The Possibilities

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  “I could use someone,” I say. I reach for my wallet even though this could all be a ruse and she could take the money and run.

  “You don’t need to do that,” she says, when I bring my bag to my lap. “I’m not really serious—”

  “Believe me, things are crazy.” I rummage through my impractical bag that always brings me a frantic frustration. Energy bar, coin purse, receipts, crumbs. “If I don’t pay you now, then . . . oh perfect, I don’t have any cash. I can get some inside.”

  We stare at each other and it’s only mildly uncomfortable.

  She looks hungry. I could give her the energy bar. I could throw it through her window, but what if it hit her in the face? It’s a nice face—full lips, high round cheekbones, some sort of ethnicity perhaps. Or not. Beautiful girls are different now. They have reservoirs. I think of myself, blondes, as dead ends.

  “So,” I say, “come back tomorrow? I can pay you then?”

  She hesitates. Did she change her mind and want me to prepay? “Okay,” she says.

  Funny, Cully used to do the same thing. Take up his shovel during snowstorms, make an extra buck. I open the garage door with the clicker, comforted that my dad’s not in there gassing himself to death. Not that he would, but I don’t know anything about anything anymore. The girl still hasn’t reversed.

  “Okay, see you soon!” I say.

  She looks like she has something else to add. I buy her some time. “Come by whenever. If I’m not home I’ll leave the money up on the deck. Oh, and I don’t know if you’ve been to that house yet?” I point to the one on the left. She shakes her head. “Good. I’d bypass that one. German fellow. Intense. Screams at his kids. Curse words—the whole bit. He hammers nails into things, I think as meditation.”

  She smiles, slightly. She doesn’t seem like the other kids who move here. There are the arrogant, slacker types who don’t make eye contact and then the chipper types who could just as well be working as entertainers on a Disney cruise. She seems to be neither. Someone with something thoughtful and purposeful behind her eyes.

  “Sarah?” she says. “I mean, Mrs. St. John?”

  I turn down the stereo further down. “How did you know my name?”

  “TV,” she says.

  “Right.” I’m surprised she has seen my show.

  “I could start now if you want.” She lowers her gaze and I look out my window at the ground.

  “There’s not really a lot to do right now,” I say, sorry to say it.

  “Right,” she says.

  I hesitate, not knowing how to send her off, and look up at the house.

  “Actually, the deck is pretty icy,” I say, happy I found a reason to keep her. “Maybe you could start there.”

  Chapter 4

  When I come in my father is sitting on his spot on the sofa. Sometimes it seems he’s been sewn there. He moved in almost a year ago after he sold his house and I wanted him to take the time to find a perfect place. At first, real estate consumed us. We had fun looking at staged apartments and condos, collecting brochures. Then, there was less urgency. He was finding a routine with us. He and Cully went grocery shopping together. They’d snowboard on weekdays and play pool every night that Cully was home. They’d watch movies and their shows: sports, the Discovery Channel, and Wheel of Fortune. Neither of them had ever had another male in the house before and each other’s company seemed to complete something for both of them.

  Before he moved in Cully would often go over to my dad’s on Ridge Street, but it was different having him actually live with us. From my bed I could hear them downstairs playing pool or laughing at a skit on Saturday Night Live. There was a safety in the clink of pool balls, a sound that I very much miss. I didn’t know how much I loved it until now.

  After Cully’s death there were no attempts to find somewhere for him to live, and now I’m not sure if there will ever be.

  I look at the television and sure enough he has it on channel two. He can’t seem to get enough of the QVC. Two women are on the television talking about a television.

  “It comes into the room,” one of them says. She has tight curls and a large forehead. “It becomes a part of you.”

  It’s like watching a revival—the other woman throws her arms up in the air. I remember her from yesterday, shaking her head to demonstrate the power of a scientifically advanced hair product.

  I hang up my coat but keep my boots on. I look outside at the girl on the deck. I’ve armed her with a shovel and she’s looking at it like she’s never seen one before. She is not fit for this kind of chore.

  “They are so damn passionate,” my dad says.

  I look back at the television. “And animated,” I say. “It’s kind of astounding.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “And they can keep going. They just keep at it—the same product, their glee unwavering!”

  Their passion evidently inspires him so much that he has purchased many items including face-lift tape. After listening to seven testimonials my dad was convinced that not only would he look better, he would feel better. It would, as Cynthia the life coach testified, “Waken you, enliven you, and restore you to the person you really are.”

  After placing the order he realized he had just bought masking tape for three installments of $29.50. When it arrived he tried it, of course. He latched one end of the tape to his brow, the other to his hairline. When I walked in he had only completed one side, and it had a Jekyll and Hyde effect. One side, gloomy. The other, well, a bit gay. One side, knowing. The other, full of wonder. He had never done this before retirement, and after Cully’s death his purchases doubled.

  “How did it go today?” he asks.

  “Okay,” I say, looking at the women, how they’re reminding me of me, what I do. “Actually, it went horribly.” I recall my attitude toward everyone, my irritability. I felt like a character out of a children’s book. A dragon who’s nice on the inside but ugly on the outside so no one wants to play with her.

  “We had to talk about the new price for lift tickets. Dickie didn’t show up, but we—Katie—handled it.”

  “What are they up to now?”

  “One oh five.”

  “Balls, that’s harsh. That’s wild.”

  “I know.”

  I walk into the kitchen. He has left dishes in the sink and I load them into the dishwasher.

  “But alas,” he says, “no one should nor can complain. Balls, said the queen, if I had them I’d be king.”

  Here’s where he will launch into something that will leave me bemused, yet interested.

  “Complain about what, Dad?” I ask, paving the way.

  “The increase in the price of lift tickets,” he says. “If they want prices to be like they were in the old days, tell ’em to hang on to a piece of twine and be towed like a roped calf. They can have my wood hickory skis with the bear trap bindings and my boots that were made out of seal skins. Ha! Can you imagine all the asswads in their, in their uh, black tights and their Atomic boots—can you imagine them wearing my seals?”

  “No, I can’t imagine. Hey, so a girl is outside—”

  “Tell your viewers—” He looks back at me from the couch to make sure I’m still listening. “Tell them ticket prices go up because this is the way people wanted it.” He is yelling, but there’s a glimmer of joy in his eyes. He loves this sort of thing. “Gentrification: creating a gentry—asserting upper-class credentials through ostentation and glut.”

  I lean into the counter. “Glut?” I say.

  “Ticket prices are high because people want life here to be unaffordable,” he says. “The best is only the best when others can’t buy it. And you can,” he says, speaking to the imagined public, “because you’re blessed. Because you’ve worked hard. You want to top your friend’s vacation to Lake Como. You want to buy a mountain home in Shock Hill. Donate it for a week at your kid’s silent auction. And it’s your right. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of second h
omes. Tell ’em that.”

  “Wow, Dad, okay. Great points.” I smile, then resume my tasks, open the fridge. “Did you happen to go to the store? I didn’t go.”

  “And don’t forget to emphasize Breckenridge’s motivation,” he says, “which is always sourced in environmental, social, or cultural concerns. A Philip Morris tactic, right? Make cigarettes while creating a foundation—for the kids!—that helps people quit smoking.”

  “They got sued,” I say, “and you’re getting too worked up now. The fun is over.”

  “Breckenridge can do the same thing—convince people they’re cutting down the forest and raising prices and this will somehow benefit our ecosystem, sick kids, and the arts. Anyway, you should say something like that.”

  “Watch the next show,” I say. “Instead I’ll be talking about fur needs.”

  “Create a formula,” he continues.

  “Take your pulse,” I say.

  “People feel safer when things cost more. They will elect a higher price because it speaks to their high standards. There are so many ways to suggest what one should desire.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I suggest you desire going outside.” I walk out of the kitchen, glance out the window, then walk closer to him because I suspect he may be wearing the face-lift tape, but I don’t detect any. He just looks well rested. I sit down beside him. Though I have my complaints I don’t know what I would have done without my dad right there in my face every day following Cully’s death. He may feel the same way and I think our need degrades us a bit. We pretend it doesn’t exist through annoyance with one another’s habits, but without words we have forced each other to eat, get dressed, sweep the floor. There’s a decorum to our lives, some amount of decency. We eat meals versus cereal with a bottle of wine and some popcorn. We don’t pick our teeth and eat what we’ve picked. We don’t spend all day in our underwear. We put the garbage out. When I’m with him, watching The Biggest Loser doesn’t make me feel like one. I could be in Betty Ford without him. I like my wine. For now it brings me a little contentment, or something on the ladder toward it. Sometimes I think the abstemious need more help than the indulgent.

  “Hey, do you like those?” he asks.

  I look at the television, where a woman cuffed in silver bracelets insists she can’t tell the difference between the David Yurman jewelry and its cheaper imitation, Yavid Durman.

  “No,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t order them.”

  “I didn’t order them,” he says.

  “And you haven’t ordered anything lately, right?”

  He doesn’t answer, which means he has. I stand and the world around me twinkles with black stars. My insides feel soggy and mashed like canned chutney and I’m almost jealous of my dad. He is always nicely dressed in jeans and his favorite hooded sweatshirt, or sometimes a collared shirt. He’s clean-shaven, clean-smelling, roughly handsome, somehow debonair, but I guess this is perfectly attainable for a man. By looking at him you’d never know he was a bit off, a bit down, unless you knew that most days he woke up and groomed himself only to sit at home alone.

  “I hired a snow shoveler,” I say.

  “Why would you pay someone to do what I can do?” my dad asks.

  “I thought you could give her a hand.” I walk to the window.

  “Her?”

  “Yes. I felt sorry for her. Let her do it a few times. A lot of snow is coming tonight. She’s kind of here now.”

  “What?”

  “Come see.” I watch her jabbing the shovel into the stairs. I really should stop her, tell her to rest. “She’s scraping the stairs. Or trying to.”

  He walks up behind me. “Jesus, Sarah. Tell her to go home. Your fat friend is here. Suzanne.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Just kidding around,” he says.

  “She’s here? I didn’t see her car.”

  “Well, she’s downstairs. Look at her sweater over there.” He tilts his head toward the kitchen. “The one smothering that bar stool.”

  I look over at her salmon-colored sweater. “What about it?”

  “It’s the size BW. Know what BW stands for? It’s in cursive on the tag: Bountiful Woman.”

  “Why would you look at the size of her sweater? God, Dad, that’s like looking at the underside of someone’s china.”

  “Just wanted to know what I was dealing with.”

  I know he’s trying to make me laugh and annoy me at the same time. “I’m going to go down so we can clean up, make some room for you. Why don’t you go help this girl.”

  I look to the stairs, but now she’s up here on the deck. “Oh,” I laugh, embarrassed, but then I realize she can’t see me.

  My dad walks toward the door. “I’m going to tell her we don’t need her.”

  “Don’t!” I say and duck down for some reason, then look out again. She looks so serious, like she’s the bearer of bad news.

  “What if she’s on OxyContin?” my dad says. “The kids do that now. And cutting. And sexting. They lure in the pervs. What if she’s an axe murderer? A shovel murderer? She’s small, but so are ferrets, quick and sharp. Remember that roofer at my old place? Stole my sled and weed whacker though I guess I don’t do much sledding or whacking. That didn’t sound right,” he mumbles. “What do I care anyway? Steal my life.”

  “Don’t be weird with her,” I say.

  My dad opens the door, shields his eyes, and stands on the deck. “Hi there,” he says.

  I walk up behind him.

  “Hi,” the girl says.

  “I’m Lyle,” he says, extending his hand. They shake. “I’m Kit,” she says.

  I edge in next to my dad. “Kit here is going to help deice our steps and deck and—” I try to loosen some ice with the toe of my boot, as if helping.

  “I can see gravel,” my dad says. “I don’t think we need any shoveling today. Besides, shouldn’t you be doing something else? You’re too attractive for manual labor. Go ahead and pay your taxes so people can do this stuff for you.”

  I elbow him in the gut. Kit just smiles and takes a step back. She carries a black book.

  “Actually there’s a lot of ice here,” I say. “You’ve been wanting to chip away at it. Kit could help you.”

  Kit. Interesting name, one I don’t think I’ve ever heard before, except in books, perhaps, or that doll: Kit, the American Girl. Or Kit Carson. But he was a man.

  They look at each other, then at the steps. It’s as though I’ve suggested something they both don’t want to do. I don’t feel ready to leave them alone.

  “Can I get you any water?” I ask.

  “No, thank you,” she says.

  “How about a beer?” my dad asks.

  I look over at him, but he just widens his eyes at me, then looks away.

  “No, thanks,” she says.

  “I always offer,” he says. “It’s a little test I give to day laborers. If they say yes and take a few sips and finish it over the course of their work, then they were raised well and have a strong work ethic. If they sit on their ass and drink the whole thing, then they’re lazy and taking advantage of you.”

  “What does it mean if they say no?” she asks.

  “It means they’re a woman,” my dad says.

  I’m afraid this is the second sexist thing he has said within one minute.

  “Sorry,” I say. “He’s a bit . . . nuts,” but she doesn’t seem to be thrown at all. She holds up her hand, showing us her palm.

  “A callus,” she says. “From twisting caps off bottles of beer.”

  Good girl, I think.

  “Ever heard of a bottle opener?” my dad asks.

  She puts her hand back down by her side. “It’s gotten to the point where I want to maintain it,” she says.

  My dad laughs and so do I. We both look at her carefully as if she is somebody new.

  “The test continues,” my dad says, and I relax. “I see if they leave the can, ask for the trash, or ask for recycli
ng. Nothing pisses me off more than you kids who don’t recycle. We are a virus and this earth is one sick body and we will kill our planet. It’s a sure thing. People need to stop breeding.”

  She emits a sudden, hard cough.

  “Would you prefer to work on your own?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I could use some direction.” She smiles at my dad in a way that seems genuine and I can tell that he is won over. “I could use some muscle too,” she says. Sold.

  And so I leave them to it, going back in with the feeling of sneaking away as if leaving my child with a new babysitter. When I get back inside I look out the window at the two of them. I’m comforted and maybe just a bit perplexed.

  Chapter 5

  I walk downstairs and into Cully’s room. It’s a fluid, rehearsed move—I don’t think about it. I don’t break down upon entering. I don’t even flinch. It’s a room that needs to be cleaned, that’s all.

  “Hi, there,” I say to Suzanne. She looks great as always, boot-cut slacks and a cream shirt with leather patches on the elbows. Her short brown hair looks like it’s just been done, her bangs expertly sloping over the side of her face. “Hello, dear,” she says. “You look great.”

  She has put on one of his CDs. The rapper says, “Life’s a bitch and then you die.” I walk to the stereo and lower the volume, then change my mind and turn it back up. Life is a bitch and then you die. It’s the truest thing I’ve heard all day.

  “Hope it’s okay that I got started,” she says.

  “Of course,” I say. “Thank you. God, you look great.” I touch the ends of her hair. “I like it.”

  “Thanks. Just highlights. Upkeep.” She takes a shirt off the bed and holds it over her torso. “Love this,” she says. “Hog’s Breath Saloon.” She looks down at the hairy, globular hog on her chest. I look around to see what she’s done but don’t notice anything except for the clothes on the bed. I go to the chest of drawers to get more shirts. When Cully was young he thought they were called Chester drawers. I get a handful that don’t look clean. Cully would just stuff his clothes back in. They’re faded and soft and I bring one up to my face.