Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [15]
I think, what else? What else could have happened to him? He might have had another job, and been different. I do not believe the army is a good idea for people with regular human hearts. He could have been a thing like a janitor in a school. Everyone likes the janitor at my school, a gentle Mexican man named Juan who speaks no English but smiles and nods at every one of us like friends. He stands with his mop like a dancing partner, smiling, smiling. We have a special relationship, Juan and I. I once asked too late to be excused to go to the bathroom, and I vomited on the hall floor. Juan was at the other end. He started walking toward me. I wiped my mouth quick with the hem of my dress. I was so ashamed that he would have to clean up after me, and I began to cry and say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He touched my shoulder and shrugged, said, “Hey, is okay, okay,” and then some soft things in Spanish, and I didn’t feel embarrassed anymore. I don’t know, there are everyday miracles: that mess lying in the hall, and I felt fine in front of a stranger.
So maybe my father could have been a janitor. Or the owner of a bakery. Or of a toy store. He could have been something where he wasn’t supposed to yell. I think that would have helped.
We are at the table, waiting for dinner to come. I ordered a club sandwich. I need to say more than thank you, which is not enough. When the sandwich comes, I will admire the tomatoes, say how red they are. I won’t leave anything over, of course.
My father’s suit is dark blue, his shirt so white against it, it is shocking. He wears a tie, sideways stripes of red, white, and blue. He has gold cuff links with blue stones in them. My mother, on his birthday, “Do you like them?” her hands clasped and held close to her heart until he looks up and she can see yes.
Diane sighs. My father raises his eyebrows at her. “You got a problem?” he asks.
She almost starts to laugh. “No. I don’t have a problem.”
“Good.” A little too loud, but nothing will happen here. Still, you can see the sides of his cheeks going in and out, his prelude to anger. When you see that, you don’t provoke him, my mother said. You just don’t push him. Or you are asking for it.
They are at each other a lot, he and Diane. It seems almost constant lately. Maybe Diane is just too old.
“Are we getting dessert?” I ask, though I know.
“Yes,” he says, “you can have dessert.”
“Are you?” I ask Diane.
“No.” We both look at her. “I just don’t want any dessert, all right?”
He looks away, scowls, and nods, agreeing with himself.
The food comes. Oh, the food is here, and we can eat.
I am in bed that night when I hear Diane’s door open. It is so quiet, but I hear it. I see her shadow going down the hall. She is doing it, sneaking out with Dickie. I cannot imagine her courage. I go to look out her window and see her meet him across the street. He is in the shadows at first, but then he steps forward to hold her. Only to hold her! I wonder where his truck is. I sleep a little, but not much, until she comes home two hours later. I hear the front door, her movement up the stairs, then her bedroom door shut. Then silence. She has done it. I close my eyes tight, squeeze them with relief. I imagine Diane lying back on her bed, quietly removing her shoes, exhaling a long line of air noiselessly. Her room is dark, the edges of her furniture softened by the dimness. Her eyes are wide open, and she is thinking.
After several days, Cherylanne still has not forgiven me. We are infected. She spoke to me only to say that perhaps we are drifting apart. I reminded her that we are not characters in her stupid magazine stories and there you are, I earned more time.
I read, I write poems to keep in my red folder, I take walks along the creek bed. I see schools of minnows, excited with their new lives, swimming fast to somewhere they’ve never been. I want to bring some home, but they will only die. And so I lie on my belly to watch them, make defective dams out of my fingers for them