You Could Be Home by Now

by Tracy Manaster

  Lily stretched, relishing the one-hundred-percent-genuine privacy. Gran was Madam Popular here and they must have paused their walk a dozen times to have the same basic conversation. She should’ve printed out business cards. Lily Elinor Birnam, Visiting Grandchild. In answer to your questions, I am (a) not sure how long I’ll be staying, (b) almost sixteen, (c) going to be a junior, which, yes, is unusual but I skipped second grade, (d) not sure where I want to go to college, and (e) having a lovely time, thank you. If any of them sensed that Lily had been sent down so that Gran wouldn’t be alone on the anniversary of Grandpa Gary’s death, they didn’t show it. Gran had to know; Dad and Aunt Manda hadn’t been exactly subtle. But she wasn’t making a big weepy deal about it. Gran was tough, and it rocked having those genes.

  Lily rolled onto her stomach, checked that the per-vet had retreated into his lair, and unhooked her bikini. She surveyed the neighborhood. The house next door had a hot tub in its courtyard. Gran’s just had a grill and patio furniture, herbs in terracotta pots. I keep thinking I should set up a pink flamingo there, she'd told Per-vet Ben on their walk. Just because the HOA won’t be able to see it. They’d laughed and raised an imaginary glass to the Flamingo Police. It was possible, but not probable, that to outsiders her and Sierra’s inside jokes were just as dumb.

  Sierra. Le sigh. If Sierra were here, she’d probably talk Lily into sneaking next door for a midnight soak, because Sierra always brought the fun. Last year had been twelve times less boring than the sum of the fourteen preceding it, and Sierra pinky-swore that junior year would be even better.

  And it would, even though Sierra-like-the-mountains-not-the-truck had gotten together with Rocky-like-the-mountains-not-the-boxer over Winter Break, which, by the way, was an absolute violation of the Laws of Cheese.

  “Don’t sulk,” Sierra’d said. They were studying in her room, which smelled of the incense she lit because it made her stepdad paranoid that she was doing it to mask the smell of pot. “You knew I liked the boys.”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “And if I was going to experiment, I wouldn’t with you. You’re too good a friend to mess with like that.”

  “Fine. But Sierra and Rocky? Kill me now.”

  “Just wait till we find you a nice femme named Rose.”

  And it was fine; it was, though even an amateur cheeseologist could anticipate the insane degree to which Sierra’s heart was going to get shredded.

  Lily stretched then resettled, contorting to resecure her bikini straps. She took a swig from her water bottle and watched a woman jog along one of the winding cart paths. A woman-woman, not an old woman, with a long ponytail and breasts that jostled about as a single entity. Sierra would have something to say about that. Ponytails were lazy and generally uncute, and Sierra had a thing about proper bra fittage.

  Urgh.

  Just thinking about it triggered utter depression, because Sierra plus bra issues equaled a surefire candidate for a Fixit. Lily used to post them each Friday—a makeover in three easy steps. They’d been Lipstick Lillian’s biggest draw and Sierra could even be relied upon to shut up about Rocky long enough to help draft them.

  Down below, the runner veered off the path and ran through the sprinkler. She stopped, resecured her ponytail, then made for a prickly clump of succulents. She’d probably appreciate the Fixit. Everyone did (well, everyone minus one). They were funny, yeah, but they were meant to help. Look better, feel better, be better. It was as simple as that. Like Sierra said: the most noble and magnanimous Headmistress Brecken should have given her community service credit instead of summoning her parents. But no one would listen that day in la Brecken’s office. Lily wasn’t picking on anyone. She didn’t go around looking for Fixits. Girls sent in their own pictures. And she was careful. She’d listened to the bajillion assemblies on Internet predators. The policy was right there on her blog. She’d only consider photos with the heads cropped off.

  Another Visiting Grandchild, a little-kid version, had appeared in the hot tub courtyard. They should exchange cards. He walked robot style, knees locked. Between the goosesteps and his bowl cut he kind of looked like a mini Hitler. He found a stick and brandished it at his reflection in the sliding glass door. He poked it at something on the ground. He tapped it against the hot tub.

  Lily reached for her bag. She still had one airport magazine left.

  Down in his courtyard, Der Führer stood on a picnic bench and jumped.

  Lily flipped through a couple of pages then tossed the stupid thing. It skidded across the roof. Mom had given her a fat stack of magazines when they’d said goodbye at airport security, like what was eating Lily alive was a dearth of articles on how to perfect your cat-eye liner. The beauty tips weren’t the point. Her blog could be about the mating cycles of fruit bats. The point was, Lily had friends. Saintblonde lived all the way in Tampa and wanted Lily’s opinion on what haircut to get. Fizzimiss was from somewhere in Arizona and if Lily didn’t ping her to let her know that she was nearby and eminently visit-worthy then she really would be as snotty and shallow as all of a sudden everyone was convinced she was.

  Dad had said they weren’t real people. He’d joked about outgrowing imaginary friends.

  No. The person who wasn’t a real person was her mystery classmate, Anonymous Crybaby VonFragilekins.

  This time, Der Führer climbed onto the table to jump. He stuck the landing.

  Lily hadn’t even had the chance to face her accuser.

  Headmistress Brecken identified her as a classmate-whose-image-you-appropriated-without-her-knowledge-or-consent. A classmate-who-you-then-held-up-for-public-ridicule. As I’m sure you’re aware, Miss Birnam, we expect better of our student citizens.

  Lily hadn’t even known the girl went to Day.

  She hadn’t been wearing her uniform or anything, and the image arrived in her inbox pre-cropped.

  Der Führer was back on the picnic table. He made a running start.

  Lily shifted, chin in her hands.

  Three stupid paragraphs and boom. Goodbye, two years of work. Auf wiedersehen, au revoir, and sayonara, international following. Not to mention two weeks’ grounding and total technological confiscation.

  She wasn’t mean. Ever. She had a rule. Only criticize what a girl can actually change.

  And there’d been compliments in the Fixit in question.

  First things first, chickie-dee: can the lace collar and the cutesy little cap sleeves. You’re not ten. Obviously. We can all see the Boob Fairy thought you were a very good girl. If you weren’t wearing a blouse like a first grader in the Thanksgiving pageant, everyone here would be dead of envy.

  Second, the Boob Fairy was generous but she forgot to leave an instruction manual. Your bra strap is showing. Bonus points for purple though. Is that satin? I wish more readers had your guts.

  Third, I’m worried about your necklace. Points for taking on that whole charm and bauble boho thing, but between you and me and the Internet it looks a little bit Etsy.

  Lily frowned and watched Der Führer jump again, his thin arms flapping. He landed on the hot tub cover, but only barely. He toppled off, stood, wiped his palms on his shorts, and climbed right back up to try again. Talk about easily amused.

  She took another swig of water.

  Sierra said she was lucky. Anyone else would be suspended for sure, but nothing’s going to stick to you for long. Nothing scares the trustees like the prospect of a big fat lesbian lawsuit. Be all angel food cake and they’ll let you up again in no time. That sounded a bit optimistic to Lily, but she didn’t say so. Sierra probably felt guilty. The Boob Fairy had been her invention. Lily’d balked about posting it but Sierra said no, it was hilarious. She even drew a cartoon Boob Fairy for Lily’s locker.

  Down in the courtyard, Der Führer missed the hot tub. He landed square on his butt. A shocked, solid breath escaped.

  Lily stood and checked the back of her legs for color, pressing a finger to the flesh of her calf. T
he white mark flared then faded. It was a hundred and eighty degrees today and, in the absence of her iPhone, terminally boring to lie out. She’d stay for ten more little Hitler jumps and then head in. The kid positioned himself and ran. He cleared the space between table and hot tub, landed, and let out a small cheer.

  The ponytailed runner circled by once more.

  Der Führer made another headlong start. Another perfect landing, maybe half a foot beyond the lip of the hot tub cover. She should start holding up cards, awarding points out of ten.

  Or not, bearing in mind what happened the last time she made any kind of critique.

  Der Führer scrambled back into position. His feet pounded down the length of the table and he hurled himself into the air. His landing was a bit off. He wobbled backward and then overcorrected. He staggered toward the tub’s center.

  Then he was gone.

  The hot tub cover collapsed in a brutal V.

  Every hair on Lily’s body stood straight. “Hey, kid,” she called down. Her hand went by instinct to her hip, but she didn’t have pants and didn’t have a pocket and she didn’t have a goddamn phone. The day went wonky. All the colors crisped. She’d taken the Red Cross babysitting class. A little card in her wallet said she knew CPR, but all she could recall was the dummy’s plastic lips, their red worn away in patches.

  “Kid!” she called again.

  She saw a small sneakered foot and pulsed with bright relief.

  Then the foot twitched and she worked out the physics. If it was above water then the rest of him was under.

  Her bones went hollow. She made it off the roof, and then into her grandmother’s kitchen. There was no phone anywhere. She checked the living room. The bedroom. The weird little desk alcove where she spied one beneath a sheaf of papers. That kid. That poor kid. The time she had cost him. She should have had her cell. The landline buttons sank in when she pushed them, nine then one then one. The phone was blue, with a blue tangle of cord. There was an impossible amount of wire involved in getting the signal out.

  A KIND OF TIME TRAVEL

  TWO YEARS BACK, IN THE lead up to the presidential election, the Colliers had spent their weekends going door to door. They hosted debate-watching parties and framed the same Shepard Fairey poster that everyone suddenly had on display. They decided to ditch Alison’s pills; the stick said yes just before the inauguration and they joked about a fertility bump across liberal America. Optimism babies, a kindergarten crowded with wee Michelles and Baracks.

  And now they lived in Arizona, the only place left where John McCain was routinely televised. Every time the senator appeared, Seth felt a brief, fierce dart of relief, like it was 2008 again. It was embarrassing. And it wasn’t just the senator. It was the throng of men here made in his image. Anyone with that high, arcing hairline or an off-kilter lump on his cheek. They walked The Commons en masse, geared up for golf. Seth had always gotten a kick out of offbeat collective nouns. He’d hung a list in his old classroom: a congregation of alligators, a convocation of eagles, a phalanx of storks. Quorum would be apt here. A roving quorum of McCains.

  Arizona.

  They’d leased a condo fifteen minutes from The Commons. Columns at the entry meant to look like stacked stones, sage-colored bathroom tiles, a patio that bordered an electric blue communal pool. The walnut grain of their good furniture looked fusty and wrong in that condo. The blinds in the bedroom were no defense against the morning light. They hadn’t unpacked the Shepard Fairey poster yet, and Seth hardly needed his English degree to get a read on that symbolism.

  But the grief books said that was okay.

  The grief books said they should give themselves time.

  At the books’ encouragement, they held fast to their routine. They took the free Commons shuttle to work together and they took it home again. On Saturday mornings they made pancakes. On Wednesdays after work they went for burgers at The Homeplate and watched whatever classic baseball game the restaurant decided to screen. The old games ran clean and uncluttered by advertising popups. Seth liked that. It was a kind of time travel. Tonight was Mets versus Braves, July 4th, 1985. Hell of a game.

  Ali was waiting for him by the front steps of the Hacienda Central. Nicky Tullbeck, Seth’s summer intern, sat beside her, inexpertly flirting. The boy’s bike stood, kick-standed, nearby. Alison fiddled with the sunglasses that hung from a chain around her neck. It wasn’t a coy gesture; this was Alison, after all. She was only trying to make them sit right. The glasses chain was something new. She’d made a fragile sound that tried to be laughter when she’d first tried it on. A few months at The Commons and I’m already an old lady. She leaned toward Nicky and said something Seth didn’t catch. The boy laughed, and Alison smiled like she’d never lost anything more than a poker hand. She spotted him and stood. He was pretty sure she’d worn that dress on their honeymoon. She’d torn the hem hopping the fence to a private beach. She waved him over and kissed his cheek. Seth returned the gesture, wishing he could’ve watched her with Nicky a while longer. Alison was still Alison if she had an audience. No one would guess that she didn’t yet have a local library card, that she hadn’t registered to vote.

  His wife said, “Nicky’s tracking down petroglyphs this weekend.” She smiled once more. She had a great smile; everyone said so.

  “There’s supposed to be a bunch of them ten miles down this arroyo.” Nicky gestured vaguely toward the horizon.

  Ali reminded him to carry water. Seth didn’t so much think Alison-sounds-like-a-mom as he thought don’t-let-yourself-think-Alison-sounds-like-a-mom. Semantics. Either way he felt it, raw and nestled between his ribs. Nicky biked off, hand raised in casual farewell. Ali said, “I wish he’d wear a helmet.”

  Nicky zoomed down the straightaway. Whatever gunk he wore in his hair made it helmet enough. “He’s a good kid.”

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  “What I mean is, he’ll be careful.”

  “That doesn’t mean everyone else will be.” Whenever his mother-in-law visited, she fussed about Ali’s posture—you’re not short, sweetling, don’t carry yourself like you are—grabbing her shoulders and wresting them back. Seth wished she was here. Anything to straighten the sorry crescent of his wife’s spine.

  He changed the subject. These days, that was the best trick he had. “So. Mets versus Braves.” He checked the time. They’d make the first pitch if they hurried.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Mets versus Braves.” Alison was the one who’d won him over to ESPN Classic. She TiVoed nearly all the baseball. I need it to get me through the winters, Seth. Spring training doesn’t even start till February. He’d given her a hard time when they first moved in together. Why bother when you already know who wins? Especially when there’s basketball live. Football. Hockey. Pick your poison. No, this is better, she’d said. Like rereading a good book.

  It had taken a few years, but he got the draw now.

  If you aren’t hung up on the ending, it’s easier to see the moment-to-moment grace.

  “Supposed to be a good one?” he asked. As if he didn’t know. Mets take it sixteen-thirteen after ten, count ’em, ten extra innings. Fourth of July, so the game ends with fireworks. By this point, it’s four A.M., 1985. The Wall in Berlin will stand for another four years. The good people of Atlanta awake and think invasion. Seth was acting like one of those girls in his classes, the ones he’d always wanted to shake, playing dumb so some guy could feel oh so smart. This was Alison. Alison.

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s a great game. They wouldn’t rerun it otherwise.”

  They walked. He couldn’t see it but he knew: an inch or so of her hem was hand-stitched in white. It had been the only thread in their hotel sewing kit. Belize. Their honeymoon. Alison’s pursed expression as she threaded the needle. She’d wanted to redo it when they got home. He convinced her not to bother. We’ll want to look at it and remember, he’d said. Alison had kissed him and called it the saddest, swe
etest souvenir in the history of honeymoons.

  “Alison?” he asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me something about your day. Something I wouldn’t be able to guess.” Another line from one of those pitiful little girls.

  Ali didn’t say anything. She was tan now, but their first week out here she’d burned. I look like a strawberry, she complained. Red skin and all these freckles. Seth had said nothing. He’d thought about strawberries, how amazing it was they evolved at all. They were so fragile. They carried their seeds on the outside.

  “Alison?” he asked again. Because the thing was, it was an actual question. He didn’t know what she did all day. Her office was upstairs from his, on the top floor of the Hacienda Central, two doors down from Hoagland Lobel’s. It held a small desk and a large bookcase. The bookcase was genuine wood. Seth had thumped it with his knuckles and listened to the reverberations so he knew that much at least.

  “I’m thinking,” she said.

  “It’s not a hard question. How was your day?”

  “I may have tracked down a photo of Adah Chalk. You know? The rancher’s wife? The first one? She followed Garner Chalk West from Louisiana and—what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know you. You had a look.”

  “It’s just—you’re going to tell me about this Adah, and I was asking about you.”

  “And this is what I worked on. What do you want me to say?”

  “I was only—” He could say being romantic, but romance implied sex and sex implied the question. You’re young. You can try again. Ali’s OB said there was no reason they couldn’t. At first Ali had said that she didn’t trust herself yet. Now, more and more, she left out the yet. They arrived at The Homeplate. His wife ducked inside before he had a chance to hold the door. Cara, their usual waitress, escorted them to their usual table. Alison unrolled her napkin.