The Stories of Richard Bausch (66 page)

“Daryl didn’t call me stupid. He said that something I said was the stupidest thing he ever heard. And what I said
was
stupid.”

“Oh, listen to you.”

“It was. I said the money he was spending on gas driving back and forth to coach Little League was going to cost Beth her college education.”

“That’s a valid point, if you ask me.”

“Oh, come on. I was mad and I said anything. I wanted to hit at him.”

“So? It’s not the stupidest thing he ever heard. I’m certain that over the last month I’ve said three or four hundred things he thinks are more stupid.”

Carla smiled.

“And he still shouldn’t talk that way.”

“We were having an argument.”

“Well, like I told you. A storm. It shouldn’t ruin your whole day.”

Carla looked down, took the last drag of her cigarette.

“You have to set the boundaries a little. I mean, your father never—”

“I’m going into the record store, Mother.”

“I know. I came with you, didn’t I? You ought to get something for yourself. I hope you spend your own money on yourself for once. Get whatever Beth wants for her birthday and then get something for yourself.”

“Beth wants a rap record, and I can’t remember the name of it.”

“My God,” said Mother. “I don’t like that stuff. I don’t even like people who
do
like it.”

“Beth likes it.”

“Beth’s thirteen. What does she know?”

“She knows what she wants for her birthday.” Carla sighed. “I know what I have to get and how much it’s going to cost and how much I’ll hate having it blaring in the house all day, too. I just don’t remember the name of it.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you.”

“It’ll have to.”

“You could forget it, couldn’t you?”

“It’s the only thing she asked for.”

“What if the only thing she asked for was a trip to Rome or—or a big truckload of drugs or something?”

Carla looked at her.

“Well?”

“The two go together so naturally, Mother. I always think of truckloads of drugs when I think of Rome.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Did you ever do that to me?” Carla asked. “Lie to me that way?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

“How can you suggest I do it to Beth?”

“It was an idea. It had to do with self-preservation. If she hadn’t been playing her music so loud this morning, Daryl and you might not’ve got into it.”

Carla looked at her.

“You have my solemn vow.”

Carla said, “You can’t put this morning off on Beth.”

Mother made a gesture, like turning a key in a lock, at her lips.

“The fact is, we don’t need any excuses to have a fight these days.”

“Now don’t get down on yourself. You’ve had enough to deal with. I should never have moved in. I try to mind my own business—”

“You’re fine. This has nothing to do with you. It was going on before you moved in. It’s been going on a long time.”

“Baby, it’s nothing you can’t solve. The two of you.”

“Unreal,” Carla said, bringing a handkerchief out of her purse. “It seems everything I do makes him mad.”

“We’re all getting on each other’s nerves,” said Mother.

“Let me have a minute here.” Carla turned, facing the column, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Don’t you worry, sweetness.”

“We just have to get on the other side of it,” Carla said.

“That’s right. Daryl has to settle down and see how lucky he is. I won’t say anything else about it. It’s not my place to say anything.”

“Mother, will you please stop that? You can say anything you want. I give you my permission. Let’s just do what we came to do.” Carla put the
handkerchief back in her purse. “I don’t want to think about anything else right now.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though you live in a house where you have to think of absolutely everything.”

“That isn’t true. It’s not just Daryl, Mother.”

“I’m sorry.

I should keep my mouth shut.”

Carla hesitated, looked around herself. She ran one hand through her hair and sighed again. “Sometimes I—I think—see, we were going to have a big family. We both wanted a lot of children. And maybe it’s because I couldn’t—God, never mind.”

“Oh, no, you’re imagining that. He’s been out of work and that always makes tension. I mean Daryl’s got a lot of things wrong with him, but he’d never blame you for something you can’t help.”

“But you read about tension over one thing making other tensions worse.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Mother said.

“When we had Beth, it—nothing about that pregnancy—you know, it was full term. Everything went so well.”

“Carla, you don’t really think he’d hold anything against you.”

“He was so crestfallen the last time.”

“Yes, and so were you.”

“The thing is, we always pulled together before, when there was any trouble at all. We’d cling to each other. You remember when he was just out of college and there wasn’t any work and he was doing all those part-time jobs? We were so happy then. Beth was small. We didn’t have anything and we didn’t want anything, really.”

“You’re older now. And you’ve got your mother living with you.”

“No, that’s what you don’t understand. I told you, this was going on before you moved in. That’s the truth. In fact, it got better for a little while, those first days after you moved in. It was like—it seemed that having you with us brought something of the old times back.”

“Don’t divide it up like that, sugar. It’s still your time together. There’s no old times or new times. That isn’t how you should think about it. It’s the two of you. And this is weather. Weather comes and changes and you keep on. That’s all.”

Carla put the handkerchief back in her purse. “Do I look like I’ve been crying?”

“You look like the wrath of God.”

They laughed; they were briefly almost lighthearted. The crowd was moving around them, and though the thunder and lightning had mostly ceased, the rain still beat against the skylight. “So,” said Carla, “on with the show.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They walked into the store. The man in the blue blazer was standing by a rack of compact discs that were being sold at a clearance price. He’d already chosen several, and had them tucked under his arm. He was rifling through the discs, apparently looking for something specific that he would recognize on sight; he wasn’t pausing long enough to read the titles. Concentrating, he appeared almost angry; the skin around his eyes was white. He glanced at the two women as they edged past him, and Carla’s mother said “Excuse us” rather pointedly. He did not answer, but went back to thumbing through the discs.

The store was crowded, and there wasn’t much room to move around. Carla and her mother made their way along the aisle to the audiotape section, where Carla recognized and selected the tape she had come for. It was in a big display on the wall, with a life-size poster of the artist.

“Looks like a mugger if you ask me,” Mother said. She picked up a tape for herself, an anthology of songs from the fifties. Speakers were pounding with percussion, the drone of a toneless, shrill male voice.

“I think what we’re hearing is what I’m about to buy,” said Carla, pointing at the ceiling. “God help me.”

There were two lines waiting at the counter, and the two women stood side by side, each on her own line. The man in the blazer stepped in behind Mother. He had several discs in his hands, and he began reading one of the labels. Carla glanced at him, so dour, and she thought of Daryl, off somewhere angry with her, unhappy—standing under the gaze of someone else, who would see it in his face. When the man glanced up, she sent a smile in his direction, but he was staring at the two girls behind the counter, both of whom were dressed in the bizarre getup of rock stars. The girls chattered back and forth, being witty and funny with each other in that attitude store
clerks sometimes have when people are lined up waiting: as though circumstances had provided them with an audience, and that audience were entertained by their talk. The clerks took a long time with each purchase, running a scanner over the coded patch on the tapes and CDs and then punching numbers into the computer terminals. The percussion thrummed in the walls, and the lines moved slowly. When Mother’s turn came, she reached for Carla. “Here, sweetness, step in here.”

Carla did so.

“Wait a minute,” the man said. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Mother said. “She’s waiting with me.”

“She was in the other line.”

“We were waiting together.”

“You were in separate lines.” The man addressed the taller of the two girls behind the counter. “They were in separate lines.”

“I don’t know,” the girl said. Her hair was an unnatural shade of orange. She held her hands up as if in surrender, and bracelets clattered on her wrists. Then she moved to take Carla’s tape and run the scanner over it.

“Oh, that’s great,” the man said. “Let stupidity and selfishness win out.”

Mother faced him. “What did you say? Did you call my daughter a name?”

“You heard everything I said,” the man told her.

“Yes I did,” Mother said, and swung at his face.

He backpedaled but took the blow above the eye, so that he almost lost his balance. When he had righted himself, he stood straight, wide-eyed, clearly unable to believe what had just happened to him.

“Lady,” the man said. “You-”

And Mother struck again, this time swinging her purse, so that it hit the man on the crown of the head as he ducked, putting his arms up to ward off the next blow. His CDs fell to the floor at his feet.

“Mother,” Carla began, not quite hearing herself. “Good Lord.”

“You don’t call my daughter names and get away with it,” Mother said to the man.

He had straightened again and assumed the stance of someone in a fight, his fists up to protect his face, chin tucked into his left shoulder.

“You think you can threaten me,” Mother said, and poked at his face
with her free hand. He blocked this and stepped back, and she swung the purse again, striking him this time on the forearm.

“Oh God,” said Carla, barely breathing the words.

There was a general commotion in the crowd. Someone laughed.

“This isn’t right,” Carla said. “Let’s stop this.”

“Look at him. Big tough man. Going to hit a woman, big tough guy?”

“I want the police,” the man said to the girl with the orange hair. “I absolutely demand to see a policeman. I’ve been assaulted and I intend to press charges.”

“Look,” Carla said. “Can you just forget about it? Here.” She bent down to pick up the CDs he had dropped.

“Don’t you dare,” Mother said.

Carla looked at her.

“All right, I’ll shut up. But don’t you dare give him those.”

Carla ignored her.

“I want to see a policeman.”

“Here,” Carla said, offering the discs.

Her mother said, “If he says another thing—”

The man looked past them. “Officer, I’ve been assaulted. And there are all these witnesses.”

A security guard stepped out of the crowd. He was thin, green-eyed, blond, with boyish skin. Perhaps he had to shave once a week. But clearly he took great care with all aspects of his appearance: his light blue uniform was creased exactly, the shirt starched and pressed. His shoes shone like twin black mirrors. He brought a writing pad out of his pocket, and a ballpoint pen, the end of which he clicked with his thumb. “Okay, what happened here?”

“He called my daughter a name,” said Mother. “I won’t have people calling my daughter names.”

“I’m pressing charges,” said the man.

The security guard addressed him. “Would you tell me what happened?”

But everyone began to speak at once. The girl with the orange hair put her hands up again in surrender, and again the bracelets clattered. “None of my business,” she said. “I don’t believe in violence.” She spoke in an almost
metaphysical tone, the tone of someone denying a belief in the existence of a thing like violence. Carla was trying to get the officer’s attention, but he was drawing her mother and the man out of the store, into the open area of shops, under the skylight. She followed. Mother and the man protested all the way, accusing each other.

“I’ve got a welt,” the man said. “Right here.” He pointed to his left eyebrow.

“I don’t see it,” said the officer.

“Do you have jurisdiction here?”

“I have that, yes. I have the authority.”

“I’ve been attacked. And I want to file a complaint.”

“This man verbally assaulted my daughter!”

“Just a minute,” said the security guard. “Calm down. We’re not going to get anywhere like this. I’ll listen to you one at a time.”

“This man verbally assaulted my daughter. And I slapped him.”

“You didn’t slap me. You hit me with your fist, and then you assaulted me with your purse.”

“I didn’t hit you with my fist. If I’d hit you with my fist, that would be an assault.”

“Both of you be quiet.” He stood there writing on the pad. “Let me have your names.”

Mother and the man spoke at once.

“Wait a minute,” the officer said. “One at a time.”

“Please,” said Carla. “Couldn’t we just forget this?”

“I don’t want to forget it,” said the man. “I was attacked. A person ought to be able to walk into a store without being attacked.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Mother. “You started it. You attacked my daughter verbally.”

“Both of you be quiet or I’m going to cite you,” the security guard said.

They stood there.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Todd Lemke.”

The officer wrote it down on his pad. “Like it sounds?”

“One e.”

“All right. You start.”

“I was waiting in line, and this woman—” Lemke indicated Carla.

“You be careful how you say that,” said Mother.

“Now, ma’am—” the security guard said.

“I won’t let people talk about my daughter that way, young man. And I don’t care what you or anybody else says about it.” Her voice had reached a pitch Carla had never heard before.

“Please, ma’am.”