Songs in Ordinary Time (38 page)

Klubock’s, he thought, as the piano lurched into a honky-tonk song, as strangely sad as it was raucous.

The bushes shook as the dog crept out in an eager wiggle. “Hey, hey boy, hey, how ya doin’?” He kneaded the dog’s wiry coat with both hands. “Boy, do you smell. Jesus, you stink!” He drew back his hands and smelled the gassy foulness.

Snagged on the bushes was the strip of cloth. He reached, knowing as his fingers passed through air toward the cloth of yellow and red diamonds that it was a pattern like no other, from a shirt he had seen only once before, the same bright shirt he had seen that first warm day, that day in the woods, the day that Omar came. He threw the foul cloth into the bushes and ran into the house.

T
he next morning, Marie called work to say she’d be late. Omar was driving her to the bank, but she didn’t tell Mr. Briscoe that. He was upset enough because it was the first day of his swimwear sale and Astrid had called in sick. Not sick, Marie guessed, but probably hungover now that she was going dancing every night at the Lake Hotel.

While she waited for Omar she watched Benjy at the end of the driveway, slashing a long stick into the lilac bush. Whatever the game was, he played it alone, as usual. His knobby shoulders and round bony head reminded her of Sam. He turned now with a piece of bright cloth dangling from the stick and as he headed behind the house she saw the bandanna tied over his nose. It was all she could do to keep from running out there and ripping it off his face. Why did he do such weird things? Didn’t he know people were just waiting for one of her kids to turn out bad: Sister Martin, Helen, Mr. Briscoe, and all the neighbors with their pitying looks and long sighs that meant a boy needs a father, and it was her fault he didn’t have one.

No, what Benjy needed was a good kick in the ass, which she could deliver as well as any man.

Just then Omar pulled into the driveway. “Good morning, sunshine,” he called as she came out the back door.

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 183

They parked in front of the bank. Through the window she saw Mr. Hinds lean over a desk, wagging his finger at the woman peering up at him.

“Well!” said Omar, checking his watch. “Here we are, your future at hand.”

She took a deep breath, one more, another.

“Don’t be so nervous. You’re white as a sheet.”

“What if they turn me down?”

“Then they turn you down. It’s not the only bank in town.”

“But a thousand dollars! God, that’s so much money.”

“Not for a double franchise it isn’t. Not for five hundred dollars’ worth of product.”

“But I can’t tell them that.”

“No!” Omar laughed, bringing his face close as if she were a child. “But I told you what to do.”

She chewed her lip and stared at the ornate gold lettering on the bank’s plate-glass windows. They’d turned her down for a mortgage when she first applied. It was only with Renie cosigning the note that she’d finally been approved. What she had to remember, Omar was saying, was simply to tell them the truth, that the loan was for a surefire business opportunity.

“That, they’ll listen to.”

She wasn’t so sure. “But what if I do get the loan and the money’s all tied up in the franchise and then Alice can’t get Sam to give her any money for school? I can’t very well come back here and apply for another loan.”

“I told you,” Omar said. “Your investment will double in less than sixty days.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve seen the statistics!” he cried, throwing up his hands. “I’ve met the sales force!”

“But you’ve never even sold one of these before!” There. She’d said it.

But it was true. His eyes widened. He didn’t know what to say. With all his big talk he was just as scared as she was.

He looked at her. “You’re right. I haven’t.”

“For all I know this could be some big swindle here, some…some flimflam.” Her heart was racing, but it had to be said. Maybe he could afford to take chances, but she had three mouths to feed, three lives that mattered more than anything else.

“Well, if so, then we’ve both been taken,” he sighed. “The two of us. But no matter what happens, at least you’ve got your job and your family.” He reached for her hand. “Do you have any idea what emptiness feels like? To wake up every morning with nothing to look forward to? I’ve told you before, Marie, I can endure any privation, but not the loss of hope.”

She closed her eyes. Hope: God, there was more of that in her veins than blood.

“That’s what sets my feet on the floor in the morning and keeps me starting over, day after day after day. Even if everything I touch turns to 184 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

ashes, hope still keeps me going. I’m a believer, Marie, first, last, and always.

I need to have faith. Faith gives me hope. Hope gives me faith. You ask me how I know about these franchises. I can only believe in the people who tell me about them. If I don’t, then what do I have? Where do I go?” He gripped her arm. “It’s the same way I believe in
you
. That very first moment I saw you, I knew I’d found something.” He tapped his breast and lowered his voice. “I knew I’d found someone so unusual, so unique, so genuine, and so rare that I knew if I left, if I kept going, that…that something terrible was going to happen to me. It felt like I’d been sent here. That everything I’d ever done in my life had all been geared toward that moment. And there you were. And for the first time in my life I had no choice, absolutely none.”

He tried to laugh, but his mouth trembled and he looked away. “You know when I said I had no money for a bus out of town? Well, I lied. I had just enough for a ticket.”

“Oh no,” she said, realizing how close she’d come to never seeing him again. “And then I gave you money and I even drove you there, but the bus had already left.”

“No,” he said, his head hanging. “I’m ashamed to say I lied about that, too. The bus was due any minute. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“I remember you were so nervous.”

“Nervous! I was shaking. I was dizzy. The whole ride back I had the strangest feeling.” He looked at her. “The strangest desire.”

Her face burned. She could barely keep her eyes open.

“I wanted to hide, to hide inside you. I had this feeling that I’d finally found something safe and good. Which I have. You are! And I’m not going to do anything to endanger that. This has to feel as right for you, Marie, as it does for me.” He turned the key and started to back up.

“But what about the loan?” she called over the racing engine.

“To hell with the loan! I just want you to be happy, that’s all.” He drove down the street.

“I am! I’m happy!” she insisted as he turned the corner.

“But you’re not ready for this. You don’t trust it. And because of it, you don’t trust me!”

He was driving fast, too fast for these streets. She held on to the door even though the cars both in front and behind were traveling at the same speed.

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the car.

“No! No, it’s not that. It’s me. I’m just scared, that’s all. I’m so damn scared! And I’m so sick of being scared.”

“Is that all?” he called. “Just fear? Puny fear?”

“Yes!”

“Well, now, that’s something I can handle, lady. Fear’s an old friend of mine. Fear and I have been on intimate terms for more years than I care to remember. You know what they say, don’t you? Show me a fearless man and I’ll show you a fool.”

“I must be a genius, then,” she said.

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 185

“Yes, because fear can be a good thing. It sharpens the instincts.” The tires squealed around the corner. “It heightens the truth.”

They were in front of the bank again now, sliding into the empty space.

Without another word, she jumped out and hurried inside.

The minute she left the bank, Omar started the car, and began inching from the space with her approach. “I feel like we just robbed the bank or something,” she said, laughing, as he pulled into the traffic.

He looked over, grinning. “You mean you got it? You got the money?”

“No, but I did what you said. I put my fear to work. I went right to the president, Cleveland Hinds, and he said, ‘Gosh, Marie, I’d like to help, but we’re just not making very many business loans right now.’ And all I could hear was this awful roar in my head, and I started to get up and go, and then I said, ‘Well, you make loans for home improvements, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘We’re always doing that. Depending, of course, on the kind of improvements you’re talking about.’ ‘Improvements that are invest-ments in the future,’ I said, staring him right in the eye, ‘that’s what I’m talking about.’ ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, staring right back, ‘but we’re going to need something more specific than that on the application, like a new roof, you know, or rewiring, or maybe you’re thinking of paving your driveway or finishing the basement off into a rumpus room.’ And just like that, I said, ‘Rumpus room. And a whole lot of other small jobs, too, like new chimney flashing and some reroofing. And new floor tiles in the kitchen.’” She held up the application. “All I have to do is fill this out and the money’s mine.”

“What makes you so sure?” Omar asked, trying to sound skeptical through his wide grin.

“Because it was like you said. He does want to help. All he needed was for me to show him how.”

“Aren’t people wonderful if you just give them half a chance?” He took her hand and held it tightly while he drove her to work.

All the next week she would try to recapture even some of that exhilaration while she waited for the bank to process her application. But every time she thought about the loan, this rushing would start in her ears again. The trouble was that she needed a cosigner. No problem, Mr. Hinds had said, the obvious choice was Renie LaChance. She’d start to dial Renie’s number, then slam down the phone. The last thing she wanted was another favor from her ex-brother-in-law, oh God, with his wet mouth plunging hers, the naked turkey cold against her chest, a disgusting price to pay for kindness.

When he’d cosigned the note on her mortgage he seemed to think he was buying himself a family, that he could just show up at midnight with a turkey and be welcomed with a kiss. She’d pushed him down the stairs and thrown his raffle turkey after him. But in the end she’d gotten her revenge when she reported him to the IRS.

So now a week had passed, and she still couldn’t bring herself to ask 186 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

Renie. Typical, she berated herself. Put things off, wait just long enough until she had a disaster on her hands. But then again, she reminded herself, she still didn’t know if the bank had even approved her application.

In the meantime she wished Omar wouldn’t keep asking about the loan.

She didn’t want the children to know. They wouldn’t understand. They’d misinterpret it the way they did anything connected with Omar. Lately their superior attitudes were starting to wear her down. Astrid was right about one thing. The more she gave, the more they demanded. Because she had devoted her life to her children, they thought they owned her now, thought her every waking moment, every scrap of energy and attention should be theirs.

The back door flew open and Norm rushed in, pulling off his filthy T-shirt. He threw it on the washing machine, then opened the refrigerator.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, turning with a bottle of milk and loaf of bread. He kicked the door shut, then reached past her and took a glass from the cupboard. She looked up with the sudden realization that he was a head taller than she was. His chest was broad, his arms newly muscular.

“Guess what I just heard. Weeb says Father Gannon’s mental.”

“Your friend Weeb should talk—anyone who’d blow up a cat.” She stared at the meatball she was rolling, at the grease coating her palms.

“Why do you always bring that up? Why do you always have to say things about people I like? Besides, he didn’t actually blow up the cat. He was just tryna have some fun.”

“Some fun?” She looked at him.

“Jeez, Mom, he was twelve years old!” he said, pouring his milk. “Give the guy a break, will you? It’s not like he was in some loony bin, some funny farm, like the priest there, Father Gannon!”

“Like your father,” she said.

He glanced at her. “Why’d you say that?”

To take the wind out of your huge sails
, she thought.
To cut you down to size
.

To hurt him, she knew, and could not understand why.

A little while later Omar came through the door, asking the same question he asked every night. “Did you hear anything? Did the bank call?”

“Not yet,” she said, turning up the burner. He was in a rush again. If she wanted them to eat together, she’d have to speed things up. The spaghetti sauce bubbled to a boil, so she stirred rapidly to keep it from burning.

“Maybe you should call and make sure nothing’s wrong.” Omar opened the bag of bread Norm had left on the counter.

“What could be wrong?” she asked. Hot sauce splattered her forearm.

He shrugged. “Maybe some of your verifications—I don’t know.” He folded a slice of bread, which he dipped into the sauce. He ate it dripping over the pot.

“No,” she said. “You know how many times I went over everything.”

He redipped the bread, so sodden now that a chunk broke off into the pot. She tried to skim it out with the spoon, but it disintegrated into the SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 187

sauce. She never would have allowed her children to do that. “And you even checked it all,” she reminded him.

His chin glistened with bright red dots. Now he took a crust from the bag. He seemed preoccupied, uneasy.

“You said you went over all the figures.” She kept stirring. “Were any of them wrong?”

He dunked the crust until it bloated with sauce. “Nothing major,” he said.

“Just a few things here and there.” He bent over the pot and slurped at the dripping crust.

“What do you mean a few things here and there? You said everything looked fine!” she said, frightened by the shrillness, the familiar bitterness in her voice.

“Well, I didn’t want to worry you.”