar of the truck’s engine against the winter night, then the sound of snow tires crunching down the snowy driveway, and for a moment, their headlights illuminating our family-room window and the couch where the kids sat, watching television.

“Well,” Felicia said, “we still have another bottle of wine to drink, don’t we?”

*   *   *

In bed that night, weary and wine drunk, I listened to Henry’s breathing slow into sleep. I was tired, but wired too, that strange fatigue that comes after the exhilaration of hosting a dinner—the blend of caffeine and alcohol coursing through my bloodstream. Lee calls this “a sideways buzz,” when you can’t tell if you’re floating up or drifting down. I tapped Henry on the shoulder to awaken him.

“Kip’s losing his ass on the mill,” I said at last, my shoulders cold where they peeked out from underneath the covers. I rubbed my feet against Henry’s.

“What?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Felicia said that Kip’s losing his ass on the mill. That they’d be in deep trouble without her job.”

“Jesus,” Henry murmured. “Yeah. He did seem a little distracted tonight.”

“They’re not so bad, you know,” I said. “Those two. I feel bad. I feel bad we haven’t had them over before.”

“Well, I’m still pissed about that paparazzi bullshit. Bush league, if you ask me.”

I decided not to tell Henry about the finder’s fees. I wanted things to heal, I wanted the town to start growing again, and the truth was, as much as Lee had made us feel good about who we were and where we were from, we needed people like Kip—people with a different kind of vision. It was thrilling to lie there in bed and imagine some future version of our town where I could visit a boutique and buy a dress that didn’t look like a shower curtain, a dress I might wear in Minneapolis maybe, should Henry ever surprise me with a night out on the town.

“Well,” Henry said, “it’s a tough time for a lot of people. Kip can be a real asshole, but I don’t wish anything bad for them. He’s still one of us.” Then, “We’re still friends.”

What Henry neglected to say then, and what of course I knew too, was that times were tough for
us
. I knew Henry thought about picking up side jobs. I’d even thought about getting a job at the IGA or the hardware store downtown; there were jobs in Eau Claire, too, though I loathed the idea of having a commute.

*   *   *

I kept thinking about that night, as we drove toward the terminal, airplanes lined up in the heavens to land on runways I could not yet see. The traffic surprised me, as it always does. So many different cars, and taxis. When we were kids, there was a single taxi in our town. It was actually a station wagon, with an orange light on top, like those used by rural mail route carriers, or land surveyors. The taxi was driven by an older woman, Miss Puckett, who always seemed surprisingly busy, given that hardly fifteen hundred people live in our town. She made her living shuttling the elderly to their medical appointments, drunks home from the VFW. In winter, her services were in greater demand from those senior citizens fearful of sidewalk ice and broken hips. She took people to the airport too, as Kip was doing for us now, and I suppose if she were still in town, we would have paid her to drive us. I remember her great fleshy arms and the angle at which she sat in the driver’s seat, almost in full recline, her dull, reddish hair always sweaty looking, and a pair of outdated glasses on her big, bulbous nose. She was a sweet lady.

One of my friends from those school days, Heather Bryce, had always taken the taxi home from school in the afternoon. She was a latchkey kid, and her parents must have contracted with Miss Puckett to ferry her home after school each day. There were days I went to Heather’s house after school, and how excited I would be, climbing into the backseat with Heather, our backpacks full of books and folders, and how difficult it was to swing those long, heavy station wagon doors shut. In the far back of the automobile was a series of jumper seats, and sometimes we would crawl back there and watch the road unfurl behind us as Miss Puckett listened to the Grateful Dead on dozens of cassette tapes, which I later realized were bootlegged. From the rearview mirror hung a purple dancing bear and her cab always smelled of incense. The passenger seat beside her strewn with empty Fritos bags. It took me years to connect all the dots.

I don’t remember Miss Puckett ever dying, but it seems strange to imagine her in another town or city, where she would have been required to purchase an official medallion and meter. We didn’t notice her absence right away, because by the time she had disappeared, I had my own driver’s license and so did all my friends, and those were the nights and weekends of driving through the countryside with a cooler full of Bartles & Jaymes, or a bottle of SoCo and a twelve pack of Coca-Cola.

*   *   *

We were stopped in traffic. I haven’t been to too many big cities—just Minneapolis, St. Paul, Milwaukee, Chicago, and Denver. But one thing about Minnesota traffic is that no one honks. It can be eerie, at times, sitting in traffic like that in perfect quiet, like the whole world has been muted, or the pall that fills a car as you approach a terrible highway accident. I was happy for the quiet that morning, happy to be reminded of Miss Puckett, because in all other ways, I was not really looking forward to Lee’s wedding, and that filled me with a low-grade sadness. Beside me, Ronny and Lucy whispered sweet nothings to each other, their foreheads touching, while up in the front seat, Henry and Kip talked with their hands, murmured about baseball, corn futures, taxes.