Mark Dunn - We Five

“You wouldn’t do that to me after how badly things have been going for me lately.”

“Everything what’s happened to you I wager has been of your own making. Now what is it? Will you be going to your room and mind yourself like a good lad, or will you be going out and trying not to get yourself another black eye? It’s all one to me. Either way, you’re out of my way for the evening.”

Lyle thought about this. “I’m completely stonkered. I think I’ll go to my room and sleep for twelve hours.”

Jane nodded.

A moment passed. Then Jane said, “Now that you’ve made up your mind, I’d like to say, speaking honestly, mind, that I was hoping you wouldn’t go out. Generally speaking, I don’t care, but today I was almost proud of you — the way you ran the shop like some creature what was very nearly human. Mrs. Meeker just rang me up to say that you were such a good-hearted gent to give her the discount on the mahogany dressing table with the missing leg. And, wonder of wonders! the money you got from the sale was still sitting in the cash drawer when I came home this evening.”

“Mrs. Meeker was friends with Mum and Dad. It seemed the right thing to do.”

“I wish you was that person all the other days of the week.”

Lyle didn’t look at his sister. “I wish I was that person too. Apparently, it isn’t in me nature.”

“Run along to your room, now. I want to tidy up a bit before the girls get here.”

Lyle nodded. He rose from the table. He reached out his hand to touch one of Jane’s folded arms. She didn’t pull away. She allowed his fingers to rest for a long moment upon the crook of her arm. Then he removed the hand, turned away, and moved slowly and heavily from the room.

It was a single tear that escaped Jane’s left eye and she quickly brushed it into nothingness.

Bellevenue, Mississippi, February 1997

It was after two in the morning and only one of We Five was asleep.

Molly had been dropped off at nearly 1:40, had walked around to the back alley and climbed the outdoor stairs to the small apartment she shared with her father over his chiropractic and holistic dentistry office. She’d seen the blue glow of the television through the street-front windows of the den. (The Osbornes had no living room.) After letting herself in, she’d wordlessly crossed the thick, faded-green shag carpeting and sat down next to her father on the sofa. He patted her hand but kept his eyes focused on the television screen, where the boxer George Foreman was demonstrating his popular tabletop grill.

After a moment, Michael turned to his daughter and said, “Now there’s somebody I’d buy a product from. You’d never know from that Pillsbury Doughboy face of his that he still climbs into the ring to take power punches at people.”

A silent moment passed. Then Molly said, “He looks like Mr. Biggers. You remember the crossing guard at the elementary school? He once saved a woman who was choking to death on a peanut shell.”

“Right in the middle of the crosswalk?”

“No. When he was off duty. I think it was at the Big Star. In the produce section.”

Silence.

“What was she doing — just popping peanuts into her mouth without paying for them?”

“Apparently.”

“Oh.”

Another silence passed. Then Michael Osborne said matter-of-factly, “The infomercial before this one was for something called ‘Mick’s Club.’ It looks like a golf club, but it isn’t. It’s a hollow tube a golfer can pee into whenever he has the need to go.”

Molly thought about this for a moment. “ Male golfer, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Molly thought some more. “But couldn’t he just find a tree or a bush or something to do his business on?”

Molly’s father shook his head. “You’re not supposed to go peeing all over golf courses. They generally frown on that.” Michael Osborne turned down the sound on the television so they couldn’t hear what George Foreman was saying about all the grease he was drawing off his hamburger meat. “How was it?”

“The place was kind of touristy, but the music was good. And the food. I had the fried catfish. It was ‘all-you-can-eat night.’ I just kept eating.”

“Did they act like gentlemen or like those boys in that Animal House movie?”

“They were pretty well behaved. Although one of them had too much to drink and got a little handsy with Mags. But she put him in his place.”

“So nobody got fresh with you ?”

Molly shook her head. “Somebody told me that George Foreman has four sons and they’re all named George.”

“Somebody told you correctly.” Michael sniff-laughed to himself. “I suppose Mrs. Foreman isn’t complaining. She just has to shout ‘George!’ and the whole family shows up for dinner.”

Michael turned the volume back up. Then almost immediately he muted the television again.

“So did you all kind of pair off like you thought you might?”

“Yes and no. I mean, we were pretty much coupled up, but we were all still sitting at the same table.”

“That must have been a big table. Did you like the boy you were paired up with?”

“I did. He was nice. I think we wound up together because we’re both the youngest, but it worked out okay. He’s pretty cute, I’d have to say. He looks kind of like Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys — I mean, like if Nick Carter was a little bit older and didn’t have his teeth whitened so much. But I don’t think he’s all that smart — even though he just graduated from Ole Miss.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. He just seems like one of those guys who doesn’t pay much attention to things if he doesn’t have to.”

“You mean things in the news and such like?”

Molly nodded.

“Did he pay attention to you ?”

“He did, Daddy. He paid a lot of attention to me. He wants to see me again.”

“Oh. Really?”

“I told him I’d think about it. I should probably go to bed. I’m really sleepy.” Molly got up from the sofa.

“Which shift do you girls have tomorrow?”

“Primetime. Five to one. You know we always get five to one on Friday and Saturday nights because that’s when they need the most waitresses. Daddy, don’t fall asleep on the couch. I’m home. I’m safe. Go to bed.”

“This boy — what’s his name?”

“Pat Harrison. He’s from Hattiesburg. I think he really likes me, Daddy.”

“I could give him a good whitening treatment if he wanted it. What does he plan to do with his life?”

“He’s pre-law.”

“Pre-law. Hmm.” Michael grinned. “I guess he wouldn’t be the first dimwitted lawyer practicing in the state of Mississippi.”

“You’re terrible, Daddy.” Molly tossed a throw pillow at her father. He tried to dodge, but it still made contact with his head.

“You sure you don’t want to watch a little of Dionne Warwick and her Psychic Friends Network? I think George Foreman’s just about said everything he’s gonna say.”

“Let me get into my P.J.s first.”

Fifteen minutes later, Molly Osborne — dressed in warm flannel pajamas, her hair and teeth brushed — was curled up at the end of the sofa. Within a couple of minutes, though, she was fast asleep, her head cushioned upon a throw pillow on the armrest. Michael Osborne, who often fell asleep in front of the TV himself, drifted off shortly thereafter.

At eight minutes past two father and daughter were both slumbering away, even though the woman on the television was being stridently giddy over having just been informed that she was about to come into a large sum of money.