“You shouldn’t pull his chain like that. Or Joelle’s. They’re going to think you’re losing it.”
“They already do!” Geneva’s bright earrings bobbed as she laughed. “I have to admit, I like having those buzzards around. I don’t know why; maybe it’s because they’re not afraid of death.”
“I can see that.”
“Can you?” Geneva said. “I wonder about you, Dean. You’re so self-contained. The way I see it, when something bad happens to you, you either button up and batten down, or you go a little crazy. Obviously, I chose the crazy route. But you? I’m not so sure.”
“I’m battening, I guess.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Geneva said. “I don’t have the self-control.”
“I don’t know that I do, either.”
“Oh, please. I’ve never met anyone more disciplined.”
“That’s the problem. I need something to be disciplined about. Something to do. I can’t go to another football game and sit in the stands and eat hot dogs. And I can’t go to work every day, come home, and be with my kids. I can’t. I’m not built that way. I have to have some sort of goal, some sort of fight. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Nic, if that’s why she — if she didn’t have a sense of purpose. And maybe that’s my fault, maybe I should have given it to her.”
“Dean, you could have given her the world. I can’t make sense of it, Jo can’t make sense of it, and if Paul were alive, he wouldn’t be able to, either.” She paused. “Actually, maybe he would. He had his dark days. Nicole always took after him. Joelle takes after me. Not that it’s that simple. Paul was happy when he was old. He turned a corner after he had grandchildren. Life has many phases. That’s what I would say to Nicky if I could talk to her now.”
Dean looked toward the southern end of the pasture, trying to see if he could make out the little cemetery just beyond it.
“Have you gone to Nic’s grave?” he asked.
“I go every Sunday.”
“I haven’t gone back yet.”
“Well, she’s not there.”
“I know,” Dean said. He returned his gaze to the sky. “She used to say I’d be happier without her.”
“She didn’t mean that,” Geneva said. “But don’t be afraid to prove her right.”
LAIRD’S HOUSE WAS furnished sparsely with rental furniture, some of it blatantly fake, like a large gray plastic television without any wires connecting it to the wall, while other items were uncanny, like a mantel of gold picture frames, all with the display photos still inside, so that the family in absentia seemed to consist of multiple wives and a dozen children. In the kitchen, a variety of cereal boxes were lined up in the cupboard, Seinfeld style. When they first arrived, Stephanie and Laird toured the downstairs, commenting, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light. There were no shades or curtains on the windows, and light from the waxing moon filled the rooms.
“There are even beds upstairs,” Laird said, leading her up the carpeted staircase. In his other hand was a plastic bag with two tall boys and a bag of pretzels. They’d stopped at the Sheetz on their way over.
“Why do they bring all this furniture in?”
“My dad says it helps the house sell,” Laird said. “That’s what the Realtor told him. It’s bad that they didn’t sell it before we moved. But my dad had to start his new job. And they didn’t want me to start the school year here and then move.”
“But you would have wanted to,” Stephanie said.
“I don’t know anymore.” Laird reached ahead to feel where the wall was. It was darker in the upstairs hallways because there weren’t as many windows. “We should have gotten a flashlight, I guess — here, come with me.” He stopped feeling for the wall and took her hand.
They turned into the master bedroom. A queen-size four-poster bed loomed in front of them. There were windows on either side, and the moonlight gave the quilted comforter a blue tint. Laird pulled back the quilt. There weren’t any sheets.
They both looked at the bare mattress. Some of the intensity of their kiss had burned off during their car ride, but it was still there, beneath their conversation.
“Let’s go to my room,” Laird said. “This is too much my parents’ room.”
They both laughed when they saw what had become of Laird’s room: there was a crib, a child’s dresser, and an airplane mobile hanging from the ceiling.
“This is actually mine,” Laird said, standing next to the little dresser, which reached his waist. “I keep one sock in each drawer.”
They had better luck in what Laird referred to as the guest room. There was a platform bed there, a desk, and two chairs. Laird pushed the chairs together and moved them in front of the window so they could sit and drink their beers. It was light beer, and it had a thin flavor that Stephanie didn’t mind. She let it warm her as she looked out at Laird’s backyard, an unadorned lawn bordered by a split-rail fence. Beyond the fence was an overgrown field where orange construction flags seemed to indicate future development. But there were flags like that all over Willowboro. Most of the time, they were just wishful thinking.
“It’s weird to be here,” Laird said.
“I feel like we’re ghosts.”
Laird laughed. “You’re so morbid! You and that guy you always hung around with — Catrell.”
“You mean Mitchell?” Stephanie felt a twinge of longing. He still hadn’t written back to her e-mail.
“Yeah, Mitch, that’s him. You guys were like the Addams family. We’d always be, like, ‘Where’s the funeral?’”
“Yeah, I know,” Stephanie said. “I was there.”
“Sorry, we were just kidding.” He touched the ends of her hair. “Is this your natural color?”
Stephanie shook her head. “It’s blond — kind of.”
“Why did you change it?”
“I don’t know. To be different, I guess.” To Stephanie’s surprise, she felt tears coming on. It was as if Laird was exposing all her various costumes. He was more sure of himself than she was, she realized; he had a better sense of who he was. Where had he gotten it, she wondered — from his parents? From the football team? From her father? It seemed unfair that this boy should have been given — and guilelessly accepted — the very thing she wanted most in the world.
“Hey, don’t get down,” Laird said. “You know we only said stuff because we thought you were cute.”
Before Stephanie could think of anything to reply, he took her beer out of her hand and placed it on the windowsill. Then he began to kiss her. Soon they were undressing. Stephanie’s jean skirt was a hand-me-down from her mother, and as Laird pulled it down, Stephanie had a disconcerting thought: her mother might have had sex wearing this skirt. She wanted to stop everything, to tell Laird that this was all new to her, that she’d never even seen a boy naked before, but at the same time there was the voice in her saying more, more.
They paused to move to the bed. The cheap bedspread was scratchy on her back and she felt self-conscious about her body, but then Laird apologized for being “so hairy” and she relaxed. They figured things out. They had time, she realized, to figure things out. The silvery moonlight was forgiving, Laird was forgiving — the scratchy fake bedspread was not forgiving. They pushed it aside. Laird’s hands were shaking when he went to get a condom from his wallet, and Stephanie wondered if it was his first time, too. Having sex hurt and then it didn’t. She wondered if it would always be like this, a stinging feeling followed by warmth and sensation. It reminded her of swimming in cold water, that mixture of unpleasant and exhilarating.