The Figgs, page 14
“You didn’t know about the handprint.” He held up his hand.
“No. That part never made sense.”
June mused over the two accounts of her birth. Her father’s version, lyrical and sentimental, and her birth mother’s sad Cheese Whiz version. She all of a sudden identified with her father. Maybe Chaucer, fishcakes, and open spaces weren’t so bad when the alternative might’ve been low-income housing and tater-tots. What bedtime story would her mother have told? Quiz results from Teen magazine? Yet there was also something endearing about the stolen handprint.
“Am I her daughter?” June looked at her hand.
“Maybe,” Randy replied.
“I only asked my father about my adoption once. Before he died.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me the tale of the girl with the one blue hand.”
“You could try asking your mom?” Randy climbed onto one knee and fixed his glasses, which were twisted on his face like he’d been in a fight. “She might be able to tell you something.”
“I don’t know. She gave me that book when I was seven, and that was it. We didn’t talk about it.”
Tom was back in the kitchen rooting through his backpack. He pulled out an iPhone charger. “So, you think she’s your mom?” He was cautious.
“It’s a definite possibility.” Randy tousled the back of June’s hair. It was damp with massage oil.
“Does that mean I have one of those really young grandmas who still wears red nails and shows cleavage?”
“Tom,” Randy slurred. “What kind of comment is that?”
“What?” Tom shrugged. “I meant that in a good way.”
June pulled herself up on the island. “I better put these in the microwave.” She held up the package of drumsticks. “Or they’ll never thaw in time.”
Tom plugged his phone in on the counter. “I hear the baby. I’ll get him.”
June turned to Randy. “You think she’s my mother, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“It’s the handprint.” She looked at her reflection in the microwave. Who am I? “You think I should respond?”
“You know what I think.” Randy touched her shoulder and then withdrew, clenching his hands into excited fists.
June felt nauseous. “I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Not ready?” He felt around the toaster.
“Once I respond, there’s no going back. What if I change my mind?” She trembled.
Randy pointed to the laptop. “If I thought for one second that Fergus was on the other end of that ad, I’d have already contacted him.” He hiccupped. “But if you don’t think there’s any rush, then I guess you wait until you’re ready.”
Was there a rush? What if she was dying? Or moving out of the country? “I don’t know if there’s a rush. Can you just look in the fridge for some broccoli?”
Randy fished out two heads, one of which was slightly yellowed. He set them on the counter. “Listen, I should work on that table if I’m going to finish it by the end of next week. You and Tom okay to watch Jaxx?”
“I hope you’re not cutting anything,” June said.
Randy slid a pencil behind his ear. “The girl with the one blue hand, or not, remember you’re still the same person. You’re still June. June who won’t respond to her mother.” He went to the basement, slipping down the bottom third of the staircase. She heard the blip of rejected radio stations before he settled on a baseball talk show. Batting averages were soon drowned out by one of his machines.
“I think he needs a bottle.” Tom appeared from the living room with Jaxx, who was crying like he’d been left in the woods to die. June went to the baking cupboard, which Derek had been using to store formula. She pulled out the container and read the label three times, because she absorbed nothing from it. She kept thinking about Randy’s comment. You’re still June. “My birth mother was going to call me Wanda. Do I look like a Wanda?”
Tom shrugged. He’d stuck the end of his finger in Jaxx’s mouth, to stop him from crying.
June scooped powder into a bottle she took from a row marked “sterilized” with masking tape, and added water from the kettle. “Wanda,” she said. “Wanda, Wanda, Wanda.”
“You could always hyphenate it?” Tom suggested. “We can start calling you Wanda-June. Or June-Wanda.”
June paced the kitchen shaking the bottle with excessive force. Tom arranged stacks of pillows on the family room couch and propped Jaxx up between them.
“Pass me the bottle.” He sat next to the small fort he’d constructed, fed Jaxx with one hand, and with the other turned on the TV. The volume was low enough that June could hear Jaxx’s guttural swallow, rhythmic and relieved. He’d not been left in the woods to die.
She took the chicken out of the microwave, cut open the plastic cover, and hacked the meat clubs out of the tray. Why the heck were they still frozen? Was it wrong to not want to contact the woman behind ARE YOU MY DAUGHTER?
“Tom, go downstairs and check on your father. He’s probably sawed his arm off down there.”
“Yeah, is Dad drunk?”
“He was drinking. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking.”
June picked up a drumstick and locked her hand tight around it. Mucus-coloured pockmarked skin, fat bits and pink flesh the shade of her lips oozed between her fingers. The bulbous knob at the base of the bone jutted beneath her grip. She pitched it at the fridge with the finesse and force of a knife thrower. Barnum & Bailey. June & Wanda.
Tom returned to the kitchen from the basement to see the second drumstick hit a magnet about chocolate.
“Are you throwing chicken?” He wiped formula from Jaxx’s chin with his thumb.
June picked up another drumstick, a fat one with skin hanging off it like melted wax. She drew her arm back. Jerry bobbed up and down in his cage and squawked.
“Stop!” Tom shouted. “Don’t throw it!”
He moved Jaxx to the rug on the floor and vaulted over a barstool with an urgency that surprised June. It wasn’t like she had a gun.
“Mom.” He was calm. “Put down the dinner.”
She wanted to put it down. Half of it was still frozen and made her hand cold and the longer she stood there holding it, the more she felt like an idiot. June had always been in control. Control was her thing. It was why she was always asked to chair the meetings, lead the committees, and organize the parties. But now control was leaching out of her like minerals from overused soil. Bit by bit, leaving her exposed and childish. Was she responsible for her own loss of control? Maybe she’d accidentally tapped it out. Or perhaps she was becoming Wanda, daughter of whom? She was considering this when Tom lunged toward her and wrestled the poultry out of her hand, disarming her. He tossed the chicken in the sink, and it made a pleasing clink against the stainless steel.
“Mom, that was whack.”
“It was, wasn’t it? I don’t know what came over me.”
“I’m guessing, stress? Probably the same reason Dad’s half in the bag down there.” Tom picked the drumsticks off the floor with a napkin and added them to the sink.
“I’m the girl with the one blue hand,” June said.
“I don’t know what that means. You’re more like the mom with the bird flu.” He pumped soap on her hands. “Why don’t you go burp Jaxx and I’ll start the barbecue. Vanessa and Derek are on their way home. They’re going to walk in that door any minute expecting dinner, and Leslie will be here too.”
“You’re right.” She washed her hands vigorously and scooped up Jaxx, tapping his back. His pit-sized heart pulsed below her collarbone. He spit up on her shoulder.
Tom returned with the barbecue lighter. “You good?”
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’ve seen worse. Remember that time I took Grandpa for x-rays and he put the gown on backwards so it opened in the front?”
June managed a smile and put Jaxx in his cradle. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.”
“None of us were. I now have a nephew, a half-brother, and a grandma who’s young enough to pick up sailors.” He counted these things on his hand.
“Thomas Figg.”
“Listen June-Wanda, the key to life is to lower your expectations. Better yet, get rid of your expectations completely.”
“That’s a terrible way to live.”
“It’s the only way to live.”
June frowned. “It doesn’t have to be. You’re still young. You still have time to do things. I can’t even learn to play the ukulele.”
Tom shrugged.
“Look at your brother. He’s trapped.” There was quiet, and then June said, “Don’t tell anyone I threw the chicken.”
Tom made a peace sign. “Want me to cut this?” He held up the broccoli.
“Please. Your father still alive down there?”
“I didn’t see any blood.”
June and Tom worked side by side to the soundtrack of Randy’s belt sander. It was after four. The sun faded in the curtains over the kitchen sink.
“Vanessa mentioned you signed up for Tinder. Wanna tell me about it?”
But Tom replied, “Another time,” and went outside with a pair of tongs.
The words resounded in her mind. Another time. That’s when she was adopted. When underwear was mostly white and people had dress-coats and nice handwriting. And she was certain that babies from another time were conceived out of something akin to love and not out of some knuckle-sucking lust-driven Kardashian-waxed porn. Most of the stories she heard of were of lovers who simply made a baby at the wrong time. If she had to be adopted, she hoped that love was at least the catalyst to conception. Slow dancing, Buddy Holly, summer-fair picnic-blanket love. But what if it hadn’t been? What if she was conceived in a barn or behind an outhouse? What if her birth father drank whiskey and dined on canned meat?
Derek, Vanessa, and Leslie crashed through the door. Derek plunked a box of rice on the counter.
“How was work?” June asked.
“It was awesome,” Derek said with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old at an amusement park. “I actually love woodworking.”
Randy tripped up the top step. “You love woodworking?” He beamed.
“Well, this cabinet stuff,” he elaborated. “It’s cool how everything has to be exact.” He put his hands together to form a right angle.
“Good,” June said, turning on the oven.
“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
“You’re going back tomorrow?”
Leslie nodded. “I have an infinite amount of work,” she said. “And Derek’s a quick study.”
Vanessa had removed Jerry from his cage and was petting the back of his neck. The bird made a low purring sound.
“What about the depot?” Randy asked. “Are you going to leave them high and dry?” He took off his safety goggles.
“I’m sure they can replace me.” Derek peeled the sticker off an apple and stuck it to the sink.
“But who are they going to get to close?”
“Lawrence can close. So can Claudia.”
“You should think about this first.” Randy wiped his hands on the back of his work jeans. They were covered in stain.
Derek ignored his father and bent over the cradle. “How did my little man make out today?”
“Good,” June replied. “Is he asleep?”
“He is.” Derek adjusted Jaxx’s blanket.
“Anyone want a beer?” Tom held up a case of Coors Light.
“Derek, give me your apple core,” Vanessa said.
Derek passed it to Vanessa, who fed it to Jerry. She whistled as the bird pecked.
“I’ll take a beer,” Leslie said.
Tom handed her one. “Let’s sit outside.”
Vanessa placed Jerry back in his cage and followed the others to the back deck, where smoke billowed from the barbecue. She sat on Leslie’s lap.
June turned to Randy. “What the hell was that all about?”
“What?”
“Geez, Derek,” she mocked, “maybe you should think about it first.”
“But he loves his job at the depot, and he hates woodworking. Remember the time we tried to build a birdhouse together? He put the roof on upside down.”
“He was five.”
“Eight.”
“Counting bottles isn’t a real job; building kitchens is.”
“So what about the time I tried to help him build a display for his science fair project, huh? Hinges on backwards.” He brushed sawdust from his hair into the sink.
“Don’t do that,” June scolded. “It clogs the drain.”
“I think he’s making a mistake,” Randy said. “Derek doesn’t like woodworking.”
June stirred the rice, steaming her face in the process. “Randy, he just walked in and said he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. When’s the last time he said that about something other than The Walking Dead or Pancake Tuesday?”
“I’d like a beer,” he said. “Since that’s what it seems everyone is doing now. Drinking beer and installing kitchens.”
“Sure, have a beer, and while you’re at it, why not have some scotch too?”
“You’re overreacting.” Randy opened a beer and leaned against the island, perpendicular to June. He was pensive.
“What?” June finally asked.
“I spent my entire life trying to get our kids interested in carpentry. Once I even bribed Derek with a Big Mac if he’d just watch me build some shelves, and you know what he did?”
“Ate it and left?” June guessed, straining the broccoli.
“He said, boring, and then shot me with a Nerf dart.”
June tried not to laugh. “It’s all timing,” she said, fanning her face with an oven mitt. “He just needed some incentive.”
“Yeah, Leslie,” he whispered, beer dripping down his chin.
“I meant Jaxx,” June said. “He has a baby to support. You should be grateful Leslie gave him the opportunity. And besides, maybe he specifically likes installing kitchens as opposed to making furniture and finishings.”
Randy considered this, and seemed comforted by the suggestion. “Maybe I’ll see if he wants to help me build that table.”
“Good luck.” June cringed, and opened a bottle of Riesling. She over-poured, splashing wine on the counter, and followed Randy outside.
Tom held up a pair of tongs. “I just turned them,” he said, the wind whipping around his afro.
“Good. Then we’re about ten minutes away from dinner.” June sat down. “So tell us about the condo you’re seeing tomorrow.”
Leslie attempted to sit upright in the chair, forcing Vanessa off her lap. “It’s a two bedroom with a loft, on-street parking, main floor laundry…”
“And a hot tub,” Vanessa blurted. She sat on a planter.
“What’s the big deal with hot tubs?” Tom snapped the tongs. “It’s like taking a bath in someone’s GI tract.”
“Frig off,” Vanessa said.
“For real. I know someone who got Legionnaires’ disease from a hot tub,” Derek said, not looking up from his iPhone.
“Hot tubs are lovely,” Randy said. “Derek, how would you like to build a table with me?”
“You want me to build a table?”
“I would love you to.”
“Like now?”
“I have a custom order.”
“Fuck, no.” He slid his phone back in his pocket despite the chirp of an incoming text message. “Sorry. I’m tired, Dad. I worked all day and Jaxx is going to be up soon. I just want to eat supper and chill.”
Randy looked at Tom. “What about you, son? Would you like to build a table with me?”
“Did you just call me son?” Tom laughed.
“What’s wrong with calling you son?”
“Oh, nothing, Pa, just sounded a little 1965.”
“I don’t get it,” Randy said.
“Never mind, Randy,” June said. “He’s making fun of you.”
Tom peeled the label off his beer. “I might have been interested if you hadn’t asked your favourite first.”
“Derek’s not my favourite!” Randy said. “He’s your mother’s.”
June backhanded her husband’s shoulder. “We’ve been through this before. I do not have a favourite.”
“And I only asked Derek because he’s taken an interest in woodworking.”
“Cabinets,” Derek corrected. “Kitchens.”
“Maybe Fergus likes woodworking,” Tom offered, rolling the label into a long cylindrical tube between his fingers.
Randy looked sad.
“I’ll make a table with you,” Leslie said. “What kind of wood are we working with?”
“Thank you.” Randy scrambled out of his chair. “Walnut for the top, gum for the legs.”
“I like a good walnut table,” Leslie replied. She made eyes at Vanessa and followed Randy into the house.
“Why couldn’t one of you just do it? Now she’s going to be down there all night.” Vanessa slouched into Leslie’s vacated chair.
“Not our fault your girlfriend’s nice,” Derek said.
Girlfriend, June repeated in her head as she stood up. Leslie the Girlfriend like Garfield the Cat or Jack the Giant Slayer. June didn’t think of Leslie when she heard the word girlfriend. She thought of Marissa. Love Pink Marissa. Chive On Marissa. Smoke continued to roll up from the barbecue. Half of the drumsticks were burnt. “Tom, did you put sauce on these?”
“Shit, only on one side,” he said. “I forgot.” He grabbed the barbecue sauce.
“I’ll get a plate.”
Inside, Jaxx was awake. He had blanket creases across one cheek. He whimpered while June washed her hands. The doorbell and the buzzer on the stove went off.
“Derek!” June hollered through the open window. “Jaxx!”
June pulled the broccoli off the stove and turned off the timer before hurrying to the front of the house. Through the porch she could see the silhouette of a wide-shouldered male in a hat. A friend of Derek’s? She slipped on a magazine and nearly fell on the floor. The man stepped back.
“Sorry.” June opened the door. “I almost gave myself a heart attack.” She kicked the magazine under the loveseat and stared at the vaguely familiar person in front of her. Was it someone from Derek’s shower? The guy who guessed that Jaxx weighed two pounds? Lawrence from the depot?
