Pretending Normal (18 page)

“Have you tried aspirin?”

“Hell, that’s like taking a piece of candy.”

“Why didn’t he give you anything?”

“Because I blacked out.” He sneaks a look at her. “That’s why, but it’s bullshit.”

He doesn’t mention the three days of detox and the shackles trapping him to the bed. But Ms. O’Grady and I know why Dr. Donnelly wouldn’t give him any drugs to take at home and it has nothing to do with the blackout.

“Where’s Kay?”

Ms. O’Grady has just dropped us off and I am in the kitchen, unpacking the plastic bag the hospital gave us for his belongings
which include a bottle of hand lotion, a plastic spit up bowl, a toothbrush, a pair of gray and blue slippers that feel like foam rubber, his gray work pants and shirt, the shirt spattered with blood.

I have
planned this moment for days, since Kay packed her suitcase,
and
mine—because she had too many clothes and didn’t want to be left without choices—and gave me Hopscotch, her favorite stuffed bunny.
Keep him until you can come to Aunt Irene’s
, she’d said, and scrambled into the front seat of Aunt Irene’s red mustang.
Bye, Sara, bye. Hurry, okay? Hurry and come.

“She couldn’t stay here,” I say, twisting the top of the hand lotion. “I was at the hospital
and there was no one to watch her.”

“Where is she?”

I set the lotion on the table. “She’s at Aunt Irene’s.”

His face turns red.
“That woman knew I forbid her to come near you girls.”

“She had to.”
The speech I’ve planned shreds into nothingness when I look into those cold, silver eyes. “She had to,” I say again. “I wasn’t here; no one could keep an eye on Kay.” And then, the big lie, “I asked Aunt Irene if she’d take Kay and let her stay there for a while, until you got home and felt better, more able to handle Kay and her moods.” 

“A week,” Frank says, “I want her back in a week.”
But the power is missing from his voice, the expectation muted as he stands there, shoulders slumped, the left one weighed down with a cast, his complexion grayish-yellow. “I need a pack of cigarettes,” he says, swiping his keys off the ledge. “I’ll be back.”

“Should you
… I’ll go with you.”

He considers this a second.
“C’mon then, let’s go.”

That’s one thing about
him, he always needs to think it’s his idea, that he’s doing
you
the favor, not the other way around.

“The A&P?”

“I just need a pack.
I’ll go to Bensons.”

Bensons is right next
to The State Store. How convenient. He maneuvers the truck out of the driveway and onto the road. Four minutes later, we reach Main Street and Frank pulls into a parking spot and shuts off the engine. He squints and scratches his jaw. “Isn’t that the bastard who interrogated me?”

Dr. Peter Donnelly steps out of the navy Cadillac parked in front of us and heads into the State Store.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Frank says, pleased. “I see he knows where the liquor store is, too.”

“Don’t let him see you,” I say
. “Turn your head.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“I know, but do you want him to see you here? Just turn your head, look down.”

He opens his mouth to argue then closes it and lowers his head as Dr. Donnelly comes out carrying two brown bags.
Bottles of red burgundy, I’ll bet. There’s little chance of him noticing Frank because he’s got his eyes plastered between the cement and his car door. Does he know that people suspect there’s something wrong with his wife?

“What the hell’s he doing?” Frank says in a low voice.
“Why is he just sitting there?”

“Beats me.”
And then I see Peter walking down the street toward the Cadillac.
Don’t look up, don’t look up
. He opens the car door on the passenger side and is about to get in when someone calls to him from across the street. He smiles, waves, and turns back when he spots me. The smile slips from his face as we stare at each other, both of us trapped by our parents’ lies. Then he looks away, folds himself into the car and slams the door.

“Do you know that kid?” Frank is watching me, a puzzled look on his face.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say, “I’m sure I don’t know him.”

***

“I wish he were dead.” Nina’s voice fills with the same quiet conviction she uses to recite the Our Father. “I hate his guts.”

We are huddled on the old bedspread near the willow tree in my backyard.

“I’m not going back there,” she says into the inky air.

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean it, Sara.
I’m not going back there.”

But we both know she will because, like the rest of us, Nina has no choice, only a situation.

“He punched her in the stomach.
Punched, her
. My God. He doesn’t show up for dinner, doesn’t even call, and she’s not allowed to ask him where he’s been? What is that, Sara?”

“Is she okay?”

Nina sniffs. “She’s pregnant. God.”

God
.

“I hate her, too.”

“Your mother?”

“Because she just takes it, over and over.
I hate them both, but him I could kill.”

“Don’t
say that.”

“I could, Sara.” There is a calm steadiness in her voice that scares me. “I honest to
God, swear on your life, would do it if I could find a way not to get caught. Haven’t you ever, for a second, wondered what it would be like without your old man? Of course, he’s nothing like mine. Your dad’s trying to help my mother, even offered to take her to the police to file charges, but she won’t go.” Her laugh is bitter. “I really could kill that bastard.”

It’s one thing to let your mind wander off and daydream about it within the confines of your head, where it stays, tucked away safe, until you decide to bring it out and inspect it, dream on it some more.
But to drag these imaginings into the light, to actually
say
them, well, that is something else altogether.

“Sara?”

I open my mouth but the words won’t come out.

“Forget it.
You’d know if it crossed your mind, you wouldn’t have to stop and think about it. I must be the only one going to hell.”

“Nina
—”

“Just keep it between the two of us, okay?”

“Sure.”
I have thought about it
.

“We keep good secrets, don’t
we, Sara? We keep pretending everything is fine. Normal. Pretending normal.” She pauses, then says, “I guess that’s our job, right?”

“I think our job is to get through it
. That’s all, just get through it.”

A single white envelope arrives late Saturday morning addressed to Francis Eugene Polokovich in bold type; Beechmont Paper Mill is stamped in black ink in the upper left corner.
The envelope is thin and flat, stuffed between the
TV Guide
,
Classic Car
Magazine
, and another brochure from U Penn. Just the edge of crisp whiteness is poking out from under the
TV Guide
and it is this that catches my eye. I pull it out, hold it up and try to see what’s inside, hoping it’s his paycheck because that will make him happy.

These last three days have become routine
. I go to school, come home, cook and we eat together, then he disappears into the garage with T-Rex, sits with his Chevy and finishes off his bottle. I do homework, watch
Bewitched
or
Hogan’s Heroes
and go to bed. Same as before, minus Kay, but now, when we eat together, he actually tries to have a conversation, even if the words are jumbled most of the time. At least he’s not hitting anybody, like Nina’s father.

How twisted is that, me making excuses for him?

Maybe this letter will get him thinking about going back to work.
Dr. Blantenbush said he could go back to the mill in a week. Frank thinks he’ll need longer. Why? It’s just a broken arm, it’s not like he’s working heavy machinery and he won’t be operating the forklift again. But, now pride and embarrassment are his disabilities.

I head into the kitchen where he’s drinking a cup of black coffee and reading the
Norwood Gazette.

“You got a letter from the mill,” I say, holding the thin envelope out to him.

A slow grin spreads over his stubbled face. “I knew they couldn’t make it a week without me,” he says. “Probably begging me to come back on Monday.”

If they wanted him back Monday, wouldn’t they have called him since it’s already Friday?
“Maybe it’s your paycheck.”

“Could be.”
He rips open the envelope, pulls out the letter, flicks it with his right hand and reads out loud:

“‘Dear Frank:

Your employment will be terminated as of Friday, October
twenty-second.
Three of the four employees involved in the recent accident you caused are considering lawsuits of reckless endangerment against the company. Because of your thirty-three years of service, your Blue Cross Insurance coverage will continue through the end of the year.

Should you have any questions, please contact our legal
—’”

“Jesus”
—he slams the letter on the table. “Jesus.”

A ten second time warp
thrusts him into a shriveled, uncertain victim before he collects himself, runs a hand over his face and spits out in a low voice, “Bastards.”

This is more like the old Frank.
“What are you going to do?”

“Do? I’ll fight
the bastards, that’s what I’ll do. Nobody treats Frank Polokovich like this.” He pounds a fist on the table, anger sliding into rage. “They think they can get rid of me after thirty-three years of grunting and slaving in that shit hole? They think they can do that? Hah! I’ll make them wish they’d never heard my name.”

He pushes back his chair, snatches the phone off the hook.
“Fired,” he mutters under his breath, punching out numbers with sausage-size fingers. “Jack Orandell,” he says into the receiver. “Frank Polokovich.” There is a short pause before he says into the phone, “Jack. Good. Better than ever.” Then, “I got a letter today, what the hell’s that about, Jack?” Jack Orandell’s been Plant Manager for twelve years, but he’s been with the mill for thirty. He and Frank used to fish together and I guess you could say they are friends.

“What?
That’s bullshit, you know that. It was an accident. I told you, I told everybody; I blacked out, low blood sugar. What?
What?
You’re fucking kidding me, right?” His nostrils flare, his knuckles turning white against the black receiver. “Jack, it’s me. Talk to them, tell them the truth. What?” Pause. “Fuck you, Jack, fuck you and fuck the goddamn mill!” He slams down the receiver, blows out a few short breaths and meets my gaze. “They fired me.”

Frank disappears into the garage and I only call him once for dinner.
When he doesn’t answer, I spoon my sloppy joe onto a bun, scoop green beans on my plate, and eat by myself. At 7:30, I can’t wait any longer, and I go to the garage, where I find him passed out in the back seat of the Chevy, the empty Smirnoff bottle resting by the rear tire, T-Rex beside it.

I have to tell someone, but
who? Nina can’t help. Aunt Irene won’t. But Ms. O’Grady will. I run inside and scratch out a note in case he wakes up and then I’m off, running to one thirteen Beech Street.

Patricia O’Grady answers the door dressed in a navy housecoat and matching slippers. Her face is scrubbed clean, even her eyebrows, which she pencils in each day.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Ms. O’Grady,” I say when she stands there blocking the door.
“I need to talk to your sister.”

“Evelyn’s in her room
. She retires every night after the six o’clock news.”

“It’s kind of important.
Could I talk to her, please?”

Her dark eyes narrow on my belly.
“Did you get yourself into some kind of boy trouble?”

“No, nothing like that.
I really need to talk to her.” And then, because I think she might slam the door in my face, add, “Please?”

She huffs like I’ve asked her to donate a kidney.
“I suppose. Wait here.”

After what seems
like forever, I hear footsteps rushing down the stairs and there she is—Ms. O’Grady—
my
Ms. O’Grady. “Sara? What’s wrong?” 

The softness in her voice, the concern in her brown eyes makes my own eyes burn and my throat clog.
“It’s him,” I whisper. “He lost his job today.”