Songs in Ordinary Time (64 page)

gave her this prickly feeling of being on the outside looking in on all that was real.

They both looked up as someone began to knock on the door.

“Please open the door,” Omar Duvall called. “My arms are full!”

“Omar’s back!” Benjy said, grinning. He jumped up and ran to let him in.

A
fter dinner Marie tried to sort through the bag of pamphlets and forms and promotional packets that Omar had brought. The first step was organizing all these materials before the soap came. When? Any day now.

Could he be more specific? In a day or two. Tomorrow? The next day?

When? Her second payment on the loan would be due soon. He was on the telephone now, explaining to one of his distributors that he’d just come from Connecticut, where he’d finally laid it on the line with Gold. There were to be no more delays. Too many people were counting on him. In Atkinson alone he had fifteen distributors clamoring for their product.

She looked up. Fifteen distributors in Atkinson alone? The table was covered with glossy green pamphlets and forms and order slips that had to be stapled together. When the soap did come they could be quickly attached to each box and bottle of detergent. It would take her hours, but she wanted to be ready. Nothing would be left to chance. Omar chuckled softly into the phone. As soon as he hung up she asked how was she supposed to sell all her soap if half the people in town had their own lifetime supply?

Not to worry, he chided. It was the investment that counted. He had been over it and over it with her and she still couldn’t get it straight. Why couldn’t she trust him, he wanted to know. She did, she insisted, but she needed to understand how it worked, this pyramid that kept piling up riches, stuffing her pockets with money. It was like a chain letter, he tried to explain. She had never understood chain letters, either, had usually been the one to break them, had never been able to believe that anyone could get something for nothing. But it wasn’t something for nothing, he insisted. She was forgetting her investment, her investment in a product she would sell, a product that would induce her customers to invest in their own franchises. So it always came back to the investment. Yes. Yes. Yes! For him it made absolute sense.

The investment was the constantly growing base, pushing her higher and higher up the ladder. But it just didn’t seem logical, not with everyone selling the same thing. But they’re not, he said; it only seemed that way. It must be her, then; she couldn’t get it straight; something was missing. Faith, he said, trust, those were the missing pieces. At some point she had to give herself up, she had to yield and let the process take over.

She began by separating the forms and order blanks and triplicated receipts that were all mixed up in these grocery bags. Some of the forms were soiled and dog-eared, and many were sticky from spilled soda. Mr. Briscoe had taught her that neat paperwork was the backbone of a business.

Everything at your fingertips. Proof. Copies.

Norm came into the kitchen and watched sullenly while she sorted the 312 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

forms into piles. Earlier, when he’d asked to go out with Weeb, she had told him no. He could stay home and give her a hand.

A few minutes later Benjy came in and stood looking over her shoulder at all the papers. “Who’s going to sell all the soap, Mom?” he asked. “Are we going to do it like we did the Christmas cards?”

“Uh-uh,” Norm said. “That’s not what you’re thinking, is it?” He stared as she tried to explain it to him.

“And word just spreads that you’ve got the soap, that’s all. People just find out you’ve got it and they come to buy it from you.”

He looked at her incredulously.

She heard her voice weakening. “It sounds crazy, but Omar says it’s selling like wildfire in thirty-eight states already. It’s a different kind of soap. It’s—”

“A detergent theory based on the principles of jet propulsion, young man,” Omar said, returning to the kitchen. “A product of the future.” He stood behind her, kneading her shoulders.

“How come nobody’s ever heard of Presto Soap before?” Norm asked with a peevish squint. “I never heard of it.”

“And is to be ignorant to deny existence? I think what we have here is a fine kettle of philosophical fish,” he said, with a wink down at Marie.

She tried to smile.

“All I know,” Norm said, “is that in this whole country if something’s going to sell, people have to know about it, and for people to know about it, it has to be advertised. Who’s going to advertise all this stuff?” He pointed to the jumble of pamphlets and forms.

She turned in her chair and looked up. “He’s got a point, Omar. At the store—”

“At the store!” He grimaced. “Marie, Marie, you know that’s an entirely different operation. We’ve been all through this before.”

“But I keep on wondering how people are going to come to me to buy something they don’t even know I have.” The panic in her voice registered on her sons’ faces.

“And something they’ve never even heard of,” Norm added.

Omar went to the sink. There were no clean glasses, so he filled a coffee cup with water and drank slowly. Norm kept staring at him. She was staring at him. Benjy was reading a pamphlet. Omar set the cup on the counter and turned back to them.

“Right at this very moment,” he said, “Presto Soap is being advertised all across the country.”

“I’ve never seen any of their ads!” Norm interrupted.

“You are hardly the average American housewife, Norman,” he said with a forced smile.

“Well, even if it is being advertised, how are people going to know it’s here, that my mother’s selling it?” Norm asked.

“Because she is going to tell them,” he said, enunciating each syllable as SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 313

if for a child’s benefit. “And you are going to tell them! And you!” He pointed to Norm and Benjy.

“Oh yah, same as we did with the Christmas cards.” Norm smirked at her. “You want to buy some?” he asked Omar. “We still have most of them.”

She shivered. In spite of the night’s heaviness, she felt a draft at her back.

“I don’t think that’s enough,” she said in a faltering voice, “just telling people.”

Omar moved in to reassure her. “Of course, not just that alone, my dear.

There are other modus operandi.”

She saw Norm thrust out his chest and her own hand fell limply across the folders—green, the color of money, with white bubbles spelling out PRESTO. Presto, as if her luck could change with the wave of a wand.

“And where do we get any of those?” Norm asked sourly, then gave her a confident nod.

Omar regarded him with a pitying indulgent smile. “Forgive me for using such technical terms, but accustomed as I am to the fraternity of businessmen, I often forget myself when I’m dealing with laymen and children.

Modus operandi, Norman, are methods, ways of operating. And one that comes instantly to mind, probably the most effective, are demonstrations.”

“Demonstrations?” she asked.

“Yes, Marie. You give these soap parties. You send out invitations, people come, you demonstrate your product, offer door prizes, serve refreshments.

There’s even little games you can play,” he said, shuffling eagerly through the leaflets. “One of these tells exactly how to plan a party. Here we go, Presto Parties, they’re called,” he said, reading the leaflet. “They’re very popular. They have all these magic tricks you can do.” He turned a page.

“And demonstrations; ways to get out spots and stains; ink, grease, blood.

You actually do it right in front of them. See!” he said, holding it out to her.

“I couldn’t do that,” she said weakly.

“Of course you can,” he crooned, as he patted her arm. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Marie Fermoyle.”

“No, I couldn’t do that,” she said again.

She got up from the table then and stood in front of the window. The moonlight lay in narrow strips across the Klubocks’ lawn. Jessie Klubock had a husband who worked and a life that worked. Always baking cookies, planting bulbs in October before the ground froze, at Christmas sending over her own fruitcake soaked in rum, all done up in a red tin, then standing out there with the neighbors singing carols into the cold lonely night, the worst night of the year, rubbing it in, trapping them all inside here, as she hissed at her children not to go near the windows, they’ll see us. All they want is to sing us Christmas carols. No, what they want is to get in here and have a good look around. Not a neighbor on this street had ever stepped foot inside this house in her ten years here, and now all of a sudden she was going to invite them in to witness the holes in the walls, the threadbare couch shored up with a can, the chipped red plaster lamps she and Norm had won at Bingo at the fair years ago, while she performed magic 314 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

tricks—what? Juggling detergent bottles? My God, what had she been thinking of? What kind of mess had she gotten herself into here? For all his assurances, he did not know her at all, did he? All his promises, and what had he actually done? He had taken her money, that’s what he’d done.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “There’s more than one way to do this, you know.”

She turned. She was very tired. She could see how much they needed her; him perhaps even more than her children. She was tired of being needed.

She was so very, very tired. All this, she thought, biting her lip, all this because once, a long time ago, she had made a fatal mistake. She had fallen in love too young with the wrong man. Imagine, it was as simple as that and now she would never catch up. She would never be happy.

“Come on,” Omar said, pulling out a chair. “Sit down and let me tell you another way to do it.”

She looked at him. Because she couldn’t speak, she just kept shaking her head. Mom? Mom? Her sons, her two boys were calling someone who was very, very tired.

“Marie?”

“She’s not interested,” Norm said. “She’s not gonna sell soap! She’s not gonna have stupid parties, so just get your crap out of here.” He was sweeping the pamphlets back into the bags. Benjy glanced back and forth between Omar and his brother.

“Here!” Norm cried, thrusting the bag at Omar’s chest. “Take it and get the hell outta here.”

Fascinated, she watched her male image mirrored in her son’s rage, the strong twin soul whose freer heart, willful and blunt, needed no man’s approval or permission.

“You watch your mouth, boy,” Omar warned, his sweat-slicked face at Norm’s. “You hear me?”

Norm shoved Omar away from him. “Go ahead, do something about it,”

he snarled, yet almost seemed to smile, to take pleasure in this. “Come on!”

“Norm!” Benjy yelled as he grabbed his brother’s arm. He kept trying to pull him back. “Stop it! Don’t do that!” he begged. “Don’t! Please, Norm!

Please, don’t!”

Her younger son’s terror struck her from this daze. “Norm!” They looked, waiting for the rest of it. “Please don’t,” she finally said.

Norm stayed between her and Duvall, so that however she turned or stepped away, he moved with her, swaying, it almost seemed, his desperate fluidity demanding all of her attention. “Mom. Listen. Please. Just listen.”

She worked hard enough. They’d always managed before. They didn’t need Duvall or any of his wacky schemes. There were jobs he could get after school. Benjy could get a paper route. One thing was for sure, she would never peddle soap door-to-door or do any goddamn magic tricks. No! Absolutely not.

“But I have to,” she said with an eerie calm that coated every sharp edge and glaring plane with its dull veneer. “I’ve already paid for it, and I can’t get my money back.”

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 315

B
enjy hunched low in the seat. They were speeding down the narrow road from the house in the Flatts, where Norm had just bought four bottles of beer from the fabled Mrs. Carper, who turned out to be just a skinny lady in pin curls and red slipper socks. Norm guzzled the first bottle as he drove, then belched loudly. He slowed down as they approached a small country cemetery. Its dozen or so ancient gravestones huddled around a tall blackened stone cross that probably bore the family name. This Benjy knew from rides with their mother when they’d been younger. They didn’t go anywhere together anymore. He wondered if they would be buried together in a family plot someday. His eyes widened with the thought of the dead man, Earlie, exposed and completely alone now that the dog no longer came to roll against its foulness.

Norm held the bottle by its neck, then hurled it through the window. It shattered on one of the markers. Norm’s laugh chilled him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, goose bumps mottling his arms.

“Oh yah?” Norm said, glancing over. “Well, let me tell you something you shouldn’t have done. You shouldn’t have stuck up for that asshole Duvall.”

“I wasn’t sticking up for
him
. I just didn’t want Mom all upset.” What he wanted to say was that he had been sticking up for Norm.

“You know you’ve got this thing, this, this weird idea that Duvall’s some knight in shining armor or something. I don’t think you know what’s going on.”

Norm had opened the second bottle, which he kept between his legs now as they came through town. Benjy was afraid Norm was getting drunk.

They stopped at a red light on Merchants Row and Norm finished the bottle.

As they drove around, Norm kept looking for Weeb, who had found himself a girlfriend during Norm’s house arrest. The beastly Donna Creller, Norm howled. Jesus Christ, how could he sink so low. Benjy didn’t say anything about the time he’d seen Donna Creller with Norm in this very car.

They cruised up and down Merchants Row, deserted except for a few wandering dogs. Parked in front of the empty bus depot was a police car.

Inside, Victor the cop was licking an ice cream cone. He scowled as they went by, and Norm groaned. “Tough duty!” Norm pretended to yell. “Hey creep, you got nothing to do, go pick up Omar Duvall before there’s a murder!”

“What do you mean, murder?” Benjy asked.

“Just what I said. That fucking Duvall’d just as soon kill me as look at me.” He glanced at Benjy. “Can’t you tell? He wouldn’t think twice about it.”