Stony River (36 page)

“Renate Dobra?” “Yeah.” “She hasn't worked here for close to two years. You been looking for her since then?”

Tereza didn't answer. She should have come here as soon as she discovered Ma gone. Somebody might have known something then. “She leave an address?”

“The only one I got is 527 Grove Street here in town. That help?”

The crummy apartment across the street from Linda's.

Tereza sniveled as she trudged to the bus stop. Blubbered all the way to Linden, the tears slipping under her collar, making her neck itch. She'd let herself hope for something and ended up with nothing.
Her mother was who-knew-where, her father was a movie poster and she lived with a pink-haired dingbat who talked to her dead husband and a guy who couldn't get hard unless he scared her half to death.

THE NEXT DAY,
she waited until Buddy finished breakfast before telling him she didn't want to play the scared game anymore, that if she couldn't be a real wife she didn't want to be a wife at all. “Maybe you need to see a doctor,” she said. “Maybe you need help.”

His face turned dark as rain. He slowly pushed his chair back from the table. She was too sapped to care what his scowl meant. She'd pulled herself together long enough yesterday to get through the shift at Herman's and make it to bed where she cried so hard she thought her heart would bust. She'd woken this morning feeling a hundred years old but calmer, too, like somebody had come during the night and sucked the fear right out of her bones. Now she sat at the table and listened to Buddy's slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs to their room, then to wood and glass breaking. Furious sounds that, on another day, might have made her run away. They dragged Dearie from her room, wild-eyed, clutching her robe shut. “What's going on?”

Tereza shrugged.

Dearie rushed from the kitchen. Called up the stairs. “Buddy? You okay up there?” The crashing and breaking sounds continued. “Eldon Joseph Jukes! Come down here this minute!”

Tereza heard a door open and Buddy's boots on the steps. Slow. Heavy. She heard Dearie say, “What's wrong, boy?” Didn't hear if he answered.

He came into the kitchen, eyes in another world, Dearie on his heels like a herd dog. He plucked his leather jacket from his breakfast chair and left the house, letting the porch door bang.

Dearie sighed, sat down heavily at the table and lightly touched Tereza's arm. “Did he hurt you?” Tereza shook her head.

“Your eyes are all puffy.”

“I didn't sleep good. That's why.” She listened to Buddy's engine turn over and, a minute later, to tires squealing on pavement.

Dearie heaved herself up and filled the coffee pot with water. “I hoped marrying you might save him, but once a boy's been wrecked probably ain't enough love in the world for him.”

Tereza thought about that for a minute, about how anxious Dearie had been to marry them off. She'd been too stupid then to ask questions. “Why'd he go to juvie?”

Dearie scooped Eight O'Clock into the basket. “I thought he would've told you.”

“Nope.” Buddy had said Dearie wouldn't want her to know. Which one was lying?

Dearie snapped the lid onto the coffee pot. “He beat up some girly.”

“Why?”

“She called him a fruit. Ain't that a silly word to get upset about? You call me an orange or a banana, even a watermelon and I'll laugh, not beat you up.”

“You don't know what fruit means?”

Dearie set the percolator on the stove and turned on the flame. “Sure I do. I also know it's against the law to be one. The girly said Buddy was sweet on another boy. The worst thing was she said it in front of other kids and they laughed. Buddy don't take kindly to being laughed at. He followed her after school and waited until she was alone. Later he said he was only gonna kiss her to prove he wasn't a fruit, but she called him more names.”

Tereza stared at the ironing board on the back porch. On Wednesdays she was supposed to iron Buddy's shirts. She didn't think she could muster the energy. “Did he hurt her bad?”

For a few seconds Dearie seemed to study the coffee bubbling up into the glass knob on the lid. Then, “He broke her arm, bruised
her up enough to send her to the hospital. I paid the bill. At the prison—they call it reform school but it's still a prison—the doctor said Buddy had no clue all that rage was in him, didn't think it
was
him it came out of. He didn't remember much about it after.” The coffee was ready. “Want a cup?”

Tereza nodded. She wondered if the girl had stuck her tongue in his mouth and set him off. “Did he ever have a girlfriend? Before me?”

“Oh, I imagine so. Don't most boys? He was never much for telling me what he was up to the nights he went out. If Alfie hadn't died, Buddy might have talked to him about such things. It hit Buddy hard when he died, like losing a dad all over again.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventy-one. Too old to horse around with a boy and help him get that angry energy out.”

“I meant Buddy. How old was he when Alfie died?”

“Oh. Eleven. Such a sweet boy when he wanted to be. I ever show you pictures?”

“Uh-uh.”

Dearie disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a shoebox. She sat down with it at the table. “I keep meaning to get a scrapbook for these.”

Tereza hardly recognized Buddy: a scrawny kid standing on the sidewalk, his hands hanging loose; sitting on a couch; in a wagon holding a grocery bag. Just sitting and standing around like a nambypamby. “He don't look tough enough to beat up a marshmallow.”

“Yeah, I know. That doctor said rage gave him the strength of a fellow twice his size.”

“Did the doctor say what was wrong with him?”

“Some big word I don't remember with ‘mild' in front of it. He said Buddy imagined things. Well, what child don't? They gave him pills that made him dopey and walk like a robot. He stopped taking them after Charles Atlas told him they were poison. At the time I
didn't think that was a good idea, but I gotta admit stopping don't seem to have done him no harm.”

“Buddy talked to Charles Atlas?”

“Not in the flesh. But he wrote him a letter. At age twelve. How 'bout that? He's brighter than those doctors gave him credit for. Missed some school along the way, but he always made it up and never failed a course. He don't pussyfoot around when he has a goal.”

“Was hurting the girl the only bad thing he ever did?”

“Ain't that enough?” Dearie took a sip of coffee. “Still too hot.” She carried her cup to the fridge and dumped some milk into it. “I'm proud of him for settling down with you and doing so good at A&P. His manager has a soft spot for boys who've bumped into the law. He hired Buddy despite his record or maybe because of it—who knows? Alfie used to say if they can pull diamonds out of the ground, anything can happen. Like everybody, Buddy has his goods and bads. He just needs to learn to walk away from his temper, practice walking away till he gets good at it.”

“Like swinging a bat? I practiced a long time before I ever hit a home run.”

Dearie smiled. “Never thought of it like that.” She put her hand over Tereza's. “Ain't gonna leave him are you?”

The sound of the car in the drive stopped Tereza from answering. Buddy walked through the door with the look Jimmy used to get after he'd gone bonkers: ashamed but unapologetic.

“I gotta get some shut-eye,” he said. “You coming up, Tereza?”

THE DAMAGE WASN'T AS BAD
as it had sounded: only the fancy mirror and the desk chair. Buddy pushed the shards and splintered boards to one corner with his boots. “I'll clean it up tomorrow. You gonna take off your clothes?”

She told him the book said it should go in at a forty-degree angle
downward. It hurt when he found the right hole but not as bad as the whiners in
True Confessions
would have you think.

Later, seeing the little boy in his sleeping face, she thought about Alfie and Dearie doing their best to love him but being too old. If she left Buddy, it would be like his ma taking off and Alfie dying all over again. He'd rescued her when she was scared shitless, hadn't thought twice about letting her stay. Tomorrow she'd take some of Miranda's money and buy two gloves, a ball and a bat. She'd write “Tereza, park” on the calendar for Buddy's next day off. Show him what a good hit could do for you.

TWENTY

DECEMBER 11, 1957
. It starts well, Miranda at the counter by the sink, cracking walnuts, Enzo watching from a kitchen chair, his leg straight out, bouncing Mickey up and down. She asks, Are you not too warm in that jacket and vest? and he says, I need to sweat off a big breakfast. He asks, Are the walnuts for cookies? and she says, No, they're for Cian, don't they look just like brains, they'll make him smarter. She's serious but he laughs. He tells her Mama has been in the kitchen for weeks getting ready to stuff the family with seven kinds of fish and more on Christmas Eve. Even so she'll expect them to waddle to the table the next day for roasted chicken, rice and something-ownee, something-etty and something-enzay. Italian sounds so sure of itself, even when Enzo's voice jiggles from giving horsey rides. He's spoken of this Mama before, confessed he didn't go straight to Bill Nolan's murder site because he called her first; he didn't want her to think it was him if she heard a cop had been shot. He asked Miranda not to tell Doris and she hasn't. She grabs the pencil and paper Doris keeps by the refrigerator and writes down what he's just called Mickey and Cian, would he spell it? R-a-g-a-zz-i-n-o-s, as in Mama would gobble up these two
ragazzinos.
She likes how he includes Cian with Mickey as though he doesn't see him as different. Enzo says his two sisters and three brothers have produced six grandchildren already but that's not enough for Mama. Miranda
says, You mean she wants them from you? and he says, Yes and that's when her thinking takes the first wrong turn. Having conversed with so few men in her life she has little experience decoding their words. Is Enzo talking about children because he wants a child with her? Should she come right out and ask him? She can be forthright with Doris because Doris is forthright with her. Miranda doesn't know enough about Enzo. When he started coming over he was all business. It's different now. Doris says that's because he's “sweet” on Miranda and inappropriately so because of the age difference. Enzo asks about her Christmas plans. Is he working up to ask her to meet his family? She tells him she and Doris will get a tree for the children to trim and they'll go to Mass but they haven't given a thought yet to food. Enzo pats his stomach, which isn't the least bit stout, and says, A family that doesn't spend half of each day planning meals for the next is likely healthier than mine. Is he angling for an invitation from Miranda? She calls Cian to the table and gives him applesauce into which she's folded three chopped walnuts, following instructions James left in the
grimoire
. She sets out a dish without walnuts for Mickey and says, I've been thinking on that woman who placed the ad, the one who ran away from you, and wondering if she might have bought my house— Doris said it was a young couple with a child. Enzo asks what she thinks they have of hers. She tells him about the harp in the basement that somehow got missed when Doris packed the boxes—Doris said she wouldn't have thrown a musical instrument away, it must have been hidden from view. Miranda doesn't mention the knife and the necklace, not wanting to explain their purpose. Enzo says I didn't know you played the harp, but then there's lots I don't know about you. Miranda hears that as meaning he wants to know. She says, I don't, it was James who did. Enzo takes a moment to remove Mickey from his leg before saying, Well then, it might be best if you don't get it back. James said never ask a question if you're not prepared for the answer. She plunks Mickey down at the table for his applesauce and
says I'll be calling on the people and inquiring about the harp. He asks, Sure you want to go there again and she says, Aye. She's been thinking on giving James a proper burial—Doris has taken her to the mean plot where his bones lie—and before she does she wants to visit the last place she saw him alive. Cian has finished his applesauce. Enzo hoists the lad onto his shoulders. Mickey says, Me next! Cian gives out the deep chuckle he's had since he was a babe that still turns Miranda weak with love. She could be “sweet” on anyone who makes Cian laugh like that. Doris calls Enzo's face “a shame.” Miranda admires him for not making excuses for it and not keeping himself away from the world. The Mama he speaks of so fondly must have shown him he had as much right as anyone else to feel the sun and wind and rain on his face. Enzo could help her do that for Cian. She tells him Mama sounds like a wonderful woman with much to teach a young mother and asks if he'll take her for a visit. Enzo sets Cian down and tells the lads to go play with their toys—this old horse needs a rest. When the lads are in the living room he says to Miranda, Come, sit, and pulls out another chair. She removes her apron and wipes her hands on a dishtowel. He gives her a sad smile and says, I want you to know it isn't your fault but Mama would not understand if I brought you to meet her. She would not understand why you're unmarried. She would insist on knowing who Cian's father is. She would make a scene. He touches Miranda's arm with a warm, dry hand and says, Mama is a good Catholic woman who has raised good Catholic children. He gives a short mirthless laugh and says he would have had to become a priest if his younger brother hadn't, he studied theology for a few years, just in case, even though his heart was in crime. Miranda smiles at the image of Enzo's heart robbing a store. Mama would have felt she'd failed the Church had she not produced a priest. Miranda nods and says, Once she meets me she might feel differently about me, as you do. Enzo stands, takes the few steps to the refrigerator, leans against it with his arms crossed and says, You
don't seem to understand that what you and your father did was a sin. Mama would not let such a sinner in her house and I would not bring such a sinner to her. Miranda sits for a minute listening to the refrigerator whine—Doris keeps meaning to get someone to look at it. She should ask Enzo to leave but she can't resist petitioning his logical side. She still sees Mother Alfreda once a month and tells Enzo the reverend mother says nothing happens without God's concurrence and to Miranda's way of thinking that means Cian's birth was God's will. Enzo bristles but she continues: If sin is defined as any violation of Divine Providence and if Divine Providence, which is defined as God's will, permitted Cian's conception, then it could not have been a sin. Enzo says, I'm not going to stay and listen to this. His words coil above his head like smoke from a burning pan. Miranda sits at the table as he lets himself out and hears the lads call bye-bye. Mother Alfreda wouldn't be sad to see him go. She says Miranda has the potential to achieve divine communion. She objects to Miranda wasting her gifts on gun-and-bullet parlor games for some detective. It is tempting to surrender and flee this world of appearances. To escape to the deeper, hidden world that beckons. But that would mean abandoning her efforts to give Cian a different childhood than James gave her. She takes a spoonful of Mickey's unfinished applesauce—tartly sweet and hard as a stone to swallow.