How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  ‘This franchise thing,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yeah. BGR. Burgers Grilled Right,’ he says, eyebrows hopeful.

  ‘It’s got potential?’

  ‘Jo, it has so much potential,’ he says, smoothly changing tack. ‘It’s a great business. And franchising is a really safe way to go.’

  ‘OK. I’m thinking I could give you $50,000 towards things. With some of your money and Karen’s that should be more than enough.’

  ‘That would be just right, I think.’ Dave looks surprised. ‘Oh my God, Jo, you won’t regret it. Jo, I can do this. I’ll show you and everyone else. And you’ll get your money back faster than you might think.’

  We pause again in silence. I can’t even look at him. Right now, I can’t bear him. Who cares now? You can’t change this stuff. Half his shirt is tucked out. He sits down, slings one arm over the side of the chair. I’m envious at the ease he displays, his growing midriff doesn’t hold him back, and I wonder if this self-belief comes across to the women he meets. Is this how he hooks them?

  He sighs, closes his eyes, takes a cigarette from the pack in front of him and lights up. Sets his free hand to his forehead then rubs his eyes. He takes a deep drag and blows out noisily. ‘Jo… You know what? I think you think too much. Way too much. How about enjoying what you got. Ain’t so bad, is it?’

  A reasonable point. When I’m home in London preparing lectures or a talk, gazing through our kitchen window at the view of the wisteria in bloom at the end of our garden, or spreading jam across Jon’s home-made bread on a Sunday morning before I take it to the table where he says, ‘It looks like it’s going to be warm and sunny today,’ I have to pinch myself, say, this life you have is real, Jo. It’s not a dream. It’s not going to disappear unless you work hard to screw things up and drive your husband away with your neurotic head problems. Even then he wouldn’t go without a fight.

  My life could have taken a different turn, a much darker one.

  My head aches from the overdose of gin. From all the thinking. If only I could stop thinking.

  ‘Hey, I was just on the phone with Karen. And we were talking about the restaurant and I’m thinking now I could drive you to see the outside of this place that’s up for rent in the square, so you can see the potential. You know this area’s on the way up, not like it used to be, people are coming here for excitement now. And you can meet Karen, I really would love it if you could meet her, you’ll like her a lot, you know, she’s very likeable, everyone loves Karen. We could have a drink, maybe a bit to eat, you can get to know her. And smart too, she reads a lot, has a good brain for lots of things, but especially business. She’s got a great head for business, Jo. I know you’re gonna like her.’

  Uncle Ron: I can’t get him out of my head. The sight of him shuffling around the restaurant, the feel of his old hand on mine.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about Karen, no, she’s sensible, and she’s already self-employed with her nail stuff, and she’s got training too, knows how to do things. And with all her bar experience, you know she’s done a bartending course too, she knows how to work with suppliers, knows customer service, she knows what she’s getting herself into.’

  Oh, does she really know what she’s getting herself into? I wonder.

  ‘OK Dave,’ I say finally. ‘Let’s meet Karen. But after my headache’s taken a walk.’

  We use Ma’s blue badge for easy parking and Karen meets us outside the vacant rental unit. When she arrives I’m surprised. I assumed if she was a nail and pedicure expert and serious gym goer, she’d have bleached hair, false eyelashes and wobble around on pin-skinny legs in sharp heels. Instead she wears her chestnut-brown hair at shoulder length and keeps a natural soft wave, unlike so many now who are slaves to straighteners. She’s shapely with a large bust. No surprise her fingernails are pristine, but they’re also her own. She smiles loads and offers the usual condolences.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there earlier today. One thing after another came up and I just couldn’t fix it. How you doing, hon?’

  Dave sighs, closes his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Oh, I’m holding up, you know. We got through it, right, sis?’

  Dave has never called me sis. Am I supposed to call him bro and play out a fantasy brother-sister fun time so his girlfriend will assume we’re normal? I try to imagine what sorts of things he’s told her about us. About our family. ‘Yeah, we just about got through it, Dave.’

  ‘Your mother will always be with you both. She’ll always be looking down wherever you are, whatever you do. You’ll be sitting there outside on a bench and feel a sudden breeze,’ Karen says, with a gentle wave of her arms. ‘And that’s it, that’s her, always with you. She knows you’ll be making her proud.’ She nods her head and strokes Dave’s arm.

  Although she’s talking loads of crap I find her steady voice soothing and try to imagine my mother’s spirit floating around us in the wind. Karen displays only a little touch of the local accent which gives her a bit of charm. She takes a few puffs from his cigarette, noting how bad he is for her as she’s been trying to quit.

  ‘One day I’ll get you off these things, Dave, you just wait.’

  I admire her aspiration, but know only too well she probably has no idea what she’s taking on.

  We peer inside the windows of what could be the future Burgers Grilled Right, the only one in town, and there’s a bit of shop talk about fixtures and fittings, my brother’s area of expertise. It has great potential, not too big, not too small. It could work on so many different levels.

  We go on to the nearby bar and grill where Karen was waiting before we arrived. She and Dave know the manager and the waiters. They exchange words, have a giggle or two and carry on like these people are part of the family. It’s close to 5.30pm, so we order a nacho plate and drinks and Dave works hard to connect Karen and me.

  ‘Oh, Karen, tell Jo the story about that drunk guy the other night who tried to pick you up, tell her how you managed that one, single-handed. Oh,’ he shouts with excitement. ‘And what about that other bartender you worked with who thought you made too many tips? It’s a tough business you know, Jo, but Karen’s the best, she shows them all who boss.’

  The more Dave talks, the more his voice rises, which I’m convinced all can hear from across the restaurant, but I keep quiet. We move along through the friendly basics: Where did you grow up? How old are your kids? What are they doing? What do you love about the restaurant business? It’s all about them, Dave and Karen. I don’t give them a chance to bring up London and it doesn’t look like they’re bursting to ask. Within a short time I’ve seen that Karen emanates an impeccable patience. She’s accepted that in order to survive, to get herself out of a bad marriage while her kids were still young, she’d have to work her hardest and make the best of her available prospects; bartending, nail work. She’s always put her son and daughter first, worked a bunch of jobs with flexible hours, did everything she could to ensure her two would go to college. There are no shortcuts for Karen and there won’t be any for her son and daughter. I listen to her, watch her closely, looking for signs of more wrinkles, there must be some laugh lines around the eyes, the mouth, considering all the time she smiles. But no, there aren’t as many creases as you might expect in the face of a forty-something single mother who’s had a rough go of things.

  After an hour and a half, I plead that I need to get to Beth’s. We say our goodbyes to Karen, with Dave promising he’ll be back after taking me to my car. What’s the verdict? He’s eager to know.

  ‘Isn’t she great? I knew you’d love her. Don’t you love her, Jo?’

  ‘Yes, very sweet, seems a sensible woman,’ I say.

  How will I know anything about what’s right for my brother? After marriage and divorce and all the other drama that’s gone down in his life he still manages to attract women, younger ones even. In the past he’s had many ups and downs, but somehow secured a couple of steady relationships that lasted a few years. Thi
s one may be a good one. And I hope, deep down, she’ll stick with it, give my brother what he needs, that unconditional love that only my mother offered. He’s had some problems, yes, but he’s my son. He’ll always be my son, she wrote in one of her letters when he was going through hard times. And I’ll always love him.

  When we return to the house after picking up my mother’s car, I say a quick goodbye to my father who is having a wake-me-up coffee with his brother. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to return the car and go to Logan for my evening flight. He’s already booked Dino to take me. Goodbyes to my brother have always been straightforward and lacklustre, but this time I’m welling up, feeling as though so much more needs to be said, but I have no idea where to start. I give him a hug and hang on longer than usual. The strong cigarette smell on his clothes and breath reminds me of what it was like to say goodbye to my mother after our summer visits. I can’t stop thinking that Dave, as he reminded me the other night, is heading in the same direction. It’s in the genes. It may only be a matter of a few years when I’m standing here again, or sitting in a wheelchair by that time, for his funeral.

  ‘You know you can always come stay with me the next time you visit,’ he says. ‘I got the futon and the location’s good. I mean it ain’t the best area, but not far from Teele Square in the car, or, Davis and Cambridge. It’s great. You have to stay with me next time, you have to.’

  I agree to it all, sounds great, yes, oh well, I’m not sure when I’ll be back, we’ll see. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow before you’re off, wish you a good flight. Make sure you answer your phone,’ he says. We embrace, but I can still feel the tension in his body. It wants to give something more but can’t.

  Twenty Five

  When I was growing up, the Italian family next door had a little dog, a male Jack Russell called Tito. He wasn’t neutered, barked loudly all the time and humped everything and every person he encountered. When my mother needed something like a spare egg, not for anything like baking, but when she wanted to fry it to have on toast for lunch, she’d send me, without any reservations, to their house to ask for one. After a while I grew tired of having to fend off Tito from sniffing my crotch and humping my leg. Finally I stood my ground and refused to go back. It was a battle I was tired of fighting.

  I hear the sound of a gentle bark near Beth’s front door as I enter. When I step in Beth is wearing her cleaning apron and has been wiping the glass cabinet, the one that holds the reproduction Fabergé eggs, after Stella, a pretty chocolate Labrador, has been slobbering around it exploring her new surroundings. She tries to take the cane from me. Beth shouts at her not to, but I give in, oh, what the hell, I say, and remind Beth it’s not nice to raise her voice, she might scare her. As soon as I let go, Stella offers it back to me, then pulls when I take it again. We continue to play this back and forth scenario and for some strange reason it makes me laugh to a point where I feel out of control.

  Beth’s neighbour Pauline planned to take Stella with her to Rhode Island on a visit to see her children but the beach house didn’t take dogs, so she asked Beth at the last minute if it was OK to have Stella until she returned. It hasn’t taken Stella long to enjoy what Beth has to offer. A luxury memory-foam dog bed that Bailey used to use, is, I’m told, much better than what Pauline brought. Over-priced dog treats and biscuits from Whole Foods, all the outdoor space for running around. Endless amounts of attention. A new dog heaven.

  Beth offers me some soup, herbal tea, and those tasteless coconut slices she always has in abundance. Beth shows me her new bedding set and I let myself stretch out on it, admiring the detailed bedspread stitching. Like our teenage days, we end up cosying together, Stella insisting on lying between us, and we recap about the memorial, the sad state of my drunkenness and my later introduction to Karen, the new woman in Dave’s life.

  ‘I was trying to find you and didn’t see you anywhere,’ Beth says. ‘Then I got distracted in a conversation with one of your great-aunts, then one of your second cousins, you know, the one with the funny hair that looks like he’s got a fur hat sitting on his head. Well, he tried to talk me into agreeing to get him an interview at my company because he’s been laid off for a year, and then he asked me for my phone number, so I told him I had a boyfriend, but it was impossible to get rid of him. Next thing I hear is you screaming at that slime bag.’

  I try to explain myself but words don’t work, can’t begin to make sense of anything. Beth understands this and we fall into a comfortable silence. Stella, especially, understands this, reaches her paw and touches my chest. There, there, JoJo, it’s OK. My tears release again, but this time they’re short-lived. I continue stroking Stella, and when I stop, she prods me just a tiny bit again, reminding me to keep going. I’m a little child with my first ever dog and all I want are her cuddles. Oh, Stella. You are a good girl. I love you. Beth reaches across Stella and strokes my arm.

  In the end I agree with Beth that things are the way they are. How can it be so simple? I am impotent to change anything except what I have made for myself in London outside of the O’Brien world.

  ‘I think I just need to get back to London now. I don’t miss all the crap that’s going on at work but I sure as hell miss Jon,’ I say. For a second I tense at the thought of my supervisions with Nina. Lots of time has passed since that day she left my office in a huff and I know I’ll have to face her. How will it play out? Could Nina ruin me? And what if it happens again with some other charismatic student? Am I any better than some of those loser professors I’ve laughed about in the past, those middle-aged fools who wish they could turn back time? ‘God, I miss Jon,’ I tell Beth.

  ‘That’s home now, Jo. Jon is your home. And he’s good for you.’

  Beth is called away to sort out Danielle. I shout good night, ready to shut down for an early sleep. I take another long look at Shawn Mendes. He’s trying so hard with those eyes. If I could have five minutes with him, just five minutes. Oh, the things I could tell him about life.

  Soon afterwards I hear Stella push the door open with her nose and see her saunter over to the side of the bed. In the dim light from the hallway I watch her stare at me, her expression saying, Well, what did you expect? Did you think I was just going to leave you like that? Then with a hip, hop, skip and a jump, she’s up, circling awkwardly about three or four times, stepping on my legs, waiting for me to accommodate her. Soon enough we’re spooning, me behind her, my arm resting across her smooth torso, her chest moving up and down rhythmically. How is it she can smell so nice? Such a good girl. As time takes us into the late night hours every now and then I feel her shake and shudder as she grumbles through a dog dream or maybe a nightmare.

  ‘It’s OK Stella. There there, girl.’

  She exhales one last whimper and falls into a deep sleep.

  Twenty Six

  16 January 1993

  Hi Jo and Jon,

  Natural Bridge is just one of the beautiful sites on the island. This is our last full day here in Aruba and we’ve enjoyed every day. Sunny days and blue green waters. It’s heaven. I’m wearing a #15 sunblock so no sunburn. Weather at home is 28 and snowy.

  Love, Ma and Dad

  It’s quiet at the marina, probably because it’s a Tuesday, a late morning in mid-September, and most of the men, that’s usually who’s around here, are already out trying to nab a good catch for the day, hanging on to the last bits of an Indian summer. From the bench near the parking lot where we wait for a friend of Dad’s, a guy called Hank who’s offered to take us out on his boat, a light breeze picks up hints of ocean; the smell of distant seaweed, fish just caught and filleted, a suggestion of something like sulphur. There’s a sense of promise when you’re near the water, I think, that great, never-ending vastness beyond. Smell that, Jo. There’s nothing like it, that fresh sea air, my mother would have said when she finally found that perfect spot on the crowded beach and sunk into her chair. She’d close her eyes and say, Don’t you miss it? It took so little to ma
ke my mother happy. All she needed was her mind to take her to places like Aruba, where she sent this postcard from, where for two weeks the problems of life belonged to other people. Where the sunny days and blue-green waters would have promised to release her soul from all earthly responsibilities. Where she could enter the gates of heaven.

  At 75°F and the sun beating down on us, Jon lifts one of my father’s old baseball caps as he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘I can’t believe it’s this time in September and still so hot here,’ he complains.

  Dave laughs. ‘You Brits are wimps in a bit of heat. Just wait, it’ll all change soon. There’s talk about storms coming in.’

  ‘Luckily we’ll be gone by then,’ I say.

  Around eighteen months have passed since my mother’s death. In my middle-age that chunk of time can feel like a little hiccup, a quick skip of a heartbeat, before you remember that the weight of the world came stomping through your front door during that time and stayed for a long, unwelcome visit.

  My brother ended up ditching the burger franchise prospect he had considered so carefully with Karen. The application wasn’t so easygoing, he said, and the money needed for everything was more than he first assumed.

  ‘They want robots, Jo. That’s all they want, after they’ve taken all your money, and then they’ll screw you.’

  I wanted him to tell me more, so I pushed. ‘What do you mean, Dave, they’ll screw you? How exactly will they screw you?’

  He shouted, ‘They’re big conglomerates and they hate the little guy. They promise you the world if you work a hundred hours a week and hand over your soul just so they can spit it back out at you. That’s it. I’m done with that. No more to say.’ There were other, more realistic business opportunities though – a pizza place in town was selling up and just needed a fresh, modern approach. Who could go wrong making pizza, a low-cost product with high profit? Easy money in the bank, another no-brainer.