Anywhere But Here (13 page)

We lay down on our towels again, by the fence, and closed our eyes. You could feel yourself drying, just under the wind. I listened to the pumps below the concrete, the steady machines.

Benny stood dripping on us. “What happened?”

I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. Theresa sat up on her towel and told him.

“I know you’re awake.” Benny kicked me with a wet foot. His feet were so white. He was frowning. “Those guys are creeps.”

“Saint Agnes creeps,” Theresa said. None of us ever went to Saint Agnes. It was the rich Catholic school.

Theresa and I turned on our stomachs and opened a magazine and Benny went to buy us all Dreamsicles. Theresa took her sister’s magazines; they were swollen and frilled from having been wet and dried so many times. Underwater, those guys were faceless, swirling around like sharks. They still poked up, sometimes, laughing. But I was safe, things were the same, while I stayed on the concrete. It would only change in the water. When Benny came back, the Dreamsicles were already melting inside their paper wrappers.

“Here.” He threw his balled-up T-shirt into my lap.

Theresa carried my pin and hers and waited at the counter to get our baskets. She came in the stall with me when I changed. The ordinary dry shorts and top felt good. Then we were standing outside, against the metal bars by our bikes, waiting for Benny. Theresa touched the inside of my elbow. “You better not wear that suit again here.”

“He owns the
very
largest real estate company in Bay City.” My mother smiled to herself. “And it’s growing. Boy, are they growing.”

She moved the wooden spoon in the pitcher of lemonade as if her arm were some electric appliance.

“So, why are we going over there? Are we buying a new house?”

“Shhh,” my mother said, her eyes casting down the hallway to detect Ted, who hadn’t left for the day yet. Ted taught skating classes now on Saturdays and Sundays. He was hardly ever at home. I looked down to the empty rooms. I wouldn’t have minded a new house, that was for sure. Two years and we still didn’t have furniture. For a while, they’d said they were going to put in a pool, but that fell through, too. Most of what my mom and Ted planned didn’t work. It turned out they couldn’t get the bulldozers
in to dig the pool without going through another yard. And when they asked the neighbors, they said no.

“No, silly, shush.” She looked around the small yard, then, at the two trees, the fence. “He’s just a friend of mine, that’s all.”

It took her a long time to get ready. She touched up her fingerand toenails with light pink polish. We drove to the old section downtown. My mother explained that the company had bought a house for its office and remodeled. We walked up the stone pathway and Dan Sklar opened the door, even before we knocked. Wind chimes hung over our heads on the porch.

The office was empty, he was the only one there and he didn’t offer to show us around. My mother leaned against a desk and smiled at him. “Well, so, how are you?” she said. Her bright voice made me angry, she had a way of smiling and looking at the other person and paying absolutely no attention to me.

Dan Sklar slumped over as he stood. He looked like a tired person. His small nose was sunburned and peeling.

“The Japanese gardens in front look fan-tastic,” my mother said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “They’re gorgeous, very elegant. Just like they are over there.”

Over where? I wondered for a minute, and then I knew what she meant. I looked at her. There she went again. She’d never been to Japan. She looked down at the rug, into the shag.

“Have you been there?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm.”

I knew better than to say, When? or anything, and anyway, what did I care. She’d lie to me, too, in a minute. She was like that.

We were standing by a sliding glass door. Outside, young maples moved slightly, trembling in the stillness. My mother picked up a paperweight and held it in her hand. “A-yun,” she said, still looking at the paperweight, turning it, making it snow. “You didn’t get a chance to really see the rock garden. Dan’s rebuilt a re-yall authentic Japanese rock garden outside.” Vowels and consonants rolled and spiked in her mouth, and her eyebrows lifted as if she were talking to a very young child. “Why don’t you go out and explore.”

I just looked at her. Then at him. It was getting so I always turned to the other person to help protect me against what she said.

But he nodded at me, weakly. “There’s a waterfall in back,” he offered.

“I don’t want to go outside,” I said. I pretended to be dumb.

“Oh, well, okay,” she said, looking down at the carpet. She lifted her eyes then, up in a straight line to Dan’s face. She tossed her head and took a breath.

“Why?” she said.

He couldn’t have missed the sharpness in her voice. But his eyes meandered out the glass doors, to the garden. It was high summer, just turning.

“Huh?”

“Why.”

“Why don’t I want to go outside?”

“Yes. Why don’t you want to go outside?”

I shrugged. “I guess I don’t feel like it. Is it like a federal case, I have to have a reason?”

“It’s just a nice day and I thought you might like a little sun, that’s all.” She exhaled through her teeth. “But, no, not you, anything to be contrary, to be the center of attention.”

Dan Sklar’s head turned. His breath came out of his mouth so slowly, it was like something ticking.

“Adele,” he said, “leave her.”

But then the same thing happened that always happened, when someone tried to stick up for me.

“No, I’m not going to leave her because she’s going to have to learn.”

Dan Sklar swiveled his chair so he was completely facing out the window. We could see his back and his hands. He’d picked up string from his desk and he was lacing it, cat’s cradle, through his fingers. Behind him maple leaves fluttered and moss on the ground seemed wet. Then my mother made a face at me. The face was like a mask: sour and menacing, recognizable, at the same time. The lines around her mouth carved deeper. Her cheeks
pushed out, round and young. She looked like she was innocent and just now saw me for what I was: a devil.

I walked across the carpet, quiet—because of my sneakers. I opened the sliding doors and moved outside past Dan Sklar. He didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t going to help.

The sun was weak but a definite yellow on the sidewalk. This part of town was still, today, and empty. As soon as I was outside, I was glad. I didn’t know why I hadn’t left earlier, I should have. It was like stepping into another room, with clean, aquatic light and thinner air. Across the street was a small bank and its empty parking lot. Down the road, pigeons sat on the painted game circles of the playground at Saint John’s School, where I used to go. The spires of the steeple intersected with telephone wires.

Then I heard my name. Dan Sklar slumped in the open door, his arm above him on the wall. “Ann, there’s a pond with goldfish down on your left, and in back, there’s a waterfall.”

“And all over the sides, he’s planted flowers. Oh, and Ann, you’ll never believe, there are lily pads on the pond. Remember, when you were a teensy-weensy girl, we used to go see the farms and the lily pads?”

I just stared.

She was talking to him. “We were living at Mom’s and she was always the first one up at five or six, you know. So we just jumped in the car and went to see the farmers milking their cows. And she used to love lily pads, where the wee little frogs sat.”

I stayed where I was sitting, on a stone. I drew my knees up and hugged them. “Okay,” I said.

They shut the sliding glass door and pulled the beige curtains closed. My mother poked her head out once more.

“Ann, be careful where you step. Don’t squash any flowers. Look where you’re going.”

The wind chime moved above the door as if someone was running their fingers through it. This old neighborhood was near Saint Phillip’s Academy, the Catholic high school where my mother had gone. She had taken me to Dean’s, the place she’d gone after school for hamburgers and malts—that was around
here, too. I felt in my pockets, even though I knew already, I didn’t have any money. I could walk off, but then I’d only be in more trouble later and there wasn’t anywhere much I could go. There was a car lot a few blocks away. From where I was, I could see the string of flags rippling.

I tried to be very still and forget about myself. I pictured a refrigerator sitting in Griling’s dump, the sun on its dry white sides.

Then a boy I knew from my old school rode by on a bicycle. Paul, whose father was a beekeeper. I didn’t want him to see me. For two years, he had sat behind me in the row of small desks at my old school, where I went before Ted and the house on Carriage Court. It was possible he would go by and not know me. It was years now since we were in school together. I stayed, crouched there on the rock, like the Land O’ Lakes Indian. A fly settled on my arm, but I didn’t move.

He looked at me and kept walking his bike. Then, a few squares of sidewalk later, he looked back and stood there. “Ann,” he said. “You’re Ann August, aren’t you?”

I stepped forward, my hands conscious and awkward at my sides. We sat down on the steps together by the goldfish pond. There was a patch of smooth black pebbles. I took a handful and pitched them in one by one.

“You’re at Oak Grove now,” he said.

“Yeah. Public school.”

“I see your cousin around. Ben. I used to come over to your house in first grade, I remember once we caught butterflies.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” I was embarrassed all of a sudden. I didn’t want him to ask what I was doing here.

He was hitting two rocks together. “You were living with your grandmother then, out there. You told me once you liked your cousin better than me.

“I’m sorry.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We were just little kids.”

“Do you still live on a bee farm?”

“Yup. Got a thousand more bees now than we did then.” He
opened his hand and counted on his fingers. “Clover, alfalfa, wildflower, orange blossom, grass”—his fist was closed—“and mixed. I get out honey myself now. I have my mask and my gloves and my own colony.”

“My grandfather had mink,” I said, stupidly.

“Yup, I remember the sheds.”

We both just sat there with our elbows on our knees and our chins in our hands.

“I guess I better go now,” he said, standing. “Do you ski?” he asked suddenly, looking at me while he kicked the kickstand up on his bike.

“No.”

“Oh,” he said. “I ski now.”

I nodded. Nothing seemed surprising. I fingered the concrete sidewalk, still cool despite the thin yellow from the sun. I liked him but I was glad he was going, because I didn’t want him to be there when my mother and Dan Sklar came out.

It was a long time. I walked around to the back, telling myself that when I’d stepped on every stone, when I’d seen and said the name of every flower, they would be finished and we could go home. But then I was finished and nothing happened. Birds sat on the telephone wires not moving, even when I threw stones.

One of the stones landed with a loud ringing on the roof of a car parked across the street. I felt that sound in my heart. I waited then, terrified and stiff, to be caught. But time stayed still, the rectangle of sun, like a room around the parked car, changed, slowly sliding into shade.

Then the old heavy trees on the street began rustling and it started to rain. I skipped to the door then, holding my elbows in the other palm, like eggs. Sure, she would come out now.

But she didn’t. I watched the birds fly off telephone wires into the dark trees. The wind chimes on the porch clattered wildly. The pond of goldfish ruffled up and stayed itself at the same time, like the skin on a pan of milk, scalding.

I walked to our car, getting soaked. The rain felt like dull needles. The doors were locked. I stood for a moment looking
into the dry, kept inside of our car. My book was there. Then a line of lightning cracked the sky and I ran back to the porch. I put my ear to the wall and I didn’t hear anything moving. It seemed impossible now that my mother was inside; still, our car was there. I couldn’t seem to hold the two things in my mind at once.

A few minutes later, there was a strange light, slanting as if it came from the ground behind the house. I still sat, damp, in the porch shade. But everything in the yard, stones, the black telephone wires, our car, the tiny, waxy, mossy flowers, seemed to shine hardly, as if their colors were only painted and there was metal inside them.

The sun was in the sky again and the dark clouds, now marbled and veined with light, moved fast. Once, my grandmother had been driving with her husband in the old Ford. They drove into a storm. I always thought of them at one place on the black highway, a firm yellow stripe down the middle, my grandfather with his glasses at the wheel, my grandmother, in a blue dress, looking down at her hands in her lap, and the car, half in rain, the back half dry in sunlight. She’d told me that once and I thought of it a lot. It was just one of those things I used.

I sat in a square of sun, pitching stones in the pond again, trying to rouse a goldfish. They never came to the surface, but sometimes one turned underwater, a quick apostrophe of flame, like sun on a coin for a second, then extinguished again by the green. I looked up and followed the telephone wires, down the road to the string of flags marking the car lot. Something about the stillness of the air made it already late afternoon. My clothes were almost dry now, except for the elastic of my underwear and the rims of my sneakers.

Finally, then, while I was still looking at clouds between telephone poles, printing my thoughts in black square letters on the sky, the door closed behind me and my mother came out alone.

She smiled hugely and stopped a moment, rolling her head and smelling the air. “Mmmph,” she said. Then she looked down and found me. She wasn’t angry anymore. She stuck her arm out in the air, her hand open, and clicked her tongue—the way she had
when I was little. It was a signal for me to come running and take her hand.

But I only stood up slowly.