On her third sip of wine, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be drinking, so she set her glass on an end table, then tried to get a good look at Russ as he listened to Jane. Jane’s brother had aged well so far. His slight scrawniness had turned into an appealing wiry build, and his hair was still blond and shaggy. The new, square, black glasses were a nice addition to his face, which had pale lashes and brows, and his laugh was the honky guffaw she recalled from the many nights and afternoons she’d spent in this house. She’d always liked that laugh, its utter lack of decorum or self-consciousness.
For dinner, they gathered around the long, polished oak table and spooned piles of Thai food—green curry with beef—into sky blue bowls. A dog brushed by her legs, and Ramona leaned down expecting to see the beagle Jane had in high school, but found a white Pomeranian instead, looking up at her with giant brown eyes.
“Don’t feed him,” Gary advised.
“I wasn’t planning to,” Ramona said.
“You always used to feed Daisy under the table,” Sheila reminded her. “Don’t think I don’t remember! That dog had the worst habits. We’re trying to be stricter with Casper.”
“Just like you were stricter with me than you were with Russ,” Jane said, chewing.
“I never fed Daisy under the table,” Ramona protested. “Must have been Ivy.”
“We were not stricter with you,” Sheila said to Jane. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Jane shrugged and took a long swallow of wine.
“Your mother wasn’t strict with anyone,” Gary said. “If you’d asked her to fill your pillow up with whipped cream, she probably would have done it.”
“Whipped cream,” Sheila repeated, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous. We never even keep that in the house.”
“It was a metaphor, Mom,” Russ said.
“I get it,” Sheila said, frowning at Russ, then breaking into a broad smile. “Remember that time you girls had the ice cream social here, and that boy went around in a bowtie offering whipped cream to everyone out of our silver bowl.”
“That was Jeremy,” Jane said. “He’s a caterer now.”
“That wasn’t Jeremy,” Ramona argued. “It was that kid Felix, the foreign exchange student.”
“Are you sure?” Jane asked, knitting her brow. “I think you’re wrong.”
“All I remember,” her father cut in, “is the doofus who broke my stereo.”
“That was Jeremy,” Ramona said.
“Actually, it was your boyfriend, Ramona,” Russ said. “Mark.”
“Oh, right,” Ramona said, shaking her head. How had she forgotten that? “I felt awful about that.”
“You shouldn’t have, dear,” Sheila said. “Why do we always feel like our boyfriend or husband is our responsibility, like they’re some extension of ourselves?”
“Because they are,” Gary said.
“No, our children are, to a certain extent. But you’re not. I don’t have anything to do with your personality.”
“Yes, you do,” Jane said. “You two have melded into one person. You’re lucky.”
“That doesn’t sound very lucky,” Russ said.
“What do you mean by that? That’s a ridiculous statement,” Sheila said and looked slightly annoyed even though she smiled her graceful, hostess smile.
“You two agree on everything, that’s all,” Jane said.
“Not true,” Gary said.
“Okay, give me one example then,” Jane said.
“Your mother hates my friend Craig.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sheila shot her husband a disapproving look, then turned back to Jane. Ramona felt a bubble of discomfort work its way up her gullet. She’d forgotten the way Jane liked to subtly poke and prod at her parents.
“Just admit it, Sheila. It’s no big deal. You’ve always disliked him.”
“I will admit no such thing.”
“See, Jane,” Russ said. “That’s how you do it: Deny, deny, deny. Never admit to anything.”
Jane laughed and shared a look with her brother that made Ramona envious. If her own brother were still alive, would they share jokes around the dinner table? She couldn’t picture it. Even before he’d gotten sick, her brother had been a picky eater, so the idea of him at a dinner table for any length of time struck her as wrong.
“So, what’s the matter with Craig?” Jane asked.
Sheila sighed and looked around the table, then took a swallow of wine and said, “He’s just a little bit crass for my taste, that’s all. I do like him.”
“What does crass mean?” Rocky asked.
“Sort of gross and rude,” Russ told him.
Sheila shared a look with her husband, as if to say See what you started? She stood and began clearing the table.
After dessert of lime sorbet and small, strong cups of coffee, they reconvened in the living room. “Play us a tune, Ramona,” Gary said, settling back into his place on the couch.
“Oh, I didn’t bring my guitar,” she said, sitting down in the coral armchair.
“Mine’s still here,” Russ offered.
Before she could protest, he rose and disappeared then returned with his old guitar. Once, they had played a duet together in a talent show, back in junior high school. Russ set the guitar on her lap with a smile, and Ramona saw that she would have to play something. She was used to playing in front of people, but this was different. These were the people she had once wished were her real family. This was the boy she had once wished to marry.
She tuned the guitar while Fern and Rocky fought over who got to sit beside Russ. Jane and Sheila were on the opposite love seat, talking quietly with their heads bent toward each other. Ramona knew she should play one of her new songs, but suddenly they all struck her as rubbish. Running through the lyrics in her mind, the songs sounded hollow and stunted, the product of someone who didn’t understand much about life.
Instead, she settled on a song from her first album called One Night in the Desert about a girl who can’t find her way home from a party. It was one of the more melancholy songs she’d written, and halfway through, it felt like a huge mistake. Why hadn’t she chosen something more upbeat? Her voice was out of practice from this week of lazing around, and it sounded slightly hoarse to her ear, the acoustics in the living room not very good.
When she was finished, everyone clapped and she smiled and even blushed when Russ caught her eye and winked his approval. She felt, for a moment, as if she were still in high school, still hanging out in Jane’s living room pining over Jane’s older brother. As if her life hadn’t happened yet. As if she were still on the verge of everything. No terrible decisions made. Her skin was hot, and she held the guitar close against her chest and tried to smile without looking as if she were about to cry.
“Oh, honey,” Sheila said. “That was just beautiful. We are so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Ramona said. The compliment settled a pillow of warm air around her, and the feeling that she was about to cry passed.
“Really great,” Gary added. “We brag to all our friends about you, by the way.”
“It’s true,” Russ said. “I’ve heard them.”
Ramona set Russ’s guitar carefully on the floor, said “Thanks” again, then left the room to get a glass of water.
She didn’t turn on the kitchen light but found the glasses in the same cupboard where they always were. Running the tap, she looked out the window by the sink at the dark shapes of the backyard: the hulking forms of the oleander bushes against the fence, the arms of the mulberry tree that held a hummingbird feeder, gleaming in a spoke of light from the neighbor’s back porch. From the living room she heard murmurs, then a bright crack of Jane’s laughter. It occurred to her that she had pined for Jane’s parents more than she had ever pined for Russ. He had simply been the crush she could admit to.
Ramona had an overwhelming urge to sneak out. The backyard had a gate that led to the street. It would be easy to le
ave without anyone hearing her. How long would it take them to notice she was gone?
The glass of water was cool on her throat, and after she finished it, she set it on the counter, where she noticed Jane’s car keys. On impulse she pocketed them, then stepped outside. The night was chillier than usual, and the smells of a barbecue reached her as she wound behind the house toward the gate. The sight of the lit windows of the living room stopped her. Just one more look, she promised herself, then she would go.
Rocky was curled onto Jane’s lap now, his head on her shoulder as she talked to her mother with animated pleasure. Russ and Gary were talking on the other couch, and Fern sat between them, combing the hair of an old, ratty doll that rested on her lap. The guitar still lay on the floor where Ramona had left it. She pulled Jane’s car keys from her jeans pocket and held them in her hand, considering.
Fern looked up toward the window, and Ramona stepped back, then realized the girl couldn’t see her. It was too dark outside, too bright inside. This was where she belonged, on the outside of Jane’s family, staring into their lit-up living room. The gate squeaked a little as she opened it, but not at all when she closed it. She crossed the lawn and didn’t look back.
Driving toward the hotel, she realized she was close to Sweeney Street, where the second J. Dillman on her list was supposed to live. She found the street easily and turned right, then parked in the same place she had yesterday afternoon, beneath the elm tree.
The lights were on inside the yellow house, and a white pickup truck was parked in the driveway. Ramona waited, watching the windows and the door, and wondered why she was doing this. Even if she did, indeed, find her son, would he want to speak to her?
She sat for fifteen minutes, then considered leaving. She was tired from hiking and from the emotion of Ivy’s fall and seeing Jane’s family. The muscles of her arms ached from carrying Fern around this morning at Red Rock, and she needed to use the bathroom.
Then the porch light came on across the street and the front door opened and she held her breath and waited, feeling her heart beat as if to break apart her chest. The person who stepped outside was male, on the short side, and slightly husky, with dark, shaggy hair. He looked out at the street, then sat on the edge of the porch and lit a cigarette. It was difficult to discern his age. He could be nineteen or thirty-five from this distance in this dim light. The porch light revealed the shape of him—the tufts of hair curling out on either side of his neck, the wide shoulders and solid bulk of his chest—but his face was cast in shadows, and Ramona began to send him a silent message to turn his head to the side. A profile would help her somehow; the shape of the nose and chin might mean a lot, might reveal his true identity. She touched her own nose as she sat watching, then traced the curve of her chin.
Ramona definitely felt more connected to this kid than she had to the red-haired boy in the fancy house. This boy shared her loneliness, her need to be separate from the people inside. It pained her that he smoked, but she understood that too, since she’d done it herself for several years after high school. His build resembled Mark’s, and the kid had her black hair. This might be him, she told herself. This could be your son.
The boy stood, then walked across the grass to the street and began strolling in the opposite direction of Ramona’s car. When he was three houses down, Ramona got out and locked her car, then decided to walk around the block in the opposite direction in the slim hope of running into him on his loop back home. Of course, he could be going somewhere, she told herself as she rounded the corner and began walking up the opposite street. It was just as likely he was going to a friend’s house or down to the 7-Eleven as it was that he was taking a walk around the block.
This was not the best section of town, but the street was quiet and peaceful. She passed a woman dragging her garbage bin to the curb. They exchanged hellos.
Ramona was about halfway down her side of the block now, and she searched the circles of light beneath the street lamps up ahead, hoping to catch sight of the kid. She felt guilty suddenly for having run out on Jane and her family. What if they were searching the streets for her right this second? But, of course, they’d see that her car was gone, so seeking her out nearby wouldn’t make sense. She would apologize later, either call Sheila or write her a note. A note would be best, she decided, easier but more thoughtful. Jane’s mother always appreciated gestures of that sort.
A form appeared at the end of the block, and Ramona recognized the boy instantly, even from a distance. He had his hands shoved into his pockets now, and he trudged along, as if hunching himself against a cold night despite the air’s silky warmth. Her heart started to pound again, and Ramona tried to make a plan for the moment when they crossed paths on the sidewalk.
And then the moment was there. As they each stepped beneath the brief glare of a streetlight, their gazes locked, and Ramona took note of his blue eyes surrounded by dark, curly lashes. This boy’s eyes were far superior in their beauty to either hers or Mark’s, though Mark’s were the same color blue. Other than the eyes, his face was ordinary: his cheeks sweetly packed with baby fat, a nose a little too big for his face. He bit his lower lip nervously and nodded at Ramona. She nodded back, then the moment was over and she was past him, the empty sidewalk unrolling ahead of her into the night.
She turned and looked back at his retreating form, wanting to call out to him, but what could she say? “Excuse me,” she cried, lifting her voice to be heard. He turned and stopped, several lengths of sidewalk away from her already. Ramona jogged over to him, then asked, “Do you have the time?”
“Um, sure,” he said, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket to glance at its bright face. “8:56.” His voice was deeper than she expected, and up close, with more time to observe his face, she saw that he was definitely older than nineteen, possibly nearing thirty. The recognition she’d experienced in the car seeped out of her. This man was not her grown-up son.
“Thanks,” she told him, wanting to be back in her car now, driving to her hotel room, but she had to navigate the remainder of the block first. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he told her, then turned and continued on his way.
Ramona stood where she was, watching him until he turned the corner back in the direction of his home.
JANE
Just as Jane pulled into a parking space at the Golden Nugget, Adam called. She was on the top level of the ramp and got out of her mother’s car to stand in the windy night and look down on the streets and people below as she said “Hello” into the phone and waited for her husband’s voice to answer back.
“How’s it going?” he asked, sounding tired and slightly hoarse, as if she were the one who’d called and woken him up.
“Fine,” she said, then added, “Is everything all right?”
“No, everything is not all right. I miss you guys.”
Jane nodded, as if he were there and could see her. “The kids miss you too,” she said, though she wasn’t sure this was true since they hadn’t asked about him for a day or two. “Ivy got hurt at Red Rock today and had to get a bunch of stitches. It upset Rocky a lot because he saw her fall. And Ramona was just over at my parents’ house for dinner, and she ditched us without saying good-bye, just escaped out the back door. I’m trying to find her right now.”
“Wow,” he said. “Sounds like there’s a lot more going on there than there is here. Can I talk to the kids?”
“I left them with Mom and Dad. Tomorrow I’ll have them call you,” she promised. She waited for more follow-up questions about Ivy or Ramona, but none came. She felt almost grateful for his lack of empathy about her closest friends. It was good to tally up another of his flaws rather than more of hers.
After they said good-bye, Jane stood looking at the street below and tried to imagine what it might be like to live here again. Being this far from Adam wasn’t fair and might not even be legal—she wasn’t sure what types of divorce statutes there were about leaving the
state—but she couldn’t shake away the appeal of an entirely new life. A new life in her old town.
She found Ramona in her room and was let in without a word. Jane had been planning to demand an explanation for her friend’s sneaky departure, but now that she was actually standing beside Ramona in this hotel room, the urge to gather answers dissipated. Instead, Jane asked, “Is it all right if I stay here with you tonight?”
“Of course,” Ramona said, then stepped away from the door and plunked onto one of the beds.
Jane set her purse on the other queen bed by the window, then pulled the curtains aside and looked at the view: the lit shell of the Fremont Street Experience, a sliver of moon, people walking up the side streets toward their cars. She couldn’t help but wonder which direction Saturn was in. “Let’s take a walk,” she suggested.
Outside, the lights in the ceiling of the Fremont Street Experience danced blue, green, and purple across the high, curved archway, and the music was Donna Summer. It seemed to Jane that she was on a strange new planet—a loud one with a colored, blinking sky—and the feeling was unsettling but also liberating. This was not the street she’d visited growing up; it had been so thoroughly altered it now felt new.
“Where should we go?” Jane asked, taking Ramona’s arm. She had a notion to play one hand of blackjack and have one drink in every casino along the street, then run back to the room together, half-drunk in the cooling air and either richer or poorer from their night’s efforts.
“How about the drugstore?” Ramona said flatly. “I need to take a pregnancy test.”
They found a Walgreens much further down, out from under the canopy of the Fremont Street Experience. Here, at the end of the street, it was quieter, darker. The forlorn sign of a Motel 6 blinked at them from a block away, and Jane noticed a pack of teenagers on bikes huddled in the motel’s parking lot, talking loudly. The sound of a bottle breaking from within their huddle sent a wave of anxiety through Jane but only stirred up raucous laughter among the group. The air smelled drier out here and somehow wild, as if this were not a place people should inhabit.
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