The Exact Nature of Our Wrongs Read online

  Billy leaned in to the speaker. “Don’t relent, Mother. Whatever you do, don’t relent. The nerve of her! She can’t make you take something you don’t want.”

  “Especially a dog,” Doro put in. She could scarcely believe that the significance of such a gift—a replica of Toodles, bane of their mother’s housekeeping existence, emblem of all that had once been wrong in their parents’ marriage, a dog that was more than a dog—was lost on her sister.

  Hattie cleared her throat, and in her voice, gone suddenly distant and preoccupied, her eldest and youngest heard the beginnings of waffling, of second-guessing, a familiar train of thought coming down the tracks on schedule. “Well, I suppose she must have had her reasons.”

  After they hung up, Billy and Doro lingered long before the fire in Doro’s little study, drinking mulled cider and deploring their sister’s reasons, whatever they were. “All dysfunctional families are ruled by their craziest member,” Doro said knowingly, quoting something she’d read somewhere in her search for a reason for her family’s flaws in general and ClairBell’s in particular. She hoped her gambit would lead to more deploring.

  Billy sipped his cider and duly deplored. He’d done plenty of time in the crazy seat but he was better now, in a period of calm, sobriety, and sanity, and it pleased him greatly that his solid-citizen sister found someone else’s behavior outrageous. He was only too happy to join the dogpile on the rabbit that was ClairBell. “You can say that again,” he said, raising his glass.

  Doro said it again, and they laughed. Long into the night they sat in the study, a window cracked so they could enjoy their Christmas gift to each other, the forbidden and rare pleasure of smoking a cigarette in the house, dissecting and examining ClairBell’s ways. How since her second divorce—from the pool hustler Jimbo Green—all she did was sleep. Billy said the trouble was drugs, painkillers to be exact, and they chewed on that for a while. How her rental farmhouse was a certifiable pigsty and she neglected her children—this was a favorite talking point of Doro’s; before going to graduate school in her forties, Doro had made a career of competitive mothering. How every now and then their sister would bestir herself to slap on some makeup and a red cowgirl hat and slither out to do the boot-scoot boogie at the Coyote Club, but mostly she lolled on the couch in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. And what about the time she got a bee in her bonnet about some imagined slight and engineered a boycott of Hattie’s Thanksgiving table just to wound her? They reviewed in speculative detail the recent gift-giving scene—Abel in his place on the butternut chesterfield with his Asimov commentary books and his horn-handled magnifying glass, his U.S. News & World Reports in a stack on the end table, Hattie, be-aproned and flushed from the kitchen, perched eagerly on one of the wide arms of the Eliot chair, the tree lights a-twinkle and gaily wrapped presents arrayed on the hearth, awaiting the gathering she prayed would not end in hard feelings but which somehow always did.

  “What a place,” Doro said, and Billy said, “Amen to that.” They congratulated themselves on finding their ways out of the tar pit that was Kansas, on being far from the heartbreaking sight of their elderly parents’ attempts to mollify ClairBell’s revolving-door moods by walking on eggshells, above it, in fact, and then they fell quiet, settling back in their chairs to let the fire burn to embers.

  “There’s no place like home,” Billy broke their silence to say, aiming for wry, weary humor and a nod to waking from the dream of Oz, but succeeding only in sounding wistful.

  “No place,” Doro agreed.

  It was late. They had smoked much and talked more and they were weary. Separately, their thoughts turned again to their sister. Doro thought of her wild blue eyes flashing in electric wit, wit that could stop the world, her kitty-cat smile, the soaring hilarity that carried everyone along on her flights of merrymaking, and her way of sometimes seizing Doro in a hug so strong and spontaneous it took her breath away. Billy thought of her long white-blond hair, piled every day into a different, whack ClairBell-do—tendrils or fountains or topknots festooned with five-and-dime bling or fake flowers—and of the sweet way she had, despite what he knew was resentment, despite the fact that she probably meant it only about half the time, of saying “Boysie, I love you,” and making him know that no matter if she meant it or not, she always wanted to.

  What neither Doro nor Billy would say to the other was that despite their harsh talk of their sister and the haywire ways of their family, despite their deploring of business-as-usual in the Crazed House of Home, how each of them missed it, how each of them, if a single Yule wish could be granted, would choose nothing more at that moment than to be exactly there.

  * * *

  Back in Amicus, after a disturbed night in which she hardly slept, Hattie had found herself stuck on the familiar flypaper of examining her actions for where she’d gone wrong. All she knew was that once again she’d injured her sensitive daughter and she needed to make things right. All Christmas Day, during which Abel was unusually quiet, spending most of the day in his ham radio shack trying to raise his old Army buddy in Djakarta, she fretted, and finally, as dusk drew nigh, she packed the unopened gifts she’d prepared for ClairBell and her children, some fruitcake, spritz, and pfeffernuss, and drove out to her daughter’s tumbledown farmhouse.

  Hattie didn’t use strong language. She left hyperbole to her husband and children, for whom it seemed a native tongue. But if she had to put words to ClairBell’s place on the Ninnescah River the words would be hell and hole. Cats, way too many both feral and tame, and their smells. Rabbits ran loose inside and out, burrowing under the slab. Cats chased rabbits. Buck rabbits humped cats. Dirt everlasting. Countertops piled high with dishes. Hillocks of dirty clothes. And now a trail of puppy piles and the stench of peed-upon rugs.

  When her grandsons let her in, the puppy, which had been gnawing on a boot, scampered over to jump up and snag her knee-high hose with his toenails. She passed out presents for the boys and watched them exclaim over socks and underwear, a new shirt and a pair of jeans, something breaking a little in her heart to see their gratitude for the useful gifts. By and by ClairBell dislodged herself from her bed and frowsily entered the room, glowering, refusing to meet Hattie’s eyes.

  “What do you want?” she asked as she plopped onto the couch, scaring off a brindle tomcat, and just like that Hattie buckled. “I just thought,” she began, meaning to say that she was sorry about her abruptness the night before and that she understood that ClairBell wanted only to please, but ClairBell interrupted triumphantly, “So now you decide you want him after all, eh? Did Daddy lay down the law? I don’t blame him.”

  How, Hattie wondered, should she respond? No matter what she said, it would be wrong. ClairBell would take her words and use them as stones to throw, bricks to raise higher the grudge she’d erected. “Well,” Hattie began, hoping to skirt any defensiveness on her daughter’s part but also to make sure ClairBell knew she wasn’t agreeing to keep the dog. But instead of giving the gentle and noncommittal answer she intended, she said, “I was thinking that maybe I should take him home with me and work with him. Get him paper-trained. Help you out a little.”

  ClairBell reached for the remote control and clicked on the television. On the screen the Tasmanian Devil laid waste to Daffy Duck’s living room. “Sure,” she said, pretending interest in the flickering mayhem, “whatever you have to tell yourself.”

  Abel took to the puppy right away, as ClairBell had foreseen, and even Hattie came around. They named him Muttley, and he became a great favorite, a low-slung, stocky, loyal little being who made them laugh. He was a rogue and a rake, a dog-about-town, siring several litters. He was named in a mock paternity suit brought by a jokester neighbor whose Cockerpoo’s charms he had sampled. His finest hour was when he was featured as Pet of the Month in the Amicus Friend. “Meet Muttley,” ran the caption under his photo, followed by a write-up of his habits and doings, his favorite food—bacon—and his favorite toy—a stuffed fox. Li
ke nothing else—not time, not talk or apology, not good will or forgetting or even forgiveness—it was Muttley who brought them together, sealing Hattie and Abel once more as husband and wife. For fourteen years he performed his healing offices before dying quietly of old age on a blanket in his official guard station under Hattie’s side of the bed, the tattered remains of his fox under his grizzled chin. And this, ClairBell let no one forget, especially not her mother, was her own finest hour. Look how it had all turned out! Think of the obstacles placed in the way! But whose insight had triumphed and who had been right? Oh, yes, a witch, indeed. They should listen and learn.

  * * *

  Now, on an evening in late May all these years later, as she soaked in a bath scented with lavender in her new country house with its own greenhouse and a swimming pool and a chicken coop and everything she’d ever wanted, her third-time’s-a-charm husband working nearby on his computer—an entirely new life, she reflected—it came to ClairBell that it didn’t take a prophet to see that her father wouldn’t live through another winter, and suddenly she had a vision so powerful it caused her to sit upright.

  Not a dog this time, but something even better. Oh, Doro would scoff at her, or laugh, or else just balk when she tried to get her to pitch in, but her idea to set the world right during this time of her father’s weakness and decline was perfect. And never mind Doro or the others, she would do it herself. She would send out the call to family far and wide, from stalwarts to second cousins once removed to shirttail relations and kissing kin, and they would all come because the grand party she would throw come August, in addition to being her father’s birthday, would be a celebration of his long life as the family’s head. He was the center, the grand old man, the beloved uncle and brother-in-law, the one they came to for advice legal and ethical and political and mechanical, his were the stories they wanted, his the approval they waited for, his the reason and logic they trusted. He was the pride of the family, and she would plan a party to tell him just that.

  The bathwater had cooled, and so she ran more hot water into the tub and then settled back again, adjusting the pink zebra-print bath pillow under her neck. In her mind’s eye she could see the reunion in full swing. The Campbells with their practical jokes and their antics, their hooting, braying laughter sounding like a congress of jack mules and Canada geese. Hattie’s people, the quieter Davies clan, visiting among themselves about recipes, gardens, church, and trips to the Ozarks, covering their mouths demurely and saying how tickled they were when someone said something amusing. She’d have to deal with Doro and her posse of good-girl cousins, but never mind that. There they all were, her family, around her swimming pool—she’d have to get Randy to repair a crumbled spot on the coping and maybe buy some new float rings—or seated in lawn chairs on the rise overlooking the rolling hills of short-grass prairie—and maybe she could get him to finish building the loafing shed he’d started a few months back and they could rustle up a horse somewhere—maybe borrow one from a neighbor and pretend it was theirs—and have it in place in time to give rides to the kids. And, oh Lord, they’d need to rent porta potties! Either that or she’d have to get Randy to renovate the bathrooms. In her mind’s eye there was the whole family standing around the big steel smokers steaming with barbecued ribs, hot dogs for the kids, eating her trademark baked beans, not Doro’s gluey gourmet jobs from Boston or their cousin Carol’s that tasted like tar-coated birdshot. Or wait! Home-cooked fried chicken and all the trimmings! She had forty or so hens and a few roosters and they were outgrowing their coop or was it the coyotes that were getting them? Whatever, there were plenty of them, and she’ll-be-coming-round-the-mountain-driving-six-white-horses had nothing on her—she would kill the old red rooster and then some! Fried chicken it was! Praise would follow her wherever she went, circulating, chatting here with a group of cousins, laughing there with the aunts. “Isn’t that ClairBell just a wonder?” she’d hear. “Can you believe she put all this together herself? So thoughtful. And when you think of how her family treats her!” And she would waft among them in a new peasant dress of white crinkle cotton. A dress she would design and sew! Maybe a wide leather belt cinched around her middle? Diamond rings on her fingers, a turquoise squash blossom necklace heavy at her breastbone. Of course before the party she would have to take off ten pounds or maybe thirty, but that was no problem. It was easy enough to cut back on red hots and M&Ms and trips to Taco Tico, maybe limit the Pepsi. Oh, and fireworks! She would get her boys to tend to this. They loved explosions. And guns, too. A twenty-one-gun salute would be moving but of course it was probably too much.

  Any flies in the ointment? Yes. Billy. She didn’t want him anywhere near. He would try to take over the food and instead of home cooking he’d whip up ridiculous concoctions that nobody liked—chafing dishes set on fire and raw-fish things and sauces made with shiitake (she like to died when she first heard that one!) mushrooms and capers and God knew what nasty, unpronounceable else. He’d try to cook even if he was high as a kite. In fact, that was especially when he wanted to cook. She tried to think where he was these days, besides freeloading off their parents. Oh, yes. He was living uptown in a grimy basement apartment, having taken up his career as a junkie just where he’d left off, only worse. How many times had she had to drive him to detox and bring him back from the brink? She couldn’t keep straight all his ups and downs. Her mother and sister had been crushed by his every fall, for they believed he could change, but ClairBell had seen it coming and so had her father.

  She’d been to his ratty apartment a few times, on one errand or another—once when she had a toothache and had run out of morphine and had to borrow some and another time to pick up a fentanyl patch—they were new and she wanted to try one for her arthritic knee—and it was a terrible place. She knew enough about the rabbit hole painkillers could lead you into, and the dank little room was full of signs that Billy was down pretty low. Besides, she didn’t want him at the party because he was a blabbermouth. Couldn’t keep his trap shut. He’d pal up to her and pretend they shared some big secret and make loud remarks about drugs and probably sell smack to her sons. He didn’t understand that her prescriptions were actually prescribed; she’d no sooner buy street drugs than she’d buy her grandson the monkey he was always pestering her for. Either that or Grand Theft Auto. The other problem was that when Billy was around, their mother couldn’t take her gaze off him and it was so painful and obvious that Daddy wasn’t the most important man in her life. On this day Daddy was to be the man of the hour, not Billy. If Billy wasn’t in jail or locked up in rehab or some such, she would deputize Dean Doro to bulldog him and keep him away from people. This would be nothing less than a quiet but masterful act of hospitality on her part, of kindness, really, to think of others this way. Oh, ClairBell, ClairBell, she thought, you sweet little sweetheart. How glad she was to be herself! To inhabit her skin! How glad to be just the way she was—big-hearted, generous, happy, and funny and thinking first of others!

  The bathwater had grown cold, but just before she sat up to reach for the plug, she had the inspiration to end all inspirations: wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could get Randy to load the Eliot chair into his truck and move it to the party so Daddy could sit in it like a king on his throne and the whole family—all hundred and how many relatives surrounding him—could pose for a portrait? Her heart thumped and her mouth went dry. From this vision there was hardly any distance at all to seeing him presenting the chair to her in front of everyone, with an elaborate speech to express his gratitude. Maybe he would even have tears in his eyes. Sudden tears of her own threatened to spring.

  As she rose from the tub and reached for her towel, thinking that after she dried off she would put on her robe and go straight to Randy’s desk for a pencil and paper to begin planning the party in earnest, a great sense of warmth and well-being, of outright elation, overcame her. The feeling was familiar. She tried to remember if before getting into the bathtub she’d accidentally t
aken one too many Lortabs. She would have to be careful about that kind of thing. Someone—most likely Doro, who fronted like She-Ra: Princess of Power and the designated driver of the world—might co-opt the party idea and take all the credit. It wouldn’t do to spill her secret ahead of time. But she would call her mother in the morning, swear her to secrecy, and let her in on the plan.

  Seven

  On a night in late June, while Hattie lay sleeping soundly in the big bedroom, Abel was startled awake in his daybed in the back bedroom by the roar of an angry mob that milled in the south yard. The mob was bent on murder, preparing to storm the house. Doom was imminent. Calmly, with utmost stealth and a sense of mission, he rose from his bed, went to his gun cabinet, unlocked it, and took out his Sig Sauer P238. With great effort he strapped the gun belt over his boxer shorts, checked the gun’s magazine, and holstered up. Then he went to wake Hattie.

  “Get dressed,” he whispered. “Put on your coat.”

  She stirred under the bedclothes, confused, only half awake. What was it now? she wondered.

  “At once!” he ordered. “Put on your coat!”

  She gaped at him, but gathered the bedclothes and turned them back so she might get out of bed.

  Under his breath, his eyes wide, his teeth gritted, he said, “Hurry! Japanese!”

  She decided to try reason. “It’s summer, Abel. It’s hot outside. I don’t even know where my coat is. Japanese what?”

  “Breaching the walls,” he shouted. “Call the police! I’ll cover you!”

  She came fully awake and saw that he brandished a handgun. Her heart seemed to jump into her throat. “Abel! It’s all right. There’s no one out there.”

  He shushed her. He stood at the alert, gun at his side. “Listen. Hear them?”