All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  In the closet she found an old bikini of Daria’s. A little skimpy, but good enough. She grabbed a towel, some sunglasses, and a baseball cap, poured a Coke into a plastic cup, and stepped into the sun.

  Isabel woke to the sound of an umbrella being cranked. The shade felt deliciously cool. She blinked up at the sight of her father’s face. Howard was doing the cranking on the big yellow umbrella.

  “You’re sunburned, Isabel. Your mother was worried.”

  “What time is it?”

  “You missed lunch.” Max held out a cell phone. “Your phone’s been ringing.” He walked away, dressed for golf in a pink polo shirt. Howard loaded his clubs into the trunk of the Mercedes.

  The damn phone. It read 3:09 pm. She’d slept for hours. Her legs were rosy and her stomach was starting to sting. She opened the phone. Five messages.

  Slipping into the shallow end of the pool she punched the buttons. The first message was from Daria, yesterday. The next four were from her advisor, Professor Mendel. The first came just after she’d gotten on the road home. All asked the same thing: Where are you?!

  Strange to get panic from the professor. She pressed the numbers.

  “Isabel! Thank God.” Lillian Mendel didn’t sound like herself. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  “My grandfather died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” A rustling. Voices. “What bad timing. I hate to tell you this. I’m in the hospital. Nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “I broke my leg. Spectacularly. I was waterskiing in Wisconsin. I know, at my age. I’m going to be laid up for awhile. I have a favor to ask. Would you be able to take over my classes for the first couple weeks?”

  Isabel stepped out of the pool, dripping under the sun. “I— what day is this?”

  “The semester begins in ten days. Undergraduate advising starts next week. I had surgery two days ago and I’ll be in what we used to call traction for at least a week. Maybe more. There’s talk of a rehab hospital.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lillian. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

  “Oh thank you, dear. When can you get here? I’ve been making notes.”

  She remembered the Bug, marooned in Red Vine. “I have to get my car back from Minnesota. Two, three days tops.”

  “Monday?”

  “I’ll try.”

  ——

  Jonny woke with a start. The damp of the basement saturated the thin blanket and penetrated his nose. What was he dreaming? The Fairlane. In Red Vine, or on the road maybe. Going somewhere, the happy excitement of leaving everything behind. Isabel curled on her side, eyes closed, her arms hugging her knees, the sun glinting off her pale cheek. Her hair alight. He reached for her and she evaporated.

  Why was he dreaming about her? It had just been that one moment, one kiss. He rewound the note again and wished he could go back and tear it up. Forget about it. Wipe this summer from your mind.

  He turned over on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. The room was dark, a thick blackness. The faint glow from a tiny window told him the hour was dead-of-night. Maybe he’d watch a little TV. His brother had bought a new one. Television would wake them. He made lists in his head. Find an apartment, call the lawyer, pick up his stuff.

  The return trip to Red Vine had been like waking from a dream. The houses in town looked older, shabby, paint peeling, trash in the gutters, the stores around the square boarded up, deserted. Harsh sunlight scorched the sidewalks, highlighting every crack. Leaves on the maples hung limp, waiting for a breeze. Lawns dried to a crisp. Jonny swung by Lenny’s first, to check on the grain bin. He found Lenny up on a ladder, painting the funnel-shaped roof a shade of green affectionately known as puce.

  “Hey, what do you think?” Lenny was splattered with paint but grinning.

  “It’s colorful.”

  “And cheap. They mixed up eight gallons then the customer hated it.”

  “No kidding.”

  Jonny stuck his hands in his pockets. The door and windows were in place, waiting for Lenny’s paintbrush. Jonny had promised to return to paint the curling vine on the siding and work on insulating. The way Lenny was going at it there wouldn’t be much left to do.

  He stared at the old metal walls, rust gone, shine restored. The grain bin wasn’t going to be his savior after all. It wasn’t going to be the thing that lifted him up from his funk, that transformed him into a new improved version of himself. Why had he thought it would? It was only an old rust-bucket grain bin. It would be fun, that’s all. Anything fun wouldn’t be helpful. Helpful stuff, the stuff that makes you grow, is hard work. It doesn’t drop in your lap with a smile and a box of candy. He was going to have to face up to the reality of his life back in Minneapolis.

  “Just came to pick up my stuff.”

  Lenny came down the ladder. “So how’d it go with Queen Bee? She show you around the hive?”

  He didn’t want to talk about her. “Good luck, Thunder. I know you’re going to win. Shoot me an email at the architects.”

  He found his mother in her rose garden, a determined look on her damp face. She hugged him without taking off her gloves. At his grandmother’s he was surprised to find his father’s 1969 Ford pickup out front. Inside he found Ozzie and Nora staring glumly at the carpet.

  “Did something happen?” Jonny asked.

  Nora said, “It’s your grandfather. He’s taken a turn. They’ve moved him.”

  “To the hospital?”

  She nodded. Ozzie muttered, “Going nowhere fast.”

  “I’m just heading out. I picked up my accordion, and stuff.” His father looked up, a flicker of interest in his blank blue eyes. “Unless you want me to leave it. Maybe you could find somebody else for the band. If Stumpy doesn’t come back?”

  Ozzie shook his head so slowly Jonny thought it might fall off. “The band’s finished.”

  Nora frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Finished for years. I just didn’t notice.”

  “Your father wouldn’t agree. You saw how much he enjoyed it at the mass. We always love the polka.”

  Ozzie gave her a soft, pitying look. Jonny felt cut loose. The polka band, his father’s lifeblood and obsession for nearly fifty years, would be no more. Eleven years old and flailing the skins ever since. It was like a death in the family. An inconceivable hole in the fabric of their lives.

  “Is it because— “ Jonny felt his blood chill. Was this where he volunteered to take over the Notables, like Ozzie had taken over for Holti? Was this where his guilt surged and he offered something that he would never be able to give? Spots floated in front of his eyes. He saw himself living in Red Vine, remarried to Cuppie, owning the Rainy Days, playing in a polka band.

  He had to sit down.

  “It’s because of me.” Ozzie stalked to the window. “Oldest living teenager in Minnesota.”

  Jonny took a breath. What else was there to say? He hugged his grandmother, slapped his father on the shoulder, and headed for the door. His father called his name. “I’ll see you soon, son.” When had his father ever called him ‘son’?

  Jonny ran down the porch steps as fast as he could. He pulled out of town just in time for a thunderstorm to sweep in from the northwest, bearing pea-size hail that pinged off the Fairlane like shotgun pellets. The fresh scent of Canadian pine swept in as the highway filled with puddles.

  He didn’t look back.

  ——

  Isabel didn’t sleep this time. She was being driven along the same route, in reverse, returning to Red Vine. By a different man. His car was a lot nicer— and faster. A late model BMW with leather seats.

  Duncan Ellicott was slight with a spiky haircut and a girlish mouth. She’d taken an instant dislike to him. A frat brother of Will’s, loaded. Duncan had just returned from a job in Paris in banking, taking some time off. Or fired or downsized. More important, he was available. Daria and Will were hoping she’d fall for this playbo
y with the hot car, unbuttoned designer shirt and no-need-for-a-job. Her family still did not understand her at all.

  Isabel pulled her notebook from her backpack at her feet. She could at least spend this time getting ready to lecture for the first week in Professor Mendel’s freshman biology class. The professor had emailed the syllabus and her notes. The thought of lecturing in front of two hundred freshmen made her palms sweat.

  She’d hoped to get a ride to Red Vine Saturday or Sunday. Her father had talked her out of it. There would be no mechanics open on the weekend and she’d just spin her wheels in that dumpy motel. She was going to rent a car but found she wasn’t quite old enough.

  At least Duncan wasn’t much of a talker. No wonder he hadn’t charmed any French women. When he did say something it was about himself or his car, his two favorite subjects. He claimed he missed the BMW so much he quit his job in Paris. As if no one had one in France.

  At the turnoff on the Interstate she opened her phone. In seconds the auto club had connected her to a towing service and recommended a mechanic in Mankato. By the time they reached Red Vine the driver from Jimmy’s Jiffy Service was waiting.

  As the driver rigged up the towing mechanism Ozzie came down the ladder from the roof of the motel. He wore a painter’s suit, his hair greasy and uncombed, several days of salt-and-pepper beard on his chin. Wiping his hands on his pants he greeted Isabel with a smile.

  “Been quiet here without you kids,” he said, looking up at his house, pensive. “It was a fun summer for us.”

  Was he still fooling around with whatshername? Already Isabel was forgetting their names, the people she’d spent months with. She hated that. “Has everyone left?”

  “We’re empty. There’s a rumor of an Elks convention but nobody’s booked.” He sighed. “Soon the snow’ll be flying again. O’course we get a few snowmobilers over the holidays. An ice fisherman or two.”

  She looked up at the roof. Almost finished. “Has Jonny left too?”

  Ozzie nodded. “Came back for his accordion on Saturday.”

  “But Wendy still has another year of school, right?”

  Ozzie frowned. “Right.” Had he forgotten about Wendy?

  “The name Wendy always makes me think of Peter Pan,” Isabel said then bit her tongue. Why had she said that? She looked back at the mechanic, wiggling under the Volkswagen. Duncan hadn’t bothered to get out of the car.

  “Margaret was reading that to the boys before she was born,” Ozzie said, looking at the house again. “That’s why she …” His voice trailed off.

  Isabel hesitated then said softly, “If you talk to her— I bet she’d forgive you.”

  Ozzie’s head shot up, his eyes narrow. Was he going to tell her to mind her own business? That his life was perfect, thankyouverymuch? She took a step back. She’d gone too far.

  “Well, I better get this thing to Mankato so I can go home.” Ozzie’s face softened. He looked tired. She forgave him for his surly lectures and moldy bathrooms. She would move on, but he was stuck with the Rainy Days Motor Inn and Red Vine. “Thanks for everything, Mr. Knobel. You’re right. It was a fun summer.”

  “I hope the bees come back,” he said, almost wistful.

  The tow truck guy hit the switch to activate the hook. She strapped herself into Duncan’s car. Red Vine vanished in the rear view mirror.

  For all the angst and bother the repairs to her Bug were simple. Someone had stolen the distributor cap. With a new one in place, a little tweaking of the idle and an oil change, Isabel slipped back behind the wheel and waved Duncan off. He disappeared down the highway.

  The road signs flew by. She wouldn’t be available for Duncan or anyone on the North Shore. She was going back to the University. It would be a great year. She would show Professor Mendel how well she could lecture. She would help her fellow students and create good will with other lecturers. She would compile her data and begin her dissertation.

  She would look forward. Life would go on, and be marvelous. Or not. Either way, it would go on.

  Chapter 18

  The late morning sun shot through the cedar in the courtyard and made patterns on the window. In the cubicle behind Jonny’s, Sven rattled on. He loved to talk and in truth he was a pretty good storyteller. This yarn involved his trip to Sweden with his grandparents, the fjord cruise, the pilgrimage to the north, weird food and endless cousins. Jonny was glad for the distraction— he’d missed wacky Sven— but he was having enough trouble concentrating on the pile of work in his in-box. He’d been back to work three days and already his neck felt knotted in a twist.

  At eleven the new junior partner stopped by. She’d joined the firm while he was gone. All he knew about her was her name, Jill Martel. From the looks of her, square designer glasses, slender, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, she was hip and new in town. Code for lonely. Thus this third visit in as many days.

  “How’s the Hefflin project going?” she asked.

  “Barely. You want a look?” He punched a button on his keyboard and up popped the CAD file, or the sketchy beginnings of it.

  She sighed. “Sorry. You’ve only getting started. I’ll get out of your hair. It’s my first big thing. I’m anxious.”

  Jonny and Sven leaned out to watch her walk away. The fabric of her gray slacks stretched tight across her backside, which bounced nicely. She had to know they were watching. Sven gave him a swat on the shoulder as they rolled back into position in front of their computers.

  “Watch out. Gary’s already had her out for drinks. More than once.”

  “Gary can have her,” Jonny said. Gary Johnson was a senior partner. “I’m on the rebound.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Got my stuff out of the apartment.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  “Who knows.”

  Artie had gone with him on Sunday night to pick up his things. His key still fit in the door but he knocked first. He half-expected to find her with somebody. Or lying in wait for him. But only Freckles greeted him, and eau de Freckles. Had the apartment always smelled like overripe tomcat?

  “Yes,” Artie answered. They brought in a few boxes, and began throwing his clothes and books and CDs into them. Winter coat, boots, clock radio. It didn’t take long. Freckles hissed as they left.

  “You should have taken the stereo. Or at least the toaster,” Artie said in the car.

  “We bought them together.” Neither of them had a stick before they got married. Everything had been chosen by her, and bought by him. The stereo was from Wal-mart. The toaster was a wedding present, its functional settings reduced to burn or tepid. A pretty good description of their life together.

  He had an appointment on Friday with the divorce lawyer. Cuppie hadn’t filed, at least not that he knew of. She’d called him Sunday night to let him know that she was changing the locks now. Sonya took the message.

  So life, stage three, progressed. (1: Childhood. 2: Cuppie. 3: Whatever.) He was going to be someone new in this stage. Changing everything was impossible. Maybe you could do that when you were young. He didn’t feel young anymore. He felt worn down. He would settle for not making the same mistakes.

  He went back to the CAD file for the Hefflin project. An office and retail complex, it was huge and full of challenges. There would be many coffee cup meetings with Ms. Junior Partner. Well, it could be worse. When the senior partners got down to this end of the building somebody usually got chewed out. And they didn’t dress like that.

  Later, at Artie’s, the phone rang. Jonny was shaking his head as Sonya answered. If it was Cuppie, he wasn’t home. With steel blue eyes and gangly limbs, Sonya was blond with premature wrinkles from coaching high school track and all the adolescent drama that entailed. She handed the phone to Artie. They were watching a documentary about shrinking polar ice caps. Jonny was glad for the interruption.

  “Hi Mom.” Artie listened, glancing at Jonny. “When was this? None of her friends know anything? Okay,
I’ll talk to him.”

  “What is it?” Sonya asked.

  “Wendy. No one’s seen her since Friday. She told Mom she was going camping with Elaine Timboldt and she’d be back Monday or Tuesday. But she didn’t come home.”

  “Let me guess. She wasn’t camping with Elaine,” Sonya said. She had a low opinion of Wendy’s parental oversight.

  Artie looked at his brother. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Can’t remember when I saw her last. Wait. I saw her in the kitchen, eating cereal. That was Friday, I think.”

  “How was she?”

  “Distracted. Tired. She’d been staying out late.”

  Artie stood up. “We’ve got to make some calls.”

  “That boyfriend. Zachary,” Jonny said, following him up the stairs. “What’s his last name?”

  In the next hour they worked the phones, calling police departments and the county sheriff, locating friends of Wendy, interrogating Zachary and the manager at the Tastee Freez. No one knew where she was. Seventeen was prime runaway age. Zachary claimed they’d broken up. Her best friend Andrea sounded a little too pat with her ‘no clue’ and Elaine Timboldt was definitely covering.

  Artie said, “No way could she pull this off without Elaine knowing something about it.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Jonny said, “Elaine was at church camp all week.”

  “Mom might have called the Timboldt’s before.”

  “Don’t blame your mother,” Sonya said in her teacher voice. “If she didn’t run off with Zachary, who did she run off with? Does she have a new boyfriend? Because a girl of seventeen doesn’t just run off by herself unless something really terrible is going on at home.”

  “Nothing’s going on at home. Dad’s not even living there, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Artie said.

  “And Mom isn’t beating her.”

  “Okay, fine. So who did she run off with? A coach, a teacher? The guy from the gas station?”