River Angel (3 page)

“Gabriel's on a religious kick,” Shawn explained. “Teacher at his last school brainwashed him. So much for separation of church and state.”

“A little religion never hurt anyone,” Bethany said firmly. “I'll be taking my boys to Mass tonight, and we always go on Easter.”

“This isn't just Christmas and Easter,” Shawn said. “This is morning, noon, and night.” He laughed, but the child's face was radiant with concentration. Pete and Robert John stared. The room ticked with silence. Finally, the boy blinked, opened his eyes.

“Did you remember to pray for your old man?” Shawn teased, and with those words, Gabriel began to eat, steadily and noisily,
like an animal at a trough. Robert John let loose with a soft pig snort; Bethany cut him a warning look. “How old are you, Gabriel?” she said to be polite, but Gabriel didn't answer, didn't even look up.

“He's a big fifth grader this year,” Shawn said, and he smiled again, that slick, wanting smile. “How old are these handsome boys?”

Pete said, low as he could, “I'm at Solomon High,” and Bethany could tell he wanted to put as much distance between himself and Gabriel as possible.

Robert John said reluctantly, “I'm in fifth.”

“Hear that, Gabey?” Shawn said. “You're the same age! You'll probably see each other at school.”

Bethany put down her fork uneasily. “So you intend to stay in Ambient?”

“Thinking in that direction,” Shawn said. “Of course, we need to find a place to stay.”

“I got plenty of room at the farmhouse,” Pops said. There was mashed potato in his beard. Bethany signaled Fred, who leaned over and tenderly wiped it away with his napkin.

“The thing is,” Fred said to Shawn, “Pops is having another dispute with Wisconsin Electric.”

Gabriel's fork moved from his plate to his mouth, from his mouth to his plate.

Shawn said, “Then maybe Gabriel could stay here for a bit, let his cousins show him the ropes.”

At last, Gabriel's fork fell still. Pete and Robert John looked at each other as if the only rope they planned to show Gabriel was a noose. And it was all Bethany could do to conceal her rage. She cleaned fourteen houses each week, plus her own. Weekday afternoons, she met the buses at Solomon Public. She had no time for the child of a man too lazy to look after his own.

“You need to understand something,” she said. “We keep our
households separate. I've got all I can handle with my own two boys.”

“Now, Bethany,” Fred said. “It's just a night or two.”

But if she'd learned anything over the years, she'd learned how to stand up for herself. One night would stretch out into a week, and then a month, and once Gabriel got the run of her house, Pops and Shawn would soon follow. And it wouldn't take long for squalor to take root, settle in to stay. A few stray cups could collect overnight into a dried-on sinkful. Some newspapers left on the couch might slide across the floor, pile up beside the armchair, snag the dust bunnies that had materialized the moment you looked away. And when you turned back to deal with them, you'd forget the laundry you'd meant to start, so the beds wouldn't get made for a night that stretched into a week because Mrs. So-and-so called and she needed
her
house cleaned special for a party, or because you caught cold or your back went out, or because it was already time to take out the garbage and vacuum the living room carpet and rinse the teapot with vinegar. Suddenly the house would seem smaller and voices would seem louder and supper, again, would be Van Camp's pork 'n' beans. She could see the clutter building up already in the twin crystal balls of the boy's thick glasses.

She said, “I'm sorry, but it's more than I can do.”

“Now, Beth.”

“I won't be sending him
my
boys to care for.”

“It's OK,” Shawn said, but that smile was finally wavering. “I don't want Bethany to put herself out on our account.”

“I assure you that I won't,” she said. “That's what I'm telling you.”

“Of course I'm happy at the farmhouse,” Shawn said. “And Gabriel will be too. I just thought he'd like to spend a little time with boys his age.”

“I want to stay with
you
,” Gabriel said to his father. It was the first time he'd spoken.

“For Pete's sake, kiddo,” Shawn said, too heartily. “I bet you could survive a night or two without me. How old are you now anyway, twelve? Thirteen?”

“I'm
ten
,” Gabriel said, and he broke into silent, shaking sobs.

“Old enough for a super-big slice of pie,” Bethany said to quiet him, to quiet them all. But tears kept bubbling up in the corners of his eyes, and the sleeve of his coat was shiny from wiping his nose, even though, twice, she offered him the Kleenex box. He ate three huge pieces of pie, bite after bite, wedge after wedge, in the same helpless way she remembered Ma eating cookies right from the bag. By that time Pa's late nights had stretched into lost days, and she weighed over two hundred pounds. Even today she was a big lady, and she'd be living with Bethany instead of Rose if Bethany hadn't hardened her heart. There'd be a yellow stain on the ceiling above the chair where she smoked her cigarettes, butts toppling out of whichever clean plate she chose for an ashtray, burn holes scattered across the upholstery like flecks of dirt. And then Fred would start lighting up his after-dinner cigar in the house instead of going next door, and maybe he'd have one after work, seeing it was so convenient for him to do so. That was how easily it started. You had to be on your guard. As soon as somebody balled up a handkerchief, left it lying on the end table, there'd suddenly be a couple of pennies, a pen, a scrap of paper beside it.

“Rosie,” Bethany had told her sister, “you've got yourself and those kids to think of. Don't let Ma go bullying you if you don't want her living with you.”

“I just think you ought to take a turn for a while,” Rose said. “Just give me a break from her, that's all.”

But that kind of thinking was the beginning of the end. It was the beginning of Ma and those dresses she couldn't be bothered
to wash, and that stinking little dog she'd adopted last year and doted on more than she ever did on Bethany. It was the beginning of forgetting where you drew the line. For by the time you were in a particular situation, that line got hard to see because there were people stepping all over it, waving their arms, hollering and crying and making demands. The thing was to keep yourself clear of those troubles. The thing was to understand your limits, to put your foot down with a boom. Bethany had known before she'd married Fred that he had his family's taste for booze. But she also knew he had a kind heart and a yearning for better things, and she'd designed the house to feed those inclinations.

After supper, Fred led everybody into the living room to play cards around the coffee table as Bethany put the leftovers away, did the dishes and wiped down the cupboards and washed the floor. By then it was nearly eleven, time to leave for Midnight Mass—if you didn't get there early, you'd end up standing at the back. Bethany had taken the boys each year since they were old enough to sit up in a pew. Religion, like a spoonful of cod-liver oil, was an easy ounce of prevention, even though some might protest its bitter taste. She stuck her head in the living room. The Christmas tree cast a warm light over the crèche in the big bay window, and Bethany admired the faces of the shepherds, the wise men, the little drummer boy. Even the animals' dull expressions were made human in the presence of the Baby Jesus. Mouths parted expectantly. Eyes solemn with hope. She'd draped the top of the crèche with red ribbon that matched the ribbons on the gifts beneath the tree, and these matched the tiny red bows she had glued to each of the golden ornaments. The angel she'd seated at the tree's tippy top, a white bulb illuminating her dress, looked down upon everything with pleasure—except for the bottle of Wild Turkey, the men hunched over their cards. Pete and Robert John sat beside them; Gabriel dozed on the love seat, his
mouth open on one of her nice throw pillows, his coat tugged carelessly over him.

“Pete, Robert John,” she said. “Time to get ready for church.”

The men had cigars tucked in their shirt pockets; Bethany saw Pete had one too. And perhaps it was that cigar which made him decide to feel his oats a little. “Oh, Ma,” he said. “I'm too old for that sort of thing.”

“Me too,” Robert John said.

“Then I guess you're too old for what Santa brought you,” Bethany said.

Pete sighed theatrically; Robert John popped to his feet. In the fall, Fred had taken the boys out to look at snowmobiles, and they suspected, rightly, there was something waiting for them in the milk house under a tarp. But then Fred said, “Aw, Beth, don't you think Pete's old enough to make up his own mind?”

And before Bethany could reply, Pete said, “Dad's right. I'm not a kid anymore.”

Dad
. She'd been after the boys to call Fred that since they were married, but this was the first time either one had done so. Fred beamed, knuckled Pete's shoulder; Pops cackled vengefully. What could she do? She said, “Whatever your father thinks is best,” hoping he would say, “Go along with your ma,” or maybe even, “Let's all go to Mass together this year,” which, of course, he didn't. Robert John sat back down and announced he wasn't a kid either, but she had him by the ear so fast he yipped like the pup he still was. “We leave in five minutes,” she told him, anger masking her hurt. “March.” She turned to follow, saw Gabriel clumsily working his arms into his coat. He said, “May I go to church too?”

“Now, son,” Shawn said, “we don't want to impose.” He was looking at Bethany when he spoke, but the easy, oily smile was gone. Maybe she'd been too hard on him. Clearly, he cared about
the boy. And she knew firsthand how difficult it was to raise a child alone.

“Beth?” Fred said. “Honey?”

But the truth was that she didn't want to take Gabriel to church, to have him sit beside her with his uncombed hair and unwashed smell, that jacket sleeve stiff from wiping at his nose. She wanted her own sons sitting right beside her, where everyone in that congregation could see what big, fine boys they were, how she was raising them right, how she was keeping herself up, how Fred Carpenter was one lucky man. “You sure you can be good for one whole hour?” Bethany said. “Because if you fidget, I'll send you out to the car.”

“Gabriel's always good,” Shawn said, and the boy smiled at him gratefully. Robert John sulked back into the room, his feet crammed into unlaced boots. His coat was unzipped. His clip-on tie was crooked. He shot Pete a clean, cold look of hate.

Pete said, “Hey, this'll cheer you up! Gabriel's coming with you.”

Robert John mumbled, “Will he fit in a pew?”

Fred said sharply, “That's enough of that.”

“Take your cousin out to the car,” Bethany told Robert John, and as soon as the younger boys had left the room, she plucked the cigar from Pete's shirt pocket. “If you're going to be treated like a man,” she said curtly, “you'd better start learning to act like one. I expect you to set an example for both your brother and your cousin.” She flipped the cigar at Fred and walked out to the foyer. To her surprise, he followed; he even helped her on with her coat. “Aw, don't be mad,” he said. “He'd just sleep through the service anyway.” He was cuddling up behind her, his beard tickly against her neck. “
Dad
,” he said, and he leaned his chin on her shoulder. “Did you hear him say it, Bethie?” His hands locked over her stomach like the buckle of a belt. And Bethany forgave him, leaned back against him—just for a mo
ment—before unbuckling his hands, kissing each rough palm, and hurrying after the boys.

Robert John had claimed the front seat; Gabriel sat in back. The angel in the big bay window winked and blinked as they drove away, dwindling down to the small, still light of a distant star. Bethany thought of Pete, alone with the men, their whiskey, their ways. The fact was that both her boys were growing up. She hoped Fred's example would keep them from being like their fathers and her own, the walk-away types, the sort of men she didn't even pretend to understand. As she turned north, following County C along the river, she wondered how it could be that Pa wasn't even the least bit curious to see how she and Rose turned out. Ma, for all her dislike of them, wouldn't have left them any more than she would have left behind an arm or a leg. Maybe, Bethany thought, that was why she'd treated them so mean. Because she couldn't leave. Because they'd been a part of her once and her body still remembered them, claimed them, the way Bethany's body claimed her boys somewhere just below the breastbone.

“Is that the river where the angel lives?” Gabriel asked in his clear, child's voice.

“Angel?” Bethany said. It had started to snow, a light sparkling haze that shattered the moonlight into millions of pieces and skipped them across the narrow strip of water still untouched by ice.

“My dad said there was an angel,” Gabriel said, and his voice was less hopeful now.

“That's just an old wives' tale,” Bethany said.

“No it's not,” Robert John said. “This kid at school? Davey Otto? Some other kids dared him to jump off the Killsnake Dam and he did it? And he—”

“Nearly drowned,” Bethany said.

“His mom says the angel saved his life.”

“I don't ever want to hear about you playing at the dam.”

“Pops saw it once. By the highway bridge,” Robert John said. “He says it jumped out of the water like a fish!”

“Have
you
ever seen it?” Gabriel said.

Robert John twisted in his seat to stare at him. “Maybe,” he said mysteriously.