Tom got up and was searching the room when the phone suddenly stopped ringing. It had probably been a sales call. He also received a number of those every week. He didn’t remember getting so many while Janet was alive, but he’d finally figured out she must have intercepted them. Neither of them had ever bought anything from a telephone solicitor. How could you know what they were selling even existed? That made him pause, the idea of a salesperson selling imaginary things. Subscriptions to imaginary magazines. An imaginary insurance policy to cover an imaginary catastrophe. Falsified entertainments. Counterfeit friendships.
He was beginning to understand how you might bring yourself to talk to such invisible intruders. He imagined these might be the only phone calls some older people ever received. And if you listened a certain way, a stranger’s voice might sound like that of one you had loved.
The phone started ringing again. He felt a little panic. What if it was an emergency? He’d lulled himself into thinking that there wouldn’t be any more emergencies after Janet died. No more middle of the night trips to the emergency room, no more weekends spent waiting around in a hospital, sleeping beside her in a lounge chair that was good for worrying in, impossible for sleeping in. Maybe it was supposed to make you worry more, maybe worry energy was good for the dying patient. The girls could have an emergency, or Will, but they were grown up now, and far enough away that any emergency call would not be to ask for his help, only to tell him that some terrible thing had already occurred.
The ringing stopped, but he kept looking for the phone, really needing to find it before it started up again. He lifted pillows and books, upended trays, shoved dead plants to one side, soiling his clothing with dried-out clumps of dirt and brown leaf. When he moved a stack of magazines a large folder slipped out from between the pages. Opening it up on a battered TV tray, he found several brochures from the local free university, and a registration form filled out in Janet’s handwriting, specifying courses in art appreciation and landscape architecture for herself, one in local history for the two of them together.
It had been his wife’s plan, he remembered, to get him out of the house more often. She knew he wouldn’t go out by himself, so it had to be with her; she’d always been his ambassador when dealing with other people. It was a job she’d done very well, knowing when to invite him into the conversation, when to carry it by herself, somehow managing the entire transaction without embarrassing him, making it all feel so normal and natural. He’d worried a little about the class; it was very informal, of course, no pressure, no grades, but it had been years since he’d been in a school of any sort.
Now he held the slip of paper in trembling fingers. She’d never had the chance to mail it in. She would have loved her own two classes; she’d always enjoyed learning new things, especially subjects she had no particular practical use for. He could feel his eyes leaking as he put the paper down, continued looking for the phone. He had had the experience every few days since she’d died: the eyes burning as if from some airborne pollutant, the tears so unlike tears, more like some vague lubricant forced out under pressure. The result of some haphazard ambush: a book she’d been reading, the photo she’d used as a bookmark, a lost article of clothing, a letter in the mail addressed to her, a late afternoon shadow crouched by the flower beds, and suddenly he wasn’t seeing what he wasn’t seeing. He was seeing what was hard-wired into his brain: her face, and everything about her, the pattern of their last years together.
He stumbled around the room, trying not to make the kind of mess that might aggravate worry in one of his children if they were to suddenly drop in. The phone was ringing again. How long? It seemed close at hand.
There? He lifted several weeks of newspapers off an old humidifier cabinet. The grey, dust-laden phone sat exposed, attempting to jangle itself awake. He reached out and stroked its handset. Suddenly more rings. His hand jumped. He picked it up, but for a moment found himself unable to speak.
“Dad? Are you there?” The voice impossibly distant, and older than he remembered.
“Oh … hi, son.”
“So are you okay? The girls, well we’ve all been a little worried.”
“I’m fine, really.” He paused, thinking he should dredge up some details to back it up. “I was just talking to our neighbor this morning. Jack. You remember Mr. Baker? The blue house.”
“Of course I do, Dad.”
“His wife died, you know.”
“Yeah, Dad. Years ago.”
“I know. That’s just what I was saying. We had a nice … chat.”
There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line. Obviously, Will didn’t know what to say. And Tom knew he must sound addled. “I’ve been thinking, Dad. Maybe I should come down there this weekend. We could take in a ball game or something.”
Tom was touched. He’d always known his son had grown up to be very much like himself: shy around most people, never quite sure what to say. He also knew how awkward it would be, the both of them trying to come up with things to talk about, Will feeling obligated to pull his father out of this emotional hole he’d dug for himself. All three of his kids seemed to be feeling that obligation. And it was wrong of him to put them through this.
“I really appreciate the offer, son. But I’m afraid I’ve already made plans for the weekend. I’ve decided to go up to the lake tomorrow.”
“Jesus, Dad. Um … sorry. Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I have to do it sometime.”
“But up there by yourself …”
“I’m down here, by myself, at least most of the time. I haven’t been to the cabin since your mother died; she loved it up there. I have to face it sooner or later.”
Will let him go after a few more minutes. The boy could tell his sisters he’d done his best. And Tom had surprised himself after months of no surprises. He’d thought little of the cabin until this conversation. It was almost as if the place didn’t exist without Janet.
He climbed into bed that night right after a cold dinner of biscuits and peas, thinking he’d make an early start of it, stock up at the grocery store and then head for the lake. The phone rang several times during the rest of the evening, and jangled on into his dreams, but he ignored it.
“Daddy, are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Well, good morning to you, too.”
Julie had shown up on his doorstep first thing the next morning, dressed in a business suit. “Morning, Dad.” She hesitated; she had that look she’d worn consistently as a young girl, about to ask him something and expecting him to say no. “You know, if you’d wait a week I could go up with you. Or at least I could go up and scout around, take care of things that might be, well, upsetting.”
“Julie Ann! I’m still an adult, you know, last time I looked.” Julie appeared a little ashamed, and Tom regretted his tone. “I’ll be okay, sweetheart, really. I appreciate your concern, but look, you’ll be late for work.” He paused. “Oh, honey—you’ve got a two hour drive back, don’t you? I must’ve really worried you.”
“Well, Dad—I called last night, and early this morning—I didn’t know what to think!” Her lower lip trembled, and suddenly in his eyes she was ten years old again, the superimposed pattern of her younger face so vivid he had to stop himself from trying to pick her up, comfort her in his arms.
“Sorry I … sometimes I just ignore the phone. That life of picking up the phone, making plans, keeping apprised of who is and what is … that was someone else’s life. It doesn’t have anything to do with me anymore.”
“Dammit, Dad.” She rubbed her arms as if brushing off a chill, glanced sideways as if sensing an eavesdropper. When she looked up at him again he found himself surprised, almost frightened, by her fury. “If you stop answering your phone we’re going to think something’s happened to you! It’s not fair, Dad!”
“I know, honey. You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I won’t, I’ll try not to let it happen again, okay? Please try not to
worry. I think it’s probably a good sign, my wanting to go up there.”
“If you think so,” she said softly.
Of course he wasn’t sure if he thought so or not, but for the moment at least he’d turned back the clock a bit, and was once again the father who at least had some chance of knowing the right thing to say, so he wasn’t about to admit doubt in front of her now. “I’ll call you when I get up there.”
She peered at him. “The phone up there’s still hooked up?”
He nodded, puzzling the question. He had no idea if it was hooked up or not. He might have paid the bill, but he certainly had no memory of it. But there would be a payphone somewhere, and he could call her from that. “Of course,” he replied, and felt like a liar. He looked around, sure someone was watching him lie.
Tom hadn’t been inside a grocery store since Janet died, preferring to phone his list in and have everything delivered. But there was no time for that today. Besides, he didn’t really know what to buy for the trip—Janet had always been in charge of this part. It was best he go in person, see what was there, let his instincts take over.
But once he stepped into the shiny white structure all instinct seemed to melt away. He didn’t remember grocery stores having been so bright when he was younger, and wondered if this might mean something about his eyesight. Or maybe there was something technological involved—stronger filaments, brighter printing inks. Tentatively he grabbed the handle of the cage-like cart, found himself at first stepping carefully down the tiled aisles, as if the floor might suddenly shift beneath him, seeing nothing on the shelves that looked at all familiar to him—did people really eat this stuff?—at first not really seeing the food clearly at all.
A woman ahead of him wore furry bedroom slippers. He stared at them, disorientated, briefly considering that he might be in the wrong place. A little boy perched precariously in the child seat, unstrapped, his eyes too bright and too wide.
After several aisles Tom felt increasingly self-conscious about not having any food in his cart. He made himself reach out and touch the cans, the bright packages appropriate for children’s candy but certainly for nothing substantial. He was alarmed to discover that he had never heard of many of the foods.
A woman in a motorized cart whizzed by him, much too fast. He’d heard about these, but never seen one. She wore a huge yellow hat and oversized glasses with dark blue lenses.
Seeing a can with a familiar name, “gravy”, he scooped it eagerly from the shelf. A can full of sausage gravy. But Janet had made it right in the pan. So what was this about? He started to put it back, hesitated, then set it down carefully in the bottom of his cart as if it were a baby, or a bomb. Gravy on bread seemed good, sounded possible. At least he wouldn’t starve.
A couple of carts were parked by the frozen foods. He neared the end of the store and still had only the gravy and a couple of cans of peas and some Spam in his cart. He attempted a surreptitious glance at the contents of the two carts by frozen foods, looking for ideas. TV dinners in one, which filled him with a ridiculous hopefulness. Where did they keep them? Perhaps if he followed the owner of the cart he or she—probably he—might make a return trip for more.
The motorized cart with the miniature-faced lady sped by again. Her head turned, as if watching him. He waited for her to plough directly into the far wall. She turned just in time, but without looking at all. Why was she staring at him? Did he know her?
The second cart by the frozen foods held flours, spices, oils, eggs and milk and cheese, several unfamiliar flours, and vegetables.
Tom stared at the items. The phrase “basic ingredients” came to mind, a kind of epiphany. It was an entirely different relationship to food, something Janet would have understood, but which he had absolutely no experience of. Dinners could be built from the ground up, magically transformed by blending basic ingredients in certain combinations and applying fire. People who could perform such magic would surely never go hungry even as the rest of the population attempted a precarious existence, counting on the talents of these few for their sustenance.
A large green fruit of some sort took up the middle region of the basket. Tom didn’t think it was any kind of melon, but he had no idea what it might be. Suddenly it shifted, rolled over onto its side. Tom turned away rapidly, pushing his cart, listening for sounds behind him; the squeak of a wheel, a broken snippet of music. He stopped abruptly, having bumped into another parked cart. He looked around in embarrassment, then peered down into the basket. A white container in the cart said “sopaipilla Mix”. Tom reached down and picked it up. Janet used to make these once a month, soft and fluffy and dipped in honey. It had never dawned on him that they might start out like this. He couldn’t help himself—he slid an edge of fingernail under the plastic lip and lifted, peered inside: a bag of pale powder with a twisty tie.
“Excuse me?” The voice beside him was young and sharp.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” He turned to her, flushed, and dropped the container, the bag splitting, spilling the contents everywhere. He looked at her, startled to see that she was about his daughters’ age. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just never seen it. This way, I mean. Before it’s cooked.”
The sharp lines of her face softened. But he didn’t know if she felt sorry for him or if it was his eyes bothering him again.
“Oh, it’s okay. Really. No problem. I’ll get another one. Somebody will clean this up. Don’t worry about it.” She swam into focus. She was just a kid, younger than his daughters. A kid face.
“Can I help you, sir?” The new voice confused him, upping his embarrassment.
He turned. The fellow in the white apron looked no more than thirteen years old. But he had a name badge, and somehow managed to convey an air of authority.
“Well, no,” Tom said. “I had a little accident here.” He hesitated. “With this lady’s food,” he continued. He added quickly, “I’ll pay for it, and for your time, or whoever’s time, for cleaning it up.”
“That’s not necessary, sir. The stock boy will take care of it.” Then he turned and was off again.
Moments later the young man’s voice issued from directly overhead like some teenaged god. “Dry clean up on aisle three.” Tom couldn’t have been more embarrassed if his name had been mentioned.
The young woman patted his arm. “It’s okay, really. Do you have family in the store? Can I get someone for you? You’re not lost are you?”
Tom looked at her in surprise. Clearly she thought he was senile. But hell, maybe he was. “It’s okay,” he muttered softly. “You’ve been very kind.”
Tom ended up buying the rest of his supplies at a small, rundown convenience store a couple of miles before the ramp up to the highway. The prices were much higher, but there weren’t so many choices—just the basics. He bought eggs and coffee, a variety of soups, canned vegetables, milk and bread, and an assortment of sandwich meats.
His anxiety mounted as he left the residential streets behind and climbed up onto the turnpike. He didn’t think he’d driven on a real highway since Janet died. At first it was because he’d had this paranoia of being in an accident. With his daughters’ growing solicitousness the idea of his dying in a car crash seemed particularly cruel. But after this fear faded, he’d discovered he felt no need, no reason to use anything but the local streets. There was a distance, an openness to the elevated highway that seemed somehow inappropriate to his life now.
So it was with some sense of surprise that he discovered a growing exhilaration in him as he wound his way up and out of the city. In fact, he didn’t think he’d felt so excited about driving a car since his teenage years, when he couldn’t wait to leave the house and get out on the open road. The equation back then had seemed a very simple one: stay home and you saw nothing, drive your car and you saw everything. And even now, when he knew that anything might happen once you stepped out your door, and a goodly part of that bad and worse, he could not deny that sense of having been freed, with a ca
r to taxi you where your thoughts might wander.
But he didn’t remember the drive out of the city and up through the foothills as having lasted this long before. Of course, he wasn’t used to long drives anymore, so that was probably all it was. The road certainly hadn’t changed any: cracked asphalt and loose gravel and potholes, weeds permitted to crawl right up onto the pavement. A decade of highway budget cutbacks taken root. At times the drive seemed so long, in fact, that after a couple of hours he began to think this had been a stupid notion, the kind of foolishness which gave his children so many worries.
Even in late morning the air appeared misty. The trees alongside the road seemed more densely packed than he remembered, so close together they squeezed the shadowy areas between them, strands and feelers of darkness spilling out across the highway.
It may have been fatigue or it may have been the change of air, but the higher he drove the more insubstantial everything became, as if his eyes were adjusting to some alternative physics. Dark blue and lavender clouds hung too low to the ground, as if the mountain had bullied its way through the top layer of atmosphere and was now bruising heaven. He thought he should pull over to the side of the road until his head cleared, but he was afraid to—what if he couldn’t bring himself to start out again? Besides, he knew he’d be tempted to leave the car and that would be the worst mistake possible. So he held more tightly to the wheel and turned and turned through the switchbacks as if corkscrewing up through the layers of the world, entire landscapes disappearing in his wake. Even the mountain itself appeared gradually less material the higher he rose, breaking down into light, shadow, and mist.
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