The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (6 page)

“Well, I’m not going to make an issue of it, Caelum. If she wants to call me Mom, what’s the big deal?”

I let go of Velvet’s bouquet. It rose and bumped the ceiling.

The next morning, the balloons were floating halfway between the ceiling and the floor. By the time Aunt Lolly called for her Sunday check-in, they were grazing the carpet. You moved, they moved; they were like wraiths. I kept losing track of what Lolly was saying. Kept wondering why I’d let the whole day slip by without telling Mo what Velvet had said. Which of the two was I trying to protect? Or was it myself I needed to shield from Velvet’s sleazy offer? … “You know what Shirley Pingalore told me the other day?” Lolly was saying. “That they had to cancel the sports program because of overcrowding. They’re using the gym as a dormitory. Seventy-five beds and two toilets. It’s pathetic.” I opened the cutlery drawer and grabbed a steak knife.

“What’s that?” Lolly said.

“What?”

“Sounds like gunfire.”

AT SCHOOL ON MONDAY, VELVET
was a no-show. She was MIA for the rest of that week. I kept meaning to say something to Maureen, but then I kept not doing it. I didn’t want to say anything to Ivy Shapiro, either—have
her
start playing twenty questions. Velvet’s proposition had come so out of nowhere, and had been so goddamned embarrassing, I decided to just bury it.

She resurfaced the following week, but when I went to pick her up for our noontime discussion, she told me she didn’t want to meet with me anymore—that she was sick of it. Mrs. Jett had left the room to get some tea, and the other kids had been dismissed to lunch.

“You’re sick of it, or you feel ashamed about what you said during that ride home?” I said. “Because if it’s that, then—”

“What’d I say?” she asked. “I don’t even remember.”

“Yes, you do.”

She told me she wanted to read what
she
wanted to read, not the boring crap I gave her. Writing was boring, she said.
I
was boring. She’d just written all that corny shit because she knew that’s what I wanted to hear. She felt sorry for Maureen, she said, married to a geek like me.

“Well,” I said. “I guess we’re both wasting our time, then. Good luck.”

“Wait,” she said. “Just
listen
to me.” I kept going.

Before I left school that afternoon, I wrote a note to Ivy, resigning as Velvet’s “faculty buddy.” I was vague about why—spoke in general terms about how it had worked for a while, but then she’d shut down. I kept thinking about what Ivy had said: that kids like Velvet manipulate situations. All I needed was for the kid to claim
I
was the one who’d suggested sex to
her.

At home, I told Mo I’d packed it in as Velvet’s tutor. “Why?” she said.

“Because she’s an unappreciative little brat,” I said. “I’m sick of her rudeness, and I’m sick of doing all the heavy lifting with this ‘buddy’ thing.”

“You know, ever since her birthday, she’s been standoffish with me,” Mo said. “I don’t get it.”

I shrugged. Said we never should have had her over.

I had trouble sleeping that night but didn’t want to wake Maureen. I went downstairs to read. Passing by the bookcase in the study, I noticed the space where my signed
To Kill a Mockingbird
was supposed to be.

THE COLORADO ARTS COUNCIL NOTIFIED
the school that Velvet Hoon had won the writing award in her division. “I thought you might want to be the one to give her the news,” Ivy said. I suggested we do it together.

Velvet was asleep at her cubicle, her cheek against the desktop. When she heard she’d won, she looked more jarred than happy. “What do I have to do?” she asked Ivy. She wouldn’t look at me.

“There’s a ceremony in downtown Denver,” Ivy said. “At the State Capitol. You and the other winners each read a five-minute excerpt from your essays. Then you accept your award, get your picture taken, get fussed over.”

“I don’t
want
my picture taken,” she insisted.

“You get a check for two hundred dollars,” I said. “That’s not too hard to take, is it?” Velvet ignored the question. When I mentioned that we should go over what was appropriate to read at the event, she finally looked at me. “For instance, you’d want to omit the opening paragraph,” I said. “There’ll be younger kids there.”

“And assholes,” Velvet said.

Ivy looked from Velvet to me, then back again. “What I thought,” she said, “was that you, Mr. Quirk, and I could drive downtown together. The ceremony’s at five. And after, maybe we could take you out to dinner to celebrate. There are some nice restaurants at the Sixteenth Street Mall. Or how about the Hard Rock Café at the Denver Pavilions?”

Velvet nodded in my direction. “Can his wife come?” “Sure. Sure she can.”

From across the room, Mrs. Jett asked what all the excitement was about. When Ivy told her, she wanted to know if she could photocopy the letter of congratulations for her bulletin board.

“No!” Velvet said.

Walking back down the corridor, I remarked to Ivy that Velvet was the most miserable award winner I’d ever seen.

“Not uncommon for kids with her kind of history,” she said. “So many bad things have happened to them that they can’t trust the good things. They have to shove them away before someone can snatch them back.”

At the end of the day, I stopped in the health office to see Maureen. Velvet was with her. “Velvet was just telling me the good news,” she said. “Congratulations to you both.”

“She’s the one who wrote the essay,” I said.

A kid appeared in the doorway, asking for a form for his sports physical. When Mo went to the outer office to get it, it was just Velvet and me in there.

“Didn’t I tell you you’d written a prize-winner?” I said. She shrugged. “Hey, by the way. When you were over at our house that night? Did you borrow my book?”

“What book?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird.”
She shook her head.

“Because it’s missing. And I know you really love—”

“I didn’t steal your freakin’ book!” she shouted. She practically plowed Maureen down getting out of there.

ON THE DAY OF THE
award ceremony, Velvet was absent from school. Ivy caught up with her by phone in the afternoon. Velvet knew where the Capitol building was, she said; she’d meet us there. Some of her friends were going, too, so they could give her a ride. Ivy reminded her to practice what she was planning to read, to wear something appropriate for the occasion, and to make sure her swastika tattoo was covered.

The Capitol was stately and grand: polished brass, stained glass, marble floors, and pillars. The granite carvings depicting Colorado history made me think of Velvet’s grandfather. They’d set things up just inside the west entrance: rows of cushioned folding chairs, a podium atop a riser, refreshments. The other winners, spiffed-up Type A’s, sat with their Type A parents. “Think she’ll show?” Maureen asked. I said I wasn’t going to hold my breath. When I spotted Mrs. Jett in the crowd, I walked over to her. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “It’ll mean a lot to her.
If
she gets here.”

Mrs J. said she was rooting for Velvet, too—that she rooted for all of her ISS kids. “Come sit with us,” I said.

A woman in a red and purple caftan mounted the riser, tapped the mic, and asked if we’d all be seated so that the program could begin. There was still no sign of Velvet.

She arrived, boisterously, during some seventh-grade girl’s cello intercession. Her entourage consisted of an emaciated woman in black leather pants, late twenties maybe, and a stocky young man wearing a prom gown. The prizewinners and their parents craned their necks to watch the commotion. Velvet was wearing zebra-striped tights, a black bustier, an Army camouflage jacket, and her silver boots. A torn bridal veil hung from her rhinestone tiara; she’d attached plastic
spiders to it. No doubt about it: the three of them were high on something.

The caftan woman stood and asked them twice to please respect the other readers. When it was Velvet’s turn to read, she kept looking back at her friends, exchanging private remarks with them, and breaking into fits of laughter. Maureen reached over, took my hand, and squeezed it.

Instead of reading “Hope Cemetery,” Velvet rambled nonsensically about freedom of speech, Kurt Cobain, and “asshole” teachers who try to brainwash their students. I sat there, ramrod straight, paralyzed by her betrayal of herself and me. When she left the podium, she lost her balance, stumbling off the riser and crashing into the lap of a frightened fellow prizewinner, one of the middle school boys.

I stood and left. Waited in the car for the others. Told Ivy and Mo, when they came out, that I’d rather go home than out to dinner. Never again, I promised myself. Never, ever again.

velvet neither withdrew from school nor showed up for the rest of that year. Maureen said she heard she’d left town. But the following year, she reenrolled after midterm exams and resumed her relationship with Maureen. I spotted her name on the absentee list as often as not. I hardly ever saw her, and when I did, neither of us spoke. So when she emerged from the woods behind our house that morning, climbing the picnic table to be safe from dogs who were never going to hurt her, it was the first exchange the two of us had had in over a year.

I ran all the way out to Bear Creek that morning, ate a PowerBar, took a whiz, and ran all the way back. Maureen’s Outback was in the driveway. She was at the kitchen table, working on our bills.

“How was your run?” she asked.

“Hard,” I said. “How was your breakfast?”

“Hard. She’s trying, though. She just got a job with an industrial cleaning company. But it’s night shift work, so—”

“Yeah, well, just remember, Maureen, you’re not her fairy godmother. You can’t wave your magic wand and fix her fucked-up life. And if you
think
you can, you better put a check on your ego before she body-checks it the way she did mine.”

“That was terrible, the way she treated you,” she said. “But she’s reaching out to me, Cae. I can’t just write her off. The
last
thing that kid needs is more rejection.”

“I’m going to grab a shower,” I said. It was either leave the room immediately or risk telling her about Velvet’s come-on for no better reason than because I was pissed about her innocence of what I’d protected her from.

I was toweling off when Mo entered the bathroom. She put her arms around me and rested her forehead against my chest. “I need a friend,” she said. I lifted her face to mine. Kissed her. Kissed her harder.

We made it over to the bed. I lay there, watching her undress. She got in and pulled the covers over us. Snuggled beside me. Kissed my shoulder, my mouth. Ran her fingers across my chest, my belly. “Suck me,” I said.

She looked at me, puzzled, then repositioned herself to oblige.

I was impatient with her gentle preliminaries. “Come on,” I said.
“Do
it!” She pulled away. Got off the bed. Grabbed her clothes and started for the door. “Hey,” I said. “Where you going?”

Her back to me, she said it over her shoulder. “I’m your wife, Caleum. Not your whore.”

“Fuck this,” I said. Reached down and started jerking myself off. I mean, I had to get release from somewhere. Sophie was on the side of the bed, watching me. “Get out of here!” I screamed. “Get the fuck—” I whacked her with a pillow and she fled.

After I’d ejaculated the anger out of me, I lay there with my puddle of regret. I’d apologize later, I told myself, but for now … I grabbed
a magazine, got through a paragraph or two of some article that held no interest, and let my fatigue rescue me….

MO WOKE ME OUT OF
a sound sleep. She was seated beside me on the bed. “I’m so sorry, Caelum,” she said.

“No,
I’m
sorry,” I said. “I was being a total asshole. You had every right to—” She was shaking her head.

“Ulysses just called. He stopped in to get his paycheck this morning and found Lolly out in the yard near the clothesline. She was talking incoherently. Trying to put her socks on her hands.”

“What …”

“He got her back inside and called nine-one-one. I think she’s had a stroke.”

FIGURING IT WAS BETTER IF
they talked with someone who could speak “medical,” I had Maureen call the hospital. She tried twice but couldn’t get past “Louella’s resting comfortably” and “Someone from the medical team will be calling” and “Can you verify that her insurance provider is Blue Cross/Blue Shield?” And goddamnit, by the time the medical team
did
call, Mo’d gone out.

“Mr. Quirk? This is Dan, one of the nurses over at Shanley Memorial.” Over at? Three Rivers was two time zones away. “I’ve been caring for your mother today and—”

“She’s my aunt,” I said.

A pause, a shuffling of paperwork. “But you’re her next of kin, right?”

“Yes. Why? Did she …”

“Oh, no, no. She’s hanging in there, Mr. Quirk. Dr. Salazar will be speaking to you in just a few minutes about her test results. But first, I wonder if you could answer some questions for us about Louella’s medical profile.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is, my wife’s a nurse, so she’s more on top of Lolly’s medical stuff. I can have her call you back.”

Dan said he was going off-shift soon. Whatever I could help him with. “Okay,” I said.

No, I wasn’t sure what medications she was taking. No, I didn’t
know which medical practice she’d switched to after Dr. Oliver died. (I hadn’t known he’d died.) Surgeries? None that I could recall. Yes, she smoked: one Marlboro a day, after her evening meal; she’d done that for years. No, she wasn’t much of a drinker. A beer every now and then. Brandy on special occasions. Diabetes? No, not that I knew of.

Dan wanted to know if there was anything else I could think of.

“Just hearing loss. The TV’s always shouting when I call her. She claims I mumble.” When
I
call
her:
now there was a face-saving lie.

“That’s helpful,” Dan said. “We’ve been assuming Louella’s incomprehension is stroke-related, but maybe she’s having trouble hearing us.”

“She goes by Lolly, actually. Not Louella.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Now, let’s talk about her family history. I’m assuming both her parents are deceased. Can you tell me what they died of?”

“Well, let’s see. Her father—my grandfather—died of Alzheimer’s.”

“At what age?”

“I’m not sure. His late seventies, maybe?”

“What about her mother?”

“She died during childbirth.”

“Of?”

“I don’t know. Childbirth, I guess. Lolly and my father were raised by their grandmother.”

“So she has a brother. Any other siblings?”

“No. My father was Lolly’s twin.”

“Was? He’s deceased?”

“Yeah…. Yup.”

“And what was the cause of his death?”

The question tightened my grip on the phone. “Officially? Officially, it was internal injuries and … loss of blood. His legs were severed.”

“Were these war injuries?”

“No. He was a drunk. He was fishing off a trestle bridge, and they think he must have passed out or something. And a train came along.”

“Whoa. That’s tough. And how old was—”

“Thirty-three. But look, like I said, my wife can fill you guys in a lot better about Lolly’s medical stuff. And as far as her medications, what I can do is get hold of her handyman. Have him go by the house and look around. Make a list, or bring you her prescription bottles, or whatever.”

Dan said that would be super. One more thing. Did I think I was going to be able to make the trip back to be with my aunt?

“Oh, well, it would be tough…. But if it becomes necessary.”

Dan said he understood. Were there friends or other family who might be able to check in on her? Stroke was such an upheaval. So frightening. Familiar faces were reassuring at a time like this.

“Uh, well … I know she gets together, plays cards with some of the gals she used to work with. And they go down to the casino once or twice a month. Eat at the buffet or whatever.”

“Sounds like my mother,” he said. “Is one of her friends Kay? She keeps asking for Kay.”

“I don’t know. There’s a Hilda. And a Marie. A Shirley.”

Dan thanked me. I thanked him. “Dr. Salazar will be coming to the phone shortly,” he said. “Can you hold?”

Maybe the lite-rock station Dan switched me to was penance for my shortcomings as next-of-kin. I bit at some ragged skin on my thumb. Grabbed a beer out of the fridge. The deejay had a theme going: “The Wind Beneath My Wings,” “Colors of the Wind,” “Windy.” When was it that FM radio had started sucking? The eighties, right? The Reagan era?

That morning’s newspaper was on the counter. “NATO Air Strikes in Yugoslavia Intensify” … “Hockey Great Gretzky to Retire” … “Love Bug Computer Virus Delivers ‘Fatally Attractive’ Message”
… Before we moved west, I’d promised Lolly I’d get back to see her twice a year—summertime and Christmastime—but I’d reneged. Hadn’t even gone back for Hennie’s funeral…. And what did my father’s shit-canning his life have to do with Lolly’s stroke? Nothing, that’s what. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut…. I saw Lolly, standing at the doorway of my algebra class, freshman year—not Ma, not Grandpa. As soon as I saw her there, I knew Daddy was dead.

I crooked the cordless against my shoulder. Filled the dogs’ water dish. Finished my beer….
Stroke is such an upheaval, so frightening….
This Dr. Salazar was taking
his
sweet time. They must teach that tactic in medical school: keep the loved ones waiting, so that by the time you pick up the phone, it’ll seem like the voice of God.

“And the lite favorites just keep on rolling,” the radio said.
“If you like pina coladas, getting caught in the rain …”
Oh, God, not
that
stupid song. Guy decides to cheat, so he answers his own wife’s personal ad? Yeah, like
that’s
going to happen. In real life, some psycho chick would be waiting at that bar, and they’d go to a Motel Six, and he’d have erectile dysfunction. Have to call Bob Dole for some Viagra. Shit, he goes from running for president to being the poster boy for the All-American boner? How much did he get for
that
gig? …

“If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the Cape …”
No, thanks. Too many sand fleas. Now that shitty song was going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. And if that Dan guy thought I was indifferent because I couldn’t make it back to Connecticut, then fuck him. I
loved
Lolly. She’d been more of a father to me than my father ever had. Taken me fishing, taken me on my first trip to Fenway. I had almost total recall of that trip. Boston versus Milwaukee, an exhibition game. Lolly’d won tickets on the radio, and we’d gone up in her old green Hudson. Nineteen sixty-one, it was. Yastrzemski and Chuck Schilling in their rookie year, Monbouquette on the mound. We’d had a blowout on the way home, and Lolly’d given me a lesson on how to fix a flat…. But shit, this was the busiest
Stretch of the school year. Curriculum meetings, placement meetings for the special needs kids, term papers to grade, exams to write. I could get back there once school was over, but—

“Hey there,” a woman’s voice said. “You’re the nephew?”

Dr. Salazar was a fast talker, devoid of personality. Lolly’s vitals had stabilized, she said. Her stroke was ischemic, caused by a clot rather than a rupture. She’d come in exhibiting classic symptoms: weakness on her left side, double vision, aphasia.

“What’s aphasia?” I said.

“A disconnect between what the patient’s trying to say and what’s being communicated. For instance, Louella thinks to herself, I’m thirsty. I want more ice chips. But when she verbalizes it, it comes out as gibberish.”

“So you’re saying she’s incoherent?”

“Less so than when she first came in.”

The EMTs had given Lolly magnesium on the ride in, Dr. Salazar said, and that had put the injury in “slo-mo.” And with stroke victims, “time was brain,” she said; the quicker there was treatment, the better the odds of avoiding permanent damage. “When she got here, we gave her a clot-buster called tPA. Great drug if the patient gets it in time—acts like Drano on clogged arteries—but the operative word here is
if.
Time-wise, there’s only a small window of opportunity. When the blood supply’s cut off, brain cells begin to die. I think you’d better prepare yourself for the fact that your aunt will most likely have an altered life.”

“Altered how?”

“Too soon to tell. We’ll know more in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Are you coming to be with her?”

“I don’t … We’re out in Colorado. The timing’s not great.”

“No, it never is.”

After I hung up, I paced. Let the dogs out. Let them back in. I had to chaperone the post-prom party that night. Two of my classes were handing in their term papers on Monday. I had meetings all week….

When Maureen got back, I showed her what I’d scrawled in the margins of the newspaper: “Salazar, ischemic, magnesium, Drano.” Mo rattled off Lolly’s medications: Lipitor for her cholesterol, Triamterene for her blood pressure, an antidepressant called Trazodone.

“She takes an antidepressant?”

She nodded. “Since Hennie died. You knew that, didn’t you?”

Did I?

“They’re pressuring me to fly back there and be with her,” I said. “Are you going to?”

“I can’t. Not until the school year’s over.”

For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she volunteered to fly back and be with Lolly herself. I sighed. Drummed my fingers against the counter. “Who’s Kay?” I said. “One of her bridge buddies?”

“Kay?”

“They said she keeps asking for Kay.”

Mo’s eyes met mine. Her smile was sympathetic. “She’s saying ‘Caelum.’ Lolly wants you.”

I SKETCHED OUT A WEEK’S
worth of lesson plans for the sub. Mo went online and found me a beggars-can’t-be-choosers flight out of Denver: a 5:45 a.m. takeoff, a three-hour layover at O’Hare. I’d land in Hartford by late afternoon, rent a car, drive to Three Rivers. Maybe I’d go out to the farm first—get her medications, see if anything else needed doing. Barring complications, I’d be with her at the hospital by six or so.

Mo tried to talk me out of chaperoning the post-prom.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Drink a lot of coffee, drive right from school to the airport. I can crash once I get on the plane.” She frowned. “Okay, let me rephrase that. I can
sleep
once I get on the plane.”

I opened my closet door and stared. Should I pack my good suit and black loafers? Uh-uh. Travel light. Think positive. Go there, get done whatever there was to do, and get back. I loved Lolly, but I
couldn’t let her stroke hijack my life. How many guys would do
this much
for their aunt? … I saw the two of us out there, stranded on that rural road between Boston and home with that flat tire. It was pitch-black except for her flashlight beam. She was aiming it at the lug nut, at my hands on the wrench.

“Come on, kiddo,” she’d coaxed. “Just a little more elbow grease. You can do it.”

“I can’t!” I’d insisted. I was Caelum Quirk, the kid who sucked at sports and walked around by himself during recess. The kid whose father was a drunk.

“Sure you can. I know you can.” And so I’d strained. Grunted. And the nut had given way.

POST-PROMS ARE BRIBES, REALLY: PARENTS
and teachers induce their kids to party the night away at the school gym so that they won’t drink and drive. Kill themselves, their friends, their futures. The enticements that night included raffles, a deejay, a hypnotist, and nonstop food: burgers, pizzas, six-foot subs. I was put to work as a roving patroller in search of alcohol and, later, as an ice cream scooper at the make-your-own-sundae station.

They were together in the sundae line, I remember. I served them both. “One scoop? Two scoops?” Dylan had requested three, but Eric wanted just one, vanilla. I asked him if he thought they’d have a sundae line like this at boot camp. He shook his head. Half-smiled.

“When do you leave?” I said.

“July one.” In another sixty hours, he’d be lying dead in the midst of the chaos, half of his head blown away. And he knew it, too. It was in the videotape they left to be discovered. Their suicides were part of the plan.

There was one other thing that night. It happened during one of the raffles. The winner got free passes to Bandimere Speedway or Rock’n’Bowl or some such, and Dylan’s number got called. I was
standing on the periphery. Saw the whole thing. Instead of saying, “That’s me,” or just walking up to get his prize, he showed Eric his ticket and the two of them high-fived.
“Sieg Heil!”
they shouted. A few of the other kids laughed; most just looked. “Assholes,” someone near me muttered. I considered taking the two of them aside, saying something about the inappropriateness of it. But it was late at night, late in the school year. I was a few hours away from my flight. I let it go.

God, that’s
always
the thing you have to decide with high school kids: what to make an issue of, what to let go. In the aftermath, in the middle of all those sleepless nights, I did plenty of soul-searching about that. We all did, I guess. Had it been preventable? Could those kids have been spared? …

I left the school a little after four a.m. Got my overnight bag out of the trunk and threw it onto the passenger seat next to me. Drove northeast toward a lightening sky. My eyes burned; my stomach felt like I’d swallowed fishhooks. As usual, Maureen had been right. I should have skipped the chaperoning detail and grabbed some sleep.

So why hadn’t I?

Punishment, maybe? Self-flagellation?

For what?

For having defaulted on her. For having sent Maureen to Hennie’s funeral the year before instead of going myself. They’d been common-law spouses for forty-something years, those two. She was depressed. She called me every Sunday night. It was my guilt that was flying me home…. And once I got there, then what? How bad off was this stroke going to leave her? How much of my summer was going to get gobbled up by Lolly’s “altered life”?

At Denver International, I opted for the garage instead of the Pike’s Peak shuttle lot, even though I’d pay through the nose for the convenience. The machine spat me a ticket. The arm lifted. At this hour, there were plenty of empty spaces.