The Laments (26 page)

“I don’t think we need to insult the Founding Fathers, son,” he said.

“I wasn’t insulting anyone. All I said was that it was about money!”

“It was about liberty,” blubbered Scabby through a wad of crimson-clotted tissue.

“Go back to England!” shouted a wise guy in the back row.

A girl in the second row stopped braiding her hair to glare at Will. “I think it’s disrespectful to call our Founders cheapskates!”

“I think he should apologize!” said another.

Will shrank before a sea of unfriendly faces.

“But I didn’t say
cheapskate
. . . .”

“Let’s move on,” said the teacher.

“Why can’t I disagree, Mr. Wallace?”

“That’s enough, Will,” he replied.

During the soccer game in gym, Will felt a thud on his back and was hurled forward onto his chest, the wind knocked out of him. Above him stood three smiling figures.

“Sorry, limey,” said one.

In the afternoon, he found a note on his desk that said
GO BACK TO INGLAND
. He stuffed the note in his pocket.

During assembly, he was hit by a spitball, and recognized the malevolent stare, two rows back: Scabby Woodbine, patriot nosebleeder.

THOUGH JULIA AND HOWARD ENJOYED
each other’s company at home for the first week, Howard refused to discuss the future. Julia couldn’t help but assign blame. She felt Howard had been betrayed by charlatans, and since there was no one to call (Fay/Bernhardt’s offices were closed and emptied), she lost her temper with Howard.

“So much for the bloody American dream!” she cried. “Chapman Fay took care of that. It’s as though we came here for nothing!”

“Well,” said Howard, “it wasn’t his fault. He sailed into bad weather.”

“And what have
we
sailed into?” Julia was despairing. “Perhaps
that’s
our problem as well; it’s not bad weather, it’s our own expectations! We must have been mad to come to America!”

“We were miserable in England,” Howard murmured.

“Look at us now, Howard!” Julia went on. “I’d settle for miserable. Poor Marcus, he’d have been better off in England.” She sighed. “The poor boy is a dreamer, just like
yo
u
!”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Howard whispered.

Immediately, Julia felt ashamed of herself. How could she blame Howard for being a dreamer? It was one of his most admirable qualities. So she bumped around the room, adjusting the salt and pepper shakers, realigning the glasses, until she could compose herself.

“How long can we last, Howard?”

“They’re giving me regular severance checks. We’ll be fine for five or six months.”

GO BACK TO ENGLIND
said the second note Will found on his desk. He showed it to Mr. Wallace, who addressed the class the following day.

“Class, yesterday a member of our class expressed an opinion, and we should have shown him respect. After all, in America we all have the right of free speech, which means the right to say what we think without fear of reprisal.”

Later, Scabby Woodbine would clarify the matter when they were both pissing into urinals.

“You’re a traitor, Lament. A lousy traitor. This is America, and you’re a guest here. Don’t forget that.”

Will could hear Scabby’s pee hitting the porcelain with all the force of a fire hose; he wondered how Woodbine would have done against Digley in the bog.

“I’m not a traitor, I’m from England. I’ll defend England anytime I want!” Will replied.

Ernest Woodbine’s attack on the porcelain stopped. He looked at Will.

“I respect your loyalty, Lament. But you’re still a limey,” he replied. “And if our nations ever oppose each other in combat, I swear I’ll rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Scabby Woodbine’s bare hands gave his penis a vigorous shake, and he marched out of the bathroom, his combat boots squeaking on the wet floor.

MEMORIAL DAY WAS ONE
of only three days a year on which the Finches lowered their Texan flag from its little pole on the garage and replaced it with the Stars and Stripes. Rusty Torino, the Imperatores, and the Gallaghers hung bunting from their porches. Once a dozen neighbors did anything in University Hills, it became mandatory.

“Where’s your flag?” asked Madge Finch when she saw Julia in the supermarket. It was the first thing she’d said to Julia since their awful phone conversation after Marcus’s accident.

“My flag?” Julia blinked.

“You don’t want to be the only house on the block without a flag!”

Even the Himmels posted a little flag on their mailbox. This inspired Julia to retrieve a scarf from her closet, which she tacked to the front door.

It was a four-foot-square Union Jack. “
There’s
a bloody flag for them,” she murmured.

An hour later, Will reported that he’d noticed a few cars slowing down when they passed the house.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“I couldn’t help noticing your flag,” said Rusty Torino. Though the skies had been overcast for weeks, his tan was still deep, and he wore a Hawaiian shirt with lots of little bald eagles clutching little Old Glories in their talons.

“I came over to offer this,” said Rusty, producing a little hankie-sized flag, “just in case you guys couldn’t find one over at the hardware store.”

Julia gave Rusty a withering smile. “I take it you want me to replace my flag with this?”

“Just so people don’t get the wrong idea. We’re a community here.”

“Well, of course we are,” replied Julia. “But Memorial Day recognizes the soldiers who gave their lives in the wars, and lots of British soldiers died, too.”

“I realize that, Julia.” Rusty put his hand on his heart in a gesture of sympathy. “But that’s
not
what the flag thing is about.”

“No?” bristled Julia. “What
is
the flag thing about?”

“Look, Julia,” said Rusty softly, “
nobody’s
the same in this neighborhood. That’s obvious. The Gallaghers do their Irish thing, the Imperatores are proud of their religion, and then there’s Frank with his Texas flag, and me . . . with no kids, no wife, no girlfriend, and a little dog.” He paused, looking her directly in the eye. “Look, I
know
what people say about me. But the point I’m trying to make is that the flag is just a way to remind everybody once in a while that we all share the same principles. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, Rusty. But I won’t put up a flag just because everybody else does it. Besides, Memorial Day is an occasion to remember the dead, not gratify the living.”

“Julia,” warned Rusty, “you’re going to upset
everybody
.”

Julia accepted this warning, but her smile was firm. “I’m sorry, Rusty,” she said softly. “But whenever I try to please everybody, I just end up disappointing
myself
.”

ALL AFTERNOON, THE LAMENTS HEARD
honks of outrage from passing cars. Though Julia and Howard seemed united in their resistance, Will cringed at every blast from the street. To a boy who thought of nothing but trying to
fit
in,
his parents’ attitude bordered on insanity.

“Do you want them to hate us?” he asked Julia.

“Hate us? Of course not. I just want to broaden their perspective a bit. No reason for every house to be a carbon copy of the next, even if the developer planned it that way.”

“But at this rate I’ll never make friends!”

Julia looked remorseful for a moment. “You shouldn’t worry so much about pleasing people, Will. It’s important for . . .”

Marcus drummed the windowpane with his prosthesis. “There’s a kid out there staring at us!”

“He’s muttering things,” added Julius.

“Oh, Jesus,” Will groaned, “that’s Scabby Woodbine!”

“A friend of yours?” asked Julia.

“No. He hates me.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks I called the Founding Fathers cheapskates, because he’s a lunatic!”

Julia joined them at the window. Scabby, in black boots and a T-shirt bearing the slogan
MY COUNTRY RIGHT OR WRONG
!, was wheeling his orange chopper bicycle in circles, with his crusty eyes fixed on the offending Union Jack.

“He keeps his boots very well polished,” observed Julia. “When was the last time you polished your shoes?”

“Mum,” Will barked, “I wear
sneakers
. . .”

But before Will had finished his sentence, his mother strode out of the house.

“Oh God.” Will clutched his temples. “What’s she
doin
g
?”

A moment later, Julia was leading a bewildered Scabby into the house. “You
must
have lunch with us,” she said.

“Why?” protested Scabby.

“I want you to be friends with my son,” replied Julia. “Please have lunch with us.”

“I can’t!”

“Mum?” said Will. “He doesn’t
want
to!” He glanced at Scabby, surprised to be defending him.

“But you must, Scabby, you
mus
t
!” declared Julia, propelling him up the split-level stairs to the dining room, where Howard was seated, the twins still at their lookout posts by the window. “That’s Howard, you know Will, and that’s Julius and Marcus!”

Scabby was momentarily distracted by Marcus, saluting with his prosthesis; his pink eyes surveyed the hands of the other Laments in case this was a family trait.

Julius grinned. “Hi, Scabby.”

“My name isn’t Scabby, it’s Ernest!” said the boy with indignation.

“Ernest? Well that’s a
wonderful
name,” said Julia. “How on earth did you get that awful nickname?”

“I didn’t know I
had
it!” he sputtered.

“I see,” said Julia, casting a critical eye at Will. “And are you
really
enemies with my son, Ernest?”

“No, ma’am,” gulped Scabby.

“He attacked me in class!” Will retorted.

“I
disagreed
with you,” said Ernest. “This is the United States of America. I have a right to my opinion.”

“Of
course
you do!” said Julia, extending Scabby an unnecessary amount of compassion by Will’s account.

“I don’t believe this!” cried Will.

“That’s enough, Will,” Julia said. “I think we’re all hungry. Let’s wash up, boys.”

During lunch, Scabby Woodbine answered Julia’s questions with the giddy delight of a boy who was rarely allowed to speak in his own house. Will, in protest, ate nothing. When Julia noticed Scabby’s pinkeye, she insisted on treating him with the silver iodide solution that the doctor had prescribed for Julius a few weeks before. In spite of the hostility of her children, she was determined to put her patient to rights, for here was a child with a problem she could actually cure.

As for Will, it was one thing to sense the competition of a vanished sibling, another to be eclipsed in affection by the twins, but her attention to Scabby was raw betrayal. He stamped out of the house in protest, and hid in an overgrown clump of ferns in the backyard, a bitter sense of injustice gnawing at his insides.

“
I LIKE YOUR FLAG
,” said a voice.

Marina’s eyes rose from behind a spray of yucca petals in the Himmels’ yard. She sat against a tree with a half-eaten apple in one hand.

“Oh,” said Will. “Yeah, my mum put it up.”

“She’s cool.”

“Or mad.”

Marina shrugged. “My dad wouldn’t
dare
put up a German flag. I suggested it; after all, plenty of Germans died in the war. He said nobody
cares
how many Germans died.”

Will’s eyes settled on the apple in her hand. Normally he loathed Granny Smiths; they were too tart for his taste. But now he regretted refusing to eat lunch, and eyed the fruit with yearning.

She followed his glance.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

She held it toward him. He reached. She pulled back slightly, pleased at her own deception.

“
Boy,
are you hungry,” she marveled, casting a cautious glance at the dark shapes of her parents on their screened-in porch.

“Come,” she said, leading him to the end of the yard, where the ferns sprang wild and abundant. They were fiddleheads, their immature tips whorled like the scrolls of violins. Primordial ferns. He and Marina sat in the thick of them.

“Here,” she purred, taking a bite from the apple and offering it to him.

Will bit into the apple; then she took a bite. They took turns this way, until Will noticed her mischievous smile and a trickle of moist pulp clinging to her lip. He leaned forward, and licked it off. Her mouth was Granny Smith sour. Somebody called from the house, but Will wasn’t listening.

Tic-Tac Night

Scabby’s mother, Pattie Woodbine, worked at the Dandy Doug bacon factory in Trenton. She sent two pounds of bacon over with Scabby the next Saturday as a gesture of thanks to Julia for curing his pinkeye.

Scabby began dropping by every weekend; Julia listened to him with a tolerant ear, which was more than Pattie had ever done.

“His eye’s cured; why does he have to keep coming over?” Will asked Julia.

“Because I don’t think Scabby’s mother pays him enough attention,” Julia replied.

“What about your own children?” shouted Will, storming out of the door just as Scabby walked in.

HOWARD BEGAN LOOKING
for work. Several mornings a week he dressed in his dark gray pin-striped suit and took off in the car for meetings in the city. He would return six hours later with a smile bordering on despair.

“Awful people, couldn’t stand them!” he’d say.

Howard had promised himself not to fall for a man like Chapman Fay again. And he had no patience for the Gordon Snifters or the Seamus Thatchers of the world, either.

“Howard, do you honestly
want
a job?” asked Julia one evening.

“Of course, darling, but I want the
right
one this time,” Howard assured her.

WILL HAD SCABBY TO THANK
for his first encounter with Marina among the fiddlehead ferns; lust propelled their subsequent rendezvous. Along the railroad tracks behind University Hills they’d wander, until they found themselves far from home, where the birch woods opened out into corn and alfalfa fields, a horizon broken only by telegraph poles and the idle swoop of a hawk. They would tightrope in tandem along the rails, fingertips touching across the ties, until one of the endless cargo trains rattled near, then would dive into an embankment and kiss for as long as it took for the cars to pass, their tongues hunting and probing. Marina let Will put his hands on her small, fig-shaped breasts, but whenever his fingers slid down to her tights, she pinched him sharply in the ribs.