All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  Artie told Jonny that his boss had called, looking for him. It was time to go back. He knew it. In some ways he was ready, more than ready. Most ways, actually.

  “Hey, up there.” The sun was in Kiki’s eyes. She raised her hand to shade them. Jonny left the hammer on a pile of shingles, glad for the break. On the ground, he saw the old blue Cadillac was parked in the alley, running, Frances slumped inside.

  “Just came to say goodbye,” Kiki said. The Chichesters had a trip planned to Rainy Lake. There was time for the girls to hit a couple more campuses before heading back to Ohio. He waved as they drove off but they weren’t looking back. Kiki was behind the wheel. Frances draped her arm across the top of the wide bench seat, her head thrown back as if exhausted with Red Vine.

  The Caddy chugged away. Cute girl, he thought. Nothing more. Cuppie popped into his head, unbidden, in clogs and a ruffled skirt, her knees dimpled. Kiki was way cuter. But he didn’t care about seeing either one again.

  That evening he went back out to the Anderson farm and talked to Lowell again. On Wednesday afternoon a flatbed truck drove slowly into town, carrying a listing, rusty old grain bin. The truck turned down Apple Way, then left on Beechnut, and stopped in front of the Rhodes house, an elegant, pale green Queen Anne with a wraparound porch, carriage house, and huge backyard. In the driveway, waiting with hand-trucks, was the extended Rhodes family, Leonard Senior, Lenny, his cousin Pete, Pete’s two friends, and assorted neighbors.

  Jonny jumped out of the cab of the truck. Sliding the bin down a plywood sheet they lifted it onto the hand-trucks. At the end of the driveway they carried it to a weedy plot where Patsy Rhodes grew zucchini and rhubarb before she got arthritis.

  Lenny began examining the rusty spots and rubbing them with steel wool. “You’ll start tomorrow, right? There’s only a month or two of good weather left.”

  Jonny stood in the solemn heat, feeling the warm earth expelling its moisture. “We can get the exterior done. The windows and doors in. Seal the roof.”

  A summer shack for Red Vine. Maybe that was all they needed. He left to pay the truck driver, then walked slowly back to Birch Street. He’d told Roger Walker, the lead architect, he’d be back to work on Monday. He would come back here for awhile to work on the grain bin. A fun little project, nothing more. Something to keep him busy on the weekends.

  The college students were leaving at the end of the week too. He hadn’t seen them since the night of the Rose Rave. Maybe tonight he’d go to the bar, wish them all well. Lenny had rented a sand-blaster to scour rust off the bin. Jonny found a cool old door at the antique store on the highway, and heard about a couple windows that had been taken out during a remodel in Blue Earth. The bin was ready for its new life. The bin had prospects.

  At ten o’clock the Owl Bar was almost empty. Walter said a few of the students had come by to say goodbye, but most were busy packing. He wiped the bar in endless circles, his face long. His best summer at the bar, ever. And it was over.

  Back at the house Jonny stood in the dark in the rose garden. The girls ran back and forth to their cars. Some talked on their phones, laughed, hugged each other. They must be planning to split as soon as tomorrow’s workday ended. He’d be gone too. It was time for all of them to move on. Isabel’s orange VW Beetle sat empty. Inside her room the light was on. Everyone else was happy, joking, exchanging addresses.

  From the roof early Friday morning he watched them climb into the white van, tired but smiling, high-fiving, feeling end-of-season euphoria. They drove off before Ozzie appeared, late, still buckling his pants. At least he was working on his falling-down motel, if not his falling-down marriage. They worked side by side for an hour, finishing a good half of the motel’s roof with cheap green shingles.

  At about ten— Jonny was ready for his coffee break— the white University van returned, skidding to a stop on the gravel. Isabel jumped from the passenger seat and ran to her room. The van backed out and disappeared down the alley.

  He could hear her bumping around in her room. He nailed on another three sheets then told Ozzie he was taking a break. He reached the ground as Isabel opened her car door, suitcase in hand. She nodded at him, lips in a tight line, threw her suitcase into the back seat, and returned to her room.

  In the house Jonny poured himself a mug of coffee. Wendy sat slumped at the kitchen table, staring at a bowl of Rice Krispies. He had to ask her twice how she was doing.

  She jerked out of her trance. “Just tired.”

  “Probably because you’re staying out till three.” He pulled out a chair opposite her. “What is there to do in Red Vine that late?”

  Wendy sniffed and pushed back her tangled hair. “None of your business.”

  “Ah, so you and Zachary— ?”

  “What? Please.”

  “Somebody new then?”

  She shrugged and went back to her cereal. Jonny took his coffee onto the back porch. A car engine was cranking but not turning over, Isabel’s VW. By the time he crossed the rose garden she was pounding the steering wheel.

  “Need some help?”

  She rolled down the window. “My car won’t start.”

  Jonny drove the Fairlane around from the street, positioning it behind the Bug. Isabel had the little back hood open and was bent over, gazing in. It had been awhile since he’d seen a car with its engine in the back.

  “I’ll get the cables,” he said, popping his own hood. When he returned with the jumper cables, Isabel was sitting on the ground with the owner’s manual.

  “Where the hell is the battery?”

  They stared at the manual in silence until Ozzie called down from the roof. “Back seat. Flip it up.”

  Isabel climbed into the back, tossing her suitcase on the gravel. There it was, under the seat. Jonny realigned his car and attached the cables. Isabel cranked the key on the Bug. He revved the big V-8. A lot of noise but no go.

  “Try again,” he yelled.

  She gave it another try, pumping the gas pedal. Still nothing. He turned off his car.

  “Must be dead. Is it old?”

  She shrugged, climbing out. “Older than me. It’s a ’74.”

  “I mean the battery. Have you ever changed it?” He crossed his arms, looking at the old VW with its dents and rust spots.

  She didn’t answer, reaching in to disconnect the battery cables. When she handed them over, her hand was shaking. She turned to put her head on her arms on the roof of the car, and began to cry.

  At first it was just her shoulders trembling, but he could tell. After this month he was a pretty good judge of female emotion. She moaned a few times and banged the roof of the car, sobbing and sort of growling in anger. Up on the roof Ozzie made a face. Jonny waited, hoping it wasn’t something he said. Cuppie was not a crier, nor his mother— until her recent antics. Most people, he figured, didn’t want help. Sympathy was just another form of pity. They just had to cry, then they felt better. He hoped this was the case with Isabel.

  Instead she slumped to the ground next to her car, head bowed, palms dug into her eyes, sobbing. He crouched down to her level.

  “Is there— something I can do? Go find a battery? We might have to go into Mankato.”

  “Too late.” Another angry howl. “And my mother will be right about me, about everything. That will make her so incredibly happy. She’ll be able to crow to all her friends.”

  Jonny sat back on his heels, confused. This was not like Isabel. She was always so in control. Except when she was pounding the round fender with her fist and wailing like her dog died.

  “Your mother’s waiting for you?”

  “Of course not. She wouldn’t wait, she’d just give me seven kinds of hell, six of which she invented herself.” She stopped pounding long enough to look at him, her eyes red, nose runny, tears all over her face. “It’s my— my grandfather’s funeral. He died yesterday. She couldn’t wait to get him in the ground so he wouldn’t disrupt weekend plans. I should have left this mo
rning, but I didn’t. My whole family will be there, but not me. Because I’m so stupid.”

  “You can’t predict when your car won’t work.” He sat back on the gravel. At least he was off the hook. It was her family that made her cry. He could understand that, especially since it seemed they were driving her crazy. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

  “He was sick a long time.” She started to breathe normally when a fresh round of tears erupted. A phone was ringing. She dug into her pocket and pulled it out, sighing.

  “Hello, Daddy. No, I’m still in Red Vine. My car won’t start.” Tears ran down her cheeks yet her voice was calm. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it. We tried that. No, it’s got gas.”

  Jonny stood up to give her some privacy. He shut the hood of the Fairlane as quietly as possible and wrapped up the jumper cables.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask.” Isabel looked up. “Is there a rental car place here? A Hertz or something?”

  Jonny checked with his father who shook his head. “Not close, no.”

  Isabel sighed and put her hand on her forehead. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just won’t get there. I can’t see how—” She bit her lip as the tears began to flow again.

  “I’ll drive you.” Jonny blurted out the words without thinking. “I’ll drive you to the funeral. Tell your father we’re leaving right now.”

  Jonny tossed her suitcase into the back seat of his car. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d made the improbable offer. He suddenly couldn’t wait. He had to leave— now. Isabel stood on the other side of the Fairlane, throwing in laundry bags, computer cases, backpacks, boxes. “Where’re we going exactly?”

  “Chicago. North, by the lake.” She looked at him over the roof. Her eyes were rimmed with pink. “There’s still time to back out.”

  “What time is the service?”

  “Five-thirty.” She looked at her watch. “It takes at least six hours.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  She got in the front seat and folded her hands. He started the car, put it into reverse then hit the brake.

  “One second. Toothbrush.”

  He ran across the yard and up the stairs, changed out of his roofing clothes into jeans and a clean t-shirt, and threw a couple things in a duffle bag. He ran back, breathing hard. He pointed the Fairlane down the alley, waving to his father on the roof. Something in his head, a lightness like surfacing from deep water. A release, as if he had cast off something— someone— and was free. Maybe someone he used to be. Someone who never did anything as spontaneous as drive a stranger to a funeral on the spur of the moment.

  Isabel had quieted but still looked splotchy and subdued. “Thank you,” she said softly. In another girl he might wonder at the sincerity. But the tremble, as if it cost her a little pride to say it. “I will pay for the gas.”

  “For this fine specimen of Detroit engineering? It won’t be much. It gets, oh, eight, ten miles to the gallon.”

  “So much?” She gave a thin smile. “But it has a big tank.”

  “The size of Texas.”

  He felt a little wild. He was driving away from everyone he knew, including a retrograde version of himself, with a woman he didn’t even like. What the hell, it felt good. He slapped the steering wheel as he took the corner onto the highway and let out a whoop.

  She looked startled, making him laugh. Jesus, he felt good. “I thought I’d never get off that roof.”

  Part Three

  Then and Now

  Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering—

  and it’s all over much too soon.

  -— Woody Allen

  Chapter 15

  Isabel felt the hand on her knee and jerked awake. She straightened herself on the seat, pulling away from the hand that of course belonged to Jonny.

  “We’re getting into the suburbs,” he said. “I need directions.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” Her mouth was dry. She should brush her teeth before the funeral.

  “About three hours. You clocked out just after we got gas.”

  She looked at the highway sign. They weren’t far from home. Ten miles to the exit, then maybe fifteen minutes. She looked at her watch. Christ! She had to change her clothes. “I’ll just be back here.”

  She climbed over the seat and began rummaging through her bags. She kept her eye on the highway exits while wiggling into her black dress and trying not to let Jonny or any passing motorists get a look at her naked. Tricky.

  “The next exit, then go right. That one. Winnetka.”

  “Rush hour. Traffic’s going to be bad.”

  “Just turn when I say ‘turn.’”

  Isabel found her black flats as they rounded the last corner. The church loomed ahead. The back seat was a jumble of dirty laundry. “The cathedral. Stop here.”

  He pulled the car over to the curb, behind the hearse. “You’re all right? You don’t want me to come in?”

  “I’m fine.” Isabel stopped, hand on the door. Why would he want to come in? But what was he going to do after driving her all the way? She had to thank him, repay him somehow— or at least feed him. She couldn’t just ditch him. “Sorry. I mean— thanks for everything. Do you— do you want to come in? Uptight Episcopalians wringing hankies in mock sorrow?”

  His eyes actually twinkled. “Never been to one. The music might be worth it. Not a polka mass, I take it.”

  Edie, at a polka mass: scary. Isabel smiled despite herself.

  “You think they’ll let me in?”

  “Tuck your shirt in. I have to sit with my family. I’ll see you afterwards.”

  She jumped out of the car, rescuing some panties and a sock from the gutter. She ran up the wide granite steps. Organ music moaned through the sanctuary doors. If the music was still blaring, the service hadn’t started yet. Her father was pacing in the entry hall, looking at his watch. His hair was greased. He wore a black suit and a white shirt, very starched.

  “Thank God, Isabel,” he whispered, putting her arm through his.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Seated.” They began walking down the red-carpeted aisle. Isabel had a wedding moment, as if she was wearing white not black. The cathedral was enormous, music bouncing off gothic arches and stained glass, acres of flowers. Hundreds of people, mostly gray-haired and pious. She couldn’t help thinking that Egon would laugh at that category of his friends. He was never reverential, or accepting of frailty of any kind.

  “Where’s your friend?” Max whispered.

  “Parking. You’ll meet him later.”

  “I better. He’s my hero, getting my girl here in time.”

  “How is Edie doing?”

  He didn’t have time to answer. He waved her into the first pew on the left, and she sank down next to Daria.

  ——

  Jonny bounded up the steps of the cathedral, marveling at the grand scale. Church architecture was a specialty he didn’t have much experience with, from a design or construction point of view. One of the firm’s architects designed a modern church for some Greek Orthodox people, all boxy and stark white. This was a cathedral of the old school, mid-19th Century, rangy and voluptuous, pure ornamentation.

  In the dark, wood-lined entry, the sanctuary doors were closed. A pinch-faced woman in a navy blue suit gave him a program and led him to the right side. She made him stand by while she peeked in, waiting for the correct moment. Then she whispered for him to move quietly.

  At least she didn’t deny him entry for wearing a t-shirt and tennis shoes. He had grabbed a navy sports coat, an old brass-button one hanging in his closet from high school. He sat down and looked at the program. The minister was so far away he could barely see him. At least he could read all about old Egon Salvatore Warwick, 1917 – 2009.

  According to the family legend Egon had inherited the family business just in time to go off to war. He was older than Reinholt, and a whole lot richer. Banking, maybe, hard to tell. Th
e program, written by some family member, assumed everyone knew who he was. What his place in society was.

  Around the cathedral a lot of dry eyes and a spark of curiosity from mourner to mourner: see and be seen at Egon Warwick’s funeral. Jonny felt like a professional funeral attendee, one of those people whose hobby was watching people cry. He didn’t like to cry, or think about dying. But what else was he going to do? He’d driven for over six hours and was tired. Isabel had taken a long nap in the car but he’d skipped lunch, his eyes glued to the highway. Maybe a nap in the back of the cathedral was the ticket. After that, well, he would keep his options open.

  He had the pew to himself, eyelids drooping, when a middle-aged couple sidled into the pew, blinking at the church, at women wearing old-fashioned hats, at squirming children, at flashy gold and expensive tans. After a glance at him, they made no eye contact.

  The music was pretty bleak. Hoary old hymns played at dirge pace. The priest and his assistants provided most of the entertainment, but he couldn’t really see what they were doing. A couple of women made short speeches. A golf partner told funny stories about how bad a golfer Egon was. Jonny felt his eyes close.

  Suddenly everyone was standing. He pulled himself upright in time to be blindsided by Daria, jumping down the pew toward him. She stopped just short of hugging him, which would have been strange under any circumstances.

  “Hey, Jonny,” she said, taking his arm. “Thanks for bringing Iz. So, here’s the deal. Some of the old people are going out to the cemetery and get Egon in the ground, but we told dear old Mom we would help set up the shack for the reception so we’re headed home now. Where’s your car? Let’s get out of here.” She yanked him by the sleeve, down the aisle and outside.

  The sisters didn’t want to wait by the church for the car. That would mean enduring the sympathy of legions of strangers, people who knew Egon from business, the club, or college even. So they all walked the four blocks, down the leafy wide streets, to the Fairlane.