All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  Isabel felt her last bit of energy escape. Girls should have grown out of this by twenty. She had avoided the sort of bitchy competition that girls sometimes fell into, in both high school and college. She studied nonstop. No cheerleading, no soccer, no bars, no drugs: nothing to take time away from studies.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Her two best friends in high school were into Goth culture, a matched set of red-on-black fright hair and black lipstick. At school they reveled in being different, but they were surprisingly normal elsewhere, reading magazines, writing in diaries, listening to salsa and disco. Isabel’s mother thought they were heroin addicts and gave each other tattoos. Isabel used white makeup but balked on dyeing her blonde hair black and going totally Goth. (And here she was, hating her black hair.) That they stayed friends, defended her against the socials and debs and jocks, made her appreciate them all the more.

  Kate sighed as if the world were about to end.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “She likes Jonny,” Kate said as if Isabel was dense. “She didn’t even go to that stupid church thing. She just talked to him in the bar.”

  “The accordion player?”

  “You know I like him. She is such a bitch.”

  Maybe this was Melrose Place, bleach blondes on the make. Isabel sat back and fixed the girl with her stare.

  “We’re here on a scientific field study. To count bees. Not to hook up with locals. Besides isn’t he married?”

  “Separated. That midget person who was here yesterday? His wife. But they’re separated. That’s what they said at the bar.”

  “You were in the bar?”

  “Oh, don’t get in a huff. I’ll be 21 in four months. There is absolutely nothing else to do here, really, Izzie. Where are we going to meet people?”

  If Isabel was going to survive four more weeks here and keep the field crew happy, there might be things she had to overlook. She frowned at Kate. “Try not to get arrested.”

  “They don’t even card us. Anyway Jonny left the midget, like, months ago. That’s what everybody says.”

  Talk about your one-track mind. Isabel shook her head then realized she was mildly interested in the locals too, at least for the entertainment value. “They looked pretty married yesterday.”

  Kate perked up, leaning in conspiratorially. “She wants him back, they say. I mean, yeah, who wouldn’t? But he’s not taking her. And Alison doesn’t have a chance in hell. He didn’t look twice at her at the bar last night. And he asked me for a napkin.”

  Isabel frowned, trying to follow her logic. “Maybe not taking his wife back means he’s got somebody back home. Men usually have somebody else lined up.” In my personal experience.

  Kate’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God! I bet you’re right. I have to tell Alison.” She ran out. “She will be so pissed!”

  Isabel lay back on the bed, feeling the ache in her shoulders. She should finish logging the spreadsheet, check for patterns, but she was beat. The pesticide talk couldn’t have gone worse. She hadn’t convinced any of those old farts to quit spraying and dusting everything that crawled. The sex life of teenagers was way more fascinating than the sex life of bees. How did Jonathan— that’s what he’d said his name was— fit into that group? Would he be giggling on that sofa, fat and boring, someday?

  Not married. She closed her eyes and saw that funny, disarming grin on his face, then sat up. Don’t be silly.

  A phone was ringing. Isabel extracted the University’s cell phone from her backpack. Her supervisor sometimes called to check up on her. But it wasn’t Professor Mendel.

  She took a deep breath. “Daria?”

  Part Two

  In and Out

  Parents are sometimes a bit of a disappointment

  to their children.

  They don’t fulfill the promise of their early years.

  — Anthony Powell

  Chapter 7

  The Twins were losing.

  Hardly a news flash. Artie had convinced Jonny to make the drive back to Minneapolis for the game, and now that the drive was over, Jonny was glad he had. Not that baseball was his favorite pastime. It was just good to get out of Red Vine. Being back in the city reminded him of his old life though. Things he was neglecting, like his job, his future, not to mention his divorce.

  Artie had gotten tickets from somebody at his law firm back in March, before everything changed. The Cleveland Indians were on the field and Jonny was on his third beer. The evening was warm, the stars were out, the hot dogs were steamy. Life was— momentarily— pretty damn good.

  The bottom of the sixth. Seven to nothing. Twins were up, one out. The tension was, well, not palpable.

  “So,” Artie said. “What’s happening in good old Vine Town?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” Jonny set his cup by his feet. “Big controversy. Huge. Should they move the dump.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Galvanizing the town. Turning brother against brother. Lenny is running for mayor. Thunder Rhodes, he calls himself. On the ‘move the dump and love the Boss’ platform. There’s a thing tomorrow night. I have to entertain the Lenny-ites. Everybody has missed the Jonster’s squeeze box.”

  Artie choked on his beer. “Exchanging one form of pollution for another?” Jonny punched him on the shoulder. Everybody had an accordion joke.

  They watched the game in beery silence until the Twins had three outs, no runs, and took the field. Jonny slumped in his seat. “Cuppie came down for the polka mass.”

  Artie glanced over. “How’d that go?”

  “How did I last this long?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “It’s been three months since I’ve seen her and I couldn’t wait to get away. There’s nothing left between us. And you know what? I feel good about that. Then I feel bad about feeling good.”

  Artie slapped his knee, about as close to brotherly love as he ever got. But that was fine. Artie was the doing type, not the talking type. For a lawyer he had no taste for argument. He made himself available, without asking any questions or trying to persuade Jonny of anything. Artie never said a bad word about Cuppie but Jonny knew exactly how he felt. Artie had seen through her saccharine charm long ago. A month before he’d left the card of a divorce lawyer on the kitchen table. Jonny watched the game then said, “I’m looking for a place to live. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

  “No rush.”

  “Come down for Lenny’s bash tomorrow night. He’d love to see you.”

  Artie raised one eyebrow. Despite being completely different in every way he looked more like Ozzie every year, dark hair and bluish bags under his eyes. He wouldn’t come. Jonny knew he hated the old hometown.

  “I’ll talk to Sonya,” Artie said.

  On the drive back through the countryside the next morning there were grain bins everywhere, tucked into groves of maples, along stream bottoms, cozied up to barns. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, squat ones. Jonny’s sketching had slowed but he’d been driving around the farmland around Red Vine for a couple days, taking pictures of grain bins and getting ideas. One tiny burg near Red Vine had been hit hard by a tornado three years before. Jonny had forgotten. It never recovered, its businesses boarded up, its people gone.

  Could you use new grain bins as temporary housing, like FEMA trailers? Or refurbish old ones as vacation cottages or fishing shacks? You’d have to do a lot to them: insulate, put in windows and doors, run plumbing and electricity, but nothing that was impossible. The bins were a basic shell. It was like having the aluminum siding before the house was built. He had an itch to actually do something, build something after years of drawing other people’s ideas. An itch to find a bin to refurbish. To decorate it, to design it, to furnish it, to own it.

  Crazy shit. Reality pushed back. How was he going to do that? How much would it cost? It was a screwy idea. A project without a practical basis. Plus Artie had warned him divorce lawyers were expensive.
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br />   The edge of Red Vine appeared over the slight rise in the highway. A cluster of weather-beaten buildings, brick crumbling, sinking into the earth. A place of the past, not the future. He should be finding a new apartment in Minneapolis. He should be talking to that divorce lawyer and getting Cuppie out of his head and his life. He should have called his boss at the architecture firm while he was in town. He was just stalling, squatting in Red Vine until a bolt of lightning streaked out of the sky to remind him that his life was waiting.

  The Spoon River Retirement Home hugged the lake, low and comforting against the onslaught of weather and time. Jonny hadn’t seen his grandfather since the polka mass. He parked, shaking off the doldrums of Artie and Sonya’s basement and the unknown future.

  Reinholt was eating lunch from a tray. He looked more fragile, as if he’d shrunk in the last week, grown paler and thinner. When Jonny appeared at the door the aide at his bedside stood up. “Would you like to?” She handed Jonny a spoon and disappeared.

  As he spooned applesauce into the old man’s beaklike mouth, Jonny talked about the accordion, about Artie, about the Twins, about the concert that night, about the music he would be playing. That Ozzie had decided to play the drums after all. Reinholt finished his sandwich, humming with pleasure but not responding to Jonny’s chatter.

  A nice visit, until Jonny stood up to take the empty tray away and Reinholt grabbed his arm. “Where are you taking my food?”

  Jonny lowered the tray. “I’ll see you later, Grandpa.” The whole thing was unbearably sad. As he passed the recreation room he saw a familiar figure at the window. Claude was playing solitaire, his walker next to him.

  “I haven’t had my critique,” Jonny said, stepping closer. “For the polka mass.”

  Claude looked up. “Come, sit.”

  “We can skip the critique.” Jonny winced, laughing as he pulled out a chair.

  “You did a very good job.” The Frenchman looked sharp today, his blue eyes clear as the lake. “And handled all the difficult bits.”

  Jonny shrugged. “Polka music isn’t all that difficult.”

  “I was not speaking of the music.” Claude looked over Jonny’s shoulder and his face brightened. It was his grandmother, bringing food. “Blueberry muffins again, mon chèrie?”

  Nora wore another track suit, this one pumpkin orange. She smiled at Claude then stumbled, as if startled that Jonny was here.

  “Apple pockets.” She set down the foil package and gripped her elbows. Claude kicked out a chair for her opposite her grandson but she didn’t seem to notice. Jonny stood up and hugged her. She felt stiff.

  “I was down to see Holti and spotted Claude here,” he explained.

  Nora frowned at the chair. “I’m on my way.” She picked up the foil packet again. “He loves apple pockets. They’re still warm.” She turned quickly. Odd. She was usually so— so grandmotherly.

  Claude shook his head. “Hard for her to see him like that. They were so devoted. Now there are days he doesn’t even know her name.” He tapped his skull with a gnarled finger. “Thank the good Lord I still have all my eggs in the basket.”

  “And that she has you as a friend,” Jonny said.

  Claude tipped his chin, a twinkle in his eye. Jonny sat back as the old man licked his lips. “We have become close.” The white eyebrows wiggled. “Very close.”

  Ahh. Jonny let this new information settle around them. Claude and Nora. Why not? But it didn’t quite compute somehow. These were his grandparents, people of the old mold, uncomplicated souls who belonged together, forever.

  Their last dance in the church had seemed to epitomize love, a lifetime of togetherness. A pure sort of devotion rare these days. What an idiot. He was still the dazed optimist who saw what he wanted to see, the romantic who could write a chirpy little memoir called The Cuppie Years: A Tale of Pretense and Clogging. He rubbed his face. Maybe love came and went. His grandmother deserved happiness, didn’t she? Of course she did.

  And who could blame Claude, in the winter of his life? An old man, eyes bright, color in his cheeks. Jonny admired the old guy. The flirtation, baked-goods-love or whatever, looked good on him. As Jonny walked away Claude was chuckling. He fingered his playing cards and smacked down a Jack of Hearts.

  Jonny drove slowly through the blocks of storefronts of downtown Red Vine. This took about forty-five seconds. He felt the tug of the Owl Bar. He didn’t want to go back to the familial dwelling just yet, its dust and gloom and— coffee. Lenny could generally be found at a back table. Parking space was not at a premium.

  But the bar was deserted except for Walter. “Planning the concert,” he told Jonny. “Moved it to the lake. The city park.”

  And praise be for that. Under the pine trees in the large picnic area a canvas tent was going up, with a stage under it. Jonny was impressed. No landfill concert, no wafts of garbage through the crowd. He had to give Lenny more credit.

  The candidate stood with a clipboard and a baseball cap near the tent, giving orders to several senior citizens. One was setting up folding chairs, another working on tablecloths. Lenny threw up his free hand in a wave. “My man! Back in God’s country.”

  “The Twins didn’t feel the spirit.”

  “Well, the Twinkies, what can I say? Come look at the stage.”

  They examined the wood risers and flats. A banner for Farmer’s Insurance hung across the base. There would be some electrical issues around the stage, cords strung for blocks, but otherwise it would work. Lenny answered questions about ice and coolers from an earnest middle-aged couple wearing lederhosen and knee socks, then turned back.

  “I found somebody to play with you since your dad’s out. My sister’s friend, Audri with an ‘i.’ She sings with a band. Kind of a punk but you might hook up, you never know. God knows I tried.”

  “Hold on. Dad’s out?”

  Lenny grimaced. “You better talk to him yourself. See you at six.”

  On Birch Street Jonny saw the drumstick first, dangling from the arched trellis of pink roses like an errant branch, smooth and thornless. On a shrub rose a snare drum was pierced through by a branch. What was going on? Everything was still, no voices from the house or the motel. A cymbal was stuck on edge in the mud. In a patch of grass a metal stand, twisted.

  Hesitating on the step, Jonny listened. What was happening inside? Somebody had gotten so angry they’d thrown the drum set out. Ozzie? Margaret? Somebody else? What sort of argument had gone down in the house where nobody raised their voice?

  Was this the part where he backed away and drove off into the sunset? God, it was tempting. The pit of his stomach clenched. He wasn’t that kind of a guy. He wished he was— nothing could be better than to be a free spirit, devil-may-care, a man without a country. Travel the world, broken hearts in his wake. Could he just give it a try, please?

  He sighed. Nobody devil-may-care had ever grown up in Red Vine, Minnesota.

  “Anybody home?”

  The parlor exploded with roses. Sweet scents hung thick in the air. Big bouquets in vases, doilies on chair backs, everything tidy and in its place. Margaret kept the parlor dusted and bright, in case somebody dropped in. No broken dishes, nothing out of the ordinary.

  Maybe it was nothing. A percussion-hating vandal broke in. Or, Ozzie had decided to give up percussion once and for all. He wasn’t playing tonight because his drum set was broken. Muffled noises from the kitchen. Pushing through the door, he saw Carol Chichester and his mother sitting at the table, cradling coffee mugs, surrounded by drifts of wadded tissues. Carol looked up.

  “It’s Jonny,” she whispered to Margaret, waving him in. “He’s back from Minneapolis.”

  His mother put her face in her hands and sobbed. Noisy, grunting sobs.

  Tragedy swirled in his mind. Who had died? Who was maimed? Where was Wendy? He’d never seen his mother cry, not like this. People didn’t cry in his family, not in front of others.

  “What’s happened?”

 
Carol took his arm, leading him back through the kitchen door. When the door finished swinging she said, “Your dad, he—”

  “Is he all right?”

  Her eyes squinched. “Oh, yes. He’s just fine,” she said acidly. “He’s having a fling with Loreen. Your mother just found out.” Jonny felt his chest squeeze shut. He took a step back. “She found them together last night, in Loreen’s car, right outside on the street. Under the streetlight. For anyone to see.”

  “Under the—?”

  She frowned. “Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s been going on for months. There was a fight last night. We don’t know where he is right now, probably at her place. And to think your mother invited her to the rose meeting as a favor to him, because he said she liked roses.”

  “Loreen Nielsen? The church secretary with the—?” ‘Big ass’ is what he was going to say.

  “The tramp.” Carol crossed her plump arms. Her face was blotched, her watery eyes rimmed in red, her hair uncombed. She wore a man’s cardigan that hung almost to her knees. “I’ve got to get back to your mother.”

  “Where’s Wendy?”

  “Sleeping over at Darcy’s. She hasn’t been home.”

  Carol swung back through the door, leaving Jonny beside the dining table. The room looked stripped of its soul, not a fork out of place. On closer look, one chair leaned against the windowsill, its leg broken. The splintered wood lay on the carpet. If only his nice, boring family had chosen another time to fall apart.

  Wendy arrived about two, dragging an old pillowcase of girl things, groggy from lack of sleep. Jonny, who had left to get a plate of eggs and bacon at Sid’s and returned full of grease and ready to rumble, followed her up the stairs.

  She turned on him on the landing. “What the hell?”