The Good House Part 2

Angela went to the kitchen, where Melanie Graybold and Faith Henriksen, both of whom owned shops in town, were red-faced with laughter over a joke she had missed. Angela snuck behind them and glanced out of the breakfast nook's bay window toward the patch of gra.s.s cleared away for their backyard and deck. Half a dozen men congregated around the grill with Tariq. With the back door propped open, she could smell beef cooking and hear the men debating starters for a fantasy football league.

Earlier, she'd overheard the men talking about some new law against mole-trapping while Tariq nodded sagely, pretending an escapee from the Chicago projects knew anything about outdoor life. Tariq wouldn't know a mole from a racc.o.o.n. She was glad he had steered the conversation back to comfortable ground. Tariqknew football-that, and a few volumes' worth of finance, economic theory, and post-Reconstruction history and sociology, if he could find anyone who cared. The more he enjoyed himself at the party, the better his mood later. The better for both of them.

A gla.s.s of Pellegrino on ice might help her nerves, she decided. She'd brought a supply of the sparkling mineral water from L.A., and she drank it constantly, a subst.i.tute for the Chardonnay she no longer allowed herself to enjoy because she enjoyed it too much. Pellegrino was safer, since the last thing Corey needed was a mother as incapable of coping with daily life as hers had been.

After finding a gla.s.s, Angela clawed into the half-empty bag of ice sagging in the kitchen sink. That cold-burn sensation seized her arm again, exactly as it had at the store, except, if anything, it was more p.r.o.nounced this time. Like her arm had been injected with ice.

Angela yelped, drawing her hand away with a spasm that nearly knocked the gla.s.s from the counter."Dammit," she hissed, shaking her arm out. It tingled, then the strange sensation vanished. Great. Now she was probably having an anxiety attack, just in time for the party.

"Mom?"

Corey walked from behind her, gazing at her with those almond-shaped eyes that mirrored her own. Although he was slightly bent over, Corey stood above her, a new development this summer that was hard for Angela to get used to. Corey was less a child each day.

"Can I talk to you? I have to give you something." Corey sounded distressed.

Angela forgot about her arm. "Baby, how's your stomach?"

"Whatever, it's a'ight," Corey said. He took the crook of her arm, steering her toward the privacy of the foyer that ended behind the stairs, near the closed door leading to the wine cellar. He took a breath. "Mom, I did something, and I have to make it right. It's been heavy on my mind."

s.h.i.+t, Angela thought. Something in Oakland. Or something with Sean. Suddenly, Angela remembered Marlene's inquiry about Sean at the market:They're always running here and there....

Angela felt inexplicably panicked. Her belly was as tight as it got some nights in L.A., when she lay awake wondering where Corey was at that precise moment, if his father had met any of the parents of the kids their son was spending his time with. Wondering if Corey was already s.e.xually active, in danger of becoming a parent or catching a disease. Or if Corey might be in the wrong car at the wrong time when an Oakland cop might show up with an att.i.tude. The worries came in a flood, deepening and multiplying. That was the thing about summers-during the summers, she didn't worry as much. But she was worried now.

Corey slowly raised his closed palm, then unfolded it painstakingly, like a flower-bud. There, nestled among the dark crisscrossing lines that foretold her son's future, sat a small gold band with tiny figures sculpted all around it. When Angela saw the ring, her mouth fell open with a long, stunned gasp. Her eyes beheld it, unblinking.

"At first, I was gonna play like I'd seen it at a yard sale or something, and say, 'Hey, Mom, look what I found, it's just like Gramma Marie's.' But it's the same one."

Angela's heart bounded, although she was afraid to trust her eyes. The solid gold ring was carved with African symbols that looked both geometric and oddly singular, unknowable. Gramma Marie had been wearing that ring the day she died. She'd motioned for Angela to come closer, then she'd slipped the slick, warm gold across Angela's finger, making her promise to keep it always. This ring had been Gramma Marie's good-bye to her, and Angela hadn't seen it in four years.

It had been stolen. Whatever b.a.s.t.a.r.d had broken in through her bedroom window and stolen this ring had also somehow broken her life, the parts that mattered.

Now, the ring was back. This was impossible. Angela stared at the ring, not touching it.

Corey's voice wavered as he met her confused eyes. His explanation tumbled out."I threw the brick and broke your window, Mom. It sounds dumb now, but there was this girl I liked, right? Her name was Sherita, and I knew the ring was special to you, and I thought maybe it would be special to her." Corey swallowed, glancing away. His voice became a monotone, signaling that he had spent time rehearsing this speech. "It was just dumb kid stuff. I said I'd let her wear it for a week. But she said she saw me talking to some girl before the week was over, and she wouldn't give it back. I was afraid to tell you I took it. So I threw the brick and broke the window and knocked your jewelry all over the floor, and you thought somebody stole it. I said to myself, 'If she asks me if I did it, I won't lie.' But you never did ask, Mom."

He looked relieved to be finished, blinking fast.

Angela took the ring and stared at its beautiful symbols, which looked like s.h.i.+ny golden light-etchings against the sunken surface. A triangle with a cross in the center, a double wave, a pear shape. Slowly, she slid the ring onto the bare finger where she had once worn her wedding ring. It was snug, but not too tight. Perfect fit, like the day it had been given to her. Thinking of her grandmother, Angela could nearly smell the rose-scented talc.u.m powder Gramma Marie had dusted herself with. She felt a s.h.i.+ft in time, as if she were standing before this cellar door with her grandmother again as she had when she was Corey's age. Angela had hauled box after box of preserves down those steps, stacking the jars in the compartments that had been built for wine.Now, Li'l Angel, you be careful on those steps. The jars were dusty now, and the preserves inside were surely dried or rotten, but some of them were still down there exactly where she'd put them.

Angela felt a single icy fingernail brush the back of her neck, hearkening to the strange cold-burn she'd felt at the store and in the kitchen. Something felt wrong.

"How did you get this ring back?" she whispered.

Corey didn't look her in the eye. "I wrote letters to see if Sherita was still staying down there, and she was. I paid her for it with extra money I made from Sean's dad, grooming his horses. I was thinking about how stealing your ring was one thing I wish I could take back. So I did."

No wonder Corey had been behaving so strangely! He must have lain awake half the night, wondering how he was going to finally tell her the truth. And yet, it wasn't all truth, either. Not yet. Corey spoke quickly when he was lying, like now.

"And she still had it?" Without meaning to, Angela had s.h.i.+fted into her courtroom voice.

Corey shrugged. This time, he looked at her and smiled, trying to imitate his father's playfulness, the Hill men's charm. "Well, it's a d.a.m.n nice ring. Like they say on TV, I cared enough to give the very best. You know what I'm sayin'?"

Corey knew better than to cuss in front of her, no matter how grown he thought he was, and she'd told him she would skin him alive the next time he droppedyouknowwhatimsayin into a conversation with her, which sounded as ignorant to her as Jimmie Walker'sDy-no-mite had sounded to Gramma Marie. She wanted to slap her son's face. How many times had she told the story of her stolen ring as a woeful loss? How many times had she felt genuine hurt over it, sometimes at the mere sight of Gramma Marie's photograph, as if allowing someone to take her ring had been a shameful act on her part? Howdare Corey let all these years go by without saying anything!

Then, Angela's anger melted, swallowed by relief. Bliss. She breathed in deeply, feeling lightheaded. Could this be real? Maybe her secretly spoken wish was coming true after all. She squeezed her own fingers, enjoying the solidness and texture of the ring.

"I know you're mad at me, huh? Well, I've been thinkin' about a punishment-"

"Corey..." Eyes smarting, Angela cut him off. She cupped his chin in her palm. "I don't know if you remember, but not long after you took this ring, everything fell apart for us. Your daddy and I lived in separate houses, in separate cities, and we forced you to choose between us. I think maybe that's punishment enough. What do you think?"

Now, it was Corey's turn to be silent. His lips were mashed tightly together, thinned out. He was fighting tears, she knew.

"Come here, baby," she said, reaching up to him, and he leaned against her in a hug, as he hadn't in far too long. Angela felt her heart pounding from the simple pleasure of embracing a child who rarely gave her the opportunity anymore. "When you stole this ring, you were being a selfish, thoughtless little boy. But getting it back to me-saving your money, writing a letter to that girl, using your head-that was the work of a youngman . That makes me proud of you, Corey. That lets me know you're doing all right despite everything we've put you through. I'm glad, and I thank you with all my heart."

"It ain't all that, Mom," Corey said. She heard moisture in his nose.

"Yes, it is. I love this ring. And I love you."

Corey exhaled, and his breath warmed her neck. He gave her a tight squeeze before releasing her. Then, his gaze was dead-on. "Mom, did Gramma Marie tell you stuff about the ring? Like, those symbols. Did she tell you what they mean?"

"It's West African, she told me. She got it from her grandmother, and I forget how far it goes back before that. At least another generation. I guess she thought it was a good-luck charm."

He lowered his voice. "But what about the symbols? She never told you anything about them? Like...if they're supposed to have powers or something like that?"

"Powers?"

"You know," Corey said sheepishly. "If they could...make things happen?"

Angela didn't have the heart to ridicule him. The guests' speculations about Gramma Marie must have fired up his imagination, and how would he know any better? Corey had only been five when Gramma Marie died, and he barely remembered her. This was the first time he'd asked about his great-grandmother with real interest, as if he wanted something from her memory.

"What kind of things, Corey?" she said. "I don't understand."

Corey's gaze s.h.i.+fted away, then back again. His sigh seemed to harbor real sadness. "Nothin'. Forget it."

"Well, hold on. Gramma Marie held on to a lot of old folks' superst.i.tions, so she might have mentioned something about the ring," Angela said quickly. One of Corey's major complaints about her was that she didn't take his concerns as seriously as Tariq did. "I'll have to sleep on it, okay? Ask me tomorrow. When it's not so crazy."

"Yeah, a'ight," Corey said, although his face didn't brighten. "Things are good with you and Dad this summer, right? I hear ya'll sneakin' around at night, those floors creaking. Ya'll ain't fooling n.o.body. Thought you should know."

Angela laughed, rubbing his short, wiry hair. "Don't get your hopes up, but we're trying."

"Cool. Guess we all make mistakes, huh? Some small and some big." Corey's eyes were unusually solemn and wistful now. He pressed his hand to his abdomen, like a pregnant woman feeling her baby kick. "And you just gotta' try to fix them, right?"

"Corey, you look awful. Are you sure you're all right? You don't have to help with the fireworks if you want to go lie down. I'll explain it to your dad."

Angela saw uncertainty on her son's face-or, more precisely, what she saw looked more like he could not choose one facial expression. First he looked nearly stricken, then sharply annoyed, then resigned. Corey rarely allowed his emotions to surface so baldly in front of her, and watching his face reminded her of studying her mother's warring emotions as a child, trying to guess which version of Dominique Toussaint would emerge next.

"I'mfine, dag," Corey said impatiently.

"Then do me a favor and go to the cellar and bring some sodas up, okay? They're stacked in the corner. Bring up a couple of cases. And you might as well bring the fireworks up, too."

His eyes flickered to the cellar door and back. She thought she heard thethckk as Corey sucked his teeth. Gramma Marie would have knocked her across the room for making a sound like that, but she and Corey had just had a rare nice talk, an actual conversation, so she ignored it.

"I have to go to Sean's," Corey said.

"Take that up with Tariq, but we both know what he'll say. I tried to talk you guys out of a big light show, but your dad's looking forward to it," Angela said. "Now go get the sodas, please."

Corey didn't answer. What was wrong with him today? Angela watched him prop open the cellar door and stare down a moment before he descended the stairs in silence.

She heard Gramma Marie's voice in her head:Now, Li'l Angel, you be careful.

Angela was about to tell him to tug on the string and turn on the light when he suddenly leaned back to gaze at her from beyond the narrow doorway. All at once, his tentative expression shed itself of everything except the unrestrained love he'd shown her when he was four and five. So loving he almost looked feverish. Little Corey. G.o.d, she missed that sweet, happy young kid. And he was here again, smiling at her like a photograph from easier days.

"I'm gonna take care of you good, Mom," he said with an exaggerated wink. "You wait."

Angela never forgot that smile from Corey.

If she had glanced at her watch, she would have noticed that it was 7:15P.M. Exactly five minutes before the party would be over.

At 7:16, the doorbell rang.

Tariq was standing over the backyard barbecue grill cooking ribs, talking draft picks with Logan Prescott, Gunnar Michaelsen, and Tom Brock, who were all long timers with the Sacajawea Logging Company. A few yards from them, the seven young children at the party, including Glenn Brunell, were playing kickball in the clearing. Only the bigger kids were allowed to go after the ball if it got kicked too far into the woods, because there was a very steep dropoff that could be dangerous.

So far, so good.

In the living room, the player piano was limping through an atonal version of "Getting to Know You," and it irked Angela that Laney Keane or someone had put on a piano roll without her permission. The piano wasn't a toy, as Gramma Marie always used to say. Sheriff Rob Graybold had wrested the conversation away from Laney Keane's historical reflections, and the group was listening intently to his theories on why people became child molesters. Because he hadn't expected to be on duty today, Rob was halfway through his second Bud Light.

All talk of Elijah Goode or Marie Toussaint and her cure-all teas had been forgotten.

Angela answered the door, and it was then that she received the second of her three big surprises of the day: A dark-skinned black man stood on her front porch with a half-dozen huge sunflowers. The man on the porch had shaved his head clean, sported a thin moustache, and had no sign of the round-frame gla.s.ses he'd worn in high school, but she knew hismouth . His teeth. His eyes. Myles Fisher was waiting on the porch just as he had when he'd come to fetch her on prom night. "Well, I will bed.a.m.ned," Angela said.

Liza Brunell squeezed Angela's shoulder from behind. "Aren't you surprised?"

In Myles's hand, the sunflowers truly did look like suns.h.i.+ne on stems. Angela squealed, laughing. "Myles, look at you!"

Myles stepped toward her and hugged her with unself-conscious firmness. She tried not to notice the pleasant, refined scent of his cologne or how broad his shoulders had grown since high school. She gave his lips only a polite peck before she pulled away, but she felt giddy in a way that scared her. Myles's eyes shone like burnished copper pennies, and his shaved head suited him well, making him look self-a.s.sured, controlled. She couldn't pull her eyes away from his face.

"Angela Marie Toussaint," he said, p.r.o.nouncing each syllable of her name slowly, with affection. "For once, I don't know what to say."

"I thought you were in D.C.!"

"He's interviewing to be the new boss at theLower Columbia News over in Longview," Liza broke in, excited. "He came to the market Tuesday and I couldn't believe my eyes. I said he should come to the party and surprise you."

"That's the only reason I didn't call sooner," Myles said, his gaze deepening. "I wanted to see this look on your face. Liza nabbed me my first day back in town."

Myles had been working as an editor atThe Was.h.i.+ngton Post for years, she'd heard. Why would he leave thePost for such a tiny paper? Myles patted her hand, seeing her bewilderment. "Ma's sick," he said quietly, and Angela suddenly understood. His adoptive parents had been older, and Ma Fisher's husband had died when Myles was only a junior in college. She must be close to ninety by now, and she was probably the only family he had left.

"I'm so sorry about Ma Fisher, but I'm thrilled to see you, Myles. When some people leave town, theyleave town . I haven't seen your sorry a.s.s in more than twenty years."

"You've obviously mistaken me for a much older man." Myles's eyes drank in the details of the house with the same appreciation he'd shown for her, and she understood that, too. He'd had many good times here. "Look at this place! Angie, you've done good. Gramma Marie is beaming down from Heaven, darlin'. She says,'Fantastique, cher.' "

She squeezed his hand. "I hope so."

Angela was glad Tariq was out back grilling and couldn't see her face, because she didn't want to learn whether or not her husband's jealous streak was still intact. After a couple of beers, Tariq could act foolish over nothing. And frankly, this might be the one time it wasn't exactly nothing, because Myles looked good. His face had rounded out in an attractive way, and his build had grown stocky, shedding his adolescent lean-muscled wiriness. The defining lines of his chest were visible through his tight, bone-colored Lycra s.h.i.+rt. He worked out, apparently. Not in the rigorous way Tariq lifted weights to feel like he was still an athlete, but enough.

Liza caught Angela's gaze and wagged a finger at her, and Angela smiled. For an instant, she felt as if she were back in the hallway of Sacajawea County High, an odd, gratifying feeling. She wondered why she hadn't had a party like this long ago.

"I need to meet the man who stole my girl," Myles said. "Where's this Mustafa guy you married? The big, bad football player? Is it true he can read, too?"

"Fool, you better hush. His name isTariq," Angela said, slapping at his shoulder. "n.o.body told you to go to Columbia. Maybe if you'd gone to U.C.L.A. like we both planned..."

"Is that Myles Fisher I hear?" Art Brunell's voice thundered from the living room. "Mark my words, folks: The first thing I'm gonna do when I'm elected mayor is set up restrictions so we don't have any more of these deadbeat yokels moving back into town!"

Everyone laughed then, a sound that resounded throughout the house. Angela couldn't remember the last time she laughed that hard, like someone dizzy on champagne.

Then, it was 7:20.

For the rest of her life, this was all Angela would remember: loud, braying laughter. Off-key piano strains. Children outside shrieking,Get the ball! Then, smothering everything else beneath it, the powerful sound of something exploding in aPOP .

Whatever it was, it was right near them, in the house. In the foyer.

Angela looked at Myles at first, as if his arrival had brought the sound somehow, but he only looked deeply startled, shoulders hunching. Then, she realized the sound had come frombeneath them. The cellar.

"What the h.e.l.l-" Rob Graybold said. "Who's setting off firecrackers?"

The explosion brought a hush to the room. Even the children outside were quiet. So was the piano, the birds, and any other sounds that had been present, near or distant, before then. Or, at least theyseemed to be silent. In the silence, the memory of the sound loomed larger. The sunflowers were on the floor, at her feet.

Corey,Angela thought, her mind splintering. Then, she shouted his name.

Sheriff Rob Graybold went down the cellar stairs first, and she leaned on him, pus.h.i.+ng. He'd told her to stay back, to let him take a look, but she didn't hear him, and she wouldn't have listened if she had. The cellar light was on, a naked bulb s.h.i.+ning overhead. Her eyes followed the neat brick patterns on the cellar wall, blurring lines. She couldn't see past Rob. She couldn't see Corey.

"What happened?An-geee?" she heard Tariq call in alarm, from miles away.

She smelled gunpowder. G.o.dd.a.m.n fireworks. They were illegal in California, with good reason. Children lost limbs and eyes. Why the h.e.l.l had she let Tariq go out with Corey and buy rockets that were meant to light the sky?

It won't be too bad. There's a doctor here. Whatever it is, it won't be too bad.

Rob Graybold went frozen where he stood on the steps, and Angela couldn't move past him. She heard the air seep out of his lungs in awhoos.h.i.+ng sound because she was so close to him, pressed tight. She felt his heart pounding, and she could smell pungent perspiration from his underarms, beneath the stink of burnt powder.

"Dear Mary and Joseph," Rob Graybold said. He turned around and tried to take Angela's arm, tugging so hard it hurt. "We need to get that doctor in here, Angie," he said, pale as milk. "Don't go down there."

But by now, Angela was screaming. She writhed against Rob Graybold until she squeezed herself past him, and her struggle brought both of them stumbling down the cellar stairs, off-balance.

Corey was lying on his stomach in the exact center of the cellar floor. His head was turned away from her, one arm raised nearly to his face, the other limp at his side, palm upward. He looked like he was taking a nap. And he must have dropped some of the drinks, some of the red ones, maybe some bottles of cherry syrup, because his head lay in the midst of a red puddle that reached almost as far as the wine shelves against the far wall. And the puddle was growing.

Another smell threaded its way through the scent of smoke and perspiration, a thick odor she couldn't allow herself to recognize yet, though she knew perfectly well what it was.

She didn't see any bags of fireworks or cartons of soda near Corey. The only thing shedid see was a very realistic black toy gun in the middle of thered puddle, inches from Corey's hand. The gun bore a remarkable resemblance to the gun Tariq had, a black Glock with a taped b.u.t.t, the one he'd kept in his nightstand drawer until she finally won the fight and he took it to a gun shop and got rid of it. Yes, he got rid of it. He said he did. He marched into the house and said,I hope you're happy now, b.i.t.c.h, and showed her the receipt. It was the first and last time he had ever called her that word, and he'd later said he was sorry. But he'd gotten rid of it because she'd screamed at him, telling him how she'd walked into her mother's bedroom to find Mama standing there with a gun in her mouth when she was twelve, and it just wasn't safe to have a gun, not with a child in the house. Angela always tried to be careful, just like Gramma Marie said.

"He got rid of it," Angela rasped, even though she was seeing that gun again, with that same tape wrapped around the b.u.t.t, a mirage from a life she had left behind."He got rid of it."