Whatever Lola Wants (20 page)

“No.” She shook her head. “I only had it confirmed this morning.”

“And who's the father?”

She stared at the pattern in the carpet. “Does it matter?”

Milton raised his eyebrows. “It could.”

“Well,” she said, “I don't know.”

Milton shook his head, and sighed.

“I've narrowed it down to three possibilities.”

“You've been busy, little one.”

She smiled a little. “They were each quite good.”

He sighed again. “No precautions?”

“Yes,” she said. “Always.”

“It happens.” He'd waited, she stayed silent. “You'll tell Theresa, soon as she gets back.”

She looked up at him. “Please, be there when I tell her?”

He saw her face, her pretty gray eyes with that hint of green. For a moment she was his little girl again. “Of course.”

Four days later, when Sarah came into the living room, no fire had been lit. Theresa knew only that Sarah wanted to talk. Milton had set up the meeting, Theresa not understanding the formality. “About what?”

“She'll tell you.”

Sarah did. “Like I told Milton a few days ago, I got myself pregnant.”

Theresa snorted a laugh. “Well, you said it right, we do it to ourselves. Who's the father?”

Sarah shook her head.

“We don't need to have him around if you don't want him. But it's worth knowing.”

“I'm not sure, Theresa.”

Now Theresa looked concerned. “What kind of comparative study was it?”

Sarah giggled, then laughed outright.

Theresa said, “Well, you can finish school. Then you'll get your
BA
here, Milton and I'll raise the kid till it goes to kindergarten. You'll be less free but everything'll work out.”

Theresa's response had been as Sarah had expected. “Theresa, I got rid of it yesterday.”

Milton closed his eyes. His hand rose to cover his mouth. He felt what was coming.

Theresa stared at Sarah. “Aborted.”

Sarah, already embarrassed, nodded.

“You killed it.”

“It was barely four weeks—”

“In our family, Sarah, you have many rights. Over your body, over your mind. But you don't have the right to kill an other being.”

“It wasn't anything yet—”

Theresa eyes blazed, her lips curled forward, she breathed at Sarah: “Who-are-you-to-judge-what-is-and-is-not-a-being?”

Sarah had no answer.

For this one act Theresa has never fully forgiven her daughter.

Sarah stayed away from sex for three years. So many good men around, such a lot of good dope. But, Sarah would say of herself, I am a nun.

•

“Wow!” said Lola. “An all-or-nothing lady.”

“Yep.” I had no more to report. Lola had no further comments. So I looked ahead. “It seems quiet times followed. For everybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can't see or hear another memory for quite a while.”

“Oh. Then maybe I should go.”

“No need. I'll jump ahead.”

“To?”

“Let's see. Eight years after Sarah's abortion. A memory from Carney.”

“Oh good.” She smiled. Likely thinking I enjoyed telling Carney stories most. No, I like telling many kinds of stories. But unnecessary to make an issue of it.

•

3. (1995)

Jenn faded to no one.
Later Carney met Lynn. Lynn agreed with Carney, morning sex was best. Today the well-tested and excellent theory had already provided another top-notch morning. He liked the idea of first-rate sex with the Chairwoman of the Montpelier Board of Education.

Their kiss goodbye, as much out of memory as in promise, lasted longer than either expected. He walked toward his Jaguar and figured tonight they'd maybe break the pattern. Wouldn't be the first time.

He started the car. Marcie's theory, right now, made him smile. He had heard from Bobbie that Marcie had married a man more suitable than Carney. Or at least more at home. They'd produced two children. Bobbie had kept in touch. Bobbie would.

•

Lola stood. She paced. She marched to the edge of the cloud. She stared down. She nodded. “I understand. I get what you're doing.” She sat beside me again. “With your story.”

Puzzled, I looked at her. “Yes? And what's that?”

“I know what it's about.” Her face relaxed into self-satisfaction.

“Hmm. You going to tell me?”

“Yep. It's about how families work. Three families. Kinda interesting. No families up here.”

“Well.” I thought about that. “I mean, it's certainly about two families, the Magnussen-Bonneherbes, and then there's the Cochan group.”

“One more.”

“Yes?” She was getting such pleasure out of whatever she thought her discovery was.

“Yours. Your family. Carney and Bobbie. And Ricardo.” The laughter left her face. “And you,” she added.

“It's hardly about me. A long time since I've been alive.”

“But you're still connected. Even now.”

A provocative idea. I'd file it away for later.

“Want to know something?” She embraced herself, rocked a little from side to side. Her certainty increased. “I think I'm going to enjoy this. I mean I already am, but—” She fell silent.

“What?”

“I'm not sure.” She stared northward, toward the Laurentians. “Yet.” She touched my forearm.

•

From the farm
Carney drove over to Montpelier on mostly dirt roads. He didn't much like Montpelier, nice-enough architecture but the men and women the voters sent there confounded him. Josiah Fairfax and Carney had fished two dozen streams together so when Joss said, “Come for lunch, someone I want you to meet,” Carney couldn't easily say no. Joss said Carney likely didn't know the man, Si Morris, and Si would tell Carney why the meeting.

Lunch at Stenn's was predictable: dark corners behind posts that provided privacy but slowed service, dead sound that kept the Republican group of three at Table 19 from overhearing what the ski-industry lobbyist-lady was saying to the Democratic Lieutenant Governor and two senators at Table 11 eight feet away. Carney met Joss and Si Morris at the bar. Carney said, “Just ginger ale, thanks,” though the vodka martinis in their clear cold V-glasses tempted him. Not for lunch.

They sat, ordered. The talk remained small: some nice low-water rainbows being taken down near Rochester, Carney and Co.'s success back in April with that tar-dump fire in southern Nova Scotia, Joss's first granddaughter. Arriving soup cut the talk. Into the momentary silence, Si said, “We're concerned about the Governor. She's got to be replaced.”

“What's wrong with her?”

They related for him her dumb fiscal schemes, they described potential effects of nutty projects, all growing from dogma rather than a solid fiscal base.

Carney listened, impassive. For him, politics was simple. Government existed for two reasons, the little one to set policies that'd maybe keep us all from immense disasters, and the big one to clear away the disasters after they happened. So why was Joss treating him to lunch today?

Joss turned to Si. Si nodded. “Simply stated, Carney, we'd like you as our candidate for Governor next year. We think you could defeat her.”

Carney grinned. “Be serious.”

Joss said, “We are.”

“Come on. Nobody's ever heard of me.”

“We can turn you into a winning candidate.” Si smiled. “And, you're not unknown.”

“In politics, totally.”

Si smiled some more. His head shake suggested Carney's naiveté. Why do war heroes and actors become such good candidates? Strong previous reputation, name and image recognition.

What they didn't understand: the notion of Carney as Governor of Vermont was a farce, and the acts of that farce stared Carney full in the face. At each tack from Si, from Joss, Carney only said, “Ridiculous,” or, “Get serious.” He should just say no, he didn't want to consider this. Why not? Wasn't he tempted? Just a little? But you can't say a bald no to an old friend like Joss.

They parted, all friendly. Si said, “Give it a week, okay? Think about it seriously.”

Joss said, “As Governor you could do a hell of a lot for Vermont, locate the disaster areas early, keep them from happening.”

Avoiding disaster, the chance to analyze, think ahead, sometimes succeed, this was their only real argument. But as Governor of Vermont what could he do about disasters in New Hampshire, or Arizona? And besides, governing was more than avoiding disaster, it was running things, some really foolish things. Besides, he was totally inexperienced, at forty-six too young to run anything that big. Too cynical to think you can govern properly for the good of the lowly citizen. He drove home on his back roads. A thought came to him, that politics stood about as distant from what he used to call a Moment as he himself was from Julie. What a strange way to think it. Back home he told Lynn about the meeting, and waited for her laughter.

It didn't come. She said, “Right now does Carney and Co. gross more or less than the annual budget of Vermont?”

“Maybe a quarter as much.”

“Don't you find that a farce too, young fella like you in charge of a humungous enterprise like that?”

“You think I—”

“But you're in love with it, the excitement of disaster. You're like those reporters sending back dispatches from the front, how horrible the battles are, death and dying all around, but they won't stay away. War junkies.”

“Putting the lid on disasters is hardly—”

“Same thing. A new place to solve a new problem, each week or each month. Never the same place twice.”

“Hope not. When Carney and Co. solves a problem, it stays cleared up.”

“Oh, Carney. You're not listening.” So she kissed him deep and long, time enough to start a new tack. She pulled back. “As Governor, you could appoint me Secretary of Education.”

He squinted at her. A bemused smile. “You're serious.”

She held him to her, and kissed his neck.

He said, confronting the danger of the terrain, knowing she'd know it too since he'd told her most everything he remembered about himself and Marcie, “Time to grow up?”

She drew back from him and didn't mean to let her smile reveal even a little sadness. “Some grown-ups want to be responsible to the community. Along the way they make kids. A family. Kids force you to find ways to be responsible.”

But didn't she think his work with Carney and Co. was a real contribution? A life given over to cleaning up other people's devastations? He was as close to her as any man could be to a woman. How could she understand so little about his work? “I told Joss I'd tell them in a week.”

A week later he told Joss what he should have said right away: No. He didn't have it in him to be Governor. Could Lynn be right, he was a disaster-junkie? Even if he delegated jobs more than ever? Can you ever grow out of being a junkie? Grow up?

4. (1995)

Leonora dropped Milton at the
Burlington Trailways station. She insisted on waiting. He insisted there was no need, he was perfectly capable of getting on the damn bus all by himself. When the bus drove in she let him win the argument and drove away. She had to be in court back in Montreal in the morning.

He kept his overnight bag at hand and climbed aboard. The double seat across from the driver was vacant, which pleased him. He felt like a bit of a kid, riding up front. Better than flying and by the time he got to Sarah just as quick, and he didn't want that much of a drive by himself. Not every day your oldest daughter gets married, he thought, and felt a pang, wishing tomorrow were not that day.

Damn it, Theresa should be attending too. But Theresa was in Athens, an international fencing conference. Two issues Theresa felt passionate about were on the agenda: that women's épée should become an official Olympic sport; and that electronic scoring for foil, sabre, and épée be changed to digital scoring. Theresa, so violently opposed that nothing, not even the wedding of her eldest daughter, could keep her from being there to challenge that nonsense—with all her best rancor.

Fair enough, Sarah had given them little warning of the wedding. Milton and Theresa had met Driscoll two months earlier, when he and Sarah had arrived at the Grange. They'd stayed for an hour, wouldn't accept a meal let alone an overnight bed, and drove away. Sarah hadn't even walked about, although she'd loved the place so, growing up. Still did, Milton knew, but the brevity of that visit bothered him. Theresa was mightily unimpressed by Driscoll's stance and dry-as-powder mind, though his forehead tended to sweat; Theresa remained mainly civil. Milton had wondered, What is a Driscoll? Why had they come?

Five days before Theresa was due to leave for Athens they'd found out. Sarah would be marrying this Driscoll Yeager. Sarah's letter was more an announcement of a wedding than an invitation. “Here”—Theresa slid the paper across the kitchen table—“read this.”

Milton did. His chest tightened, he closed his eyes.

Theresa said, “Think she's pregnant again?”

“By Driscoll.” His hanging head drooped. “Oh god, let's hope not.”

“Well I'm not going. I don't think you should either.”

Milton faced her, nodding now. “I have to, Tessa.”

She stood, walked around the table, stood beside him, and pulled his head to her hip. She stroked his hair, going white-gray. “I know you do.”

He took her hand. “Why this guy? She could have anyone she wants.”

Theresa had shrugged, and stepped away. “Maybe she wants him.”

The bus pulled out of the terminal. Milton sat back and stared ahead. Sarah his brave foolish impetuous pushing-the-edges dear child. Leasie, Feasie, and Karl had never broken a limb; Sarah at five had smashed her ankle falling from a tree, at eleven had broken two teeth by chewing on marbles, and at sixteen had fractured five ribs in a fight with two older girls who had taunted Leasie and Feasie mercilessly for being so tall and skinny. But by climbing where she shouldn't have she'd found the sweetest blackberries. She'd pushed herself to reach them before the others who were coming around the long way, slid, broke the forearm, stopped her fall, climbed up again, and stuffed herself with most of the berries before the others arrived. For weeks after the fight, she became the hero of her younger sisters. Theresa had approved of Sarah taking on two older larger girls; Milton still cringed thinking of it.