The Possibilities

by Kaui Hart Hemmings

  At the head of the roundabout is a wood-carved cub holding up his paw. Dickie insisted on this ubiquitous decoration to give the home a sense of humor. Apparently someone humorless chopped his head off. I’m not sure why all mountain home owners feel it necessary to have a wood carving of an eagle or a bear in front of the home. Maybe it’s the same thing as the fish-faced women—a kind of member’s badge.

  “I wonder if Suze knows,” my dad says. “Could be a vandal. My roofer.”

  “Or a drunk girl,” Kit says.

  “Ha,” I say, and feel a sense of relief.

  Two of the four garage doors open and all the lights in the home shut off. There’s an empty spot next to her war-starting SUV. I recall our fight, those old problems, with fondness. Suzanne waves me in.

  “Looks like we’re switching cars,” I say.

  “Why?” Billy asks.

  “She likes hers better. Actually, it will be way more comfortable with all of us.”

  “What is that? A GL550?”

  “I don’t know, Billy, God.”

  I pull into her garage. Everything is so organized. Wealth seems to buy order. She keeps waving me in, even though I know a red line of light will appear on my windshield, the garage sensor that tells you when to stop. She looks so little in here. How lonely it must be in this house.

  I turn off the engine.

  “She looks different,” Billy says.

  “How so?” my dad asks.

  “Dad,” I warn.

  “What? Billy can’t put his finger on it. I was going to suggest trying his foot or something larger.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” I say.

  “No, I get it,” Billy says. “Because she’s bigger, right?”

  “Bingo,” my dad says.

  “Stop it,” I say.

  “Not that much,” Billy says.

  “I don’t get why you have to keep harping on about it,” I say.

  “It’s just for fun,” my dad says. “I’m testing my creativity, that’s all. Like I did with that guy you used to date with the cross-eyes.”

  “He was not cross-eyed.”

  “I know, not really, but same thing with that one. Testing my creativity.”

  “Hardly,” I say. “All you’d ever say is, ‘Is he cross about something?’ ‘What’s he so cross about?’ It was lame.”

  “You think he thinks you’re a twin?” my dad adds.

  “That wasn’t funny either,” I say.

  “Or,” my dad says, “you think he’s seeing someone on the side?”

  Kit and Billy both laugh.

  “See?” my dad says.

  “I’m about to open the door to this car,” I say. “On the count of three we’re going to get out, switch cars, and not be creative.” I lower my voice. “We’re not going to discuss Kit being pregnant or anything about fat and body weight for the rest of this trip.”

  “What about Fat Boys?” my dad asks. “Can we talk about Fat Boys? They’re a kind of bike. Or Fatty’s Pizza.”

  “One, two—”

  “Or what about Fat Albert?” Billy says.

  “Kung Hee Fat Choy,” Kit says.

  I look over at her, so confused about how I should be feeling right now, and yet at ease with our clip.

  “Sorry,” Kit says. “Three.”

  We make the switch.

  • • •

  I DRIVE OUT of Shock Hill, then wind down toward town and Blue River.

  “Camp Gorgeous, booked it,” Suzanne says to whomever she’s speaking to on her phone. Devon, Ann, Fran, Skinner—one of her many girlfriends whom I’m not genuinely friends with. They all seem to take turns at spa-hab or “Camp Gorgeous,” as they call it, and they all speak like gossipy transvestites.

  “Yeah, Sarah’s here now with her band of brothers—I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  I roll my eyes at my dad in the back seat, but he’s on his cell too.

  “They don’t even do it,” he says to someone. Kit sits next to him and she’s actively listening as if part of the conversation. I see then that he turns to her while talking as if fact-checking. “But when the female makes her delivery, he creams ’em like eggs benedict.” He looks at Kit and she nods her head and mouths something. “Amplexus,” my dad adds. “It’s called amplexus.”

  I’m amused at their collaboration.

  “Yeah, great,” my dad says. “Just thought it was interesting. Good to know thyself and thy frogs.” He shrugs at Kit. She shrugs back.

  Billy’s in the third-row seat, working on his laptop. He has drive and ambition, smarts. I just wasn’t patient enough to wait for it all to surface. I used to envy Rachel early in their marriage, like she got something I was tricked into not wanting.

  Suzanne ends her call and sighs.

  “What happened to the bear?” I ask.

  “You know I never liked that bear.”

  “You chopped his head off?”

  She nods, her hands primly on her lap. “I tried but couldn’t. So I had Pablo do it. He had no idea what was going on. He was so worried he wasn’t understanding my English. ‘Chop off? Head off? No more head? ’ It was quite comical. Speaking of no more head, I need to get this over with.”

  She gets on the phone again. She’s the kind of person who has no problem carrying on phone conversations in front of strangers in small spaces where everyone is forced to listen. I know by her fake reluctance she’s going to call Dickie and that he’s not going to answer. What item of his has she managed to dig up? What excuse, need, demand?

  “Dickie, hi, it’s me.” She moves the phone away from her ear and holds it like a walkie-talkie. “I found your cufflinks in the pocket of my coat. I think you asked me to hold them or something at the Maroneys’ when you were arm wrestling their nephew. Seems like ages ago. Anyway, I have them. They’re very nice. I think I gave them to you for your birthday one year. Forty-fourth. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t looking . . . not a biggie. Call if you want. I’m off to see Morgan. I’m sure I’ll see you there . . . on your own. You’ll come alone, I’m assuming, since we’re going to a party your daughter is organizing. Okay. Bu-bye,” she sings.

  There’s a slight tremor in her hand as she ends the call, and inside of me, a sympathy valve twists wide open. She’s still very much in love, not just with her husband but with the life she had. She’s no longer a couple, and this was her identity for so long, just as my identity was being a mother. It hasn’t even hit me yet, their separation. I would always go out with them, a happy third wheel or sometimes with a date. They’d argue with one another in front of me, making me take sides. They’d ask about my dating life, and we’d talk about the new crop of divorcées. They’d set me up on dates, but the men Dickie was friends with didn’t find a toddler then later, a teenager, very appealing and most never set up permanent residence here anyway. I liked those outings with just the two of them. It felt like being with parents. They paid, they led the way, expressed concern. They were my adults.

  My purse is on Suzanne’s side on the floor. I reach down for one of Cully’s CDs and put it in. “Bring the motherfucking ruckus,” the rapper growls.

  “Okay!” my dad says. “Will do.”

  “So,” Suzanne says, “who are you?” She brings her mirror down to look back at Kit.

  “This is Kit,” I say. “You already know that.”

  “Yes, but who are you? Why are you here et cetera.”

  “She’s a friend . . . she helps around the house. We’re giving her a ride. She’s coming with us.”

  “Can’t she speak for herself?”

  “I wouldn’t if you were talking to me that way,” my dad says.

  “Something’s fishy,” Suzanne says.

  “What are you talking about?” I say. “Why do you have to turn everything into an episode of Matlock? Nothing’s fishy.”

  “Except fish,” my dad says.

  “I’m Kit,” Kit says.

  “Yes, I know t
hat. And I’m Sarah’s best friend.” She turns to Kit, who is looking lost, like a runaway. “We’re not, you know, life partners or anything. I bet that’s what she thought.” She hits me on the shoulder.

  “I didn’t think that,” Kit says.

  “Relax, I’m just fucking with you,” Suzanne says. “God, we’d look good together though, wouldn’t we? You’d be the trophy. I’d be Mrs. Payroll. Or we’d let ourselves go and just be butchy together. Buy matching fleeces. Maybe snowshoe to various huts. Don’t they snowshoe? Or curl. I could see lesbians getting into curling. Anyway, whatever, don’t ask, don’t tell.” She moves her hands like she’s conducting a symphony. “I’ll just sit back and relax. I don’t need to understand a thing.”

  “I’ve gone over it with you already,” I say. “We all want a little getaway. Kit needs a ride. She helps around the house and we’re giving her a lift to the eye doctor tomorrow.”

  Why did I just say that? Eye doctor?

  “I was worried there wouldn’t be enough room for all of us,” my dad says. “Seems to be a lot of junk in the trunk—”

  “This car is perfect for all of us,” I say.

  “It fits seven,” Suzanne says, thankfully not getting my dad’s joke.

  I stop at the light before turning out of town. A man crosses in front of Suzanne’s car, moving as if on stilts. The cuffs of his tight jeans are stuffed into his ski boots. He wears an American flag bandana on his head, blue sweatbands on his wrists, and a sweatshirt that says Let Freedom Rule.

  “Jesus Christ,” my dad says. “I think this is what Tocqueville meant by garrulous patriotism.”

  Kit’s the only one who laughs.

  When the man reaches the other side, my dad cracks his window and yells, “Excuse me, sir? You ever heard of the Overly Patriotic Act? An act passed by Congress banning excess use of flag fashion.” I press the gas, but my dad and Billy continue the little skit as we drive on.

  “You’re limited to two items of patriotic clothing,” my dad says. “Please remove your sweatbands, bandana, or T-shirt.”

  “I’d recommend the sweatbands,” Billy says. “They serve no purpose. Your wrists don’t appear to be sweating.”

  “Why aren’t you driving, Billy?” Suzanne asks. “You’re the big car person.”

  “I’ll drive whenever you want me to,” he says. “I’m just finishing something up back here. Dealing with this client—pain in the ass . . . ”

  “You’ll like this car,” Suzanne says. “It goes from zero to ohmygawd in five seconds.”

  “Lyle, what do you think of this?” Billy says. “This guy wants an old-school bobber, but he’s telling me he wants a single-sided swing arm. It’s just not working for me.”

  “Oh, like Dad knows,” I say.

  “I know,” he says.

  “Dad had this chopper,” I explain to Kit. “He had Billy put in a jockey shift and a suicide clutch. Why? So when someone asked if they could go for a spin, he’d say, ‘Sure, but it’s a suicide shift,’ making the person feel inadequate.”

  “It’s a test,” my dad says. “Only people in the know can—”

  “Except even you couldn’t figure it out! He was always stalling it, and whenever I came by and he was in the garage staring at it, he’d say, ‘It’s fine, just fine. Damn it, Sarah, give it a rest.’ ”

  “Give it a rest,” he says.

  “That’s funny,” Kit says.

  “If something’s funny, one should laugh,” my dad says.

  I smile to myself, not quite understanding the rhythm to all of us, to all of this, but preferring it over solemnity. I feel slightly free.

  I drive through Blue River alongside the lake and in between the fracture line of trees. On the stereo the rapper stops yelling and a slow song comes on, working like a kind of pacifier on everyone. I like the guitar, the soft horns, the male singer’s high falsetto. I move my shoulders away from my ears. Suzanne begins to sing, making up her own lyrics to the song.

  “Now I’m an old coug, my husband traded me in,” she croons.

  “Suzanne’s getting a divorce,” I explain to Kit. “She’s having a very hard time and I haven’t helped. I’ve been selfish.”

  “I guess you can be,” Suzanne says. “That’s the thing. You have everyone trumped.”

  “I can’t have that attitude forever,” I say.

  “But you can for now,” she says, and I’m grateful that the tension between us has subsided.

  “Dickie Fowler,” Suzanne sings, “I have your cufflinks.”

  “I read about him in the paper,” Kit says. “He’s not in the ski business. He’s in the steel, land, and lumber business.”

  “He said that?” my dad asks.

  “No, but in the article an ex-employee said he did,” Kit says. “Why are you getting a divorce?”

  I’m proud of her for being direct.

  “Oh, the usual,” Suzanne says. “Fatigue, boredom—on his part, and possibly a wandering penis.”

  “Well, his name’s Dickie,” Kit says. “That had to tip you off.”

  I laugh. She’s getting funnier, I’ve noticed, and the smooth way she delivers the asides makes me think she may normally be this way. She reads the newspaper, she is possibly funny, she touches the bridge of her nose when she’s nervous. There’s much more to her and I should know better: to not let the one-sentence story always be the thing that walks a few steps ahead. Like my lead-in: The Woman Who Lost Her Son.

  “My parents are in the process of getting a divorce,” Kit says. “It’s hard to see my mom go through it. I’m sorry.”

  Just like that, Suzanne is on her side. “Why are they divorcing?” she asks.

  “My dad evidently met the love of his life,” Kit says. “I think she was once an exotic dancer. Now she’s a sales rep for Red Bull. I’m serious.”

  “Last night Sarah and I saw Dickie with another woman,” Suzanne says. “She was black, not that that matters or anything. It just took me by surprise. You don’t see a lot of the blacks here—”

  “Oh my God, Suzanne,” I say.

  “Wish we did,” my dad says. “It’s part of the reason the ski business is experiencing losses. The generation today—what are they called? Whoever they are, they’re diverse, and skiing is the whitest pastime next to, I don’t know, antiquing, so unless we can get Lil Wayne in the half pipe, things aren’t looking good.”

  “How the hell do you know who Lil Wayne is?” Suzanne says.

  My dad doesn’t answer. I think of him watching shows with Cully downstairs, the clink of pool balls, the murmur of their voices, deep and happy. It’s become a memory of perfection.

  We wind up Hoosier Pass, the mountains close, touchable.

  “Anyway,” Suzanne says, “I’m very good friends with an African American couple so . . . ”

  “Yes,” I say. “A senator from DC who names his children after expensive towns. Hampton and what’s the other one?”

  “I forget,” she says. “Nantucket or something.”

  “Probably not Greenwich,” Kit says.

  “Look at you go,” Suzanne says.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” I say. “Your mom.”

  “Yeah, she’s got a lot on her plate,” Kit says. “Probably couldn’t take much more.”

  “She probably doesn’t have an entire town gawking,” Suzanne says.

  “My dad’s the chief surgeon at the hospital nearby,” Kit says. “Small town. My mom forces herself to leave the house. Not that I’m trying to compare. It wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t high-profile. It’s still painful. She’s still mortified. The new girlfriend has breasts that look like cannonballs.”

  “Of course,” Suzanne says. “They all do. But I apologize. I didn’t mean to compare.”

  Suzanne is chastened and so am I. You can’t compare and rank heartache. Pain is pain is pain. There is no precise measurement. No quarter cup.

  “This is beautiful,” Kit says, and everyone in the car seem
s to turn to their own thoughts as we descend from the pass, the mass of towering mountains regal and silent.

  I slow down when we reach the dead town of Alma. Cully and I would play our I Spy game here—whoever saw any sign of life would win. The song on the stereo seems to be going on forever, in a luxurious, slow-cooked way. It finally comes to an end and something different comes on, a tune that’s folksy and full of catchy energy. I love Cully’s mixes—their blend of old and new, things I like and things I don’t. I like that there are songs I know and songs like this where he seems to be showing me something new.

  “What is this?” I ask. “What are we listening to?”

  “I don’t know,” Kit says, when she realizes I’m talking to her.

  “It’s one of Cully’s CDs,” I say. “I thought you may have heard it before.”

  “You knew Cully?” Suzanne asks, and I realize my mistake, and my mistake in keeping so much a secret in the first place. That seems to be why everything goes wrong, thinking people care about the same things you do. You get yourself stuck in a self-made maze.

  I glance at her in the rearview mirror, nod my head.

  “Yes,” Kit says. “I knew Cully.” A long pause and then she says, “He liked the smell of fuel.”

  “Now that’s an odd recollection,” Suzanne says, giving me a look.

  “I’m into . . . smells,” Kit says, and I see her touch her nose. “And I just remembered, that’s all. Something he said once.”

  “What? What did he say?” I ask.

  “We were going up Boreas Pass. It was in August, just after I moved here. We were trailing a guy on his dirt bike. He said that he liked the smell of—”

  “Two-stroke exhaust,” Billy says.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Kit says. “I couldn’t remember the name.”

  I look at Billy in the rearview. He’s contemplative and comfortable. He meets my eyes.

  “You got here in August, so you’ll leave in June?” Suzanne asks. “That’s what all you kids seem to do.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll go,” Kit says.

  I watch her gazing out the window and wonder what she’s remembering. “What were you doing?” I ask. “When you were with Cully.”

  “Just going for a drive,” Kit says.