“I’m fine, Ma.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “How’s Matt doing?”
“Great.”
“How’s his arm?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“He excited about Bucknell?”
“I’m sure.” She’s worried about me staying behind while everyone else leaves home.
“Can we talk about something, Cole?”
Christ, why does everyone want to talk this morning?
“Sure.”
“Baby, did you give any more thought to what we discussed? To maybe taking a class in the fall?”
Mom started pushing this community-college idea about a week ago, telling me I should sign up for one or two courses and that I could transfer the credits later. She’d looked online and picked out a few things she thought would be good for me. That was when it hit me that she’s got to be feeling guilty that I’m staying here to take care of her.
“Not really. Um—no. I’m just, I’m not sure that’s what I want to do.”
She nods thoughtfully, like some kind of therapist.
“I’m going to try to pick up more hours at Finn’s. You know, when Matt leaves. He’ll need me.”
“Mr. Finn would love to see you taking a course or two. He’d make it work with your schedule.”
“I just haven’t thought about it much, Ma.” How does she know what Mr. Finn wants? “I don’t know. It’s not really on my radar screen.” The truth is that I can’t imagine going over to the community college while Matt heads to Bucknell and Viola flies out to Berkeley and everyone else goes to other places you’ve heard of.
“There’s no pressure, baby. I just want you to think about it.”
“I will.”
“Do something for me?”
“Yeah?” I know what she’s going to say.
“Do one little thing today?”
The French toast in my stomach turns to cold cottage cheese. “Yeah. I’ll do one little thing.”
“Just something.”
“I will. I already took a walk, didn’t I?”
“You did. All right.”
“And I’m going to a pool party at Matt’s tomorrow.”
“Wonderful! I’m so glad to hear it. More French toast?”
I shake my head. She reaches over anyway and puts two more pieces on my plate, then squeezes my hand and turns to the dishes.
I’ll have to find a bathing suit. I don’t think I even have one that fits, come to think of it. I don’t go to a lot of parties. It’s one more difference between Matt and me: he goes to the parties; he has the parties, while I’m trying to figure out what to wear. Generally speaking, actually, I never even know that there’s a party going on.
I poke the French toast and notice that there are fresh flowers in a vase on the table. Rosa . . . my father’s voice tells me but can’t come up with the species. I look at them and take a bite of food.
“Is there coffee?”
“I’ll make some, baby.”
“Thanks.”
It would be so easy to retreat. To go up to my room, with the notebooks and the binders, with the countless pages of quotes copied from overdue library books that are still piled by my bed. Go to that place inside me, alone.
There’s something beyond that, though. Beyond the wall of wherever it is. Something normal and good. I need to see it.
I’m going to take a shower, I’m going to find something to wear, and tomorrow I’m going to go to that party. It’ll be my last chance to see Viola before she leaves for her trip, and I’m going to make it count for something.
I keep looking at the flowers, and before I know it, I’ve cleaned my plate. It makes Mom happy.
Ten
— Matt —
I wake up on the floor, a couch cushion under my head, some sort of shawl or something covering me. The glowing hands on my watch say it’s 8:15. Sunlight is coming in around a window shade. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, and another to realize that the watch is the only thing I’m wearing.
Cole would be pissed.
I roll over and raise myself up on one arm. Sarah’s sacked out on the couch, her back to me, wrapped in a sheet. I push myself the rest of the way up onto my knees and pull it off her. She wakes with a start and rolls over, eyes wide. Then she smiles.
“Good morning.”
I bend over and kiss one perfect nipple.
She pushes me away and stares hard, the way she did last night, the way she has every time I’ve been here over the last few weeks. She looks at me like she’s trying to make a decision. Then she kicks the rest of the sheet off, hops off the couch, and tousles my hair as she leaves the room. I get up, wrap myself in the sheet like a toga, and look around.
Four times. I’ve been here four times since July Fourth. And this is my second time spending the night. I still barely know what her house is like. I open a shade halfway to let in some light. Specks of dust float across the sunbeam. I lean over, cracking my back and my neck, gingerly flexing my arm, and then stroll around the room.
It looks like she just moved in. No pictures, no little . . . what do you call them? Knickknacks, right? My mom has a million of them. A souvenir from every place she’s ever been. This place is clean, though. Everything has a shine. It’s just undecorated in the extreme. I should give her something, maybe, but what would she want? I have no idea.
Her father came back here that day. He carried Cole out of the school and then, eventually, this is where he came. Took off his badge and his boots, washed off whatever was on him. He was right here, in this room.
“Showing yourself around?”
She’s standing in the doorway, wrapped in a bathrobe, holding a coffee cup.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “You don’t have much stuff, do you?”
“Travel light.”
“I guess. This is your house, though.”
“This is my dad’s house.” She sips her coffee and looks around the room as though she’s seeing it for the first time. “It wasn’t always this way. We used to have lots of things in here. Well, Dad, mostly. It was all his things. His pictures. His Nets stuff; he loved the Nets. Signed balls and framed jerseys. It’s all boxed up in the basement. You like basketball?”
I shake my head.
She shrugs. “Well, maybe I’ll just donate it.” She looks around again.
“You should put something on the wall. Hotel rooms are more decorated than this.”
“Yeah. I should.”
“I mean, a poster, something.”
She smiles, shrugs again. “I know. I just—I don’t know what I want.”
“Just get a picture of something you like.”
She takes another sip from her mug and then looks at me for a long moment. “Maybe I don’t know what I like.”
“Do you like me?”
She raises her eyebrows and sets her mug down on a table. “You’re all right.”
“You thought I was better than all right last night.”
“I said, you’re all right.”
“Okay. I’ll take it.”
She looks at me for another moment. “Lose the sheet.”
I lose the sheet.
Forty minutes later, I’m jogging down her street, late for work. I’ve been parking a few blocks away from her house. She seems to want it that way; embarrassed that I’m so young, I guess. I climb into the truck and start the engine. I could really use a shower, but Finn’s expecting me. Maybe I should have called Cole last night and asked him to cover for me at the store, though he’d have been pissed as hell if I’d told him why. Cole’s been in a black mood for weeks while Viola’s been away. I think she gets back soon. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. Give him a chance to do better than he did at the party.
Christ, the party.
I mean, at least he came. And I’m glad he came. Cole’s unpredictable that way. But . . . polka-dotted swim trunks? That’s what he wore. Black, with pink polka dots. They were brand-new; I ha
d to peel the sticker off the back of one leg.
It was a good night, nice and mellow. Not too many people came, but enough. We had music, no drinks because my parents were home, but still, people had a good time. Luther was there doing cannonballs all night long. I didn’t think there’d be any water left in the pool. Chris came, which was cool. I’d even called the Gerbers to see if there was any way Paul would want to come, but his mom said he’s still not ready for something like that. She seemed really happy I’d asked, though.
And Viola came, which was the important part. She was leaving the next day for this big trip somewhere—Honduras, I think—but she came anyway. I’d told her that Cole would be there.
I will say this: He did a better job than he did at Project Graduation. He actually talked. To her. While looking at her. For a while, I was really proud of him. He even took his shirt off and got his pale, skinny ass into the pool.
And then things were winding down. The girl she had come with had to go, but Viola decided to stay, and it was as clear as anything could be that she wanted Cole to give her a ride home. Could. Not. Be. More. Obvious. To me, I mean. And anyone else with eyes.
Not to my best friend, though. Not to Cole.
So finally, I took him aside and I was like, “Dude, you should give her a lift home and maybe something’ll happen. You know? Like, ask her if she wants to go for a drive. Maybe go out to the lake.” I swear, she was giving him an open invitation.
And what did he tell me? That he had to get home, he was expected at home and had to get up and work the next morning, and he got all flustered and red. To be honest, he looked scared. He looked like the kid who’s getting sent in as a reliever in the ninth inning and knows he doesn’t have his stuff. He left without even saying goodbye to her, so I wound up driving her home myself.
Hopeless case.
I pull into the driveway behind Finn’s and find that Cole’s Volvo is there too. I go in, and he’s cutting a box of bread open.
“Cole, what are you doing here?”
He looks up, surprise and annoyance on his face. “Uh, working?”
“I’m working this morning.”
Cole straightens his back and shakes his head. “Not according to the schedule.” He points to the whiteboard on the wall. He’s right.
“Damn. I could have stayed in bed.”
“Morning, boys. Scheduling mix-up?” Mr. Finn is standing in the doorway behind us. We both nod. “Matt, why don’t you help Cole get all this unpacked and onto the shelves, and then you can take off. And Cole, that way you can knock off an hour early this afternoon.” He winks and exits through the swinging door to the front of the store, whistling off-key.
“I could have really used that hour, Matt.”
“Oh, Christ, will you chill out? It’s one hour. I’ll give you eight bucks or whatever it is we’re making here.”
“Fuck you.”
I’d been tying my apron on, but now I stop and look at him, because he actually sounds like he means it.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That was a shit thing to say. I can go; you can have the hour—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I’m sorry. I am. I was honestly confused about the schedule. I wasn’t home last night, and I didn’t have my copy with me.”
Cole shrugs and shakes his head. “Let’s just get this done.”
We bend over a crate, emptying it, working in silence for a full five minutes before Cole asks, “Where were you last night?”
“Sarah’s.”
“Do your parents know?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, but it’s not a secret, so I guess they’ll find out, right?”
I’m actually not sure about the secret thing. Like I said, she wants me to park on another block and we’ve only ever been to her house, never anywhere out in public. Still, I’m eighteen years old. I can do as I like; my parents have no right to object. They’ll be worried about the age difference, sure, and Dad will probably want to have an awkward talk, but I can get through that.
Cole attacks another crate, cutting too deep and ruining a package of English muffins. “So, are the two of you, like, dating? Is she your girlfriend now?”
I laugh out loud, see him wince, and wish I could take it back. “Sorry. I’m just laughing because it’s a funny idea. The girlfriend thing.”
Well, what is she, anyway? I can’t come up with a word that seems right. Lover? That seems like something out of a movie. I don’t want to think that we’re just screwing, though.
“I don’t know, Cole. I don’t get her.”
“What don’t you get?”
“I mean, I don’t know what she’s doing. With me, you know? She’s a lot older than me, and I’m pretty sure there are other guys who are into her.”
Cole shrugs. He’s probably the last person in the world I can get advice on this sort of thing from. “Maybe she’s just having a good time?”
That’s the obvious answer, but it feels like she’s more serious than that. Still, she’s never said anything serious. She’s never said anything about being in love, the way Rosie did. She’s never mentioned anything beyond the end of this summer. We’re not a couple. It would be weird to walk down the street holding hands.
“You like her?” Cole asks.
“Yeah.” I do. I already want to see her again, and I’m seriously mad at myself for wasting the chance to stay at her house when I didn’t have to come in here after all.
We go back to work on the boxes. Five minutes later, Cole manages to slice his own thumb with the box cutter. It’s not a bad injury, but it bleeds, and Mr. Finn seems nervous about it. They wash it and wrap it in a paper towel and tape, but it soaks through quickly, and Finn sends Cole home for the day.
I start to carry the fresh produce out to the front of the store. Mr. Finn catches me by the apples.
“Matt, does Cole seem all right to you?”
“He’s fine, Mr. Finn. It’s not a deep cut.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, from an emotional standpoint. He’s seemed a bit dour these last few weeks.”
Yeah, I’d have to say that dour is about right for Cole.
“I think he’s just, you know, he gets down sometimes.”
“Hmm.” Finn studies the fruit and strokes his Adam’s apple. He’s a funny guy, sort of old-fashioned and quirky. He’s wearing a tie-dyed vest over his T-shirt. He strikes me as an aging hippie who thought it would be groovy to open a little store in a little town, then got stuck here for a couple of decades too long. “It must be a difficult summer for him.”
I shrug. “I think he’s all right.”
“The significance of it.”
“Of summer?”
“Of this summer. Graduation. All of you growing up, leaving home. It’s brought it back to me, you know. Things I haven’t thought about in many years. And he’s facing it without his father. I wish I could be more help to him. He just seems . . . stuck, I suppose. Bogged down.”
“I think Cole’s going to be fine, Mr. Finn. Cole is Cole. He does things at his own speed. He’s going to get moving again. He’s worried about his mom, mostly, but once she gets better, he’s going to pull it together and leave. I bet he’ll be gone this time next year.”
He nods thoughtfully but doesn’t look convinced as he studies the avocados. He picks one up, squeezes it gently, and then holds it to his nostrils and inhales. “I hope you’re right. I think that he and his mother need some space from each other.” He puts the avocado down and begins to turn away.
“Mr. Finn?”
“Yes?”
“Where were you that day? Were you here, in the store?”
“I was. Of course I was. I don’t often talk about it. I suppose I don’t like to.”
No one likes to. That’s why I have to dig it out of them.
“How did you find out?”
He leans against a bin. “The radio.” He pauses. “And do you know,” h
e continues, “that Stevie Abrams’s mother was also here? She came in every week to do her shopping. And she was here that day, just like any other day. She spoke to me about their summer plans. They’d just rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard. She was very excited.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then Mark Orlinsky came in, out of breath. Do you remember Mark?”
“No.”
“He was the mailman for many years. He’s retired now. He came in and told me to put on the television. Well, I’ve never had a television, but I put on the radio, and we stood there at the front of the store together and listened to NPR. At first, I thought it must be a different East Ridge they were talking about. I’d heard sirens, of course, but just the week before, there had been that big fire over in Wynnewood. No one remembers that. It was a five-alarm fire, and so for whatever reason when we heard all the sirens again, we thought it was a fire.”
I don’t remember anything about a fire. I do remember the sirens, though. I was in bed, reading comics, and even in my room, I could hear sirens in the distance. I could hear my mom moving around the house, the TV go on and then off, and then she was on the phone and I could tell she was upset, and she came and shut my bedroom door.
“Mark and I stood and listened to the radio,” Mr. Finn goes on, “and at some point I looked up and saw Mrs. Abrams standing there at the end of aisle three”—he nods toward the spot—“with a look on her face that I’ll never forget. She was listening and holding on to the handle of her grocery cart so tightly that her hands were shaking. I said something to her then. I said: ‘I’m sure that Stevie’s all right,’ something of that sort. But she didn’t say anything; she just shook herself out of her trance and ran out. And I will tell you, son, that she never came back. I can’t quite recall when she left town, but I never spoke to her again.” Finn puts the avocado down and sighs, looking up at a flickering fluorescent light. “I’ve always regretted saying that. Always regretted telling her that he would be okay. I had no right to do that.” He finally looks at me. “I’m sorry. I don’t talk about this very much, but having you boys here brings it back.”
You boys. Like we’re in the same group.
Every Moment After Page 16