Everybody's Daughter (7 page)

“Why do you feel that?” asked Jenny.

“Well, this bit on the money.” Daniel traced his finger down the newsprint until he found the paragraph. “Here we go:

‘The alternative economic philosophy that inspired the foundation of the commune manifested itself in an old-fashioned capitalistic result: money. After several years of steadily increasing sales and profits, the commune’s two businesses, Better Butter, Inc. and Nature’s Nursery, were sold. Each venture was reported to have netted the commune over $300,000. But the biggest prize was to come. Almost twelve years after the first building was raised and the first well sunk, the group voted to disband. Woodlands was sold to a Chicago real estate developer for nearly half a million dollars. “Faith into Action” was now a credo that each of the ex-commune members could chant all the way to the bank.’”

Daniel slapped the paper. “She makes it sound like we got rich! Like we sold out at the first sign of good money. What she doesn’t say clearly is that the money was split into nineteen shares.” He refolded the paper neatly. “My plumbing customers will really be slow to pay now.” He smiled at Beamer. “But it is a lovely portrait of you, Merry Moonbeam. Maybe you should autograph some of the papers for the customers. I’m sure they’d love it. Charge for the autograph; it’s an old-fashioned capitalistic thing to do.”

Beamer was saved from responding by her father’s appearance. “Didn’t I just send all of you home?” he said to nobody in particular. No one answered. He sat on the counter, drank coffee, and read the article. Beamer stood next to him. He made a few noises, and twice looked questioningly at his daughter. Jenny leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “I thought that was especially insightful of our Moonbeam,” she said. Mr. Flynn pushed her hand away and continued reading. At last he finished.

“Well,” he said, “it’s accurate, but it’s all wrong.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” asked Beamer. “I tried to get everything straight.”

“Oh, not anything you said, Bea. That’s all fine. The reporter’s understanding of it. She just didn’t understand anything she was hearing.” He shrugged.

“But I guess you can’t explain faith to people who don’t have it.”

“She knew that!” Jenny practically shouted. “She said to us, ‘You people really believed in something,’ and she realized she didn’t even know what.”

“Oh, Moonbeam of the shifty eyes,” said Daniel, “why couldn’t you make her see?”

Beamer felt flushed, felt chilled, felt frozen, felt like taking a swing at someone. “Not me,” she said, speaking slowly and tersely. “I couldn’t. Because I don’t believe either. Not any of it. That’s the problem. I never asked to have any of you in my life, and I’d just as soon do without you now. Whatever it is you pathetic old hippies had and whatever it is you think you’ve got now, I don’t believe in it.” Beamer slammed her cocoa mug down on the counter. The dark liquid splashed onto the stack of unsold newspapers. She walked away, then turned around. “And I hate my damn name!”

She bolted into the back room, where she quickly put on her ski clothes. She was outside strapping on her skis before any of the Woodies had taken a deep breath. She sprinted away, sixteen years of anger and frustration blinding her, so that as she skied along the path toward the woods she was guided by instinct alone.

Chapter 7

Beamer halted at the north shore clearing. She turned to look homeward and saw several cars leaving the store’s parking lot. The Woodies were gone, at least for the day.

“Good riddance!” she shouted. Though the friends would undoubtedly discuss the morning’s outburst among themselves, Beamer knew that none of them would ever directly mention it to her. Now that her unhappiness was open, it would fester like an untreated wound.

Beamer resumed skiing, following her customary route into the woods. When she broke into the open at Wilton Lake, she stopped. Smoke was rising from the chimney of the Dunn cabin, and she could see a small car parked under the carport. In the rush and confusion of the past week she had forgotten to mention to anyone that someone was using the cabin. “Avoid strangers,” she whispered; then, gambling that the inhabitants weren’t hit men or Brink’s thieves, she skied toward the cabin. As she approached she saw a young man stacking firewood, ordering the tumbled
pile of split logs into a useful pyramid next to the front door.
It looks like he’s actually living here,
she thought.
I wonder who he is.
Skiing closer, Beamer allowed herself to be noticed. The stranger smiled, removed a glove, and offered a bandaged hand, keeping it outstretched and bare while he waited for Beamer. They shook hands.

“Hello,” said Beamer.

“Hi. Good day for skiing.”

Beamer nodded. “I was circling the lake when I noticed life in this cabin. Are you living here?”

“I am. I’m Martin Singer.”

“Merry Flynn. We’re sort of neighbors. My family has the bait shop on the highway.”

“I know. I saw you there this morning; I was buying a paper. Quite a crowd for a Sunday morning.”

“Mostly friends. I didn’t see you there.”

“I saw you. You were playing cards with your sister.”

“She’s a family friend, not my sister. When did you move in?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Is the cabin yours?”

“My father’s. He inherited it from an uncle. Maybe you knew him?”

“Not really.”

“Crazy, that’s the family’s story.” Martin clapped his hands and blew across his fingers. “This is silly—why don’t you come inside? I’m hungry, and I’d love some company.”

Beamer considered the offer. Visiting a strange male
in a lonely cabin deep in the woods was probably not smart.
This is my day not to be smart,
she thought.
Besides, he seems harmless.

A cat bolted out the door as they entered. Beamer moved to catch it. “It’s okay if she goes,” said Martin. “She comes back.” He pulled the door closed behind them and grinned. “My women usually do.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Make yourself comfortable while I get things. The tea water is hot, so it will just be a minute.”

Beamer slipped out of her ski boots and left them next to a jumbled pile of socks, sneakers, and boots by the door. She looked for a closet or hook for her jacket, found none, so laid it with Martin’s on the chair. She began browsing.

She had trespassed here a few times on hiking and skiing trips with friends. They had looked in through the windows and once, caught in a rainstorm, had forced the frail lock and sheltered inside. The lock had slipped easily; others had been in before them.

She recognized the few pieces of big furniture—the scarred table and chairs, the lumpy and worn armchair, the iron-framed bed in the corner. They had all belonged to old Mr. Dunn. Everything else she knew must be Martin’s, and the place was cluttered with his belongings. Books were piled on the table, clothes heaped on the bed, papers strewn on the floor, socks hung to dry on the baseboard heater. A disassembled bicycle hung on hooks on a wall, and a small but probably growing pyramid of beer and soda cans stood in a corner.

This is sexist,
thought Beamer as she surveyed the clutter,
but I don’t get the feeling there are any women living here.
A crystal vase holding two very dead roses stood on the telephone table next to the bed. Beamer tapped the vase, and petals fell off onto a piece of paper. She brushed the petals aside and quickly, inadvertently, read the writing on the paper. “Melissa, Meredith, Kara, Breanna,” she read silently. Each name was followed by a phone number. Beamer shook her head.
This guy doesn’t waste any time,
she thought. She looked around the room. “A bachelor pad,” she whispered. “I’m in a real-life bachelor pad.” Still, she had to admit it was warm and comfortable. And quiet—no cackling horde of Woodies.
I like it,
she decided, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She lifted her hands to warm in front of the briskly burning fire.

“Everything’s ready,” announced Martin as he carried a tray out of the tiny kitchen, which was squeezed into a corner of the big room. He set the tray on the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Of course, it would probably look like this anyway. I’m not a natural homemaker.”

Beamer pointed to the freshly baked bread on the tray he had just set down. “Homemade bread? That’s pretty good homemaking.”

“Not really. It’s frozen dough. You just thaw it and toss it in the oven. I’m not sure how good it is, but it makes the place smell nice. It was really musty in here.”

Beamer held a hand over her steaming tea mug, then wiped the wet palm on her thigh. “It looks like you’ve settled in. What are you doing up here? Ice fishing?”
Or are you after some other prey?
she added silently, recalling the list of names.

Martin laughed. “I’ve never been ice fishing in my life, can you believe it? One of the men helping at your store couldn’t.”

“Which one?”

“Blond and no beard. He was quite friendly.”

“That was Daniel. ‘Friendly’ hardly says enough.”

“Anyway, I am going to be working for a semester at the community radio station in Grand River. It’s an internship. I’m a journalism major at Northwestern University.”

Beamer couldn’t restrain the groan. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I’m not too fond of reporters.”

Martin nodded. “I saw the article in the paper, and I’ve been following the bombing story all week. I thought the feature today was really nice. But we don’t have to talk about it. For once I will stifle my natural inclination to snoop.”

“Good.” They heard the cat scratching on the door. Martin let her in. After weaving through his legs, she walked to Beamer and took possession of her lap. “Hey, girl,” Beamer whispered, smoothing the black fur. “So why did you pick this radio station? Wouldn’t you want a bigger place to intern? It’s not such a great station. Too much bluegrass music and too much talk.”

“I’m hoping I’ll get to do more here. Besides, I wanted to live alone in the cabin. That’s my real reason—to get out of Chicago for a few months.”

“Running away from something?”

“Responsibility,” he said, articulating and accenting each syllable.

“The radio station won’t be happy to hear that.”

“Oh, I’ll be very responsible at work. But after hours, well, it’s my game.”

Beamer again thought of the list of girls. Did they play his game? She sipped her tea and made a face. It was strong and bitter.

“You disapprove?” said Martin.

“Oh, no, it’s just the tea. It’s a little strong.”

He sipped. “You’re right. Do you want yours weaker?”

Beamer handed over her mug. Martin returned to the kitchen and continued talking while he boiled more water. Beamer watched him but was soon not listening, ignoring the explanation of journalism school requirements while she memorized his relaxed stance, his casual gestures, the way the worn clothes hung on the muscular figure, the pattern of freckles on the handsome face.
College junior,
she thought.
That would make him about twenty-one.

Martin stopped talking, and Beamer realized she had been caught staring. She nibbled quickly on a bread crust. “This place looks so different,” she said.

He handed her the tea mug and sat down. “You’ve been here before, then?”

“Sort of. Deserted places are always interesting. We’d come by on picnics and just look around.”

“It was a real mess.”

She unintentionally raised her eyebrows and smiled. He laughed. “Messier than this, even. Lots of dirt and litter and broken glass.” He held up the bandaged hand. “That’s how I did this—inserting new windowpanes.”

“Well, I never broke anything.” She noticed a pile of photographs next to the hearth, and she picked up several. They were black-and-white shots of scenery. “Yours?” Martin nodded. “They’re really nice. This one especially. You’ve got the snow and shadows just right.”

“Thank you. Are you a photographer?”

“No. But a friend of mine is an artist. I’ve picked up a few things from him. He’s always looking at ordinary things and seeing something different.”

“He’s probably a good artist, then.”

Martin’s eyes gazed steadily at her. She definitely did not want to start talking about Andy with this guy. “So you shoot pictures,” she said. “And if you’re in journalism you can probably write. And you bake bread. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Martin looked questioningly at her, searching for sarcasm. Beamer flushed; she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. He smiled, removed a boot, and placed it on the hearth, then tugged a second boot free and massaged his foot. Two toes wiggled through a large hole in the gray wool. “Sure,” he said, displaying the foot. “I can’t darn socks.”

They talked for an hour, and for the second time that week Beamer began revealing the secrets of her life. Yet even as she talked she knew this time was different: Martin listened, she felt, without judging. And he didn’t take notes.

As the conversation moved along, Beamer relaxed, soothed by the tea, the talk, and the fire. She was somewhere the Woodies had never been; she had escaped them.