House of Wonder (15 page)

I bit my lower lip and planted my hand on my hip, not knowing how to answer. Bobby's eyes didn't leave me even as I couldn't find a spot for my own to settle. I glanced around the room. Sal was looking at me expectantly. “Hi, Mr. Vanni,” I said. I had always loved Bobby's father.

“Jenna,” he said with a smile, leaning shakily forward to kiss my cheek. His movements were slow and pained. “Good to see you, hon.” I hadn't seen Mr. Vanni in years, having left the block party before he was able to make his way out.

Rose leaned in front of me, her face turned up. “Why was Nana yelling?” she asked.

Like a fish on a hook, Mrs. Vanni, who had been squatting to remove Gabby's shoes, lifted her head, a worried expression on her face.

“Oh, don't worry, Rosie,” I said, bending down. “Everything's okay.” I glanced at Mrs. Vanni and tried to smile. She would hate to hear about my mother and Mrs. Castro shouting at each other in the street.

Taking the jacket that Bobby had just placed on the chairback, I held it open for Rose. “We need to go home and check on Nana, okay? I'm sorry for barging in like this,” I told the Vannis. Then I turned to Bobby. “I know you're trying to get to work.”

He paused for a moment, his face somber and concerned. “Will you call me later?” he asked.

“Of course.”

With Rose on my hip, I again walked through the park. The hill and the pond below it were beside us when Rose let her head sink against my shoulder. “I'm hungry,” she said.

“I know, Rosie,” I said, laboring to carry her. It used to be so easy; she used to be so light. “We'll get you something to eat at Nana's.”

Gordo's nose was pressed against the back door as he awaited our return, and he looked as though he wanted to break right through the glass.

Mom sat at the kitchen table and our eyes met. I opened the door. “Hey, Nana,” I said as casually as possible, while Gordo wound himself around my legs. “Rosie is getting pretty hungry.” I set Rose down on the floor and again peeled off her jacket. “You want to watch a show while I fix you something?” I asked.

She did. And while my mother settled her in front of the TV, I began making her a grilled cheese sandwich. I had just turned on the stove when Mom came to stand next to me. “Is Warren upstairs?” I asked, as I added a pat of butter and watched it slide across the hot pan.

Mom rubbed her hands over her face, then clasped them in front of her, nodding. “Yeah,” she said. “He's working on a plane.”

We stood in silence while the sandwich browned, each submerged with our own thoughts. After I cut the grilled cheese into four triangles, I brought it, along with a bowl of apple slices and a glass of water, into the family room. Pulling one of the TV trays from its holder, I set it down in front of Rose, who leaned her head past me so as not to miss a second of her show. Without moving her eyes from the screen, she picked up a piece of apple and began eating. I ran my hands over her wild red curls. “You're a funny girl, Rosie,” I said softly, before turning and walking back through the kitchen. My mother was still standing by the stove, her face angled toward the window above the sink. I needed to talk to Warren.

•   •   •

“Hey, War,” I said, rapping lightly on his door. “It's me.”

I waited a moment for him to answer. When he didn't, I pushed the door open and peeked inside. He was at his desk, the bright halogen lamp bowed over his slender fingers as they gently twisted together two wires that protruded from the belly of a plane. Walking across the cornflower blue carpet, I sat on the edge of his bed, his plaid comforter pulled smoothly over the mattress, and watched him.

Warren spoke first. “Mom shouldn't have gone over there,” he said, not looking up, his hands illuminated as he worked.

“No,” I said. “Probably not. But she was only trying to look out for you, you know?” There were a few more beats of silence before I asked, “How much did you hear?”

His brow tensed slightly, but he didn't look up. Nor did he answer. I imagined he'd heard the start of the argument, then begun working on his plane. That's what he used to do toward the end of our parents' marriage, when their fights would rock the house, when Lydia's name was lobbed about like a grenade. He would go up and work on his planes and I swear that he wouldn't hear another word.

“I guess Zack Castro thinks you're the one who stole his mountain bike.” At this, Warren's hands stopped. I paused, not knowing how much more to tell him. But then, seeing the side of his face, the line of neat stitches above his eyebrow, I said, “Mrs. Castro says that's why he did what he did.”

Slowly, Warren raised his head, and though he remained still, his eyes moved back and forth, as if scanning the lines of some cryptic text. He seemed to be reliving some event,
replaying it in his head, and he smoothed his bangs down over his forehead.

“Warren, I'm sorry,” I said, thinking that maybe it had been stupid to come up here to tell him what Beth Castro had said. “I didn't mean to . . .” I looked around, at a loss for a phrase to explain what I hadn't meant to do.

But Warren's head jerked around and he found my eyes. “No,” he said, to stave off my apology, my remorse. Then his attention turned back down to his desk, his chin tucked to his chest. “It's good that you told me.”

I steadied myself with a breath, preparing for the question that came next. “Warren, I'm sure you don't . . . but I have to ask. Do you know what happened to that kid's mountain bike?”

He let his head fall to the side. “No, Jenna,” he said. “I don't.”

And not for a moment did I doubt him. Rising from his bed, I wrapped my arms around him, hunching over him from behind in a tight, enveloping hug. I heard him let out a low and slightly uncomfortable chuckle before reluctantly patting my arm. “Oh, boy,” he said, delivering another pat. “Okay.”

•   •   •

On the way back down the stairs, I passed a framed photo of Warren and me with our grandfather. He had on his fishing hat with one arm extended around each of us. Warren and I were both smiling, looking skinny and gangly. Our grandfather looked exactly the way I would always remember him, in a plaid wool shirt tucked neatly into his trousers.

When Grandpa was diagnosed with lung cancer, my parents hadn't spoken to each other in over a year. Now they had to get
on the phone because someone needed to take Grandpa for radiation. Dad had just been promoted and was traveling almost constantly. And Lydia had our half sister, Alexandra, who was a toddler at the time, to look after.
You'd think you or your
wife
could get your father to the hospital,
my mother would say, the word “wife” particularly sharp
.
But my father was across the country. And Lydia said that she'd really like to,
but 
. . . So it fell to my mother. Or more accurately, it fell to my mother and Warren.

Really, my mother adored Grandpa and was grateful that it was she who cared for him during his final months. He'd lie in bed and close his eyes and ask her to sing. He had always loved music, loved singing. He used to take Warren and me to see a Broadway show every year at Christmastime. So Mom would sing and he'd hum along as best he could, his blanket-shrouded toes tapping the air. And Warren was there as well, sitting just out of view on the floor beside the couch, or in the narrow foyer. Every bit present, but safely out of reach.

That was in the fall of our senior year of high school and I was on the varsity soccer team.
Go to your game,
Grandpa would say.
I'm not much fun right now anyhow.
And the emphasis he put on the present always made me believe that there would be a future. Or maybe that's what I told myself. Because while I was on some bus traveling to some field to play in some game, Warren would be standing in my grandfather's kitchen with a large oven mitt on one hand, frying him catfish and trying to tempt him to eat. Grandpa would always take a small bite for Warren.
Mmmm.
Tastes fresh,
he'd say.
Did you catch it yourself?
And Warren would swell with pride.

When the day of the funeral arrived and it was time to walk
into the nave that held my grandfather's casket, Warren wouldn't go. My mother and I both begged him, whispering hushed pleas as we stood before the heavy wooden doors, splayed open to reveal the flower-laden altar, the pews full of people. Lydia was there, wearing formfitting black and sobbing in the front row. But Warren just shook his head, refusing to look down the aisle, his feet planted on the floor. He could take care of our grandfather during his final months, could pretend not to hear as he vomited into an emesis basin, but he couldn't quite manage the spectacle of the funeral. And when it was over and we walked outside, red-eyed and hollowed out, we found Warren sitting cross-legged on the lawn outside the church. Dad saw him and his jaw hardened. He marched across the lawn and stopped right in front of him, looking down at his son, who was running his fingers over a blade of grass. “I have
never
been so ashamed of you,” he said, his voice shaking with fury and regret. “After everything your grandfather did for you, you couldn't even pay your respects.”

•   •   •

Back in the kitchen, my mother was still standing at the stove, and Rose still watching TV. Gordo was lying on the floor by her feet. He lifted his head and when he saw it was me, he grunted and lay back down.

“Warren's doing fine, Mom,” I said, preempting her question as I sidled up next to her. “We're going to fix this, I promise. I'll go talk to Beth Castro. I'll explain the situation.” Because wasn't it fixable? Wouldn't she understand that Warren hadn't stolen anything? Couldn't that be made clear?

Mom looked at me the way I sometimes looked at Rose,
when her innocence made my heart break. “Jenna, honey,” she said. A cartoon crash sounded from the television and Rose's laughter bubbled through the air. “This is bigger than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked thoughtfully down, and I noticed how thick and black her eyelashes still were. “I mean that some of the neighbors have been saying things.”

I was suddenly angry, already knowing the answer to the question I was about to ask. “What have they been saying?” Though I didn't let myself look around, I thought of the house, of its contents cluttered and piled and filling every available space. I thought of the exterior, chipped and faded; the lawn that had spent all those years littered with this and that. I thought of all the
FOR SALE
signs up and down the neighborhood. And then I thought of Warren walking the streets, his gaze extended heavenward, toward his flying machines as they swooped through the sky.

Mom and I stood eye to eye for a moment before she got down on her hands and knees and pulled loose the wood facing beneath one of the cabinets, letting it echo hollowly as it hit the tile floor. It was her hiding spot, where she used to keep cigarettes before she quit. She reached carefully into the tight space and pulled out a small stack of papers.

“Here,” she said, handing them to me. “They've been coming in the mail.”

I scanned them quickly, passing from one to the other, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. They were letters, written anonymously. And though each consisted of only a single sentence, the words occupied the entirety of the page.

“They're in order,” said my mother.

The first ones were cryptic, with lines like,
Neighborhoods are built house by house—we all need to do our share!
But they became increasingly direct.
The condition of your home is impacting the value of ours!
Then it seemed that once the thefts began, so did the attacks on Warren.
Your son cannot use this neighborhood as his ATM!
And finally,
Warren has become a burden that this neighborhood can no longer bear!

“Oh, my God,” I said, looking up at my mother, the papers held loosely in my hands. “Who are these from?”

Mom remained still, but her eyes shifted to the letter at the top of the stack. It was printed on paper that was bordered with illustrations of little martini glasses—the sort that Beth Castro might use to send out invitations to Bunco night.

“Mom, who's sending—”

“I don't know, Jenna,” she interrupted. Then her face changed, her expression indicating that she hadn't meant to direct her frustration at me. “It could be one person. It could be a whole group.”

“You need to go to the police, Mom.”

“Absolutely not! How would that help anything? Getting the authorities involved?”

I thought about it, about whether calling the police would further escalate a situation that my mother had probably already escalated tonight. “We need to do something.”

“We
are
doing something,” she said. “We're doing exactly what they want. We're fixing up this house.”

Cal Harper

1968

C
al Harper's face drew into a smile and he leaned back onto the heels of his feet, his hands stuck in the pockets of his slacks. “I'm a
judge
,” he said, the words oozing out like syrup, his accent thick and slow.

“How are
you
going to judge a beauty contest?” teased Priscilla's father as he hauled his golf clubs into the back of his car.

“It's a problem, I know,” said Mr. Harper. “I'll want 'em all to win.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the sweat from his forehead. “But I must do my civic duty, Lee.”

Silla's father let out one of his laughs—a pulsing of air through his nose. Silla, who had been standing by the passenger door, saw Mr. Harper glance at her. “You know, Silla
could enter this year.” As Lee turned to close the trunk, Mr. Harper gave Silla a wink that was so fast she thought she might have been seeing things. “She's old enough now.”

Lee scratched the back of his head and studied the pavement. “Well . . . ,” he began, intending for that to be his only answer.

But Cal Harper knew Lee's sweet spot. “There's good money in it,” he said, folding the handkerchief back up, square into square, putting it back into his pocket. “If she wins.” When he looked back at Lee, he could see that he now had his attention.

“How good?” asked Lee.

Mr. Harper just smiled. “Priscilla,” he said, taking his time to turn to her. “How'd you like to be in a beauty contest?” His gaze moved quickly and casually from her feet up to her face, taking it all in, but not lingering on any one part. There'd be time for that.

Silla had worn her white tennis dress to the club, and though she loved how it felt on the court, loved how she could look down and see the muscles in her legs, loved how freely she could move in it, she suddenly regretted that it was so very short. “Well, I . . . ,” she started. “I never thought about it, I guess.” In truth, once she had become aware of her looks, she viewed them as a liability, the opposite of camouflage. Especially while living with Hattie.

Mr. Harper turned back to Lee. “It's good for 'em, I think,” he said. “Teaches 'em poise.” From the rolling green golf course, there came the hollow crack of a club meeting the ball, and Mr. Harper's eyes were drawn toward the sound. “And the higher up they go in these things, the bigger the pageants they compete in,
the better the prizes.” He followed the arc of the ball until it began its descent. “They can really turn it into a nice little career.”

“Is it too late to register?” asked Lee, feigning disinterest.

Though Mr. Harper was still facing the course, Silla saw his face form a victorious grin. “I'm sure we can pull some strings,” he said, just as Hattie was walking out from the clubhouse. Sunglasses covered her eyes and her solid sheet of blond hair had been teased and then smoothed into a chin-length helmet. As soon as she was within earshot, Cal said, “There she is,” as if he had been waiting all this time just to catch a glimpse of her. “You're surrounded by beautiful women, Lee.”

Hattie's raspberry lips curved into a closed-lipped smile. “Cal Harper,” she said, leaning in, letting him kiss her cheek. “Your wife just gave me the most delicious-sounding recipe for steak Diane.”

“Oh, Lord,” he said. “I hope she's not telling you to ruin a perfectly good steak by covering it in black pepper and mushrooms.”

Hattie swatted him playfully. “You are just terrible, Cal,” she said.

“Well,” he said with his sly smile, “guilty as charged, I suppose.” He began sauntering back toward the clubhouse, his hands back in his pockets. “Call me about that contest, Lee.” As he passed Silla, he gave her another wink. “I think you could have a winner on your hands.”

It would be years later, while reading his obituary, that Priscilla would learn that Cal Harper had made all his money in horses, that he had advised wealthy owners on new purchases, on what animals he thought had potential. It may not
seem lucrative, but Cal Harper always got paid, one way or another.

Hattie made for the passenger door without acknowledging Silla, and Silla instinctively stepped aside. As the car glided away from the country club, Hattie lifted her sunglasses and pulled out a compact to check her face. “What was that about a contest?” she asked her husband.

“Cal thinks Silla's got a chance in that Miss Harris County contest,” he said.

Hattie froze, and Silla watched as the gaze reflected in the compact mirror moved from her own face to Silla's.

That night, after they got home, after Lee slipped into the den and a Tom Collins, Silla was waiting for the ham loaf to finish heating and was thinking about what Mr. Harper had said.
They can really turn it into a nice little career.
A nice little career was more than she had hoped for, but now she thought about it. About what it might be like to have some money of her own. Maybe she could get her own apartment. Maybe she could have a bedroom with white lace curtains and a vanity with a little vase of yellow flowers. That's what she was thinking when Hattie came into the room. Silla's head snapped up, as if she had been awakened from a dream. She turned to see a small but steady stream of smoke piping from the vent of the oven.

“Oh!” she gasped as Hattie pulled on oven mitts with the stern look of a military medic. As smoke billowed out of the open oven door, Hattie lifted out the baking sheet and dropped it on the cooktop with a clatter.

“Silla, what were you doing?” she demanded, her face sharp and hard as she inspected the burned ham loaf, a ring of char circling it in the pan.

“I . . . ,” started Silla. “I didn't realize.”

Hattie's beautiful jaw shut tight and she looked at Silla, letting the weight of the silence achieve its full impact before she spoke. “I swear,” she said, the words coming out slowly, as if they had a flavor she wanted to savor. “Sometimes I think you're going to end up just like your mama.”