Everybody's Daughter (5 page)

The games were the lunch period social center. A regular crowd of spectators congregated around a bonfire a short distance behind home plate, roasting hot dogs, heating carafes of cocoa, toasting marshmallows, and cheering the antics and heroics on the playing field.

Softball would be an especially welcome diversion today, Beamer thought as she left her fourth-period classroom and headed toward the locker room. The questioning about the bombing had persisted all morning. Mr. Macauley had even suggested postponing a history quiz for a discussion of “this most reprehensible act.”

“Don’t expect me to contribute anything,” Beamer had promptly said. They took the quiz.

She quickly changed into her sweatsuit. As she jogged out to the diamond, she glanced down at her gray, formless body. “That’s why I like this sport,” she said to two other players as she sprinted past them. “With baggy uniforms like this, you can run and no one notices your breasts bouncing.”

Andy was eating lunch with friends by the fire. Beamer stopped and stole half of his sandwich, then trotted out to center field, her usual spot.

It was a routine game. During her second time at bat Beamer hit a solid double, brought in two runners, and then, because the fielder bobbled the ball into a nearby snowbank and could not immediately dig it out, came home herself, sliding down the long icy groove from third base just ahead of the ball. She rose, brushed off snow, turned to give a mock bow to the cheering spectators, and saw Rae Ramone.

The reporter waved and smiled. She was standing with a cluster of students by the fire, roasting a hot dog.

“Hey, Laura,” Beamer shouted to one of the players on the bench. “Take over for me, okay?” Laura lifted her hand in agreement. Beamer walked over to the bonfire. “How long have you been here?” she asked Rae.

Rae bit into the hot dog. “Not long. This is my second dog. What a marvelous way to spend lunch hour. Much better than staying in a dreary cafeteria. You’re a very good athlete.”

Beamer didn’t reply. She wondered if her friends would help her pelt the woman with snowballs, or maybe hot dogs.

“Can we talk now?” Rae asked.

“No.”

“Your friends have been telling me lots about you.”

“What friends?” said Beamer, glaring at the students.

“Not me,” said Andy. “Except the stuff about the commune’s annual Halloween drug and sacrifice ritual.”

Rae smiled. “He’s nice, Beamer. Look, I’m sorry I was such a pest yesterday. I deserved worse than what you gave me. But I do want to talk with you. Forget about the bombing. I can understand your reluctance to talk about it, and I admire your loyalty to your friends. But I’d love to hear your story—your childhood, the commune, the bait shop.”

“I’m really pretty boring.”

“That’s a fact,” said Jessie. Several others agreed loudly.

“Oh, it’s not boring at all,” said Wendy. “All that group sex in the commune!”

Rae’s eyes widened.

Beamer sighed. “Don’t listen to her; there was no sex.”

Wendy giggled and laid her hand on Andy’s shoulder. “I was kidding. Actually, ‘no sex’ is a fine and famous commune tradition that Beamer upholds today. With help.” Andy slipped from her hand.

“Beamer,” said Rae, “I’d love to hear anything. I work for the St. Paul paper, but this could go out to papers all over the country—Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami. You are interesting, Beamer. Let me write about you. I promise I will not ask about and will not mention the bombing.”

“Oh, no!” someone shrieked on the field, moments before everyone heard glass shattering.

“What was that?” Rae asked.

“A long foul ball,” said Beamer. “That’s the teachers’ parking lot next to the pond. It’s the lot closest to the lounge door, so they all park there. I just hope that wasn’t a windshield. We pool money for repairs, and the pool is almost empty.”

Jeff Whitehorse ran up to Beamer. “My hit. Bea, good buddy, do you want to do me a big favor?”

“What?”

“It’s Ms. Elliot’s car—the right headlight. You wouldn’t want to tell her, would you?”

Jenny’s car. Beamer nodded. Jeff blew her a kiss and ran toward the school. Most of the other players followed. Damage to a faculty car automatically ended a ball game.

Beamer looked at Rae, then smiled. “You really want to hear about the commune?”

“Yes.”

Beamer waved to the others, who were deserting the field and the fire. Andy shook his head slightly. A warning.

“Okay,” said Beamer. “But let me introduce you to someone. I’m not doing this alone.”

Chapter 5

Jenny Elliot was a Woodie. When the group had organized the commune, she had been a twenty-three-year-old high school teacher, already divorced from the man who had waited only until the honeymoon was over to start beating her. It was Jenny who suggested that they settle in northern Minnesota. Her family had spent its summers there. “It will be like having a second childhood,” she had said. “Only this one will last a lifetime.”

“Jenny was the true believer,” Mrs. Flynn once remarked to her daughter. “It often seemed that only her strength, or maybe her passion, kept us going. I think she’s probably the only one who still wishes we were together.”

Jenny taught school with the same passion she had used to motivate the commune. She taught biology, botany, and environmental science, sponsored three extracurricular groups, and had twice been named Grand River High School’s Teacher of the Year.

Beamer left Rae Ramone in the gym while she showered and changed.
I may be about to bare my soul to her,
she thought,
but not my body.
She retrieved the reporter and silently led her through the school to Jenny’s room. It was Jenny’s free period, and Beamer knew she usually stayed in her classroom.

The door was open and Jenny was alone, reading at her desk. Beamer paused a moment to watch her friend. Jenny sensed her presence and looked up. “Hey, Bea, bored with study hall again?” she said. “Come in.” She rose and walked to the door. “I know you,” she said to Rae. “You were one of the reporters at the store yesterday.”

Beamer introduced them. “Actually,” she said, “I came to tell you we broke one of your headlights during softball.”

“And you brought the press along? That’s not news.”

“Well, there is something else.” Beamer explained everything. “Rae wants my story, but I could use you. For dates and other facts.”

Jenny returned to her desk and sipped from a coffee mug, then she turned to Rae. “The first thing you should know is how special Beamer is to all of us. We would all die for her. Or do worse.” She gestured toward the vacant desks. “Okay, let’s talk.”

They talked for nearly an hour. Rae twice tried to direct the conversation toward the bombing, but Jenny and Beamer were resolute and spoke only of the past. When the bell signaled the end of the period, Rae turned off her tape recorder and slapped shut her notebook. She stood and put on her coat. “Thank you both. It’s even better than I imagined. Look for the story in this Sunday’s paper.” She turned to leave, then paused by the door. “You people really believed in something, didn’t you?” They didn’t respond.

*

Beamer spent the rest of the week berating herself for talking to Rae. She dreaded reading the article and refused to discuss the interview with anyone. Though the article hung like a dark cloud over her life that week, however, it was better than thinking about Sandra and Daryl and the bombing. The public’s interest in the incident had subsided, but Beamer and her family were still preoccupied with it. On Wednesday Sandra appeared in court and was charged with manslaughter. After posting her bond, she returned to the bait shop with Daryl and Mr. Flynn. They stayed long enough to pack and collect the little girls, and then they left for Minneapolis for further consultation with lawyers.

On Saturday morning Mrs. Flynn came to her daughter’s bedroom door three times, trying to rouse her out of bed. “Get downstairs and open up the store,” she urged angrily the third time. “The new clerk is starting today, and with your father gone I need you. I’m taking Johnny to hockey practice. I’ll be back by noon.”

Beamer rolled out of bed. She rose, caught sight of herself in the mirror, and groaned. She walked to her dresser, then turned away and picked up the sweater and jeans she had worn the previous day from the floor. “No problem, Mom,” she said to the walls. “I’ll make sure those coffee-soaked old men get their bait and doughnuts. The family business is safe in my hands.” As she bent to pull on her jeans, she spotted Andy’s picture propped against a stack of books on her desk. Beamer smiled. “Today I’ll peddle those worms if I have to, but tonight I’m out of here.”

That afternoon Beamer was explaining to the new clerk for the third time how to clean the bait tanks’ aeration system when the phone rang. She patted the puzzled boy on his arm. “It’s only hard the first time. We can do it together after we close the store. Why don’t you go help my mother with the display, and I’ll get the phone.” He relaxed and nodded, then joined Mrs. Flynn, who was struggling with a pop-up tent in the store’s camping section.

“I’m coming!” Beamer shouted to the insistent phone. She picked up the receiver hurriedly, and the swaying phone cord knocked over a cup of coffee. Brown liquid spread across a newspaper.

Dammit,
thought Beamer. “Lakeside Bait and Tackle,” she said cheerlessly into the phone, while unraveling paper towels from a roll and wiping up coffee.

“Good afternoon, Lakeside Bait and Tackle. Can you tell me what’s the best bait for catching a cagey sixteen-year-old girl?”

Beamer laughed. “Hello, Andy.” She tossed the sodden clump of towels into the trash, then hooked her ankle around the leg of a tall counter stool and pulled it closer. She sat down.

“So, what do I use?” he demanded.

“Chocolates have been known to work.”

“You’re the expert.”

“Have you decided what you want to do tonight? I’m leaning toward food and a movie.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got a problem, Bea.”

“Oh, no, Andy, don’t tell me you have to babysit. Not tonight. Your parents could find someone else.”

“It’s not my family. Henry called this morning.” Beamer sighed and chewed on her lip. Henry Altman was Andy’s studio arts instructor and his favorite teacher. Andy seldom refused his requests for assistance in the studio.

“It’s the kiln.”

“Oh, the kiln,” Beamer said tonelessly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The thermostat is goofy. It heats up okay but doesn’t always hold steady. It needs to be checked every fifteen minutes. We’re firing all the freshman class term projects. The firing takes several hours. I’m at the school now.”

“So?”

“So I need to stay here and watch the kiln.”

“Why you?”

“Bea, I’m surprised you’re being so tough about this. One night.”

“Andy, it has been a lousy week. And in a few hours the Woodies will begin streaming in with their meatless casseroles for potluck dinner. Then they’ll sing songs and play games and hassle me about tomorrow’s newspaper article. I don’t want to be here. I want to
be with you. Can you get someone else to babysit the kiln?”

“No one else can do it. Henry will be here at midnight, but until then, it’s me.”

“May I come keep you company? I’ll bring supper.” Beamer pinched the phone cord between her fingers.
I sound so desperate,
she thought.
Well, I feel that way.

“If you want to.”

“How do I get in?”

“I’ll prop open the back door, the one that opens onto the courtyard. My car is parked right there.”

“I’ll be there by seven.”

*

The school door opened noisily. Beamer blinked as the fluorescent light flooded out. She stepped in and, kicking away the slab of wood Andy had used to prop the door, let it close behind her.

Her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she looked around the large room. There were a dozen long bare tables, their once-smooth blond surfaces mottled and chiseled from years of use. Several empty, paint-splattered easels lined one wall. Beamer wrinkled her nose. The lingering smell of paints, cleaners, and other art materials was strong.

Toxic,
she thought.
I wonder if artists tend to die young?

The pottery studio was behind a partition in the rear of the room, and she walked toward it. “Andy?” she called.

“I’m here.”

She found him crouching by the kiln. He rose and dusted his hands on his pants. “Thermostat won’t stay steady.”

“Too hot or too cold?”

“Fluctuates. Mostly too hot. There are some nice things in the kiln. I’d hate to lose them.”

“The freshman projects?”

He nodded. He sat on a table and studied the kiln, and Beamer studied him. He was wearing black jeans and a white turtleneck shirt smudged with clay dust. His blond curls were long and falling over his eyes. He brushed them back with an automatic motion.

“Andy,” she said, claiming his attention.

“Yeah?”

“I bet those freshman girls have all fallen in love with you.”

He considered this seriously. “I think some of them have.” He gave her a sly smile. “I’m just glad to know somebody loves me.”

“Well, we take what we can get.” She set the bag she had been carrying on a table. “And this is what you get for supper.”