Every Moment After

by Joseph Moldover

  “No, you can say whatever you want.”

  “I mean, you were there . . .”

  “I was there, but I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember it?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Like you’ve repressed it or something?”

  “Repressing something means you remember and then you make yourself forget. I’ve never remembered, even right after. The police had all sort of questions for me, and I couldn’t answer any of them. It’s like my brain just never made a recording.” I shrug. “People get frustrated. They want to know things. Matt, for example. When we were little, he had all sorts of questions.”

  “He wasn’t in your class?”

  “He was, but he was home sick that day. His diabetes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  She shakes her head and cautiously returns to the mozzarella sticks, taking a small bite. “These are really good.”

  I nod. “They’re classics.” I take one too, bite into it, and study the bill hanging beside our table. “So you’re saying that you’re against gun control?”

  She pauses for a moment, and when I turn back to her, she looks confused. “I suppose I don’t know what I am.”

  We eat in silence for a few moments after that. It’s not awkward or anything; we’re just quiet and thinking. She finishes the mozzarella sticks and about half of her pancakes, then pushes her plate away and picks up the paper straw wrapper, twisting it around one finger. “Can I tell you something, Cole?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not sure that is my dream come true. Chicago, that is. An MBA from the University of Chicago. Where all the dominoes lead.”

  “No? So why are you doing it?”

  “It’s like the dominoes are just falling. They started falling a long time ago, but I wasn’t the one to line them up, and I wasn’t the one to knock the first one over.”

  “See how useful a good simile can be?”

  She smiles. “Very useful.”

  “Well, you don’t have to do it, do you? I mean, no one’s going to make you go.”

  “No. No one’s going to make me. Honestly, if I said I wasn’t, I think my parents wouldn’t even be particularly angry. Concerned, but not angry. Disappointed. It’s just—​for some reason, I don’t dare disturb the way things are ordered.”

  “ ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’ ”

  Her face lights up. “Now, Eliot, he’s always useful.”

  “He’s like a Swiss Army knife.”

  “I love the book.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Kathy comes over to see if we need anything else. Viola tells her that the mozzarella sticks were “extraordinary,” and Kathy laughs out loud and thanks her. I get coffee, just to make it all go on a little bit longer, and Viola gets tea.

  “What about after Haiti?” I ask her. “Are you going to be around much?”

  “I suppose I will. Working. Maybe going to Nantucket, if that winds up happening.”

  Yes, Nantucket. With Conrad. Yale-going, plane-flying Conrad. May his windshield ice over and a flock of geese fly into his engines.

  “You look blue, Cole. Don’t you want me to go to Nantucket?”

  I feel myself flush. “Do you want to go to Nantucket?”

  “Not particularly, but it’s not like being sent to the tenth circle of hell.”

  “No. There are only nine circles, anyway.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” she says sweetly. Kathy arrives with our drinks and with the check. Viola reaches for it. “We’ll split it.”

  I reach into my pocket and find nothing but my notebook. My stomach drops about three feet. “I forgot my wallet,” I say.

  “It’s no problem.”

  “I’m so sorry . . . I’ll call . . .” Matt should be over at Finn’s; I can run over and ask him for some cash.

  “No, Cole, don’t even worry about it. This isn’t a date; you don’t need to pay. You can get me next time.”

  I nod, not totally trusting myself to speak. I mean, we never officially established this as a date, but . . . and on the other hand, next time? All right; at least there’ll be a next time.

  We finish our drinks. I look out the window, over at Finn’s. The front windows need to be washed. Maybe Finn will have me do it this afternoon.

  “This has been nice, Cole. Thanks for introducing me to diner food. I almost lived in New Jersey for four years without experiencing it.”

  “That would be a record.” She leaves money on the table, and we get up to go. There’s an awkward moment when we reach the sidewalk.

  “I’m going this way,” she says.

  “I have to get over to Finn’s.”

  She looks across the street and nods. “Well, I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’ll swing by before you leave for Haiti.”

  “Sure.” She smiles. Then she extends her hand. I shake it.

  “Remember,” I say, “one pointless thing. Before I see you.”

  “One pointless thing.” She turns and walks away. I watch her go, and then I head over to work.

  Eight

  — Matt —

  Cole jumps a foot in the air at the sound of the first blast and looks like he half shit his pants. Another one goes off, and then another. He pulls himself together, looks at me with a hurt, pissed expression, and punches me in the arm. I feel bad for making him come here, even as I’m laughing at him.

  They didn’t do fireworks in East Ridge for years after the shooting, and then when they started, it was a really small, pathetic display. It’s gotten bigger every year, though, and rumor has it that this year they’re going to outdo themselves. I believe it as I watch the show start. The sky is filling up.

  I’m not a complete asshole. I know why Cole doesn’t want to be here, and it’s not just the crowds. But who knows? I might not be around next summer. I have a feeling I won’t be, and then who’s going to get him out of his house and down here to face his fears? Is he going to avoid crowds and fireworks for the rest of his life?

  “Hey, Cole?” I say to him, as the volley speeds up. “Cole!”

  We’re standing in the middle of a closed-off street, on the edge of the crowd, the park in front of us. People have brought blankets and coolers, and there are carts and trucks with ice cream, cotton candy, funnel cake. A bunch of kids run by, shooting one another with squirt guns. One of them gets me in the leg, and I go down on one knee, pretending to be hit. He looks worried for a minute, then laughs and shoots me in the face. I get back on my feet and look at my friend, who is absolutely miserable. It’s still hot, and he’s wearing jeans and his work boots.

  “Cole,” I say for a third time, “did I ever tell you about the first time I flew?”

  “No.”

  “So, I was maybe seven years old and we were going to Portugal or Peru or somewhere—”

  “Those are on two different continents.”

  “Whatever. I just remember that we had to fly all the way down to Buenos Aires at night . . .”

  “That’s in Argentina.”

  “Dude, whatever, listen, this is what I’m trying to tell you. The point is, I was so scared to fly. Dad had to wrestle me into my seat and buckle me in. I was crying and kicking and screaming and everything. So what do you think happened?”

  “You were the most popular passengers on the flight?”

  “What happened was that the plane took off, and flew to Brazil or wherever, and it landed, and we got off. Get it? We were fine. I was fine. And then I’ve flown a gazillion times since then, and I don’t even think about it anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s my point. If something scares you, you just have to go through it, and then it’s better the next time.”

  “I’m not scared. I just don’t like fireworks.” He glances up at the sky, then scans the faces around us. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  Cole sets off down the street, hovering on
the edge of the crowd, head down. I trail behind him, looking up. Pop-pop-pop, a series of little pink ones and then red, white, and blue screamers and a massive red spider arcing over everything. I love it. I’m not sorry to be skipping Luther Schmidt’s party. People are sighing and cheering and I trip over someone’s stroller and look down and apologize, and then when I look back up, there she is.

  I’ve thought I saw her so many times over the last ten days that at first I don’t believe my eyes. I’m always looking for her, waiting for her to come into the store, waiting to see if fate is going to bring her back, and just when I started to think that it wasn’t, here she is.

  She’s leaning against one of the barricades that’s closing down the street, talking to a young police officer with a crewcut. He’s a big guy; I know I’ve seen him around. He’s paying a lot of attention to her, and he says something, and she nods but also looks away from him, and when I see her face in the red light of a firework, she doesn’t look happy.

  She still has that white ribbon in her hair.

  I hurry forward and grab Cole’s elbow. “Do you know who that is over there?” I ask him.

  “Where?”

  “Don’t stare. The woman over there in the tank top, talking to the cop.”

  Cole goes ahead and stares, then turns away. “Yeah.”

  “Sarah Jessup.”

  “I know, yeah. So?”

  I shake my head. “She came into the store the morning after graduation.”

  Sarah is talking to the cop again. She reaches out, pats him on the arm, and walks away, into the crowd in the park. The officer watches her go. “Come on.”

  “Um, I’d rather—”

  “There are better food trucks over there, on the other side.” I hurry after her without waiting for Cole to respond.

  The first barrage of fireworks is getting slower, but all the people are still looking up. I weave in and out, stepping around picnic blankets and lawn chairs. I see her up ahead of me, walking fast, and I take my eyes off her for just a moment, and when I look back, she’s gone. Just like that. She had been making her way down a pretty straight row between people, and then a moment later, that row is empty. She must have cut off to one side. I stop and try to find her, but there are too many people. I curse and look over my shoulder to where Cole is trailing along.

  “Did you see where she went?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going over there to get some food.”

  Now I follow behind him, dejected. It’s stupid; I didn’t have anything to say. I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, and I wanted to talk to her again.

  We arrive at the food trucks, parked on another closed, crowded street running along the far side of the park. Cole goes to work; he’s always loved this kind of food. He buys a soft pretzel at one truck, then moves down the line and gets a hot dog, a funnel cake, and by the time he gets his cotton candy, the pretzel and half of the hot dog are gone. I get a can of lemonade with the only money I have in my pocket and then stand off to one side and dose myself with insulin while watching Cole go down the line. After all these years, I’m still amazed at how much the kid can eat. I don’t notice her coming up behind me.

  “Matt the fruit guy.”

  “Hi, Sarah.”

  She has a cone of cotton candy. A tuft of it is sticking to her cheek.

  “How’s the lemonade?” she asks.

  “Good. How’s the cotton candy?”

  “Delicious.”

  I nod, as if I’d always kind of thought that about cotton candy but never really known. I don’t have anything smart or funny to say. I take a drink.

  “God, that looks good,” she says.

  “Want some?”

  She considers for a moment. “I forgot my wallet and spent my last cash on this.”

  “I did the same with the lemonade. Trade?”

  “How about you just give me a sip of the lemonade?”

  “That works too.” I hand the can over. She takes a sip, pauses, looks at me, and then takes another. She tips her head back and continues to drink, eyes still on me over the rim of the can. It’s empty when she hands it back.

  “Glad you liked it.”

  She picks the cotton candy off her cheek and pops it into her mouth.

  “Do you like the fireworks?” I ask.

  “Not especially.”

  Her shirt has two fading, overlapping socks on it. “Red Sox fan?” I ask.

  She looks down. “I don’t really care about baseball. I think this used to be my boyfriend’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re a baseball player, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be the star of the team or something.”

  “I was the team captain.”

  “Does that mean you were the best?”

  “I don’t know. The other players vote, so . . .”

  “So, how are my Red Sox doing this season?”

  “They’re in first place.”

  The fireworks are building to a crescendo over the park. “I should get going,” she says.

  “Why’re you here if you don’t like fireworks?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t live far away. Walking distance. And there’s not a lot to do around here at night, is there?”

  “No, I guess there’s not.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Cole is hovering with the remains of his funnel cake. “Sarah, this is my friend Cole.” Cole shuffles alongside of me, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth and muttering something that might be “Nice to see you.” I put an arm around his shoulder. “Cole’s been busy trying to clean the trucks all out of food,” I say as I give him a squeeze. She doesn’t take her eyes off him, and I can feel him squirming under my arm.

  “You’re certainly taller than I remember you, Cole,” Sarah says. I wince, the image of my friend held in her father’s arms flashing into my mind.

  “Dude,” I say, “I’m thirsty and I’m out of cash. Want to grab us both something?”

  Cole blinks, nods, and quickly steps away toward one of the trucks. She watches him go, then turns her attention back to me.

  “So that’s Cole Hewitt, all grown up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I look at him and I see the picture.”

  “I think he hates that.”

  She shrugs. “We don’t get to pick how people see us.”

  “I guess not. Though it doesn’t seem fair that he’s stuck with something he didn’t have any choice in. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about it with him when he comes back. It makes him really uncomfortable.”

  She looks up at me, startled, and for a moment I think she’s going to turn and walk away, which is the last thing I want her to do. Second-to-last thing, actually. I won’t let anyone screw with Cole.

  Instead she asks, “So, what do you do when there aren’t any fireworks?”

  “Not too much, I guess. Hang out. I mean, maybe go into the city, but that’s a trip. Or go to the shore.”

  “Do kids still go to the lake?”

  “Sure.”

  “Still bring cheap wine?”

  “I think that wine tastes like month-old rat pee.”

  Cole reappears and hands me a Diet Coke. “Your friend gave me his drink,” Sarah says.

  “That was nice of him,” Cole replies. He probably wishes he could fade into the air.

  “I’m a nice guy,” I say. “Ask me for anything.”

  There’s a burst in the sky above us; red, white, and blue. Everyone else looks up. I keep looking at Sarah. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, and I don’t know why. She’s pretty, but that’s not it. I know lots of pretty girls. It’s something else. Something about the way she looked at me when she came into the store. She tugs at something deep inside me. I feel like she needs something, and I want something from her, but I don’t know what.

  She looks back down and catches me staring. “Go ahead,” I say, “anything.”

  She shrugs. “Do a
somersault.”

  Without saying a word, I hand her the can and do a backflip, landing in the street without needing to take a single step backwards. She stares at me. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Cartwheel.”

  I was probably eight years old the last time I tried to do a cartwheel, but how hard can it be? I go for it, spinning hard to my left, and more or less pull it off. My elbow screams as it takes my weight. This time she cracks a smile. Cole shakes his head.

  “Um—​walk on your hands,” she calls out.

  That I can do. I flip upside down and start to make my way along the street, blind because my shirt falls over my face, and then I collide with something hard and fall onto the pavement, landing on my knees. Looking up, I see the police officer Sarah was talking with by the barricade, and I quickly get to my feet.

  “Officer.” He looks at me without saying anything. I glance at the name tag on his shirt pocket. “Lucas. Officer Lucas,” I say. Now he grimaces.

  I’m not one of those people who has a problem with cops. I just don’t like it when anyone thinks they’re better than other people and like they automatically get to control a situation. That goes for my dad, it goes for teachers, and it goes for the police.

  The officer turns his attention to Sarah and to Cole. “Everything all right, Sarah?” he asks.

  She smiles and nods. “Of course, Jeff. Matt here is just horsing around.”

  Officer Jeff doesn’t seem amused. “I’m just going on break,” he says to her. “You want to get something to eat?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure . . .” She looks like she did back by the barricade. Unhappy; not just that, a little rattled. Scared would be too strong a word, but it’s in the right ballpark.

  “We were just leaving,” I say, dizzy from being upside down.

  “We were?” Cole asks.

  “Were you?” Lucas asks Sarah.

  Sarah nods. “I’m tired, and these gents were going to give me a lift home. The fireworks are giving me a headache.”