Everybody's Daughter Page 6
“Everything’s ready,” announced Martin as he carried a tray out of the tiny kitchen, which was squeezed into a corner of the big room. He set the tray on the floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Of course, it would probably look like this anyway. I’m not a natural homemaker.”
Beamer pointed to the freshly baked bread on the tray he had just set down. “Homemade bread? That’s pretty good homemaking.”
“Not really. It’s frozen dough. You just thaw it and toss it in the oven. I’m not sure how good it is, but it makes the place smell nice. It was really musty in here.”
Beamer held a hand over her steaming tea mug, then wiped the wet palm on her thigh. “It looks like you’ve settled in. What are you doing up here? Ice fishing?” Or are you after some other prey? she added silently, recalling the list of names.
Martin laughed. “I’ve never been ice fishing in my life, can you believe it? One of the men helping at your store couldn’t.”
“Which one?”
“Blond and no beard. He was quite friendly.”
“That was Daniel. ‘Friendly’ hardly says enough.”
“Anyway, I am going to be working for a semester at the community radio station in Grand River. It’s an internship. I’m a journalism major at Northwestern University.”
Beamer couldn’t restrain the groan. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I’m not too fond of reporters.”
Martin nodded. “I saw the article in the paper, and I’ve been following the bombing story all week. I thought the feature today was really nice. But we don’t have to talk about it. For once I will stifle my natural inclination to snoop.”
“Good.” They heard the cat scratching on the door. Martin let her in. After weaving through his legs, she walked to Beamer and took possession of her lap. “Hey, girl,” Beamer whispered, smoothing the black fur. “So why did you pick this radio station? Wouldn’t you want a bigger place to intern? It’s not such a great station. Too much bluegrass music and too much talk.”
“I’m hoping I’ll get to do more here. Besides, I wanted to live alone in the cabin. That’s my real reason—to get out of Chicago for a few months.”
“Running away from something?”
“Responsibility,” he said, articulating and accenting each syllable.
“The radio station won’t be happy to hear that.”
“Oh, I’ll be very responsible at work. But after hours, well, it’s my game.”
Beamer again thought of the list of girls. Did they play his game? She sipped her tea and made a face. It was strong and bitter.
“You disapprove?” said Martin.
“Oh, no, it’s just the tea. It’s a little strong.”
He sipped. “You’re right. Do you want yours weaker?”
Beamer handed over her mug. Martin returned to the kitchen and continued talking while he boiled more water. Beamer watched him but was soon not listening, ignoring the explanation of journalism school requirements while she memorized his relaxed stance, his casual gestures, the way the worn clothes hung on the muscular figure, the pattern of freckles on the handsome face. College junior, she thought. That would make him about twenty-one.
Martin stopped talking, and Beamer realized she had been caught staring. She nibbled quickly on a bread crust. “This place looks so different,” she said.
He handed her the tea mug and sat down. “You’ve been here before, then?”
“Sort of. Deserted places are always interesting. We’d come by on picnics and just look around.”
“It was a real mess.”
She unintentionally raised her eyebrows and smiled. He laughed. “Messier than this, even. Lots of dirt and litter and broken glass.” He held up the bandaged hand. “That’s how I did this—inserting new windowpanes.”
“Well, I never broke anything.” She noticed a pile of photographs next to the hearth, and she picked up several. They were black-and-white shots of scenery. “Yours?” Martin nodded. “They’re really nice. This one especially. You’ve got the snow and shadows just right.”
“Thank you. Are you a photographer?”
“No. But a friend of mine is an artist. I’ve picked up a few things from him. He’s always looking at ordinary things and seeing something different.”
“He’s probably a good artist, then.”
Martin’s eyes gazed steadily at her. She definitely did not want to start talking about Andy with this guy. “So you shoot pictures,” she said. “And if you’re in journalism you can probably write. And you bake bread. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Martin looked questioningly at her, searching for sarcasm. Beamer flushed; she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. He smiled, removed a boot, and placed it on the hearth, then tugged a second boot free and massaged his foot. Two toes wiggled through a large hole in the gray wool. “Sure,” he said, displaying the foot. “I can’t darn socks.”
They talked for an hour, and for the second time that week Beamer began revealing the secrets of her life. Yet even as she talked she knew this time was different: Martin listened, she felt, without judging. And he didn’t take notes.
As the conversation moved along, Beamer relaxed, soothed by the tea, the talk, and the fire. She was somewhere the Woodies had never been; she had escaped them.
Someone knocked at the door. Martin rose and answered it. It was Mr. Flynn. “Could I speak with my daughter? I believe those are her skis.”
Beamer glanced at her watch and died twenty times. She had been gone for nearly two hours. Gone by herself, skiing in the deserted, cold, treacherous forest. She quickly imagined what her parents had imagined—her body floating lifelessly in a patch of open, icy water, or some other morbid scene. She rose and went to the door.
“Sorry, Dad,” she said, then introduced her father and Martin. She could guess what he was thinking as he studied Martin—Just what have you been doing to my daughter, young man?
He shook Martin’s hand, then spoke to Beamer. “You had better get home now. We have work to do at the store.” He nodded to Martin, then turned away and stepped into his skis.
“I’ll just be a minute, Dad,” Beamer said. “My things are inside.” She retrieved them.
“I’m sorry,” said Martin. “I should have thought.”
“No problem—he’s worried, not mad. I hope.”
“That could be worse. I hope they aren’t too hard on you.”
*
Beamer skied behind her father, matching the strength and length of his strong, long strides. They didn’t speak until later, when they were both working in the store, and then they spoke not of the morning’s outburst or of her delinquent excursion but of Martin.
“He’s really nice, Dad. You’ll get a chance to know him. He’s going to be around all winter.”
“Andy will love that. Here, scoop.” He was cleaning bait tanks, removing the dead and dying fish from the water before the healthy ones started their cannibalistic nibbling.
“Andy will like him as much as I do. Martin has done some really interesting things.”
“Beamer, I don’t care what he has done. I certainly don’t care to hear about it now. I do care that my daughter disappeared for over two hours today and that I found her alone with a young man I have never seen in my life. Your judgment today was faulty, to say the least.”
Beamer turned to the minnow tank. She pinched a bellied-up shiner between her thumb and forefinger and flicked it toward the waste bucket. It bounced off the rim and skidded under the soda cooler. “Cut that out,” said her father, “and get that minnow.”
When she rose from recovering the fish, her father was waiting and watching. He was not happy. “Beamer, I want you to apologize to our friends.”
Beamer deposited the minnow in the bucket and wiped her hands on her apron. “Why?”
“Pathetic old hippies—that’s what you called them. We haven’t allowed name-calling since you wer
e able to speak. Name-calling, that’s why you’ll apologize.”
A customer came up and asked Mr. Flynn to help him find the ice augers. He was directed to the proper aisle. Beamer resumed her work in the bait tanks. Her father approached quietly from behind and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Bea, you have been brewing a storm for weeks. That’s been obvious to your mother and me. But we didn’t know why. She thought maybe it was about Andy. I didn’t think so. Daniel thought school, but Jenny doubted that. Maud was concerned about your diet, but few of us wanted to blame eating meat—”
“Dad. No.”
“Well, if this is what it’s all about, I’m glad it’s out. But it is unacceptable to fling it at our friends the way you did. You should apologize.”
The customer noisily piled his purchases on the counter. Mr. Flynn walked to the register. Beamer watched him. Her father’s efforts at admonishment had left him drained; he wasn’t even attempting to talk with the customer. Beamer caught his eye. He smiled wanly.
She nodded. It won’t make things any better, she thought, but I’ll do it. I’ll apologize.
Chapter 8
When the Woodies assembled the following Saturday evening, Beamer delayed her departure for a date with Andy in order to speak with them. Andy waited in his car.
Standing by the wood stove, she eyed each of the friends in turn, then said clearly and flatly, “I’m sorry I called you pathetic old hippies. It was the wrong thing to say and the wrong way to say it. I’m sorry.”
She ignored the muddle of murmured responses and edged through the circle. Daniel was leaning against the checkout counter. He smiled broadly. “You know, Moonbeam, I never much liked your name, either, but I went along. It was Maud’s suggestion.”
“What was Maud’s suggestion?” asked Maud. She had come up behind Beamer.
“Moonbeam’s name.”
“Not so. It was Peter’s inspiration.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Peter as he joined them. “I’m certain Sue—”
“Don’t tag it on me,” said Sue.
“Who, then?” said Maud. The group was silenced by its collective reach for memory.
“Good Lord,” muttered Beamer. She zipped her jacket and left.
Martin was approaching the store.
“Hello,” he said. “Still open? I need some ski wax.”
“Open until eight.”
“I was hoping to see you, too. Would you be interested in doing something tonight? A movie?”
Beamer was wearing a hat, scarf, gloves, and down jacket, but the chill ran through. “Thanks,” she said after a long pause, “but I have a date.” She gestured toward Andy’s car.
“Steady date? Steady boyfriend?”
She nodded.
“Figures. Well, have fun.” He reached to open the store door.
“Martin,” said Beamer.
“Yes?”
“Be careful when you go in there.”
“Why?”
She paused. “There are some very strange people in there.”
“The Woodies? The people you talked about? I was hoping to meet them.”
“You were? Well, have fun then.”
She walked toward Andy’s car, head lowered against the wind. Okay, she thought. I warned him.
*
The Woodies lost no time in evaluating Martin. “He’s just marvelous company!” said Maud and Jeffrey.
“Patient and caring,” said Jenny. “Funny and smart,” said Peter and Sue. “A boy to be proud of,” said Daniel, who immediately adopted Martin as his own long-lost son. Always reticent and quiet, Beamer’s parents reserved their judgment but simply extended their customary warm welcome.
Martin began work at the station, where the staff and membership had been suffering from budget cuts and battles over program philosophy. Martin refused to take sides and agreed to make coffee. Within one month he had his own half-hour early morning program, “Martin’s Place,” a personal forum which he used to air his favorite music and to interview people who interested him—a taxidermist, a midwife, a school crossing guard. Beamer’s father soon had a regular segment, “Bob’s Bait Bets and Fishing Report,” on Martin’s show.
Beamer now turned the radio on immediately in the morning and lay in bed, putting off the day while she listened to Martin. His voice was lazy and low and provided a gentle rousing on the gray, cold winter mornings.
Martin was often at the bait shop when Beamer returned from school, and the two often went for a quick ski around the lake, stopping at the north shore clearing for a candy bar, a nose wipe, a joke, then sprinting the long last mile to race the quickly settling dusk.
The winter days were lengthening, though, and one afternoon Beamer and Martin took a light picnic when they went skiing. They stopped at the clearing, wiped the snow off a large tree stump, and set out the food.
“Oh, good,” said Beamer, “you brought mostly junk food. I never get enough, you know. I was raised on yogurt and soybeans and I absolutely crave sugar and chemicals.”
“Have some chips, then,” said Martin, handing her a bag.
Beamer lay back against a packed snowdrift and munched. Martin opened a Thermos and poured two cups of cocoa.
“I slept late and missed your show this morning,” said Beamer. “How did it go?”
“Today was absolutely the worst day of my life,” said Martin.
“Absolutely?”
“Nearly so. I had two guests scheduled—a local cop who goes around to schools talking about sexual abuse and this housewife—”
“I think they’re called homemakers now.”
“—this homemaker who works as a dancer for stag parties. Neither one showed up.”
“Maybe they ran off together.”
“Could be. And then this new technician messed things up and all the national news and program feeds were lost and I had to fill in air time. Then there was a budget meeting—do we give air time to ‘Popular Politics’ or ‘Senior Sexuality’?”
“Are you going to eat that Twinkie, or is it for me?”
“For you. I was glad to get away. I need to have friends who don’t work at the station. I’m so harassed by the end of the day. I don’t know what I’d do if the station staff members were the only people I knew up here.”
Beamer laughed. Martin arched his eyebrows in question. What could she say? That she had snooped in his cabin and found a list of women and their phone numbers?
“Martin,” she said slowly, “I can’t believe for a moment you don’t know plenty of people. And I bet most of them are a lot more entertaining than I am.
He smiled. “Maybe. In different ways.”
I bet, she thought.
He sipped cocoa. “Andy doesn’t mind, does he?”
“Mind what?”
“Our spending time together. Going skiing, talking at the store.”
“He’s an intelligent person, Martin. He knows people can do things together and just be, well, doing things.”
“So he doesn’t mind?”
“Actually, I don’t know if he knows. I have never felt the need to tell him how I spend all my time.” Beamer wiped Twinkie crumbs off her legs and rose. She had never even mentioned Martin to Andy. She began stowing the leftover food in his backpack.
Martin rose. “From what I hear, you two have a pretty decent relationship.”
Beamer shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about Andy with Martin.
“In my opinion, though, sixteen is a little young to be so steady with someone; you miss out on a lot of fun.”
“Your opinion doesn’t matter. And I’m almost seventeen.”
“Pardon me.”
“No steady relationships for you, Martin?”
“I had one. It’s ancient history.”
“Time for fun now?”
“Time for lots of fun. And Merry, I thrive on fun. Is Andy fun?”
“It’s not the first word that comes to mind.”
“I don’t need it, Martin.”
“Really? I hear otherwise.”
“Martin, those clouds are moving in quickly. Let’s head back, okay?”
He slipped on the backpack. “Why do I think you’re trying to quell my interest in Andy?”
“Because you’re a smart boy. I’ll race you back to the store.”
“Merry, dear, I can’t beat you.”
“I know. That’s why I like to race against you. Come on, let’s go.”
At a bend Beamer’s ski caught on the icy track and she fell. As Martin sprinted past he shouted, “If I win, I get a kiss.” Beamer stared at his back until he disappeared, then pushed up and resumed the race. She couldn’t let him win.
Martin was waiting for her at the door of the store, when a huge slab of snow slid off the roof and fell on him. They were laughing as they stepped into the store. Beamer scooped snow out of Martin’s collar and threw it back out the door, then turned and saw Andy leaning against the counter. He had been talking with her father.
“Welcome back,” said Mr. Flynn. “We were just debating whether to send out a search party.”
“But decided it wasn’t worth it, right?” said Beamer. “This is a surprise,” she said to Andy. “A nice one.”
Andy smiled, then offered his hand to Martin. “We haven’t met. Andy Reynolds.”
“Martin Singer.” They shook hands.
Mr. Flynn rose from his stool and walked around the counter. “Whatever he wants, you have my permission, Beamo. Meanwhile, watch the register for me. I have to go put some soup on the burner.”