The Life You've Imagined (10 page)

I slip the photo carefully back into the Bible and ball Trent’s letter up in the palm of my hand. I’m about to go throw it in the kitchen trash when I think better of it. No, better keep this one hidden. I shove the crinkled ball in the back of my old dresser, behind my socks, and slam the drawer shut.

I unhook the door and go in search of some lunch.

In the kitchen I find none other than Sherry, hunched over a coffee and wearing one of Dad’s old T-shirts and seemingly nothing else. I look away from her quickly, not in the mood for her to gloat over the fact she has the run of the house, or needle me about our last encounter.

There are some fruit flies buzzing over the dishes. I suppose I’d better cave in and wash them.

“Good morning,” croaks Sherry.

I start to pick the dishes gingerly out of the filthy water.

“I said, ‘Good morning,’ ” she repeats.

“I heard you. It isn’t morning anymore.”

“La-di-freakin’-da.”

I drain out the filthy water and fill the sink again with the hottest water my hands can stand.

Sherry startles me by appearing at my side. “Here, lemme help you.”

I look her full in the face. She doesn’t seem sarcastic and it doesn’t seem to be a prank.

I shrug and hand her a towel. “You can dry, I guess.”

We slosh around in silence. My dad must have really tied one on to be asleep still. Or maybe they were screwing until late. That thought makes me queasy.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m sorry about the fruit thing.”

“What?”

“What I said about your brother. I got the impression from Tim that it’s kind of a sore subject around here, his boyfriend and all.”

“He doesn’t speak for me.”

“No, I guess he doesn’t.”

Sherry lowers her voice and glances back over her shoulder at the empty hall. “Did you, uh . . . Did you get in trouble or anything? Over what happened?”

“What kind of trouble do you mean?”

“I mean . . . I hope he wasn’t too mad at you over it.”

The puzzle piece drops into place. “Oh, you mean you’re wondering if he beat me up, yeah? Boy, you sure did pick a prize one in my dad.”

She clanks a plate down on the counter. “He treats me all right.”

“Goody for you.”

After a couple more dishes she says, “I’m going out back for a smoke,” and leaves me to finish up the rest. I finish the dishes as quickly as I can and decide to head for the Nee Nance, rain be damned.

I had to use an old phone book as an umbrella, so when I round the corner off Shoreline Drive, everything below my shoulders is soaked.

“Cami!” Maeve says. “Oh, honey, look how wet you are! You weren’t scheduled to work, were you?”

“Nope, this here is a social call.” I drop the phone book and try to wring out my T-shirt.

“We’re pleased to see you, but what got you out here in this monsoon? You should have asked Anna for a ride. She would have come to get you.”

“Nah, I don’t want to put anyone out, yeah? Besides, I like the exercise. I just really felt like getting out.”

Maeve nods, understanding without me having to say. People don’t know exactly what Tim Drayton is like, but they know enough.

“Anna is upstairs packing. Why don’t you go ask her to find you some of my clothes. You’re taller than me, but there should be something you can borrow. And then for heaven’s sake get Anna to take you home when you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks. I’d hug you, but I think I’ll wait until I’m dry, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Maeve says, chuckling. Then she stops and rubs the bridge of her nose.

“You okay?” My hand is on the stair rail.

“Fine, just a little headache, is all.”

I climb the steps, and though I don’t pray, not really, I glance up to the ceiling and smile as a thanks to the universe that there are a few decent people in my life.

“Hey!” I call up the stairs so I don’t startle Anna. I poke my head in to tell her I’m ducking down the hall to borrow dry clothes.

In a few moments I come back to her room wearing a white shirt and some shorts, my wet clothes hung up over the shower door in the bathroom.

“Need any help?” I plop down on her bed. “I came over for an impromptu visit, to see you off and say hi to your mom.”

“Nah, I’m just about done.”

Anna looks younger than I’ve seen her look since she’s been back. It’s because she’s dressed down, I think. Her hair is its naturally wild, curly self, and she’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and a U-M T-shirt.

“So, will you miss the bustling metropolis of Haven?”

“Oh, absolutely. I don’t know how I’ll fill my social calendar.”

“Will you miss Will Becker?”

She looks at me sharply, then resumes folding. “We’ll e-mail, like we always did. It was nice to have lunch with him, that’s all.”

We both turn at some ruckus downstairs. Anna drops her folding and we skip down the steps in time to see Maeve shouting out the door, “And you’re banned for life, you rotten brats!”

“Mom, what the hell?”

Maeve holds onto the newspaper rack with one hand, a broom in the other, bristle side up. She’s leaning on them both for support. Anna and I rush to her. I take the broom and lay it aside, and we both walk her to the office chair behind the counter. Her skin feels damp and clammy.

Maeve puts her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “Stupid kids were stealing from me. First I didn’t care, because we’re getting kicked out anyway, but then I thought . . .” She pauses to pant, and Anna reminds her to breathe deep. I think, kicked out?

Maeve begins again. “I thought if I let them get away with stealing, they’d come back all the time, knowing I wouldn’t stop them. They wouldn’t leave, so I whacked one with a broom.”

Anna shoots me a look over Maeve’s head. “Did they assault you? Did any of them threaten you in any way?”

Maeve glares at Anna. “Stop lawyering me!”

“I’m just wondering, Mom. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just feeling a little shaky, is all. They made me so mad. I need to go upstairs.”

We help her out of her chair, but she shakes us off. “I’m not some frail old woman!”

She uses the counter for support as she walks toward the stairs, Anna and I trailing close as we can get without touching her.

When she gets to the potato chip rack, she pauses, frowns as if she forgot where she was going, and touches her hand to her head.

She folds like a puppet cut from its strings.

“Mom!” screams Anna, and I vault the counter, reaching for the phone.

Chapter 15

Amy

A
s I’m shaking my snow peas into the wok, I keep replaying my talk with Anna and arguing in my head for why my fiancé isn’t evil for evicting her mother.

Only, I feel bad about it, and since I didn’t even know, I can’t come up with the logical arguments I’m sure Paul must have. The microwave clock says it’s 5:35, and I decided not to wait for Paul anymore, and I just have to start dinner.

Frodo whines at the patio door.

“Not now, Frodo, it’s pouring outside. You already went pee.”

I add the sauce and skip the tofu, because I know Paul hates it.

A key turns in the lock and my shoulders relax. I didn’t even know I was tense until just then. I move the wok off the heat to come give Paul a kiss.

“Hey, babe,” he says, dropping his suitcase on the couch and throwing himself into the nearest chair. My kiss has missed his cheek, and for a second I’m puckered into the air like some kind of fish. Paul says, “Can you get me a beer? God, what a day.”

I go fetch him the beer but don’t take the cap off for him. Then I throw some tofu into the wok. And then a little more.

“I’m sorry it was a bad day,” I say. “Want to talk about it?”

He’s tipped his head back on the chair, squinting his eyes shut. He shakes his head slowly.

I check the brown rice and it’s done, so I start scooping it onto plates.

“I saw Mrs. Geneva today at the store,” I say.

He grunts and massages his temple in response.

“Sounds like you have an interesting project there,” I say brightly, setting the plates down. I go turn on some Norah Jones. “Do you want some wine?”

“I’ll stick with my beer.”

I pour myself a sparkling water. “Okay, dinner’s on.”

He hefts himself out of the chair and drags over to the kitchen table. He’s walking like he’s eighty.

“So, what have you got cooking for that corner? At Washington and Shoreline?”

“Oh, a high-end grocery and some loft apartments. It’ll look great.” He’s picking at his stir fry, frowning at the tofu and scooting it to the side.

“Oh, good, how exciting.”

Paul frowns into his food. “Can we shut the music off?”

I scuttle over to the stereo and punch it off. “So the Nee Nance Store is gone, then?” I ask as if it’s nothing, just a question of logistics, and that’s really all it is, I’m just curious.

He grunts and says through a mouthful of food, “We’re really trying to class up that corner. It’s a gateway to the community.” A piece of broccoli falls out of his mouth.

“Oh, well. I guess so. She can’t be part of it, though?”

Paul groans and pushes back his plate. “Aww, c’mon, don’t you start, too. Change is hard, like Dad always says. Improvement to a neighborhood sometimes pushes out the previous residents, but what’s the option? Never make anything nice?”

I shift in my chair and ask him, “But isn’t there a way to give her a part of the project? Let her run the store?”

Paul folds his arms on the table and gives me a look, the same one I’ve seen him use at planning commission meetings and on investors. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what does she know about high-end wine? Imported cheeses? I don’t need someone just to punch a register, I need someone who can advise customers what’s the best thing to eat with pinot noir. And anyway, she can’t afford the rent. Haven is evolving. We’re getting more and more tourists from Chicago, Grand Rapids, Detroit, businesspeople with money who want a lakeside retreat. Not some Miller Lite and a package of hot dogs.”

“I just feel bad, is all.”

He pushes his food around with his fork, frowning down at his plate. “So do I, believe it or not. I hated to send that letter.” He looks up. “But she’s got Anna; she’s doing well for herself. It’s not like she’ll be sleeping under an overpass, right?”

I want to say,
Who are you trying to convince?

He takes his plate to the kitchen and I can see he’s barely eaten. “Also, you’ve gotta look at it this way: The housing market is getting softer, and there’s only so much money to be made in that right now. We had to cancel phase three of Poplar Bluff already. Urban redevelopment might be just the thing to save our bacon, because we can get grants and stuff to offset the cost, which investors really like.”

“Our bacon needs saving?”

“I exaggerate,” Paul answers, but it comes out too quickly. “I just mean this is kind of a tough time to be in property, so we need to move when we have the opportunity.”

He comes by and kisses the top of my head. “Because if I’m going to have the prettiest house in Poplar Bluff for you and all our pretty babies, I’ve gotta pull my weight at Becker Dev. Just because I’m the son doesn’t mean I’m guaranteed anything. Especially since I’m not the
namesake
.”

Paul seizes his beer bottle and resumes his position in his chair, flicking on the TV and flipping channels, settling on a ball game.

When we were first dating, he had too many beers one night and got all misty and emotional. He laid his head down in my lap as we sat on his leather couch, and he stared past me at the ceiling and told me about every teacher in school always saying at the start of the year, “Oh! You’re Will Becker’s brother,” and they’d get these delighted little grins. But Paul’s grades were never quite up to par. He had more friends than Will, more fun, played more sports, but that all-important grade point average never caught up.

I toyed with the fringe of Paul’s hair while he insisted to me that the teachers graded his papers tougher than the those of the other kids, holding him to an imaginary Becker standard set by his brother.

And then Tabitha blew them both out of the water and took off for Harvard.

Paul is still playing catch-up, obviously, but he’s got something his brother doesn’t. When I first fell in love with him, he was telling a story at the bar about a playoff football game that came down to one final play, and as he geared up for the exciting conclusion, no one even breathed in that clustered audience, and my heart was pounding. I don’t even like football. It was his dad’s charisma at work.

But charisma doesn’t measure like letter grades. A successful project, though . . . That kind of thing can’t be denied.

I look down at my own dinner. The stir-fry sauce has gone cold. I push my plate away and watch the rain hammer the glass of my patio door.