Wolf at the table, p.20
Wolf at the Table, page 20
He puts the picture of Ronan in the pocket of his robe.
“Do you ever think about us?” Myra hears herself say.
“Yes,” he says.
“What exactly do you think about?”
“Certain times,” he replies. “Christmases. A drive we took to the mountains in New York.”
“The Catskills,” Myra says, encouraged. “We’d been to visit my parents in Elmira a few months after Ronan was born. And then we went up to Tannersville and stayed in that nice hotel for the rest of the week.”
“I remember the goats,” he says.
“The little goats on the wallpaper,” Myra says.
“Their faces,” he adds, and stares into his water glass. “It was like they had thoughts.”
That had been such a lovely week in Tannersville. Denny was so alive, so enamored of Ronan, and they were in love.
“Do you miss us?” Myra says.
He nods once, the movement so faint it is more like a flinch, as if he’s dodging a mosquito. After his head comes to rest, his expression is one of profound confusion. He could be peering through the fog at something on fire.
And then a door closes and Connie is back.
“Time for bed, Dennis,” she says, placing her hand on his shoulder. She’s changed out of her nursing pants and into a pair of pajama bottoms that match his.
Denny’s hand comes up to meet hers.
“Bedtime for Dennis,” she says.
“Bedtime,” he echoes.
And then with her hand still on his shoulder and his hand on hers, Connie asks Myra if they had a good talk, as if Denny is a young boy being visited after school by a classmate and now has to go wash up for dinner.
“I think we did,” Myra says.
Denny pushes away from the table and rises. His movements are deliberate, slightly strained. Something has taken hold of his joints. It reminds Myra of her father, how slow his hands became once the arthritis set in, after thirty years of working levers and spindles and cast-iron crankshafts. Denny’s face is still youthful, though, with very few lines. His eyes are surprisingly clear. She will have no problem remembering this version of him.
“Bye, Denny,” Myra says.
“Bye,” he says, facing the hallway.
She has the sense that his body’s machinery has already started down an irreversible path.
“I’ll put him to bed and then I’ll see you out,” Connie says.
Myra nods.
Denny doesn’t look back as Connie guides him down the hall. This relationship somehow feels like livestock agriculture, Myra thinks. Animal husbandry. Denny is a bovine, Connie his dutiful farmhand. During the day she places him in a field. She sets a bale of hay before him and tells him when to eat, when to drink water, when to sleep. She gently leads him around with a rope. When it rains she brings him inside. Their arrangement seems so simple, almost absurd in its primitiveness, and yet a kind of love comes through. Between them there is a ritualized intimacy that Myra never really experienced with her husband.
AN HOUR LATER, IN a kind of trance, Myra crosses the Ohio River and pulls into an all-night diner in rural Kentucky, just outside Paducah. She has no idea why she decided to drive south on Interstate 24. At Marion she should have exited north, in the direction of Joliet. Instead she headed south, and now here she is. Before she goes inside she takes in the river, whose surface is oddly smooth, like obsidian, as if she could take her shoes off and walk out to the middle and wait for some strange being to appear and advise her about the next phase of her life.
The diner is sparsely populated. Moving back and forth behind a cutout framing the sizzling kitchen is a bald cook in a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders. A slow-moving waitress in a uniform the color of Pepto-Bismol greets Myra when she sits at the counter. Myra places her folded road map on the counter and arranges her purse between her feet. The last time she ate was her lunch break, some twelve hours earlier, and her stomach has been rumbling since she left Connie’s house.
The waitress sets a menu before her and asks her if she’d like a cup of coffee.
“Please,” Myra says.
Mounted over the jukebox and bolted to the ceiling is a color television, which is playing a rerun of the news with the sound turned down. At the other end of the counter a heavyset man dressed head to toe in faded denim is hunched over a plate of scrambled eggs and French toast. Outside it has started to rain.
Myra orders two eggs over easy with plain white toast and sausage patties. She dumps two plastic mini creamers into her coffee and downs half of it. Her hunger has made her jittery. Her hands tremble as she sets her coffee cup down.
“They shot the president,” the man in denim says, nodding toward the television.
Dan Rather mutters silently to his viewers with a still frame of President Reagan behind him.
“Who shot him?” Myra asks.
“Apparently some crazy kid,” the man says. “He shot Reagan and three others.”
“Is Reagan dead?” Myra asks.
“No,” the man says. “Kid used a twenty-two-caliber revolver. Shoulda used a forty-five. Or a nine mil. Either of those woulda done the trick. Guess he didn’t like the election results.”
Myra voted for Carter, thinking him to be a kinder man, and can hardly conjure Ronald Reagan. Instead the softened face of her husband—Denny’s haunted eyes—takes hold of her mind.
A minute later a bell sounds from the kitchen and the waitress brings Myra her order, refills her coffee, and sets a large cup of ice water next to her mug. Myra digs in, not even bothering with the salt and pepper. She wolfs down her eggs, then the toast, then the trio of sausage patties, immediately energized by the food. She downs her second cup of coffee. When the waitress comes back to top her off Myra asks her if they have a pay phone and the waitress directs her to a paneled hallway at the back of the diner, opposite the bathrooms.
Myra heads toward the pay phone with her purse and fishes out a few quarters. Her hands are shaking so badly that she can’t fit the quarters in the slot. She takes a breath and finally succeeds.
“It’s so late,” Ronan says, sleepily, when he answers. “Where are you?”
Myra looks at her watch. It’s almost one thirty a.m. She tells him that she went for a drive and lost track of time. An absurd lie, but she can’t think of what else to say.
“You’re coming home, right?”
“Of course,” she says.
“You’re never out this late,” Ronan says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call until now. If you can’t sleep you should heat up some milk in a pan. There’s cinnamon next to the toaster.”
“You missed my meet,” he tells her.
“Oh, Ronan,” she says, “I’m so sorry.” In her singular focus on Denny she forgot about the meet, thinking today was only another practice. Her guilt surges again. “How’d it go?” she asks.
“I won the hundred and the two hundred.”
“Congratulations,” she says. “What about the relay?”
“We were way out in front but Dee Bynum got us disqualified for running out of his lane. We would’ve easily qualified for sectionals.”
“You guys won’t have any problem qualifying,” she says. “Tell Dee to stay in his lane.”
“I know,” he says.
There is a pause. The sound of her son breathing on the other end soothes her.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
“Just for a drive.”
“But where?”
“I went up to Starved Rock State Park,” she lies.
“Why?”
“I just needed to clear my head. Things got a little intense at work.”
“More kids died?”
“Yeah,” she says. “This one little boy who’d been in a car accident didn’t make it. He lost too much blood.” She hates lying to Ronan. It makes her feel like her hair is falling out in clumps.
“Marna called earlier,” he says. “She kept asking if I’d spoken to you. She seemed sorta worried.”
“I was supposed to meet her at Earl’s after work but I never showed up. My stomach’s been bothering me.”
“So take some Maalox,” he says.
“I already did,” she says. Another lie.
“That guy Emile called again, too.”
“Did you write his number down this time?”
“He didn’t leave one,” Ronan says.
Back at the counter the waitress drops Myra’s check and the women lock eyes and Myra smiles at her.
“Is that guy Black?” Ronan asks of Emile.
“He is,” Myra replies. “I believe he’s half and half.”
“A mulatto.”
“Yes,” Myra says, “but you shouldn’t use that word.”
“Why not?” Ronan says.
“Because it isn’t acceptable anymore. One of the nurses at work got chewed out for using it.”
“So it’s like the N-word now?”
“Sort of,” Myra says.
“Why?” Ronan asks.
“I think it’s because ‘mule’ is part of the word?”
“But mules are good animals,” Ronan says. “There’s nothing wrong with mules.”
“But I think the point is that they’re animals,” Myra says. “And animals are below people.”
“So what word should I use?”
“I’m not sure,” Myra says. “Maybe ‘mixed’… or ‘blended’?”
“He’s blended?” Ronan says.
“Sure.”
“That makes him sound like a protein drink.”
Myra laughs. Ronan can always make her laugh when she least expects it.
“Are you and Emile dating?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “Marna’s husband’s been trying to set us up. Do you have a problem with him being Black?”
“No,” Ronan says.
Sixteen rectangular four-story units make up the Cedarwood Apartment Complex. There might be a dozen white families in the entire subdivision. Despite her and Ronan being the only whites in their building, Myra has always felt welcome. All the Black and Mexican kids treat Ronan as if he’s one of them.
“I don’t have a problem with Emile,” Ronan says. “I was just curious. On the phone he seemed cool.”
“How’d you get home from the track meet?” she asks.
“Coach Blazing gave me a ride.”
“That was nice of him,” she says. “I’ll have to call and thank him.”
“He wants me to start long-jumping. He thinks I could go eighteen feet. Seventeen-ten qualifies for State.”
“Your father was a triple jumper,” she says.
“I know,” he says, “that’s what I told Coach Blazing.”
“That’s how he hurt his knee when he was at West Point.” Myra imagines Denny’s face, his hand on top of Connie’s, and her stomach gives way. “Did you eat anything for dinner?”
“I had that leftover Hamburger Helper.”
“What about a vegetable?”
“I’ll do double vegetable tomorrow.”
“And your homework?”
“I finished it.”
From her position at the pay phone Myra can see the ongoing television coverage of the Reagan assassination attempt. The slow-motion footage of his security detail throwing bodies to the ground. The president felled like an elderly person on an icy street. “Did you watch the news?” she asks.
“No,” he says. “Why, did something happen?”
“No,” she lies again. “I was just wondering if they’re saying anything about the Cubs yet.”
“They’re gonna be terrible again,” he says. “Bill Buckner’s the only good player they have.”
“What about Iván DeJesús,” she says.
“He sucks.”
“I thought you loved DeJesús. You used to always imitate his batting stance.”
“He’s past his prime,” Ronan says. “He still has a good arm but his range is crap… Are you crying or something?”
“No,” Myra says.
“You just sniffled.”
“It’s raining here and it’s making my nose run.”
“You’re outside?”
“No, I’m inside. I’m at a diner.”
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have to.”
“Are you at the Denny’s on Jefferson?”
“No,” she says.
“You are crying,” he says.
“I’m not,” she says, “I’m really not.” Myra paws at her cheeks with her left hand, which makes her sniffle again.
“No self-pity,” he says.
This is what she always tells him when he feels sorry for himself.
“You’re tougher than you think,” he adds.
She always says this, too.
“I am tough,” she says. She sees her own hand on Denny’s, sitting across from him there in that little kitchen, the sadness settling like pollen on their limbs.
“When will you be home?” Ronan says.
“Soon,” she says. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“I was gonna chain the door,” he says, “but then you won’t be able to get in.”
“The deadbolt is plenty safe,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” he says. “But you swear you’re on your way?”
“I swear,” she says. “And promise me you’ll brush your teeth and go to bed.”
“I will.”
“Sorry I missed your meet,” she says.
“As long as you come to Districts,” he says.
“I will,” she says.
“And Sectionals.”
“And Sectionals.”
“State, too.”
“Of course,” Myra says.
“I have to finish in the top two at sectionals to qualify for State.”
“You will,” she says.
“Don’t get a speeding ticket.”
“I won’t,” she says.
After hanging up, Myra goes into the women’s bathroom and vomits her entire meal into the toilet. Lately it’s been harder and harder to keep her food down. She’s losing weight. And there’s been more than one occasion when she’s seen blood in her stool. It’s probably an ulcer. Marna thinks it’s all the stress of raising a twelve-year-old boy on her own. Working full-time with no break. Trying to make ends meet on a nurse’s salary.
At the sink she rinses her mouth and goes out to the counter and pays the check and leaves a dollar tip. The older man in denim is gone. Myra collects her road map and thanks the waitress.
“Night, hon,” she says to Myra. “Be safe out there.”
It’s still raining. For some reason, Myra finds herself turning onto Route 45 and continuing south. The rain turns the intermittent roadside lamps into smears on the windshield. On the radio it’s only news about the assassination attempt on President Reagan. The former Hollywood actor is only two months into his term. He was shot in the lung by John Hinckley, Jr., as he was leaving a speaking engagement in Washington, D.C. Several people were injured, including Jim Brady, the White House press secretary.
Myra turns the radio off. Nothing but love songs and terrible news. She didn’t vote for Reagan but she pities him. She knows he was a former Democrat, that he was born in Tampico, Illinois, which is almost directly west of Joliet, not far from the Iowa border, some dozen miles east of the Rock River, and that he was the governor of California for a time. She prefers Jimmy Carter’s sense of decency and his stance on human rights, and believes he got unfairly criticized because of the gas crisis and the stagnant economy that he inherited, not to mention the horrible Iran hostage situation. Very few presidents could have survived those kinds of challenges.
When she reaches the outskirts of Oak Grove, Kentucky, Myra pulls the car onto the shoulder and looks at the map under the dome light of her Pacer. She could keep going south. The cities are staggered downward toward the Gulf of Mexico like a series of provocations. She could just keep driving and driving until dawn. She could take a quick nap in Memphis and still be in New Orleans before noon. She could watch the sun dapple the skin of Lake Pontchartrain. She could start her life over there. She could disappear, just as Denny did, six years ago. She could change her name and find a little carriage house and grow old and anonymous and unwitnessed. No more worries about Ronan or groceries or booster shots or parent-teacher conferences or showing up at that dingy hospital where children get abandoned and suffer and die all too often. She is briefly thrilled by this prospect, this possibility of shape-changing into something she’s never known herself to be. She could start writing. Or take up watercolor painting. She could work in a used bookstore and speak with a strange accent. She could become promiscuous. She could paint the trim on her carriage house a vibrant, electric yellow. Her garden would be shaggy and strange. She would grow misshapen heirloom tomatoes and keep bees in the backyard. Inside her house she would walk around naked and seldom shower and let her armpit hair grow out and sleep on extravagant pillows. She would start smoking hashish and listen to Joni Mitchell and read John Cheever stories and the novels of Toni Morrison and Joyce Carol Oates.
But as the wipers clear away the rain, these thoughts start to disappear as if they were written with her finger on the windshield. She can only see her son. Ronan running around a cinder track. His long coppery hair lifting off his shoulders. His searching, hazel eyes, which he inherited from her. His boyish arms that will be marked with mosquito bites in a couple of months. His pale, oddly muscular calves. She shifts the car into drive, eases back onto the highway, gets off at the next exit, crosses over to the other side, and rejoins the road heading north.
From here it will take more than six hours to drive back to Joliet. After she re-crosses the Ohio River she will have to get gas and she’ll most certainly need at least two more cups of coffee to help her stay awake, and she’ll likely call in sick to work, but she’s made a decision: She will not flee her life. She will return to her small unit on the third story of 2421 Ingalls Avenue, Building #6 of Cedarwood Apartments, where, on the floor beside her bed, her sleeping son will be curled anxiously into himself, awaiting her loving hand.
