LaRose(98)

He told himself he would not, but he found himself going there. He told himself he’d just make sure she wasn’t there, or if she was, that she was safe. He told himself that if she was there, if he glimpsed her, he would immediately leave. But when she came to the door of the empty building, he did not leave. When he stepped in, he knew that she had been expecting him ever since they’d last spoken. Everyone else was home right now watching the war, so he and Emmaline were alone.

She walked straight back to her office and he followed. Once inside, she didn’t close the door. The light was harsh. She sat down at her desk and gestured at the other chair.

They didn’t say anything for nearly five minutes, nor did they look at each other. He listened to her breathe and she listened to him breathe. He shifted slightly, leaned forward. A small, strained gasp escaped her, almost inaudible.

THE RECEPTION ON Romeo’s TV was so lousy that he was sure Condoleezza had not been consulted on the presentation of the war. There were some green glows. A filthy sky. Wolf Blitzer repeating the words intense bombardment and a list of the three thousand types of precisely precise precision weapons guided only to the hardened bunkers of the enemy who ran around waving white sheets in disarray. Complete disarray was happening except for maybe on that hill. They kept talking about the hill where Iraqi intelligence was gathered and how they’d shaved that hill down by a couple of feet. Shaved it? Using missiles, artillery, hit after hit, then what was left? They used napalm to finish off everything alive or that might ever live there. Then the ground troops and the light show. Yet the reassuring news that no homes were being damaged, no collaterals damaged, no buildings even, only ruined tanks and other weaponry to be found. The fast-breaking-news ticker tape along the bottom said that people were getting beaten away from U.S. embassies all around the world. How useless, thought Romeo. You cannot stop a warlike people from doing what they like to do. Besides, frugality. Those giant flares were probably due to expire next week.

Romeo looked around himself, at his life, at his dinner. He was eating leftover pizza heisted from the hospital fridge. The pepperoni had dried to rigid disks. The cheese was tough. It wasn’t bad, but Romeo wished for digestion’s sake he had procured a vegetable. He had paychecks deposited in his bank account now, but he didn’t like to go to stores. He didn’t like to feel the payment for things coming from himself. What was he saving for?

The same footage, over and over. Why hoard his money? The world could be ending either there, or here.

Why save?

He really didn’t know. The amount of money just kept growing. Perhaps one day Hollis would look at the bank account that shared his name and say something. Maybe he’d think that Romeo wasn’t such a shithead father after all.

That’s what, said Romeo to CNN, that’s who I am saving for. That’s why I am eating this petrified cheese and this tagboard pizza. That’s why I have no sound on my TV.

The war was on at the Iron house. Josette screamed, Fuckers f*ckshit f*ckers it’s about the f*cking oil! Hollis was out with friends and came back late. Maybe a little drunk. At the Ravich house only Peter watched. He said that LaRose shouldn’t watch, so Nola went upstairs with him. Maggie was not interested. The dog laid his head on Peter’s leg and closed his eyes under Peter’s hand, mesmerized as the voices droned in self-important excitement.

Suddenly, shoved aside, the dog circled and plopped down with a disoriented groan. Peter paged through the slim directory, dialed.

The man he had punched at Maggie’s volleyball game, Braelyn and Buggy’s father, answered.

Wildstrand here, said the voice.

Hi, said Peter. This is Peter Ravich. Sorry I punched you. Hope your daughter’s okay too.

Peter put the phone down.

Why’d I do that?

He asked the dog. The dog’s brown-black eyes shone with rich appreciation. After a few moments, the phone rang. Peter picked it up.

Wildstrand here. I never meant to touch your wife.

I know it.

Wildstrand hung up this time. Peter let the dog out and in, shut things down on the first floor, checked the doors.

He called up the stairs. There was no answer.

Dusty’s gone, he said.

He bent over and the dog leaned into his arms.

Peter walked up the stairs and found them, each in bed, faces visible in the crack of light from the hallway. LaRose a shadowy lump in the bottom bunk, face buried in the pillow. Maggie with puddles of jeans and underwear on the floor, books splayed, papers, notebooks. Yet on her dresser the bottles of nail polish in strict rainbow array. He stepped into his and Nola’s bedroom. Soap and stale sleep. Nola on her back like a stone queen on a coffin. She didn’t stir as he eased into the bed and settled himself with stealthy care. By morning gravity and his greater weight would roll her down to him, and he would wake with her sleeping in his arms.



EMMALINE PACKED FOR a conference in Grand Forks. She took nothing more than the usual overnight things—a change of clothes, her makeup case, shoes to walk in if she shopped at Columbia Mall. On the drive there, she could have played the tapes that were in the car—but each album or mix reminded her of other times. She played nothing, and didn’t give herself a problem to think through, either, as she often did on these drives. She just steered herself along. The wind out of the northwest was dry and bitter. Off the dunelike billows along the ditches, snow blew and sifted across the road. Emmaline only glanced from time to time at the continually vanishing tails of snow. A driver could be hypnotized by their loveliness.