by CJ Hauser
She spills some cocoa on the ground. “For the gods,” she says.
17
Leah
I call my parents.
There’s snow here, I say. Is there snow there?
Yes, they say, but it’s mostly brown.
Henry’s out selling Christmas trees, I say. It’s very festive.
We almost went ice-skating, they say. We looked at everyone going around and we said to each other, Let’s go!
But you didn’t?
The line was very long.
Have you ever done anything terrible to each other? I say.
What kind of question is that? they say.
So no, I say.
Of course we have, they say. We’re married.
Are you okay? they say.
Everything is very good here, I say.
WE ARE WAITING for the lights to go on.
Parked in Quinn’s car, outside Frame’s house, a bulging shadow hulks some yards off, the reason for Frame’s fine and Marks’s letter. The woods are quiet because it’s winter and there is nothing left alive out there. The blast of ship’s horn punctuates the silence. Quinn is shivering because she’s cut the engine and thus the heat, citing good investigative practice. She says an idling car would look suspicious if someone spotted us. I tell her I’m pretty sure Watergate is over and no one is on our tail but she pretends not to hear me. She’s already had one cup of coffee and is now drinking the one she got for me, which I’m not drinking because it’s only six o’clock at night and we’ve only been here half an hour. This whole thing is ridiculous, but I have to admit, a little fun too. Quinn has a way of turning everything into an event.
“Uncle later?” I say.
“Can’t,” Quinn says. “I have band practice.”
“Band practice?”
“It was Rosie’s idea. I’m humoring her.”
“Humoring her?”
“Dating her?” Quinn says. She gets the kind of sneaky smile a person has when they’re thinking about how wonderful something is. She’s trying not to let it spread, but she fails, and when she turns to me her face is a sloppy grinning revelation of helpless joy.
“You are in so much trouble!” I say, and point at her face. “Look at you! You are so far gone!”
Quinn shakes her head. “So much trouble,” she says, still grinning.
“What do you mean dating?” I say. “Have you been on a date somewhere?”
“Sure we have,” Quinn says. “We’ve been to the Uncle, the waterfront, our house.”
“You absolutely cannot go on a date with your roommate to your own house,” I say.
“We’re just—together,” Quinn says.
“I see,” I say. I consider this. “Would you characterize Rosie as . . . solid?”
Quinn laughs. “Not by a long shot,” she says. “That girl is crazy for miles.”
“Give me a sip of coffee.”
“Nope. Mine now,” she says. “Too late.”
A car comes around the bend. Its high beams project a waxy yellow triangle on Quinn’s forehead. She sinks her teeth, softly, into the rim of her Styrofoam cup.
“Halogen-lamp fuckers,” she says.
I make out someone coming through the yard. “Frame’s here,” I say.
“Shhh,” Quinn says.
“Don’t we need to interview him anyway?”
“Shhh!”
“I think it’s great about Rosie.”
“Shhh.”
A man’s form, blue against blue in the night, stalks over to the phantom display. His shadow hands stretch wide and come together. He is plugging one thing into another.
And then I can’t see for all the holy brightness.
When my sight returns I see the inflatable Christmas decorations growing, like the wicked witch’s feet in reverse. Blown up and shivering from the influx of light and air and life, a panoply of hideous creatures are thronged on a wooden platform. Wobbling in the inflatable tableau are: Rudolph, a trumpet-horned monster, a New England Patriot, Snoopy, a snowman with a toothy grin, which is confusing, a yellow japanimation mouse, Mickey Mouse, Mighty Mouse, Snoopy again, but dressed up as Santa Claus, a bloated woman in a veil, maybe the Virgin, Rudolph dressed up as Santa Claus, a New England Patriot dressed up as Santa Claus, Elmo, Elmo dressed up as Santa Claus, and a five-foot snow globe with shiny Mylar flakes blowing around inside like it’s a glitter nor’easter.
Frame’s illuminated back is all we see as he slowly returns to his house.
“It’s glorious,” Quinn says. She hand-rolls down the window. All that light is kicking up glare.
“It’s the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “Though remarkable.”
Quinn says, “This is some grade-A revolutionary shit.”
“Revolutionary?” I say.
When we get back to the office, the windows are dark even though it’s only six.
“Maybe she’s dead,” Quinn says. But there’s a letter on the editing desk with a note from Charley. Town hall meeting tonight. See you there.
BY THE TIME we get to the middle school, I have two voice mails from Henry about the meeting. Quinn, who is driving, gets on the phone with Charley. “Write this down,” she says to me.
“Oh,” I say, “you mean in my notebook?” It is immensely satisfying to pull it from my pocket and wave it around.
“Just write it down, Leah!”
Here is the news: Yesterday, Mikey Eubanks from the bait shop received a citation for trespassing on the casa grande property, officially known as the Dorian property. The thing was, Mikey didn’t know he was on the property at all. He was just sitting on the carousel in Neversink Park, looking out at the water. He was also listening to the Stones’ Exile on Main at full volume on his radio and sipping from a fifth of whiskey, so he’d thought that was the problem. But it wasn’t. Use of the area commonly known as Neversink Park, Eubanks was told by the officer who gave him the citation, was no longer permitted. The park was part of what used to be the Sanfords’ property. While the Sanford family put up a sign that said NEVERSINK PARK, and permitted use of the land by the public, carousel included, they never officially gave the land to the town. Even the carousel, which was built by some original Sanford many years ago, was technically privately owned. As such, when the Dorians bought the Sanfords’ land, they bought the rights to the park and the carousel too, and they were making them private.
By the time we get there, the parking lot is packed and people are streaming into the gym. There’s hardly room to drive between the rows and Quinn almost mows down a man who spits retaliatory tobacco juice in our wake. I spot Henry pacing in front of his nursery truck. He’s stopped driving the lobster pot to avoid being teased.
“I’ll see you in there,” I tell Quinn. “Save seats.”
I slam the car door and head for Henry.
I say, “I got your messages. What’s—” But before I can ask, he grabs my hand and shakes his head. He stares nervously at the gym doors. “It’s gonna be a madhouse in there,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Stick close, okay?”
“I’ll stick,” I say, and squeeze back.
We head inside and Quinn waves us to the front. I sit, Henry to my right, Charley, Quinn, and Rosie to my left. The meeting was moved from the town hall to the school to accommodate overflow attendance. I estimate fifty people. The gym smells like rubber flooring and damp overcoats. There is a general din of squeaking sneakers as people get settled and I, impatient, nervous, count the eight basketballs trapped in an overhead net that hangs between the ceiling and us. Henry is as jittery as I’ve ever seen him. What have you got yourself into, Henry? I think. And then realize that when you are married, you have been gotten into things too.
The town clerk, Maude Gunthrop, is wearing a peach skirt suit with flesh-colored tights and blue snow boots. She calls the meeting to order and asks that the second chair, whoever that is, read the minutes from the last meeting. “As first chair, I call this meeting to
order at six twenty-two P.M. Will the second chair please read the minutes from last meeting?”
“Forget the minutes!” someone shouts. “We’ve got stuff to talk about.” There is sympathetic muttering.
“Mr. Dawson?” says Gunthrop. “Yes, hello, Mr. Dawson, welcome. Mr. Dawson, if you’d ever come to one of these meetings before . . .” With this, she scans the crowd. “In fact, if any of you had ever come to one of these meetings before, you would know that this is how we begin. Protocol does not drop out all of a sudden just because we have a few additional constituents in attendance, does it, second chair?”
“No, ma’am,” says the second chair, a thin man with a head of hair like a pelt, whom I suspect of being married to the first chair, or, at least, of sleeping with her.
“Damn, Gunthrop!” Quinn says admiringly. She leans across to hiss at Charley and me, “Let’s get her on staff!”
The second chair then proceeds to read the minutes from the last town hall meeting. Then Gunthrop asks if there are issues from the floor.
A man with chestnut hair swept back like a lion’s stands up. “I motion that we discuss the legal limitations of Neversink Park and the Dorian property.” His voice rings like a bronze bell.
Henry turns pale. Charley nudges me and says, “You know who that is by now, I hope?”
Carter and Quinn look so much alike I can’t help but stare.
18
Quinn
Not only does Carter now appear properly fucking shod but Rosie’s face lights up the moment he stands. “Cut it out,” I say.
“What?”
“Glowing.”
“He’s wonderful,” she says, her wonderful three syllables long and she’s not the only one. Half the place has faces glowing like Rosie’s. It’s not just that Carter is a semifamous musician. It’s that something about his bigness draws people in. I could pretend I don’t get it, but I have a fox eye in my pocket. Rosie whispers, “The other day, when I brought him his eggs? He said it was vital we preserve the historical traditions and character of Menamon. Did you know the Stationhouse has been around for over eighty years?”
“Is that why our utilities blow?”
“Would you shut up?” Charley hisses. “I’m trying to get quotes.”
Carter says, “But, Ms. Gunthrop, isn’t it the benefit of governing a small town that tradition may prevail over power? Logic over bureaucracy?”
I sink low in my seat, but also hope maybe he’ll see me.
Gunthrop reiterates that the area we know as Neversink Park is not actually public property and that if the Dorians want to fence their land and get rid of the carousel, they can.
It only takes a moment for this to sink in, and then half the room is on its feet and talking at once. Billy Deep trips all over himself standing up and says, “Who said anything about getting rid of the carousel?”
“My kids grew up riding that carousel,” a woman in a wool sweater says. “It’s a historical landmark.”
A man with a red beard says, “What are they gonna do, mail out special invitations to the kids who want to ride it? Make them RSVP to get in past the gates?”
“No way, Frank,” Cliff Frame says. “They’ll tear it down. They probably think the thing is tacky. Probably it’s a semipermanent structure.”
“Ms. Gunthrop,” Carter says, and everyone gets quiet for a moment. “I wonder if you might let us know exactly what the Dorians’ plans are in regard to the carousel. Are they open to discussion with the town? Perhaps an arrangement could be made to preserve just that section of the park so that—”
“You don’t get it,” Gunthrop says. She shakes her head and smiles joylessly. “There’s no discussion to be had. The park is their land, and the carousel is their property. So whether they want to use it, or share it, or pay a bunch of wreckers to take the thing down, stick by stick, it’s up to them.”
From the back, someone shouts, “Don’t kill the carousel!”
There’s a new uproar, but Gunthrop waves her hands around and shouts, “Meeting over! Meeting over!” When it becomes clear that no one is leaving, she and the second chair pack up their papers and scurry out the back entrance, people shouting after them: “Don’t kill the carousel!” Everyone stands around arguing for a while, until it’s clear she isn’t coming back. Muttering, they start filing out into the parking lot. Henry and Leah move fast, and by the time we’ve made it to the aisle, they’re gone. I’d hoped we’d compare notes—I wanted to know what she thought of Carter. If anyone could be invulnerable to his speechifying, I think it would be Leah, and I love her for that.
OUTSIDE, ROSIE, A gleam of purpose in her eyes, says, “They can’t get rid of the carousel. We need to do something.” People are milling around the parking lot.
“Rosie, be serious,” I say. “When was the last time you rode that rusty old trap?” Because, sure, she probably rode the thing every weekend of her childhood. It has sentimental value. I understand. But this new stance is about more than that. Rosie loves this sort of thing, sweeping generalities about justice and love. She’s the sort of girl who dreams of participating in something big. I was maybe like that once, for a second, before Marta, before everything.
I light up a cigarette and sit on the hood of my car. I see Billy leaving the meeting with his angry-young-man face on. His hands are shoved deep in his jacket pockets and his chin is tucked to his chest. “Hey, Billy,” I say. “Come here, what’s up?”
“Quinn, I have serious things on my mind today,” Billy says. He hasn’t yet forgiven me for putting an end to his lucrative cat-bagging. But he perks up at the sight of Rosie. Everyone does.
“We’re going to get a few drinks,” I say. “You want to come?”
“Can’t,” he says. “My dad just headed to the Uncle.” It’s not that they wouldn’t serve him, I know, but that Joseph wouldn’t stand for it.
“I’m a proficient bartender,” Rosie says.
I say, “Where do you think we’re entertaining, lady?”
“I have a key to the Stationhouse,” Rosie says.
“Billy,” Carter calls from the gymnasium. A triangular window illuminates a basketball hoop in its frame and the bickering voices come loud and then soft as the gym doors swing on their hinges. I think about booking it before he sees me but Carter lopes over to us fast. I hop off the hood.
“Billy,” he says again, but then he sees me. He’s short on air and braces himself, hands on his knees. “Ms. Winters,” he says. Winters. He’s read my piece, and he knows, and I understand he’s crouched down like that to catch his breath, but I think about the way a father is supposed to bend at the knees when he talks to a child. To get down to her level.
I exhale. I feel a little shaky. A little mad. It’s unfair that he spends even this sliver of time with other people. There is such a deficit, a negative amount of time he’s not spent with me.
“The Star appreciated your letter,” I say in a way that I hope conveys my deep and abiding sarcasm. “We stopped by Cliff’s tonight.”
“I look forward to your piece,” Carter says. He’s looking at me now, not rattled but not easy either. Really looking at me like he didn’t last time and I hope he’s seeing a ghost. I hope it’s clear that this is a haunting going down right now. Please go see your father, Marta said. Please.
Carter stands up and says, “Rosalind.” He dips his head, a cowboy bow.
“Hey, Carter,” she says. Then, “I want to help. How can I help?”
“Rosie,” I say, louder than I should.
“Whatever you’re here to talk to Billy about, I want to help with it too,” she says. Billy grins, like he’s somehow responsible for bringing her into the fold.
“Rosalind, I’m only here to offer Billy a ride home,” Carter deflects.
“Bullshit,” I say. I can tell by his face he’s surprised. I get a rush of fear like I have one foot off a ledge. I squint at the sky because I’m unable to back up my gall with my face. The night is c
lear. I focus on the center star in Orion’s belt.
“I’m all right,” Billy says. “I’m going to get a drink with these ladies.” He puts a hand on each of our backs and I grind some sand from my teeth. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.”
“Me too,” says Rosie.
Carter smiles but shakes his head. “As much as I’d enjoy your company, Rosalind, there’s really no need. I’m just showing Billy some old instruments he’s interested in.”
“That would interest me too,” Rosie says. “Quinn and I are in a band.”
I could kill her, but instead I keep staring at the sky. I can feel Carter looking at me. One two three stars in Orion’s belt. One two three in the sword. Elsewhere in the lot someone tries to start his engine. It sputters, screeches, turns over on the third try.
“Well then, by all means, come by,” he says. He clears his throat, making his voice even deeper and more fucking mellifluous, as impossible as that seems. “Ms. Winters, you should feel free to stop by as well. An important cause always has at least one journalist in its pocket.”
“I’m not pocket-sized,” I say.
“Quinn,” Rosie says, but what the hell does she want me to do?
“Well then, see you around,” Carter says. He leaves.
I HAVE WHAT I think is a memory but if I’m honest might only be a dream, of Carter singing to me as a baby. If I try not to think too hard, remembering around its edges, it’ll develop. I remember him whistling the melody line of “Thick as a Brick,” the part Anderson plays on his flute, and then singing me the rest. That’s it, the whole damn memory. But I’ve held on to that a long time. Now, however, that I’ve actually met him? I feel like that memory can’t have been true. It must have been just a lonely-ass dream.
ROSIE LETS US into the Stationhouse even though it’s after-hours. I’m pissed at her and she knows it. I get a bottle of whiskey and my guitar from upstairs, and when I pour the drinks I pump Billy’s full of ginger ale so I don’t get him into too much trouble.
Rosie is in the kitchen cooking us a griddleful of home fries. “You never let me in here after-hours,” I shout in. And believe me I have asked. Many a night at one in the morning I have dreamed of those industrial-sized ice cream buckets they keep in the walk-in. But Rosie was always firm. That wouldn’t be professional, she’d say.