The Good Life (16 page)

“Fine,” he said, mesmerized by the powerful tool sliding through the beef. “This is actually kind of fun.”

“That’s fine carving, Nate,” she said. “You’ve got a Thanksgiving turkey in your future.”

 

During dinner, Lauren asked Eileen about her childhood. And at first, she waved off the question, saying, “You wouldn’t be interested in that.” But when Lauren and Nate both insisted they would, she told them about growing up on a farm in eastern Pennsylvania, much like their mother had. It was a working farm, as they had become known in modern times even though real farmers thought the term was redundant, with cows, pigs, chickens, tractors, and three hundred acres. Eileen’s two older brothers, along with several hired men, helped her father with the animal care and crop oversight—they grew corn, mostly, occasionally rotating in other grains when the soil demanded it. Eileen and her mother tended the family garden—tomatoes, pole beans, squashes, lettuces, peppers, potatoes, beets, and onions, as well as a flower garden—and took care of the house, which meant cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing, canning, and anything else her mother could think of, and she thought of things more often than not. Consequently, Eileen was busy during the week with chores and school from five in the morning until ten at night. Saturdays were different. She was allowed to stay in bed until eight before starting her chores. On Sundays, they went to church from nine until eleven, had dinner, which Eileen helped prepare and serve, and then she had the afternoon off. Lauren finished chewing the meat that had been sitting in her mouth while her grandmother talked. She swallowed, and then asked, “When did you have fun?”

Eileen reached for her water glass. “I didn’t have much time for fun,” she said. “Sometimes, on a summer evening after all my chores were done, my mother and I would sit on the front porch swing and drink a tall glass of cool lemonade. We’d talk quietly and listen to the crickets.”

“That was your fun?” asked Nate, eyebrows raised.

“Well, sure,” said Eileen. “I can’t tell you how good that lemonade tasted after a day filled with hard work. You have to understand how nice it was just to be sitting.”

“Did you ever go out?” asked Nate.

“Occasionally,” said Eileen. “Sometimes, we’d go to the Grange Hall for a dance on a Saturday night, but that was just two or three times a year. Most of the time we were home.”

Nate swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Were you bored out of your mind?” he asked, smiling.

“No,” said Eileen. “We didn’t have time for that.”

“I get bored with some frequency,” said Sam through a mouthful of lima beans.

“It was a different time,” continued Eileen. “We worked hard for what we had. We spent time together as a family. We didn’t get into a whole lot of trouble. It’s different today.”

“Yeah,” said Nate, “and about a million times better. I don’t think I would have survived back then. I think I’m allergic to work.”

Eileen smiled at her grandson. “That’s only because you don’t work. If you did, you’d actually feel better about a lot of things, including yourself.”

After dinner and dessert—the best cherry pie, Nate announced, that he had ever tasted—they all did the dishes at Eileen’s suggestion. Lauren cleared the table and scraped the meager leftovers into the garbage. Nate loaded the dishwasher, and then relinquished the sink to Eileen, who washed the pots and pans. Sam ran a dish towel over the wet pots, and then laid them on the cleared kitchen table. When everything was done, Eileen walked her grandchildren to the door, kissed their foreheads, and sent them off into the cold darkness.

“I like the life Gran lived,” said Lauren, walking up the path with her hands in her coat pockets.

“You’re kidding,” said Nate, kicking at the salt on the bricks.

“I’m not,” said Lauren. “It sounds like a good life to me.”

“It sounds like a whole lot of work to me,” said Nate, two steps ahead of his sister.

“But they felt good about what they did,” said Lauren, stopping. “They were proud of themselves. I mean, I can’t really think of anything I’m proud of and I’m fifteen years old.”

Although Nate kept walking, he tried to think of something that made him proud. Nothing came to mind, other than the fact that for his sixteen years he hadn’t put more than 50 percent effort into anything and seemed to get away with everything. It had never occurred to him until that very moment that pride and effort are related.

 

Inside the big house, Nate dodged the roaming caterers in the kitchen like a hero avoiding aliens in a video game. Just as he was about to walk though the doorway into the hall, someone bumped him on the arm. Game over. “Sorry, man,” said a kid about his age, carrying two large buckets of ice. “I didn’t see you.”

“No problem,” said Nate.

The boy hurried past him and down the hallway, before disappearing into the living room, where the bar was set up. No wonder he was rushing; this crowd could put away the alcohol. The poor bartender was probably six-deep in customers waiting for rocks for their single-malt scotches. Nate walked down the hallway cleared by the kid with the ice, with the exception of two men dressed like twins in gray flannel pants, crisp white shirts, red Christmas ties, and navy blue blazers citing stock market numbers. Just as he placed his hand on the banister, Mrs. Nelson, drink in hand, found him. “Nate!” she said enthusiastically as she entered the hallway from the dining room. “Where have you been hiding all evening?”

Nate pasted a smile on his face and turned to greet his mother’s friend. She moved toward him like a big cat slinks toward its dinner. Men her age probably thought she was hot—frosted blond hair cut in a youthful style, expensive clothing and jewelry, ultrathin like his mother, and willing—but Nate found her grotesque, an overdone circus sideshow (“Rich Lady”). Plus
she
thought she was hot, which made it worse. What kind of forty-five-year-old woman approached a teenage boy looking for the wrong kind of attention? Her husband worked for Dilloway and probably spent as many hours making money as Nate’s dad did. Men like that were married to women like Mrs. Nelson. “I was having dinner with my grandparents,” said Nate, backing into the banister.

Mrs. Nelson stopped just shy of bumping into him, her face inches from his. Her eyelids were heavy with taupe eye shadow and from drinking. He could smell wine on her breath. She grinned at him, as she shifted her body, blocking the stairs. “You look delicious tonight,” she said, putting a gem-bedecked hand against his chest. “Let’s run away together.” Nate felt the sweat push out of his forehead pores, a hundred tiny epidermal dams burst. He swallowed hard and blinked at her. She smiled and then laughed, throwing her head back.

“Nate!” called Lauren from the end of the hallway. “Mom needs you in the kitchen.”

Nate deftly ducked away from Mrs. Nelson. As he slid past Lauren on his way to the kitchen, he murmured, “Thanks.” Lauren carried on down the hall when Nate was gone.

“Hello, Mrs. Nelson,” she said as she turned the corner and started up the stairs. “Nice to see you again.” But Mrs. Nelson was already moving on, toward the living room, toward the bar.

In the kitchen, Nate leaned against the wall, counting in his head. His heart rate, which first matched the pace of his counting, eventually slowed. He looked at his watch, and then poked his head around the doorway. The hallway was deserted. He inched around the corner, jogged the length of the hall, and flew up the stairs. He ran to his room and shut and locked the door behind him. He stood against it, listening for her; his breathing was deep, as if he had just sprinted an entire football field. Convinced she had not followed him, Nate exhaled and crossed the room to his bed. He grabbed the remote control from his nightstand, lay down, and turned on his television. He flipped through eighty-seven channels, stopping briefly for motor-cross racing and a
Baywatch
rerun, and then clicked it off. He sat up and rooted through his backpack for his iPod. He covered his ears with headphones and selected his “Kick Ass” playlist as he made his way to his desk and laptop. He pushed his laundered bath towels from the chair to the floor, sat down, and played three games of Deadly Invader, losing interest when he lost the last game. He reached for his cell phone and called Josh, who didn’t pick up. Nate didn’t leave a message.

Nate looked back at his spring break screen saver and thought about what his grandmother had said that evening about boredom. She said she had never been bored because she was too busy. Nate was perpetually bored. Was there a correlation between working and satisfaction? Maybe, thought Nate, maybe not. His father busted his balls working and he was never satisfied. Nate thought he heard something and looked at his door. If that tramp Mrs. Nelson had the guts to come up here, he’d tell her where to go. He walked quietly to his door and put his head against it—nothing. He opened it, ever so slowly, just an inch and looked out—no one. He closed the door and went back to his bed. Something was different. Nate looked around his room, but found nothing amiss. He lay down and listened. It was quiet. That was it, Nate realized; it was the quiet.

Instead of creating noise with his iPod or another computer game, Nate stayed put, closed his eyes, and thought about Christmas morning. It would be uneventful, like it always was. He got whatever he requested—this year it was money to buy a new music system for his car. The same applied to Lauren, although lately Ann had presented Lauren with a corny Christmas keepsake, an idea she no doubt stole from one of her lifestyle magazines. Two years ago, it was a homemade quilt from the Amish in Pennsylvania, and last year, it was an antique chest of drawers. A piece of furniture for a teenager. Of course, it was no mystery what she herself would receive. She always got a huge piece of jewelry, hand-selected at Cartier or Tiffany in New York, which sent her squealing from the couch to the chair, where his dad sat with a smug look on his face as if he actually had something to do with it. His mother was the one who flew to New York and secured the purchase, so it was really more of a surprise for his dad, especially when he got the bill. He put up with it, though, just to see his wife happy.

Nate rarely saw her that happy or animated, except when she had too much alcohol. She drank every night, as far as Nate could tell, starting at 6 p.m. Many of his friends’ parents did the same, to melt away the stresses of the day, he guessed. It was when his dad found out about his mom’s daytime drinking that the blind eye suddenly got vision.

Nate remembered the argument between them. He had been sitting in their den, with the TV on mute and the latest issue of
Sports Illustrated
in his hands. He paid attention when he heard their raised voices simply because they rarely raised them. And he was interested in hearing what his dad had to say. He might not have said anything, if Lauren hadn’t told him that their mom “smelled like wine” and “drove erratically” on the way home from volleyball practice. Nate hadn’t been aware of her afternoon wine breath, or if, in fact, it was routine. He was busy after school, at practice or hanging out with friends at the mall or someone’s house. By the time he got home, it was almost dinnertime, and she was already into her first evening glass.

“You will not endanger my children with this behavior,” Mike had said. “You’re an adult, and you need to start acting like one. Being Ann Barons does not put you above the law.”

“Lauren was exaggerating,” countered Ann. “I had one glass of wine with Sally after a shopping trip.”

“That’s a lousy excuse, if it is one. You don’t need anything in the afternoon. You drink every night.”

“As do you!”

“When my daily responsibilities are over, and I don’t have to get in a car and pick up a child, yes.”

“God, Mike, it was one time. You’re overreacting.”

“It’s one time that you’ve been caught. Because I am not your babysitter, I don’t know about other times. Although I have my suspicions.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Stop it, Ann. It’s indefensible behavior. And if you can’t stop it, get help.”

And that had been the end of it. Neither Lauren nor his dad had said anything since, and Nate had seen no evidence. But he wondered if she continued to imbibe every now and again, because an occasion arose or just because she had nothing better to do. Nate couldn’t blame her for drinking. If he had to live her life, he’d be bored out of his mind, grabbing a drink whenever one was offered.

Nate sat up, got off his bed, and walked over to his computer. He had forgotten to order the sneakers Lauren wanted for Christmas. He had found the website a few days before and saved the link, so it was quick and easy. He clicked “yes” to the exorbitant overnight shipping charge and to the “Bill Me Later” payment option, so the gifts, like the others he had purchased, wouldn’t show up on his mother’s credit card statement.

Maybe being home for Christmas would make it different this year. While he liked the prime rib and gravy, fruit pies, and hearty egg dishes his grandmother always prepared when they went to their farm for the holidays, Nate was looking forward to waking up Christmas morning in his own house. Christmas had always been at home when he was little. It was the one day Nate could count on his father to play all day with him and his new toys and his mother to make whatever he and Lauren wanted for breakfast.

 

Eileen didn’t share her plans for Christmas morning with Ann, mostly because her daughter pooh-poohed everything she suggested. A Christmas Eve dinner together, for example, was out, Ann said, because they already had plans to go to the Kendalls’ house for holiday drinks and an out-of-this-world dinner buffet. Lydia was a world-class cook who dazzled her guests with her colorful and inventive presentations. Ann offered to call Lydia to double-check, but she was certain Eileen and Sam could join in on the festivities. Nate often backed out, Ann explained, but Lauren usually tagged along. Eileen told Ann not to bother; she and Sam would spend Christmas Eve as they always had, at home. And Nate and Lauren were welcome to join them.