Lee Martin - Late One Night

She sat between Mr. Rowe and Captain on the drive to town. Mr. Rowe drove an old stubby Ford Bronco the color of a yellow peach. It had a bench seat up front and that’s where Angel sat while the heater blew hot air onto her feet and the gear box pressed into her knee even though she kept her legs angled to the side. The little black steering wheel seemed so small in Mr. Rowe’s big hands. He jostled her with his shoulder whenever he made a turn.

Captain counted the cars that they met, the headlights coming out of the dark, folks on their way home. Not so long ago, Angel thought, one of those cars might have belonged to her mother, and she would have been with her.

It made her sad now to think of how stupid and blind she’d been to the love all around her. In the last months of her mother’s life, she’d been a difficult girl and for that she was sorry.

Mr. Rowe had on the radio, and because it was that time of the evening when WPLP, the voice of Phillipsport and Southeastern Illinois, broadcast the local news, they listened to the reports of a proposed increase in city water bills, a Phillips County United Fund fish fry at the American Legion, and the kickoff of this year’s Relay for Life at the Phillips County Memorial Hospital.

Then the announcer said, “The Illinois State Fire Marshal’s Office—”

But at that point, Captain reached over and punched a button that took the radio to a pop music station. Lady Gaga was singing “Bad Romance.”

Mr. Rowe jabbed a button and turned off the radio. “Who wants to listen to that junk?” he said. “Just a bunch of noise.”

Ahead, Angel could see the lights of Goldengate, few as they were. Mr. Rowe steered the Bronco through the last curve before town, and then they were passing the lit-up houses on the outskirts near the Pine Manor Nursing Home and J.D. Parker’s Body Shop. The Bronco slowed to the speed limit, and just before Main Street, the yellow sign at the Casey’s convenience store came into view. Then they were driving by the Real McCoy Café and the IGA and the time and temperature clock at the First National Bank. They bumped over the railroad tracks, and Mr. Rowe turned the Bronco onto Locust past the school where not so long ago Angel had gotten onto Lucy Tutor’s bus and set out to find out what she could. “You’ve always got your nose into something,” her mother used to tell her. “Sometimes it’s best not to know everything.”

Her mother had been right. Angel knew that now as she saw Brandi’s house lit up ahead of them at the end of Locust. You could know too much. You could know more than you could figure out what to do with.

Mr. Rowe eased the Bronco into the driveway. Angel could see her father at the living room window, peering out, his hand shading his eyes.

“I guess this is it,” Mr. Rowe said. “I guess this is where you live. Open the door, Captain, and let her out.”

Captain got out of the Bronco, and Angel started to slide across the bench seat.

That’s when Mr. Rowe took her by the arm. He leaned toward her and he whispered in her ear. “You got what you came looking for, didn’t you?”

At first, she didn’t answer. “Didn’t you?” he said again, and in a soft voice, she said, yes, yes she had.

Then he let her go.

_________

Her father met her at the front door. He said, “We were scared. We were all scared. Hannah said she didn’t know where you were.”

Angel wanted to believe that Hannah had kept quiet because they were sisters looking out for each other, but then the thought came to her that maybe Hannah hadn’t said anything out of spite, knowing that the less she said the more worried her father would be and then Angel would be in trouble.

The light was on in the kitchen, and through the archway Angel could see the table set for supper. Emma was pulling out a chair. Brandi carried a teapot to the table and poured a cup for herself. Angel knew it was ginger tea, which Brandi drank because her nose was always stuffy these days and the doctor said the tea would help. It wasn’t uncommon, she’d said one night at supper, for a woman in her second trimester, as she was, to have a stuffy nose and headaches. She didn’t mind. They’d go away eventually. The main thing was the baby was healthy. Brandi had just had her amniocentesis test, and everything, she was pleased to announce, was as good as gold.

Angel, though she’d never admit as much, was fascinated with Brandi’s pregnancy. The way she’d always been enchanted each time her mother had gone through one. Angel was careful not to let on to Brandi that she took note of anything at all, but the truth was each step along the way — the belly’s swell, the darker patches of skin on Brandi’s face, the amnio — were little thrills in what had become a long winter of loss. “You want to feel my belly?” Brandi asked her that morning when they found themselves in the bathroom at the same time, Angel brushing her teeth and Brandi in her stretch pants and a bra putting on her deodorant. Angel forced herself to put a bored look on her face. “Please,” she said. “My mother had six babies after me. It’s no biggie.”

Now Brandi turned and spotted her through the kitchen archway. She came to her and wrapped her up in a hug. “Sugar, we were so worried. I came home from work and your dad was here just out of his head. He didn’t know what to do.”

Angel hated the musky perfume that Brandi wore because she used too much of it. Pressed into its heavy, animal smell now, Angel couldn’t bear it. Before she realized what she was doing, she pushed Brandi away.

It wasn’t a particularly hard push, not the kind Angel would have given Hannah if she’d been angry with her. Bat-shit-crazy mad. Just a little shove to free herself from Brandi’s hug, but it was enough to make Brandi stumble back a step. The edge of the coffee table hit her in the back of her knees. She tried to twist away from the table and lost her balance. Arms flailing, she fell so hard that Angel felt the floor shake.

Brandi lay on the floor on her side, her right arm slung across her swollen belly. Angel started to go to her. She felt horrible about what she’d caused. Then her father grabbed her by her shoulders. “Look what you did,” he said. “My god.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You pushed her.” He spun her around so she was facing him. He gave her a shake and her head snapped back. “What are you, crazy? A woman with a baby and you push her?” His voice was getting louder. “Your mother was right. You’re out of control. You’re hateful.”

He went to tend to Brandi. His shouting had brought Hannah in from the kitchen, and she was helping Brandi sit up and get her wind back.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Just a little tumble. I’ll be fine.”

Angel tried to explain again. “I didn’t — I just — she—”

The words wouldn’t come, and finally she gave up and ran down the hallway to the bedroom she shared with Hannah. She slammed the door so hard that Brandi’s high school graduation portrait fell from its nail in the hall. Angel heard the glass in the frame shatter, and all she could do was throw herself on her bed and put the pillow over her head, trying to shut out what her father had told her, that her mother had said she was out of control, a hateful girl. Bits and pieces from their last night together flashed in and out of view — she’d argued with her mother about taking out that box of ashes; Angel had stomped off to her room and she hadn’t carried the ashes out like she was supposed to, and later, when the trailer was burning, she failed her mother again. She thought I didn’t love her . Angel couldn’t keep herself from believing that. She thought I hated her, and then she died .