David Gates - Preston Falls

Carol shrugs. Not exactly a denial.

"Listen, I'm going to do a wash," says Jean. "You have stuff that needs doing?"

"I probably should've cracked the whip about the homework," says Carol.

"No, it's their responsibility."

"But still. I know how important it is to you." What, meaning she's a nut on the subject? "So I take it you haven't heard anything from the police?"

"Not a thing. You know, he's in the computer. Whippity-doo."

"Hmm," says Carol. "I have to think about this."

"Fine. Meanwhile, do you have stuff to wash?"

Up in the bedroom, she drags the laundry bag out of the closet. It's stupid to be doing a load and not put in the clothes she's wearing, but then she'd have to change. And before that she'd have to shower. She feels a jab next to her left kidney (wrestling that stupid radiator) when she shoulders the bag and carries it into the bathroom to get stuff out of the hamper. Another jab when she bends over, the pain shooting down the outside of her thigh. Crap. She shoulders the bag again and knocks on Mel's door.

"What?"

"Sorry to interrupt," says Jean. "Do you have dirty clothes in there? I'm doing a load of wash."

"I'll look in a minute, okay?" Mel says through the door.

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"Would you look now, please? So I can get started?"

''But Mother."

Jean opens the door. Mel's sitting cross-legged on her bed, gaping at her, with three wet red toenails on one foot, a nail-polish bottle in one hand and a red-tipped brush-cap in the other.

"You know, the longer you put off—"

"I know, Mother. I needed to think about something."

"And that's a good way to ruin your bedspread."

"I'm being careful."

"What did you need to think about?" says Jean. Which is what she should have said instead of carping about the bedspread.

"I don't know. Nothing." She dips the brush in and starts on the next toe.

"Well, could you please put that up and help me? I need thaf' — pointing to a pair of faded blue jeans on the floor— "that" — Courtney Love t-shirt— "that" — pink top with purple sleeves—"and all that" — a tangle of socks and tights, plus another pair of jeans, with one inside-out leg sticking through the leg hole of a pair of underpants.

"All right " Mel gets off the bed and limps toward the clothes, trying to keep the painted toes from touching the floor.

"And watch your tone, please?" says Jean. Mel hands her the t-shirt. "When I come back in here, I expect to find you've finished your homework."

Mel hands her both pairs of jeans; the faded pair has major grass stains on the seat. Colors are beautiful, actually. "Roger's probably in there looking at his stupid magazines. " Mel hands Jean the big tangle of stuff and hobbles back to sit on the bed.

"I'll worry about Roger," Jean says. "Your job is to get your work done." She can't ask what magazines, since she's just told Mel to mind her own business. Really handling this brilliantly. She pulls the drawstring tight on the laundry bag. It also occurs to her she hasn't said a kind word to Mel since getting home.

"Is Daddy still at Grandma's?" says Mel.

"I assume so," Jean says.

"But he's supposed to be back at work."

"Well, that's what I'd thought," says Jean, "but I think I probably got the dates confused and it's actually next week." This sounds so plausible she's tempted to believe it herself.

2 2 I

Mel draws the brush up out of the bottle and regards the glossy red nail polish. "Yeah, okay, thanks," she says.

Jean knocks on Roger's door. "Last call for dirty clothes."

"What does that mean?" Roger says through the door.

"It means I'm doing a wash tonight." She turns the doorknob and pushes: he's got it bolted. "Open the door, please?"

"In a second, okay?" Noises. She can't tell what.

"What's going on in there?" says Jean. Like he's really going to tell her.

''Nothing. I'm coming"

More noises, then Roger's footsteps. He snaps the bolt back and opens the door.

"How come your door's locked?" says Jean.

"She's always coming in and bothering me."

"Mm-hm," says Jean. Not agreeing, but indicating she's heard. Roger looks flushed. He's too young to be able to really masturbate, isn't he? She should read something about boys. "So how's your homework?"

"Okay," he says.

"May I see?"

"I don't want you to see until I'm done," he says.

"And how long will that be?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"I don't care for that tone," she says.

He stares back. But doesn't answer back, so she guesses she doesn't have to take this any further.

She picks up black jeans, a black t-shirt and three once-white socks and stuffs them in the laundry bag. "Is this aU you have?"

He shrugs. "There's more in there," he says, tossing his head in the direction of the closet.

"Could you get it, please?"

He shrugs again and brings out an armload: shirts, underwear, another pair of black jeans. She holds the bag open for him.

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," she says, and taps her finger three times on the clock beside his bed. Five of eight already; his official bedtime is nine o'clock. "I expect you to have one of your assignments done. Anything you don't finish tonight you'll have to do in the morning." She drags the laundry out into the hall, leaving his door open. She tries to

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shoulder the thing again, gets that same shooting pain and just pulls it behind her by its drawstring, letting it bump down the stairs. She hears Roger's door shut.

At the bottom of the stairs she picks the bag up and hugs it, so she won't be dragging it past Carol looking ostentatiously like a drudge. Carol's on the sofa, feet tucked up under her, reading The Fellowship of the Ring. But once she gets the basement door open, she lets the bag drop again, and down the stairs it tumbles, spilling out socks and underpants as it rolls.

Thank God for a washer and dryer right in the house. Back when they lived on 108th Street, she used to go to this laundromat around the corner on Broadway, pushing Roger in his stroller and having to keep an eye on Mel every second. So life has gotten better. Even if this is just an old Kenmore top-loader and you can't do massive amounts at a time. But what she'd love would be to have two washers down here — is this pathetic? — so you could separate your colors and get the whole thing done in one fell swoop. But it would be such an indulgence.

Those years at home with Mel, and then with Mel and Roger: that was an indulgence. Or so Willis thought. And in fairness, she can see why he resented her for it. She thought it should have meant something to him that he was supporting his family single-handed — how many men do that anymore? — but she can see how it might've lost its luster, being stuck in a job he holds in such contempt. She used to think it was great for Mel and Roger, not being packed off to day care or turned over to some weird nanny, whom they'd then love more than you. On the other hand, look how it's turned out: Roger with all his problems and — diet's face it — warning signs, and Mel off in Mel Land.

But what kills Jean: it was just starting to get to a point where maybe things could have begun to change. She had her job, bringing them in half again as much money, and some of the weight could finally have started to lift off of Willis. And they really could have started thinking about something like the plan they used to talk about, where he could try to do something that maybe didn't pay as much but would mean something to him. His music, even. Though of course he's now totally cynical about that. And realistically, the mortgage payments in Chesterton would probably make it impossible. And then to top everything off, he turned around and burdened himself with all the expenses of Preston Falls. Completely self-defeating. As she probably should've tried harder to point out to him five years ago.