At Risk (22 page)

Claire has been outside, waiting for Al to arrive. Last weekend he fixed the porch step, and now, as soon as he gets out of the car he starts to search for the rake. He has a method of raking that involves making separate piles of leaves all over the lawn. Polly and Ivan watch him from the kitchen; all the piles of leaves are the same size.

“A compulsive fix-it man,” Ivan says to Polly.

“Don’t offer to help him,” Polly says. “You’d never get it right.”

Inside the house, it’s quiet. Laurel Smith has been by to pick up Amanda and take her to a record store at the mall. Claire comes in briefly to get the laundry basket and goes back out to hang the wash on the line, even though there’s a perfectly good dryer in the basement. Charlie is still in bed; he was up late last night, watching TV long past his bedtime. Ivan and Polly feel self-conscious having breakfast alone together. When they were first married and living in Cambridge, they always had breakfast together before Ivan walked over to his classes at MIT and Polly took the bus to Harvard Square, where she worked in the print department of the Coop. Ivan always got up first; he made extremely strong coffee, so bitter many of their friends refused to drink it. Polly liked to sit at the table in her nightgown and watch Ivan cook. Everything he did was fascinating, even the way he buttered toast. They were greedy for each other on weekends. They avoided their friends, not just because they wanted to make love but because no one else was as interesting to them as they were to each other.

“How about a cheese omelet?” Ivan asks.

“Great,” Polly says. “Thanks.”

Ivan beats eggs in a bowl they received as a wedding present, although they no longer remember from whom.

“My father should have lived someplace where he could have had a lawn,” Polly says.

“Why?” Ivan asks as he searches the refrigerator for cheddar cheese. “He probably would have cemented it over. Neater that way.”

Polly laughs. “You’re right.”

Ivan holds up a chunk of cheese dotted with green mold. “When is this from?” he teases Polly. “Nineteen thirty-four?”

“Mold is good for you,” Polly tells him.

“Oh, really?” Ivan says. “Why don’t we let your mother examine this? Let’s get her opinion on people who store moldy food.”

“Don’t you dare!” Polly grins as she goes over to Ivan and tries to get the package of cheese away from him.

“I’ll bet your mother cleans out the whole refrigerator when she sees this,” Ivan says.

He’s holding the cheese in one hand way up over his head. He keeps Polly away with his free hand.

“Over my dead body she will,” Polly says. “Give me that!” Polly jumps up and manages to get the cheese, then she collapses against Ivan, laughing. “You creep.”

“How about scrambled eggs instead of an omelet?” Ivan says.

Polly’s still trying to catch her breath. She nods her head. “You always made the best scrambled eggs.”

“If you like burned food,” Ivan says.

“Which I do,” Polly tells him.

They’re standing close together, their shoulders touching.

“Exactly why I married you,” Ivan says.

Polly feels embarrassed; being in love seems an illicit thing, it’s not for them but for people who aren’t afraid of fevers, who don’t shudder in the dark.

“The TV was still hot when I woke up this morning,” Ivan says.

“David Letterman.” Polly nods. A show Charlie’s not allowed to watch.

“Now he gets to sleep past ten,” Ivan says. “He’s not supposed to do that until he’s a teenager.”

“I’ll get him,” Polly says.

“That’s it, wake him up,” Ivan agrees. “He’s certainly done it to us enough times.”

Polly goes upstairs. Through a hall window she can see her mother, down in the yard, hanging Ivan’s shirts on the line. There are still some purple asters along the fence, and, near the back door, a few October roses.

“Time for breakfast,” Polly says as she knocks on Charlie’s door. She opens the door before Charlie can answer, then makes her way in the dark over the sneakers and socks and comic books on the floor. She snaps the shade up and opens the window. The smell of sneakers is strong in this room, and it’s mixed with the scent of cedar from a bag of wood chips Charlie’s supposed to keep downstairs, near his hamster cages.

It feels like any other day, a normal day they might have had before August. For a moment, Polly allows herself to feel lucky. Her daughter is out at the mall buying cassettes, her husband is in the kitchen making breakfast, her parents are far enough away from the house so they can’t actually bother her. Polly smiles when she sees Charlie snuggle down under his quilt, but she goes over and pulls the quilt off him.

“This is what you get for staying up late,” Polly says.

Charlie reaches for the quilt and pulls it back over him. “I don’t want to get up,” he says. “It’s too cold in here.”

Polly has begun to pick up some of the dirty clothes scattered on the floor. Now she dumps the pile she’s collected on the top of Charlie’s bureau. She goes over to the bed and leans down so she can touch Charlie’s forehead. He rolls away, but Polly can already tell. He has a fever. A bad one. Polly runs out to the bathroom and gets the thermometer down from the medicine cabinet. She sees the toothbrushes hanging from their rack and immediately thinks of what Ed Reardon said at the school board meeting. There have been siblings who used each other’s toothbrushes without contracting AIDS. Polly runs back to Charlie’s room and makes him sit up and open his mouth so she can take his temperature. His pajamas are soaked with sweat.

“Oh, shit,” Polly says.

She feels behind Charlie’s ears and along his neck. His glands are swollen. When she takes the thermometer out of his mouth it reads 102. She helps Charlie lie back down, covers him with a second blanket, then runs to the stairs.

“Ivan,” she calls.

“Breakfast,” Ivan shouts from the kitchen.

“Ivan!” Polly screams.

Ivan runs from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs, a spatula in his hand.

“Charlie’s sick,” Polly says.

Ivan takes one look at her, then runs up the stairs. He goes past her, into Charlie’s room. Polly follows him so closely she bumps into him when he stops.

“Are you okay?” Ivan says to Charlie.

“I’m sick,” Charlie says.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol,” Ivan tells him.

Polly follows Ivan back into the hallway and grabs him.

“He’s got it,” Polly says.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ivan says. He goes into the bathroom and gets the Children’s Tylenol. Polly comes up behind him as he bends over the sink to fill a paper cup with water.

“He’s got it,” Polly says. Her voice breaks and she grabs Ivan so hard the paper cup falls into the sink. “He got it from her.”

Polly sits down on the toilet and begins to wail. Ivan closes the bathroom door and sits down across from her, on the rim of the tub.

“He has a cold,” Ivan says.

“It’s just the way she was!” Polly cries.

“Stop it,” Ivan says. “Do you want him to hear you?”

“I should have sent him away,” Polly says. “Oh, God. I should have made him stay in New York.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Ivan says. “He has a fucking cold! He has the flu! What should we have done? Put Amanda in quarantine? You sound like all the rest of them.”

Polly looks up at him, riveted.

He’s right.

She gets up and wipes her face with a towel, then goes into their bedroom. Her hands are shaking as she dials Ed Reardon. He tells her not to worry, he’ll be over in five minutes or less. Polly hangs up the phone. Then, afraid to go into Charlie’s room and let him see how scared she is, she stands in the hallway. Ivan has gone down to the kitchen. Now he returns with a tall glass of orange juice and some damp dishtowels to help cool Charlie off.

“Go downstairs,” he tells Polly. “Relax. Eat your burned eggs.”

Polly tries to laugh but her voice cracks in half.

“Your mother’s in the kitchen all by herself. She knows something’s up.”

“God,” Polly says. “I can’t talk to her.”

It takes Ed Reardon four and a half minutes to get there. He’s wearing old jeans and a gray sweater; he’s been out in his yard all morning, raking with the kids. This time Mary blew up; they’re expected at her sister’s for lunch, and if Ed’s not back by then, they’re leaving without him.

“He has all the same symptoms,” Polly whispers to Ed in the hallway.

“The flu’s going around,” Ed says. “Everyone I saw yesterday had it. Is he under 103?”

Polly nods. Ed puts his arm around her for a moment, then goes into Charlie’s room.

“Trying to get out of raking the lawn?” Polly hears Ed say to Charlie.

When Ed starts to examine Charlie, Ivan comes out. Polly is sitting in the hall, her back against the wall.

“You’re making it worse for yourself,” Ivan says. “Go downstairs.”

Polly doesn’t answer him.

“Or will you only do what he tells you to do?” Ivan says with real bitterness.

“I’m not going to respond to that,” Polly says.

Ivan sinks down next to her on the floor.

“Don’t do this,” he says.

“What am I doing wrong now? Polly says.

“You’re breaking us up,” Ivan says.

Polly looks at the floor. “I’m not doing it,” she says. “It’s just happening.”

“No,” Ivan tells her. “It doesn’t just happen. You have to help it along. You have to give up on it.”

As soon as Ed Reardon comes out of Charlie’s room, Ivan and Polly both get to their feet.

“The flu,” Ed says. “I’m going to run an AIDS test just for everyone’s peace of mind.”

“Meaning I’m crazy,” Polly says.

“Anyone would have had the same reaction,” Ed says. “I see these symptoms every day in kids, I have for years, only now the first thing I think is AIDS. It’s on our minds. You did the right thing to call me. I’m going to send a blood sample to the lab and try to rush them. I want you to know I’m a hundred percent certain it’ll turn up negative.”

Polly nods, comforted. Before they go downstairs, Ed says, “I don’t want Amanda sleeping here tonight. I don’t want her exposed to the flu. I don’t want to risk another bout with pneumonia. Don’t get her worried. Act as if it’s a treat for her to spend the weekend with a friend. If there’s no one you trust for her to stay with, I’d just as soon have her in the hospital as here.”

Claire and Al are in the kitchen, rattled by the doctor’s presence.

“What the hell is going on?” Al asks.

“The flu,” Ed says. “You’re doing a great job out there. Want to come over and rake a few in my yard?”

“Polly?” Claire says anxiously.

“Everything’s fine,” Polly says. There are burned eggs in a frying pan on the stove. Untouched coffee and toast on the table. Polly puts her arm around her mother, and she’s surprised by how small Claire seems. “Really.”

That night Charlie’s fever breaks, but Amanda is still allowed to spend the night at Laurel’s, and she’s thrilled. Laurel makes up a bed for her on the wicker loveseat and they have homemade pizza and real lemonade for dinner. Laurel doesn’t have a cassette player, so they sit in her car to hear Amanda’s new tapes.

“This is how it would be if we were roommates,” Amanda says. “Our boyfriends would have just left.”

“They would have given us diamond necklaces,” Laurel says.

“And pink and yellow roses,” Amanda says.

“They’d give us white sports cars,” Laurel adds. Her Datsun’s battery is wearing down just from using the cassette player. “Porsches.”

When they see the first star they both make a wish.

“Tell me what yours is,” Laurel says.

“I can’t,” Amanda says. “It’s too stupid.”

“I won’t laugh,” Laurel says. “I promise.”

“I wished I could have my braces off,” Amanda says.

“That’s not stupid,” Laurel Smith tells her.

“It isn’t?” Amanda says.

“It’s a great wish,” Laurel says. “Honest.”

As they’re walking back to the house the phone rings. It’s Polly, for the third time, just checking on Amanda.

“She worries all the time,” Amanda says when she gets off the phone.

“She probably just wanted to say good night,” Laurel says.

Amanda goes into the bathroom and gets undressed. She’s borrowing one of Laurel’s nightgowns, and even though it’s too big, it’s beautiful; it’s made out of soft pink flannel with a collar of lace. She’s been given her own towel and washcloth and a little soap in the shape of a seashell. When she comes back into the living room, Amanda is so tired her eyes are closing. Laurel tucks her in beneath a cotton quilt.

“Wait till you hear the birds in the morning,” Laurel says as she lowers the shades behind the couch. “They’ll wake you up at dawn, so just go back to sleep.”

“I’d rather get up and watch them,” Amanda says.