John Domini - Highway Trade and Other Stories

Mist gathers inside the screen door. Magda keeps her elbows together.

“In my country,” she says, “in Germany…if we see a person like you at the labs, we know they are straight.”

Her fascination with getting stoned, I should say, is pretty standard around the labs. Magda and I work in a research park. Over there, when the subject is drugs even our boss, Giptill, can sound like a little boy: In Iran you get penalty of death! This is a scientist who’s worked with Nobel Prize winners. And Magda’s smile today is borderline, she’s full of stares. Twenty-three years old.

I take up the last popover. “Oh God, the labs. You know I’ve still got to get over there today. I’ve got to check those cultures.”

“You see that’s what I mean, you are so so good hardworking.” Full of stares, and softnecked even in this cold. “And yet you have a husband like Don.”

My smile can’t be much better than hers.

“I tell you, in my country we would never suspect a woman like you to have him. Or to find such a workshop like his.”

“Oh God, the workshop.” Shrug. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the Don hasn’t made a sale since Christmas.”

“But the material things aren’t important. We know why the men are really in there.”

At least her Sonny is our age, another ’Nam vet. He might be the same kind of pal as Mort, and he wouldn’t be so scary. But Don, Don — over at the labs they’ve got to trust me. It’s the only paycheck we have.

The popover tastes like yesterday’s gum. I’m at the point of suggesting we clear the table when there’s a sudden thump and scuffle, boots on the back stoop. Andrea comes in first, she’s better with the latch. The March wet streams from the children’s gear. Their coats wrinkle and the Transformers across the plastic start to go through changes. After that of course a couple one-liners occur to me, we mothers must have our one-liners. Got to fortify our better judgment against such rockety blooming. Though I also know enough to wait for the right opportunity.

Andrea brings the news. Wasps are “hatching” from the flowers behind the garage.

“Wasps, baby?” I say. “In this weather?”

But Angelo won’t let me fortify. While his sister starts to explain, the boy begins a flailing exercise, squat and jump, squat and jump. At the peak of each leap his arms pop wide, condensation flies. Magda coils on her chair, specks fizz in my champagne. At least he doesn’t seem in danger of losing motor control. His neck’s firm, and I can see the color of his eyes.

Andrea’s spatterproof. “Yeah Mom, just like that.” She points at her brother. “Angelo’s got it, they hatch and then they fly.”

The spray reaches the display case where the Don keeps his Purple Hearts.

“Behind the garage?” Louder, I come out of my chair enough to stop Angelo with a flat hand. “Did you notice if your father was still in there?”

“Oh yeah.” The girl composes her face, unsure where my disapproval comes from. “We could hear him’n Uncle Sonny laughing in there.”

“Laughing?” Magda catches my eye.

Laughing. And “Uncle Sonny” already. Dropping back in my seat, I haul Angelo into me; with my hand at his hot neck I try to check his pulse. Andrea turns away. The Transformer on her back is brick and iron, swollen with color.

The doctors back East told us to find a less stressful environment. They said it would be good for both of them, Angelo as well as Don. And so we found the environment: out here Don can spend all day with his lathe and sandpaper, and I work with people who hardly recognize the world unless it’s under a microscope. Still I’m barely hanging on. My knuckles go white and I ask questions like, is Mort actually our friend? Back in Boston Mort would have been one of these leftovers from flaming youth. Don and I would have had a certain closemouthed pride about keeping him somewhere in our lives — a last dinosaur from the Ho Bo Woods, a cocaine dealer. The way in the old country our grandparents took pride in calling on an invalid priest. But the man would never have been a friend. Sunday morning back East was time for children, for Angelo especially. We’d never have arranged things just so we could be in the house whenever Mort decided to call.

Of course Don tells me it is for Angelo. He’s picked up almost three grand riding shotgun with Mort around the Valley. Nerve disorders cost, Don tells me. Whatever made him think I’m so uptight about money?

A sudden noise, a whine that quickly peaks. The jigsaw out in the garage.

Angelo, freed, staggers into Magda. Andrea turns. She’s got Don’s features, the long jaw and careful eyes; I shoot up from my chair. How dare he? How dare he use that machine stoned?

Now things are back the way they should be: Magda’s following my lead. She’s getting a tour of the upstairs, or that’s what she thinks. Actually I’ve got a plan for when we reach the bedroom. A little trick to show the Don I can get into the spirit of brunch with the best of them. Magda should be no problem, now that we’ve been to the workshop and shared a bone. On the way upstairs she missed two steps. In the long bathroom, the echo makes her giggle.

Though I’m not much of a tour guide myself. Don and I were glad to find a rental with such character. We even agreed to have people visit as part of a Historic Homes thing next fall — about the farthest ahead we’ve managed to plan. But my descriptions keep falling back on words like “swirly” and “crisscross.” By the time we reach the bedroom I’m making things up.

“What nice…closets,” Magda says. There’s nothing at all interesting about the shut closet doors.

“Judas closets,” I say, and lose my footing just getting one open.

God I’m wasted. Where does the Don get his capacity? Standing again, blinking against the closet dark, I suddenly picture him at his worktable these days. His eyes are hidden by the goggles and most of the rest is lost in his chin beard. All resinous and flecked with warm wood, he chatters Vietnamese, he stiffarms the sweat from the side of his head. Seeing him like that I can understand why he’s not frightened of Mort. It’s got nothing to do with their history together, the bad black and white days before I Corps defoliated the Ho Bo Woods. It’s been almost twenty years. Rather the connection goes deeper: Don too prefers living with a fever. When the doctors told him to find a less stressful environment, they cut him loose from how he’s made. When I come up on him over his workbench these days, it’s like I haven’t seen his face in months.

My sweater catches on an exposed nail. I never expected my first walk-in closet would be so funky. But Magda’s patient, she followed without a peep.

We have to sidle along, my clothes hang against the more intact wall. But at the end of the closet there’s a delicate touch, a window in its own steep Italianate gable. Magda and I cram in close enough to catch our reflections in the glass. She’s such a sweet viny thing, always shooting out one hip or the other. You wonder what Sonny needs with a trip to the workshop. Behind her reflection I can read, reversed, the Beacon Street address on the nearest drycleaningbag. I doubt that dress will ever fit again.

“Okay,” I tell her. “We’re going to rock their socks.”

Magda frowns, murmurs.

“It’s a plan,” I say. “A surprise.”

The window hardly squeaks, going up. The cold is nothing new. Below us, in the drive, the men and kids are playing limply. Angelo’s in the Big Wheel, spread-elbowed. He kicks the pedals every once in a while, but mostly Andrea drags him. They move in a rough oval around Don and Sonny, who squat over cigarettes. And there’s music, just audible over the thunder of the Big Wheels. Angelo’s singing: “ Lit -tle ones to Him be-long, we are weak but He is strong.”