running that showed her and the groom holding hands at her first wedding, accompanied by ominous music and concluding with a question posed in stark red letters against a dark screen:
IF SHARON OLSON HAS BEEN LYING TO US ABOUT THIS . . . WHAT ELSE HAS SHE BEEN LYING ABOUT
?
Hank smirked. “A shame indeed. That poor gal.”
I passed the water glass to Hank and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do. Hank, nice to see you.”
Over an hour later, after I’d heard the front door open and close and a car engine start, I returned to the first floor. “Are you thinking of running for office?”
“Jeepers creepers, woman, calm down.” Charlie’s voice was a little loose, and the whiskey bottle was, I noted, down to the dregs, but I couldn’t remember how full it had been before.
“Given that it’s almost June, what race could you realistically enter?”
“Seriously,” Charlie said, “calm down.”
“You know I’ve never trusted Hank.”
“And anyone who runs for elected office is a pompous shyster—right, baby?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
He leered. “I can think of something I’d like to put in your mouth.”
“Can’t you just give me a straight answer about why Hank was here?”
We faced each other, him still sitting on the couch, me standing a few feet away, and he said, “I got a call from Arthur before Ucker arrived—turns out I was right that we weren’t to blame for the contamination. It wasn’t the store the sports-banquet folks got the chuck from that had the problems, it was the basement fridge where one of the athlete’s moms was storing it. Seems that a rat had gnawed the power cord.” Charlie raised his glass. “Bon appetit.”
“That poor woman—she must feel terrible.”
“I’m just glad we recalled one-point-two million pounds of meat. Good thing the Upper Midwest region is safe tonight from the scourge of Blackwell beef.”
“You did the right thing.”
Charlie gestured toward the TV. “You just missed John on Channel Twelve news. He said, ‘Our meat is not a crook.’ ” Charlie leaned back, chuckling at his own joke.
“I’m glad everything is cleared up.” I took a seat and leaned forward to pull the latest issue of
off the coffee table. “Did you know Yvonne Sutton had a baby?”
“Who’s Yvonne Sutton?”
“Miss Ruby’s daughter.”
Charlie shook his head wonderingly. “You can’t say those people aren’t fertile.”
“Charlie, Yvonne has two children. She’s not exactly contributing to overpopulation.”
“I assume it’s a different father from Jessica’s?”
“It’s her husband, and he also works at St. Mary’s.” I closed the magazine, which I wasn’t reading anyway. “I invited them over for lunch on Memorial Day.”
“Wasn’t that egalitarian of you? Maybe they can show our daughter how to grow dreadlocks.” Several years before, for Ella’s fifth birthday, she had requested a Barbie doll. We’d bought one for her—Dreamtime Barbie, who came with her own miniature peach-colored teddy bear—but when Ella unwrapped the box, she burst into tears. She wanted a Barbie “like Jessica’s,” she kept insisting, and eventually, I figured out she meant a black Barbie. I ended up exchanging Dreamtime Barbie for Day-to-Night Barbie, who came with a pink business suit and a pink dress that had a sparkly top and a sheer skirt, whose skin was dark brown, and whose hair was black. I felt almost proud of Ella, and I think Charlie was amused, though he did say, “Show that to Maj, and you and Ella will both be excommunicated.” The irony was that while Charlie regularly remarked on his mother’s racism, he made offensive comments more often than she did. That he made them with a wink, he seemed to think, meant he was less culpable and not more so, and although I disagreed and particularly disliked when he used slurs in front of Ella, I’d long ago given up trying to edit him.
In our den, I said, “Jessica is going to Stevens next year for junior high, which really makes me worry.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“It sounds like she’s a great student and does lots of extracurricular activities.”
“Did you run into her recently?”
“I saw Miss Ruby last night—when I was looking for you, I went by your parents’ house.” Mentioning that Miss Ruby had accompanied me to the play seemed unnecessary. I added, “I bet Jessica would thrive at a place like Biddle.”
“Sounds like she’s thriving already.”
“Do you know which school Stevens is?”
Charlie grinned. “Where do you think I go to replenish my crack supply?” Then he said, “I’m not running for anything, okay? Hank came over so we could think about options for the future, but you’re right—it’s too late for this election year.”
