They sat in silence and watched Frank, as he shambled closer to the railing, still careful of the water. Rachel wanted to tell her mother so much. Rachel wanted to give her mother something to love that wouldn’t ever disappoint her, betray her, or break her heart.
Rachel considered her words, but then decided to say nothing. Maybe this time her mother already knew. It had taken ten years, but Rachel had finally accepted her mother as a person, who had done the best with what she had.
“He doesn’t bark,” said Rachel.
“Just like your father,” said Laverna.
Honeymoon
Bert and Krystal did not go on a honeymoon. Bert claimed there was no money for it, and Krystal claimed that what they really needed was family time. Jake had dreams of Glacier National Park, and of Bert falling into a fumarole. No such luck. He even considered giving them the rest of his softball money.
When Krystal went to work, Bert and the baby left with Mrs. Foote, to knock on doors and spread the word. Jake knew they used the baby as bait—who would turn away an infant on such a hot summer day?
Jake loaded his Walkman with Roxette, and his pockets with the sketchbook and pens to make a list. He walked through town, and the sugary Swedes in his earphones erased all fears of bullies hiding around street corners, lurking in abandoned trailer houses.
Without the Singer, he sought an audience with the queen.
For the past week, Buley had been teaching him how to embroider. He sat at her feet, and his fingers swelled, poked by a craft as ancient as prostitution, dating back to the fifth century BC. He didn’t mind Buley’s history lessons. She sent Rocky out for sandwiches, and only acknowledged the broken Singer once, as if she knew the depth and weight of his loss.
He arranged the materials as instructed—a wooden embroidery hoop, tiny scissors, embroidery floss, embroidery needles. Again and again, he practiced with small squares cut from bedsheets, separating the hoops, pulling the fabric tight until Buley was satisfied. For the first three lessons, Jake wrote his name in cursive on each square; cursive a skill he had not utilized in years. Buley watched him as he carefully pulled the needles through, each thread a dot until his name was outlined in thread. He cursed the loop of the J and the tiny circles in the K, and the long tail of the Y of his last name. There was beauty in this, and at last, Buley declared that he was ready to begin work on the T-shirts.
They never made small talk—Buley watched him silently, only shifting slightly in her seat to point out dropped stitches. She saved her words for Rocky, hollering across the store about feeding the cats and refilling the ink of the price gun, even though the numbers were arbitrary.
Jake knew that the lessons were over. He had not wanted to ruin this time in her court, but he could feel the coronation was complete.
“I need to ask you a question,” he said. He could not look Buley in the eye, and tugged at a long piece of embroidery floss a Siamese had appropriated under her throne.
“There are no more questions,” declared Buley. “You’ve got a knack for this. It’s all about practice, at this point.”
“My mom,” said Jake. “I wanted to ask you about my mom.”
“No,” said Buley. “I have nothing to say. Nothing you would want to hear.”
“I respect that,” said Jake.
“ROCKY!” Buley full-throatedly called for her boyfriend, who emerged from the stacks of concentric lampshades. Rocky held the price gun, stickers stuck in the beds of his fingernails.
“Yes,” he said. He attempted to flick the price stickers away, but they remained stuck, no matter how much he shook his hand.
“I need you to have a conversation with your nephew.” Jake watched the ball in his uncle’s throat as he swallowed nervously. Buley pointed at the rug next to Jake, and Rocky sat without a word. “Jake has some questions. And if you want meat loaf for dinner, you’re going to give him some answers.”
“Yes,” said Rocky once more.
“Um,” said Jake, looking at Buley for permission. She nodded, pulled a twinned pair of silver kittens onto her lap, as if she was the one who was seeking comfort.
“He wants to know about his mother.”
“Krystal,” said Rocky.
“That’s the one,” said Buley. She reached for a pack of grape Bubblicious on the counter and threw it at Rocky. He unwrapped two pieces and offered one to Jake, who refused. Rocky filled his mouth—Buley was trying to comfort her boyfriend, as well.
“I just want to know what happened,” said Jake. “I just want to know when she became ashamed of me.”
“Yes,” said Rocky. He chewed his gum, attempted to fold one of the wrappers into a painfully tiny paper airplane.
“Rocky,” commanded Buley. “Talk to him.”
“She did the same to me,” admitted Rocky. He handed the paper airplane to Jake, and the wings were no wider than a match, and the folds shook with his pulse. “My sister is real good at moving on.”
“She never left,” said Buley. “She’s still there. You’re not.”