All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  “What?”

  “You know how. And who.”

  “Who put you on the plane?”

  “Cripes, don’t be a doofus.”

  “It wasn’t Nora?”

  “Geez, Jonny. Of course I stowed away in the van. Curtis never saw me. I stretched out on the last seat.”

  He put his hands on the edge of the sink. “Were you in that bus barn?”

  “For a week.” She stacked the plate on the counter. “It was filthy. There were mice and cockroaches. But I sneaked out during the day and walked all over the campus, filled out applications, checked out the buildings, met all kinds of cool people. Went to coffee shops, read poetry at the bookstore. Poetry! It was like being free. I was grown-up and totally free. I took showers in the girl’s gym. It was fabulous. Then I’d sneak back in and sleep in a van. It was perfect.”

  “Until the weekend came.”

  “The first weekend they were working on the buses so that was fine. But the second weekend.” She rolled her eyes. “When Isabel and the cop banged on the door Sunday afternoon, I was desperate. I would have told her anything to get out of there. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. So let’s just say you guessed.”

  Jonny saw Isabel in his mind, that sexy short haircut over that serious face, so intelligent, so determined. Twirling under the disco lights, happy and laughing— and confronting her old boyfriend. Who she still loved.

  “Isabel found you?”

  “And put me on the plane. She flew to Chicago with me to make sure I got on the Minneapolis flight.”

  “And paid for it all.”

  “She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Queen Bee maybe, but a royal pain is more like it. Made me march like she was my drill sergeant.”

  “Wendy. She had your interests at heart.”

  “Really? I was sure it was somebody else’s interests. Or at least his heart.” Wendy wrinkled her nose and grinned.

  “What? No. You’ve got that wrong.”

  “Suit yourself. She’s a bit of a bitch anyway.”

  The next morning Lenny invited them all over to his campaign office, soon to be called officially the ‘A-Round Red Vine Growth & Tourism Vortex.’ He had a month before taking office and intended to make the most of the grain bin as his own personal party space. The sun peeked out, setting a fiery light to the last red maple leaves clinging to the trees in front of the bank. A breeze brought the pine scent in off the lake. The sound system blared ‘Thunder Road.’ A sign on the door advertised free coffee and apple walnut victory muffins baked by the proud mother of the mayor-to-be.

  Jonny fielded questions about the conversion of the old bin, amazed exclamations as if he was a magician. There was a silk purse aspect to the old hog shed. Jonny felt a moment of pride, watching the smiles. When Oscar Braun whipped off his DeKalb cap and slapped his trousers, crowing in astonishment, Jonny laughed and thought, Gee willickers. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea.

  What a weekend. He felt thrashed by emotions, the sorrow of death, the fragile nature of love, victory and loss and redemption. Was it Holti’s final gift to set his son’s head back on his shoulders and return him to the fold? Just like Isabel had returned Wendy to the family? He had lain awake last night, letting the sadness of the funeral sift away into the cobwebs of his old room, dredging up his natural cheerfulness. It was difficult. He hadn’t felt very jolly lately. Isabel had found Wendy and sent her home. Somehow he had to repay her for that. He would find out what the tickets cost and pay her back. What did her smile look like? Trying to remember made him feel a little desperate.

  He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Her grandfather’s funeral. Now his. Two old men, one for each of them. She should have been here.

  In the courthouse park that morning the fine weather brought out more people to congratulate Lenny and take a look at the unusual new tourist center. Free food had, as always, brought in a steady trickle of citizens. Most clapped Lenny on the back and wished him good luck with the town budget. Margaret and Ozzie stopped by, happy as clams. Jonny spied Cuppie’s parents and hid behind the new mayor. Lenny’s parents stood on one side, beaming. Nora and Claude wandered in around noon. Looking for fresh air, they claimed. They looked a little pale from the week’s events, but ambulatory and smiling. Nora brought blueberry tarts. There were a lot of hugs.

  Claude toddled over to Jonny, using only a cane. “Your grandmama gives me something to get out of the chair for,” he said, his eyes alight. “And another good mass with the accordion, my boy.” He put a hand on Jonny’s shoulder. “I thought you played that second tune especially well. From your heart this time. I heard the chords go clear up to heaven, yes, I did. And guess what? I have taken out my old squeeze box myself. Dusted it off and made a few squeaks.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I have some music for you. Would you like? Your grandmama gives me your computer address. I will send,” he said. “My music from old times. The Cajun.”

  Jonny told him he’d be happy to get the music. The old man made him promise to try it out on the accordion. To not let his grandfather’s instrument gather moss.

  “Now I will tell you my theory. Are you ready for an old man’s theories?” He grinned, big yellow teeth on display, and waited until Jonny nodded. “Okay, here it is. The genius of the squeeze box, one player to the other. No one else understands.”

  Claude’s voice softened to a whisper. “You know the press, then the draw? Of the accordion? In with the air, out with the air? Well, to me it is life, this press and draw. Like a family. These people, strangers perhaps but they are your family, you love them but they press in on you. They are too close, too much like you, too different, too everything. They have problems that make your heart ache. So you draw away. But they are your family so you return when you are needed. And you feel the press again. The pattern repeats, over and over. All life long. In close, then run away. Press. Draw. Press again. You see?”

  He stepped even closer. “Sometimes good music presses in like good news, happy times. A wedding, a baby is born. But more often than you like, the music is off-key. Your father goes a little bit crazy. Your sister runs away. Your grandfather who gave you your beautiful instrument passes into the great unknown. Or perhaps, heaven. We can hope. The press feels like the weight of mountains. It feels like nothing will ever be right again. Music will never come from the accordion, or your heart, again. The tears only. No music. You are sad. Sad things happen, every day.

  “But eventually, sooner than you expect, the draw comes again, lightening your burden. The sun shines. You find your own way, your own music. Write your own song on the music of life. Times are good and you forget. Then poof, something else goes wrong. It will happen again but don’t dwell on that. Accept it. It is the way of the squeeze box. Don’t wait to enjoy the good times. Press in, draw away. Life is ups and downs, ins and outs. You can’t stop it. And if you’re smart, you don’t try.”

  Jonny looked into the old man’s blue eyes, bright in the midday sunshine. For an old man he had such an optimistic view. Realistic but hopeful. He wouldn’t feel down about having a weird family, a chirpy little wife, a grandfather’s demise. Claude would say, “C’est la vie. That’s life. On to the next thing.”

  Jonny felt embarrassed, for his mood, his crazy funk of a year. He was young, relatively speaking. He had made mistakes, yes. Had some family traumas, yes. But no more than others. He had time that Claude would love to have. He would move on, figure it all out. Should he feel ashamed that his marriage had collapsed? Embarrassed that he was born into a polka band? Depressed that he felt lost and alone sometimes? He could only be true to himself. That was difficult in a family, any family. Just figuring out who you were, independent of all of them and next to all of them. Deciding what worked for you, what you believed. All that was difficult. That was life.

  Was that what Claude was saying? Jonny leaned closer but the old man was now only tapping his fingers to the beat o
f the rock and roll. He had said his piece. Maybe Claude was just saying change would come, like a key change. Don’t fight it. Just get your fingers ready and press the box with all your heart.

  The recorded music from inside the grain bin suddenly swelled. Standing like an army bugler next to the visitor’s center, Artie pulled up to full height and put his trumpet to his lips. The notes soared, high off the brick facades, higher than the bare tree branches, into the sky. He played along with the E Street Band’s ‘10th Avenue Freezeout.’ Everyone laughed as Lenny tried to wrestle Wendy’s trumpet case away from her. She shrieked and giggled, swatting him. “Only one big man joins the band, sister,” he cried.

  The crowd thinned. Lenny grew tired of handshakes. He stood Jonny in front the grain bin and took about a hundred photographs destined for a brand spanking new town website courtesy of the new mayor’s computer business. Just before they got in Artie’s car to return to Minneapolis, Wendy grabbed Jonny’s arm.

  “You know I’m right,” she whispered.

  In the front seat, Sonya moaned and stuck her head out the window to get fresh air, leaving Jonny shivering. Artie said, “She gets this way a lot. Mostly in the morning.”

  Jonny looked at his brother in the rear view mirror. Morning sickness? Was Sonya pregnant? Artie wiggled his eyebrows and cracked the biggest smile Jonny had ever seen on his brother’s face.

  Jonny slapped him on the shoulder. “No wonder you were tooting your horn.”

  The divorce was final two weeks before Christmas, in those gray, cold days Minnesota does in style. The sky was low and glowering, full of muttering advice: Gird your loins. Stack firewood. Buy boots. Jonny got the call at work from his lawyer on a Wednesday that Cuppie had signed the papers.

  That Friday he left the office early. He had worked enough late nights and weekends for Jill Martel to take another month off. Now it was three in the afternoon and he was halfway towards getting drunk— anything not to go back to the sterile apartment— when his new cell phone rang.

  “Jonathan Knobel?” A woman’s voice, very smooth. “We are thrilled to inform you that your converted grain bin has won first place in the GGT Architects Sustainable Building Contest. Thank you so much for entering. There were some very creative ideas presented. You should be proud.”

  Jonny managed a “Hold it,” while the woman took a breath. “Who is this?”

  She mumbled a name, Dorothy somebody, and repeated “GGT Architects in Chicago, Illinois.” Before he could ask more she ran on: “There will be a reception in Chicago on the 21st. We’re hoping you will be able to attend.”

  He set down his beer. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She began to repeat herself. He interrupted: “I didn’t submit anything.”

  “This is Jonathan Knobel, correct? You are the designer of the ‘A-Round Red Vine Tourism Center?’”

  “Well, yes. But— how did you get this number?”

  “From your submission materials. Now if you’ll give me your email address, you did leave that off the form, I can send you all the information. We look forward to seeing you very soon.”

  He gave her his email address at work then called Lenny. “Somebody just called saying I’d won some contest. Is that your idea of a Christmas prank?”

  “The mayor does not prank,” Lenny said. “What kind of contest?”

  Jonny told him. “You didn’t submit it?”

  “The water treatment plant is at capacity and we still need to move the damn landfill. Mabel in payroll is hinting at a Christmas bonus. Shirley keeps trying to push me under the mistletoe. If you won, enjoy it. Don’t be so damn gloomy.”

  “So you deny it.”

  “Categorically, my good man. I put the photos on the website but that’s it.”

  Jonny set his phone down on the counter and finished his beer. Had someone done this to embarrass him? Was it just a crank call, someone pretending to be from Chicago? He called back on the number of the woman who said she was from GGT Architects.

  A younger woman answered. He asked for Will Franklin. She put him on hold. Franklin did work there. Maybe it was legit.

  Will Franklin was a little confused by Jonny’s tone until he explained he hadn’t entered the contest himself. “Who submitted the photos?”

  It was all done through the website. All the contact info was Jonny’s. He began to suspect he really had won the contest, and that Will Franklin was serious in his praise of the grain bin. Despite its humble and decidedly rural nature.

  “Will you come to the reception?” Franklin asked. “We want to blow up some of the photos and get you to talk about it. We’ve invited some reporters. The runner-up will be there too.”

  “What’s his design?”

  “A solar outhouse. Burns the waste. Perfect for off-the-grid cabins.”

  At least he had the outhouse beat. Maybe he’d go. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be. When he woke up a week later on that Saturday morning, too early and with a mouth full of cotton and a headache from the night before, the choice was either get drunk again or go to Chicago.

  He went to Chicago.

  Chapter 23

  Isabel stretched out under the covers. It felt good to be home again. Living with Lillian Mendel didn’t count. Her time, space, and energy was not her own there. After the holidays she would find her own place.

  Hard to believe the entire semester had flown by while she taught the professor’s classes and tended to her needs. Dr. Mendel was back on her feet, out of her cast and using a walker, but hardly her old self. She didn’t drive yet, although Isabel suspected she just liked having a chauffeur. Isabel had been taking her to the campus and back every day. And doing her errands, grocery shopping, taking her to the hairdresser. It was exhausting but she’d stuck with it. She could in all conscience move out and be assured that her professor would be fine.

  She sat up in her bed. The drapes were pulled against the thin winter morning. Boxes from the summer were stacked under the window. She’d never had a chance to get back here for them. Downstairs she heard her mother’s voice, then her father’s, anxiety in both. Tonight was Daria’s engagement party. Her mother was talking about the caterers, her father about the wine list. Poor Daria. Her night and she had nothing to do with it.

  On the closet door a garment bag held her dress for tonight. Daria had picked it out, with Edie’s help, no doubt. Isabel stepped out of bed and unzipped the bag. The dress was soft and short and drifty, way too girly. But at least there were no ruffles and it had sleeves. And a pearl gray, far from pink, thank god. She stripped off her pajamas and pulled the dress over her head. It was tight and she struggled, reaching around and zipping it.

  In front of the mirror she gasped a little. Christ, her breasts were smashed up like a Jane Austen heroine! She could barely breathe. The tight bodice was pleated in gray chiffon that then floated down to her knees. She fingered the soft fabric. It was lovely but they bought the wrong size. She would get them to take it back.

  Before she could get the dress off a knock came at the door and Daria stuck her head in. “You tried it on, good. Do you like it?”

  “It’s too small. Look at this.” Isabel pointed to her cleavage.

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s beautiful.” Daria spun her around. “Try on the shoes.” Isabel worked her toes into the sandals, a ridiculous choice for December. “The color isn’t exactly right. I told Edie it would wash you out. But the dress is perfect, Iz. You look fabulous.” She adjusted the long, gauzy sleeves over Isabel’s wrists.

  “But it’s your night. Nobody cares how I look.”

  Daria shook her head, smiling, and headed for the bathroom. Isabel squinted at herself one last time in the full-length mirror and sighed. She had nothing else to wear.

  In the kitchen her mother asked her sharply how she was feeling. Isabel was back in jeans and t-shirt, her bare feet tucked under her. She scooped up the scrambled eggs and toast Solana se
rved her. Edie sat across the table, dressed in red cashmere with full makeup, frowning. “No headache? Because you must have had too much to drink.”

  “What do you mean? I hardly had anything.”

  “Then why did you sing at that ridiculous bar?”

  Edie hadn’t been invited to go out to clubs with Daria and her friends last night, a sort of pre-bachelorette party, but Isabel had. They ended up at a karaoke bar. Isabel had been pleased to find a slow, romantic song by Corinne Bailey Rae that she liked and was even more pleased that she managed to get through it.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. I’ve had two calls this morning already.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s on the internet, Isabel. Everyone is watching it.”

  In a few minutes Isabel and Daria, flanked by their irate mother and amused father, stood in front of the computer in the den. There on a video site was Isabel, singing with her eyes shut, cradling the microphone like a pop star. “Who shot the video?”

  “Julia. Remember her little camera?” Daria glanced back at Edie. “It’s no big deal. She sounds good. Who knew she had such a nice voice?”

  “She looks completely out of her head,” Edie said. “You weren’t drunk?”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Daria put her arm around Isabel’s waist. “I think she was great.”

  Isabel retreated to her room. She wasn’t embarrassed by the singing— her voice wasn’t that bad. But the look on her face in the video was scary. She had maybe one glass of champagne, that was all. She remembered exactly how she’d felt once she’d closed her eyes and managed to forget about all the people in the bar. Like her heart was broken. In those few minutes her heart was definitely shattered. The words to the song were about love, of course, and the impossibility of finding the perfect man.

  That was embarrassing. Everyone thinking she had a broken heart and wondering who caused it. She sighed, sitting at the end of her bed. Also on the internet was her little toast to Daria, and the dedication for the song. “This goes out to a special guy,” she’d said. She had been thinking about Jon last night. The longer she went without seeing him— it had been months since he’d come searching for Wendy— the more she thought of him. Sleeping on the sofa at Dr. Mendel’s, working on that funny round farm bin, sitting at the Owl, drawing pictures. Dancing with her. Driving her home. It kept her sane in the little bedroom under the eaves, a comforting tale, a fairy story, replaying the weekend they spent together, burning every minute into her memory.