It’s eighty-five degrees out, one of the last hot days, no doubt. Melanie offers Sarah a beer.
“No, thanks.”
“We have wine coolers and a couple bottles of Pinot for the grownups if you want that instead.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Never?”
Sarah makes up an excuse about allergies.
The party is winding down. Fallen balloons float at ground level among the remaining guests. One of them drifts into the climbing rose on the garage and the crack makes Sarah jump. She glances around, but no one else looks startled. Michael is nowhere in sight.
She wanders around trying not to look as though she’s looking for him, then returns to the tables, where she tidies up the pile of presents, stacking dolls and Lego sets, more Play-Doh and bubble wands, gathering up the wrapping paper before she realizes the garbage is overflowing. She’ll have to take it inside, bring out another bag. Hands full, she moves to the back door and, catching a glimpse of people through the screen, is about to raise her voice and ask for someone to open it when she hears Aaron say, “Well, yeah, next year we’ll probably do preschool for Gray instead of a nanny. It’d be a lot cheaper and get him more socialization, more academic prep. Bea’s smart as a whip, you know, and I think in a way it’s held her back, being home. Next year she’ll be in first grade, so Grayson can go to Montessori. He’ll be three. He can handle all-day.”
Sarah’s cheeks go hot, shame washing over her as if she’s been caught holding that blue dick. Yes. Of course. This too will end.
“Need some help?” The Judge is there, opening the door, and Sarah has no choice but to step up into the kitchen. Aaron and the two people he’s been talking to smile, seeming unconcerned about what Sarah may have heard. Aaron plucks a garbage bag from the box on the counter and holds it wide for her to stuff in the paper, then the three go back out while Sarah ties the bag, prolonging the process to calm herself. The Judge sits at the table, mopping his sweaty, blotched forehead with a handkerchief. He wears tan shorts and a golf shirt.
“Honey,” he says, “can you get me a glass of ice water? I think I over-did it running around out there with the kids. It’s damn hot today.”
Sarah runs him some water without waiting for the tap to cool or adding ice.
“I saw you talking to Michael,” he says. “He’s my nephew, known him his whole life.” The Judge takes a drink of water and wipes at the sweat still beading his hairline, which is now the midpoint of his skull. “He likes pretty girls.”
“I’m good. I can take care of myself,” Sarah says.
The Judge looks unconvinced. “Melanie tells me you helped her with a kid she had this year, somebody with problems.”
“I just gave him something to do on the playground. You need something to do when you’re alone.”
The Judge drinks his water. “So you grew up around here. What high school did you go to?”
“Several,” Sarah says. “I was in foster care.”
The Judge’s expression changes. Alert is the only word for it. “Foster care? Here? In Lucas County?”
Sarah nods.
“For how long?”
“Nine years.”
“You aged out?”
Sarah nods. “My mother died.”
“She died?” The Judge seems to relax a little. “Is that why you went into foster care?”
“No. They took me away first. My mom wanted me back. She was fighting, but then she drowned.”
The Judge pauses. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible.”
“In the bathtub. She fell asleep and slipped under. There was no one there to drain the water.”
This settles on the Judge like déjà vu. She can see it in his wrinkled brow, the intensity of his stare.
“What is your last name?”
“Anderson. Sarah Elizabeth Anderson.”
For what seems a very long moment they stare at one another, each knowing what this means, and yet not. The back door slams. Bea is shouting, “It has my name! Sarah, it has my name!”
At Goodwill Sarah found an old doctor’s kit, complete with white lab coat, and sewed Bea’s name on the pocket. Bea starts with her grandfather. As she bangs away at his knee and shines a light in his ear, Sarah imagines becoming a doctor, but quickly decides the stakes are too high. Maybe she could be a teacher. So much to explain. Buy one good pan and scrape the fond. Stay put if you can and remember last names. Weave tight the net of space and time.
Bea has finished with the Judge and moves over to Sarah.
“I have to listen to your heart.” She rests the stethoscope on Sarah’s stomach.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Sarah moves it to the right place. “Try this.”
“It’s loud.” Bea’s expression grows serious and her lips begin to move, counting the rapid beats.
“Well, what do you think?”
Bea nods. “You’re healthy.”
“Thank you,” Sarah says. “That’s a relief.”
~ ~ ~
These stories, sometimes in slightly different form, first appeared in the following publications:
“All the Sons of Cain”: The Kenyon Review, May 2015
“Half-Life”: Alaska Quarterly Review, Spring & Summer 2015
“Prisoners Do”: Printers Row Journal, Chicago Tribune, Issue 159
“AKA Juan”: Cimarron Review, Issue 190, Winter 2015
“Coyote”: Ascent, March 2014
“Unattended”: PRISM international, Vol. 50.2, 2012
“You Should Pity Us Instead”: The Massachusetts Review, 2012
“When We’re Innocent”: Confrontation, Issue 107, 2010
“Goldene Medene”: Ballyhoo Stories, June 2006.
“The River Warta”: Natural Bridge, Issue 16, 2006
“An Uncontaminated Soul”: Black Warrior Review, October 2005
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Support came in many forms from many people. First thanks go to my good friend and fellow writer Paul Many for hours of craft talk, encouragement, and reading more drafts than anyone should have to.
To my other longtime friends and fellow toilers Barb Goodman, Ann Epstein, Danielle LaVaque-Manty, Lori Eaton, Eleanor Shelton, Julie Babcock, and Jeanne Sirotkin for their thoughtful, generous feedback on the many pieces to which I’ve subjected them over the years. Particular credit and gratitude go to Keith Hood, around whom so much has pivoted.
I thank those who offered up pieces of themselves that inspired or enhanced these stories.
Special thanks to Caitlin Horrocks for going out on a limb and to Sarah Gorham, Kristen Radtke, Kirby Gann, and the whole Sarabande staff for their enthusiasm, advice, and hard work on my behalf.
Final and greatest thanks to Patrick, with all my love, for making it possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Gustine’s short fiction has appeared in several magazines, including The Kenyon Review, North American Review, Black Warrior Review, PRISM international, Confrontation, Natural Bridge, and The Massachusetts Review