The Quarry Girls(11)
It was a baby game, but I was suddenly desperate to believe that we could still play baby games.
I needn’t have worried with Brenda, Brenda whose heart was bigger than all of Pantown, who’d cried herself to sleep after seeing the “you don’t have to be dead to collect” life-insurance commercial, who’d organized a neighborhood cleanup after her dad drove her by the billboard with the crying Indian.
“TV tag tonight is a great idea!” she said. “I’ll invite Maureen. You tell Claude and Junie.”
“That’s a big ten-four,” I said, my relief out of proportion to the situation.
CHAPTER 5
“This is delicious, dumpling!” Dad said. “You know how I love meatloaf.”
“I’m glad,” I said, careful not to correct him. He’d had to work late again. He didn’t need me making him feel dumb on top of that. Anyhow, meatloaf and Salisbury steak were basically the same thing: meat you didn’t need a knife to eat. Dad liked them both better than real steak for that very reason. He didn’t enjoy food you had to sweat to enjoy, he’d once confided to me when the Pitts served ribs at a neighborhood cookout.
Dad used to work normal hours, back when he was a regular lawyer. Since he’d been elected district attorney of Stearns County, he left before sunup and sometimes didn’t return until evening. He swore it was just till he got used to the place and the place to him. I didn’t like that he was gone all the time, but someone had to pay the bills, at least that’s what Mom said. I did enjoy Dad sitting at the table with his tie still on, like he was doing now. He looked so handsome, so in charge.
When someone at church or a teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d tell them a drummer, but sometimes—just to myself; Maureen had lectured me so much about feminism that I knew enough not to say it out loud—I dreamed of being a homemaker. Without wives, the world would grind to a halt, Mom had said. It felt good to picture myself as that vital, to have that role waiting for me to step into, the right hand to a strong, handsome man. I would know exactly how to act.
Sometimes I even imagined myself the wife of this house. Not in a gross way, not like I thought of being married to my dad. I just fantasized that this was what it would be like when I was married. My husband at the table, appreciating the food I’d cooked, the clean house he’d walked into. He was managing the world out there, and at the end of the day, his reward was that he got to return to his castle, where I spoiled him.
I sat taller in my seat. Junie was shoveling a glistening orange meat nugget into her mouth. I winked at her, like I imagined a mom would. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. It was covered in flecks of food.
“Chew with your mouth closed,” I said primly. I returned my attention to Dad. “I was thinking that if you and Mom wanted to host a party, I could cook. I’m used to making dinner for the four of us. I wouldn’t mind cooking for more people. I could do research.”
Dad scratched his chin. “That’d be nice,” he said, clearly not listening to me.
I knew I’d need to change the subject to keep him entertained. “How was work today?”
His eyes grew shuttered. He’d removed his jacket when he arrived home, brushed out the wrinkles, and laid it over the back of the sofa before joining us at the dinner table, where Junie and I had been waiting in front of our cooling tins of food for nearly twenty minutes. He’d dug straight into his meat, which was barely warm anymore.
He paused now to rest his fork on the tin tray.
“It was all right,” he said, but in a way where I knew it was anything but.
“New case?” I asked.
“Something like that.” He ran his hands over his face. “There’s a real bad guy operating out of the Cities. Name’s Theodore Godo. They’re worried he’s gravitating to Saint Cloud. They even sent down a BCA agent to help, been here a few days. Jerome is none too happy. Asked me to sit in on a meeting today, even though I don’t usually get involved until someone’s been charged.”
Sheriff Jerome Nillson and Dad worked close together now that Dad was DA. Sheriff Nillson had come over for a party at our house the night Dad was elected. Mom had gotten herself so gorgeous she nearly broke the mirror, and she must’ve lasted a whole half hour before she said she wasn’t feeling well. I’d been proud of her. Dad had been, too. He’d held her arm like she was an actual treasure as he led her to their bedroom, tucking her safely away before returning to tell everyone, in a quiet voice, that the party was over.
Dad continued. “I think Jerome wanted a show of strength in front of the agent. You know how those big-city folks can stare down their nose at us.”
I smiled knowingly, skipping over the mention of the BCA agent and what big-city folks thought of us—the latter a favorite topic of Dad’s—to hit on the central point. “I bet Sheriff Nillson didn’t call this Godo ‘a real bad guy.’ I’m not a baby, Dad. You can tell me what’s really happening.”
His glance traveled to Junie, her face bent over the orange tea cake, his meaning clear. She might not be a baby, but she was young, not even (quite) a teenager.
“We can talk later,” I said, a little burst of warmth in my chest. Sometimes, after Junie fell asleep, Dad’d run through his day with me over a glass of brandy, like he just couldn’t keep it in anymore. He’d make me promise not to tell anybody because all the stuff was confidential. I loved that he trusted me that much, but honestly, his stories all sounded the same. People hurting other people, stealing from them, cheating or beating them, and my dad swooping in to sort it all out.