Wish You Were Here (39 page)

Rufus slopped at his dish, parched.

“Okay,” Lise said, “enough,” and he stopped, then stiffly backed out of the corner. He stood there in the middle of the floor, facing her expectantly. “I bet you're hungry, huh?”

She called for Sam.

“Yeah?” he called from the other room.

“Come feed the dog.” She waited, gave him time. “Now.”

He said nothing, but stalked around the corner and past her, intent on fulfilling his mission so he could get back to watching Justin. He dug the plastic Pitt cup into the bag of kibble. Rufus attended him, switching his tail.

“And remember to close the top all the way. We don't want ants.”

He let go a sigh, but, tired of being the bitch, she let it slide. He worked like a slave under her eyes, every motion forced and defiant at the same time, the absolute minimum he could do. She had to remind him to roll the flap of the bag, earning her another sigh. As he rushed out, dipping a shoulder to dodge the fridge, she couldn't control herself any longer and chased him with an unfelt “Thank you!”

Rufus looked up, confused, then went back to his food.

She glanced around the counters, did an unsteady pirouette, looking for something she could do—any excuse to keep her there. She thought of the broccoli in the hydrator, but it was too early to cut it up. Everything depended on the steaks, on Ken. She wished they needed something from the store—a loaf of garlic bread, another gallon of milk.

The creak of the screen opening startled her, set her in motion as if she'd been pushed.

It was just Arlene, finished with her drink, but her presence was enough to evict Lise from the kitchen, two playing pieces occupying the same space.

“I think these kids are getting hungry,” Lise mentioned in passing.

“Don't talk to me, talk to the chef.”

Lise repeated the comment to the porch at large, sticking her head out the door. Ken seemed relieved, levering himself up from the glider, beer in hand. Emily and Meg were on to some other topic and barely registered her.

“Need help?” she asked Ken.

“No, I think I'm all set.”

He escaped out the back door to the garage. Arlene was done fixing her drink, so Lise was alone in the kitchen again, even Rufus gone, off begging chips from the kids. Out on the lake, whitecaps foamed and sank, winked on the dark water, all sharply, devoid of any private message, just waves, the effect of weather. That had been it most likely, her isolation mixed with the day. She refreshed her wine from the bottle in the fridge and stood at the sink, watching, ready to flee at the slightest sound.

“Not again,” her mother objected between bites, like it was a surprise—like it was all a plot against her.

“That's what they said,” Aunt Arlene assured her. “A hundred percent chance.”

Great, Sarah thought. They'd be stuck in the house again. They could only walk Rufus so many times a day. That was,
if
it was his house. Ella didn't think so, which meant she was dreaming and miserable for nothing. At least after the pain of Christmas break she'd hooked up with Mark. She'd convinced herself she didn't miss him, that he was a jerk. And then, lying down at night, she thought of the couch in his basement and the lava lamp that sent blue bubbles swimming across the walls like fish.

“I'm sorry,” Grandma apologized. “I didn't think it would be like this. I was hoping we could squeeze in our golf tomorrow.”

Uncle Ken told her it wasn't her fault. They could play Thursday or Friday, he promised.

“If it ever stops,” Aunt Lisa said.

Sarah ate, not part of the conversation. She had her dinner balanced in her lap, knees clenched together, pigeon-toed. When she cut her steak the blood circled her plate, staining her potato salad. Beside her, Ella batted at something invisible. A fly had gotten in and was slaloming between the wrought-iron tables, shopping up and down the porch for a place to land, buzzing Justin so he almost spilled his milk.

“Just ignore it,” their mother instructed, but Justin kept ducking, though Sarah willed him to sit still, to stop being such a baby. “It's not going to hurt you, it's just a fly.”

“I'll get it,” Sam volunteered, clanking his plate down on a table to fetch the flyswatter from inside.

“You sit and eat your dinner,” Aunt Lisa ordered, pointing, and he sighed.

“All this uproar over a little fly,” Aunt Arlene said, trying to be funny.

She wasn't. Sarah felt sorry for whoever her students had been.

Uncle Ken was done—he was the fastest eater—and went inside. When he came back he had the swatter.

“Not while we're eating,” Aunt Lisa said, so he propped the door open like it might fly out on its own.

“You know what I was thinking,” Grandma announced loudly, so everyone turned to her, and Sarah knew this was trouble. Grandma was great at making plans. “I was thinking if it's going to be cruddy again tomorrow, we might take a day trip up to the falls. As far as I know, the children have never seen them.”

“
Niagara
Falls?” her mother said, like it was crazy.

“In the rain?” Aunt Lisa said, and Sarah found herself agreeing, rooting for them, thinking how bizarre it was that they were on the same side. It would be boring, driving all that way just to see something everyone else thought was a big deal but she didn't care about. She knew her mother and Aunt Lisa wouldn't let her and Ella stay here by themselves.

“It should keep the crowds down,” Grandma said. “You're going to get wet there anyway with the spray.” When no one commented on it, she said, “I'm just throwing it out for consideration. I think at this point people are running out of things to do. I know I am. Of course if no one's interested …”

“I'm interested,” her mother said, “I'm just trying to catch up to it.”

“I think the kids are at an age where they can appreciate it.”

Her mother seemed unsure, like there must be a trick.

“I'd like to see them again,” Aunt Arlene said. “They're so close.”

“From here,” Uncle Ken said, “it's less than two hours.”

While they discussed how far it was, Sarah caught Ella's eye. Like her, she was bent over her plate, eating, staying out of it, hoping the adults would make the right decision, but a roll of her eyes let Sarah know she was just as thrilled. Her mother was beginning to like the idea, saying it might be fun, and Ella stuck out her tongue as if the steak was grossing her out. Sarah almost laughed at it, had to cough and look away, across the water. They were both thinking the same thing: they were completely and totally screwed.

“Whatever you want to do is fine,” Grandma said. “For me, it's a sentimental journey. I'm not interested in it as a natural wonder per se, but I thought you all might feel left out if Arlene and I went by ourselves.”

“What else are we going to do if it rains?” her mother asked.

“And it's going to rain,” Aunt Arlene said, definite.

“Can we go on the boat?” Sam asked.

“Of course,” Grandma said. “You can't go to Niagara Falls and not go on the boat. We'll go down in the caves too, right behind the waterfall. You'll have to wear a slicker.”

“What time would we get going?” Uncle Ken asked, and they started making plans. They'd take the van and the 4Runner; they could fit everyone that way. Sarah imagined four hours in the van with Grandma and Aunt Arlene and Justin and her mother.

“Can Ella and me stay here?” she asked.

“No,” her mother said, final.

“Then can I sit with Ella?”

Ella seconded it.

Her mother looked to Uncle Ken, who nodded.

“Sure,” she said, frowning, as if Sarah had gotten away with something.

“Well, this should be a real adventure,” Grandma said, like she was surprised she'd gotten her way.

Aunt Lisa didn't say anything, just ate. Sarah's steak was cold and tough, the fat on the edges the color of old tape. She wanted to be done. Tomorrow was shot, so there was what—Thursday and Friday. Saturday they'd go home. Mark would get back right about the same time. He'd call and say he wanted to get together—or not. In two weeks, school started, her life started again. She wondered if she would see her father before that. He was in the U.P. at her grandparents', probably inside because of the rain, the same as here. She wondered if he took his girlfriend to meet them, the way he insisted Mark come inside before a date and shake his hand. She thought, idiotically, of calling him, and of what she'd say.

I miss you.

So does Justin.

Mom's okay.

On the phone they hardly talked, like they might mess things up worse.

Good, he'd say.

Huh.

That's great, Picklechips, just super. Hang in there, babe—like he might come to save them. That was what Justin thought, no matter how many times she told him it wasn't going to happen. He'd cry and then she'd feel like shit and wouldn't know what to say to him. It was like her father used to say when she was little: just another day in the Carlisle House of Fun.

Another fly had sneaked in and was weaving around the first one, the two of them just missing head-on collisions. Uncle Ken stood up and shut the door, the swatter in his hand, then sat back down and waited for everyone to finish. Sarah took her plate in, holding it high so her mother couldn't see how much she'd eaten. She dropped her fork in the silverware basket, then went into the downstairs bathroom and shut the door, locked it with a metallic clack.

With the light out it was quiet, only the skunky smell of the water to disturb her. She sat there with her eyes closed, biting the corner of her
thumbnail, her breath warm on her knuckles. She gnawed one corner, then the other, back and forth over the square points, turning her head. Her teeth slipped and clicked together, making a strange sound in the space above the bathtub, but she didn't open her eyes. With her other hand she reached up and removed the thumb from her lips, took it away. Everything's fine, she thought. There was no need to freak out. Everything was okay, as long as she didn't think.

“Whose turn is it to do the dishes?” his mother asked.

She looked around the porch at everyone, and Justin felt like he did at school when he knew Mrs. Foley was going to call on him.

“The boys can do them,” Aunt Lisa volunteered.

“I always have to do the dishes,” Sam whined—something Justin wouldn't even think of doing. Backtalk, his mother called it. “Ella never has to.”

“You haven't done them once since we've been here,” Aunt Lisa said. “Now get your tattooed butt in there.”

“But—”

“Don't argue,” Uncle Ken said, and pointed to the door.

“Don't go in empty-handed,” Grandma said, holding out her pie plate and her cup and saucer.

A nod from his mother and Justin cleared her place and followed Sam in.

Aunt Lisa was right behind them, telling them to shove the food garbage down the disposal. He and Sam stood there while she zipped around the kitchen, throwing away paper towels and dropping forks in the sink. Dirty plates were piled on both counters, and on the table with the sliced tomatoes and the open jar of pickles, the container of potato salad.

Aunt Lisa stopped flying around and stared at them. She sighed and shook her head and looked at them like they were idiots.

“
One
of you rinses the dishes and
one
of you puts them in the dishwasher. You figure out who does what. I don't care.”

“
I'll
put them in,” Sam called.

“Fine, just do it.” She turned the water on and kept her hand under it until it was ready.

It wasn't fair, but there was nothing Justin could do. It was like at the video arcade when Sam cut in front of him so he could go on the ski machine first.

The water was hot, steam clouding up around the faucet. The dinner plates were so heavy they bent his wrist. He used a fork to scrape the fat and potato salad into the disposal, then held them under the running water. All Sam had to do was fit them into the dishwasher. Justin's fingers were cucky. Between plates he wiped them on the sides of his pants.

“Turn the light on so you can see what you're doing,” Aunt Lisa said. She reached over him and flipped the switch, grabbed a scrubbing pad and swirled it around the plate he was holding. “You've got to get this stuff off, the machine won't do everything for you. Don't be afraid to get wet.”

He wasn't. He was afraid of the knives, thin and slippery in the water. He was afraid of dropping a glass and having a piece stick in his thumb. At home he was afraid of their disposal, the blades spinning under the rubber guard. Once he'd dropped a fork in and it had chewed the smooth handle—from then on the scratches snagged the skin of his fingers, and he avoided that fork. He was afraid he'd mess up and get yelled at. He was careful now, cleaning the plates like Aunt Lisa before sliding them onto the counter.

“Can you go any slower?” Sam asked.

“God,” Justin said. “You do it then.”

“Good luck.”

“Less talk, more work,” his mother said, delivering a cup and saucer they'd forgotten. “Don't worry about the food, I'll put it away.”

Uncle Ken looked in around the corner of the refrigerator. “As soon as you guys are done, we're going to watch a movie.”

“They're getting there,” Aunt Lisa said, and fitted her cup and saucer in by herself, rearranging things.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Sam said, and left. The coffee cups piled up on the counter, Aunt Arlene's with lipstick around the rim.

“Where's your helper?” his mother asked. She laughed when he told her. “That's the oldest trick in the book. Your uncle used to pull that one on me all the time. Don't expect him to come back.” She leaned over him to see how he was doing, then put the coffee cups in the top. “There's not much left. You know how to start it, right? It's just like ours, you just turn the knob till you hear it go on.”