4

 

       WES

 

   I hate coming up this hill.  It's so long and steep that they can see us coming for blocks before we get there.  I feel like a soldier rushing a hill installation must feel, vulnerable.  The street is too narrow; cars are parked on both sides, pointed in both directions.  I've often wondered if this town has no police or if they are just some wonderfully inept fugitives from a situation comedy that didn't make it last fall on television.  They've often kidded about a sheriff's office and a deputy named Marlon, but I'm never sure that the whole story isn't just for my benefit.  I can never tell.  This is a family that is always coughing into its hands and giving each other sidelong glances, always breaking into grins and fits of laughter at--it seems to me--the most peculiar times.  I've gotten used to it.  I doubt that I'll ever understand it, but I have become less prone to being surprised.  I don't know that I like that either; I feel somehow more comfortable being either surprised or on the brink of it.  I suppose it's a little like working with very small children; I'm told that when you find you can understand what they say, when their logic makes sense to you, you should take a vacation.  I feel that way about this family; when I cease to be surprised at the things they do, when I understand what they do, I will feel threatened.  I feel threatened now, just thinking about the possibility.  I feel much more secure on the outside, being kept at a distance by the tacit agreement we have, arrived at without so much as a wink.

    She sits beside me, staring up the hill.  Returning must be harder for her than she lets on.  The pressure is on.  Her face is composed; she is good at that--hiding things--and it bothers me.  It is not that she hides things--we all hide things--but that she must.  That is what bothers me.

    Why couldn't we have had this at your parent's house?  I hate coming up this hill.

    She shrugs.  They just decided that it would be better to have it at Grandpa's.  He's probably worse, and they couldn't get him in the car.

    It's like being on parade.  Takes so damned long to get up.

    She pats my hand and smiles.  I know, I know, she mutters.  It is not a smile I like.  It is the smile and the tone of voice that you use with a feverish child, tossing in the sheets and blankets in which you've wrapped him.  Even as I complain about little things like hills and parked cars I know I am wrong to burden her with my petty disturbances; she has enough on her.  And yet I do it.  Maybe I am trying to sound her out, to get her to scream that she hates it too or that I should shut my goddamned mouth about her family.  But she will never do that, so maybe that isn't what I want.  I don't know why I persist.  Perhaps I am just that kind of bastard; I hate that kind of bastard.

    I wonder if we pass.

    She looks in the rear-view mirror and checks her hair and lips.  They're not even looking down here.  Don't be silly.

    You look fine.  It is my turn to pat her.  Beautiful.

    She smiles.

    Who all is going to be here?  I turn the Toyota into the driveway.  Doug and Eric pull up in front of the house.  I hope all these cars

    No, somebody else must be having a picnic too.  It'll just be the usual.  Aunt Elvira, Jim and Janice and the boys.  Grandpa, of course.

    Of course.

    My mother and father.  Eric.  Doug.

    As I park the car behind the stations wagon, her mother starts toward the car.  She is talking before we open the doors.  Her mouth moves, independent of her lipstick.

    Well, you got here.  Your father was just getting ready to start the fire.  Eric and Doug had to go get the charcoal.  You ever know you father to be prepared?  She turns away.

    She laughs and walks ahead of us, her arms folded across her chest, her voice trailing behind her.  Look, look, I ask your father for something to hold down the corner, and what does he get me?  A rusty, old wrench.  She laughs again, shaking her head.

    He comes forward, takes his daughter in his arms and kisses her on the cheek.  She didn't say it had to be clean, he smiles.  How are you?  He asks.  It is not just a pleasantry; he wants to know; he wants her to tell him how I beat her; he wants to hear all about it right there in front of the old house.

    Wes.  He shakes my hand.  How's the big city?

    Fine, everything's fine.  How am I supposed to answer that?

    Susan is talking to her mother.  She rushes into conversation as if it has been denied her.  Her mother doesn't seem to listen.  Doug and Eric come around the corner with a large paper bag.  Doug walks like a cat, his body never moving vertically, seeming to ripple forward without lift or fall.  He gives me only a glance, turning his eyes to Susan.  Eric waves to me, awkwardly gesturing as if he were equipped with flippers instead of arms.  I wave back.

    Susan's father takes the bag and looks inside.  I already had charcoal lighter.       

    Yeah, well

    The gravel of the driveway crunches behind me.  It is Susan's aunt, a sweater over her shoulders, a foil covered pan in her hands.  Here, let me take that, I offer.  Over her shoulder, the black and gold four wheel drive appears, turning down the hill from the other direction.