“Where’s Mr. K?” she asks.
“Out.” He twitches, smacks, and sits down. “Looks to be a while. He’s in the hospital, something to do with his back.” He shuffles through papers, avoiding Zoe’s stare. “Traction, I think.”
Traction. Zoe sits. She thinks of Mr. K’s rounded belly, tight against his white shirt, pulling, pulling against his back, pulling to slide out a vertebra, and then one thing, one small thing finally does it. Maybe a jelly bean. Did one little jelly bean make everything tumble out of line? Make everything fall apart? Even Mr. K, who listens and thinks and knows, could not have known one little jelly bean could make everything come undone. One little jelly bean and his spine careers out of control like a car wreck.
“It will take me just a few minutes,” Mr. Beltzer says as he shuffles through a file. “I need to familiarize myself with a few things.” He looks up and does the crinkle and smack with his upper lip. “And then we’ll talk, all right?”
Zoe wonders if a piece of lettuce is stuck between his gum and lip. It could be. She sees it all the time at Murray’s. The liver, piled with slimy gum-sucking onions, does it every time. The “lip boogie” they call it. She could make him smile to find out, say something outrageous to expose his upper gum, but he’s not really worth the effort. They won’t be talking. She shrugs. “Take your time.”
He does. She senses he wishes he could spend the whole hour reading through his files. He twitches, glances. His eyes shift around the room. He gets up twice to adjust the air. What about her makes him uncomfortable?
After fifteen minutes he sets aside the file. There are more twitches, smacks, and eyes that flash past hers, in-a-hurry eyes, don’t-speak-to-me eyes, and then finally, comes the obligatory question. “What would you like to talk about?” He smacks again, and it cracks through her head like a bat. Two months ago. Maybe three. Smacks. Giggles. A pinched breast. A good night. And Mama stumbling through the door. She can’t be sure. She didn’t see his face.
But there are so many. Odds are he was one.
“Why don’t we both just give it a rest?” she says. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He doesn’t answer. He straightens files and smooths his hand across his mouth like it will straighten out the twitching. “If that’s the way you want it,” he finally says, and they spend the remaining forty minutes in silence.
The bell rings and Zoe stands. Mr. Beltzer waves her back down. “Key Club needs this room for their activities on Fridays, so starting next week Group will meet on Wednesdays.”
“I’ll be sure to spread the word to the rest of the ‘Group,’” she says. He doesn’t look up.
“I think next time Mrs. Farantino will be filling in, and hopefully the week after that, Mr. Kowalashosky will be back. If not, we’ll be sure to have someone else here for you.”
“Great,” she answers. “These sessions have been so helpful. Thanks, Mr. Belfry.”
“Beltzer.”
“Right.” She stands again, but she can’t leave. Yet. “Tell Mr. K hi for me—and tell him to watch out for those jelly beans. The innocent little pink ones can be the worst.” She holds his stare. Plays with it. A pause. A long, spacious pause so he feels its weight.
So he knows, she knows.
But as she walks out, her disgust is more for Mama. How could she? How could anything be so important that you would press your lips against waxy, twitching skin? Is there anything Mama wouldn’t do for another drink? What happened to Mama? What happened? That is the question she would like to ask Mr. Belwhatever. But it’s a question she can’t ask and will never ask. Because no one knows except Mama and maybe Grandma. And they won’t tell. They won’t even think of the question. Some things drift down, drift away, where they should be. Drift away because it’s better there. That place of no answers.
She grips the doorknob. No room for Zoe. No counselor for Zoe. Next week, Mrs. Farantino. Maybe. She slivers open the door and slips through its crack.
Thirty
She rushes, but the bus is gone.
They don’t wait for anyone, especially dangerous, cursing criminals like her. She hurries to her car to catch up. If she is late to the courts at Gorman High, the coach will assign her to the barely-worth-it matches. He runs a tight ship, he says. Everyone must pull their weight and that includes being on time. She hates his ship analogies. For God’s sake, there isn’t a boat or a lake within a hundred miles. But the buses move slowly. If she hurries, she can catch up. She’ll change clothes in the car at signals. Give some old geezer a thrill. Or maybe change on the long stretch between the refineries and Gorman. It’s flat and straight, so a knee and cruise control can take care of the necessities. She aced her match with Lisa Dobson at the last practice. Lisa, who is third on the team—or was. The coach noticed. So did Amy and Kendra, the first and second on the team. And so did Opal, who cheered and waved her flag. She won’t be late. Not for this match. She is Zoe Beth Buckman, who makes Mr. Bel-up-his-ass sweat and tremble, and makes the tight-as-a-ship coach take notice.
She presses on the gas, and the Thunderbird squeals out of the parking lot. She steers with one hand and unbuttons her shirt with the other. The signals cooperate and she is out of Ruby, and then Duborn, in nine minutes. She searches the ribbon of highway ahead for a glimpse of yellow. Nothing. She eases the gas pedal farther to the floor. Today is her day. She can feel it. And she won’t be late so Opal can only cheer her on in a lousy doubles-baby-burp match.
Where is the damn bus? The refineries are in sight but not a trace of yellow anywhere. How could they have gotten so far so fast? She pushes the speedometer to seventy-five and rummages through her sports bag on the seat beside her, pulling out her team T-shirt. She holds the steering wheel with her knee as she slips off her blouse. Today’s match fills her head. Something to celebrate when she has friends over tonight. The thought clutches her stomach with its newness. A celebration at her own place without worry of Mama slurring into the middle of it all. She will be lighter. Lighter than she has ever been. But the lightness always comes paired with guilt. Mama is alone.
“I can’t think about you.” She shoves thoughts of Mama aside before they can steal her concentration. She passes the last row of trailers at Sunset Gardens and still no sign of the bus. Did they leave early? She is a hair short of eighty, and the buses go a slow fifty miles per hour. And then she sees it, a boxy glimpse of yellow just as the highway begins to curve. She eases on the gas and heaves a breath she didn’t know she was holding, but in the same breath another color flashes her eyes. Red. Flashing red in her rearview mirror, and in an instant her chest seems to burst upward through her throat. “Shit!” The explosion travels back down to her toes. “Shit!” She lets up on the gas. “You stupid, stupid, shit!”
Brakes.
Shaking feet.
Rubbery fingers.
They swirl together in hot splinters as she pulls off the road onto the graveled shoulder. The vacuum of the car vibrates and she sits, frozen. Seconds or hours blend together and then knuckles rap against her window and she remembers. Roll window down, show license, don’t argue. She cranks the window down and looks up at the trooper, the broad rim of his hat shading his face.
“That ain’t going to win any points with me, young lady. Now, why don’t you cover it up and then give me your license.”