by John Cariani
And the thing that Michelle wanted to tell Justin was one of the things that was best said in the car. Because it was something she hadn’t told anybody yet. And it was something she didn’t want anybody else to know yet.
And Justin said okay to tooling around. Because it would give her a chance to talk to him. And he felt like he owed her a chance to talk to him. Because he hadn’t let her since he left.
And Michelle pulled out of Aunt Belinda’s driveway and turned right and headed east on the Road to Somewhere. Because it was much more likely that they’d find some fun if they headed toward somewhere instead of toward nowhere.
They passed Echo Lake, where they used to go skating and pretend they were an Olympic ice dancing team.
Then they passed the Rec Center, where they danced together at the talent show when they were thirteen and stunned the crowd with their skill. A lot of people thought they should have won the talent show that year. But they got disqualified, because one of the judges didn’t like the way they danced.
Justin’s dad didn’t like the way they danced, either.
He didn’t think it was right, the way Justin and Michelle danced.
And on the way home from the talent show, he told his son he didn’t want him to dance anymore—with her. Or with anyone. And he said that it was time he started spending time with boys and doing the things boys ought to be doing. Like playing soccer and basketball and going hunting and fishing.
But Justin didn’t like doing the things that his dad thought boys ought to be doing. And his dad hated him for it. And eventually kicked him out of the house. And Justin’s mom sent him to live with her sister, Belinda, and her husband, Clair. Which turned out to be the best thing that could have happened, because Aunt Belinda and Uncle Clair encouraged Justin to keep dancing. With Michelle. Or with anybody he wanted to.
Unfortunately, Justin no longer wanted anything to do with dancing when he started living with Aunt Belinda and Uncle Clair—because it reminded him of what his dad made him feel like for liking dancing.
But his uncle Clair told him there were other ways to dance. And he taught him how to play the guitar. Which was like dancing—but with the fingers instead of the feet. And Justin was grateful that Uncle Clair had introduced him to music. It gave him purpose. And saved his life.
* * *
In a couple of minutes, they passed the Rec Center. Michelle saw the big lit-up A-frame sign that was perched on the snowbank.
COUNTRY SWING!
TONITE!
5 BUCKS!
And she thought that maybe they could go dancing—that maybe that could be the fun thing they did. The last time they had danced was when they were kids. And Michelle wanted to feel like a kid again. Because she was feeling more like a grown-up than she had ever felt.
But then she realized that Justin probably wouldn’t want to go dancing, what with his uncle’s funeral being the next morning.
So she kept driving.
And they passed the Moose Paddy.
And Ma Dudley’s.
And St. Mary’s Church.
And the Old Gallagher Potato Farm.
And the observatory at Skyview Park. Which wasn’t there the last time Justin was in town. “You heard about this Skyview observatory place?” asked Michelle.
“No.” Justin had seen the platform on his way into Almost and wondered what it was but wasn’t interested enough to ask his aunt about it.
“They’re trying to get astro-tourists to come up here,” snickered Michelle.
“Huh?”
“They’re trying to get people—tourists—to come up here to look at the stars.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it’s a good place to see the stars. Which is true, I guess,” Justin agreed. He had learned that Portland wasn’t a very good place to see the stars. And he realized he missed them. “All seems a little desperate, to me,” added Michelle.
And it was desperate. Because northern Maine was desperate to attract people. Because it was losing so many of them.
And then they didn’t talk for a while as they headed east on the Road to Somewhere.
And then Michelle started filling Justin in on what the people they had grown up with were up to. Justin didn’t really care what they were up to. But he didn’t tell Michelle that. So he listened as she told him that Stan Day had moved to Stonington and was working on a lobster boat. And that Paulette Wolf was going to McGill University in Montreal. (She was really smart.) And Mike Hoggatt was a lineman for the power company in Presque Isle. And Penny St. John was in jail for making meth in some cars in the woods.
“Oh, and Renee Saucier died.”
“Yeah?”
“Overdose.”
Renee Saucier did not seem like the kind of person who would die the way a lot of people probably thought Justin was going to. “Wow,” Justin mumbled.
“Yeah.”
And they didn’t talk for a while. And thought about Renee Saucier being dead. And that wasn’t much fun.
* * *
When they got to North/South Road, Michelle stopped at the stop sign and had an idea. If she took a left and headed north, they would be in Canada in about forty-five minutes. And they’d be able to go to bars there. Legally. And that could be fun. “Ooh! Wanna go to Canada?” she asked.
“No.” The last time Justin went to Canada, he got beat up. Canadians are not as nice as everyone thinks they are.
“All right.”
Michelle stayed stopped at the stop sign at the intersection of the Road to Somewhere and North/South Road and thought about what else they could do for fun.
“Movies?” offered Michelle. There were movie theaters in Fort Kent and Caribou and Presque Isle.
“Nah.”
“How about Last Gas?”
That could be fun, thought Justin. Last Gas was a general store in Portage, and it was the last place to get gas or food or supplies as you headed west into the North Maine Woods and the Allagash Wilderness.
“All right,” said Justin.
Michelle pressed on the gas pedal and turned right and headed south onto South Road.
She turned on the radio, which was tuned to the classic rock station out of Presque Isle. “Stairway to Heaven” was playing. Because “Stairway to Heaven” is always playing on classic rock stations.
Uncle Clair loved that song. And had taught Justin how to play it on the guitar.
And Justin missed his uncle so much. And hoped he was climbing the stairway to heaven.
And then he couldn’t believe he had thought something so hokey. He didn’t even believe in heaven.
“How’d he die?” asked Michelle, saving Justin from his mawkishness. “Stairway to Heaven” had made her wonder if Uncle Clair was going to heaven, too.
“Heart attack.” A widow-maker heart attack, technically. The left anterior descending artery in Uncle Clair’s heart had become completely blocked. And that blockage is almost impossible for doctors to detect. And it’s often fatal. And strikes far more men than women. And when it is, wives become widows. Hence the name.
“Oh.”
And then Justin and Michelle didn’t talk for a little while.
And thought about Uncle Clair being dead.
And that wasn’t fun.
And then something really creepy occurred to Justin and he asked, “Where do you think they’re gonna store him?”
“Huh?”
“Uncle Clair. Where’ll they store his body, after the funeral?”
“I don’t know.” Michelle didn’t really want to think about that.
“’Cause the funeral service is tomorrow,” continued Justin. “But the burial service isn’t till May or June.” In northern Maine, if you die in the winter, you have to wait until May or June to be buried. Because that’s when the snow melts and the ground thaws enough to dig up the earth and plant crops and bury the dead. “Where will they store him from now till May? Or … June?”
“I don’t kno
w,” Michelle said again. She shuddered a little at the thought and then offered an obvious answer. “Storage, I guess?”
“Storage?” winced Justin.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Michelle. “Funeral home?”
And they thought about Uncle Clair’s dead body being in storage. At the funeral home. Or wherever.
And that wasn’t fun.
And, even though he had no intention of ever living in a place where a body had to wait till May or June to be buried, Justin decided then and there that he was going to be cremated.
* * *
At about seven, they arrived at Last Gas, and Michelle pulled into the parking lot. And they went inside and soon stopped thinking about Renee Saucier and Uncle Clair—and when he was going to get buried. And they had some laughs as they looked at all the useless stuff that hikers and fishermen/women and hunters and campers from away would buy as souvenirs. Stuff like tobogganing bear figurines and plastic moose-shaped candy dispensers that poop chocolate pellets and T-shirts that say “I ❤ ME.” Which were so annoying, Justin thought. Anyone who wore one of those shirts looked really conceited, because not many people know that “ME” is the postal abbreviation for the state of Maine. So if you’re wearing one of those shirts, people just think that you’re announcing to the world that you love yourself.
Then they played a couple of classic video games in the arcade corner.
And then they checked out the clothing and camping and survival supplies.
And then they looked at some watches and compasses and knives and guns—which were all locked away behind glass.
And then they headed over to the café section and checked out the pizza carousel and the hot dog broiler and the bakery case and the beverage refrigerator.
Justin got himself a cream horn (a flaky pastry tube filled with sweet, fluffy cream) and a Yoo-hoo—which was chocolate not-milk. And Michelle got herself a slice of pizza and a Moxie, a sweet and bitter cola made in New England that people either loved or hated.
When they went to pay, the middle-aged woman at the counter looked up with a smile and said hi. But her smile quickly became a scowl when she saw Justin’s midnight-blue nails. And his long black hair with the blue streak in it.
Her scowl made Justin remember that someone like him really stuck out in places like northern Maine.
Justin paid for their food with the twenty Aunt Belinda had given him and got a five-dollar bill and four ones and a nickel for change. Then he and Michelle sat down at a table in Last Gas’s café section.
“So … what’s life like for Justin Legassie, rock star?” asked Michelle.
“It’s Legacy now.”
“Huh?”
“I go by Justin Legacy now.”
“Oh. Is that like—a stage name?”
“I guess. Maybe. Mostly I just hate ‘Legassie.’ It’s ugly.”
Michelle couldn’t deny this. Legassie is a French name, but, like many surnames in northern Maine, it’s often pronounced in an anglicized way: “luh-GAS-ee.” Which made Justin the butt of a lot of fart jokes growing up.
“All right. Well then, what’s life like for rock star Justin Legacy?” said Michelle, teasing Justin a little for changing his name.
“I’m not a rock star. I’m just in a band,” said Justin seriously.
“I know,” Michelle said, letting him know she was just having some fun.
Michelle took a bite of her doughy pizza. (It was “America’s Favorite,” according to the pizza carousel.) And then took a swig of her Moxie. And watched Justin eat his cream horn, which was dropping flaky pastry crumbs all over him. And then said, “I love the name.”
“Huh?”
“Of your band. No Kill Shelter. Awesome.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Justin liked it, too. He had come up with it. And he was glad Michelle liked it.
“Sounds tough.”
Justin smirked. “Well … it’s not.”
“Huh?”
“It’s not. Tough. At all. If you think about it.”
Michelle thought about it. And still thought the name sounded tough. And shook her head, seeking an explanation. So Justin explained. “No-kill shelters don’t kill the animals they shelter. They keep them alive. Until they find homes for them.”
“Oh,” laughed Michelle.
She didn’t know just how appropriate the name was. Justin and his bandmates had all struggled with staying alive—and the band had kept them alive. And it—and music—had given them a home.
“I wanna hear you someday,” said Michelle. But a part of her felt like she never would. Because her life was getting complicated. “Before you get too big,” she added. “Because it looks like you’re getting big.”
It meant a lot to Justin that Michelle knew that his band was getting big. Because they were: they had played a couple of gigs in Boston and their new manager had gotten them one in New York in February.
Michelle leaned over and brushed some pastry flakes off Justin. And hoped he would ask her what she was up to so she could maybe talk to him about the thing she wanted to talk to him about.
But he didn’t. Which wasn’t all that surprising. He was a pretty self-centered guy. And he needed to be. He had a lot he needed to figure out.
So Michelle asked, “You singin’ at the funeral?”
“Yup,” he answered.
“Good. What’re you gonna sing?”
“Somethin’ I wrote.”
“Awesome.” Michelle was surprised by how happy she was that he had written a song for his uncle.
“You sung it for anyone?”
“No.”
Michelle smiled and said, “Sing it for me.” And she motioned toward a small stage in the corner of the café section of Last Gas. It had an electric keyboard set up. And a guitar. And a microphone. Last Gas was trying to rebrand as a coffee house and had open mic nights from time to time. Which meant that anyone could get up and sing a song. Or recite some poetry. Into the mic. If it was open.
And, on the Friday night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, it was open.
So Justin got up.
And picked up the guitar.
And tuned it.
And adjusted the amp.
And tested the mic.
And a couple of customers and the couple of people who were working at Last Gas sidled into the café section to see who was about to play—including the middle-aged woman who worked the counter and had scowled at Justin’s hair and fingernails.
And then Justin sang the song he had written for his uncle.
It was about how, when you’re a kid, all you want to do is grow up. And then you reach a point when all you want to do is stop growing up. Because growing up means having to say goodbye to people you love.
His singing was light but earthy. Sweet but scarred. Pained but hopeful.
When he finished, people clapped. And some were crying. And someone asked him to sing another song. And Justin looked to Michelle to see if she was okay with him singing another one. But she was leaving—in a hurry.
Justin put the guitar on its stand and thanked everybody, but said he needed to catch up with his friend. And as he made his way toward the exit, the woman at the counter seemed to have changed her opinion of him and told him to come on by and play anytime. And Justin said, “Sure,” even though he knew he’d never play there again.
And he headed out to the car. And found Michelle sitting at the wheel. Justin got in the LeSabre and joked, “That bad, huh?”
But it wasn’t a good time to be joking. Because Michelle was crying. Hard. Not from sadness. Just from too much feeling. “No. It was so good. That’s a good song.”
“Thanks.” Justin was glad his songs still made her cry. But he didn’t want them to make her cry as hard as she was crying.
“Sorry—just—growing up is hard,” she said, referencing Justin’s song. “That really got me,” she heave
d. “I guess ’cause it’s happening so fast—to me—right now. But—not because I had to say goodbye to anybody. But because I’m about to say … hello to someone.”
Michelle looked at Justin. And Justin looked at Michelle. Because he felt like she was giving some kind of clue. And she was. But it wasn’t a very good clue. So she just told him the thing she wanted to tell him.
“I’m gonna have a baby.”
There are things people tell you that make you grow up fast. Things like your dad telling you that you need to find another place to live. And your aunt telling you that your uncle who raised you like a son has died.
And your old best friend telling you that she’s going to have a baby.
Michelle didn’t breathe for a while, because she was waiting to hear what Justin would think of her news. And, while she waited, she felt a strange lightness fill up her insides. It made her feel like she had the light of a new day dawning inside her—which she did. And it made her feel giddy with excitement, because she had finally shared—with her best friend—a wonderful secret, a secret that only she and the father of her unborn child knew, a secret that would soon reveal itself to the world. And she felt like she was floating through the air, like a ballerina mid-lift. She had always wanted to be a ballerina. But her body had gotten too big too fast for her to ever get to dance ballet.
When Michelle finally started breathing again, she sounded like she had just run a sprint. And snot was rattling around in her nose and throat. “And,” she continued, her breathing labored, “the crazy thing is—I’m happy. ’Cause I wanna have a baby. Because I love the guy. And he loves me.”
And then she shrugged. And then laughed through some tears and said, “And I never thought I’d love anyone like I loved you.”
And she shrugged again and said, through some more tears, “And I never thought I’d find a guy who would ever love a girl like me.” And then she smiled and said, “But I did. And I’m real happy about it.”
And then she leaned her head against her window and thought about what it was going to be like for her when her family and friends found out she was going to have a baby. And said, “But I’m afraid everyone’s gonna make me feel like I should be sad about it.”