Beginning with Cannonballs

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Beginning with Cannonballs Page 8

by Jill McCroskey Coupe


  “Must be fun to have a built-in water pistol.”

  “If he were my son, I might be a little concerned.”

  “Is this what being a social worker has done to you? I never knew you were such a prude.” Hanna rocked back in her chair. “Last summer, when he kept peeing off our dock, Mel said PJ was just finding himself.”

  Gail had never credited Mel with a sense of humor. Dull as dishwater, she’d pegged him, not Hanna’s type at all. “Is that a new guitar?”

  “The case is new. Mel gave it to me for Christmas. The guitar, I bought off a junkie in Montreal.”

  “Have you written that song yet?”

  “What song?”

  “A version of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in everyday English. You said you’d sing it for us at dinner tonight.”

  “No one will remember that.”

  “I remember,” Gail said.

  Hanna pushed herself up from the chair. She unlatched the case, removed the guitar, and gave it a strum. “Oh dear. Out of tune. Too bad.” She sat back down, cradling the guitar in her arms. “Best instrument I ever had. Are Mel and Nick watching football?”

  “Nick is. Mel was asleep in his chair.” Gail hoped Nick was also watching Sandy and Allison, as he’d promised he would.

  “Mel follows basketball a little. Football, not at all.” Hanna strummed a chord and winced. “Sometimes I just need time to myself.”

  “That why you didn’t want to go hiking?”

  “That and this godawful headache. But I shouldn’t have dumped PJ on you like that.”

  “What are friends for?” Gail heard herself say.

  Hanna strummed another dissonant chord. “Plus, I have a huge decision to make.”

  Gail waited.

  “NASA offered me a promotion.” Hanna made a face.

  “But that’s terrific. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. I’d have to move to Florida. Cape Canaveral.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. The thing is, Mel has tenure at Howard. He wants to stay here. I’m supposed to let my boss know tomorrow.”

  “So, you’re thinking it over?” Gail said.

  “I’ve been trying not to think about it at all. I figured not thinking about it up here in these beautiful mountains would help me decide what to do.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve done nothing but think about it.”

  “Well, it’s a big decision.” So this was why Hanna had been so standoffish. “Do you want the job?”

  It was a long time before Hanna answered. “I think I just want to get away.”

  “From Mel?”

  “Maybe the move would be good for PJ.”

  Sure, Gail thought. Instead of a small lake, he’d have an immense ocean to pee in.

  The sun had set. They rocked in silence in the dark cabin.

  “I noticed,” Hanna said, “the way you kept checking on PJ last night.”

  “I was just making sure the girls were asleep.”

  “That he wasn’t molesting them, you mean.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” Gail said.

  “I’m sorry PJ upset you.”

  Gail took a deep breath. “I am a social worker. I’m also your friend. Maybe Mel could have a man-to-man talk with PJ.”

  “That’s a laugh. The only thing Mel’s any good at explaining is calculus.”

  “You don’t have to take a job in Florida to get away from Mel.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Hanna was crying. “I wanted PJ to have a father. I just keep screwing up.”

  Gail tried to sound calmer than she felt. “Mind if I turn on a light?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She felt her way to the door and found the switch. An orange-shaded table lamp came on. Hanna was slumped in the rocking chair with her head in her hands.

  “Let’s go up to dinner,” Gail said.

  “I’m not hungry,” Hanna said.

  “The last time you told me that, you were pregnant.”

  “God, how I hate that good memory of yours.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t move to Florida if you’re pregnant,” Gail said.

  “I’m not pregnant and I’m not hungry. Two mutually exclusive null sets.”

  “C’mon, Hanna. I don’t want to walk up there alone in the dark.”

  “It’s not dark in the snow.”

  “There’s a panther roaming around,” Gail said. “I saw tracks this afternoon.”

  “Liar.”

  A friend would not use that word. Had she and Hanna ever really been friends? Back in their cannonball days, sure. But a gradual drifting apart had begun even before the move to Philadelphia.

  Gail lifted her jacket from the hook and put it on. She opened the door. The sky was dark lilac, the snow pale blue.

  “Wait.”

  Hanna was pulling on her boots. Without meeting Gail’s eyes, she stood up, returned the guitar to its case, and took down her parka.

  “The panther was after two deer,” Gail said.

  “Deer can run.” Hanna busied herself with the parka’s buttons.

  “Not fast enough, poor things.”

  Not Solomon

  Reston, Virginia, 1983

  HANNA REASSEMBLED THE Washington Post and set it on the dining room table. But then the Reagans were smiling up at her. She turned them face-down and managed to stand.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself another cup of coffee. After one sip, she nearly gagged.

  She was friends with some of her neighbors. She had friends at work. But this wasn’t the sort of thing she could share with any of them.

  Nor would she ever tell Mel. Boring, dependable Mel, who, for some inexplicable reason, had stayed with her for thirteen years now.

  She couldn’t tell PJ.

  She would spare Jeremiah.

  Which left Gail.

  Who would at least listen. And could be trusted not to blab.

  Gail was now a social worker with the public schools—encouraging kids to stick with it, instead of giving up and dropping out. And, being Gail, she’d called with her new work number.

  Which Hanna, being Hanna, had written down and then put away somewhere. But where?

  In her address book, it turned out. How very logical.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said when Gail answered.

  “Hanna?” Gail sounded surprised.

  “Can you just listen for a while? You don’t have to say a word.”

  “Are you at work?” Gail asked.

  “Home. I think I’m coming down with the flu. PJ had it last week.”

  “Sorry. It’s going around, I know.”

  “He wants me to take him to Haiti.” Hanna blurted this out, then regretted it. PJ was not the reason for this call.

  “Haiti?” Gail said. “Why?”

  “So he can meet Pierre. Who will have no interest at all in meeting PJ. I keep making excuses. I don’t want him to be hurt.” Rejected by his dad, the way Hanna herself, when she was younger, had been rejected by her own father. “Besides, I have no idea where Pierre is these days. He could be in Timbuktu.”

  “I have a meeting at ten,” Gail said.

  “Okay. I didn’t call about PJ, anyway. There’s something else. Can you just listen, please? Won’t take long.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Gail said.

  “Don’t interrupt. Please. Don’t ask questions.”

  The first time I saw him, Hanna began, was about a year ago. January, February, don’t remember exactly. I’d walked up to the National Gallery on my lunch hour and was standing in front of a Renoir, a Spanish woman playing a guitar. She reminded me of my summer up in Canada—Pop on piano and Solomon and me on guitar, and all three of us singing, so in harmony with each other and the universe that it felt downright spooky. Best of all, Pop was being the father I’d always wanted him to be, but very strict about what I wore onstage. This woman’s guitar is hiding her cleavage, and she’s not singing, just concentrating
on her fingering.

  I glanced over at the man standing beside me and nearly freaked. Hey there, I started to say, what’re you doing in DC? But it wasn’t Solomon. Same height, a little taller than me, same blond hair down to his shoulders, but definitely not Solomon.

  Oh! I said. It came out like a grunt, and I was so embarrassed I walked off into the next room, to a Monet I like. A garden of sunflowers, with a child in the foreground, who’s white, of course, and another child, this one darker-skinned, coming down some steps. And it was like I’d stepped right into the painting. I could feel the French sunshine, the warmth of it.

  I turned around, but Mr. Not Solomon was gone.

  A week or so later, I was at the Botanic Garden, up by the Capitol. I like to go there in cold weather because they keep it really warm for all the plants. I was in the Jungle Room, admiring the bright red flowers on the African tulip tree, and there he was, sauntering toward me, with his beautiful leather jacket hanging open.

  There was recognition in those blue-green eyes of his. He smiled, like we were old friends and he was sooo glad to see me again, and then he sniffed the air. I love it in here, he said. I feel surrounded by life.

  It was like my brain froze. I couldn’t speak. My eyes were working, though. I noticed his gold wedding ring.

  The next time I saw him, he was way on the other side of the Mall. We both smiled and waved big, our arms sweeping the air.

  I thought he might be a tourist, taking a few weeks to see the sights and visit the museums. But then where was his wife?

  Once or twice, we passed each other on Independence Avenue. His face just lit up when he saw me. And I wondered. Had he followed me back to NASA? Did he know where I worked?

  When the weather turned warm and I didn’t need a coat outside, I thought about him each morning as I was getting dressed. What did I want him to see me in if we should happen to meet up on my lunch hour?

  I’m making it sound like I had a crush on him. But I didn’t even know his name.

  One day I saw him up at Hecht’s. I was coming down on the escalator, and he was hurrying out the door to the street, carrying a shopping bag.

  After that, I didn’t see him at all. I looked for him everywhere. I’d go to the places where he’d been, just hoping.

  Until, right after Thanksgiving, I spotted him on the Mall, in his leather jacket. It was caramel-colored and looked so very soft, or did I tell you that already? I started toward him, but then I saw the dog. He had a big brown dog with him. A dog! I’m terrified of dogs.

  Because of Caesar. Caesar the chow, who lived down the street from you. He liked to chase me when I got off the bus after school, and one day he caught me and chomped down on my leg and wouldn’t let go. When we were nine, remember? Your mother drove me to the doctor—your doctor—a white man, and he was nice to me, but his nurse sure as hell wasn’t.

  So I don’t like dogs. Never have, never will.

  That week, I saw him nearly every day, usually on the Mall, where there was grass for the dog to pee in. He’d wave to me, and I’d wave back.

  Except for the day he was just standing there, looking up at a tree. He kept shaking his head, like there was something on one of the branches that shouldn’t be there. The dog noticed me and strained at its leash, and finally he looked over. He gave me a different sort of wave then.

  A few days later, or maybe a week—I’ve lost all track of time—there he was on Independence Avenue, sitting on a bench in the small park near the NASA building. The damn dog was with him, so I kept my distance.

  Hi there, he said. How’s it going?

  Not so good, I said. The thing is, I said, I’m terrified of dogs.

  He tightened his grip on the leash. The dog was wearing a thick leather collar, but the leash was attached to a harness around its chest, like this dog was so fierce and strong, it might break loose any moment. I backed up, ready to run if I had to.

  She won’t hurt you, he said. Her name’s Glory.

  And Glory just sat there, good as gold.

  My wife’s dog, he said, and he looked down at Glory and stroked her head.

  We were having our first real conversation. I was so nervous, I could barely breathe. It was like I was nine years old and Caesar was after me again.

  Where is your wife? I should’ve said. It might’ve changed everything.

  Instead, I told him I had to get back to work.

  Not yet, he said. I don’t even know your name.

  It’s Hanna, I said. I’m sorry, I said, and I ran. I ran away from him.

  The next day, and the next, there he sat, on that same bench, with the damn dog.

  You like him more than you hated Caesar, I kept telling myself. That’s how I worked up the courage. But just before I reached the park, a woman walked in with two yippy little dogs and Glory started barking, too. Scared me to death, and he hadn’t even seen me, so I left.

  By the time I found the courage again, he was gone.

  Even though it was wintertime, I started eating my lunch on that bench. He’d waited for me, and I hadn’t showed, so I decided to wait for him, and maybe he would. How crazy is that?

  One day I noticed that someone had scratched sorry into the back of the bench. That really spooked me. I’m sorry, I’d told him, the day I ran away.

  I know his name now—Paul Lucerne—but I sure as hell wish I didn’t.

  “My meeting,” Gail said. “I really do have to go. I’ll call you back as soon I can.”

  “No need,” Hanna said. “Just look at this morning’s Metro section, first page. The Washington Post. Go to a newsstand if you have to.”

  And they hung up.

  Gail would find a newspaper. She’d see his photo.

  During the time when his wife, Marsha Lucerne, was being treated for cancer at George Washington University Hospital, he must have walked down to the Mall at lunchtime to take a break from all that misery. When Marsha died, he took her home to Shepherdstown, West Virginia, and buried her and put their house on the market. Then he returned to Washington. With Glory.

  All he had on him was his wife’s driver’s license, an expired one from Ohio, so it took the authorities a while to figure out who he was.

  His sister, in Charlottesville, had been worried about him, because he was very religious, and she was afraid he might try to join his wife in heaven.

  That’s what she told the Post, anyway.

  Paul Lucerne was found hanging from a tree on the Mall. There was no mention of Glory.

  What if, what if, what if?

  What if one crazy person had sat down on a park bench with another crazy person? What if she’d learned his name and listened to his story? What if he’d listened to hers?

  What then?

  Would they have held hands? Kissed? More than kissed?

  Feeling numb, Hanna climbed the stairs to the guest room and lay down on the bed. Where she’d slept last night. Where she often slept.

  She knew every blemish in the ceiling. Every sorry one of them.

  Two Envelopes

  Baltimore, Maryland, 1984

  FUMES FROM THE OVEN CLEANER had driven Gail from the kitchen to the front porch, where, gulping air, she couldn’t remember why she’d decided to stay home on such a beautiful Saturday in October. What on earth was wrong with her?

  Reluctant to return to the kitchen, she followed the flagstones down to the mailbox. There, among the bills and catalogs, lurked a square envelope addressed to Sandy.

  Hanna’s return address, but not Hanna’s handwriting.

  The envelope was the right size for a birthday card, but Sandy’s birthday wasn’t until February. Did PJ send scary Halloween cards to his friends?

  Were Sandy and PJ friends?

  Gail set the rest of the mail on the hall table and examined the envelope. There was a bulge inside. A Hallmark witch?

  She was not the kind of mother who hid letters from her daughter. But what about saying she’d opened the envelope b
y mistake?

  Inside she found a handwritten letter to Sandy, along with, and compounding the guilt, a smaller envelope addressed to Hanna.

  After reading the first letter, Gail did the right thing. She called Hanna, who answered right away.

  “I have a letter here from PJ,” Gail said.

  “Where the hell is he? I was up all night, worried frantic.”

  “Not sure.”

  “Then read me the letter,” Hanna said.

  “There are two of them.”

  “Read them both to me,” Hanna said. “Immediately. You’re worse than your mother.”

  “‘Dear Sandy,’” Gail began. “‘I need for you to do me a favor. The letter to my mom already has a stamp on it. Please put it in the mail. I want her to know where I’ve gone and why, but I need a head start. I hope to be in Florida by Halloween. I just have to know if my father’s alive or dead. Someone in Haiti will know where he is, and then I can meet him or go to the cemetery where he’s buried. You see your dad every single day. I don’t even know what mine looks like.’”

  “A black teenager traveling alone in the South?” Hanna groaned.

  “PJ can take care of himself,” Gail said.

  “We’ve warned him how to act if the police stop him, but you know PJ.”

  “If he’s arrested, then the police will call you and you can go get him.”

  “Only a white person would say something so goddamn stupid.”

  “Hanna, please. You’re upset.”

  “No shit.”

  “Is Mel there with you?”

  “He’s at some math conference in College Park. Said he couldn’t get out of it.”

  “Want me to come stay with you?” Gail recalled a cold December night in Knoxville, a diving board, an empty swimming pool.

  “Let me talk to Sandy.”

  “She’s playing soccer. And anyway, she doesn’t know anything.” Gail dearly hoped this was true.

  “Yes, she does. The two of them talk on the phone. A lot.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Gail. I see the phone bills. PJ calls Baltimore. Sandy calls here, collect. Late afternoon, when they’re home and we aren’t. I thought you knew.”

  Liar, Gail so badly wanted to say.

  “You must’ve had some idea,” Hanna went on. “You opened that letter thinking PJ and Sandy were up to something. It’s been your worst nightmare for years.”

 

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