Picture Perfect Page 7

  “I’m afraid I’d kill your plants,” Daddy said. “I don’t have much of a green thumb. Maybe Phoebe can help you out.”

  Before I could open my mouth to protest, Beverly said, “Would you, hon? That would be great.” She was already taking a key off her key ring. “Here’s a spare key. You have to jiggle the lock a bit to make it work. I’ll leave some instructions for you on the kitchen table.”

  I took the key, and Beverly said, “Gotta run. I haven’t finished packing yet, and my plane leaves at seven in the morning.”

  “Where are you going?” Daddy asked.

  “To England. Oxford University is endowing a chair in my husband’s name.” She stepped off the porch. “Thanks for helping me out, Phoebe. I owe you.”

  “Have a safe trip.” Daddy waved to her, and we dug into our bowls of Rocky Road.

  Late the next afternoon I took the key and went over to Beverly’s house. I found her note on the table and watered the orchids according to her instructions. I brought in the mail—a couple of bills, a fat envelope from her publisher in New York, and a bunch of advertising junk—and stacked it on the kitchen counter. I should have left then, but I was curious. I wandered through the living room and into a room at the back of the house that she had set up as an office. Her desk was covered with files arranged in orderly stacks next to her computer. A fax machine hummed in the silence. A pair of red sandals were parked under the desk as if she’d slipped them off while working and forgotten them. An oil painting, a landscape done mostly in yellows and greens, hung on one wall. An unfinished canvas stood on an easel opposite the window. On another wall was a huge corkboard covered with memos, invitations, newspaper clippings, and photographs. A glass-topped table under the window held a framed picture of a man I assumed was her husband, and another picture of a blond-haired, blue-eyed little boy with a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. He looked like a kid you’d see in a TV commercial for bread or peanut butter.

  Wondering what Beverly was writing about, I opened a folder. “Einstein’s letters to his wife make mention of their joint work, and it is generally believed that Mileva contributed significantly to the completion of the theory of relativity that included gravitation as a determiner of the curvature of the space-time continuum.” Boring as dirt. I closed the file and flipped through her desk calendar. Going back in time, I saw she had circled the date she’d first moved into Mrs. Archer’s house and the day she’d gone with us to Shreveport to see Mama. There were scribbled notes about picking up dry cleaning, reminders about mailing stuff to her editor and returning books to the library. But the one that stopped me cold was a red circle with the letters ST inside. I remembered the date because it was the day I’d found Lucky on the highway. The day Zane and I had seen her and Daddy together.

  ST. Sumner Trask. All the proof I needed that their meeting had not been an accident.

  I flipped the pages back, leaving the calendar just the way I’d found it, and let myself out of her house. I needed to talk to somebody, but Lauren was too busy making a new life down in Georgia. I was afraid to tell Zane, afraid he might do something even worse than spray-painting graffiti and knocking over mailboxes. Shyla wouldn’t care; she’d just laugh and tell me I had too much imagination. My family was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do except try harder to keep Beverly and my daddy away from each other once she got back to Eden.

  A couple of days later I got a letter in the mail from my school welcoming me to the freshman class. Stapled to the letter was a class list and a copy of the Eden High School dress code. I poured myself a glass of soda and scanned the code, which was mostly a list of stuff we couldn’t wear, including T-shirts with messages on them, cropped tops, pajama bottoms, flip-flops, and anything else the teachers decided was a distraction in the learning environment.

  In his letter the assistant principal urged the incoming freshmen to dress for the serious business of learning and to have fun. Apparently he didn’t see the contradiction in that statement. I read through the requirements for phys ed, which Lauren always contended was just a sanctioned form of humiliation and torture, and discovered I needed a certain kind of white shorts and a pair of running shoes. I was going to have to go shopping. For the millionth time that summer I was overcome with missing Lauren. All during eighth grade we’d looked forward to starting high school together. We’d planned everything out in excruciating detail, like a couple of NASA scientists preparing for a space launch, and now I felt like the countdown had been halted, the mission scrubbed.

  I left the letter out where Daddy could see it, hoping he’d demand that Mama come home and attend to her motherly duties. Instead, the night before Beverly was due back from her trip, he came into the den where Zane and I were watching TV and said, “Hey, sunshine. How about if I drop you at the mall on Saturday morning and pick you up after my golf game? We’ll grab a late lunch somewhere, just the two of us. Sound good?”

  “I can’t shop by myself!” I said.

  “Well, of course you can,” Daddy said. “How hard can it be?”

  “I need somebody to give me an opinion on stuff,” I said. “Freshman year is important! I don’t want to show up with all the wrong clothes and be labeled a dork for life.”

  His eyes still on the TV screen, Zane said, “They shop in packs, Dad. It’s a girl thing.”

  Daddy took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe Beverly will take you, Feebs. She knows style.”

  Which was true. Beverly dressed to kill, even if she was only going to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. But I wasn’t about to give her a reason to hang around “Sum-nuh,” inquiring as to whether he approved of our purchases.

  “I’ll call Shyla,” I said. “Maybe somebody in this family can find time for me.”

  Daddy nodded and put his glasses back on. Another Trask family problem solved.

  The next day Daddy dropped Zane and me at our favorite burger place for lunch. People in Eden say it’s just a hole in the wall, but the guy who runs it, a gray-haired Vietnam vet named Gus Parker, makes the best burgers on the planet. He doesn’t fancy them up with blue cheese or pesto sauce, the way some restaurants do. A Gus burger is meat, mustard, pickles, and onions. That’s it. If you insist, he will slap a square of American cheese on the meat while it’s sizzling on the grill, but he lets you know it pains him to wreck his signature dish.

  We grabbed one of Gus’s red vinyl booths near the back and ordered large colas, burgers, and a double order of fries. The tables were jammed with construction workers, high school kids, and people who worked in the office buildings downtown.

  “Here you go.” Gus slid our plates onto the table along with our check. “Enjoy.”

  Zane bit into his burger, closed his eyes, chewed, and swallowed. “This burger is definitely worth the loss of life. Thank you, cow!”

  Just then the door opened and in came Ginger Threadgill with her daddy. In her pink shorts and a white top, her strawberry-blond hair a mass of curls, Ginger looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of Teen Vogue. “Don’t look now,” I said to Zane, “but your heartthrob just walked in.”

  “Oh, man!” Zane hurriedly wiped his hands on his napkin. “Mr. T. is with her, though. Talk about bad luck.”

  But Mr. Threadgill was so busy talking to Gus he didn’t even notice when Ginger made her way to our table.

  “Hey, Zane,” she said. “Hi, Phoebe.”

  “Hey.” Zane scooted over. “Sit down.”

  “I can’t. Daddy would have a cow, since … well, you know. Your problem with the law and all.”

  “Good gravy!” I said. “It’s not like he robbed a bank. Besides, he has almost finished his community service.”

  “Yeah,” Zane said. “I’ve paid my debt to society, as they say.”

  “I heard you were working at the library.” Ginger turned to Zane. “I just wanted to tell you that even though Daddy is being totally unreasonable about it, I personally do
not hold anything against you. Anybody can make a mistake.”

  “Thanks,” Zane said. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Ginger?” Zane paused, and I kicked him under the table. Go on, ask her.

  “Oops,” Ginger said. “Our order is ready. Gotta go.”

  She wound her way through the crowded restaurant and helped her daddy carry several to-go bags outside. Zane dragged a greasy fry through the pool of ketchup on his plate. “I guess that pretty much answers the question about my future with Ginger. It’s obvious Mr. T. is never going to let me live this down.”

  “He’s just so pigheaded.” I dug an ice cube out of my empty glass and crunched it with my teeth. “But he can’t keep you from seeing Ginger at school.”

  “Yeah. You know who I blame for all of this? Our dear mother, that’s who.”

  I felt the same way. Mama’s life was working out just fine, but Daddy, Zane, and I were still struggling. “Shyla says this Bee Beautiful thing is just something Mama has to get out of her system. She won’t stay away forever.”

  “Maybe not, but the damage is already done. Even if she came back today, nothing would be the same.” He glanced at the check, left some money on the table, and stood up. “Let’s go. Dad’s probably waiting.”

  We walked outside. Daddy was sitting in the parking lot, listening to the radio. He had drawn the protesters’ case after all, and the backseat of the Lincoln was strewn with liles and law books.

  We got in the car. Zane said, “Dad, can you drop me at the library? I want to get some more of my community service hours in.”

  The juvenile court judge had given Zane his choice of working on a highway beautification crew or shelving books in the library. My brother wasn’t stupid; anybody who had ever spent a summer in Texas would pick a job where there was air-conditioning. Daddy nodded, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

  After we left Zane at the library, Daddy dropped me off at home before returning to the courthouse. I took Lucky outside, and later we curled up with a book in front of the TV. Ever since I’d heard that Mama was making an infomercial, I’d kept an eye on the Beauty Channel, hoping that one day she’d appear in our living room. So far it hadn’t happened, but in the meantime the Beauty Channel was proving to be a real education. According to the people on TV, most of the entire female population was a royal mess, in desperate need of special fillers to hide wrinkles, lip liners that wouldn’t rub off while you were asleep, sets of cutout stencils to help you draw perfect eyebrows every time, half a dozen products to brighten your smile, et cetera. It was enough to give a person a major inferiority complex.

  Today a man with a ponytail was describing in a thick Spanish accent the virtues of his new line of hair care products, which were guaranteed to make even the most hopeless head of hair look thick and glossy. The phone rang. I muted the TV and picked up. There was a series of clicks, but nobody said anything.

  “Hello?” I said again. “Who is this?”

  I could hear somebody breathing. The heavy silence creeped me out.

  “Pervert,” I said, and hung up.

  I was at my computer e-mailing Lauren when Beverly returned from her chair-naming trip to England. Her two-week trip had stretched into six weeks, which obviously had its upside, but I was tired of being responsible for her orchids. One had died, and a couple more were on the critical list. From my window I watched her carry a couple of suitcases into her house. Ten minutes later she came across the lawn with a shopping bag looped over her arm. I shut my computer down and called for Lucky, and we went to the door just as she rang the bell.

  “Cara mia!” she cried when I opened the door. “I’m back!”

  “Okay.”

  Beverly just stood there smiling until I had no choice but to invite her in. We went into the living room, and she plopped down on the sofa, fanning herself. “I swear, I’d forgotten how hot it is down here in the summertime.”

  Lucky yipped until she picked him up. He licked her hand and regarded her with his big, soulful eyes.

  “Hey, handsome,” Beverly said, stroking his head. “You’re growing like a weed.” She looked at me. “How much do you reckon he weighs now?”

  “I don’t know. Daddy says he’ll weigh around seventy pounds when he’s full grown.”

  “How is your daddy?” Lucky squirmed and she let him go.

  “Really busy,” I said. “He’s getting ready for the protesters’ trial, and we aren’t supposed to disturb him for anything.”

  Beverly laughed. “I know how that is.”

  She opened the shopping bag. “I brought you all some presents from across the pond.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, lifting out a bunch of boxes, “but traveling is no fun unless you can bring back stuff for your friends.” She handed me a box. “This is for you.”

  It was a pink sweater with a scoop neckline, silky-soft beneath my fingers. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I hoped you’d like it.” Beverly set three more boxes on the coffee table, obviously enjoying playing Santa in August. “The red box is for Zane, and the others are for your father.”

  Then she took out an oblong package and let Lucky sniff it. “I didn’t forget you, sweetie.”

  Lucky, the traitor, wagged his tail and nudged the package with his nose. Beverly laughed and unwrapped a huge rubber bone. He grabbed it and ran to the kitchen, his toenails clicking on the wood floor.

  I knew I should offer Beverly a soda or some iced tea; it was so hot I was dying for something cool to drink myself, but I didn’t want to encourage her.

  The front door opened and Daddy came in carrying his briefcase and a stack of mail. His eyes lit up when he saw that we had company. “Beverly! How was your trip?”

  “Just lovely, Sum-nuh. After the ceremony at the university I flew to Firenze and spent some time with friends. I stayed longer than I intended, but the change did me a world of good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Daddy said.

  Beverly swept her hand toward the coffee table, like a TV model showing off a big prize. “I brought you all some tiny little presents, which you can open later. Right now I’m off to the grocery store. I don’t have a thing in the house to eat.”

  “Eat with us,” Daddy said.

  “I really can’t,” Beverly said, heading for the door. “I must shop, unpack, do some laundry, and go through the mail.” She turned to me. “Thanks for looking after things while I was gone.”

  “I’m sorry your orchid died. I followed your instructions, but—”

  “It’s all right,” Beverly said. “Orchids are temperamental. Sometimes they just don’t thrive no matter what you do.”

  I returned her spare key. She dropped it into her pocket, called out, “A presto!” and went home.

  “A presto?” I said to Daddy. “She sounds like a magician.”

  “I think it means ‘See you soon.’”

  No doubt. “Why doesn’t she just speak English?”

  Daddy loosened his tie and sank into his favorite chair. “Give her a break, Feebs. She’s spent the last several weeks speaking Italian. It’ll take her a few days to switch back. Actually, I think it’s charming.” He flipped through the mail. “Where’s Zane?”

  “At the library, finishing his community service requirement. The swim team is throwing a party for him at the lake this weekend to celebrate.”

  “We’ll have to see about that.”

  “That’s not fair! He’s been looking forward to the party all week.”

  “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “You’re never around. We may as well be orphans, for all the attention we get from you.”

  He looked up from his mail sorting. “Have I been gone that much?”

  “We hardly see you anymore. You’re nearly always late.”

  He sighed. “Preparing for this trial is taking it out of me
, Feebs. I can’t go anywhere without people stopping me to tell me just what they think should happen to the flag burners. Their lawyers and the prosecutors are running to the courthouse every day filing motion after motion, and the TV people are in my face every time I turn around. Just today that guy from channel ten jumped in front of my car as I was leaving for lunch, demanding a quote for the six o’clock news.”

  The phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” Daddy said.

  “But what if it’s Mama?”

  Daddy waved his hand and I picked up the receiver, but it was another one of those creepy calls where nobody said anything.

  “That’s the second time this week,” I said.

  “From now on,” Daddy said, “let the machine pick up first. Even if you’re expecting a call. Okay?”

  Lucky trotted into the room with his new bone and stood on Daddy’s foot until Daddy tossed the bone a couple of times before going upstairs to change clothes.

  When Zane came home, we fired up the grill. While I made a salad, Zane told Daddy about the party that was planned for him at the lake. “Ryan’s bringing a tent, and we’re going to camp out overnight.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Zane.” Daddy peppered the steaks and laid them on the grill.

  Zane’s face twisted. “You don’t trust me. I made one mistake and spent the whole summer paying for it, and now I can’t do anything.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t trust you.” Daddy perched on the edge of our picnic table. “Some people are bent out of shape about this trial coming up, even though it’s pretty much an open-and-shut case as far as the flag burning goes. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’ve received a couple of nasty notes down at the courthouse. And the hang-up calls here at home are worrisome. We should be careful until the trial is over.”

  When the steaks were done, he put them on the yellow platter we always used for cooking out, and we sat down. “You may go to the party, but I want you home by eleven. And you’re to keep your cell phone on at all times. Understood?”

  “Okay.” Zane rolled his eyes at me and heaped some salad onto his plate.