Child of My Right Hand (15 page)

He asked directory assistance for the main number of Webster University and added it to his research notes for Denny Sweetwater. Did he have time to call before his two o'clock class? If he hurried.

***

When Jack barreled into the house just before dinner, she wondered where he had been. Oh, she knew him. She could read his broad face, with its Roman-by-way-of-the-Ukraine nose, like a second grader's haiku. And what did she read when he entered the kitchen (she was reducing the cream sauce for her boneless chicken with shitake mushrooms), wrapped his arms around her from behind, and kissed her just below her ear? Oh, no, what's wrong? It wasn't the first time he'd grabbed her like this, a two-handed squeeze of her breasts, memories of sleepy Sunday morning intercourse falling over her like a shadow, Jack pressed up against her from behind.

“Glass of wine?” Jack slid towards the fridge. He poured them each a glass from an open bottle, Chardonnay sparkling like sunlight. “I've got something to tell you.”

“Oh?”

She sipped her wine. Jack gulped his. “Don't look so worried.”

“The last time you had something to tell me, Jack.”

His eyes flipped, as if they were diving into a shallow pool. She sometimes forgot how blue they were, Jack's eyes. Why hadn't the kids inherited blue eyes, what about that recessive gene business?

“No, this is good news, I called the Webster alumni office to see if they had an address for Denny Sweetwater.”

“What made you do that?”

“Love.”

Now her eyes must be the ones twirling. “Did they?”

“I think so, but they wouldn't give it out.”

Jack refilled his glass, and she felt a beating in her chest, lub-dub, dub-lub, as if emotions long denied were waking.

“They confirmed Dennis Sweetwater was the class of 1959, and said,” his eyes were sparkling now, “if we wanted to send Mister Sweetwater a letter, they'd be happy to forward it. So I figure we write one, maybe enclose a picture or two, and if he's alive, and I get the feeling he is,”

“Why's that?”

Her right hand, which held the wine glass, was shaking. Forty-four years old, it was such a surprise.

“Because when I mentioned his name, there was this pause.”

“You're making that up.”

“I'm not. And anyway, whoever I was talking to, this sweet young thing, checked their database, and if Mister Sweetwater were deceased, she wouldn't have told me to send a letter, now would she?”

She sipped the wine and peered at Jack through batted lashes. “I guess not.” Imagine, flirting with her own husband. “Against the code of behavior for sweet young things.”

“That's right.”

Genna set down her glass and the slotted spoon with which she'd been stirring the sauce, and hugged him, pressing into Jack, her breasts flattening against his chest. Her hands reached around his broad back, then rooted in the back pockets of his jeans. Saturday night, she thought, with the kids gone, not Sunday morning.

Simon pounded up the stairs from the family room, trailed by the dog. “Awww.” He burst into the kitchen. “Mom and Dad are making out. Isn't that sweet?”

Sometimes, she wanted to kill that boy.

When the kids were in bed, and Jack had turned off the family room television—
Sports Center
must be over, she thought and glanced at the clock, Yes, eleven-thirty—she listened to Jack mount the stairs and remembered that ghost story from all those years ago in summer camp. Who stole my golden arm? Who stole my golden aaaarm? You did. She remembered lying in her girlhood bed on Kingsbury Court listening to the creaky stairs, thinking of herself as the second-best loved child. If they were coming to kiss anyone goodnight, it wouldn't be her. How old must she have been, eight, nine? And even if they did kiss her, it would be after Billy, who was Daddy and Mommy's favorite. Listening for Jack—had he turned towards the kitchen to grind his morning coffee? No, he was hurrying towards their bedroom—she picked up the novel she'd set down some time ago just so she could peer up over it to see if he registered the night gown she was wearing.

“Hey,” he said, coming towards the bed. “Haven't seen that in a while.”

“What?”

“The nightgown you only wear when you're hoping to have an orgasm.”

“Jack Barish, you have the romantic I.Q. of a gnat.”

He grinned. “You're not only wearing that come-hither nightgown, in which you look incredibly beautiful and sexy.”

“That's better.”

He sat beside her. “But your book? Upside down.”

She set it on the night stand without checking to see if he were right. “I thought you'd never get here.” She leaned forward and kissed him, sucking his lower lip between hers. “I'm really, really grateful you called Webster.”

“And now you want to thank me?”

She nodded and felt her heart flutter.

“What if I write the letter to Webster?”

She slid her hand from his shoulder down his arm to his lap. His erection pressed against his jeans like an eager puppy. He pushed her against the pillows and lay down beside her. Through the satin of her negligee, his thumb and forefinger coaxed her nipple. She switched off her reading lamp; the room plunged into darkness. She fumbled at Jack's belt and felt his leg press hers apart.

“Are we back?”

He touched her. “Front and back.”

She found his eyes in the dim light. “You know what I mean, Jack.”

“Yep.” He snaked his finger into her panties. She moved against it and shuddered. “Yeppity-yep,” he said. “We are.”

In January, Simon tried out for the spring musical. He danced, he acted, he sang. His voice quaked during his monologue; his tree trunk legs trembled. But when he sang “Some Enchanted Evening,” handing the sheet music to Donut, then coming in on key, on time, full-voiced, he blew the listeners away, he just knew it. He turned towards Ms. Cherry with the final note glowing in the practice room air as if high beams were reflecting off droplets of rain. She had a cute, round face, Ms. Cherry, ringed with curls. On her dark lashes, tears hung. Or maybe he only imagined the tears, but he was certain of what she said next, because he embraced those words for the next three days, through call-backs and all the rest, held on as if he were six and her words were his beloved blue blankie.

“That was so beautiful, Simon.”

She clearly meant it, Ms. Cherry, who was only twenty-two, not much older, really, than he was; when the cast list appeared, he'd been picked for Sir Harry, who sang more than any other guy, including the most famous song, “I Love You Less.”

That was two weeks ago; they'd rehearsed every day since. What timing! Simon had his license and except when Dad was being a dick, he took the Camry to school so he could drive himself home after rehearsal. Next year, when she started high school, Lizzie would ride with him; for now she was stuck with the moonfaced assholes. Not me, Simon thought, I'll never ride that freaking bus again.

He turned onto Cottage, two blocks from school, and cruised for a spot. Next year, he'd rent one in the school lot. Twenty-five dollars and seniors had dibs. This semester, he was stuck on the street. Although he already drove better than Dad—who talked too much, drifting from lane to lane in terrifying fashion until Simon exchanged looks with Mom, My God, did you see that?—the one thing he hadn't mastered was parallel parking. Instead, he arrived early to find a spot either just before or after a driveway.

He spotted one big enough for a dump truck. He slid towards it, shark-like, set the brake, and snapped off the engine. Dad was always yammering at him to turn off the heater and the radio, so they wouldn't drain the battery when he restarted the engine, and blah, blah, blah, but that, he thought, climbing out of the Camry, throwing his hip-bag strap over his shoulder, and bending to check his look in the side-view, was totally crap. He'd been leaving the heater and radio on since he started driving, and nothing bad had happened.

Simon began the three-block hike to school; the red velvet cuffs he'd added to his pants swished like skirts. It was seven-twenty, cold January, and his breath puffed like the cotton balls Dad's mother, Grandma Babs, removed her eye shadow with last month in Florida. When he was little, he watched her apply make-up whenever he visited. Eye-liner, shadow and mascara, liquid foundation, rouge, some weird metal thing-y to curl her lashes. A better show than any Saturday morning cartoon, except
He-Man
.

Simon approached the Smokers' Club, who were lined up, puffing like blowfish, across the street from school. What jerks, and not just because they smoked, which he would never do because it would ruin his voice, and without his voice, he would die. No, these kids were giant assholes. Even the girls made smoochy noises when he passed. And who else but a jerk would smoke right across from school, then act all surprised when even brain-dead Doctor Badger knew they smoked.

Hel-lo-oo!

Some days, Simon walked out of his way to avoid the Smokers. Some days, he'd had enough of their shit and walked right by. Today, there were four or five guy Smokers, two or three girls. This one guy, Nick Fleming, a senior, was the biggest dick of all. Until he got booted for smoking, he'd played basketball.

Hey, how did Coach find out?

Simon poked his index finger into his cheek.

You think he saw me across the street each morning? Nah, musta been the fat faggot.

“Hey, faggot-boy.”

Right on cue.

“Look, here comes the faggot.”

The other Smokers and the moonfaces who harassed him in the halls were butt ugly, but Nick Fleming was a hottie. Six-two, a cleft chin and black hair like Superman. He was rich, too. His father and uncles were the biggest builders in town. Simon saw their red, white, and blue sign everywhere: Fleming Construction. Nick went out with skinny Tina Murphy, who played Simon's love interest, Lady Larken. Before the opening curtain, what Ms. Cherry called back-story, Sir Harry had knocked her up. Yeah, right. They wanted to marry, but no one in the kingdom was allowed to until the Prince did. Only the Queen, the all-time possessive mommy, didn't want to lose her son, so she kept creating tests no girl could pass. In the second act, after the Swamp Princess won the Prince, Simon had to kiss Tina Murphy. They hadn't practiced The Kiss yet, but Simon suspected that Tina, who had a thin, sweet soprano, wasn't any more interested in getting started than he was.

“Hey, faggot,” Nick Fleming said. “Want to suck my dick?”

Simon looked from Fleming, who was blocking his way, to the other Smokers. Tina stood to one side, embarrassed. Before rehearsals started he hadn't even known who she was. He almost said, If you really, really want me to, Dick. I mean, Nick. Instead, he answered, “No, thank you. And I'd rather be a faggot than an asshole.”

Nick Fleming punched his shoulder.

“Leave him alone, Nick,” Tina said.

Then the light changed and Simon started across the street to begin another jolly day at Tipton High.

***

When fifth bell rang, Simon hurried to the auditeria to set down his hip bag at Rachel's table. On Mondays, Pizza Day, he tried to arrive early. Imagine his surprise when he discovered that not only wasn't he first at Rachel's table, but that the black hair and cat's eyes that looked so much like Rich's, features he'd been seeing in the hall or uptown in Tipton (sometimes he'd walk up close for a better look then spin away at the last moment), really was Rich, back from the dead, no, Indiana.

“Rich!” Simon exclaimed, an enormous grin splitting his face. “Whatcha doing here?”

Rich's eyes slowly closed and opened. “Waiting for lunch.”

Simon's face hurt from grinning.

“My dad decided he couldn't live without me.” Rich's eyes closed again then slowly opened, like a kitten's. “Actually, my mom decided she couldn't live with me, and it was Dad's turn.”

“Cool.” That's so sad, Simon thought. “Well, I'm glad to see you.”

“Can you lend me a dollar?”

“No way.” Simon grinned again. “But I'll buy you anything you want. I'm working at Burger King.”

“Anything?”

Rich's eyes sparkled, but he didn't look happy. He rarely did, even when he was smiling. Then Simon remembered. Rich never had any money.

“Anything,” Simon said. “A salad. Two slices.”

“Wow.” Rich's tone was always slightly mocking. “Welcome back pizza.” He stood, shocked Simon's forearm with an electric fingertip. “Thank you, Simon. It's good to see you, too.”

Rachel flounced up wearing her favorite knee-high brown boots and the yellow hippie dress she'd bought for two dollars at the thrift. Lips to Simon's ear, she whispered, “You look happy.”

The rest of the day all he could think about was Rich. Rich's eyes, Rich's lips, Rich's very splendid penis which he'd felt that one time through his jeans. In his last class of the day, which this semester was French, the last forty-four minutes before freedom rang—Freedom! Mel Gibson shouted in
Braveheart
. Freedom!—Simon sat head down trying to avoid eye contact with Monsieur Robinson, who was teaching not his first, not the second, but maybe the eighth lesson on the imperfect tense.
Classe, dit
Monsieur Robinson.
Classe
. I was traveling for two months Je voyageais pendant trois mois. That's imperfect tense, non? A repeated, or continuing action in the past. Now,
maintenant. Ecoutez bien
. One day, I ate onion soup.
Un jour, j'ai mange du potage a l'oignon
, that's a completed action, and so we use the
passe compose? Oui? Comprenez-vous, classe?

Who could possibly
comprenez-vous
such crap, although Simon had just comprehended this. Now that he had a license, seeing Rich wouldn't be hard at all. Never again would he have to convince his parents to get Rich, leave them alone, then drive Rich home. He did have rehearsal every day, the Fry Guy, and he didn't know Rich's number. What if Rich wouldn't give it to him? But he'd said, ‘We should get together,' and Rich answered, ‘Why not?' in his ironic way, just like Alanis Morissette. No problem, Rachel would have it.

Now here came Monsieur Robinson, who could be a pain in the butt-hole, walking up the aisle, waggling gray eyebrows that were long enough to braid.

“Simon, yesterday, I ate french fries.”

He couldn't remember the word for yesterday. “Uh, j'ai mange des pommes frites.”

“Tres bien,” gushed Monsieur Robinson. “Bon, bon.”

Sometimes Simon thought Monsieur Robinson must be gay.

“Maintenant, Simon, try this. Every day last summer I was eating—”

Rich's cock.

“—french fries.”

“No wonder he's so fat!” someone shouted from the back of the room.

“Who said that?” Monsieur Robinson shouted

Fuck 'em, Simon thought. “Tous les jours, je mangeais des pommes frites.

“Tres bien, Simon.” Monsieur Robinson smiled damply at him. “Tres, tres bien.”

Assholes, Simon thought, and returned to his reveries of Rich.

***

Genna started a letter to Denny Sweetwater the week before Christmas.

You have a daughter, you know, and I'm not half bad.

It was so humiliating, this pimping for herself, that she tore it up. When they returned from visiting Jack's mother in Florida, she tried again.

Surprise! You don't know me, but I think you'll remember my mother, Doris Krebs? Everyone else does, or did.

She crumpled that attempt, too, and pitched it in her study paper basket. This was impossible. Striking a tone simultaneously perky and self-pitying, which was an original, but wildly unattractive rhetoric. What did she want to tell this stranger? I never thought I'd be writing such a letter, but if you're the Denny Sweetwater who slept with Doris Krebs on or about May 15, 1959, then I'm your daughter.

That wasn't it, either. Something about Simon. After all, Simon was why she'd first asked Daddy. So she wrote and mailed the third attempt, before she had a chance to self-censure:

Dear Denny Sweetwater,

My name is Genna Barish. My mother was Doris Krebs, who died twenty-two years ago. I've just learned that you are my biological father, and if it wouldn't be too much of a shock or an imposition, are you sitting down? I'd like to begin a correspondence. I am a professor of romance languages at Tipton University in Ohio. I'm married and have a teenage son and daughter I'd like you to meet someday. If this letter finds you, I hope it finds you in good health, and I very much hope you are content to be found.

Sincerely,

Genna Barish

Then she added her phone number and home address, slammed the mess in an envelope addressed to the Webster alumni office, and tried not to think about it. She'd never done such a thing, but then, who had? As days then weeks slipped past, she found herself fantasizing about Denny Sweetwater at the oddest moments. It was the inverse—or was that the converse? one of those words of art she remembered from Simon's geometry course—of the amputee who still experienced pain in a phantom leg. She was beginning to feel pain that was a kind of pleasure in thinking about the phantom father she did have. She stood now in the narrow corridor outside the kids' rooms sorting laundry, the most quotidian of her tasks, and nearly a daily one with teenagers, both of whom wore two or more outfits a day. How did they soil so many clothes? Teenage angst, sweated into several layers of cloth; neither would wear a winter coat even on the coldest morning.

Pulling Simon's gray, ribbed-cotton tee from inside a long-sleeved button-down, she tried to conjure Denny Sweetwater as Daddy had on Thanksgiving. How old would he be, sixty-six or seven? Blond, if he still had hair, and a bit plump, at least a bit, if it were Denny she took after. What would a gay man of his generation look like or be like, and was she even certain he was gay? It was only Daddy who said so, and maybe that was his way of diminishing a long-ago rival.

Genna started on the whites, pulling the socks right-side out, squirting stain remover on the cotton inserts of Lizzie's panties, on hers, too. What was always leaking out them—and not just during their periods, but body fluids at all times—like a drip inside a cave? And why couldn't either male do a better job of wiping his bottom? Why was there always a shit smear? And how had her life devolved to this, the shit and stain queen?

Genna poured bleach into the narrow bleach slot. She added detergent and had pushed in half the whites when the phone rang. She crammed the rest of the clothes then raced for the family room, thinking, What if it's Denny Sweetwater? But it was only Jack, saying he'd be home late: grading papers. She was feeling annoyed, a low-grade burn, by how frequently Jack arrived late and expected her to handle everything domestic, as if she were the back-up team, although she had a deadline from her publisher for revisions on her manuscript. How many papers could Jack possibly have, anyway, and why couldn't he grade them at home? She picked up the green handset to ring him back, then set it down. What if he weren't at his office? Better to do extra housework a bit longer, and hope for the best.

Genna returned to the sorted laundry. Behind her bedroom door, Lizzie click-clicked, IMing her friends. Inside his room, Simon was singing and dancing to a new version of the gay nation's Bar-Mitzvah anthem, “YMCA,” by the Village People. It would just kill them, she thought, if anything went wrong between her and Jack. They were still so dependent in their oh-so-mature teenage way. Baby birds, waiting to be fed, and she smiled to think of Simon and Lizzie with their mouths opened wide for a worm.