Read The Practical Navigator Online
Authors: Stephen Metcalfe
“I know what it is,” says Tisha. “And it's trash.”
“How can you say that when you haven't seen it?”
“I don't need to see it. It's nothing but violence and nudity. That's all there is these days.”
“Can
I
see it?” says Jonathan, his first words all evening.
“You can shut up,” says Beth.
“Honey,” says Bruin Bob, as if pained. “Don't tell the boy to shut up.”
“Oh, shut up,” says Beth, scowling and reaching for the red wine.
“Well, Kayden and I saw it,” says Neal Jr. “We liked it, didn't we, Kay?”
“It had a certain grounded energy to it.” The girl, Kayden, has a gentle, sonorous voice that belies her dyed hair and hourglass figure. “These vegetables are delicious, by the way.”
“Thank you,” says Tisha. “So few people appreciate vegetables in this house.”
“So few people appreciate
anything
in this house,” says Beth.
“Beth,” intones Tisha Beacham, frowning in disapproval.
“Kidding, Mom,” says Beth, trying to smile but wincing. And drinking. Glug-glug.
“What the hell did you say your name was?” Neal Beacham, his food still untouched, is now eyeballing Kayden from his end of the table. Kayden, a mascara-eyed raccoon caught in yard lights, blinks uncertainly at Neal Jr.
“Kayden,” says Neal Jr., his mouth full and his brain in neutral. “Dad, this is Kayden.”
“Why the hell isn't she eating with proper utensils like everybody else?”
“Kay likes to use chopsticks, Dad, and a lot of places don't have chopsticks, so she brings her own.”
“Use not knives at table lest you be reminded of the slaughterhouse,” adds Kayden, as if quoting a pleasant proverb.
“On that note, pass the steak,” says Beth.
“I think it's damn rude,” says Neal Beacham.
“Neal,” says Tisha Beacham, “I think
you're
the one being rude.”
“We all know what
you
think,” growls Neal Beacham, draining his glass.
“Kayden,” says Bruin Bob, the subject of the new dinner guest now broached, “you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“I don't think so,” Kayden says brightly. “But it certainly is possible.”
“Kay's a dancer,” says Neal Jr., spearing another potato from the bowl. “She's done Vegas, Miami, Atlanta, Dallas.”
“Ballet?” asks Tisha Beacham, the only adult at the table not to recognize a stripper when they see one.
“Modern,” says Kayden, the only adult at the table who takes the question seriously.
“Gee, why don't you give us a show after dinner,
Kay,
” says Beth. “Maybe Bob will remember where you met.”
“C'mon, Beth,” murmurs Bob.
“I don't understand,” says Kayden, suddenly alarmed.
“Don't worry, we're being silly,” says Anita, feeling sorry for her. She is reminded of some mind-numbing, highly acclaimed play she saw some years ago where a dysfunctional Oklahoma family carved up the curtains, the carpets, and one another. Amateurs, all of them.
“Oh, for the love of Jeezâwhat the hell is this?” At the end of the table, Maria has brought the serving bowl to Neal Beacham and he is staring down into the dish as if it's toxic sludge.
“Ratatouille,” says Tisha. “If you don't like it, don't ruin it for everybody else.”
“Get it away,” says Neal Beacham. “Get it away!”
“Gracias, Maria,” Anita calls as the woman, serving now done, retreats gratefully to the kitchen to wash dishes.
“I swear,” says Tisha Beacham, trying to make it sound amusing, “your father's been so grumpy ever since Dr. Brady told him he needed to lower his cholesterol.”
“When was that, Mom,” says Beth. “Thirty years ago?”
“Beth, you're not funny,” says Tisha.
“I'm kidding, Mom,” says Beth. “Don't you know kidding when you hear
kidding
?”
“Don't grit your teeth at me, Beth.”
“They're my teeth and I'll grit if I want to. Do you have a
problem
with that?”
“Say, how's the golf game, Daddy-Neal?” says Bruin Bob, trying to divert his wife.
“Jesus Christ, do not call me that,” snarls Neal Beacham.
“People at this table,” says Tisha, her voice like ice, “will stop taking the Lord's name in vain.”
“Hah!” says Neal Beacham, rising and moving to the sideboard, where gin and olives await. “Don't bother talking to me if you're going to talk to me like that.”
“Neets,” says Neal Jr., still oblivious to anything but his food. “You hear your mother-in-law's house burned down?”
Anita blinks, trying to hide her dismay. “No. When?”
“Sometime the end of last week. It was in the paper.”
“What started it?”
“She did,” says Neal Jr. “I hear she's losing it.” He whistles the theme from
The Twilight Zone
as he waves a finger near his earâcuckoo-cuckoo.
“That's not nice, Neal,” says Tisha.
Neal Jr. frowns at the reprimand. “Why? You never liked her. You didn't say two words to her at Neet's wedding.”
“So? She hardly said two words to me at mine,” says Beth.
“Beth, I am
warning
youâ”
“I am
kidding
!” Beth's voice rises shrilly. “For Christ's sake, Mother, do you know what
kidding
isâ”
“And you will not take the Lord's name inâ”
“Oh, for the love ofâthe dog, the dog, the goddamnâ” At the head of the table, Neal Beacham is waving, his head turned away in disgust. Midway down the table, Bebe has offered her dinner plate to her canine dinner companion. Food spills to the floor as the dog frantically gobbles.
“Bambi!” yells Beth. “You little shit!” Half rising from her chair, she swipes at the dog. She succeeds only in toppling her full wineglass off the table into her daughter's lap. Bebe drops her plate to the floor and begins to howl.
“Beth, that was
not
Bambi's fault,” says Tisha, glaring at her husband's back.
“Oh, really? Then
you
clean it up!” says Beth.
“Beth, it's okay,” says Bruin Bob. “Calm down.”
“Shut up, Bob! If you can't stand up for me, keep your big mouth shut!”
“I hate dinner here!” screeches Jonathan, his second utterance all evening. “I
hate
it!”
“You littleâ” Spinning, Beth slaps him across the face.
“Beth!” says Bruin Bob, half rising. “We don't hit!”
“Shutup! Shutup-shutup-shutup!”
shrieks Beth, and throwing her napkin at her husband, she turns and runs sobbing toward the kitchen.
“Momma!” cries Bebe, as if abandoned.
“Ahhh!” screams Everett, not to be outdone.
“I have had enough of this idiocy,” says Neal Beacham, and glass in hand, he exits toward the living rom.
“Where
has
Maria disappeared to?” says Tisha Beacham, eyeing the table stain and her husband's retreating back with disapproval.
“Are you people always like this?” murmurs Kayden, staring quietly down at her plate.
“Actually this has been one of the better evenings,” says Bruin Bob, instantly regreting it.
“So how long you around for, Neets?” says Neal Jr., blithely contemplating leftovers.
“I might be staying,” says Anita. “For good.”
Silence hits the table like a shrouded rock. Sensing something momentous, even the kids stop their whimpering.
“Well⦔ says Tisha. “Isn't this good news.”
“Yeah, but ⦠what are you going to do?” says Neal Jr., as if doubtful his sister can do anything.
“I'm not sure yet.”
“If you're looking for a job, I know the club is hiring,” says Kayden, trying to be helpful.
All find it more than a bit rude that Anita is laughing uncontrollably as she puts down her napkin, rises from her chair, and leaves the room.
Â
“How was your day?” asks Penelope, carefully drying a plate.
Michael's not sure if it's dementia kicking in but this seems to be how every conversation begins of late, often more than several times in the course of an evening. It's enough to make him lament the lack of a working dishwasher, not because he's averse to washing dishes by hand but because Penelope, since moving in, now feels it's her duty to dry them. She has him trapped.
Through the doorway, he can see Jamie and Abigail on the living room floor watching
Toy Story
together. It's as if they've taken their space in Penelope's house and transferred it here. The dog is adapting to its new home better than its owner.
“I already told you, my day was fine, Mom. How was your day?”
“Inconvenient,” says Penelope, not looking up from the plate in her hands.
This is another thing that's newly disconcerting. His mother has always had the ability to carry on a conversation single-handedly and at length. Single-word answers and doleful silences now hang uncomfortably in the air. Michael brought home packets of flower seeds today. Impatiens and alyssum and sweet peas. She smiled once and then ignored them.
The doorbell rings, surprising them both.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
“Hi,” she says.
Anita wears jeans, a sweatshirt, and worn leather Rainbow sandals. Her blond hair is pulled back and she has her arms wrapped around herself as if she's cold. She looks pale and nervous in the light of the deck.
“Sorry to drop by like this but I had to get out of the house. Y'know, one of
those
evenings.” She tries to smile. “You've been there.”
He has. Still, he says nothing. He waits.
“Michael, I was wondering if I could⦔ She glances past him, as if trying to look inside. “You know⦔
Like this? Michael wonders.
Like this?
“I just want to see him. I won't stay long.”
Why not like this?
Michael steps back and Anita enters. She looks around as if recognizing old dust motes in the air. She glances toward the kitchen. Penelope peers back at her, an alarmed look on her face.
“Hi, Pen. Sorry to hear about your house.”
Penelope nods and quickly retreats. Anita winces slightly. “Mmm. I'd say the cat's got her tongue but she's a dog person.”
“He's in the living room,” says Michael, ignoring the subject of his mother. He gestures toward the entryway. Anita steps forward and cranes her head around the door frame to look. She stops when she sees him across the room. The slender shoulders. The tumble of fair hair. The eyes that are hers.
“Hold it.” Her mouth is suddenly dry. “He's so big,” Anita whispers.
“He's almost eight,” says Michael.
She nods. No need to tell him that the knowledge and the reality are two different things.
“Okay.”
Michael goes first, Anita behind him. On the TV, Buzz Lightyear is at the top of a stairwell, ready to either fly or fall. Michael picks up the remote and turns off the TV.
Jamie starts to protest. “Dadâ”
“Jamie. Someone's here to see you.”
Anita steps forward. “Hello, Jamie,” she says. She tries desperately to smile. Jamie stares at her as if puzzled. And then recognitionâor is it realization?âhits his face.
“No,” Jamie says. “No!” He jumps up and runs from the room.
“Well,” says Anita. “That went well.” Suddenly not sure what she expected. Hugs? Kisses? Why
not
run? She does.
Michael reaches down and picks something up off the floor. “He likes these toys.” He hands it to her. She takes it. It's a green plastic soldier.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
“Jamie? May I come in?”
He is sitting on the floor, rocking forward and back, forward and back. He doesn't look up at her.
“No, you may not.”
“Please?” says Anita. He rocks silently. “Just for a second?” she says. She takes a sample step in. “See, I found this little guy out in the living room. But he won't tell me his name. And I was hoping maybe you could.”
Jamie looks up. Anita holds the plastic soldier out to him. “Parachute man,” Jamie says.
“Oh ⦠of course he is. This is a parachute, isn't it.”
“You can't have him.”
Sitting down on the floor well across from him, Anita reaches out and hands Jamie the toy figure. “No, of course not, he's yours.”
Jamie quickly takes it. Holding it close to his face, he shakes it. A soft, high-pitched, not unpleasant mutter vibrates in his throat. Anita looks around the room. The patterned wallpaper is still the same. What was a crib is a bed now. Little-boy clothes on the floor. More of the toy figurines. Anita reaches for one.
“Who's this guy here?” It's certainly not a soldier. The figure has blue skin, three-fingered hands, yellow eyes set in a demonic face, and a long tail.
“Nightcrawler,” says Jamie, reaching for the figure. “He has spiky skin.”
“I can see that. Scary.” Inching closer, she hands it to him.
“He's good,” says Jamie. “He helps people.”
“It's nice to help people.”
Again looking around, Anita sees that here is an old stuffed bear on the floor, almost beneath the bed. She waits a moment, composing herself, then reaches for it.
“And thisâ¦?”
Just outside the door, Michael stands in the hallway, listening. Penelope comes down the hall to join him. “Bear-Bear,” they hear Jamie say. “He rides a motorcycle, see?”
As Jamie offers the toy bike to her, Anita takes it with one hand, and lightly touches Jamie's hand with the other.
“I do. Thank you.”
She carefully fits the stuffed bear onto the bike. She moves bike and bear through the air in front of them, a ringmaster moving a trained bear across a high wire.