“Mom,” I said, “I just didn’t have a very good day.”
She sat down next to me, and I remembered how, when I was sixteen, I’d been forced by my parents’ machinations to go on a date with Francie Garcia’s son, Luis. I had a zit on my forehead the size of a quarter and felt monstrous and degraded by adolescence. The date, by mutual consent, was short. I slunk home afterward and found my mother waiting for me on the couch in the living room, with the television on. My father had already gone to bed, and I sat down next to her, furious, undignified, and told her I would never let her do that to me again. Then I leaned my forehead against her shoulder and cried. “If you wait long enough,” she said, “this will all be over, and it will get better. I promise.”
Now, in silence, we sat in her condo with her married boyfriend here and Wylie not here, and I wondered if this was what she’d meant by “better.” Then she put her hand on the small of my back, still not saying anything, and I knew that this at least was true: in this house, on this day or any other, I would never be refused.
Thirteen
An uneasy peace is peaceful nonetheless. I was surprised at how happy I was, over the next few days, to play the good daughter, tidying up around the house and waiting for my mother to get home from work. I put all thoughts of Harold Wallace and his yogically contorted buttocks out of my mind. Several times we had dinner with David, the three of us marshaling enough energy for friendly conversation about topics of the day. We never talked about Wylie. David’s manner toward me became less bombastic, more subdued, and he no longer cried out my name like a cheer every time he saw me. This came as a relief. My mother cooked a sequence of elaborate meals — from braised lamb shank to chicken satay— which she arranged on serving plates in displays worthy of food magazines. There were desserts and specially chosen wines. She emerged from the kitchen bearing fragrant dishes, blushing proudly at our praise.
I thought, None of this is so hard.
One sweltering Wednesday I even went down to her office so we could have lunch with Francie and Luis of the long-ago date. He and I ate enchiladas and watched our mothers beam at each other with pride. After a little while I understood what Francie had meant by saying she didn’t think Luis would ever settle down: he was gay. All his teenage awkwardness had been replaced with an almost intimidating social ease. He was beautifully dressed and mannered, pulling out chairs for his mother and mine; drawing his mother out on the subject of her spectacular garden; making us all laugh. Francie put her hand over his and squeezed it as she bragged relentlessly about his accomplishments at work and exclaimed how lucky she was to have him around. It verged on disgusting. Then, halfway through the meal, she excused herself to visit the ladies’ room, and I saw a trace of exhaustion emerge on his careful features. All this politeness and admiration and laughter was part of some agreement between them, some ongoing negotiation that made everything else, within limits, okay.
When Francie came back from the restroom, pink lipstick and blue eye shadow brilliantly reapplied, she asked what was new with Wylie these days.
My mother shook her head. “I’ve deferred to Lynnie,” she said. “She’s the only one who can talk to him.”
Francie gave me a generous and approving smile. “It’s so good you’re back!”
“I guess so,” I said.
“It’s been like that ever since they were children,” my mother went on. “Wylie would keep secrets that only Lynn could hear about. He’d creep into her bedroom at night and whisper them to her. Nobody else could know.”
I looked at her. I remembered Wylie chattering, and me telling him to shut up and go to sleep, but whether there was any exchange of secrets I couldn’t say. Luis smiled at me, sipping his iced tea.
“She even got Wylie to come back for dinner,” my mother said. “I’m hoping by the end of the summer, he might even spend the night. It’s like domesticating a wild animal. You have to take it a little bit at a time.”
Francie and Luis laughed. The tone of my mother’s voice was confident and humorous and, it seemed to me, utterly false. Not to mention the improbability of Wylie coming home any time soon. She was either offering the most favorable interpretation of events or else hoping that by presenting an optimistic scenario she could somehow make it real.
The idyll of the good daughter lasted less than a week. What broke the peace was this: I drank at least a bottle of wine over dinner with my mother and David, preceded by a gin and tonic and followed by a healthy dose of Kahlua she’d produced from some hidden cupboard, after which I fell into a deep yet troubled sleep rife with pornographic dreams. Then I woke up at five in the morning, thirsty, restless, and wracked by the kind of loneliness that can’t be cured by having a nice chat with your mother. I had to see Angus again.
It was so quiet in the condo that I could almost hear my mother and David breathing behind their closed door. Outside, the sky was packed with stars, but already lightening to purple in the east. There was a burnt tinge to the air, the distant smell of wilderness fires. I got into the Caprice and drove to Wylie’s apartment, feeling alert and alone. There was no answer when I knocked, but when I tried the door it wasn’t locked.
The place was empty and dark, and I stood in the middle of the room waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then something damp and rough brushed against my leg: the dog, licking me.
“Are you all alone here, Sledge?” I said. “For a bunch of animal lovers, these guys don’t pay you much attention.”
In answer, he worked his tongue down my calf.
“That’s enough,” I said.
There was a rustling sound, and a shadow appeared out of the back. Even in the dark I could tell the figure wasn’t tall enough to be Angus. After more rustling and some muttering, a flashlight clicked on and I could see Irina, in a blue night-dress, standing there blinking, looking sleepy and confused.
“Irina, it’s me,” I said.
“Oh, my goodness. Is everything all right? Are they in prison?”
“Are who in prison?” I said.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said again. “Never mind, then.” She set the flashlight down on the kitchen counter, so that its pallid ray stretched across the room. Sledge whined once, as if for show, then lay down at my feet.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. Even in the dark, I saw her face was creased with sleep and concern.
Suddenly the flashlight rolled off the counter and crashed onto the floor. Sledge jumped, and from the bedroom came the anguished sounds of Psyche waking up. I picked up the flashlight as Irina went back to get her, and played the light, in turn, on the dog, the bare floor, and the bedroom, where Irina stepped out cradling the baby in her arms, rocking back and forth and cooing soothingly.
I went to the window and pulled the sheet loose from the duct tape, letting the vague light of early morning into the room.
“Are you all right?” Irina said. I looked down at myself, at shorts and an old T-shirt I didn’t remember putting on, feeling as if I’d only just then woken up. “Where is everybody?” I said.
“They’re off working.”
“Wylie too?”
“Sometimes he helps on Angus,” she said.
“Out,” I said. “He helps out.”
“That’s what I said,” she said, smiling. “Would you enjoy some breakfast?”
Somehow, in an apartment with no power, she made a delicious meal. First, she put a clean baby blanket down on the floor and laid Psyche on top, the baby watching us drowsily, kicking her fat legs a few times before falling back asleep. Then she pulled a small camp stove from a milk crate and heated water over the propane flame, adding dried fruit and powdered milk and maple syrup to some kind of hot cereal, and finally brewed tea. We lingered over breakfast in the cool, gradually brightening apartment. Through the window early-morning sounds made their way into the apartment: trucks barreling distantly past on the highway, the twitter of birds. Psyche smacked her lips in her sleep, but her moon face was otherwise still. We were sitting on the floor, with steaming, maple-scented bowls between us.