LaRose (42 page)

THE PICTURE DIAGRAM
on Romeo’s wall was slowly taking shape, with bits of information plucked forward or pushed back. Romeo’s television had lost sound, but no matter. He only watched the mouths move and read the closed captions. It was better because otherwise their voices, the emphasis they put on certain words, could distort his thinking. He still liked the word
yellowcake
, and the unknowable place it was from. Niger! But already they were past that. As bright October shifted to the leafless icy dark of November, there was scarier talk of weapons of mass destruction.

Oh please! Everybody in North Dakota lived next door to a weapon of mass destruction. Right down the road, a Minuteman missile stored in its underground silo was marked only by a square of gravel and a chain-link fence above. You passed, wondering who was down there, deep and solitary, insane of course, staring at a screen the way Romeo was staring now, at the mouth of Condoleezza Rice and knowing, as nobody else but Romeo knew, that this was a hungry woman who strictly controlled her appetites. This was a woman so much more intelligent than any of the men around her
that she played them with her concert hands like chopsticks on her piano. Even Bulgebrow Cheney with his frighteningly bad teeth—and he must have millions so why could he not get new teeth—even Cheney was her mental slave. Didn’t know it, but he was. Her eyes glittered. Her mouth a deep blood red. She had no feelings for any man. She ate them. Talked of rods. Smoking guns.

Romeo adored her.

Of them all, she was the smartest and most presidential. Could they see it?

From his pockets, he emptied the night’s take onto a cafeteria tray. He went through it meticulously now, pushed aside tiny blue pills, fat white pills, round green pills, oval pink pills. He was quite sure that another clue was hidden in the story he’d heard just that evening about the way a person bled to death from only surface wounds. That fit into the findings somehow. A tack. A placement. A string that would attach the phrase and the possible meaning. He’d cross-medicate, then medicate. It was beautiful, like an art project, this thing he was doing.

MAGGIE BADGERED HER
mother into teaching her how to drive to school. Nola instantly got used to it. Every morning, after her father left, Maggie went out and started the Jeep. Nola put a long puffy coat on over her robe, thrust her sleepy bare feet into Peter’s felt-lined Sorels. With a thermos go-cup of coffee in hand, she settled comfortably into the passenger’s seat. LaRose took the backseat. On the half-hour drive, it was Nola’s job to make encouraging noises and dial through the radio channels, finding the Hallelujah stations. Rush rants. Perky pop and stolid farm reports. It woke Nola up, freed her from the sticky webs of benzodiazepines. The radio and its familiar chaos flipped a pleasure switch in Maggie’s brain. Because she had her mother belted in safe beside her and LaRose safe in back, because she was in charge, she was light with relief. She hummed and tapped her fingers on the wheel. Through snow,
through black ice, slippery cold rain, Maggie was a fully confident and careful driver.

When she got to the school drop-off, her mother kissed her dreamily, then walked around to slip behind the wheel and drive home. Maggie let her go. She let LaRose go. She walked down the high school hallway, flipped her hair, and now said hi to many girls. She called home sometimes, from the school office, just to hear her mother’s voice. On one hand, Maggie was now a stable, caring, overprotective daughter—adjusting slowly to the fear smother of her mother’s fragility. On the other, she was still a piece of work.

A disciplined piece of work.

She was cute in an early-supermodel-Cheryl-Tiegs way except her hair was dark, her eyes either gold or black, and except that sometimes there was hot contempt in her skewed gaze. She made it her business to study boys. How their heads, hearts, and bodies worked. She didn’t want one, but she could see herself controlling one. Maybe each of the so-called Fearsome Four, hunt them down, skewer their hearts. Have them for lunch although she was trying to be a vegetarian—because good for the skin. She was strict with herself.

Somehow, hulky Waylon got past all that. He stood by her locker and watched her exchange a set of books—morning books for afternoon books.

So are you okay here? Anybody bothering you?

She found it surprising that he would ask her this question, and weirder than that, she answered yes. Though nobody had bothered her at all.

Waylon’s interestingly lush features focused. He had an Elvis-y face, which Maggie knew only because Snow actually liked that old music. He was thick and broad, with soft skin over cruel football muscle. His hands were innocent, expressive, almost teacherly. His summer football practice crew cut was growing out into a thick fuzzy allover cap of furlike hair. He was taller than Josette but not quite as tall as Snow. Maggie stared at his hair intently, then decided that she liked his hair, a lot.

Waylon’s look had turned somber.

Who? he said at last.

What?

Who bothered you?

It wasn’t kids here, said Maggie. It was kids at my old school.

He nodded gravely, without speaking. He let his face talk, lowering his brows to let her know he was waiting for more. Maggie liked that, too.

There’s some guys, call themselves the Fearsome Four?

Waylon’s jaw slid sideways and his teeth came out sharply, gripping his bottom lip. He leaned his head to the side and squinted his sleepy eyes.

Ohhh yeahhh, he drawled. I know those guys.

Those guys bothered me real bad, said Maggie with a comfortable, bright smile. Especially Buggy. Wanna walk me to class?

Waylon swayed slightly as he walked, as if his heavy body needed to be set upright after every step. With Maggie beside him, so tensely pretty and purposeful, people looking at them, shy pleasure made him blush.

Whenever Nola and Peter had gone to teacher conferences at Maggie’s school in Pluto, it was the same: careless homework, trouble in the classroom, mouthing off, probably she wrote the c-word in a bathroom stall. However, test scores always perfect. That meant she was smart enough to change her behavior, if she wanted to. Clearly it was all on purpose, said her teachers. Peter had always left Maggie’s classroom gasping for control. Nola was silent, clutching his arm, her lips moving. They would walk unsteadily down the hall. After LaRose started school in Pluto, however, LaRose’s teachers had consistently erased Maggie’s distressing reviews.

Ah, LaRose! Maybe not an A student, but a worker, quiet, and so kind. Respectful, easygoing, pleasant, a little shy. Those eyelashes! What a sweet boy. Dreamy sometimes. And accomplished! He could draw anything he wanted. Sang, off-key but with expression.
A talent show favorite with Johnny Cash tunes, the boy in black. Just a love, the teachers gushed, he makes it all worthwhile. They knew the teachers meant worthwhile dealing with Maggie, how the struggle for her soul was worth the effort once they got to LaRose.

Maybe things would be different now that Maggie was in ninth grade. Now that she had more freedom. Now that her whole other family—Hollis, Snow, Josette, Willard, and LaRose—was in her new school also.

Peter and Nola each ate a tasteless cookie from the plates set out in the hallway. They sipped scorched coffee waiting for the first teacher to finish with the parents before them. At last they entered the classroom.

If she’s trying to find her footing here by kicking in doors, that’s not an appropriate choice, said Germaine Miller, English teacher.

I am trying my hardest not to fail her, because I can tell she’s bright, said Social Studies.

If only she would do her homework! Cal Dorfman shook his head over math scores.

Nola explained that Maggie did math homework every night. Peter said he’d even tried to check it but she was so independent now. The three looked from one to another in distress. The teacher sighed and said that Maggie probably didn’t turn her homework in because she lacked organizational skills. From now on he would stop the class every day until she coughed up a homework paper. So it went.

Except for Physical Science. Mr. Hossel gave a pallid smile when they introduced themselves. But Mr. Hossel was already talking about what a hardworking daughter they had and how they must be extremely proud of her deductive skills, her logical mind, her disciplined approach to handing in homework and how well she worked on group projects. She seemed fascinated by the laws of motion, for instance, and she was excellent at calculating speed.

Nola gaped, Peter flushed. Mr. Hossel grew more animated.

She is
super
eloquent describing the electromagnetic spectrum, he cried.

We are Maggie Ravich’s parents, they reminded Mr. Hossel.

The science teacher scratched his hands, poked at his glasses, and went on.

I wish more students were like Maggie in terms of class participation. What impresses me is that she’s fearless. Shrugs off mistakes. That’s unusual in a young person—they are terrified of being laughed at—you know this age! But Maggie will play with an idea. Throw something out to spark discussion. At what exact moment does inertia become momentum?
Can we measure that moment?
It goes to the heart of everything, said Mr. Hossel with a pensive sniff.

Again he repeated those golden words: You must be very proud of your daughter.

Then he showed them her A.

Peter and Nola beamed out of Mr. Hossel’s classroom. They crossed the parking lot holding hands, brought together by the contradictions.

Finally, a teacher who
gets
her, Peter said.

He really was . . .

Nola faltered.

He really
was
talking about Maggie, wasn’t he?

Maybe at school, she only shows her real self to him, Peter answered. She trusts Hossel the way she trusts us. I see all of those things in her, the bravery, you know? The discipline. This teacher has just opened some door for her. I don’t understand, honey, but with this experience the sky’s the limit! She always had it in her, didn’t she. Always had it.

We weren’t wrong.

Nola clutched his hand tighter. They got into the car and drove home, silent, Nola gripping Peter’s knee.

As they pulled into the driveway, Maggie opened the door, waving with a happy smile. Usually, her cheerful greeting after teacher conferences was an attempt to mitigate the misery she knew
she had inflicted on her father. Up until this year, she hadn’t cared if she pained Nola. But now she did care. She wanted to avoid bringing down her mother’s mood. She didn’t want to trigger a relapse. While they were gone, she’d made oxtail and vegetable soup, plus the little frybreads Josette had showed her how to make. Maggie loved, or at least pretended to love, making soup and frybread. LaRose charmingly stole pieces as they cooled, tossing the oily, hot bits of fried dough hand to hand. Maggie chased him around the kitchen island. Nola laughed at this, giddy. Peter should have been giddy too, but something about the scene was disturbing. It was as though the two were putting on a show for Nola, giving her a warm glimpse of normal brother-sister hijinks. They glanced at their mother, from time to time, anxious to make sure she was pleased.

That weekend, in celebration of Maggie’s Physical Science A, Nola wanted to bake a cake with her daughter’s name on it. Maggie told her that eating cake gave her diarrhea.

But you love cakes, said Nola.

Mom, I wanted to make you happy. But no cakes.

Maggie had read about obsessive-compulsive behavior in a library magazine and had resolved to keep her mother from embarking on addictive binges—plus she did hate cake because of all the cake making after Dusty was killed, and after LaRose appeared. Cakes brought bad feelings, especially cakes bearing names. She didn’t want cakes in the house.

Let’s watch a vintage movie, like an eighties movie, and eat popcorn?

Because of the sale bin at Cenex, they had several unwatched VHS movies. Soothing ones from the older days, like
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
,
Sixteen Candles
,
The Breakfast Club.
Maggie talked to Nola about how she still related to these movies as a teenager although they were of this unthinkable time and place where cell phones were only in cars and big as shoe boxes. Yes, they talked. Or rather, a version of Maggie talked as though she were Molly Ringwald finally
coming to terms with life’s complexities. And Nola talked to her like a parent slow on the draw but ultimately loving. Peter came home and witnessed them slouched in pillows, one of them out fast asleep and the other smiling thinly into the air.

He sat next to Nola, the smiling one, and quietly asked.

What is going on?

What do you mean?

She just kept smiling, didn’t look at him. Spooky.

What are you watching?

Peter gestured at the movie on the screen.

Nola opened her mouth and shook her head, entranced at some dialogue between two teenagers. She leaned her head on his shoulder and Maggie stirred in the pillows pushed up against her mother so the three were now connected, sitting there like normal people.