House of Wonder (17 page)

A Conversation

M
y eyes didn't leave Bobby as I pulled into the driveway. One side of his face lifted into a warm smile as he saw me. Wiping his paint-covered hands on his pants, he stepped off the ladder. I shifted the car into park and opened my door. “Hey,” I said, as I stood, crossing my arms over my chest.

We walked toward each other, and met on the dry grass of my mother's front yard. “I hope you don't mind,” he said, jerking his thumb back at one of the columns. “Your mom's at work, but Warren said he thought it would be all right.”

“I don't mind,” I said, shaking my head, my words soft with gratitude.

We stood looking at each other for a moment until I heard
Rose's muffled voice coming from the confines of the car. “Hi, Gabby's daddy!” she called, waving.

He lifted his hand. “Hi, Rose!” he said back.

“Why are you painting my nana's house?”

Bobby looked at me, as if that was his answer. As if I was. We stood there for a moment, something silent but clear passing between us. Then I tilted my head back toward the car. “I'm just gonna get her out,” I said, and Bobby nodded in affirmation.

I unstrapped Rose and set her feet on the pavement, then rounded the back of the car, lifting the gate to free Gordo. He lumbered down, exerting great effort and grunting as his front paws made contact with the ground, letting his hind legs follow. His tail spun with joy as he rubbed the side of his face against Bobby's leg in greeting.

I lifted the two additional gallons of paint that I had bought from the trunk. “I got some more,” I said, raising them for Bobby to see as I crossed back toward him.

“I was wondering about that,” he said, running the wrist of his paint-covered hand back and forth against his chin.

Gordo plodded up the steps and sat on the welcome mat, staring at the front door. As if on cue, it opened, and there was Warren in his gray sweatshirt and his pleated khaki pants. Gordo stood and wagged wildly, his whole body curving from one side to the other and back again as his tail thumped against my brother's leg. Warren said something in Dog and patted Gordo's head, chuckling as he did so.

“Jenna got some more paint,” said Bobby casually, as he stepped back up onto the ladder. It was the way he might tell a buddy that there was another six-pack in the fridge. Then he
pointed to the farthest column. “You could start giving that one its second coat.”

I was ready for Warren to turn on his heels and head inside without a word. Instead he looked at me. And with his wounds nearly healed, his stitches gone, our eyes met just long enough for me to see them flicker with something familiar, something I had longed for. Then Warren walked slowly toward the far end of the porch, poking me lightly on the stomach as he passed, and picking up one of the new cans of paint by its thin metal handle.

I watched him as he popped off the lid and submerged the stirrer into the opaque white, watched him carefully dip his brush into the paint. With slow up-and-down strokes, he let his eyes follow the brush, watching as the column became pristine and new, almost magically so.

“Is there an extra paintbrush?” I asked.

“We got this, Jenna,” said Bobby. “Right, War?”

“Yeah,” said Warren, sounding both pleased and surprised by his answer. Then he let out his quiet chuckle. “We got this.”

For the next half hour, Rose and I sat inside coloring while Warren and Bobby painted my mother's front columns, with Gordo supervising. From the dining room where I had set us up, I could hear Bobby and Warren make bits of conversation that was sparse but comfortable sounding. They talked about the gas mileage of Warren's Civic and the battery life on his AC planes. They talked about D'Antonio's bakery closing and how the town was supposedly paving that small stretch of dirt road that ran between Harwick and Montborough.

Then I heard my mother's car go over the dip in the beginning of the driveway. Gordo let out a few high-pitched,
clipped barks. I drew a big smiley face on the yellow construction paper. “Nana's going to be happy,” I told Rose.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you and me and Uncle Warren are all here. And because Gabby's nice daddy is helping her paint her house.” I stood and peered out the window, wanting to see the look on her face when she saw Bobby and Warren. And I didn't understand at first why it wasn't her white Camry that was in the driveway. Why it was a car I had never seen before. I felt my whole body seize as a man in a blue shirt, tan pants, and a green jacket got out of the car. I realized that even without any of the dressing, the car parked in our driveway still looked a whole lot like a police car, in the same way that a cop, even without the uniform, still looked a whole lot like a cop.

“You stay right here and color for a sec,” I said to Rose, trying to keep the panic from my voice. The man was walking up toward the house, slowly but with intention. “Mommy has to go talk to someone.” I went quickly to the front door, forcing a soothing smile to my lips and winking at Rose just before I stepped outside.

As the screen door clattered behind me, I exchanged a look with Bobby before stopping at the top of the steps. Bobby and Warren were on ladders on either side of me, though Warren's body was half-hidden behind a column. “Hi there,” I called. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The man took a few more steps, then reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small leather wallet onto which was mounted a badge. “I'm Detective Dunn,” he said. “From the Somerton County Sheriff's Department.” He
had a ruddy complexion and round features that gave him an almost childlike appearance, though his thinning blond hair and creased forehead suggested that he was at least middle-aged. He looked like a family man, a guy who was the youngest of twelve in a big Irish family and spent weekends tailgating in the parking lots of Giants Stadium. “Do you live here, miss?” he asked.

“I do,” I volunteered quickly, before realizing that that wasn't true. My hands turned in front of me, as if unspooling the truth. “I mean, my mother does.”

Detective Dunn's expression didn't change as he glanced briefly up toward the house, then down to the yard, his trained eyes not lingering for long, but seeing everything they needed to. “Your mother is Priscilla Parsons?” he asked, his face still impassive.

“She is.”

“Is she home?”

I heard Bobby descend the stepladder and felt him come up next to me, his hands on his hips, his stance wide. I shifted, resting my hand on top of the railing. “She's at work. But we expect her back any minute now.” Though I didn't look away from the detective, I knew that Warren was frozen, his gaze focused on the ground, as if directing all his sensory power on the auditory. “Can I ask what this is about?” I asked politely.

“There've been several burglaries in the neighborhood.” Again, his eyes moved to the house, then to Warren, while his head remained still. “And does your mother live here alone?” It was a question to which he knew the answer, a question designed to flush out the true reason for his visit.

We looked at each other for a moment, the detective and I. “No,” I said. “My brother, Warren, lives here, too.”

“And is this Warren?” asked Detective Dunn, still looking at me as he tilted his head in the direction of my brother, his hands in his pockets.

I hesitated, though there was only one answer I could give. “Yes,” I said.

Detective Dunn's focus shifted immediately. “Warren,” he said, taking a few plodding steps closer to the porch. “You used to deliver pizza in the area.” He stopped, angling his head up. “Is that right?”

Warren paused, then almost indiscernibly nodded.

Detective Dunn rested his hands on his haunches and glanced around at the neighborhood. “You must have delivered to most of these houses,” he said. “Been inside of 'em. Is that correct?” Detective Dunn nodded once, instructively.

Warren remained still.

“Bet you saw a lot of nice things in those houses,” he said. He waited for a reaction from Warren. When it didn't come, Detective Dunn jerked his head toward the road behind him. “How about you come in and have a conversation with me,” he said.

Immediately, Warren's face changed and he stared down at the concrete steps, as if deciding something profound and final.

Detective Dunn stood there, looking at Warren, unmoved as he waited. Then Warren smoothed his bangs down on his head, his face like a soldier's in preparation for battle, and reached to pick up the navy warm-up jacket that he had peeled off for painting.

“Warren,” said Bobby, “you don't have to go anywhere.”

But Warren pulled his jacket on and zipped it to his chest. It bloused at the bottom and in the sleeves. He paused for a moment, his fingers still on the zipper pull; then he looked at me.

“I'm going with you,” I said, as I instinctively patted my back pocket for my phone and scanned about for my purse, which was inside.

“It's okay,” said Warren, his lips barely moving as he spoke.
I'll be all right.
Then he slowly made for the steps.

Bobby reached out to stop him, resting his hand on his shoulder. “You should talk to a lawyer,” he whispered.

But Warren shook his head. “No,” he said. “It's better this way.”

Sliding past us down the steps, he took them one at a time, keeping his gaze on his feet.

And as I watched my brother walk away from me and toward the detective, I felt the urge to throw myself between them, to spread my arms and block my brother from the man with the watchful eyes and gold badge. Warren didn't know what he was doing. He couldn't protect himself. “No,” I said, starting down the stairs after him. “I'm coming.”

Warren halted, his head hung forward. But he didn't turn around. “Jenna,” he said just before I reached him. And the anger in his voice stopped me short. We had always run to his defense, rushed to his aid, my mother and I. It hadn't occurred to either of us that that might not be his preference.

“We're just going to have a conversation, Sis,” said Detective Dunn, drawing my stare from the back of Warren's figure. Then the detective looked at Warren. “You take your
car and I'll take mine,” he said calmly, as if he were talking to a man out on a ledge.
Nice and easy.

I glanced at Bobby and he at me, but we were silent as we watched Warren get into his car, and pull away after the detective. We were silent as we saw Mr. Kotch on his bicycle, pedaling steadily but unhurriedly after them. He trailed Warren's car until Warren made a right out of the development and was no longer in the jurisdiction of the King's Knoll neighborhood watch.

“Hey, Mom.” Rose was peeking out through a crack in the front door, a bored pout on her lips. “I'm tired of coloring.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Rosie!” I said, bending to bring us eye to eye. “There was a man that . . . we needed to talk to.” Reaching for her hand, I turned to face Bobby.

“I can stay, Jenna,” he said, his voice low but emphatic. “I don't have to be at the hospital for an hour and a half. I can stay until Warren gets back.”

“It's okay,” I said, shaking my head, feeling the threat of tears as Rose tugged on my arm. “You should go.”

“Jenna—”

“Really,” I said. “Thank you so much for all of this,” I said, nodding toward the almost finished columns. “But I know how busy you are. We'll be fine.”

“Are you still up for tomorrow night?” he asked. We had made plans to have dinner together—the four of us, at my house.

“Of course,” I said. As much as I wanted him near me, I was now eager for him to go. Because soon my mother would be home. She'd walk in the house, holding the strap of her purse, her eyes cautious. And before she even said the words,
I'd know the question that was on her lips because her face would look as it always did whenever she had to ask it. I'd tell her that Warren had left and why.
What did they want to talk to him for?
she'd say. Then I'd see her eyes being pulled in the direction of the Castros' house, as if drawn by some distant, building clamor. And with her face in profile, her skin marble white, she would have the look of a cameo, of a woman long-forgotten but immortalized nonetheless.

The Crown

1972

T
he two women stood side by side, their bodies angled toward each other, their gowns encircling their feet. And as they held hands, sweaty palm to sweaty palm, they looked like the two halves of a shell, splayed open and emptied.

The announcement of the winner was only moments away, but Silla could think only about the weight of everything. The weight of her dress and her makeup. The weight of her jewelry. The weight of all the hair on her head. A small bead of sweat sprang from her hairline and trickled down her forehead. It was so hot up there. So hot that she felt dizzy and all she wanted to do was close her eyes and concentrate on standing up.

The MC's voice echoed through the auditorium, at once distant and right next to her. “We're just moments away, folks,”
he said, as if the information he was about to reveal could heal the sick. “From crowning
Miss Texas 1972
.” Silla felt her eyelids grow heavy and her legs loosen, as if she might start to sway. “But first I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge the lovely ladies who gave it their all this evening. Weren't they terrific, folks?” There was a burst of applause that faded, as if on cue, for the commencement of the drumroll.

“And now,” the MC declared, his words like claps of thunder, “the first runner-up . . .” Silla took a breath in and out. She felt Miss Hunt County squeeze her hand. And then the MC's voice boomed out, as if from a cannon, “Miss Hunt County, Jeanette Wylie!” The noise in the room sounded like an explosion.
“Miss Houston, Priscilla Harris, is our new Miss Texas!”

Priscilla covered her mouth with her shaking hand, almost overcome by a mixture of disbelief, terror, and, yes, elation. Miss Hunt County gripped her shoulders and kissed her cheek and looked at her with the bravest smile she had ever seen. Beauty queens were supposed to be icons of femininity—the ultimate women. And what else did being a woman mean but standing still and smiling? Looking happy when you weren't? What did being a woman mean but letting someone else decide your fate?

Loud, tinny music began to blare over the loudspeakers, joining the cacophony of the crowd and the MC. Silla gazed out toward the audience. The lights were so bright that she couldn't make out the faces. They looked like phosphorescent flashes in the night sea, shimmering and indiscernible.
Thank you!
she mouthed, waving.
Thank you so much!
She knew her father was there. And Hattie. She knew that Cal was sitting at the judges' table, though she tried not to look at him.
Just smile,
she thought
.
Cal always said that her smile alone could win a pageant.
Makes you look wholesome,
he said, biting his cigar
. Judges love it when the girls look wholesome.

From behind her, she felt someone putting what must be a crown on her head, fastening it with pins that pressed into her scalp. Then there was someone in front of her, someone whose face she did not recognize, putting a bouquet of yellow flowers in her arms. “Our new Texas rose!” boomed the MC. Silla waved and waved with her shaking hand.
Thank you! Thank you!
She blew a kiss to the audience.
Thank you!

She saw the runway in front of her. She knew what came next. She was supposed to put one foot in front of the other and walk down it. So she took a tentative first step with the flowers and crown, like a beast of burden getting accustomed to a new load. She kept the smile on her face, tilting her head to change its angle as she made her way down the long, narrow peninsula. She used to keep her head still, but she had fixed that.
You look like a damn robot up there, Silla!
her father had said. And so she had learned to smile and pretend to see something other than a dark, shimmering sea of faces.

She paused at the end of the runway, then turned toward the other finalists, who were clapping politely, smiling for her, as if this were the happiest moment of their lives.

“Priscilla will go on to represent Texas at the Miss America pageant in Atlantic City!” came the voice of the MC. The applause rose again and Silla glided to her mark, then turned to face the crowd, the MC next to her.

“How does it feel, Priscilla? To be the new Miss Texas!”

The microphone was suddenly in front of her lips. Silla looked out, willing herself to smile, not to move or shift even
though the thorns from the yellow roses were pricking her arm. She leaned in toward the microphone. “I'm speechless,” she said.

The MC's body swiveled to the crowd. “Well, it's a good thing you weren't songless, sweetheart!” he said, bringing a chuckle from the audience. “Tell us a little more about your platform, Priscilla. What do you hope to accomplish as Miss Texas?”

“I hope to go on and win Miss America so that I can join the USO tour and entertain our troops in Vietnam,” she said, with just the right blend of humility and pluck.

“What a heart of gold!” said the MC, his handsome face tanned and glowing in the spotlight. “And I'm sure that this isn't the last we'll hear from Miss Texas 1972! This little lady's got a bright future in front of her, folks!”