by John Cariani
“Who?”
“Eric.”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Yup.”
“Who you love a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Even though you just kissed me.”
“Um … yup.” Marvalyn felt really bad that she had kissed Steve. But that kiss had felt so good. Because it was the kind of kiss that a girl who had a marvelous life would give to her marvelous boyfriend on a Friday night.
“Wow,” said Steve, “I’m going to have to talk to my brother Rob about this—”
“No! Don’t talk to your brother Rob about this!” There was a rule at Ma Dudley’s about fraternizing among tenants. And what Marvalyn had done to Steve would definitely have qualified as fraternizing. And Marvalyn didn’t need anyone to know that she had been fraternizing with Steve. So she started to go, but stopped—because the almost-nurse in her felt compelled to help her almost-patient. “And do me a favor: tell your brother to stop teaching you. ’Cause whatever he’s teaching you … isn’t something you wanna know.”
“But I have to learn from him—”
“Look, I was gonna be a nurse, so I know: you need help. Your brother shouldn’t be reading … whatever it is he reads. And he shouldn’t be telling you that you have a lot of deficiencies and not very many capacities.” Marvalyn had been told the same thing—but with different words—too often lately. And she didn’t appreciate being told that. “And he shouldn’t be—I don’t know—deciding—for you—all the things he’s deciding for you.”
“Huh?”
“You know what, I gotta go.”
“Right. You gotta go. You’re leaving. I knew you would. That’s what people do.”
“I’m sorry, but I told you, Eric doesn’t know where I am—”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yes, my boyfriend. I’ve told you that ten times.”
“No you haven’t. You’ve only told me three times.” This was true. Steve had counted.
“Okay, well, I’ve told you three times that Eric is my boyfriend, and I’ve told you I don’t know how many times that he doesn’t like it when he doesn’t know where I am, and he doesn’t know where I am, so I need to go.” Marvalyn started to leave again but realized that she had forgotten to put the ironing board away—which Steve had used last when he clocked her in the head with it. And Ma Dudley had a rule about leaving the laundry room as you found it. And Marvalyn was a rule follower, so she dropped her laundry basket and picked up the ironing board. And it sprang open as she did so, because it hadn’t been closed fully. And she struggled to close it again.
Meanwhile, Steve had taken a seat on the bench and was staring at the clock on the wall. It said it was just before nine o’clock now, so he figured his clothes would be dry by a little after nine thirty. Which was well before ten.
And then he went back to work, poring over his books, making sure he knew about all the things that could hurt him and all the things he needed to be afraid of.
Marvalyn finally got the ornery ironing board folded up again and latched into a closed position, and, as she turned to put it away, she somehow managed to wallop Steve in the head with it—in exactly the same way that she had not even twenty minutes ago. And Steve went flying off the bench again, in much the same way as he did earlier, and keened, “OW!”
Marvalyn jumped and cringed when she hit Steve this second time. “Oh, no!” she cried, dropping the ironing board and rushing to Steve. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Oh, honey, I can’t believe I just did that to you again! Are you okay?!?”
“OW!” howled Steve.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“OW!” moaned Steve. He was clearly in pain.
“I’m so sorry—where did I get y—” Marvalyn interrupted herself when she realized what Steve had just said. “Wait: What did you just say?”
“Ow,” Steve replied. He looked bewildered and terrified.
And he was crying.
For the first time in his life, possibly.
Because he was in pain. For the first time in his life.
And he was afraid—for the first time in his life. Because he had no idea what was happening to him.
Marvalyn saw the tears rolling down Steve’s face.
And she saw his pain.
And his fear.
And she wanted to rush to him and comfort him. And make sure he was okay.
But she didn’t. Because she realized that—maybe for the first time in his life—he was okay. Or—he was going to be okay. Because he was going to have to learn how to work through pain. Just like she—and just about everybody else in the world—had to.
And besides—she wouldn’t have been able to make him okay.
Because she couldn’t make anyone else okay.
She could only make herself okay.
And she needed to get to work on making herself okay.
So she grabbed her laundry basket and told Steve that she was sorry—so sorry—but she had to go.
And she started to flee but stopped before she exited the laundry room. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now—but you’re gonna be okay.”
And then she exited the laundry room and ran down the hall and rushed up the stairs and into the living room and was about to go up to her room on the third floor—when she stopped again.
Because she didn’t want to go upstairs. Because Eric was there. And she didn’t want to see him. Ever again.
And she decided then and there that she was going to leave him.
She didn’t have much money, and she didn’t have a job, and she didn’t have any family she could go to, and she had become distant from her friends because Eric liked it that way.
So it was going to be difficult for her to leave him.
But she had a car—an old Chevy Malibu.
So she could just go.
And when she realized that she could just go, that strange lightness filled up her insides. And it made her feel like maybe there was still a chance that she could be marvelous.
And she went upstairs to get her coat and her keys. So she could just go. And not come back.
She had no idea where she was going to go. But she was going to go.
* * *
If Eric was still asleep.
* * *
And even if he wasn’t.
5
As Ginette made her way past Ma Dudley’s, she wondered if she would have someone to dance with when she was as old as Ma and Sunny were.
Half an hour ago, she would have thought that that someone would be Pete. Because she and Pete had just told each other that they loved each other. And it seemed like they were together or that they were girlfriend and boyfriend or that they were dating—or something. And—whatever they were—it seemed like they were going to live happily ever after.
But they weren’t living happily ever after.
They were living—sadly ever after.
At least, Ginette was. Because she and Pete weren’t dating and they weren’t girlfriend and boyfriend and they weren’t together.
They were nothing—maybe not even friends anymore.
And that made Ginette’s heart so, so heavy.
And she wallowed in a deep, deep sadness as she continued west on the Road to Nowhere.
* * *
It was 8:05 when Ginette found herself approaching the Moose Paddy, which was about a quarter of a mile down the road from Ma Dudley’s.
She hated the name of Almost’s local watering hole. It had been so dubbed by its proprietors, a couple of brothers from Bangor who wanted the place to sound Irish—yet local.
Instead it sounded like what a moose’s bowel movement leaves behind.
A cackle from the Moose Paddy’s parking lot interrupted Ginette’s wallow in sadness. She looked across the Road to Nowhere, and a few exterior sodium lights allowed her to see the silhouette of a guy and a girl laughing and hugging and kissing and making their way toward the Moose Paddy entrance.
Jimmy Pelletier had pulled into the Moose Paddy’s parking lot moments ago and had seen the same girl and guy laughing and hugging and kissing. And it made him miss having someone to laugh with and hug and kiss.
But then he remembered that that was why he was at the Moose Paddy on the Friday night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen—to see if he could find himself someone to laugh with and hug and kiss. And maybe even love.
And he could thank Mrs. Roy for giving him the confidence to see if he could find someone to laugh with and hug and kiss again (and maybe even love). Because Mrs. Roy’s pellet stove—a furnace that burned compressed sawdust pellets—was on the fritz that night. And since Jimmy ran Pelletier’s Heating and Cooling, he was the guy people called when their home’s main source of heat was down. And he always made sure to answer people’s emergency calls. Because—in the wintertime in northern Maine—it’s a matter of life and death when a home has no heat. So when Mrs. Roy called with her pellet stove emergency, Jimmy went over and cleaned and recalibrated her stove and got it working again.
Mrs. Roy thanked Jimmy and paid him for his trouble with a five-dollar bill and a bag of chocolate chip cookies—which Jimmy graciously accepted. (He had a pay-what-you-can policy for senior citizens—and anyone—on fixed incomes.) And, as he was about to leave, she asked him what he was doing with his Friday night.
And Jimmy said not much.
And Mrs. Roy asked him if he going out on a date or anything.
And Jimmy said he wasn’t.
And Mrs. Roy said that she didn’t mean to be all up in his business, but he needed to get himself out there again and move on from Sandrine, his old girlfriend, and start dating again. Because he was a catch, she said. Because he ran his own business. And he was a good guy. And he still had some looks.
Jimmy thanked Mrs. Roy for the confidence boost.
And told her that he just might head on over to the Moose Paddy. And get himself out there again. And move on.
And so he did.
He sat in his Pelletier’s Heating and Cooling van for a moment after he pulled into the establishment’s parking lot.
And promptly lost his confidence. Because Sandrine had done a real number on him.
But then he reminded himself what Mrs. Roy had said—that he was a catch. Because he ran his own business. And he was a good guy. And he still had some looks.
So he got out of his van and made his way toward the Moose Paddy’s entrance. And as he did, the lack of confidence he was feeling faded away. And he felt a strange lightness fill up his insides. It made him feel like he had the glow of a fired-up pellet stove inside him. And like he had the butterflies. And it made him feel like things were going to go his way. And that wasn’t something that he felt very often. Most of the time he felt like things were not going to go his way. At all.
His confidence restored, Jimmy pulled the worn, chunky oak Moose Paddy door open and left the cold, quiet northern Maine night behind him. And he eased into the warm, piney, buzzy, and dimly lit Moose Paddy. The place smelled like old and new beer. And old and new fried food.
He passed the coatroom—an actual room for coats and snowmobile suits and paraphernalia for those who arrived by snowmobile—and looked around at the knotty-pine walls and up at the knotty-pine ceiling and down at the knotty-pine floors and remembered some of the crazy things he and his buddies had done inside those walls and under that ceiling and on those floors many years ago.
He approached the bar, which dominated the establishment and had seats all the way around it. A giant chalkboard above the bar listed the beers that were on tap. It also announced the night’s special: “Drink free if you’re sad. Just tell us you’re sad, and you’ll drink free. Honor code applies.”
Jimmy wasn’t sad, so he ordered—and paid for—a Bud Light.
While he waited for his beer, he saw a lot of girls he vaguely knew dressed in shiny clothes. They were cackling and drinking rounds of shots and wearing tiaras and boas and BRIDE SQUAD hats. Some bachelorette party or something.
He got his beer and left a big tip (because he could) and passed a couple of regulars who were sitting at the bar. It had been a while since Jimmy had been to the Moose Paddy and he was surprised by how old those guys had gotten. Some of them stopped him and asked how his parents liked retirement. He said it suited them just fine. And they told him to say hi to them for them. And he said he would.
Then he headed to the back of the establishment, where it was quieter, and he eventually found a table near the pool tables and the dartboards and the restrooms. The jukebox was playing an old song about a crazy little thing called love. And he bopped his head a little to the music. And he took off his Pelletier’s Heating and Cooling jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, because it was warm, and then started scoping out the place.
And he soon lost his confidence. Because he realized that most of the women who were there were going to be young. And he was not young anymore. He was pushing thirty. And to be single at thirty in Almost, Maine, meant you’d most likely be single when you were forty. And when you were fifty. And when you were sixty.
And just when he was about to get up and grab his coat and go, something wonderful happened.
He saw Sandrine.
She was coming his way—from the ladies’ room, he guessed. And she seemed to be gliding in slow motion right toward him. She looked beautiful—in her tight jeans and a shimmery purple shirt and boots that made her much taller than she actually was.
He hadn’t seen her since she’d left.
And he felt that eerie lightness again. It made his whole body tingle.
Jimmy rose to greet Sandrine and held out his arms to embrace her. But then she walked right by his table and suddenly seemed to be moving at regular speed as she headed back toward the front of the Moose Paddy.
Jimmy watched her walk toward the front for a little too long. And then realized he’d better act or she’d be out of earshot, and he called out—a little too loudly—“Sandrine!?!”
Sandrine stopped and started turning toward the guy who had called her name.
“Yeah?” she asked. She was in a giggly fog. Because she was happy. And she had done a shot of peach schnapps not too long ago.
But as soon as she saw Jimmy, she came out of her giggly fog and got still and sober.
Because Jimmy was the last person in the world she wanted to see right then. She almost recoiled and said, “Oh, God.” But didn’t, and instead forced a smile and gave her ex-boyfriend a warm greeting. “Jimmy! Hi!”
“Hey!” said Jimmy, smiling way too hard. Sandrine smiled back, a little horrified, and a little shocked. She couldn’t believe that—on that night of all nights—she had run into the guy that she had managed to avoid for almost a year.
But Jimmy could believe it. Because he had just been feeling that things were going to go his way that night. And it looked like they were!
He took off his Pelletier’s Heating and Cooling hat—which he had designed—and tried to straighten his hair and make himself look as good as he could. And hoped to God that Mrs. Roy was right—that he still had some looks. His work kept him in pretty good shape. He hadn’t gotten as fat as all of his friends had. He just felt short. Because Sandrine was in boots that made her taller than him. And it never bothered him when Sandrine wore shoes or boots that made her taller than him when they were together. But now that they weren’t together anymore, it bothered him for some reason.
“Hey!” Jimmy said again, still smiling way too hard and approaching Sandrine.
“Hey!” Sandrine replied, smiling back.
“Hey!” Jimmy said again, because he couldn’t figure out what else to say.
“Hey!” Sandrine responded, because—well, what else could she say?
“Heyyyy!” said Jimmy again, and he moved in on her and bear-hugged her way too long and way too hard.
Sandrine didn’t really accept the hug. And definitely didn�
��t return it. And may have tried to squirm out of Jimmy’s grasp. But Jimmy was so happy to see her—and hug her—that he didn’t notice her attempt to escape, and when he finally released her, he asked, “So, how you doin’?”
“I’m doin’ pretty good! How are you doin’?”
“I’m good, I’m good!” And he thought this was the truth. But then realized that it wasn’t. Because he was lonely. Bone-crushingly lonely. And seeing Sandrine made him realize just how lonely he had been since she left.
But he didn’t want Sandrine to think he was lonely. And that he wasn’t doing well. So he smiled harder. Which made him look a little maniacal.
And Sandrine smiled harder, too. Which made her look a little maniacal, too.
And then Jimmy realized that he wasn’t talking.
And that Sandrine wasn’t talking.
And Sandrine realized that she wasn’t talking.
And that Jimmy wasn’t talking.
And it got terribly awkward. So Jimmy tried to save them from the awkwardness by restarting the conversation. And asked, “How are ya?!?” And immediately realized that he had just asked a slightly different version of that question.
Sandrine gamely answered the question again honestly. “I’m good, doin’ good, great!”
“Good!” Jimmy searched for something else to say but could only manage to ask, “How are ya?” again.
“Great, great!” Sandrine nodded and smiled a lot to try to ignore all the awkwardness. Which was good of her.
Jimmy felt like he was drowning. This reunion couldn’t have been more awkward. But he didn’t let on that he felt like he was drowning and said, “Well … good!” way too enthusiastically. “That’s great!” he cheered.
“Yeah!”
“That’s great!” he said again.
“Yeah.”
“That’s great!” he said again, trying to come up with something else to say.
“Yeah!”
“That’s great!” he said again, overly enthusiastically.