“Where’d you get it?”
“Kid at school.”
“Do I know him?”
“No.”
“How old is he?”
“Not sure. Eighth grader.”
“Do I know his parents?”
“No. He’s from Minerva.”
Louise chewed. The steak was delicious. She was glad not to have ruined it.
“Jesse,” she said. “How did you afford it?”
He was silent.
“You’re not selling, are you?” she asked.
“No,” said Jesse. “No, Louise. I swear.”
She believed him, for now. Jesse was shy to the point of incapacitation. She couldn’t imagine him in sales of any kind. But the thought of an eighth-grade boy giving him anything for free—that didn’t sit right with her either.
There was a noise in the hallway then and they both looked up. Their mother: one hand on each wall, supporting herself. Her hair was unwashed, her eyes blinking against the light that hung on a chain over the kitchen table. Face pallid, mouth downturned. She came toward them slowly, propping herself up with the countertops now, and then veered toward the cabinets, which she opened one after another, looking for something to eat.
She pulled down a box of old crackers and put a few in her mouth. She went to the sink and ran the tap, bringing a cupped hand to her mouth for water.
Then, without a word to either of her children, she moved slowly back in the direction of the recliner in the living room, her home for most of each day.
Louise looked at Jesse. He was coming back to himself now. The food had helped, the water. His face was less flushed. His eyes were opening. He wouldn’t meet her gaze; he looked to the wall, and then down at the table.
“Jesse,” she said. “Stop talking to that boy. Stop smoking the grass he gives you, too.”
“Why,” he said. He picked at something on the tablecloth.
“Because I’m gonna bring you to live with me,” she said. “And I can’t do that if you’re incarcerated.”
“When?” said Jesse.
“Pretty soon.”
“How,” said Jesse. Incredulous.
There was a long pause while Louise considered saying it. She couldn’t take it back, if she did. She had always tried her best to never give her brother false hope. To keep every promise she made, unlike the rest of the adults in his life.
She lifted a shrimp from her plate. She took its tail off, prodded at its translucent skin, deveining it. John Paul, at a restaurant, had been the one to tell her what the vein really was.
She chewed.
“I’m engaged,” she said.
Jesse looked at her.
“To John Paul?” he said.
“Who else would I be engaged to?”
Jesse would not meet her eye.
“Jesse?” said Louise.
Jesse stood. Brought his plate to the sink.
“Well, aren’t you going to say congratulations?”
“Congratulations,” said Jesse. And then he walked out of the kitchen, leaving Louise alone.
“Promise me, Jesse,” said Louise, calling after him. “No more pot.” But she could tell that any authority she had once had with him was diminished, or lost entirely.
VI
Survival
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Two
Her alarm is sounding.
Judy opens her eyes, then closes them again. Just for a moment, she thinks.
“FOR CHRISSAKE, JUDY!” comes the cry from the other room. Her brother, incensed. “IT’S FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING!”
Her day begins.
• • •
She needs to move out. She knows this. She has the funds; she just needs the guts to tell her parents she’ll be breaking an unspoken rule. Among the Polish families of Schenectady, New York, a girl who moves out of the home before marriage is odd at best; a scandal at worst.
Last year, with her own money, she purchased a green VW Super Beetle with a sunroof. It was expensive—and impractical, her father said—but it gives her a feeling of independence. And it has a nice radio, an upgrade she’s now glad she insisted on; it keeps her awake for the two hours of her commute to the Preserve.
• • •
At seven, when she arrives, she finds that she’s beaten Denny Hayes to work. Technically, B-tour starts at eight a.m., which means she has an hour to prepare for the day.
