Red Clocks(19)

Stay in your lane.—Dad

After all, she might not be.

In math Nouri Withers taps her steel-toed boot against the chair leg, from excitement probably; she’s thinking of her next time with Ephraim. Where will they go? What will they do? What have they already done? Ash isn’t there to comfort her; the daughter has no friends in this room; it’s calculus, all eleventh-and twelfth-graders except for her. The tenth-graders think she’s a snob because she moved here from Salem and takes AP classes and her dad’s not a fisherman and she once said it was dumb to call the teachers “miss.” To prove her lack of snobbery, she says “miss” now too.

After class Mr. Xiao pulls her aside for “a word.” She is already shaky from the combination of eight weeks late plus Ephraim’s hand up Nouri’s shirt; the prospect of a reprimand from her second-favorite teacher makes her eyes water.

“Whoa, whoa! You’re not in trouble. Jesus, Quarles, it’s cool.”

She dabs her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Everything all right?”

“My period.” Men teachers don’t touch that excuse.

“Okay, well, I’ve got some good news for you. Do you know about the Oregon Math Academy?”

The daughter nods.

As if she shook her head, Mr. Xiao explains: “It’s a weeklong residential program in Eugene. The most prestigious and competitive academic camp in the state. Nobody from Central Coast has ever been selected. And I’m nominating you for it.”

She hears the words, but no feeling follows. “Thank you so much.”

“I think your chances are good. You’re bright, you’re female, and as a little bonus, I went to undergrad with one of their admissions guys.” He waits for her to look impressed.

The Matilda Quarles of last year—of last month—would be euphoric right now. Would be dying to get home and tell her parents.

“The deadline is January fifteenth,” adds Mr. Xiao, who is not good at noticing how people feel unless they’re crying or yelling and so believes the daughter is just as happy as she should be.

“I look forward to applying,” she says.

She knows quite a lot, in fact, about the Oregon Math Academy. She has wanted to go since the seventh grade. She and Yasmine planned to apply together. In eighth grade Yasmine scored highest in their school on the math section of the state exam; the daughter was two points behind her.

Going to the academy would help her get into colleges with top marine-biology departments.

Her parents would be over the moon.

The academy happens in April, over spring break.

If she’s three months pregnant now, she’ll be eight months pregnant then.





How to make skerpikj?t (“sharp meat”):



Hang lamb’s hind legs and saddle in drying shed (October).

Cut down saddle and eat as r?st kj?t (“semi-dried meat”) (Christmastime).

Cut down legs and carve for serving (April).





THE WIFE


Herd crumbs into palm.

Spray table.

Wipe down table.

Rinse cups and bowls.

Place cups and bowls in dishwasher.

Open bill for Didier’s dentist co?pay.

Open bill for plumber, who did not even fix the dripping tap.

Open overdue notice for John’s trip to the ER, where all they did was give him an antinausea pill yet somehow it cost six hundred dollars.

Write check for dentist co?pay because it’s only $49.84.

Slide plumber and hospital into folder labeled PAY NEXT MONTH.

Start a list on the back of an envelope: Why we should go to counseling.

Think of what to put first—not the strongest reason, nor the weakest.

In law school they teach you to end any litany on the most convincing item and bury in the middle the weakest.

Last spring, Didier’s answer was five variations on “Because I don’t want to.”

At eleven a.m., the violet sedan pulls up.

Mrs. Costello bothers John less than she bothers Bex, and sweet John never complains on Tuesdays and Thursdays when the sedan deposits Mrs. Costello and her knitting bag. The wife is always ready with purse on shoulder, keys in hand. Four hours, twice a week, belong to her alone.

“There’s fish sticks in the freezer, and baby carrots, and I got more PG Tips for you—”

“We’ll be splendid,” Mrs. Costello mournfully says.

And John lets her pet his blond head—John, who is nicer than the rest of the hill dwellers, who will snuggle against Mrs. Costello even though she smells like old-person teeth. Bex was an accident, but it took ten months of trying to conceive John; the wife had begun to despair; she cried every morning after Didier left for school; then, finally, it worked. And John came murmuring into the world, leaking what looked like milk. Little white drops kept forming on his nipples. Witches’ milk.

The wife has until two forty-five, pickup time for Bex.

What should she do until pickup?

She isn’t impressed with the first-grade teacher. Homework is a sheet of fill?in?the-blanks or some tame question they have to answer using a computer encyclopedia.

Does not want to shop or otherwise errand; the kids might as well be with her for that.

But what does she expect from a rural school district that can’t afford music classes.