David Gates - Preston Falls

''That's what we like to hear." Jean lays the four twenties on Carol's palm.

"Good God." Carol sticks them in the pocket of her jeans. "Let me o«/of here."

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"I was thinking," Jean says, "maybe we should follow you over to the pancake place and have like a farewell brunch? You know, some kind of ceremony."

"Too sad," says Carol. "I think I should probably just say goodbye to Mel and Roger and then boogie."

Jean stupidly says, "But I have water on for coffee."

"I shouldn't," Carol says. "You know that saying, miles to go before I sleep."

"Right," says Jean.

"You're going to be fine," Carol says. "What is //?/>?" She takes the pen from behind her ear. "I thought I felt something. Is this yours or mine?" She answers herself with a shrug. "Who cares, right?" She lays it on the counter.

Jean takes her sister's knobby hand. Rough and dry like a man's, but thin, light. "You're going to be fine too." She snorts. "God, listen to us: fine fine fine.'' Draws a long breath, lets it out. "So. I guess we can't string this out any longer."

They watch Carol's truck turn the corner and disappear behind the house where the people have the black Grand Cherokee; then they hustle back in out of the cold, Jean still holding Rathbone by the collar. Mel and Roger go straight upstairs — which in a way is good, because she needs a few minutes. Though she's absolutely got to talk to him this morning. She spoons coffee into the filter paper and pours the water over it, then pops a couple of Advils to nuke her headache. She gets the JOE mug down. While the coffee's dripping she might as well go up and get that load of laundry.

Down in the basement, she settles in the good old armchair — five minutes, no more — rests her coffee on the broad upholstered arm and picks up The Father Hunt. The washing machine starts its steady sloshing, like a mother's heartbeat in the womb. She's thinking how much she likes this little thing where Archie says, / wish I knew if you would really be interested in what we did during the next forty-eight hours, like he's flirting with you almost, when the phone rings and she jumps up — of course knocking the stupid coffee over and smashing the mug on the cement floor. Crap. She charges up the steps to the kitchen, snatches the phone off the wall and pants "Hello?" just as she hears Mel say "Hello?" on the upstairs extension.

"Hi, Mf/anie?" Fucking Erin Miller.

"Fve got it. Mother," Mel calls.

Jean hangs up, takes a couple of deep breaths — in fairness, Erin did do the responsible thing yesterday — then gets down the green mug. Which she's never liked, so it's certain never to break. She pours more coffee and goes back down to the basement. She gathers the broken pieces of the JOE mug, lifts the lid to stop the washer, extracts a sopping towel, mops up the coffee spill and throws the towel back in. In the pile

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of pieces she sees a shark fin of china with the O intact. If she were still an artist. . But it would be obvious and stupid.

Which reminds her: she has to look for another job.

How long does she have? That wasn't made clear, was it? Or did she block out that part? So she'll have to update her resume. Right, and send it where? Well, not a good day to think about this. God, the mortgage alone is like eighteen hundred dollars. Car's another four, mortgage on Preston Falls probably another four, so that's twenty-six. Commuter ticket, hundred and sixty, plus the usual bills — with winter coming, they're going to get socked for fuel oil. God, plus food. Clothes. Her take-home for the month is twenty-three. Less than twenty-three. Twenty-two and change. Amazingly good money, she'd always heard, for an art-school person.

Okay. We're not going to think about it today. God damn Doug Willis.

She picks up The Father Hunt and really does her best to zero in on it again and keep her thoughts off. I wish I knew if you would really he interested in what we. . She tries picturing black blinders at her temples, like on a horse. No, no good. Anyhow, she's got to deal with Roger.

He's lying on his side on the floor of his room, his collection of Pogs before him in tall stacks like a miser's horde. He likes the ones that have cloaked-and-hooded skeletons, their skulls with vampire fangs. She should never have gone along with Willis's judgment that this was normal boy stuff. Or Roger's way of working through fears. Or whatever overintellectualized thing he'd come up with to avoid really looking at it, though in fairness she does the same thing.

"Hi," she says, kneeling beside him.

"What?" Not looking at her, he takes a Pog from a shorter stack and gingerly lowers it with his fingertips onto the top of an already taller stack.

"Aunt Carol showed me the sun you guys made. You did a really good job."

Roger shrugs. "It was her idea." He picks up a Pog: a silver skull with a red and green yin-yang on its forehead.

"So have you thought about what I asked you?" says Jean. "About why you scratched that thing on her truck?"

"No."

PRESTON FALLS

"Then I'd like you to think about it right now." And how's she going to enforce this — march into his little head?

Seconds go by.

"Okay, I thought about it," Roger says.

"And?"

He shrugs and reaches for another Pog.

"Were you angry at her?" says Jean.

Shrug.

"Angry at me?"

Shrug. This Pog is identical to the other. He holds one up in each hand between thumb and forefinger and brings first one and then the other nearer and farther away.

"Angry at Daddy?"

"I don't know. He's probably dead or something."

"Do you wish he was?" She's really asking a nine-year-old this, about his father? "People sometimes wish that when they're really angry at somebody. It's a normal thing to wish that. It doesn't mean you're bad."

Tiny shrug: a twitch of the shoulders, really.

"I just want you to know that it's okay to be angry."

"I'm not,'' he says. "You always make everything a big deal." With a backhand swipe, he levels all the stacks.

This is going just as brilliantly as she'd thought. But now that she's started, there's no avoiding the rest.

"Do you know what that thing means?" she says. "That you scratched on Aunt Carol's truck? The swastika?"

"Yeah. The sun."

"But that's not what you thought it was when you did it."

Roger says nothing.

"So what did you think it was?"

"I don't know — a Nazi sign."

"And do you know what the Nazis were?"

"Yeah, Germans."

"Do you know what they did?"

Roger shrugs. "I don't know, killed people and stuff."

"Do you know how many?"

"Yeah, six million."

"Did you know that the people they killed were people like the Levys next door? Or like your friend Sam? Or Jason?"

"Yeah, I know."

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"Well, then I guess I don't get it," says Jean. "You don't hate Sam or Jason." She doesn't dare make this a question. "You knew that what you were doing was wrong."

Silence. It's hurting her back to kneel like this.

"Can I tell you what it sounds like to me? It sounds to me almost like you were asking to be punished for something." She's tiptoeing around the idea that he might be blaming himself for Willis's being gone. But if he isn't, she doesn't want to put it in his head.

Silence.

"What do you think an appropriate punishment would be for something like this?" she says. She pauses, just in case, then goes on. "If you were older, I'd have you pay Aunt Carol for the damage you did. Even if they can just repaint the door by itself, I imagine it's going to be at least a couple hundred dollars. Do you know how long it would take you to pay back two hundred dollars out of your allowance?"

"Yeah, two hundred weeks."

"Yes, about four years," she says. "So I don't think it would be very helpful to give you a punishment that would still be going on when you're thirteen, for something you did when you were nine."