Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

On the night of his eighteenth birthday, she told him the end of the story, presenting it like a gift. First, though, Mrs. Hagedorn had cooked him a special dinner, lamb chops, his favorite. After supper, she brought out a cake with eighteen candles, and all three of them sang. They gave him gifts: a tie from Mrs. Hagedorn because he would need one for graduation; from Bernice, a book called Jude the Obscure that she had read in college and enjoyed and that he read but found not at all enjoyable because in it three children hanged themselves to lessen the burden on their parents; and a fishing pole that Rudy had made by sinking two large nails at either end of a piece of wood and wrapping a line back and forth around them.

The last birthday that Aaron had celebrated was his tenth because his mother had come to believe that celebrations should be reserved for actual accomplishments, and she said there was no achievement in being born. Each time she said this, he tried hard not to think about the party that she had made for him when he turned five, how she had blown up a whole bag of balloons while he was napping and he had found her lying on the floor of the living room, light-headed from the endeavor. He’d lain down beside her, and she told him that he’d been born during a snowstorm. His father had driven her to the hospital in the squad car, the lights flashing. “You were nearly born right there in the backseat. Your father was a nervous wreck,” she said. “I’ll never forget it, driving through all that whiteness, and then, at the end of it all, there you were.” When his mother, the one she became after the parade, said that there was no accomplishment in being born, he went up to his room and cried because he knew she had forgotten about the snowstorm.

Aaron ate three pieces of cake and tried to look pleased instead of uncomfortable with the attention. Afterward, Mrs. Hagedorn went to her bedroom to talk on the telephone and watch television and Rudy went across town to the liquor store. Aaron sat at the kitchen table, where he studied most nights because the light was best there. He had a math test the next day. Soon, Bernice appeared. “I’ll tell you the story of why I left school,” she said, “but you must not ask any questions, not while I’m talking, not after I’ve finished. In fact, we must never speak of it. Those are my conditions.”

He was on the cusp of a B+ in his math class, had worked hard to get there, but he could not tell Bernice that a test was more important than her story. He thought that maybe she was testing him also. He stood up and followed her into the living room.

“You understand the rules?” she asked.

“I understand.”

“And you want to hear the story?” She needed him to say it.

“I really want to hear it,” he said. This was true. He lay down on his side, as usual, so that he could watch her as she spoke.

“Don’t look at me while I’m talking,” she said. “I need you to listen.”

He did not argue with her. He just rolled onto his back and stared at the spackled white ceiling. “I’m listening,” he said, and she began to talk.

“My roommate’s name was Gladys Moore. I was sent her address by the housing department, a standard practice allowing future roommates to exchange information about themselves. While I was still considering whether to make contact, Gladys Moore wrote to me. The letter was on onionskin paper, though she’d clearly composed it with a piece of lined notebook paper beneath. Her handwriting replicated perfectly the cursive we’d been taught in the second grade, right down to the odd capital G s and F s and S s that nobody ever uses, and I thought then that Gladys Moore and I would get along just fine. The gist of the letter was that she would be bringing a toaster, which I would be welcome to use. It would be a two-slicer. I remember thinking the tone apologetic. She added that if I felt uncomfortable sharing a toaster with a stranger, she would use the left slot, I the right. She would not mind this at all. She signed the letter God Bless You, followed by Sincerely and Your Roommate, and finally her full name. I wrote back two days later, having debated whether to mention my size, which I decided against. I said only that a toaster would be useful and that I would bring an iron, which we would consider the room iron. I signed it Sincerely, Bernice .

“The next month, my mother drove me to school. She was slow about everything that day — getting into the car to leave, driving, choosing a parking spot — so by the time we checked into my dorm, it was nine o’clock. As we walked down the hallway, we passed open doors revealing rooms that already looked lived in, beds made, posters on the walls, girls lounging in sets of four and five. I knocked on my door as a courtesy, but when there was no response, I went in. It was clear that Gladys Moore had not yet arrived. My mother was suddenly in a hurry to leave, nervous to be driving home so late, which I felt obligated to point out was entirely her fault. We argued briefly, and she left.

“I chose the bed nearest the door, away from the window, believing the window bed to be more desirable. It was a gesture. I had not brought much — a large suitcase of clothes, my typewriter, two boxes containing sheets and towels, toiletries, a dictionary, the aforementioned iron, and snacks. It was eleven when I finished unpacking. Gladys Moore still had not arrived, and the front desk was closed by then, which meant she would not be coming that night, so I shut off the light and went to bed.

“I awoke to find the room lit by the dim glow from the hallway light, three people standing over me, mother, father, daughter, all of them tall and very thin, like a family of flag poles. I sat up, and they jumped, as one, backward. ‘Heavens,’ said Gladys Moore’s mother, and Gladys Moore, who was holding a toaster, the toaster, said, ‘I’m Gladys Moore,’ and her father said, ‘Oh, you’re up. We were trying not to disturb you,’ and he turned on the overhead light. I glanced at my watch. It was one o’clock.

“I thought it improper to get out of bed wearing just a nightgown, more improper than not helping, so I lay under my covers while they carried Gladys’s things in and her mother made up her bed. ‘I left you the window,’ I pointed out, and Gladys said, ‘That’s fine,’ like she was reassuring me. When they were finished, her father said, ‘I guess I wouldn’t mind a slice of toast before we get on the road, Mother,’ and Gladys’s mother, who had obviously done the packing, located the bread and margarine and a butter knife. She made us each a slice, bringing mine to me in bed, and we ate our toast without speaking, me propped up in my tiny new bed, the three of them standing and chewing.

“ ‘Okay, then, you’ve got everything?’ asked her father, and Gladys said she did, and her parents went over and stood in the doorway to say good-bye, no hugging, just three people with their hands raised like they were taking an oath.

“ ‘Sorry we woke you,’ said Gladys after they’d gone. She turned away from me to remove her shirt and bra and pull on her nightshirt, and then she turned back and said, ‘We actually got here at six, but I felt a little nervous, so my mother got the key, and we went out to supper. We’ve been sitting in the car praying.’

“I would learn that Gladys Moore was like this, apologetic in a way that made her overly disclosing. I said that I’d arrived late also. I mentioned again that I’d left her the bed by the window, and this time she said, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ like she realized that reassuring me was not enough and forgiveness was in order. She shut off the light and made her way back to the bed by the window. I heard her knees tap the ground as she knelt, the rushed murmur of praying, the whisper of my name. She got into bed and fell asleep, but I lay awake for hours, feeling alone and lonely and frightened.”