The Good Life Page 19

  “What?”

  “We get our grandfather, who could have died, out of the hospital, and the next thing out of Gran’s mouth is about cleaning our rooms?”

  “I don’t think it’s so weird,” said Lauren, zipping her coat. “She wants to put it behind her. She’s embarrassed by what happened, I think.”

  “Yeah, well, I think it’s weird,” said Nate, putting his hands in his pockets. They walked the rest of the way without talking. When they reached the back door, Nate turned to his sister. “Are you going to do it?”

  “Do what?” asked Lauren, coating her lips with the stick of balm she took out of her jacket pocket.

  “Clean your room.” Lauren looked at her brother blankly. “Hey,” he said, punching in the alarm code and then opening the door, “don’t look at me like I’m some kind of gigantic moron. It’s not like you clean your room all the time.”

  “Gran asked us to do it,” she said, walking into the kitchen and taking off her coat. “Are you going to say no to her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, checking his cell phone for messages.

  “Well, I’m not,” said Lauren, walking across the kitchen floor to the hallway. “I think she’s been through enough.”

  Nate took off his coat and hung it on a peg next to his sister’s. He took her coat off its peg and dropped it to the floor. “Kiss ass,” he said. He grabbed a Coke from the fridge and headed upstairs. He opened his bedroom door, which he always kept closed, and noticed an odor that had not been there yesterday. He pulled open his blackout drapes, allowing sunlight to shine on the rumpled clothes that covered his carpet. He grabbed his empty laundry basket from the corner of his room and began stuffing shirts, pants, boxers, and socks into it. When it was overflowing, he hauled it to the hallway and set it down. When he returned to his room, he again noticed the odor. After opening a window an inch, Nate searched for the source. In doing so, he threw all the paper from his desk into the trash can. He put three Coke cans, four used glasses, and a plastic bowl coated with what looked like dried, melted chocolate ice cream, out in the hall next to his pile of clothes. Still, the smell remained. Determined to find it, Nate looked under his bed. He pulled out a dust-covered sock and three Sports Illustrated magazines that instantly reminded him of the other magazines he had hidden under his mattress. Nate stood, crossed the room, and locked his door. He went back to the bed, lifted the sheet-covered mattress, and smiled at the two vintage issues of Playboy he had found years ago during one of his forages in the woods behind their old house. He grabbed both worn copies before repositioning the mattress, and then he sat on the floor with the rest of his Coke and flipped to the centerfold to have a look at Miss April. She looked like Jenny, kind of, even though Nate hadn’t yet seen Jenny completely naked. And like Jenny, Miss April was turned on by funny, sincere men, and turned off by rich phonies. Just as Nate reached into his pants, someone knocked on his door. “What!” said Nate, shoving the magazines under his bed.

  “It’s Gran,” called Eileen. “How’s everything going?”

  “Okay,” said Nate, scrambling to his feet.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Just a minute,” said Nate. He bent down, grabbed the Playboys, and slid them back under his mattress with one hand, while he adjusted his pants with the other. His large flannel shirt covered his crotch. He had a quick look around his room, took a deep breath, and then unlocked his door.

  “Well,” she said, walking in and glancing from his desk to his bureau to his closet, “it’s coming along.”

  “Yes,” said Nate, putting his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

  “Do you notice an interesting odor?”

  “I was just trying to find out what that was,” said Nate.

  “It smells like old cheese to me,” said Eileen. “Check under your bed.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Nate.

  “You’re doing a great job.”

  Nate closed the door behind her and made a face. “This is bullshit,” he said, reaching for his iPod. “Complete bullshit.” He flopped down on his bed, resolved to stand up to his grandmother. He was done cleaning his room. It was their housekeeper’s job, not his. He plugged his headphones in and closed his eyes.

  When Eileen walked into Lauren’s room, she found her granddaughter sitting on the floor painting her toenails. Crumpled clothes lay in a heap in the corner, but nothing else looked like it had been touched. Lauren’s small desk, partially covered by a laptop computer, was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, lined paper, balled-up tissues, and brightly colored pens and pencils. Dusty knickknacks stood atop an antique doily on her bureau, the drawers of which were in various stages of closure, depending on the number of shirt sleeves and pant legs sticking out of them. Glancing into the bathroom, Eileen saw a tipped-over can of hair spray, a tube of hair gel without a top, myriad plastic containers of blush and eye shadow, at least four vials of mascara, and too many lipsticks and eyeliners to count without actually doing so. She looked back at Lauren, who smiled at her. “Isn’t this the greatest color?” she asked. “I found it under some clothes in the corner, and I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been looking for this forever.”

  “Yes,” said Eileen, wondering why even a fifteen-year-old would want to paint her nails lavender. “How’s your room coming along?”

  “Pretty good,” said Lauren, sticking cotton balls between her toes. “I’m just going to let these toes dry, then I’ll do some more.”

  “Okay,” said Eileen, turning to leave. “As soon as you’re done, I thought we’d make a couple of cherry pies.”

  “That sounds great,” said Lauren, painting the thumbnail of her left hand.

  Eileen left Lauren’s room, leaving the door open behind her, and then walked back down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where she had laid out all the ingredients for the pies. She ran the garbage bags back up the stairs and left them outside Nate’s door. When she returned to Ann’s kitchen, she wrote Nate and Lauren a note, telling them she’d gone back to the guesthouse and to come and get her when they were done. She put on her coat and walked out the back door thinking about her childhood bedroom that she never had to tidy because it didn’t occur to her to make a mess.

  She opened the front door to the guesthouse and walked down the short front hallway to the kitchen, where Selma was chopping vegetables.

  “How’s he doing?” Eileen asked, sliding her coat off one shoulder.

  “He’s still asleep,” said Selma, looking up from her task.

  “Good,” said Eileen. “He needs the rest.”

  “The medication the doctor gave us is helping him do that,” Selma said. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him all morning.”

  Eileen walked across the living room to the bedroom door, which was ajar. She gently pushed it open enough to fit her head through. There, lying in a fetal position on the bed, was her husband of almost forty-nine years. His face, bruised by his fall, was limp, but nonetheless peaceful, a state Sam increasingly seemed to achieve only in sleep. Eileen walked into the room and sat down on the bed. She put her hand on his shoulder; Sam blinked several times, then opened his eyes. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’ve been better,” said Sam, still focusing. “That was some party last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there some work to be done?” Sam asked sleepily.

  “No,” said Eileen, patting him. “You can get some more rest.”

  “What a treat,” said Sam, closing his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I slept in on a Saturday.”

  Eileen got up off the bed and walked back through the living room and into the kitchen. The vegetables had moved from the cutting board on the counter into a large pot on the stove. “What can I do here?” Eileen asked.

  “I’m okay,” said Selma, measuring chicken stock in a large glass cup.

  “Are you really?” Selma looked at Eileen. “I have a feeling this is more th
an what you bargained for.”

  Selma took a deep breath. “What happened last night was very scary, I must admit,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I don’t blame you for what happened, and I hope you don’t blame yourself,” said Eileen. “It could have happened with both of us here.”

  “I don’t know,” said Selma, turning back to the sizzling vegetables.

  “I do know,” said Eileen. “He can be so docile sometimes that he fools you into thinking he’s just getting old. And then you turn your back and he’s up to something that reminds you just how sick he is.”

  “He is a sick man,” said Selma softly.

  “And I won’t leave you for a weekend like this again,” said Eileen. “I wanted to spend some time with my grandchildren alone, to see what they’re really like. But I can see it’s too much of a strain on you. I’m sorry for that.”

  Selma turned her head. “I understand your need to be with your grandchildren,” she said. “And for the most part, I really am okay. Underneath his illness, your husband’s a good man.”

  Eileen looked briefly at the floor. “Thank you,” she said, raising her eyes to meet Selma’s. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person on earth who knows that.”

  When Eileen walked into Lauren’s room thirty minutes later, she found her granddaughter in the bathroom in front of the mirror. “Hi, Gran,” she said. “I found this lavender shadow to go with my nails. Do you think it’s too much?” She turned and faced her grandmother.

  “No,” said Eileen, being honest. Lauren, she could tell, was good at applying cosmetics. Most teenagers overdid it. “I think I’m going to start those pies.”

  “Oh good,” said Lauren. “I’ll help you.”

  Eileen looked around Lauren’s room, which was still in need of attention. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You dust and vacuum in here and then you can help me. Deal?”

  “Deal,” said Lauren, putting on pink lipstick. “I just have one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have no idea where the vacuum is.”

  “It’s a central vacuum,” said Eileen, pointing to the outtake valve on the wall. “Look in the linen closet down the hall for the attachment. If you don’t find it, come get me in the kitchen and we’ll look together.” Eileen left Lauren’s room and walked back down the hall to Nate’s closed door and the sound of muffled music behind it. She hesitated a moment, her fist poised to knock on the door, and then retreated and walked on.

  Nate turned down his music to answer the vibrating cell phone in his pocket.

  “Okay,” said Josh, “everyone’s on board. Now we just need to know where we’re going to party.”

  “Can we still go to Steve’s?” asked Nate, lying on his bed.

  “Yeah,” said Josh. “You need to back out?”

  “I think so, man,” said Nate. “My grandmother’s got me cleaning my room.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Who’s getting beer?”

  “I’m still working on that,” said Josh. “Tom’s older brother said he’d buy it, but he wants a commission.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now,” said Josh. “A buck a six-pack.”

  “What an asshole.”

  “He is definitely an asshole, but he’s our best shot.”

  “We’ll pay the jerk,” said Nate. “I’m not drinking Coke at the party.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So, you’re making this happen?”

  “Yeah,” said Josh. “I’ll make a few more phone calls and we’ll be in business.”

  “Perfect,” said Nate, sitting up.

  “I’ve got more,” said Josh.

  “Yeah?”

  “Billy’s trying to score some weed.”

  “Awesome,” said Nate, smiling.

  “It’s party time,” said Josh.

  Nate made a face as he ended the call. That putrid smell seemed even stronger now. “Okay,” he said, getting onto his hands and knees, “one of us is leaving this room.”

  He looked back under the bed again. This time he found a pair of navy blue sweatpants, two more socks, a brand new Frisbee still in its packaging, a pair of plaid boxers, a whole lot of dust, and a plate holding a half-eaten piece of New York cheesecake. Green and blue mold sat like a hairpiece over the top. Nate gagged, then put it into a garbage bag, plate and all. He stuffed the Frisbee, the socks, and the boxers into the bag, too. The sweatpants he walked to the mound of laundry already in the hall.

  Lauren, who was walking past his open door, stopped. “I’m done! I’m free!” she said, smiling.

  “Good for you!” sang Nate sarcastically.

  “And I’m going to get pie!” sang Lauren back.

  It was late enough in the day that Nate was starting to get hungry. And he couldn’t think of anything better to eat than his grandmother’s cherry pie. “Are they done?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” said Lauren. “Gran and I are making them together.”

  “One of them is mine.”

  Lauren looked past him into his room. “Not by the looks of that room, mister.”

  “Tell me you’re done with your room.”

  “Neat as a pin,” said Lauren.

  “Suck up,” said Nate.

  “I think I’ll have my pie with ice cream,” said Lauren, walking away.

  Nate forcefully shut his door. He went back to his bed and put on his headphones. He listened to four songs from his favorite CD, then sat up. Slowly, he got off the bed. He reached for the half-drunk bottle of Mountain Dew on his desk and dropped it into a garbage bag.

  After dinner, Nate had two pieces of pie. He cleared the table and then headed upstairs for a shower. Lauren, who was going to the movies with two friends from the volleyball team, helped Eileen with the dishes. She found that fitting everything into the dishwasher was like doing a puzzle: the dessert plates fit best in the rack at the back, and the bowls slid in perfectly along the sides. When they were done, Gran patted Lauren’s back and thanked her for helping. Then, saying she’d be back before Lauren left, Gran went to the guesthouse to check on Selma and Sam. Lauren walked into the den and turned on the TV. Halfway through the stations she found an Entertainment Tonight story about Charlie Sheen. Just as she was settling in under a blanket, the doorbell rang. She lazily got up from her seat and walked to the front door. When she looked through the side windows, Josh waved at her. “Hi,” he said, when she opened the door. “What’s up?”

  “Not much,” she said, smiling at him as she closed the door behind him. “Nate’s in the shower.”

  Josh looked at his watch. “That’s not surprising,” he said as they walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “What are you guys up to?” Lauren asked, getting a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Party,” said Josh, biting into an apple he took from the bowl on the counter that Eileen filled the day before. “Want to come?”

  “Very funny,” said Lauren

  “I’m serious,” said Josh, chewing.

  “My brother would rather die than be seen at a party with me.”

  “That’s probably true for him,” said Josh “but not for me.”

  Lauren blushed. “I’m going to the movies,” she volunteered.

  “That’s cool,” he said. “You going on a date?”

  Lauren laughed. “I wish. No, I’m going with Pammy and Katie.”

  “Blow them off,” said Josh, taking a step closer to Lauren and taking another bite. “I’ll blow the party off and you and I can go sit in a dark theater.”

  Lauren looked at Josh. He was several inches taller than she, and he had long, lean arms. If she took one step toward him, she would walk right into his chest, and he could wrap those arms all the way around her. He looked into her eyes, smiled, and then reached over and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. Her face tingled where he touched it before putting his hand back into his pocket. A
moment later, watching him take another bite of the apple, Lauren thought she could have imagined the whole thing, even though her face was still hot.

  “What’s up?” asked Nate, walking into the kitchen.

  “An evening of fun, my friend,” said Josh, turning to face Nate. Lauren slowly backed away from Josh and, for something to do, she opened the cupboard above her head and grabbed a box of low-fat crackers. “Who’s driving?” asked Josh.

  “You are,” said Nate. “I am so out of gas.”

  “Cool,” said Josh. “Are we picking up Jenny?”

  “No, she’s going with the girls,” said Nate, looking at his watch. “They should be there by now.”

  “Let’s roll,” said Josh. Their conversation took place around Lauren, as if she weren’t there. And then, just as Josh was walking out of the kitchen, with Nate a few steps ahead of him, he turned to Lauren and winked.

  Steve Jansen-Smith lived on the other side of town, a ten-minute drive. On the way, Josh and Nate each drank a Red Bull. When they arrived at Woodview Court, it was already crowded with badly parked cars, forcing Josh to circle the block and park on Timber Lane. The boys threw their aluminum cans into Josh’s backseat before easing themselves out of the car and into the snowy night. “I am so pumped for this party,” said Nate, briefly removing his hands from the pockets of his worn jeans to thrust them into the air. “It has been way too long.”

  “Months,” said Josh. “It’s been months, maybe years, since anyone in this town’s thrown a decent bash.”

  Nate laughed. “Allison’s coming,” he said, teasing his friend.

  “Allison who?” asked Josh.

  “I don’t know why you don’t like her,” said Nate. “She’s cute.”

  “Yeah,” said Josh, “in the dark maybe.”

  “Man, you’re getting really picky.”

  “Says the man who’s got Jenny.”

  “Point taken,” said Nate. “But hey, maybe Allison will look better to you after some beer.”

  “Ask me after I’ve had three or four,” said Josh.