Barefoot (14 page)

Walsh slid his pencil behind his ear. “So I guess I’m eating alone again today. Ah, no worries. See you Thursday?”

“Yes.”

Brenda let him out ahead of her because she had to lock the door and reset the security code to ensure the safety of the painting. But Walsh lingered in the hallway, and they walked toward Mrs. Pencaldron’s desk together. Mrs. Pencaldron had her eyes trained on them all the way down the hall; Brenda felt herself emitting guilt. But why? He had asked her to lunch, she said no.

John Walsh pushed through the door that separated the English Department from the rest of the drab university.

“Ta!” he said—to Brenda or Mrs. Pencaldron, Brenda wasn’t sure, nor was she sure what
ta
meant. She waved instinctively, relieved to see him go.

She handed the key to Mrs. Pencaldron. “He’s Australian,” she said.

“So I gathered.”

“We had a good class,” Brenda said. “Short. First day, you know. They hadn’t read anything. I went over my expectations for the class and the kids introduced themselves. That’s how I knew he was Australian.”
Stop talking!
Brenda told herself.

Mrs. Pencaldron tilted her head. “You reset the security code?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“He didn’t see you do it, did he?”

“Who?”

Mrs. Pencaldron smiled impatiently. “The Australian.”

“Uh . . . no,” Brenda said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. He waited down the hall a bit. I shielded the keypad with my body.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Pencaldron said, though her voice sounded specifically not-okay. She sounded like she suspected an international art theft ring. “Giving the security code to a student is against the rules. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Brenda said. “And nobody brought cans or cups into the room, either. Or bottles. None whatsoever.”

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Pencaldron said. “I saw to that myself.”

So many silly rules,
Brenda thought as they approached the hospital’s soda machine.

She had sandwiched the note that said
Call John Walsh!
into her copy of
The Innocent Impostor
and then locked the book in its briefcase. Brenda wasn’t sure why she was keeping the note. She couldn’t think about John Walsh and Fleming Trainor at the same time; that much had already been proven.

“Are we getting a Coke?” Blaine asked. “Really, are we?”

“Really we are.” If this was what it took, this was what it took, Brenda thought. It wasn’t like she was offering the kids cigarettes, or shots of Jägermeister. She filched five quarters out of Vicki’s bag and let Blaine carefully slip them into the slot, but she couldn’t find any more change, and the smallest bill in Vicki’s wallet was a twenty. Porter babbled. “Ba ba ba, da da da.” The nonsense a person said before the real nonsense began.

“Wouldn’t you know,” Brenda said. “We need more money.”

Blaine, panic-stricken, looked at Brenda as they walked back to the admitting desk. “What about the Coke?” he said.

“We need more money,” Brenda said, and Blaine started to cry. Hearing Blaine cry made Porter start up again in louder tones. “Boys,” Brenda said. “Please. Just wait a second.” Was it any surprise that Nantucket had the world’s most expensive soda machine? She would have to break a twenty for one lousy quarter, but that made perfect sense. That was how her day was going.

And of course Didi, at the admitting desk, was now deep in conversation with someone else, a guy her age. Brenda tried to wave the twenty over the guy’s shoulder. Didi would hear the kids crying, she would sense urgency. But no—Didi was oblivious, she was completely focused on this other person, who was wearing a hunter green polo shirt and khaki shorts and grass-stained Adidas sneakers. He had a fresh haircut; there were short hair trimmings all over the back of his shirt. He was holding on to one end of a white envelope, and Didi held on to the other end, looking like she might cry.

“This is it,” Haircut Guy said. “And I want it back!”

“I know,” Didi said.

“By the first of July. Not the second. Not the fourth. The first.”

“Righty-o.”

“With interest.”

“What about Friday?” Didi said.

“What
about
Friday?”

“Zach’s party.”

“Are you going?” Haircut Guy said.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m staying home.”

“Excuse me,” Brenda said, waving the twenty in the air. It was rude to interrupt, but Brenda couldn’t stand around with two screaming kids while Didi and her friend discussed some kegger. “I need change. For the soda machine.”

Didi wiped a finger under one eye. Her chest heaved. “I don’t have any change,” she snapped. “If you want change you’ll have to go upstairs to the cafeteria.”

Oh, no,
Brenda thought.
No way.
“I only need one quarter,” she said. “Please? Do you have a quarter you might just lend me?”

Didi snatched the envelope from her friend’s grasp. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

Haircut Guy turned around. In his outstretched hand was a quarter. “Here,” he said. Then he looked at Brenda. “Hey,” he said. “It’s you.”

Brenda stared at his face for a second. She knew this person, but how? Who was it? One thing was for certain: She had never been so happy to see twenty-five cents in all her life.

Josh walked with Brenda and the kids to the Coke machine even though he heard Didi making noises back at the admitting desk. Blaine held the quarter and Josh lifted him up so that he could feed the machine, then push the button—and they were all silent as the Coke tumbled down the shoot. Even the baby was quiet. Josh took the Coke from the machine. “Shall I do the honors?”

“You’re the guy from the airport,” Brenda said. “The one who brought me my book. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. You got a haircut.”

She looked so astonished that Josh felt embarrassed. He cracked open the can. “Yep,” he said. “I’m Josh.”

“I’m Brenda Lyndon.”

“I know,” he said. “I remember. Dr. Lyndon.”

“I’m not a
doctor
doctor,” Brenda said. “I’m a doctor of American literature. The most useless kind of doctor there is. We’re here because my sister, Vicki, is having a port installed for chemo.”

“Chemo?” Josh said.

“She has lung cancer,” Brenda whispered.

“You’re kidding,” Josh said. But what did he remember about the other sister? Her heavy breathing. “Oh, man.”

Brenda shook her head, then made a motion over the kids’ heads. Blaine said, “Coke! Coke!”

Josh knelt down and helped Blaine with the Coke. Lung cancer? Pregnant?
I’m not a
doctor
doctor.
The most miserable-looking people he had ever seen. That’s what Josh had thought, right from the beginning. And no wonder.

“Are you here all summer?” he said. “Because I saw your friend Melanie at the airport a couple of days ago . . .”

“My sister and I are here all summer with the kids,” Brenda said. “The jury’s still out on Melanie.”

“She seemed really nice,” Josh said.

“Nice, yes, that she is. Very nice,” Brenda said. “Hey, you don’t know anybody who needs a babysitting job this summer, do you?”

“What kind of babysitting job?”

“Watch the kids twenty-five hours a week. Go to the beach, the playground, throw the ball, build sand castles, take them for ice cream. Twenty dollars an hour, cash. We need somebody responsible. And I mean rock-solid. You would not
believe
the weekend we had . . .”

One thing about lending Didi the two hundred dollars was that it meant Josh couldn’t quit his job at the airport. He had given her more than half his savings, and no matter what she promised him, he knew he would never see it again. But twenty dollars an hour cash was a lot more than he was making now. He had taken the job at the airport because of his father, though it was truly dull. The most memorable thing that had happened all summer was when Melanie fell off the steps of the plane.

“I’ll do it,” Josh said.

Brenda looked at him askance. “You already have a job,” she said. “And you’re a . . . guy.”

“I’m quitting the airport,” Josh said. “And I like kids.”

Brenda stuck the nipple of the pacifier in the can of Coke, then popped it into the baby’s mouth.

“Porter’s only nine months old,” she said. “He’s very attached to his mother.”

“I like babies,” Josh said. This was only true in the hypothetical; Josh didn’t know any babies. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Didi rise from her desk and start over toward them.

“Can you change a diaper?” Brenda said.

“Of course.”

As Didi closed in, Blaine chugged the Coke like a man who had been stranded in the desert. Josh gently pulled it away.

“Whoa there, pal. Easy, or you’re going to get sick.”

“You’re available mornings?” Brenda said. “Weekdays, say, eight to one? Porter naps at one.”

“I’m available.”

“You have a car, right? The Jeep? Do you think the baby seats will fit in the Jeep?”

“Baby seats?” Didi said. She was upon them, sniffing around in an accusatory way, as though what they were talking about were her business if only because it was taking place in admitting, which she considered her domain. She brandished a handful of quarters, as if to spite Brenda, and got herself a diet Dr Pepper.

“They should,” Josh said. He had no idea if the baby seats would fit in his Jeep; he didn’t know what baby seats
were
exactly, but the longer he stood here with this woman, the more desperate he was for a connection with her. “I can do it,” he said. “I really want to do it.”

“Do what?” Didi said.

“Do you have a criminal record?” Brenda asked. She wondered how pissed Vicki would be if she hired this guy herself, without consulting Vicki. A guy. Was that weird? With Ted gone, it might be good for the kids. It
would
be good for the kids, Brenda decided. It would be good for all of them to have a man around on a regular basis; it would even be good for Melanie.

“Criminal record?” Didi said, scoffing. “This guy is as straight-laced as they come.”

“Okay,” Brenda said. “You’re hired.”

S
and on the kitchen floor, a collar around the toilet bowl, dandelions, running out of hot water in the shower, a bug bite scratched until it bleeds, losing the plot strands of
Desperate Housewives
, the
New York Times
Best Seller List, damp beach towels, mildew, Ted calling from the road to say he was stuck in a five-mile backup outside of New Haven, Ted calling to say the Yukon broke down and he was at a service station in Madison, Connecticut, Ted calling to say he was going to miss the ferry and not to expect him until tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Ted said. “This is beyond my control.”

Beyond your control?
Vicki thought.
I thought I was talking to my husband, Ted Stowe, the man who rants and raves and throws money at problems until they’re solved.
Vicki hated the defeated tone of Ted’s voice. Her cancer was making him helpless. He couldn’t even deal with traffic, or with an overheated engine. He was going to lie down and die.

“I need you here tonight,” Vicki said. “The kids are expecting you. Blaine has talked about nothing else all week. You can’t just
not show
. Take a taxi to the nearest airport and fly in.”

“And do what with the car, Vick? It’s full of stuff.”

Ah, yes, the stuff: a case of Chardonnay from their favorite vineyard in the Russian River Valley that Vicki was craving, the items she’d bought in bulk at BJ’s—paper towels, cleaning supplies, juice boxes, diapers. Then there was Blaine’s bicycle, a carton of the kids’ favorite children’s books, the paints and the Play-Doh, Vicki’s vitamins (she’d forgotten them on purpose because they made her vomit). Her extra suitcases, one of which contained a blond wig.

Gingerly, Vicki touched her port. A surgeon had installed it, and Vicki’s new oncologist, Dr. Alcott, decided to administer the first dose of chemo right away.
Why not?
Dr. Alcott said (cavalierly, Vicki thought, as though he were deciding to have a piece of Key lime pie for dessert). She had to admit that physically she felt no better or worse than she had all along. She kept waiting for a change—was the chemo working? Was it gobbling up the cancer cells like a Pac-Man with those stupid dots?—but the only thing the doctors could guarantee was that her breast milk would be poisoned. Her breasts grew warm and buzzed with pain every three hours like an alarm, but Vicki couldn’t feed the baby. Porter had screamed through the first night. He refused to take a bottle, though Brenda had gotten him to drink a little bit of water from the bathroom cup. Still, Vicki told herself, things could have been a whole lot worse. She wasn’t nauseous and her hair wasn’t falling out in clumps the way she had feared. Brenda had hired the ramp attendant from the airport to babysit starting next week, and the sun was shining. As soon as Ted arrived, they could go to the beach as a family, proceed with the summer as though everything were all right. What Vicki realized during the phone call, however, was that she had pinned all her hopes on today, Friday, the day of Ted’s arrival; he might as well have been riding in on a white horse. Now he wasn’t coming. He couldn’t leave the car full of stuff. Vicki waited for devastation to set in, but instead, all she experienced was a scary nothing. She didn’t care. Ted’s arriving one day late was just one more item on her List of Things That No Longer Matter.

She hung up the phone. Blaine and Brenda were sitting out on the front step, tossing pebbles into a paper cup. Porter sat on the tiny lawn in just his diaper, eating dandelions. Melanie was taking her third outdoor shower of the day. For some reason, the outdoor shower made Melanie feel better. She claimed it took her mind off Peter.

I’m sorry about all the hot water,
she said.

Shower away,
Vicki said.

Now, Vicki watched her children. They were happy, blissful, unaware. She wanted to be happy. What was going to make her happy? Anything? What would make her happier than she was now? She heard the voices of the people in her cancer support group chanting in her mind like a Greek chorus.
You have to make yourself fight. You cannot, under any circumstances, give up.

Vicki tapped Brenda on the shoulder just as she sank the first pebble of the game.

“Yes!” Brenda said with a raised fist. “Two points for Auntie Brenda.”

“Bren?” Vicki said.

Brenda looked up. “What?”

Vicki motioned for Brenda to step inside, though first she checked that the gate was latched—it would be just like her kids to take off on their own down Shell Street.