Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  Sid leaves to get some, and Maggie and I lay out tableware while he’s gone. We also find a table for gifts, and from somewhere Maggie produces a basket with a ribbon on it. She places it at the end of the gift table, and she puts a little sign in front of it. The sign says DONATIONS.

  I’m trying to hide the redness in my cheeks. “There’s the GoFundMe that someone started, and . . . I don’t feel right asking for money.” I don’t look at her.

  She takes me, very gently, by the shoulders and smiles into my face. “People want to help, because they want to make things better—any way at all. And you’ll need it . . . someday.” She looks like she doesn’t want to say exactly when. “So let them give you something.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze. “People don’t like feeling helpless.”

  I think Dad wins the helpless prize, but I stay quiet.

  When she realizes what she’s said, it’s her turn to blush.

  I put up pictures of Dad on the walls with pins—which I did remember—while Maggie talks to the off-duty lifeguard. Sid comes back into the Beach House with tape right as his mom’s getting out some folding chairs to put around the tables. “Where’s the ladder, Tobin? We’re in the streamer business!”

  “I’ll find one.” Maggie scurries off.

  She pulls one from a broom closet, and we get to work. The ladder is high enough to reach the top of the vaulted ceiling, if you stand on the top rung and hoist the streamers up on top of a broomstick. Sid manages it while I hang on to the ladder and keep feeding him streamer starts. Maggie stands at the edge of the room and twists, then tapes them to the top of the wall. We make an awkward but cheerful umbrella of red.

  Larry walks in from the beach, where he’s been setting up a few more tables and chairs. “It’s gonna be dark. Nobody will notice they’re weird.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Sid hops off the ladder and throws the roll of tape at him.

  Larry catches it and throws it at me. “It looks great, guys. Seriously.”

  I check my phone. It’s already 3:39. “I’ve gotta jet, so Ike can go and get the booze. Thank you three for helping me.”

  A pit opens in my stomach. It’s huge, Lake-Superior–sized, and threatens to gush out all the weird feelings I’ve had about this party.

  Maggie saves me with a quick hug. “We’ll see you after five.” Sid hugs me, too, quick and gentle like he’s hugging someone else’s grandma, and Larry pats me on the head, like I’m six.

  One lifeguard comes inside as another one goes out back to the beach. “Looks good.” He grins, a California-blond surfer dude somehow transported to a Great Lake.

  When I burst into the house, Ike and Dad look at me like I’m from another planet.

  “What’s the rush?” Ike is brushing my dad’s hair, getting it into its traditional Steve swoop. My dad still has some pretty amazing hair, though there are silver threads among the gold now, which is new since March.

  “You told me to be home by 3:30, and it’s 3:50 now. I didn’t want you to be pissed.” I’m sweaty from setting up and already exhausted.

  “All is well.” Ike smiles. “Doesn’t your dad look great?” He points at Dad with the brush. “New duds and everything.”

  He’s got on a new red polo shirt and a nice pair of khaki shorts, with a pair of flip-flops that look like they’re from 1978, but hey, he’s not going to be walking on them. He looks like a wasted-away runner, which is what he is. But he’s smiling.

  “I’m gonna be fifty tomorrow, and tonight’s gonna be a great party. That’s all I . . . care about.” His eyes are full of tears, but they don’t fall. His voice is wheezy and weak, so I have to come close to hear him. I have no idea how he’s going to muster enough energy to talk to a hundred people.

  Ike puts down the brush and walks around my dad in his chair. “All right, dude, you’re as handsome as I can get you for now. Gotta go get some booze so we can have a real fiesta.” He holds out his fist, and my dad bumps it, big grin still intact. Ike heads out the front door.

  “You okay to stay down here by yourself, Dad? I need to take a shower.”

  He gives me a thumbs-up. “Can I have my laptop? I want to put a few more things down . . . in your book, before I forget.”

  I hand him his laptop, and I race upstairs to take a shower and get ready.

  He can’t type anymore. I know he can’t.

  When I come back down fifteen minutes later, my dad is sobbing, and his hair’s a mess, like he’s been punching himself in the head. My guess is he was trying to run his hands through it, which he used to do when he was thinking. Emotion storms get really bad if he’s alone.

  I move the laptop, grab the brush, and start on his hair again. Sometimes repetition will soothe him. “What’s up, Dad?”

  He can’t talk, he’s crying so hard. I stop brushing and put the Kleenex box in his lap. He takes a couple, which takes a minute, with his hands.

  Brush, brush. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Honk. Blow. “This is my last birthday.”

  “What do you think Stephen Hawking would do about that?”

  Honk. “No idea.”

  “He’d make it the best damn birthday party anyone ever had on Park Point.” I keep brushing, even though my hands are shaking almost as badly as his are.

  Honk. Blow. “Good point.”

  “I’m smart like that sometimes.” Brush, brush.

  His breath is hitching, like he’s three and is just finishing a tantrum, which I suppose he kind of is. His poor brain.

  “Shall we go outside and wait for Ike?”

  A hitching sigh. “Yeah. Let’s look at the lake.”

  I take him out the back door and park him on the porch. The day is really bright and clear, but the sunlight’s already got more than a whisper of autumn in it. Lake sparkles glitter along the shore. She’s clear, calm, and thoughtful.

  He brings the Kleenex box, and goes through a couple more as he pokes at his face and blows his nose. He studies the lake hard, like it might disappear if he takes his eyes off it.

  Ike finds us out there about ten minutes later. It’s 4:30.

  “Time to party!” If Ike sees it, he doesn’t mention the pile of Kleenex in Dad’s lap, which I scoop up and pitch in the garbage. “Let’s get you into the car, Steve. Tobin, you probably want to grab some containers to put the leftover food in.”

  “Good point. You’re the best housewife ever, Ike.”

  He grins. “Someday I’ll get to stay home with the kids and my sugar mama’ll bring home the cash.”

  Ike pushes Dad down the ramp and settles him into the front seat while I bring out a bag of containers. My camera case was waiting by the door, so it’s over my shoulder now. I tucked my action figures into the side pockets, just in case.

  Dad’s breathy, quiet voice drifts over the seat to me. “Hey, Tobin.”

  “What?”

  “A woman was standing in front of a judge for beating her husband with his guitar collection.”

  “Okay . . .?” I hope this is a joke.

  “The judge said, ‘First offender?’ And she said . . . ‘No, first a Gibson. Then a Fender.’”

  Ike laughs so hard he swerves, and a car honks at him. There’s not much room to move out of the way on our narrow street.

  “Nice one, Dad.”

  He chuckles a wheezy chuckle. “I’ve still got it.”

  When we get there, the parking lot is nine-tenths full, and it’s not even five. People are walking up the hill in twos and threes, chatting to themselves. There’s a big truck with a cartoonish-looking mallard duck on its side, and the words LUCKY DUCK CATERING are painted over his head. He’s got a four-leaf clover in his bill.

  Because he’s a strongman, Ike doesn’t need my help pushing Dad up the hill, so I go ahead of them to make sure things are in place.

  It’s packed. The place has a pleasant, low hum from all the chatter. Gifts rest on the table, even though the invites clearly said no gifts, and a huge stac
k of envelopes and cash lean in the DONATIONS basket.

  Ike wheels Dad into the door, and a cheer goes up. People are careful not to swarm him, but they’re definitely waiting to talk to him, shake his hand, wish him well.

  Sid’s been pouring pop along with beer from the keg that Ike delivered, even though he’s technically too young to serve. Dad has plenty of cop friends, so I hope they’re not here. If they are, I hope they’re looking the other way. Sid’s having fun. People are complimenting him on his lack of foam.

  He’s already got Ike’s booze delivery arranged, too, which he shows off to us. “The wine’s on ice there, the glasses are here, the ice is there, the extra bottles are over here, and it’s all ready for you, Ike.” He smiles. “I’m tempted to put myself through college as a bartender.”

  “There are worse ways to roll.” Ike walks behind the table and Sid steps out. “Thanks for minding the store while I was fetching the guest of honor.”

  Sid turns to me. “Anything else in the car?”

  I put the camera case behind the bar. “I forgot the food containers, for leftovers.”

  “I’m on it, provided you share the leftovers with me.” And he’s out the door.

  I look around the room, and there are tons of people I know, and tons I don’t. Gracie is watching me, standing with her brothers and her parents, across the room. I wave at her. Her face breaks open, and she waves back. I blow her a kiss. She does the same. I start to move toward her, but there’s a hand on my elbow, so I have to talk to someone else. I blow her one last kiss before I turn away. She nods. It’s enough for now.

  Lucky Duck’s owner, Anne, is the person gripping my elbow. She’s a friend of Allison’s. “Everything look good?”

  “Yes, for sure! Thank you!” She gave me a really good deal on the food, so even if it sucks, I have to say yes, but it won’t.

  “Your dad’s partner, Rich, provided the absolute best cuts of meat to serve tonight. It was so nice of him. The pulled pork is awesome, as is the roast beef.” Anne glances over to where Dad is, a circle around him of well-meaning friends, shaking his hand and talking to him. “Your dad holding his own?”

  “He’ll probably sleep for a week after this party, but that’s not all bad.” I had no idea Rich helped with the catering.

  Her face is very serious. “Allison told me he’s failing fast.”

  I keep the smile on mine, even though my insides are curling up. “Thanks again for catering.” And I walk away.

  Anne’s workers have set up their food along the south wall, opposite the bar, and they’re ready to go. There are five of them, with duck aprons on, and the tables look ready to feed thousands. A huge cake in the shape of an ambulance sits at the end of the food. I have no idea how they’re going to cut it.

  Everything seems to be handled, from eats to decorations to drinks. The tornado is still sitting on top of my head, but I shove it away. What’s not done doesn’t matter.

  A hand lands on my shoulder, and I whirl around. It’s Paul.

  “How’s it going, Voyageur? Hanging in there?” He sweeps his hand around the room. “Looks great. You should be proud.”

  “I . . .” And then I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. I can’t see.

  Paul notices the panic come over my face, and he propels me out the back door, to the beach. I let him.

  When we get outside, Paul guides me down the path toward the lake’s edge. Once we’re off the dunes, he lets go of my elbow and turns me to face him, with gentle hands.

  “Doing okay, honey?”

  I lose it.

  My whole body sags into Paul’s arms, and I shake. And shake. Silent, convulsive sobs rip out of my center and fly into the air. But then there’s noises, like an animal being attacked. And then there’s silence again. My body never stops heaving.

  There’s a splash behind me. I know it’s the world’s ugliest, smallest, blackest heart leaping out of the water, from the deepest bottom of the lake. It slams into my back and claws its way into my body, which makes me stumble to my knees.

  Paul kneels, too, and he holds me while the storm attacks. He doesn’t say a word.

  It’s about 6:30, and there are at least a hundred and fifty people here. They ran out of food about ten minutes ago, with the exception of cake, which they just cut. But nobody’s crabby. Dad’s parked himself by the end of the table with the cake on it, and he’s greeting people while Ike is trying to feed him in between conversations. They’re getting crumbs all over everything. Ike’s doing it fast, swooping in during quiet seconds, so people don’t gawk any more than they have to, but Dad doesn’t seem embarrassed. For once. He’s radiating happiness.

  My eyes are still red and puffy, and I cried off all my makeup. But nobody’s asked me what’s wrong. If they have to ask, they probably shouldn’t be here.

  My whole body hurts, like I’ve been tossed up and thrown back to Earth by the tornado inside me. But I also feel less freaky. Stronger.

  That’s new.

  I put my hand on my chest, and my heart is beating there, after the storm.

  When I grab my camera from behind the bar, I start with casual shots, but everyone wants to pose, like they would at a wedding instead of a man’s last birthday party. Then Ike helps me set up the action figures so they’re having a drink at the bar.

  Then I hear a trumpet.

  Maybe it’s an angel, coming to take Dad.

  Then a flurry of color and noise comes in the door, followed by Rich and Dad’s ambulance buddies.

  It’s a fucking mariachi band.

  Dad grins from ear to ear, Rich hugs him, and this fiesta amps up to a thousand.

  The mariachis start playing songs that are impossible not to dance to, and women take Dad out on the dance floor in pairs, twisting and rolling his chair, one dancing in front of him, and one behind him, steering the chair. At least eight different pairs of women try it out, and then Ike and Rich do the same thing, and my dad can barely breathe, he’s laughing so hard. People are dancing around Ike and Rich and Dad, everyone cackling and giggling, and it’s the happiest thing I’ve seen in my life. I take so many photos.

  The mariachis stop for some cake and beer, which sounds gross to me, but it’s all we have. The catering women are gone, and the food containers I brought never got used.

  Rich comes over to me, sweaty and smiling, arms out wide. I fold myself into his big hug.

  “What do you think, pequeña? Una buena sorpresa, si?” He’s fading in and out of Spanish, which is fine. I know enough to understand him.

  “Muy bien, Rich. Muchas gracias a million times. And why meat? I didn’t know you were helping with the catering.”

  “A Mexican fiesta always has supreme cuts of meat. It was my honor.”

  “You’re the ultimate, Rich. The absolute best.” I hug him again. “Muchas gracias. I can never repay you.”

  “Te quiero, mija. You’re my little girl, too.”

  I give him one last squeeze, so he can’t see the tears in my eyes, then I give him a shove toward my dad. “Go hang out with your rig partner.”

  “Si.” He goes, but not before I see the tears in his eyes, which makes me want to weep again, but I pick up my camera instead.

  Sid comes over while I’m taking long shots of the crowd. “Mama Duck’s gonna have to be on point to beat this mariachi band.”

  I check my phone. “Holy shit. She’ll be here any time.” I didn’t realize it was almost eight fifteen. And then it hits me: we have no food to feed the Mama Duck crew.

  I turn to Sid. “You have to run to Grandma’s Restaurant and get some food for the duck people. I promised Chip, the owner, that I’d feed them. I’ll pay you back.”

  Sid points to the door. “No need.”

  The Lucky Duck women are coming back through, with full food containers. Anne waves at me when she sees me staring. “We had more back at the kitchen. Might as well eat it, huh? You’ve got a big party going on.” She smiles the kindest smile ever.<
br />
  You’d think I’d get used to those.

  Allison follows in the Lucky Duck crew, carrying a covered platter of something. Her face is red and blotchy, just like mine was a couple hours ago. But she puts a smile on her face as she puts the platter down, and she feeds the mariachis.

  “Food problem solved.” Sid punches me but with no force. “Good party, Tobin.”

  “Can you help me get folks out onto the back patio?”

  “Sure thing. I’ve got lungs.” And Sid opens his mouth and lets out an enormous yell. “Hey, everybody, we’ve got another surprise for you, so when you get a beverage and a snack, why not head on out to the back patio so we can show you? It should be here any minute. Thank you for coming to Steve’s birthday party!” All in one breath, it seems.

  It has the right effect on people, because they start meandering toward the back doors, gabbing and munching.

  Dad and Rich are talking, and they both look very serious.

  “Come out really soon, okay?” They nod at me.

  People are scattered all along the dunes and the beach, pointing to their right, to the east, so I look, and there she is, just coming around the bend of the point, about a mile and a half away. It’s not like you can mistake Mama Duck for anyone else. People start clapping and laughing, like they’ve just seen Santa Claus.

  Ike finds me on the patio and gives me a big hug. I’ve been hugged more tonight than I’ve been in the last month. “She’s so great.”

  I grin at him. “How rad is it to see a giant rubber duck coming toward your party?”

  The sun has gone behind the hill Duluth is spread over, to the west of us. Layers of pink, blue, and white deepen and glow along the circle of the horizon, especially out on the lake, as the sky begins to dim. The world is rosy and peaceful, pearly and soft. And Dad’s birthday gift, six stories of Zen with a Mona Lisa smile, is in place.

  When Mama Duck’s tugboat ties off at the dock in front of the Beach House, a huge cheer goes up. Everyone crowds onto the beach and the dock to examine her up close.

  She’s pretty impressive, glowing a mellow yellow against the pink and blue sky, the perfect benediction to this party. She smiles down on us as people laugh and talk about her skirting and her pontoon. A guy on the dock is talking loudly and gesturing, and people are nodding along. I’m guessing that must be Chip, her owner.