You Could Be Home by Now

by Tracy Manaster

  “Believe me, I noticed. But—”

  “No. Actually pissed off. Actually, as in not diagnostically.” A light came on in the Birnam kitchen. Another followed. Sadie’s living room. His neighbor and her granddaughter, doing something small and contented to unwind. A movie and a massive bowl of microwave popcorn. An affectionate dispute over how vigorously to salt it.

  “Benji. The whole interview sure as hell looked like you were—”

  “But I wasn’t. It wasn’t some kind of—I was just mad.” He was grateful that the Birnams had gone into the house. It would be so like Lily to broadcast his fall-apart scene at the meeting. She’d do it in half a heartbeat for the pleasure of seeing Veronica wring him out. It’d be like Sadie to spill, too, although she would have kinder motives.

  Veronica rubbed her eyes, like their children had done when they were past due for a nap. The movement set her new glasses briefly off-kilter. “That’s what Stephen said. You were just mad. And I thought, fine. Only—”

  “Only what? We don’t trust Stephen now? You’re the one who needs your head examined.”

  “Anjali said you missed your crossword this morning.”

  “Huh?”

  “That crossword you do every day. She said you skipped this morning.”

  “Well God forbid I take a break now and then. Maybe stay offline when the whole damn world is against me.” The words sounded paranoid and he regretted them. But better that than to say he’d quarreled with Sadie this morning and had been distracted. Veronica knew. Fighting could be as intimate as hygiene.

  “And Anjali said she won yesterday. By a wide margin.”

  “So? She had a lucky day.”

  “She’d never come close before. So you see why I might worry about your cognitive—”

  “I let her win.”

  “Nonsense. You’re the most competitive—”

  He lied, mind wild with the watery ghost of that dream. “She’s got that trial coming up. I figured she could use the ego boost.”

  “She was third in her class at BU. Jesus Christ. I hardly think she needs—”

  “You know what I don’t need? The lot of you spying on me. Talking about me—”

  “Listen to yourself. You know what you sound like?”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? The crossword’s your clever excuse to check up on me. Make sure the old noggin’s—”

  “It’s a sweet thing the two of you share. If it happens to—”

  “Be some kind of failsafe?”

  “You make it sound like we’re all plotting—”

  “Enough. I’m grand.” He couldn’t remember who’d first found the crossword site, whether the daily challenge had been his idea or Anjali’s. “You can tell my daughter-in-law to stop her snooping.”

  “She likes you. And she didn’t want Stephen to worry. She knew you’d get—well, that you’d get like this if he started checking in all the time. Anjali wanted to help. Married people do that for each other, remember?”

  “Don’t start.” It was early yet for the moon to rise, which was a shame. For no reason at all, it felt vital that he know its phase.

  “You can see why we worried, that’s all. Stephen kept calling. I kept calling. Anjali did, too.”

  “So the three of you wait. I’d have called back as soon as I—” He searched his pockets. He must have left his fool phone inside. “Look. I didn’t have my cell on me. It happens. It’s no reason to hop on a plane and—”

  “Damn straight, you don’t have your phone on you. Because I called and called and someone finally answered. A lovely sounding RN. Turns out your phone was lying about some hospital snack bar—”

  “I have no idea what it was doing at the snack bar, but—”

  “He was kind enough to give me the hospital’s main number. I spent forever trying to get someone on the line who could tell me why on earth you’d been there.”

  “Ahh, yes. About that.”

  “No one would say a peep. Not one word.”

  “Patient confidentiality, Veronica. And it was nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Do you know what I was thinking? Do you know what Stephen was thinking?”

  The rant, the crossword, the two days of unanswered calls. The unyielding silence of the hospital switchboard. You could see how it might add up. “You didn’t have to come,” he said. “You could’ve—”

  “If I hadn’t come, Stephen would’ve. And you know the firm would’ve loved that.”

  “I still say the three of you scare too easily.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” She shrugged and spread her arms wide. The gesture looked out of place, like it ought to be capped with a gleeful spin. “Hey. You are all right, aren’t you?”

  “It’s been a strange few days. Do you have a suitcase?”

  “No. Just the blue carryall.” She gestured to where it waited beside the steps. “A change of clothes, a toothbrush. I didn’t know what I was packing for. I figured that’s why they invented credit cards.”

  “Bring it on in. I guess you can bunk down in the guest room.”

  “Ahh, chivalry.”

  “Tone down the sarcasm and I’ll throw in breakfast.”

  “And a festival. I was promised a festival.”

  “Don’t push it. We’ll see.” They went on up the steps and he turned the key. Veronica whistled again—when had she picked up that habit?—and pronounced his new digs very swank. She ran a hand along the smooth planes of the Chrome Monstrosity. Ben had planned for this, or for something like it. Veronica here, her sweater on the back of his kitchen chair, her purse on his gleaming granite counter.

  Of course, the way he’d planned it, he’d had a week’s advance notice. He’d had the chance to run the vacuum before she arrived and time to pick up a loaf from that bakery down the road. Veronica would like their bread; the older she got the more stock she put in grains that were visible to the naked eye. His plan had involved tuning up his old Schwinn and finding a rental bike for his ex. It involved timing the invitation so that they could attend one of the twice-monthly lectures by professors imported from Arizona State. He’d intended to stock up on Veronica’s preferred shampoo and on the carrot-based hand lotion she always used in the summer. He’d meant to spend an afternoon going through his box of framed family pictures that didn’t look quite right on his shelves. He’d meant to pick a handful to display.

  A CHEERFUL CREW OF PAIR-BONDERS

  FOUNDER’S DAY. ONE YEAR EXACTLY since Grandpa died. Clearly an occasion best commemorated by taking your miscreant granddaughter, post-freakout possiboyfriend, his ex-wife, and her probably real Kate Spade satchel to an arts and crafts fair. Gran was nuts. She insisted Lily borrow a pair of Velcro-strap sneakers. Practicality was in order, she said. They’d walk over. Parking had been difficult last year.

  Lily wasn’t perfect. Ask Benjamin Thales (whose shoes, joy of joys, also employed Velcro). Ask Nicky Tullbeck. Ask Tyson Rosko and his grandmother, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree. She was basically a one-woman interpersonal wrecking ball.

  Still.

  Really, Gran?

  Parking had been difficult?

  She wasn’t perfect but least she hadn’t signed up for a complete emotional lobotomy.

  They stopped at a display of hardwood puzzles. A great white with a belly full of surfboards. An ark with a cheerful crew of pair-bonders. Gran hummed the tune from the ballerina music box Lily had loved as a child. It was probably something famous in real life, reduced to wind-up plinking. She caught Lily’s eye and the humming stopped. “We’re going to have a great time.” Her way-too-happy, deep-fried Rasta leprechaun accent was back. Lily nodded, then complimented the ex’s bag to distract from whatever was going on with Gran’s cognitive processes. The ex said she’d gotten a discount through Anjali’s sister, who did something for the company’s website. Lily acted like she knew who the hell Anjali was, because apparently they were all such friend
s, tra la.

  Ben traced the edge of the Noah puzzle piece. “You left out Mrs. Noah,” he told the artist, because marriage was the best possible thing to allude to in this particular social context.

  Lily pointed to the next booth. “Let’s try on hats,” she said, before either woman could respond to the per-vet and turn the whole conversation insta-symbolic.

  Gran brandished her—off-brand—handbag. “Onward!”

  Lily winced. In the face of a rival, calculation was in order, not descent into full-on, French-fried freakdom. She’d learned that much from Sierra. That, and how to play scorekeeper. Her grandmother’s whackadoo accent made it Die Exfrau one, Gran zip.

  Die Exfrau tried on a green hat that looked like a satellite receiver.

  Gran’s beige, feathery confection turned her into Big Bird’s anemic cousin.

  The per-vet donned a pink, rectangular, felted thing. He winked.

  “Very Jackie O,” said Gran.

  He winked again in response.

  Gran one, Die Exfrau one. Tie game.

  Die Exfrau exchanged the satellite for undulating waves of stiffened tulle. She pursed her lips. “How about this for the Turners’ next Derby party?”

  Make that Die Exfrau two, Gran one, unless she also scored an invite to the Turners’ soiree. They moved on, past oil-paint mesas and ceramic Kokopellis. Every third booth featured pastel coyotes profiled against the moon. Die Exfrau inspected a funny tiled pot for succulents. Ben clattered a display of inert wind chimes. Gran fingered the hem of a gauzy tunic. On the festival stage a band of mariachis in glittering shoulder pads began to set up. Their little group came to a balloon vendor. Visiting grandchildren and their keepers clustered. Lily checked that none of the kiddos was Tyson. A handmade poster labeled the street just beyond as the Kiddie Korral. It was mostly empty. A woman with a foam clown nose applied face paint to another grandkid who wasn’t Tyson. Photocopied coloring sheets waited next to buckets of melting crayons.

  Die Exfrau indicated the Korral. She asked if Lily wanted to get her face painted, because she was absolutely the kind of girl who wanted to go around with a cute little cupcake on her cheek. She managed a polite “No, thank you.” Company manners. Like they always used to go on about for elementary school field trips: everything you do on this excursion reflects on Forest Park Day. Everything she did today would reflect on Gran.

  And on Grandpa.

  She’d wanted to wear black for him, but Gran nixed it. Don’t be silly, Lily. It’s a hundred degrees out. And it was hot, the day brazen blue and completely breathless. All up and down Main Street, banners advertising she-had-no-idea-what hung limp for want of wind.

  Per-vet Thales said, “Forget face paint. Lily’s got her eye out for bumper cars.” He winked at her now. Maybe it was some kind of facial tic.

  “Benjamin!” Gran play-punched him on the arm, and he rubbed his shoulder at the point of contact.

  Die Exfrau looked pained. “Ben holds grudges,” she said lightly to Lily, and then, to Ben, “You’ve always held grudges.”

  Point to Gran. Die Exfrau was way overselling her past with the guy.

  Ben raised his hands in mock surrender. Gran, whose job today, for the record, should in no way involve playing post-marital referee, said there hadn’t been bumper cars last year, like that was the carnival’s noteworthy flaw.

  Lily wanted to stamp her Velcroed foot and scream. Instead, she said she was hungry. She put on her best smile and somewhere back in St. Louis her orthodontist lit with pride. They stood in line for frybread. Lily tracked the approach of a green balloon, tethered to the wrist of a pudgy little redhead. There was a blue one over by the Hacienda steps and a pink one back by the Kiddie Korral. Her conscience seemed to have developed a serious case of latex-based OCD. She needed to relax, already. Little kids liked balloons. So what? It didn’t follow that any of those balloons were attached to Tyson.

  Die Exfrau informed them that she’d loved sarsaparilla as a child and had always bought a bottle at the state fair.

  Lily wasn’t sure how, exactly, that was meant to advance the conversation. The line moved slowly. Ben fanned his face and complained about the heat; Gran asked if he was holding up okay. The score was tied two-two now, with a point to Gran for looking out for the guy. Bonus points to him for that matter. Post a twitchy meltdown like yesterday’s, Lily doubted she’d have the guts to go out in public. She was fully dreading her return to Forest Park Day, the inevitable—and owed—conversation with Jennifer Vogler, and whatever drama bombs Sierra was going to lob. She could learn a lot from Per-vet Thales’ spine. Something like a small door opened in her mind at that, a door she hadn’t known was there. She still didn’t like Ben, but she could put on her big-girl pants and acknowledge the possibility that she might come to if he stuck around enough. He gave a great, hacking, old man cough and she looked away. Just because a door was open didn’t mean she had to walk through it.

  Die Exfrau paid for everyone’s snacks like she was trying to buy an extra point. At the picnic table, Ben picked the seat beside Gran, making the score three-two. Die Exfrau launched into SAT word-worthy sycophant mode, the logic evidently being if-Sadie-poaches-my-person-I’ll-poach-hers. No one above sixty should be that interested in any blog, much less one about how to dress at sixteen.

  Every time Ben looked their way, Veronica made a colossal deal of asking Lily another question. They worked their way through their frybread, which was now the Official Snack of Awkward Conversation. People stared, and not subtly. She should hold up a scorecard. Gran bragged about Lily’s rooftop heroism, and Lily wished she could trigger vomit through sheer force of will. Die Exfrau mentioned an internship in the new media Lily should apply for next summer. Benjamin Thales licked grease from his fingers. On stage, the mariachis began to play. There were nearly a dozen balloons in Lily’s direct line of sight. She took an aggressive bite of her snack. It wasn’t like those balloons were out to get her, cartoon-thought bubbles closing in. What was she, four?

  She should just calm down. Focus on Grandpa: the baked Alaska he’d made for family birthdays, the concoction of which inexplicably required the use of a hammer, the knock-knock jokes he’d collected years after she’d outgrown them, the wall of travel books he’d organized spatially by latitude and longitude.

  Ben and Die Exfrau started an argument over whether the mariachis’ instrument was called a vihuela or a vinculo. Tucked away in the woman’s $500-plus bag was a $200-plus phone that could resolve the issue in less than ten seconds. Reason numero uno that virtual trumped reality: online you argued about stuff you actually cared about instead of quibbling over something that either was or wasn’t.

  She said, “My grandfather brought me back a mariachi hat from Mexico. I was six.”

  “I’d have said eight,” said Gran. “There was a piñata too.”

  Lily remembered the piñata, a tasseled sunburst in orange and green. She’d been too young to express the way it made her sad. Someone had made something beautiful with the express purpose of cracking it open. “Six,” she said. “I’m pretty sure. We smashed it for my seventh birthday.”

  Die Exfrau asked where in Mexico they’d gone. Gran said Cozumel and the women launched into a compare and contrast of every vacation they’d ever taken. Ben stretched. Lily heard the crackle in his spine. It turned out the Thaleses and the Birnams had stayed in the same hotel in London, two years apart. Both women chuckled at the memory of the maitre d’s impressive moustache. Ben Thales gathered the grease-spattered napkins and stood. She couldn’t tell if he was taller than Grandpa had been or shorter. She’d been a child; of course, her grandpa loomed large and rumbly and comforting and bearlike. Ben crossed to a trash can and threw the crumpled wad of napkins. He missed. Gran laughed; Veronica called, “Air ball!”

  Grandpa would have made it.

  Or if he missed, he’d have shrugged and thrown it out instead of trying again and again like a doofus.

  Ben made it on
attempt number four. He bowed. Jerk à la mode. Clearing the table hadn’t been the point. Getting their eyes back on him had been.

  Die Exfrau complained she was thirsty, getting their eyes all back on her.

  Gran said limeades were in order, that they’d been delicious last year. Ben’s eyes lowered and looked away at the words last year, the words like magnets with reversed polarity. Die Exfrau chirped on and on about a new bar in Portland that did a fantastic cocktail with lime and muddled ginger. Either Ben hadn’t told her that Grandpa died here last year or she was an utter oblivibitch. The limeades were cloying to the nth degree. They walked along sipping them, Exfrau-Ben-Gran, with invisi-Lily as tagalong shadow. They turned from the midway onto a side street lined with more booths. And, wham, there was Mona Rosko, halfway down the block, holding fast to Tyson’s hand. No balloon. Of course not. Everyone knew she had no cash for frivolities.

  Everyone knew, thanks to Lily.

  She slurped hard on her straw and hoped for brain freeze.

  Gran frowned, and took a genteel sip from her own cup.

  “Sorry,” Lily said, because it was good to say it to someone.

  Gran saw where she was looking.

  “I’m really sorry,” Lily said, before Gran took it upon herself to say something kind.

  Ben and Die Exfrau drew up beside an array of jewelry. Ben said, “This is the gal who made that bracelet I got Anjali last year.”

  The jewelry gal acknowledged this with a smile. Gran fingered a turquoise cuff. The Roskos were too far away for readable faces. Grandmother and grandson stopped to watch a caricature artist at work. The unstinting light cast them in silhouette. Lily saw sunspots when she turned away.

  “You okay?” Gran asked her.

  “I’m fine,” said Ben, operating under the assumption that it was all about him. His eyes darted, uneasy, to Die Exfrau, then to Sadie, then to her. Textbook guilty look. Someone hadn’t told his ex that he was moonlighting as Captain Public Freakout. He thumped his chest. His voice went genial-hopped-up-on-Pixy-Stix. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”