there’s only one train going west: an express.
If I could just find my boy, said Helen to herself. Or if he could just find me.
She turned over on her stomach.
And felt, in the same moment, a small hand drawing the comforter over her shoulders.
7
Everything Looks Good
O NLY WANDA KNEW THE truth: her sons had been arguing since the day they were born, bawling at each other in the crib.
In the sandpile they’d argue: Red is better than blue. No, blue is better than red. No, dummy, red is better. Better! Biking up the street in summer, it was chocolate versus vanilla. Sledding: Snow is better than ice. No, ice is better. No, snow. They agreed on nothing and they took sides on everything.
When they started getting an allowance, they had to decide: Is Kresge’s better than Woolworth’s? When baseball season arrived: Is Babe Ruth better than Lou Gehrig? Goose Goslin better than Charley Gehringer? Willie chose the quiet, steady players who could be counted on in the outfield and who caused no scandals. Ben inclined toward outlandish pitchers and crazy hitters, who narrowly escaped suspension and got fined for bad conduct, their lives one long train of pranks.
Later they argued about girls in general (how did you do it with a girl?) and then about girls in particular (with whom? when?). As Ben’s knowledge outstripped his brother’s—Willie did not date very much; girls always expected you to pay—they argued about Marsha.
“She’s beautiful,” said Ben. “She’s Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake.”
“Too much makeup,” grumbled Willie. “And her clothes are terrible.”
“She buys them in thrift shops,” said Ben. “She’s real saving.”
“Thrift shops! Her stepfather is rolling.”
“She loves bargains. She never buys the first dress she sees. She loves to shop.”
Willie stopped to consider whether this was a point for his side or Ben’s.
“What do women do when they shop?” he asked cautiously.
“They look at stuff. They—feel it. Marsha loves to touch things. Combs. Dresses. Magazines. She loves magazines.”
Not what his mother did, Willie knew. Wanda, with her grocery list, hunting down the cheapest cut of meat. He dropped the subject of Marsha and turned to Marsha’s real estate. They’d argued about this before. Which was better, the old grey duplex where Marsha lived before her mother’s divorce or the new house in Barton Hills she’d moved into after her mother married Dr. Deller?
“The new one has a lotus pond and two gardens,” said Willie. “You’d have to be crazy to choose the old house.”
“The old one had a sand lot,” said Ben.
“Marsha needs a sand lot?”
“And the new one is full of the first Mrs. Deller’s stuff. Those awful figurines on every table.”
“They’re probably worth thousands,” said Willie.
Ben parked the old Studebaker that he and Willie owned together (Wanda hated to drive) and hurried up the front walk. Usually Marsha made him wait, and Ben took it for granted that he would wait for half an hour in the library, just off the vestibule, during which time nobody would speak to him, not even the maid who let him in.
Today, however, the door opened, and Marsha slouched in the doorway. Black suit, black stockings, her huge black purse, and a white fur jacket. Her blond hair was piled high, and a diamond comb gleamed over one ear.
“How do you like me?” She grinned. “I got the jacket yesterday. It’s real rabbit.”
She pointed one toe and flashed a spiky heel studded with rhinestones.
“God broke the mold when he made you,” said Ben.
Mold! exclaimed God. I never repeat myself.
The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers, mostly middle-aged women, pushing into the store or watching the mechanical figures in the windows, swagged and wreathed for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was still a week away. A family of snowmen, nodding like imbeciles. Santa in a golden sleigh, compelled to wave. Half a dozen elves whose hands pounded
If I could just find my boy, said Helen to herself. Or if he could just find me.
She turned over on her stomach.
And felt, in the same moment, a small hand drawing the comforter over her shoulders.
7
Everything Looks Good
O NLY WANDA KNEW THE truth: her sons had been arguing since the day they were born, bawling at each other in the crib.
In the sandpile they’d argue: Red is better than blue. No, blue is better than red. No, dummy, red is better. Better! Biking up the street in summer, it was chocolate versus vanilla. Sledding: Snow is better than ice. No, ice is better. No, snow. They agreed on nothing and they took sides on everything.
When they started getting an allowance, they had to decide: Is Kresge’s better than Woolworth’s? When baseball season arrived: Is Babe Ruth better than Lou Gehrig? Goose Goslin better than Charley Gehringer? Willie chose the quiet, steady players who could be counted on in the outfield and who caused no scandals. Ben inclined toward outlandish pitchers and crazy hitters, who narrowly escaped suspension and got fined for bad conduct, their lives one long train of pranks.
Later they argued about girls in general (how did you do it with a girl?) and then about girls in particular (with whom? when?). As Ben’s knowledge outstripped his brother’s—Willie did not date very much; girls always expected you to pay—they argued about Marsha.
“She’s beautiful,” said Ben. “She’s Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake.”
“Too much makeup,” grumbled Willie. “And her clothes are terrible.”
“She buys them in thrift shops,” said Ben. “She’s real saving.”
“Thrift shops! Her stepfather is rolling.”
“She loves bargains. She never buys the first dress she sees. She loves to shop.”
Willie stopped to consider whether this was a point for his side or Ben’s.
“What do women do when they shop?” he asked cautiously.
“They look at stuff. They—feel it. Marsha loves to touch things. Combs. Dresses. Magazines. She loves magazines.”
Not what his mother did, Willie knew. Wanda, with her grocery list, hunting down the cheapest cut of meat. He dropped the subject of Marsha and turned to Marsha’s real estate. They’d argued about this before. Which was better, the old grey duplex where Marsha lived before her mother’s divorce or the new house in Barton Hills she’d moved into after her mother married Dr. Deller?
“The new one has a lotus pond and two gardens,” said Willie. “You’d have to be crazy to choose the old house.”
“The old one had a sand lot,” said Ben.
“Marsha needs a sand lot?”
“And the new one is full of the first Mrs. Deller’s stuff. Those awful figurines on every table.”
“They’re probably worth thousands,” said Willie.
Ben parked the old Studebaker that he and Willie owned together (Wanda hated to drive) and hurried up the front walk. Usually Marsha made him wait, and Ben took it for granted that he would wait for half an hour in the library, just off the vestibule, during which time nobody would speak to him, not even the maid who let him in.
Today, however, the door opened, and Marsha slouched in the doorway. Black suit, black stockings, her huge black purse, and a white fur jacket. Her blond hair was piled high, and a diamond comb gleamed over one ear.
“How do you like me?” She grinned. “I got the jacket yesterday. It’s real rabbit.”
She pointed one toe and flashed a spiky heel studded with rhinestones.
“God broke the mold when he made you,” said Ben.
Mold! exclaimed God. I never repeat myself.
The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers, mostly middle-aged women, pushing into the store or watching the mechanical figures in the windows, swagged and wreathed for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was still a week away. A family of snowmen, nodding like imbeciles. Santa in a golden sleigh, compelled to wave. Half a dozen elves whose hands pounded
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