by Tom Hanks
Kirk scanned the parking lot again and the walkway of the shops but still did not see his father. On the off chance there were tables on the other side of Starbucks, he eased his way to the corner but found no tables, and no Frank, just parking spaces under eucalyptus trees.
A single car, a Mercedes, was parked on the other side of a thick trunk of one of the trees. Kirk could see only the front end and a bit of windshield. Starbucks cups, two of them, were sitting on the dash. From the passenger seat, a man’s hand reached out for what Kirk knew to be a Venti drip with a shot of mocha because he recognized the black band of his father’s military-style chronometer, a watch just like the one Kirk now wore on his own wrist. The windows of the Mercedes were rolled down, allowing Kirk to hear the lilt of a woman’s laughter along with his father’s amused cackle.
Kirk didn’t feel his leg anymore, no pain at all, as he edged closer to the tree, able to see that much more of the car, as well as the face of a woman with long black hair and a smile aimed at his father. Frank was facing the woman, so Kirk saw only the back of his head. He heard his father say, “I better get back,” but his father didn’t move. Kirk knew from the relaxed, quiet tone that his dad wasn’t going anywhere.
Kirk slowly backed off around the tree to the corner, then around to the door of the Starbucks. He went back inside.
On the wall opposite the entrance, windows spread over three small tables that looked out onto empty parking spaces in the shade of the eucalyptus trees.
Kirk went to the windows and craned his neck. He saw the woman with long black hair, her arm resting across Frank’s shoulder, her fingers playing in his sea-salted hair. His father was swirling his drip mocha in its cup. He was sitting on a beach towel that covered the passenger seat as though his wet suit had not already dried. The woman with the long black hair said something and laughed again. His father laughed, too, in a way Kirk rarely saw him laugh, with his teeth showing, his head raised back, and his eyes squinting, a silent movie, the dialogue muted by the window of Starbucks. Kirk heard only the tapping of fingers on laptop keyboards and the commerce of premium coffee drinks.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” It was the barista again, named Celia according to her tag. She had a metal first aid kit. “I can put on some kind of bandage, at least.”
Kirk did sit. Celia wrapped his leg in gauze, the white staining red immediately. A glance back out to the shade of the eucalyptus tree showed the woman with the long black hair leaning forward, her mouth open, her head tilted in the body language known universally as a prelude to a desired kiss. His father leaned in toward her.
Recrossing the highway was a blur, but Kirk did think to retrieve his board from the roof of the camper. He walked back down the path to Mars. The surf line was still crowded with riders, the high tide about to turn in the hours-long recession to the low-water mark. Beside his father’s board and planted paddle, Kirk sat in the sand, his mouth dry, his eyes unfocused, his ears deaf to the roar and rush of the waves. He looked at the bloodied bandage on his calf, remembering that he had been cut deeply by his own surfboard, but it had happened—when? Weeks ago.
He slowly ripped the tape from around his leg, then unwrapped the scarlet-stained gauze, kneading the sticky heap into his fist. He dug a hole in the sand, a deep hole, then put the snarl of trash in the bottom and covered it up again. The wound immediately began to bleed, but Kirk ignored that, as well as the swelling and the pain. He sat, confused, suddenly ill, feeling like he was going to cry. But he didn’t. Whenever his father returned he would find his son recovering from a surf accident, waiting for him to finish his business calls so they could go get forty stitches, at least.
No one came by him, neither up out of the water nor down the path from the parking lot. Kirk sat, alone, dragging his fingers in the sand like a small rake for who knows how long. He wished he had a book to read.
“What the fuck?” Frank was striding across the sand, his eyes wide at the sight of his son with such a gash. “What happened to your leg?”
“My own board,” Kirk told him.
“Jesus!” Frank knelt in the sand, inspecting the wound. “Must have made you say ouch.”
“I did say ouch,” Kirk told him.
“Wounded in the line of battle,” Frank said.
“Helluva birthday present,” Kirk told him.
Frank laughed, like any father would when his only son takes a hit and shakes it off with a stoic humor. “Let’s get you to the clinic, get that cleaned out, you sewn up.” Frank gathered his board and paddle. “You’re gonna have one sexy scar.”
“Sexy as hell,” Kirk told him.
Kirk followed his father up the path, away from the surfline, leaving Mars for the last time and forever.
A Month on Greene Street
The first of August is usually only so notable—the start of the eighth month in the middle of summer on what might or might not be the hottest day ever. But this year, yowza, a lot was going on that day.
Little Sharri Monk was sure to lose another tooth, a partial lunar eclipse was due around 9:15 p.m., and Bette Monk (mother of Sharri; her older sister, Dale; and her younger brother, Eddie) was moving them all into a three-bedroom house on Greene Street. The home so picturesque she knew she would live there the moment she saw the real estate listing. Bette had a vision—pop—of herself and the kids in the kitchen for a busy breakfast. She was manning the stove-top griddle, turning pancakes, the kids in school clothes finishing their homework and fighting over the last of the orange juice. Her mental image was so focused, so particular, there was no question the house on Greene Street—oh, that massive sycamore tree in the front yard—would be hers. Theirs.
Bette had visions—was there any other way to put it? Not every day and never with any spiritual glow, but she would sense a flash, she’d see a pop, like a photo of a vacation taken long ago that held complete memories of all that happened before and all that came after. When her husband, Bob Monk, had come home from work one day—pop—Bette saw a full-color snapshot of him holding hands with Lorraine Conner-Smythe in the restaurant attached to the Mission Bell Marriott Hotel. Lorraine did consulting work with Bob’s company, so the two of them had many chances to sniff each other out. In that nanosecond Bette knew her marriage with Bob had gone from just fine to over. Pop.
If Bette were to count all the times she had such visions—from when she was a little girl—and how those visions came to pass, she could have regaled a dinner party for a full evening with examples: the scholarship she would win four years after learning of its existence, the dorm room she would have in Iowa City, the man she would sleep with for the first time (not Bob Monk), the wedding dress she would wear at the altar (opposite Bob Monk), the view of the Chicago River she would enjoy once the job interview with the Sun-Times went her way, the phone call she saw coming the night her parents were hit by a drunk driver. She knew the sexes of her children the moment she saw the test results over the sink in her bathroom. The list went on and on and on. Not that she made a big deal out of any of the visions, claiming no special clairvoyance or an all-seeing mentalism. Bette thought most people had the same kind of visions, they just didn’t realize it. And not all of her visions came to pass. She once saw herself being a contestant on Jeopardy! but that never happened. Still, her accuracy ratio was awfully impressive.
Bob wanted to marry Lorraine as soon as their affair was discovered, so he paid for the privilege, assuring Bette’s financial security until the kids were off to college and the child support ceased. Buying the house on Greene Street required hoop jumping with the bank, glowing inspections, and a six-month escrow, but the deed was signed. The lawn, that sycamore, the front porch, all those bedrooms, and the minioffice attached to the garage made for a Promised Land, especially after the narrow, split-level condo in which she had first parked her money and where the four of them lived like kittens in a box, all on top of each other. Now they had a backyard, so deep and wide! With a pomegranate tre
e! Bette saw her kids—pop—in T-shirts covered in purple dribble spots come October!
Greene Street was isolated, with almost no traffic except the residents, making it safe for street play. On August 1 the kids begged the movers to unload their bikes and Eddie’s Big Wheel before anything else so they could cruise their new turf. The moving crew was a bunch of young Mexican guys who had kids of their own, so they were happy to oblige and to watch the children play, carefree, as they unpacked and carried a household’s worth of stuff.
Bette spent the morning testing her high school Spanish, sending boxes to the right rooms, and having furniture placed according to her intuition—the sofa facing the window, bookshelves bordering the fireplace. Around 11:00 a.m., Dale came running in with a pair of chubby boys, maybe ten years old, probably twins, both with the same bashful look and matching dimples.
“Mom! This is Keyshawn and Trennelle. They live four houses over.”
“Keyshawn. Trennelle,” Bette said. “Howdy do?”
“They said I could have lunch with them.”
Bette eyed the boys. “Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said either Keyshawn or Trennelle.
“Did you just call me ma’am?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You, Keyshawn, have good manners. Or are you Trennelle?”
The boys pointed to themselves, saying their names. Since they dressed differently, not like twins in some movie, Bette would always know who was who. Plus, Keyshawn had his hair in perfectly tied cornrows while Trennelle’s head was shaved nearly clean.
“What’s on the menu?” Bette asked.
“Today we have franks and beans, ma’am.”
“Who is making this lunch, exactly?”
“Our Gramma Alice,” Trennelle told her. “Our mother works at AmCoFederal Bank. Our father works for Coca-Cola, but we’re not allowed to drink Coca-Cola. Only on Sunday. Our Gramma Diane lives in Memphis. We don’t have granddads. Our mother will come to your house when she comes home and will bring you flowers from our garden to say ‘welcome wagon.’ Our father will come by, too, with some Coca-Cola, if it’s allowed, or Fanta, if you prefer. We didn’t ask Gramma Alice if there is going to be enough food for Eddie and Sharri, so they can’t come.”
“Mom! Yes? No?” Dale was just about to burst.
“Have something green with the franks and beans and I’m thinking yes.”
“Would apples be good with you, ma’am? For something green? We have green apples.”
“Apples would do the trick, Trennelle.”
The three kids lit out of the house, off the porch, down the steps, under the low-hanging limbs of the sycamore, and across the lawn. Bette followed just far enough to watch them rush through a front door four houses away. Then she hollered for Eddie and Sharri to park their bikes on the front lawn and come in for the sandwiches she would make as soon as she found the fixings.
—
The movers were done and gone by three, leaving Bette to the pleasure of unpacking her kitchen directly from box to drawer or shelf. She no longer had any of Bob’s gimmicky appliances, the one-use inventions he collected for his so-called culinary hobby. Bette never loved cooking, but since the split her no-nonsense meals had developed some frills. Her creamed spinach had actually gotten the kids to ask for spinach. Her ground-turkey burritos were stuffed with beans and cheese, but never fell apart when eaten by hand. The kids celebrated when Bette formalized Tuesdays as Turkeeto Night and looked forward to them every week. When the boxes were empty and the shelves looked like they made sense, Bette fired up the one appliance she truly prized, the espresso maker. Made in Germany, the stainless-steel behemoth had cost a thousand predivorce dollars, took up nearly a square yard of counter space, and sported as many gauges and valves as the submarine in Das Boot. She so loved the apparatus she often greeted it in the morning with “Hey, big boy.”
She sat down, finally, on the living room sofa with a massive mug of espresso and steamed 2 percent milk. The big window looked like a cinema screen showing a movie called I Live Here Now. A cavalcade of kids was entering and exiting the frame, a group that either lived on Greene Street or made the block their Our Gangish HQ. A towheaded girl was inspecting Sharri’s mouth like an advance agent for the tooth fairy giving an estimate of what to expect. A pack of boys set up a T-ball stand, each taking whacks with a plastic bat while others shagged the hits. Dale and another girl were dangling from the low limbs of the sycamore. Keyshawn and Trennelle must have had a sibling, a dimpled girl in braids, who was helping Ed ride her pink two-wheeler, running alongside of him as he coasted up onto the front lawn of the house across the street.
That lawn belonged to the Patel family—was that what the real estate agent said? Patel? An Indian name for sure. The Patels must have had a kid every eleven months, judging from the black hair and brown skin of five kids out there, each a perfect match of the brother or sister, just a head shorter. The older Patel girls had iPhones or Samsungs, which they checked every forty-five seconds. They took a lot of pictures of Eddie on the pink bike.
Bette tried to count all the kids, but like with a school of fish in an oversize aquarium, the roiling action made it impossible. Call it a dozen children out there, teeming, laughing, bolting to and fro in varying shades of flesh.
“I’ve moved into the UN,” she said to no one. That struck her as something to tell Maggie, her oldest friend and the woman who had coached her through every step of the shattering of her marriage—from that first pop to the reality of her desperate unhappiness, the separation-of-no-return, the search for a lawyer, and the three-plus years of Marriage Dissolution mumbo jumbo and nights of red, red wine. Her phone was in her purse, sitting in the middle of the living room floor. She was reaching for it when she saw Paul Legaris coming up her driveway.
He was an older fellow wearing baggy cargo shorts and a faded red T-shirt with a crinkled Detroit Red Wings logo. He wore glasses that were a tad too angular and hip for a man his age, which Bette figured was around eight years her senior. He had flip-flops on his feet; it was summer, after all, but since it was a weekday, Bette took the lack of shoes to mean that here was a guy between jobs. Though maybe he worked nights. Maybe he’d won the Powerball. Who knew?
Paul was carrying a bag containing a HoneyBaked ham—this was not one of Bette’s pops; the brand was advertised on the bag. Though the front door was wide open—it had been all day, what with movers and kids streaming in and out like subway patrons—he rang the doorbell without a follow-up of “Anyone home?”
“Howdy do?” Bette offered, stepping to the threshold.
“Paul Legaris. Your next-door neighbor,” he said.
“Bette Monk.”
“Though I come in no official capacity,” he said, holding out the ham bag, “welcome.”
Bette eyed the HoneyBaked. “You know, with a name like Monk…” She let that trail off. Paul looked confused, like an actor who had dropped a dialogue cue. “I could be a Jewish mother,” Bette said.” “A bag of pork would then be…”
“Treif.” Paul knew his lines after all. “Forbidden.”
“But I’m not.”
“Okay then.” Paul offered the sack and Bette took it. “When I moved in, someone on the block left one on my welcome mat and I lived off the thing for weeks.”
“Thanks. Can I offer a coffee in kind?” Bette did not really want to spend any more time with her neighbor, a single man (she had clocked his lack of a wedding band), who, by living right next door, was the only unanticipated and undesired reality of her new life on Greene Street. Still, she had to be polite.
“Nice of you,” he said, remaining on the porch, on the other side of the plane that was the open door. “But on moving day you must have a million chores on the punch list.”
Bette appreciated the decline. She did have a million things to do. She nodded toward the pack of kids out on Greene Street. “Any of those yours?”
“Mine live with their m
other. You’ll see them come the right weekend.”
“Got it. Thanks for this.” She nodded at the ham in the bag in her hand. “Maybe some ham-bone soup, come Friday.”
“Enjoy,” Paul said, beginning his retreat from the porch. “Greene Street will be good to you. Has been for me. Oh…” He turned back, stepping once again into the doorway. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
Are you doing anything tonight?
Bette had heard those very words too many times in the last few years. Are you doing anything tonight? From men divorced, single, unattached, and lonely—guys who had kids who lived with ex-wives, who lived in apartments, who searched Internet dating sites for any kind of intellectual or romantic or sexual hookup. Guys who took one look at her and thought, I wonder if she is doing anything tonight.
Pop!
The vision: Paul is keeping an eye out his window, looking to see when Bette Monk, divorced, attractive (still) pulls into the driveway right next door. When she does he saunters over with an excuse to take up some of her time—a piece of her mail that accidentally came to his box, word of a lost dog in the neighborhood, concern for Eddie’s sprained ankle. He’ll linger too long, chat too idly with a look on his face hinting of neediness.
Bette’s mind processed the vision, the very first blemish in the fabric of her new life on Greene Street—the guy next door looking for a woman.
“I’m busy with the house,” she said. “Lots to do.” She drank some of her coffee.
“Nine or so I’m setting my telescope up,” Paul said. “There’s a partial lunar eclipse tonight that will max around a quarter after. Nice red shadow of the earth will cover about half the moon. It won’t last long, but you could have a look.”
“Ah,” Bette said, leaving it at that.
Paul flip-flopped off the porch and across the lawn, just as Sharri came bounding up with something small in her hand, a little pebble of pure white.
“Mom! Look!” Sharri squealed. There was some blood on her fingers. “My tooth!”