Greenville (27 page)

The girl nods again. She reaches for the asparagus.

Well, he should be here soon. Not even an hour. I’m sure he’d love to see you.

The son has a look on his face, like he is trying to say something nice and doesn’t know how—not to her, but to his father. He looks at her hands fiddle with the asparagus, and all at once he says,

Well, if you could maybe suggest a place to eat, we could go have lunch and then come back. We stopped by the kitchen in Oak Hill but it wasn’t open yet. Do you know of someplace else?

Something in his tone. It’s almost plaintive—almost like his father’s, when he’d talked about the farm. Her eyes fall to the
tiny pile of asparagus in her hands. If nobody is greedy there’ll be enough to go around.

Well, why don’t you eat with us? she says. It’s just shish kebobs, but there’s plenty.

Oh, we don’t want to put you out, the boy says.

The girl looks at the asparagus again, wrapped up in her mother’s blue bandanna like a gift and capped by the shiny diamond of her wedding ring. It’s as if all her preoccupations—all her history—are contained in that little tableau. She’s not sure if she should cook it or bronze it.

It’s no trouble, she says, suddenly wanting to do this thing. I’m already cooking, all I have to do is put a couple extra plates on the table.

I feel like we’re imposing—

Pipe down, Dale, the father says then. I haven’t been asked to lunch by a girl this pretty in thirty years.

You’ve only been married to Pam for twenty-five.

Oh right. The father laughs a little. Has it been that long? Sorry honey, he says then, but the girl can’t tell if he’s talking to her or to his absent wife.

The boy asks to use the bathroom as they go inside and she directs him to the WC and then leads his father into the kitchen, where he immediately goes to the far side of the table and sits down.

Pardon me honey, he says. I have a little gout in my left foot, it’s been acting up lately. He sits with his back against the window so he can watch her, his knees falling open, his stomach spilling between his thighs. With his thin white beard, he looks a bit like an off-season Santa.

Go right ahead, she says, puncturing the shrink-wrapped
package of meat with a fingernail. Can I get you something to drink? Even as her nail pierces the plastic and drives a little into the top steak, she realizes she hasn’t washed her hands since she harvested the asparagus.

Well, thank you. I’ll take an ice tea with lemon if you have some. She can feel his eyes on her as she takes the meat to the sink, washes the dirt from it and her hands. When she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, the smile on his face is almost beatific.

Sure. Twins! she yells. I need you in here!

The son comes in from the bathroom, still with that slightly nervous look on his face. He hesitates in the door a moment, then makes his way to the table and sits opposite his father, turning the chair around to face her.

I love your house, he says.

Something funny about the way he says it. Wistful. Again she wonders if they just want to buy it, turn it into a weekend place. Sell off the cows, tear down the barns, parcel out the land to developers—do, she realizes, exactly what was done to the father’s uncle’s farm. But she’s too focused on the meat in front of her to give it more than a passing thought. She’s made kebobs a dozen times before, but it’s always been with her mother right there, not in a hospital drinking radioactive fluid. She shakes her head a little, focuses on what’s in front of her. How big should the pieces be? Should the chicken be the same size as the beef? Maybe it should be smaller, to make sure it cooks through?

It’s old, she says absently, the house. Then: Twins!

My Uncle Wallace had a old house too. They’re hard to keep up, these old houses. Uncle Wallace kept one whole half of his
house closed off just to save on heat. The father laughs. You don’t need a plumber, do you?

The girl laughs too, even as she realizes the father must be a plumber.

No, I’m in Kansas now, the father is still saying. Been there for thirty years, don’t do that much repair work anymore. The real money’s in bigger jobs, I specialize in trenchless sewer line replacement myself. Are you familiar with that procedure?

The girl shakes her head.

I’m sorry, would you excuse me for a moment?

The girl goes to the living room, where the twins seem to have spread their collage materials over every available surface in the room and then abandoned the project. They sit side by side on the couch watching
The Young and the Restless
, the left side of Christine’s calf pressed into the right side of Carly’s as if they were Siamese twins, not just identical.

I need you in the kitchen, she says. Hello?
Hello?
Earth to Carly and Christine. I need some help getting lunch ready.

Christine looks up blankly.

What?

When Christine stirs, her calf flesh peels off Carly’s with the same sound the plastic wrap had made when the girl pulled it off the meat. There is an identical egg-shaped patch of red on each of their legs. The girl stares at the marks for a moment, loving her sisters fiercely, then rouses herself with a shake of the head.

Kitchen
, she says.
Now.

Kitchen, Carly says. Now. She blows her bangs off her forehead. I can’t
wait
till Mom gets home.

The girl hurries back into the kitchen. As she comes in, the son
is registering the four corners of the room as if he is measuring it, taking stock of the crooked cabinets and warped floors, the mismatched chairs that crowd the table. The father sits with one arm resting on the table, smiling so pleasantly into the distance that she doesn’t want to disturb him She pauses in the doorway.

Sorry, she says then, then comes the rest of the way into the room. Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth with those two. You were saying something about pipes?

The father nods, his smile widening so much when he looks at her that she almost blushes.

Trenchless sewer line replacement. Are you familiar with that?

She shakes her head, picks up her knife, starts cutting the meat. She decides she’ll cut the chicken and beef the same or else someone will complain they got gypped.

Well, with traditional sewer line replacement you have to get out there with a backhoe and trencher and rip up the customer’s lawn in order to get the old line out.

Christine and Carly finally trundle into the kitchen, then stop when they realize there are strangers in the room.

These are my sisters, the girl says. She points with the gristly knife. Christine, Carly.

Hello there, the father says. I’m Dale Peck. This is my son, Dale Jr.

The son stands to shake the twins’ hands. Christine almost giggles. Then he turns to the girl.

We never introduced ourselves actually.

We didn’t? the girl says, and then she gets it. Oh right. I’m Gloria. Gloria Hull.

Dale, he says.

He holds out his hand but the girl just waves her greasy fingers at him.

Carly, would you see if there’s some ice tea for lunch? Christine, I need you to cut onions.

Onions!

The son sits down again, slumping just a little, then sitting unnaturally erect.

Carly pulls open the fridge.

There’s no ice tea.

Well, make some, dummy. Yes, Christine, onions. Wedges, for kebobs. Oh, wait. First go see if there are any green peppers in the garden. I think I saw some yesterday.

Christine sighs dramatically, then trots down the side hall. Carly looks at the two men at the table, then up at the girl.

What should I make the ice tea in?

The fish tank, the girl says. A pitcher, duh.

I just thought—She looks at the men again.

You can always make more. Come on now, get a move on. Donnie and the boy’ll be here in half an hour.

Carly bangs cabinet doors as she rummages up a pitcher, a spoon, the ice tea mix.

So like I was saying, the father says over the noise. When you replace your sewer line the old-fashioned way you have to dig up the old line, completely destroy your lawn, driveway, utilities, whatever’s in the way.

The girl nods. My fiancé’s grandmother had to do hers last year. It was a mess. She had a beautiful blue spruce in her front yard, the roots got so damaged Justin had to cut it down. Justin’s my fiancé, she adds, and smiles.

I saw the ring, the son says, and the girl is about to hold it out to him when the father says,

Exactly
. But with trenchless sewer line replacement, he continues, even as his son makes a sorry-for-the-spiel face, my men just dig one small hole at the beginning of your sewer line and another hole at the end, and then they pull a new pipe through the existing tunnel. You can pull it under anything, lawns, trees, swimming pools, garages, without disturbing what’s on top. With my equipment I can even send a camera down the line, video the whole thing, show you exactly where the blockage is and how my drill bit is going to bore through it. Yes, ma’am. Plumbing’s coming into the future just like everything else.

For a moment the girl finds herself imagining it. The incision, the drillhead inching down the tunnel like a mole and flashing blurry pictures on a TV. She imagines it is not unlike what they are doing to her mother right now.

The father is still talking.

Now, you’ve got this rocky Upstate soil here, don’t you?

Hmmm? Oh, yes. Full of rocks. Stir it, Carly, don’t break the pitcher.

I know it. I know this land. My Uncle Wallace’s farm had that same soil. Backbreaking work just clearing a garden or laying a fence. He smiles again. Yeah, I’d have to charge you a bit extra for wear and tear on my drill heads, but I’d give you a good price. When I was finished you’d have a sewer line guaranteed for the life of the house and you’d never even know we’d been here. So when do I start?

She catches the son’s eye then, realizes he is as afraid as she is that his father is serious, but then the older man laughs.

Damn, I almost sold myself.

The father is still chuckling when Christine comes back in.

Peppers, she says, dumping them on the counter and then just standing there. Two green ones, one red.

You know how to use a knife, don’t you? Come on, you’ve helped me make kebobs before.

Who wants ice tea? Carly says.

I will, thank you, dear, the father says. Dale, want some ice tea?

No thanks.

Oh, that’s right. You never did like ice tea. Too Kansas for you. Too country. My son’s a city boy himself. Lives down in New York City, works as a writer.

The girl tries to smile as she cranks a can opener into the sliced pineapple.

My older brother lives down there. You’d think I’d go more often, but I never do. He wants lemon in that, Carly, I think there’s a bottle in the fridge.

Ah, the son shrugs, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

My son’s a very famous writer, the father says now. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Dale Peck. Tell her the names of your books, Dale.

The girl dumps the pineapple juice down the sink, empties the sliced rings onto the cutting board. With a few swift strokes, she cuts them into evenly sized chunks.

Carly, grab the skewers would you?

She already has them.

Aren’t you supposed to marinate the meat? In the pineapple juice?

Oh shit.

The girl looks up and realizes the son has said the names of his books and she hasn’t heard them.

I’m sorry, I don’t really read much besides school stuff.

That’s okay, he says smiling. No one really reads them much.

You could get them off the Internet if you were interested, the boy’s father says. Do you get on the Internet much?

We’ll just put barbecue sauce on them, the girl says to Carly. Then, to the father: I know you’re not going to believe me, but I’ve never used the Internet. I don’t even have email. Even as she says this she is grabbing the aluminum foil for the asparagus. She peels off a big piece and spreads it flat on the counter, Christine and Carly are assembly-lining the meat and peppers and onions and tomatoes and pineapple onto skewers.

Just a country girl at heart, she hears the father say, and despite herself she makes a little face.

Just lazy really, she says, spreading the asparagus heel-tip, heel-tip on the foil. Or not interested. I’m studying to be a schoolteacher so I guess I’m going to have to learn how to use it eventually. She cuts several chunks of butter and drops them on top of the asparagus. It’s the future, right?

My son teaches.

Writing, the son says. He shrugs.

That makes sense, the girl says absently. She has just folded up the foil when she realizes she’s forgotten the marjoram. She unfolds the foil and sprinkles the marjoram on, adds salt and pepper and kind of crimps the foil back together. Christine and Carly have finished the skewers in record time. She glances at her watch. It’s a quarter to one.

Would you excuse me? I have to get this on the grill.

Of course, of course, the father says. Smells delicious already. He smiles at her like a teenager.

Christine and Carly follow her outside with the kebobs and the asparagus.

Okay, so, like, who
are
they? Christine says as soon as they’re outside.

The girl opens the grill.

I’m not really sure. I guess the dad knew Donnie or something, when they were kids.

The coals are still flaming a little, but she doesn’t have time to let them burn down. As she lays the skewers on the rack the meat juice causes them to flame even more, and she has to drop the skewers from a couple of inches to keep from getting burned.

Carly laughs a little. Do you think the son’s gay?

That
was it. That was how the son was looking at the house. He wasn’t appraising it. He was decorating it. But all she says is Oh hush. You’re too young to know about these things, and then she sets the foil-wrapped asparagus at the end of the grill, as far from the flames as possible.

Um, our own
brother
, Christine says.

And
sister, Carly says.