seventeen, Marjorie was a day student at Woodbine, the prep school in Corbett, and her name was Marjorie Bar, shortened Clare said for convenience and for her career, whatever it would be. And Ruckelbar had let that happen too. He could fix any feature of any automobile, truck, or element of farm equipment, but he could not fix this.
A T HOME AFTER a silent dinner with Clare, he broke the rule about talking about the station and told her that DiPaulo had picked up the car, the one the boy had been sitting in every day for weeks. She didn’t like DiPaulo—he’d always been part of the way her life had betrayed her—and she let her eyes lift in disgust and then asked about the boy, “What did he do?” They were clearing the supper dishes. Marjorie ate dinner at school and arrived home after the evening study hall. It was queer that Clare should ask a question, and Ruckelbar, who hadn’t intended his comment to begin a conversation, was surprised and not sure of how he should answer.
“He sat in the car. In the driver’s seat.”
This stopped Clare midstep and she held her dishes still. “All day?”
“He came after school and walked home after dark.” It was the most Ruckelbar had spoken about the station in his kitchen for five or six years. Clare resumed sorting out the silverware and wiping up. Ruckelbar realized he wanted to ask Clare what to do about the camera. “Do you remember the accident?” he asked. “The girl?”
“If it’s the same girl. The three young people from Garse. She was a tramp. They were killed on Labor Day or just before. They went off the quarry road.”
Ruckelbar, who hadn’t seen the papers, had known about the accident, of course. The police tow truck driver had told him about the three students, and the vehicle was crushed in so radical a fashion anyone could see it had fallen some distance onto the rock. Clare seemed to know more about it, something she’d read or heard, but Ruckelbar didn’t know how to ask, and in a moment the chance was lost.
“Who’s a tramp?” Marjorie entered the kitchen, putting her bookbag on a chair.
“Your father has some lowlife living in a car.”
Ruckelbar looked at her.
“Any pie?” Marjorie asked her mother. Clare extracted a pumpkin pie from the fridge. Under the plastic wrap, it was uncut, one of Clare’s fresh pumpkin pies. Ruckelbar looked at it, just a pie, and he stopped slipping. He’d already exited the room in his head, and he came back. “I’d like a piece of that pie, too, Clare. If I could please.”
“You didn’t get any?” Marjorie said. “You must really smell like gasoline tonight.” She was actually trying to be light.
“He’s not a lowlife, Clare,” he said to her as she set a wedge of pie before him and dropped a fork onto the table. Even Marjorie, who had silently sided with her mother every time she’d had the chance, looked up in surprise at Clare. “It’s the boy whose sister was killed last summer.”
“Sheila Morton,” Marjorie said.
“The tramp,” Clare said.
Ruckelbar took a bite of pie. He was going to stay right here. This was the scene he’d drifted away from a thousand times. They were talking.
“She was not a tramp,” he said. “This boy is a nice boy.”
“He’s disturbed,” Clare said. “God, going out there to sit in the car?”
“Sheila was a slut,” Marjorie said. “Everybody knew that.”
The moment had gone very strange for all of them together like this in the kitchen. An ordinary night would have found Ruckelbar in the garage or his bedroom, Marjorie on the phone, and Clare at the television. They all felt the vague uncertainty of having the rules shift. No one would leave and no one knew how it would end; this was all new.
“She was, Dad,” Marjorie said, setting Ruckelbar back in his chair with the word “Dad,” which in its disuse had become monumental, naked and direct. They all heard it. Marjorie went on, “She put out, okay? One of those
A T HOME AFTER a silent dinner with Clare, he broke the rule about talking about the station and told her that DiPaulo had picked up the car, the one the boy had been sitting in every day for weeks. She didn’t like DiPaulo—he’d always been part of the way her life had betrayed her—and she let her eyes lift in disgust and then asked about the boy, “What did he do?” They were clearing the supper dishes. Marjorie ate dinner at school and arrived home after the evening study hall. It was queer that Clare should ask a question, and Ruckelbar, who hadn’t intended his comment to begin a conversation, was surprised and not sure of how he should answer.
“He sat in the car. In the driver’s seat.”
This stopped Clare midstep and she held her dishes still. “All day?”
“He came after school and walked home after dark.” It was the most Ruckelbar had spoken about the station in his kitchen for five or six years. Clare resumed sorting out the silverware and wiping up. Ruckelbar realized he wanted to ask Clare what to do about the camera. “Do you remember the accident?” he asked. “The girl?”
“If it’s the same girl. The three young people from Garse. She was a tramp. They were killed on Labor Day or just before. They went off the quarry road.”
Ruckelbar, who hadn’t seen the papers, had known about the accident, of course. The police tow truck driver had told him about the three students, and the vehicle was crushed in so radical a fashion anyone could see it had fallen some distance onto the rock. Clare seemed to know more about it, something she’d read or heard, but Ruckelbar didn’t know how to ask, and in a moment the chance was lost.
“Who’s a tramp?” Marjorie entered the kitchen, putting her bookbag on a chair.
“Your father has some lowlife living in a car.”
Ruckelbar looked at her.
“Any pie?” Marjorie asked her mother. Clare extracted a pumpkin pie from the fridge. Under the plastic wrap, it was uncut, one of Clare’s fresh pumpkin pies. Ruckelbar looked at it, just a pie, and he stopped slipping. He’d already exited the room in his head, and he came back. “I’d like a piece of that pie, too, Clare. If I could please.”
“You didn’t get any?” Marjorie said. “You must really smell like gasoline tonight.” She was actually trying to be light.
“He’s not a lowlife, Clare,” he said to her as she set a wedge of pie before him and dropped a fork onto the table. Even Marjorie, who had silently sided with her mother every time she’d had the chance, looked up in surprise at Clare. “It’s the boy whose sister was killed last summer.”
“Sheila Morton,” Marjorie said.
“The tramp,” Clare said.
Ruckelbar took a bite of pie. He was going to stay right here. This was the scene he’d drifted away from a thousand times. They were talking.
“She was not a tramp,” he said. “This boy is a nice boy.”
“He’s disturbed,” Clare said. “God, going out there to sit in the car?”
“Sheila was a slut,” Marjorie said. “Everybody knew that.”
The moment had gone very strange for all of them together like this in the kitchen. An ordinary night would have found Ruckelbar in the garage or his bedroom, Marjorie on the phone, and Clare at the television. They all felt the vague uncertainty of having the rules shift. No one would leave and no one knew how it would end; this was all new.
“She was, Dad,” Marjorie said, setting Ruckelbar back in his chair with the word “Dad,” which in its disuse had become monumental, naked and direct. They all heard it. Marjorie went on, “She put out, okay? One of those
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