Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  In back, Ella said, “Stop it!”

  “Stop it,” Sam mimicked.

  “Mo-om!”

  “Stop it, both of you,” he said, too hard, for knocking him out of his thoughts, and then Ella was pissed off at him.

  He just wanted to get through this dinner and see the fireworks and go to sleep, but it seemed that was too much to ask. And then he recovered, or gave up, clicked into that mode where nothing could touch him, and he sat back and watched the world fly by outside, recording it like an open lens.

  He saw a grackle perched in a mulberry tree, the branch it was on waving as it ate.

  He saw a balloon tied to a mailbox painted like the flag.

  He saw a house that was half Tyvek with roses growing around the foundation.

  He saw trolls in a rock garden.

  He saw a woodpile between two trees.

  He saw a bored girl selling corn.

  He saw a sparrow worrying a crow.

  He saw an Indian woman in a squash-colored sari rolling a stroller away from the Root Beer Stand, an antique truck parked over her shoulder.

  It always happened when he didn’t have a camera.

  18

  “I hope Rufus will be all right by himself,” Emily appealed to Ken for the third time, and Lise clenched his thigh under the table.

  He covered her hand and held it still. She and Emily were seated directly across from each other, a mistake Lise recognized immediately but could do nothing to remedy. The kids wanted to sit together, leaving the adults bunched at one end of the table. She had Sam on one side of her so she could keep an eye on him, and Ken on the other. She caught exchanges from both the kids’ and grown-ups’ conversations without being part of either, which she thought was even more tiring than making small talk.

  “You leave him alone at home, don’t you?” Meg said—exactly what she wanted to ask.

  “That’s different. I know I shouldn’t worry, but he’s old. I know one of these times I’m going to come back and … you know.”

  But he’d been fine when they left him all day the other day.

  Emily never explained. She was off into a story about Duchess, who Lise had only seen pictures of.

  “When she got sick I could tell because she just wasn’t herself. Remember? She’d growl at Kenneth and he used to be so good to her. And she was just the sweetest dog before that, but that’s what happens. You can understand why.”

  Everyone agreed, or no one objected. Lise didn’t see her point, if there was one. It seemed that her conversations circled more and more around sickness and death, though as far as Lise knew she was completely healthy. Maybe that was natural, after Henry, but Lise couldn’t help but find it morbid. She suspected the stories Emily told had some connection to the way he’d treated her or the way she’d treated him those last weeks, though Ken said things had gone as well as could be expected. In any case, Lise thought she was trading on their sympathy, bringing it up over and over again, lightly disguised.

  “Does anyone want more calimari?” Sam asked, shakily handing Lise the plate.

  “I think we’re all right,” she said, but he’d done it to make room for him and Justin to do the word search. She reached over her wine and combined the two plates and stacked them. She thought that their dinners should be here soon. The waitress had already faked her out once, setting up the folding stand for the table next to them.

  “You do have to admit that Mr. Bush is a moron,” Emily was saying, and Lise checked on Ella, looking cute in her pearls, sipping at her virgin strawberry daiquiri.

  Across the room it was someone’s birthday, the whole wait staff serenading a table, a flash stunning the air.

  “That reminds me, Lisa,” Emily said. “What do you want for your birthday?”

  She would have to do this. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

  “Really? Nothing?”

  “I’m serious, Emily. I have everything I need.” Ken patted her thigh and she stopped his hand.

  “I know it’s early but I want to get a jump on it. If you have any ideas, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Great, now Emily would use it as an excuse to badger her for the next two months. She’d have to look through her catalogs and come up with something. In the lull, she smiled at Ken to let him know how much fun this was, and he smiled back.

  The waitress came by to say their dinners would be right out and asked if they were ready for another round of drinks. Yes, Sam could have another Slice, but that was it for the night. Lise had finished her wine but held off like the rest of them, for Meg’s sake, and anyway, she had to drive.

  “That’s where they get you, with that second drink,” Emily said when the waitress had left. “Now this is a question for everybody. Did any of you hear any new news on what was going on down at the marina?”

  Thankfully no one had. Lise thought it was probably not an appropriate subject to discuss in front of the kids. Ella and Sarah were intently pretending not to listen.

  “You know what’s funny,” Emily said. “No one’s called and followed up on what we told them.”

  “You mean Ken,” Lise corrected her.

  “You’d think with such a big operation they’d cover their bases a little better. If they’re looking in a certain area, you’d expect them to ask people who live there if they’ve noticed anything peculiar.”

  “Has anyone noticed anything peculiar?” Arlene asked.

  “You know what I mean. Like the Lerners’ alarm going off. You’d think they’d be interested in that kind of information.”

  “Maybe they have enough information,” Meg said. “Who knows what they were looking for. They could have been looking for a weapon. They could have someone in custody who told them where to look.”

  “Maybe it’s not a mystery anymore,” Ken said reasonably, and she could tell he was covering something. He wanted them to change the subject and leave her alone, his girl.

  “You don’t think she could still be alive?” Lise asked.

  She couldn’t resist. It was a sign of how deep her jealousy went that she picked the meanest thing she could think of, leaving him no way out.

  And then Emily saved him, saying, “After a week, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “No,” Arlene agreed.

  She’d forgotten how badly she was outflanked here. Now she wanted another wine, Meg or no Meg.

  The meal came, a break, people craning around to see what everyone else ordered. The food here was basic, aimed at the place’s clientele, who were mostly Emily and Arlene’s age. Everything came with a baked potato and a tiny bowl of very green broccoli. Lise had gone with the broiled sole, thinking they couldn’t ruin that, but after she helped Sam cut his ribs, she found it dried out and overdone.

  “How’s yours?” Ken asked, offering her a bite of lamb chop.

  “No thanks. It’s fine.”

  She checked on Ella to make sure she was eating, not just rearranging the food on her plate. Ella caught her and Lise returned the look and tipped her chin for her to take a bite. Next week it was back to making dinner for them every night, trying to come up with a menu they could all live with.

  “How is everything?” the waitress asked.

  “Good,” Emily said, and Ken nodded with his mouth full.

  Lise was tempted to send hers back. If it was just the two of them, she would have. Instead she loaded her baked potato with butter and sour cream and watched the constant traffic of aproned wait staff and older couples in their summer best passing behind Emily and Arlene. Over the stone fireplace hung an impossibly pink-bellied trout curved like a wurst. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to work at a place like this.

  Sam tapped her arm. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Where is it?” he asked. She almost told him to go ask his father, but saw her opportunity.

  Justin had to go too.

  “Anyone else?”

  N
o, the girls were too cool to be seen with her.

  “I can take them,” Ken offered, but she was gone, blazing a trail between the tables, pausing at a crossing to let a waiter by.

  She remembered where the rest rooms were, back in a dim hallway near the kitchen with the pay phones and an out-of-date cigarette machine. As she waited for them, each time the swinging doors opened she could see into the bright, busy kitchen, the pots hung above the steel counters and the smoking grill. It seemed more exciting than being out here, and she envied the chefs. The boys came back too fast and she sent them in again to wash their hands. Technically she wasn’t stalling. They were right out anyway and then practically ran for the table.

  They were all done except Ella, what a surprise. She’d picked her chicken apart and gutted her potato. The only thing she’d eaten was her broccoli—that and the two daiquiris.

  Now that Lise was back, the girls decided they needed to go. When Ken asked, Ella said she was finished.

  “She doesn’t eat much, does she?” Emily said, once the two of them had left the table.

  Lise knew Ken would downplay it later as honest concern, but she thought this line of criticism was directed at her.

  “She eats,” Ken said, “she’s just particular.”

  “Is she like this at home?”

  “She’s like this everywhere,” Lise said. “The doctor says she’s normal for her height.”

  The waitress saved them, asking if people would be interested in seeing the dessert menu. They all were, the boys noisily. She cleared half the table and said she’d be right back, leaving them becalmed. As a starting point, Meg wondered what was going on at the Institute.

  Friday was pops night. Arlene thought it might be Dionne Warwick.

  “Walk On By,” Ken said, Mr. Trivia.

  “Or the other one, what’s-her-name, Natalie Cole. I always get those two mixed up.”

  The girls returned, and the waitress, with a busboy who stared at Sarah. When he was gone they gave her grief but she took it well. She was used to the attention. Lise supposed it could be tiring, putting up with that kind of aimless desire all the time, but was more concerned about Ella, sitting right beside Sarah, invisible. These were the same lessons she’d learned at that age, the basic unfairness of the world and her place in it.

  She hoped Emily noticed that Ella had ordered dessert, but didn’t draw attention to it.

  Somehow they’d gotten around to talking about the septic tank, all the things that could go wrong. In the course of a few hours, Ken and Emily had become experts. A diaper was all it took to plug up the works and have everything back up into the house.

  “Wouldn’t that be a shitty situation,” Emily punned. She seemed to think this was risqué. Lise just smiled, playing along.

  She was tired. The drive tomorrow would be long, but in a way she was looking forward to it. It was their last long drive of the summer, their last time together before the school year scattered them.

  The coffee came, and her crème brûlée, a raspberry on top, the same as Ella’s. Lise tapped at the crust, then ate with just the tip of her spoon, savoring every bite, making it last. The sundaes the boys ordered were huge; they could have split one.

  The waitress wasn’t dumb. She’d figured out who was in charge and set down the leather folder with the bill next to Emily.

  “Let me get that,” Ken said, but Emily already had her wallet out.

  “You can get it next year,” she said. “How’s that?”

  “Are we going to be here next year?” Ken asked.

  It almost sounded rehearsed to Lise, a setup.

  “We’re going to be somewhere here. I’m not staying in the city for the whole summer.”

  Lise had never expected to get off that easy. It felt like a defeat, everything settled without a word from her.

  The gift shop was the next stop. The boys wanted to run ahead and meet them there, but she made them wait while Emily finished the dregs of her coffee. They all rose and pushed their chairs in. Arlene nearly forgot her purse.

  There was a bowl of peppermints by the coat check. “One each,” she had to warn the boys.

  The way to the gift shop was through the lobby, across its nautical blue-and-green indoor-outdoor carpet. The windows of the front doors were translucent and impure, the color of beer (colonial, she supposed, as if this had once been a tavern), and a tiered rack by a fake rubber plant offered brochures for places like Panama Rocks and the Lucille Ball Museum. Inside, the aisles were bright, full of people they’d just eaten dinner with, looking over pot holders and china bells and glasses of all sizes, maple syrup and muskie refrigerator magnets and local cookbooks. The muzak coming from above was the same as in the dining room but seemed louder in such a small space, and the smell of chocolate was toxic. The back wall was a glass display case, behind which three women in hair nets cut blocks of fudge on a marble-topped table; a crowd had gathered, clutching numbers. Sam made straight for the corner with the squirt guns and superballs, Justin right behind him. She was almost glad to have the job of watching them. Ken and Emily were over by the fudge, Meg and Arlene probably outside smoking. The girls were drawn to the jewelry, modeling bracelets for each other.

  Sam ran back to her, desperate. “How much are we allowed to spend?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “That’s all we ever get to spend.”

  “Five dollars is a lot of money,” she said—and it was. She’d never been given five dollars to spend in a gift shop. Her parents were too aware of spoiling her.

  “You can’t get anything for five dollars.”

  “I think you can find something,” she said, and accompanied him to the corner to prove it.

  What he wanted was a balsa-wood glider on the wall that cost $6.99. “See?” he said, and showed her the other price tags.

  He was half right. Everything on the wall was over five. The cheap stuff was in the bins behind them—windup ducks and frogs, decks of cards and monstrous erasers.

  In one bin were dozens of miniature bottles with shiny new pennies inside, a gift she remembered buying as a child, pinching the tiny cork out. The penny was supposed to be lucky. These cost a dollar ninety-nine.

  “What’s wrong with these?”

  He didn’t answer her, and from Justin’s blank look she realized it was a dumb question.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m not going to argue with you. Do you want the five dollars or not?”

  “Yes,” Sam said, as if she were persecuting him.

  “Good. Find something.”

  She just wanted to get out of here, the ugliness of it was that oppressive. They’d been there long enough.

  Sam and Justin conferred over the bins, and then Sam came back.

  “Can me and Justin go in on it together?”

  “And then who gets it—you? That’s not fair. We’re leaving tomorrow. He’ll barely get a chance to play with it.”

  “That’s okay,” Justin said.

  He was such a pushover.

  “We’ll play with it tonight,” Sam said.

  “It’s dark out,” she reasoned, then heard herself. She knew she shouldn’t give in, but she didn’t want to make this a battle, not here, not now. Let Emily say what she wanted.

  “Fine,” she said, and comforted herself with the thought that more likely than not they’d break it tonight.

  She knew that they’d be back here next year, or somewhere with his family. She didn’t expect to be rewarded for her patience, not by Ken. He got along with her parents. He had no idea how she dreaded this week, the days paid out like a sentence—almost over. She had to focus on that.

  At the register, Justin set a bottle with a penny in it next to the glider. She’d misread him, or maybe he’d been waiting for Sam to say it was uncool, because when she paid, the bottle went straight into his pocket. Sam grabbed the glider like it was his, and now that it was too late she wanted to take it back.

  Ken and Emily were
still waiting for their number to be called. No, she didn’t want any fudge, but thank you. She gave Ella her five and took the boys outside.

  As she pushed through the door the heavy air closed over her, warm and fresh after the chocolate air-conditioning, smelling of the lake and the asphalt of the parking lot. It was not quite night out, the sky a strange blue-green between the trees. The WEBB’S LAKESIDE RESORT sign was lighted, the white anchor surrounded by geraniums. Meg and Arlene were standing by the van, looking out over the water.

  “Walk,” she told the boys, already racing away from her, and she slowed. It was a relief to be by herself for a minute.

  A tractor-trailer whined by on the road, its wind stirring the leaves, making gravel hop along the berm, and in the quiet that followed she saw what Meg and Arlene were looking at—the Chautauqua Belle, outlined in white Christmas lights, its reflection glimmering in the dark water. A band was playing on the top deck. She could hear the horns and a snare drum muffled by the distance. It was a dinner cruise, or a wedding reception, and she wished she were on it.

  It reminded her of their wedding, the end of that endless day, leaving the hot, loud ballroom of the beach club to drunken applause and stepping into the cool humidity of the cape, the ocean detonating somewhere behind the dunes. The lot was calm like this, a promise of rest. Their friends had decorated their car with crepe paper and shaving cream and balloons—no, up close they were tied-off condoms—and she and Ken laughed, popping them with his cigarette, smearing the windows clear so they could drive off to the motel they’d been able to keep a secret, knowing that in a few minutes they would be completely, totally alone.

  Tomorrow, she thought, and relaxed. It was easier in the dark, not as much work.

  “Where’s the rest of the crew?” Meg asked.

  “They’re coming,” she said.

  19

  “Yes, yes,” Emily said, “I know, we forgot to leave a light on for you. I’m sorry. Were you scared or were you sleeping? Sleeping would be my guess.”