They went out. It was a while since Kay had been with both her parents. She walked between them, bookended by them, playing on her mother’s phone.
“I don’t know what you do with that thing,” Deb said, of the phone.
“Falling Gems.” Kay cupped the screen to see by the shadow of her hand. They passed the shipyard with its fleet of retired-seeming boats, creaking rocking-chair noises against their ropes.
“Maybe I’d like a Fallen Gem,” Jack said and smiled, pocketing his hands.
—
The metal-and-glass jangle of the door brought sound into the room, disturbing the otherwise quiet. The two waitresses were leaning with their elbows up on the bar counter, behind the revolving pastries. Their aprons and order pads made a small heap beside them.
They had the place almost to themselves, just an elderly couple at the booth nearest the bathrooms, and they sat by the window, Kay next to Jack and Deb across. The same rouged-up waitress as last time came with her pots of coffee to claim them.
“How we doing?” she asked, gesturing with the dark globe in her right hand, the coffee level sea-tiding inside.
“Excellent”—Jack leaned in to read the name tag—“Brenda! You know, I had a cousin Brenda, lived in El Dorado, Arkansas. Sweet girl, looked a lot like you too. You ever been to Arkansas?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, if you’re ever in need of a body double.”
Brenda smiled and Deb rolled her eyes when she thought Jack could see her do it.
The food came out all at once, dishes pyramided on the hook of Brenda’s arm. “All right, herewego.” All of it, the waffles but also the eggs, the hash browns and the home fries (which apparently were different), everything smelled of maple.
“Fantastic,” Jack said, rubbing together his hands. “This takes care of me, but what are the two of you having?” Brenda laughed. Her perm trembled in ribbony pieces. “Laugh’s the same too,” Jack went on. “It’s uncanny. You sure you’ve never been to Arkansas?”
“You really don’t stop, do you?” Deb said when Brenda had walked away, close to floating.
“I’m sorry?”
“I just didn’t think she was your type. Peanut? That looks yum.” Kay, still absorbed in her mother’s phone, had poured half the syrup onto her dark and shining waffles, filling them like an ice cube tray.
“You’re not serious,” Jack said.
“What’s to be serious about? Everything’s great, you’re great. I’m glad you’re great. I’m glad you get to come and be the hero, to the kids, to Gary.”
“Look, can we not do this in front of our daughter, please?”
“Oh, because you’re so good at protecting her.”
“Deborah, I’m begging you—”
A plate landed with a smack facedown on the floor, and it took them each a moment to realize it was Kay who’d thrown it, and another before syrup began oozing out from under its edges, creeping along the floor.
“Kay, we don’t do that,” Jack said.
“I hate you,” Kay said. She said it to her mother.
“Katherine,” Jack started.
“Don’t.” Deb rose. “Let her, it’s fine.” She edged out of the booth. “Please would you just excuse me a minute.” She went outside, chiming the bells again, meandering unstraight lines. Jack and Kay and Brenda with the coffee pot watched her, but Deb, through the window, appeared to be looking for something dropped.
—
The younger waitress came and cleaned the mess up.
Light spilled through the spotted glass, showing up the fingerprints and days of rain.
And Deb, who knew so much about form, knelt clumsy in the sun and turned away her face.
They went. They were away two weeks.
—
For eighteen days the apartment sat empty. No light bulbs burned out. The four stone putti over the television did not correct themselves, Spring beside Fall, Summer with Winter.
Only the wireless went on, invisibly complicating the air.
—
Then they came home, to the Ruth-gathered mail and the air conditioner, slowly breaking down.
Jack moved to a larger place in Sunnyside, Queens. Deb moved the bed to the opposite wall.
They stopped being married to each other.
—
Spring came. The glowing green clock on the oven fell an hour behind.
The girl who wrote the letter, the girl who loved Jack, spent some time in Pasadena, in her childhood home. Then she moved back, became a temp at a LEED-certified skyscraper overlooking Bryant Park, where strangers left sticky notes on her monitor.
—
New year. Kay spooned all the cookie-dough pieces from a pint of ice cream and tried to cook them. You could still see most traffic signs after you closed your eyes.
The girl who wrote the letter found two books in her temporary desk: a guide to city restaurants and The Professional Secretary’s Handbook. Your image is the portrait you present to the people with whom you interact. Avoid continual emphasis on “I.” There was a rose pressed into the chapter on telecommunications, dried to a chart of time zone changes country to country.
—
Some April mornings the clouds looked like cottage cheese. There was something very punishing about dry-swallowing pills. Travolta died, in the bathroom, a few feet from her litter box.
At the desk above Bryant Park, the girl who wrote the letter wrote other things, wrote stories about what she had done. She stayed late sending pages to the office printer.
—
After years in Eli’s Tribeca loft, Deb finally sold the apartment uptown. It was raining the day Katherine flew home from California to clear out her things. Simon waited to meet her on Seventy-second Street, under the patchy shelter of dormant AC units. She came toward him from the west side of the street, skipping a little over real and imaginary puddles. A street vendor barked “Umbrella Umbrella Umbrella” beside a table of phone accessories and pashminas under plastic sheeting.
They went to eat, studied the menus.
“When did you—” Simon made scissors of his fingers and snipped the air around his ears.
“Oh, a little while.” Reflexively touching her head.
A minute later he said, “So I’m thinking, you get the blackened catfish.” Katherine laughed. “And I will have the broiled calf’s liver, because that’s got to be good here.”
An old joke between them, something they’d gotten from their father: the idea that all diner menus had to be, in some sense, bluffing. “Wait, what about this though, the scrod?”
“Where are you finding that?”
“The specials? It comes with mushrooms.”
“Comes with—all right, never mind. We’re both getting that. Do you think they’ll have enough back there? Multiple scrods?”
“We’ll ask.”
—
Katherine paid the bill while Simon plucked dusty mints from the bowl by the register. When she pulled out her wallet, a strip of toilet paper flew out too. The mess of her bag was the first time Simon wondered if her life was not all the things she wanted it to seem.
Outside, the Umbrella vendor had gone back to being a phone cover and pashmina vendor. He gave them a quick once-over, maybe thought they were together. Lots of couples look related.
—
On the quiet ride uptown, Simon touched the taxi’s plastic partition. “Ever since we were kids I could never see one of these things without picturing it, like, embedded in my neck, you know?”
The diamond flecks in the sidewalks were never diamonds, and the black spots weren’t dirty gum. Some were, but most weren’t.
In the lobby of their old building, the doorman asked if he could help them. “We live here,” they answered. “Well, we used to,” one said. “We have keys.”
For my parents, as a matter of course
Acknowledgments
An inevitably incomplete list of ine
vitably insufficient thanks to:
Noah Eaker, alarmingly insightful editor and jelly-bean benefactor, and everyone at Random House, especially Susan Kamil, Caitlin McKenna, Maria Braeckel, and Janet Wygal.
Elyse Cheney, who went so far above and so far beyond. Also the wonderful Alex Jacobs, Adam Eaglin, Sam Freilich, and Tania Strauss.
Jonathan Safran Foer, impossibly wise, impossibly generous, simply the best.
The remarkable writers I have been lucky enough to call my teachers.
The Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House at NYU, and Deborah Landau in particular. Also the Bobst Library, for its late hours and lax policy on outside food.
The Rona Jaffe Foundation, for making my time at NYU possible.
Some of my favorites, for their feedback and my sanity throughout: Austin Bone, Anna Breslaw, Julie Buntin, Rebecca Dinerstein, Jane Esberg, Rafi Ginsburg, Grace Kallis, Tiffany Peón, Sarah Peterson, Jennifer Rice, Nina Rouhani, and Shiva Rouhani.
My family: Robert Pierpont (tireless reader), Bob and Mary Pierpont, Shirley “Baba” Roth, Allan Roth, Doris Garcia, and Diana Garcia. You have given me so much.
And to Claudia Roth Pierpont, the most good. Thank you for always coming to get me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JULIA PIERPONT is a graduate of the NYU Creative Writing Program, where she received the Rona Jaffe Foundation Graduate Fellowship as well as the Stein Fellowship. She lives in New York City.
@JuliaPierpont
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