Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  “Anything interesting?” Arlene asked.

  “The Navigator, that’s it.”

  Emily took her seat again, then wished she hadn’t. Mrs. Klinginsmith had told her the cleaning service would take care of everything, but she had to at least defrost the fridge and scrub the cabinets, do the bathrooms. It wasn’t how she’d planned on spending her last afternoon here.

  And she’d been so worried about the stove. She should have just left it alone. The buyers would want a new one. In a month, all these things she fretted over would disappear, leaving her mind free—for what? Was that why she was stalling now, afraid of facing those lonely hours? She felt tricked, even if she was the one who had engineered the deal.

  The Mozart was over and something mawkish and overwrought was on. Tchaikovsky, she thought, making another sugary appeal to the heart, like that horrid movie. It was enough to drive her inside.

  “Ready for lunch?” she asked Arlene.

  “In a minute.”

  She’d forgotten the melon, but she could finish that at breakfast. The children would eat the cold cuts and the yogurts, the bagels and cream cheese. For some reason Lisa had bought two jars of pickles; one of them was still unopened. She actually looked forward to throwing away the ranked condiments in the door, God knew how old some of them were— the salad dressing that had separated, the chili sauce clotted like a scab around the cap. She’d have to get Kenneth to haul the garbage out to the road before he took off.

  In the living room the phone rang—Mrs. Klinginsmith—and she shut the door to get it. As she suspected, Arlene hadn’t budged.

  “I’ll get it!” Emily said.

  “Thank you!”

  The answering machine—she hadn’t even thought of it. It was practically new. She’d have to unhook it tonight, make a diagram of the wires.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Emily, hey,” a man said, happy to catch her. “How’s it goin’ up there?”

  “Hi Jeff,” she said, and wished she’d let it ring. “Good, good. How are you doing?”

  9

  Meg was trying to be careful with the knife, but then the tomato slipped in its own juice and she had to stop and compose herself and start over. The blade wasn’t sharp enough, denting the skin instead of biting through, and she had to saw at the last slices, bending the tomato and squishing the guts to mush. The fucker. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her.

  It was probably about something else entirely, something stupid. But he knew she didn’t want to talk to him, he knew that. She couldn’t have made it any plainer yesterday.

  She laid the slices out on a paper plate with some lettuce from last night’s salad and rinsed her hands. Someone else could cut an onion; she wasn’t going to cry in front of everyone. There were buns if they ran out of bread. She got the mayo and ketchup and mustard and pickles from the fridge, and dug in the silverware drawer.

  They’d been planning it all along, she thought, the two of them. It had to be Stacey’s idea. He’d do anything for her, and screw the rest of the world. The idiot thought he was in love.

  She’d promised herself not to think about it, to set it aside until they got back. At least he hadn’t told her mother (so she hoped; she was overexposed as it was, at the mercy of her judgment).

  It was the timing of it that hurt her more than anything, as if they’d been waiting for the divorce to be legal so she’d be out of the way—as if she’d kept them apart. And then to tell her over the phone in the middle of her vacation with her family and invite her like they were old friends.

  She set out the cold cuts and cheese in their wax-paper wrappers, and the last of the mac salad. Justin came in to inspect the fridge and before he could escape she asked him to pour the milk. She’d already lined up the glasses.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Just take yours and leave the rest.”

  “Can I talk to Dad when you call him?” he asked.

  She was fitting the paper plates into their wicker holders, and didn’t stop. She wanted to lie, to say she’d already called and left a message.

  “You want me to tell him something for you?”

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. “I think we’re going to be pretty busy this afternoon. We’re going to be going home tomorrow, if you can wait one day.”

  He didn’t seem happy with this but didn’t argue.

  “Can you tell everyone that lunch is ready?”

  “Okay,” he mumbled, barely audible, and moped off.

  It was unfair, she thought. How was he supposed to understand when she didn’t?

  And this was just the beginning.

  10

  “Did you want to talk to your father?” her mother asked while Justin was on the phone.

  “Not really,” Sarah said, because she and Ella were in the middle of a game of rummy.

  “Come on. Just to say hello.”

  From her tone, Sarah knew she wouldn’t get out of it, so she gave in and stopped playing and stood by the couch, waiting for Justin to finish. He was telling him about Panama Rocks, making it sound more fun than it was. Then it was something about going into middle school, and the Tigers, and some car show.

  “Okay,” Justin said, “I love you too,” and handed her the phone.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey Picklehead, how’s it going?”

  Terrible, she wanted to say, but he didn’t really want to know about her and Mark, or how long this summer had been, and she didn’t really want to tell him.

  “Good,” she said, and waited for him to say something else. It was easier this way.

  11

  It worked out perfectly. There was one last can of gas under the workbench, one of the rugged plastic ones his father had bought recently, meaning in the last ten years. He slid a case of dusty Iron City tall-necks aside to get at it—heavy and cool from being on the concrete. Setting it in the wheelbarrow, he thought he could find a use for it at home (though he already had one in the shed for the mower, and Lise would never let him take it in the car). It seemed a waste, like the tools on his father’s bench he didn’t need—even the old Iron City case there, the very name making him nostalgic.

  They were down to less than twenty hours now, but he felt as if they were already gone. The police had abandoned the marina, whatever that meant. He could see how today would play out, and tomorrow, the battle of packing, getting the bikes on the car, and finally the long drive. At least he’d have Sunday to recover.

  He left the garage door up. He had to come back for the key anyway, and a hat. He’d steal his father’s favorite, an ugly blue-and-white mesh job from a local trucking company with its phone number under a flying semi. He could salvage that at least.

  “When are we going to go tubing?” Sam called from the porch.

  “As soon as I get the boat ready.”

  “Need help?” Lise asked.

  “I think I’m all set. You can get the kids’ towels together.”

  It was easier to just take the cover off by himself, reaching across the tube to pull the hood off the motor and then down the gunwales on each side, using the driver’s seat to scissor over the windshield and kneel on the bow to unhook the front bungees. He didn’t risk tossing it at the wheelbarrow, just balled it up and dropped it in the passenger seat. He was sweating already and ditched his shirt. They still had a third of a tank, so he muscled the new one in and shoved it into a corner, yanking a stubborn loop of the towrope out from underneath.

  “All right,” he said, wiping his face on his arm.

  If Meg wanted to come she’d have to grab a life jacket, otherwise they were good to go. He left the wheelbarrow on the dock, thinking he should pull the motor up when they were done. He didn’t know when Smith Boys were supposed to come for the boat.

  “Is there room for one more?” Arlene asked inside.

  She had shorts on, and her hair tucked under a yellow NAPA cap. Meg
said she didn’t absolutely have to go, but he could see she wanted to.

  “It can take all of us, it’ll just be a little cramped.”

  His mother passed. She was busy cleaning out the kitchen cupboards.

  “I’ve got more than enough to do here, thanks. Maybe when you come back you can help me with some of the heavy stuff.”

  “We women can help too,” Meg reminded her.

  “Good, because I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  “Are we supposed to not go?” Lise asked when they were alone in the garage.

  “She’s just talking to herself.”

  “It didn’t sound like it to me.”

  He slapped the cobwebs off the extra life jackets, weighing the cost of the argument. All he had to do was keep quiet.

  “I’m sure she’s just freaking out about everything,” he said. “It’s better to stay out of her way.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  They were all waiting for him on the dock, lined up to one side like his crew. There were only four seats for the eight of them, three really, since he needed the driver’s seat.

  “All right,” he said, clapping once, “how are we going to do this?”

  Again they waited for him. With his father gone, the job of captain fell to him, another responsibility he didn’t want. On the water he had complete authority, and they knew to respond to his orders when things went wrong, because at some point they would. Usually it had to do with the motor, whether it got caught in the weeds or flooded and refused to start or came down with vapor lock—say, when he changed tanks. The boat was almost as old as he was, and had a way of reminding him of how mechanically inept he was and then displaying this shortcoming to everyone onboard. He would get them back if he had to paddle (and that had happened), but somewhere out there he would be reduced to turning the key and thumbing the choke button and swearing through his teeth so the children wouldn’t hear. The funny thing was, he could remember his father—an engineer with skilled hands—struggling with the motor the same way, but somehow he had kept his sense of humor, made it a game or a problem to be solved. When Ken tried that, he felt phony and even more incompetent.

  He assigned the life jackets and cranked the boat down so it floated before sending them on in order. Arlene and Lise could squeeze up front with him. Meg would be in back, the girls could share a seat, and the boys would sit on the tube, or in it, since that might be safer. No one complained or questioned him, they just helped each other on and waited for more instructions.

  “All right,” he said, “we’re going to paddle out past those weeds there. When we push off, Sarah, I want you to paddle backward. Meg, you’re going to go forward when we pass that last piling. The rest of you sit tight.”

  “Aye-aye,” Lise said next to him.

  “Thank you,” he put her off.

  He knew he was being rigid, afraid of making a mistake when it didn’t matter.

  They came back straight, drifting for the Lerners’ dock.

  “Push off with the paddle,” he called to Sarah. “Okay, that’s great. We want to head directly into the wind so it doesn’t push us into the dock.”

  His first urge was to go back and paddle, but he held off. When they came alongside the dock again, he said it was all right, they were getting there.

  “I’m not having fun,” Meg said, and Sarah and Ella changed places.

  A fisherman puttered by and Ken waved.

  “You folks all right?” the man asked.

  “We’re fine.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  They cleared the end of the Lerners’ dock, and Ken sidled his way back to prime the motor, squeezing the rubber bulb to feed it gas.

  “Can we stop paddling now?” Meg asked.

  “Wait till I get it going. I don’t want to get stuck back in there if it doesn’t start.”

  “Well, hurry up, I’m getting tired.”

  “I can paddle if you’re tired,” Arlene volunteered.

  “You are not paddling,” Lise said.

  He sat in his seat and looked over his shoulder like he was backing up a car. The weeds weren’t as bad as last year, but he still worried about fouling the prop this far in. He lifted the throttle past halfway, as his father had taught him, pushed the button and turned the key.

  The starter ratcheted but nothing caught and he killed it quick so it wouldn’t flood. The second try was a carbon copy, and the third sounded dry, as if he hadn’t primed it enough. He spun and bumped his way through everyone. “Keep paddling,” he said, and squeezed the bulb hard so that an oily sheen formed on the water—too much. He hustled back and tried again and got blue smoke. Again and it almost turned over, the blenderlike whine of the flywheel spinning. They were on the other side of the Lerners’ dock and heading for the Smiths’.

  “Keep paddling.”

  “We are,” Ella said.

  This time the motor chattered and caught, turned over and slowly chugged to life, sputtering. He inched the throttle up and listened to it grind, solid.

  “Okay,” he said, “stop paddling,” and chunked it in gear, keeping his speed down as he steered through the weeds. Once they were in open water, he throttled down and slipped it into reverse to clear the prop, then headed for Prendergast Point and the marina, the ramp there busy now, trailers backed in on both sides. He cruised through the no-wake zone, then turned it loose. The bow rose up as they gathered speed. The wind was cool and the kids shouted when they smacked down after jumping a wave. He put his father’s cap on and sat up straight, peering over the windshield, swiveling his head to watch for oncoming traffic, as if he knew what he was doing.

  12

  Justin wasn’t as scared this time jumping off. It was only when the cold water wrapped around his legs that he remembered there were fish underneath him and pulled for the surface, and when he broke through Sam was doing a cannonball right on top of him. He got a mouthful of water and coughed it out, wiping his eyes, then swam for the ladder and hung on, catching his breath.

  “Are you okay?” his mother asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you take a break?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. To prove it he pushed off and followed Sam out the towrope to the tube, where Uncle Ken was sunning with his legs hanging over the edge. Sam was right beside the tube, hiding. He put a finger to his lips for Justin to be quiet.

  “Don’t you dare,” Uncle Ken said with his eyes closed.

  “Don’t I dare what?”

  “Don’t you dare anything.”

  On Sam’s signal they both tugged the rope.

  “I’m warning you,” Uncle Ken said, but didn’t move.

  “Come get us,” Justin said.

  “I will.”

  Sam motioned for him to help push the tube over, but when they tried, they couldn’t budge him.

  “You guys are pitiful,” Uncle Ken said. “You’ve got to stop playing all those video games and get outside more.”

  “Help us tip him over!” Sam yelled to Sarah and Ella, lying on their towels on the nose of the boat. They didn’t look up.

  They hung on his ankles and dove under and grabbed at his suit and punched him in the butt—“Okay, no kicking,” he told Sam—and splashed him until, with a roar, he attacked, pitching himself on top of them, except they escaped and took control of the tube so he was the shark and they had to keep from being bitten. Even his skin could cut them, so he couldn’t touch them at all, and then he came up through the hole and they both dove off and raced him to the boat. They barely made it there safely, and his mother pulled the ladder up.

  “Okay,” Uncle Ken said, “who’s ready for some serious tubing?”

  It was great, it was so much fun. Ella’s top almost came off once, and Justin flipped all the way over and didn’t fall off. He couldn’t wait to do it again. He thought he’d ask for one for Christmas for Grandpa Carlisle’s boat, because on the phone his father promised that next summe
r they’d go to the U.P. like they usually did. That way they could do it both places.

  13

  Emily had just gotten off the phone with Dorothy Klinginsmith and was coming back into the kitchen when the fly whizzed by her, fat and black and slow, weaving in front of her like a drunk driver. He lighted on the screen door, so she opened it, giving him a chance to leave peacefully. He hesitated, pivoting on his feet, then cut under her arm and through the kitchen again, zipping across the white gap of the fridge and around the corner for the living room.

  “Okay,” she said, corrected, and pulled the door closed so no more could get in.

  She was nearly done with the cupboards, their contents spread out on the counter. She’d hoped to box up the unopened stuff and donate it to a local food bank, but some of the cans were dusty or dented. One can of fruit cocktail was a store brand that had gone out of business a decade ago, the lettering on the label space-age and obsolete. She filled two boxes and found she couldn’t lift them—another job for Kenneth.

  She wouldn’t get it all done. She still had to go through the drawers and the dishes and do the bathrooms. Mrs. Klinginsmith said she’d be over around three-thirty so Emily wouldn’t have to deal with the septic guy (meaning she’d have to deal with both of them). The fridge she’d worry about later. After they came back from Webb’s she’d split what was worth saving between their coolers and let it defrost overnight.

  She ran a bucket of hot water, stirring up the suds with her hand. The rag she used came from someone’s navy blue T-shirt. She had to climb on a chair to wipe the top shelf, disgusted at the dead moths and their droppings. By the time she finished, the water was a gray soup; she poured it down the sink, and as she was wringing out the rag, the fly returned, buzzing against the screen right in front of her—a big bristly one, and loud.