by Ethan Joella
She sees that Damon has flicked on the porch light. She thinks of Ahmed and Ginger coming over in a few minutes, and something about the four of them sitting around the living room together makes her giddy. The laughing, the talking. Perhaps a card game or some Yahtzee. The wine. The scoops of ice cream in bowls. Giggling with Ginger as they go back for more ice cream and start raiding the cupboard for tortilla chips and salsa. Maybe tonight she will tell them about Owen and see what they say.
Not far away, the dark roads make Ginger Lord nervous as they always do, but Ahmed is singing Frank Sinatra to her in the old Saab convertible he got at Classic Motors last week. Yes, he’s singing. The car is pale blue, and when he showed up in it at their house, he beeped the horn, stood in front of it, arms crossed, Ray-Bans on, and said, “Hey, baby. ’Sup?” She shook her head and smiled. So this was his surprise? She didn’t say how impractical it was. She didn’t say maybe, with the wedding coming up, they should discuss big purchases like this. She didn’t even think any of this, because Ahmed’s charm just crept over everything. “You won’t be able to keep the chicks away,” she said. “How can I compete?”
He took out a small bag with a new pair of women’s Ray-Bans in it and handed them to her. “These will stay in the glove box, and you’re the only chick allowed to wear them,” he said. “Keys to the kingdom, baby.” Now they drive, top down, and the stars are out as they head to Suzette and Damon’s. She looks over at him as he watches the road and sings. This man will be my husband, she thinks. Less than two months until the wedding, where they will stand in her parents’ garden and she will wear a simple dress and he a tan suit. She still can’t figure it out. How did this happen? She remembers walking with him outside Suzette’s wedding. She remembers him driving her to the hospital that night in December. And she remembers finally kissing him months later and thinking, yes, yes, he is what I want. Nothing has ever happened this fast and unexpectedly for Ginger.
She hates to drive these roads at night—the back country ones that lead to Suzette’s—because they remind her of Luke’s accident. All she can think of was how helpless he must have felt—did he cry out when he swerved? What did he feel as Betsy smashed into that big, solid tree, the tree that still stands? It is odd that Luke will forever be that boy whom time can’t touch. When she pictures him, he’ll always be in that toy store that day. She will spend the rest of her life seeing him like this.
Even when she’s old, even when she and Ahmed have children and grandchildren, Luke will always be somewhere in the back of her mind. She doesn’t know what to do with this, and neither does Ahmed. They never talk about him. Except that one time when he stood in the bedroom of her apartment getting dressed, and she had that faraway stare she would get, and he said to her, tears in his eyes, “Am I enough?” And with that, she snapped out of it. She stood and kissed his forehead, then his lips, and said, “Yes, yes, you are more,” and she meant every word.
She rests her hand on his leg as he drives, and they hear crickets faintly amid the music, and some branches from trees hang low over the car. Ahmed looks at her and lip-synchs to Sinatra, and he rests his left arm on the window. In the distance, when the song is about to change, she can hear someone singing from the bandstand at the carnival, and there is that tug of something in her that thinks of Luke, but only for one second, the way Luke will always ever be there: in flashes, in bits, in the notes of a song.
On the other side of town, hours later, Darcy Crowley has a song in her head and cannot sleep. One her husband used to whistle: “Baby Face.” She keeps replaying it over and over in her head: Ain’t nobody could ever take your place. She wishes she could sleep. She should have left the air-conditioning on, but she thought she detected a nice breeze before bed. Now her bedroom feels stuffy. She hopes Mary Jane and Alvin put the ceiling fan on in Mary Jane’s bedroom. They are staying over tonight with Lizzie (and their standard poodle) because they are having their carpets shampooed. When Mary Jane asked if they could stay, Darcy clapped her hands. “For as long as you want,” she said. Mary Jane was surprised she would allow their dog, but Darcy has surprised herself in the last year. She had the Tylers’ cat here for a while, and she pet its head and changed its litter and even brushed it, so one night with a well-behaved dog is nothing.
Lizzie wanted to sleep with Darcy, which Darcy looked forward to (she imagined whispering back and forth and giggling together and hugging the sleeping Lizzie close to her), but when Lizzie fell asleep on the living room sofa watching that special on pandas, Mary Jane covered her with a sheet and placed a pillow under her head. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” she said, because Lizzie was a terrible sleeper. Just like her uncle Luke, Darcy thought.
Darcy opens her eyes and takes in the dark room, the nightlight from the hall bathroom sending a reassuring glow. She runs her hand across the summer quilt she switched to in May, the tulips and blue rings stitched carefully into the squares.
As her eyes adjust to the dimness, she sees everything as it should be: the matching crystal lamps on either side of the bed, the tufted bench at the foot, her oak dresser with the carved mirror and the framed pictures of her children on either side. Long ago, she had their senior portraits put into nice frames, and they remain her favorite photographs of them. She loved that time: the world still full of possibilities, she and Von in their prime, each of their parents still alive. Mary Jane with her longer hair then and the strand of pearls around her neck that Darcy insisted she wear, her straight white teeth from those years of braces, her promising smile and sincere brown eyes. And Luke with his sweet smirk of a smile. His white collar and tie. How he shrugged out of that sports coat immediately after the portrait session was done. How he yanked off the tie.
If she looks closely at the picture, she can see those two freckles on Luke’s cheekbone, and now, as she lies in her floral sheets, she wants to flip on her light and look for those freckles. She doesn’t know why. Oh, Luke. My wittle Wuke, she used to say when he’d get hurt, even though he grimaced at her baby talk. She hates when her mind comes back to what she’s lost, and she hears him playing his drums in the basement. She hears him shutting his bedroom door after Von died in that slow, painful way. She sees him that day they put Von’s car in storage, driving behind her, his mouth so hangdog. Now she turns in bed and flaps the sheets to get some breeze.
Tomorrow she is taking Mary Jane and Lizzie to the festival of kites, the day where the retired men who run the kite club encourage all the people in the town to show up, and they help the children fly whatever kites they bring, whether it’s a cheap kite from the five-and-dime or an elaborate box kite. She has bought Lizzie a perfect kite from the toy shop on Walnut Street: a classic red one with a rainbow tail and thick line. She imagines standing behind her granddaughter and watching the kite climb into the sky. “Now you’ve got it,” she’ll say. She imagines Lizzie’s eager eyes as she runs with the spool reel and watches her kite in the air, one of the kind old men nodding or whistling as it takes off.
Every time she sees those men and their kites, she thinks of Von. Would he have been the type to join that club? Would he be watching his granddaughter tomorrow leading her kite into the air? Go get ’em, tiger, he’d say. How can it be he never met Lizzie? How does he not know this new part of her life—the part where she’s a grandmother, the part where she’s a widow, a mother who lost a son?
She lies still and tries to count something: imaginary kites in the sky, a school of fish, one at a time, swimming by. She starts to settle. She pretends Von is in the kitchen, pouring Hershey’s syrup into a tall glass of milk the way he used to do when he got hungry late at night. She pretends she hears the sound of the spoon against the glass, and she can see the white milk turning dark. My God, she can see him so clearly, standing there in his blue pajama pants, his V-neck undershirt. Something about this image of her husband standing there, the light from the refrigerator, the glass he will leave in the sink, soothes her.
She thinks of th
e kite in its bag sitting on the kitchen table. She likes plans. She likes that Mary Jane and her family will come back to the house afterward (maybe they’ll decide to stay a second night?) and she’ll pour fruit punch for Lizzie and put coffee on for the three of them. She stands now and slips into her robe and walks the hall. She feels like a night watchman at a museum. The house is so silent. She faintly hears Alvin snoring from the bedroom, and tiptoes to the living room where she sees Lizzie sleeping, the dog on the edge of the sofa by her feet. Darcy smiles at how peaceful she looks, her little mouth open, her head back, her wrist moving slightly as if in her dreams she’s already flying a kite.
Lizzie scrunches her closed eyes, and Darcy is startled because there is an echo of someone else in her expression: a little Von, a bit of Luke. The beauty of science. A hint of a feature just continuing on and on and on, and this satisfies her. Her chest heaves, and she is sad, but she feels grateful, too. She will hopefully have years to tell Lizzie all the good things about these men their family lost. She will say they were golden, one of a kind. She will make them unforgettable.
Suddenly, Lizzie’s eyes open, and she looks up to see Darcy standing there. She worries her presence will scare Lizzie, but Lizzie smiles and sits up.
“Grandma, I was supposed to sleep in your bed tonight.”
Darcy reaches down to smooth her messy hair in place. “You were indeed, dear,” she whispers.
“I fell asleep before I could.”
Darcy holds out her hand and Lizzie takes it. “Then let’s get to bed,” she says, and smiles, and side by side, the dog following them, they make their way down the hall, Lizzie asking her questions about the kites. Will there be enough wind? Will the sun shine? Will the kites climb and climb?
“We’ll soon see,” Darcy says, and they settle into bed.
Freddie Tyler holds the wheel of her husband’s Mercedes as she drives in the middle of the night, only big trucks on I-80 West as she switches lanes and sips her coffee. She has the radio on low, and it’s just mumbling the way Darcy Crowley’s radio at the cleaners does, and she stops to think for a second that they are over eight hundred miles from Wharton—eight hundred miles and counting as they breeze through Indiana. She has never seen Indiana before. She tries to look around to get a sense of it, but it looks the same as Connecticut, as the Pennsylvania and Ohio highways looked.
She loves the middle of the night. She loves this open road. Her mind keeps putting phrases together that she could write, and once in a while, she’ll reach her hand into the empty cup holder next to her coffee and pick up her cell phone and record an idea she has: In the last year, I have thought of nothing but highways: their long stretch, their openness, the way they take you away from what you know. She knows the ideas are rough, but she feels a certain accomplishment that she can put these words down. She can say them all now.
She glances back at Addie, her head slumped to the side, her arms so limp, her small stuffed penguin just out of reach. Wizard is curled up beside her, his head resting near her lap. For a second, she thinks of Kitty, their old cat who died two weeks ago. Freddie is surprised how often she thinks she sees the cat now, but it’s just a pillow on the sofa, a bag on the floor. She feels regret that they never gave Kitty a proper name. They meant to, but all of a sudden years had gone by, and she was still Kitty.
Freddie watches Addie’s parted lips, her resting eyelashes as the passing lights illuminate her, and she can’t wait until they get where they are going. Addie has never seen Iowa, and Freddie imagines how exciting it will be to move into the rented town house, to take a walk into the downtown district and sit at a sidewalk café or wander through one of the markets with its umbrellas and fresh produce. Freddie reaches back and squeezes her knee lightly.
She cannot believe she got into the Iowa program. What were the chances? The last time she looked, their acceptance rate was in the single digits. Did Lance Gray’s recommendation help her? He was on the faculty there at one point, and he told her those years ago at that conference in Vermont that she had potential. He didn’t seem at all surprised when she emailed him, and he said he remembered her poem. How could he have? But he did.
And now she’s going. A full fellowship, too. A marvelous opportunity with the best faculty. Will she be able to do this? Compete with young, eager writers in their twenties? She thinks she can. She has so much raw stuff these days, and a new honesty she never felt before. Classes start next week. She is nervous and exhilarated. She keeps her eyes on the road, then thinks of something else she can write. She hears the words come together. Something about grief and hope—how they are two vines of the same—no, not vines. They are, they are what? She thinks about the right words, and she is startled by his voice.
“Want me to drive?” Greg asks, sitting up next to her. His hair has somewhat grown into a buzz cut, and a new mustache sprouted that he didn’t want to shave.
“I’m fine, Tom Selleck,” she says, and smiles. The gray shirt he wears says All I Care About Is Fishing, a present Addie got for him for Father’s Day because he promised her fishing lessons at Lake Macbride in Iowa.
He wipes the side of his face and groans. “I slept like a bear in a cave,” he says. “How we doing?”
“Breezing through Indiana. Next stop: Illinois.” She offers her coffee to him, and he sits up and takes it. He sips, and she sees the line of muscle on his arm, the way his throat moves when he drinks, and she is stunned by this man sitting so close to her. She wants to pull the car over and kiss him. Every day she is still shocked by the gift of him.
“I like you driving,” he says. “I might just sit back and let you get us all the way there.”
“I think I’ve got at least another two hours until my head falls off,” she says. She looks at the road, the yellow dashes, the steady gray. “Go back to sleep if you want.”
He nods, and turns over, and in a few minutes she hears the sound of him snoring, her husband who battled for his life—and won. His arms crossed in front of him, his long legs stretched. His chest rising and falling. This is still real, she thinks. Nothing, nothing, has happened.
Acknowledgments
To Rebecca, who I met in third grade when we were paired up to write about our summer plans. I don’t know who I would be without you, and I couldn’t ask for a better partner. Our long walks have kept me sane, and you believed I could do this when I didn’t. I love you, and I love our life. Little did I know thirty-five years ago that you were the summer I was hoping for.
To my daughters, Gia and Frankie. Thank you for teaching me everything I never learned. Our talks, our playing, our little and big traditions. I am so, so proud to be your dad.
To my parents and siblings and cousin June, who all loved me and let me be sensitive and odd. Thank you for the books and the laughing and the Tenenbaum lifestyle. To my wife’s family, who I love like my own, who always had a place at the table for me.
Thank you to everyone in the Rehoboth Beach Writers’ Guild: the exact group I needed when I was a tired teacher with young kids who just wanted to write more. The readings and classes and community of writers have been everything.
To Maribeth Fischer, novelist and friend, who made the guild what it is and always encouraged me. Thank you for your early reads of this book and sound character advice. You have taught me so much, and I am a better writer because of you.
To Gail Comorat, my poetry workshop co-teacher and one of my best friends. I am so glad I met you, and I love that we share poems and share a brain. Also to Irene Fick, Sherri Wright, Ellen Collins, the email group that shares writing, commiserates over rejection, and celebrates acceptances.
To Walter Cummins, who taught me so much about writing and teaching and generosity.
So much gratitude to Madeleine Milburn, my agent, who is worlds too good for me. I cannot tell you how lucky I feel to have you by my side. You saw what I always hoped someone would see in my writing, and you cared so much about my characters. To everyone at th
e Madeleine Milburn agency, especially Rachel Yeoh, who was an early reader and is always so kind and helpful. Also to Fiona Mitchell, for her early valuable reading.
To Kara Watson, who is as skilled and insightful as any editor could be. Thank you for acquiring this and for helping me tell these characters’ stories so eloquently. Your checkmarks are nourishment. Thanks to Sabrina Pyun for the early read and excellent suggestions. To Nan Graham, Mia O’Neill, Ashley Gilliam, Jaya Miceli, Katie Rizzo, and everyone else at Scribner: how is this even true? I used to look up at the Simon & Schuster building whenever I visited the city, and I wished then for exactly this. Thank you will never be enough.
Thanks to all the students over the last twenty years who remind me how much hope there is. It has been an honor learning from you.
And finally thank you to my great-aunt Stella, long gone but still so present, who demanded the local newspaper publish my poem when I was eight. Thank you for making me feel like I had something to say. This might all be because of you.
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