“Alice, you
“I thought you were at the Ramada Inn.”
“That place gave me the creeps, too. I had to check out.”
“So you’re at home right now?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Our house isn’t creepy, Charlie, and we live in a very safe area. Did you close the living room and dining room curtains?”
“What if I drive out there?”
I was sitting at the kitchen table, and I closed my eyes. “Why don’t you call Arthur and Jadey? You should call soon, though, because I’m sure they’re about to go to bed if they haven’t already.”
“Yeah, and then I can be humped by Lucky all night long.”
“You could call John and Nan, or Ginger—”
“I don’t want to stay with any of my brothers! I don’t care to broadcast my personal business. I want to sleep at my own house, with my wife next to me, and my daughter down the hall. And you know what? Most people wouldn’t think that’s a whole hell of a lot to ask.”
I said nothing, and for a while, he said nothing, either. At last, in a less combative tone, he said, “Is Ella asking about me?”
“She misses you. If you’d like to call during the day tomorrow, I’m sure she’d love to talk.”
After a pause, he said, “Just so you know, you’ve sliced open my chest, you’ve pulled out my heart, and now you’re squeezing it with your bare hands, so I hope this exercise in marital introspection, or whatever the fuck you’re doing, I hope it’s worth it.”
“I’m going to bed, Charlie. I sincerely hope you can figure out a sleeping arrangement that makes you comfortable.”
“Don’t hang up on me.”
“I’m not hanging up. I’m saying good night. Good night, okay? Good night. Are you going to say it back to me?”
“Does our marriage mean nothing to you?”
“Charlie, I’m not hanging up on you, but if you don’t say good night back to me, I am going to hang up the phone. So for the last time, good night.”
“Fuck you,” he said, and then he was the one who ended the connection.
WE WERE AT Pine Lake when I heard the child crying—a girl, it sounded like, somewhere behind me—and I’d been aware of the crying for over a minute when I realized with a start that the child was Ella. I was sitting on a towel on the sand, my mother next to me in a folding chair, wearing not a bathing suit but slacks and a short- sleeved blouse; her one concession to the setting was that she was barefoot, holding her flats. She’d been telling me about the controversy over the location for Riley’s proposed statue to honor Korean War veterans—there was great disagreement about whether it ought to be on the shore of the Riley River or downtown on Commerce Street—and I turned, glancing over my shoulder, then jumped to my feet. “Mom, wait,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
Pine Lake’s beach wasn’t large—perhaps a hundred yards across—and though this had not been the case in my youth, there were a lifeguard and ropes indicating the sanctioned area for swimming. The beach was part of Pine Park, and in the grassy area near the sand were picnic tables and grills. The beach’s parking lot was gravel, and one corner was occupied by a frozen-custard truck whose side was a sliding window. Just outside this truck stood my daughter, wearing flip-flops and a bathing suit, her long hair wet and tangled, her face twisted and red as she sobbed hysterically. When I approached, she lunged toward me—she wailed, “Mommy!” and it was a heart- wrenching thing to hear—but her movement was stopped by a teenage boy who wore a white apron and was holding on to her wrist. Several people in the area, some snacking on candy bars or hamburgers, had stopped to watch.
“He’s hurting me,” Ella cried, and I said to the boy, “I’m her mother. What’s going on here?”
“She stole an ice-cream cone!” The boy was irate. He was about five feet six and pale, with fair close-cropped hair and a wispy mustache.
I set my hand on Ella’s wrist and nudged the boy’s hand away—firmly but not aggressively, I hoped. “I’ll take her,” I said, and to my relief, he released her. Immediately, Ella buried her face against my waist. “If you’ll tell me what happened, I’m sure we can solve the problem,” I said.
“She stole!” he repeated, and he pointed to the gravel, where a melting blob of vanilla ice cream was loosely joined to a cake cone. “She tried to take it without paying.”
Ella was mumbling against my stomach, protesting.
“What, sweetie?”
She pulled her head back, and her face remained tear-stained and flushed. “He wouldn’t let me sign for it!” She quickly hid her face again.
I said to the boy, “There’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t live in Riley, and where we live, we pay by—” It wasn’t worth it; explaining the rules of a country club could only be more damning. “If you can wait, I’ll get my wallet,” I said. “Did she have anything besides the ice cream?”
Ella lifted her head. “I didn’t even have the ice cream! He took it back!”
“You licked it,” the boy retorted, and I said, “How much was it?”
“A dollar seventy-five.”
