Hope Out Loud

by Kristina Riggle

  “I see their dog, so Amy and Paul must be here.”

  “They’re inside with Penelope. Frodo was running like a wild thing through the house so I took him out to throw a ball around. You know it’s fun having a granddog? I can wind him up and spoil him and give him back when he’s difficult. Just like with the grandkids!”

  When I don’t reply, my mother squeezes me around the waist in a sideways hug. We walk the rest of the way to the house in silence, both of us missing my children.

  *

  The sun has swung closer to the earth, sending all our shadows reaching long across the grass. People come by to say hello, talk some business, but then they wander off abruptly as they catch me looking over their shoulders at the driveway, or when I lose the thread of their small talk.

  I should have stayed home. The emptiness knifes through me, so much so I even miss Sam.

  I switch my beer to my left hand and rub the condensation off my right on the leg of my khaki shorts. My dad takes me by surprise by coming up on my left.

  “Looking for someone?” he asks, with a nod toward the stream of arrivals striding up the sloping lawn.

  “Not really.” I make a point of gazing at the distant twinkling lake.

  He sighs, a classic world-weary William Becker Sr. sigh. “You know, son, I’d think you would want a fresh start.”

  “I’m not looking for a start of any kind, Dad.”

  “You’re young yet. Not even forty. You could still find a nice girl and make it work. But not if you keep going backward. High school is over, Will. Move on.”

  “Who says I haven’t?”

  My dad doesn’t answer because he’s spotted someone over my shoulder. He brightens and waves. When I turn around I see Mandy prancing her way over with a huge red-lipped smile.

  “Amanda!” my dad roars in his networking voice.

  Lower, he says to me, “She’s a nice girl. Don’t treat her like she has leprosy.”

  I remind myself that it’s not Mandy’s fault that my dad pushes us together, micromanaging my life even now. So I greet Mandy with a friendly smile and accept a cheek kiss, but at the same time I hear a loud, rattly engine pull up and a creaky car door open. There’s only one party guest I can think of who drives a car like that. Maeve and Anna have arrived.

  Chapter Five

  Anna

  Thursday, July 4, 2013

  Al kept up a stream of commentary about Tigers baseball all the way here. I’d ended up in the backseat rather than split up the lovebirds in the front, and my mother drove.

  She made little listening noises, but I could tell from the tense set of her shoulders she wasn’t hearing a thing.

  We’d had one more talk about her reluctance to move into Al’s house, but she hadn’t found the courage to say a word to her fiancé yet. Nor had she packed a single box. I’d figured out enough to know that Al was a pretty easygoing guy, but I’m sure he expects his wife to actually live with him.

  My mother even said, yesterday when we were pulling weeds in the garden, she didn’t know if she should actually marry him. She’d rocked back on her heels, pushed up her wide-brimmed hat and said, “Maybe the house is only an excuse. Maybe I don’t really want to marry him at all so I’m letting this house thing become a big deal.”

  I tried to tell her that was nonsense, she was just worried about transition, they loved each other, but my words ran off her like drops of rain. I felt their falseness, too. What did I know about it, anyway? Closest I came to marriage was Marc, and the minute he pushed me about having kids I dumped him.

  My mother won’t talk about it tonight, I can tell. He’s too happy, and she cares too much to ruin that. Ironic, really.

  It takes my mom an extra moment or two to get out of the car, as if she’s bracing herself for something. Al barely notices, popping out of the passenger side and rocking the car with a firm door slam. He even slams doors happily.

  By the time she turns to face her intended, she’s got a beaming, sunny smile. She adjusts her floppy pink hat to keep the streaming late-day rays from burning her fair Irish skin, and takes Al’s hand.

  I plod along behind, feeling not a little like a child again, ever the third wheel.

  As Mom and Al look for a cocktail, the first party guests I see are Beck and his father, and . . . oh yes. Amanda the ad agency woman. That is, Mandy.

  I approach to say hello. I almost can’t help it, in fact. They are too close to the driveway. Walking past without acknowledging them would be rude. Amanda laughs at something William Sr. has said, and in doing so takes a half-step closer to Beck, almost as if her merriment has caused her to stumble into him. Her hand slips around him, lightly, as if she doesn’t want him to notice.

  Amanda’s face lights up with her impeccable false smile. “Anna! That’s right, isn’t it? Anna? How nice to see you.”

  It sounds proprietary, how’s she’s greeting me, standing next to the host and the son.

  Beck steps away from both of them and reaches around my shoulders for an embrace. He buries his face in my frizzy curls and whispers, “Thank God.”

  When Beck steps back, he takes my hand. “I’m going to get this girl a drink.”

  I rarely allow myself to be led around by the hand, but I’m so surprised that I go along for the ride.

  He murmurs, “Are they watching? Glance back casually.”

  I sneak a look back while I pretend to fuss with a barrette. “Yes. Your dad has his arms folded. Amanda is standing so close she looks like she might try to eat him.”

  “She might at that.” He adds, after a quick glance at my legs, “You look pretty today.”

  He always was a leg man, Beck. I’m glad I bothered to shave.

  In the tent, Beck orders me a pinot grigio and I wink at him. “You mean ‘peanut Gregory’?”

  It takes him a few beats to remember our old joke. “Right, of course. Only the finest in peanut gregory at Chez Becker,” he replies, pronouncing the chez with a hard “ch” and a distinct “z.”

  He accepts a Stella Artois and immediately starts peeling the label. He walks away from the throng, toward the bluff over the lake, so I follow. “So how many dates have you two had?”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not talking about Eleanor Roosevelt, Beck.”

  “Two or three. How did you know?”

  “She had at least some basis for being possessive of you. Most women won’t jump to that without at least a little encouragement. I assume these were recent dates?”

  “Fairly. Is this a cross-examination?”

  “Direct, I’d say. Anyway, relax. I’m just curious.”

  “My dad would do cartwheels if we got together. He’s got this imaginary checklist, as if that’s all you need. Ambitious, nice, attractive, she fits in.” He mimes ticking boxes on a page.

  Fits in. Exactly as I never did, the frizzy-haired freckled girl who lived over a liquor store. Oh, the Beckers were gracious as could be and fawned over my grades and accomplishments. But they never expected our love to be permanent; high school love never is. It was easy enough to let our romance run its course.

  “Your dad didn’t seem very warm to me tonight.”

  “Well. He’s not very warm to me either lately.”

  He doesn’t have to elaborate. I get it. I’m sure people are still talking about it now, watching us silhouetted on the bluff in the pink of the setting sun.

  That’s Anna Geneva. She had an affair with him five years ago. Oh, he tried to save the marriage . . .

  I look up at Beck. He’s gazing out over the lake. A breeze is ruffling his hair. He’s squinting into the sun, a frown marring his face that used to be so happy, optimistic. He was so ready to go against the grain to become a tree-hugger in a family of land-devouring builders. Then again, it’s easy to be brave at seventeen.

  I ask him, “Do you ever want to just leave? Get out and start over where nobody knows you? It’s refreshing, actually. A big old reset button. I ought t
o know, I’ve done it twice.”

  “Liquor store to law firm to private practice.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  He turns to me. “But are you happy? Out there by yourself?”

  I open my mouth with a reflexive yes, but the expression on his face stops me. He expects honesty, and he deserves it.

  “Well. I’m not sad. And sometimes ‘not sad’ has to be enough.”

  He looks back out over the lake, sets his beer down in the grass, and jams his hands in his pockets. “It’s academic anyway. I can’t move away from the kids.”

  Of course he can’t, just like I can’t stay away from my mother’s home in Haven, no matter how far away I live.

  For long moments we both face the lake, watching the reddening sun sink into the haze. The waves from up here sound distant, a whispered “shh” on the cusp of sleep.

  Beck reaches around my shoulders and draws me in. We stand side by side, fitting together like we did twenty-five years ago, when anything at all seemed possible.

  *

  “We should get back to the party,” Beck says, stretched out on the grass by now, his legs in front of him, his shoes abandoned next to him. He’s propped up on his hands. My posture is the same, except my legs are demurely crossed, seeing as I’m wearing a knee-length sundress.

  “You know what? I’m too damn old for ‘should’. Why? We don’t want to mingle, so let’s not. I spent so much of my life racing toward ‘should’ and all it earned me was a fancy condo I was too busy to ever be in, and eventually didn’t even want. You know what they think of us already. They’ll think the same whether we fake-smile our way through the party or not.”

  “My dad won’t be happy.”

  “And you’re not a child.” I cringe at my tone. “Sorry, that came out sharper than I intended.”

  “No, you’re right. I feel like I’m frozen in time here in this town. I can’t leave.”

  “The kids. I know.”

  “Not just them. My whole career of sorts has been with my dad’s company. If I were to leave, what would I do? Where would I go? Any employer would look at the nepotism and think, ‘Yeah, this guy has had a sweet ride his whole life and wouldn’t know hard work if it bit him’. Not true. I mean, I do work hard. But yeah. I’ve also had it easy.”

  I scoot closer. “Maybe materially, but that’s not the only thing that counts. And if you emphasize the projects you’ve done, instead of the name of the company, you could still make an impression. Hell, consult and hire yourself out.”

  He turns to me and smiles sadly. “You always did know just what to do. And you were brave enough to just go out and do it.”

  “It wasn’t bravery. Bravado, mostly. Not the same thing.”

  We both turn toward a loud pop. Someone down the beach is setting off firecrackers. The sky is deepening from pale gray-blue of dusk to a velvety dark, yet it’s not quite there. It’s that in-between time: later than dusk, not quite night.

  A voice from the party, maybe Paul, bellows that it’s time to go down to the water and arrange the chairs and blankets. There’s a private sliver of beach down a set of wooden switchback stairs. Beck looks at me. “We’re not going down there, are we?”

  “We’re sure not. Especially considering five years ago.”

  I wish I hadn’t said it out loud. Now we’re both thinking of it. Back then, I’d gone down the stairs trying to evade people, forgetting that they’d be gathering for the fireworks. I’d been standing apart from the crowd with my feet in the waves, lost in thought, when I’d spotted Madeline’s gold hair floating in the water and dove in after her. The memory still makes me seize with fear, even knowing that she’s fine. Then there’s all that came after.

  Beck only says, “It’s over now. All of it is over.”

  I spread my cardigan down behind me in the grass and lie straight back, so I can watch the stars wink to life overhead. I sense Beck stretch out, too, and I allow myself some nostalgic pleasure at his closeness. I’m not even surprised when I feel his fingers entwine with mine. Nor do I pull my hand away.

  The first starburst of color explodes over our heads. Beck must be thinking the same thing I am. We spent a few July fourths just this way, stretched out in the grass, side by side, well away from everyone else. It was the closest thing to privacy two teen-agers in a small town could ever get, outside of a car’s backseat.

  His fingers pull away. A rustle of grass. I turn my head to face him. He has sat up on his side now, propping his head on his hand. He’s staring at me, and I stare back, though we can’t see much now that the sun has truly gone and the only lights are yards away at the house, or pinpricks of color in the sky far above. He could be sixteen again. Me too.

  “Anna.”

  I can’t tell if this is a question or a beginning.

  “Beck.”

  “Can I kiss you?”

  “Yes,” is my unconsidered answer.

  And so he does, his face blotting out the fireworks, the sky, the last twenty-five years of screw-ups and confusion. Kissing him here, like this, is coming home.

  We did it all backwards. Our teenage love was uncomplicated and easy. We had a friendship of like minds plus passionate ardor; hesitant virgins making clumsy love in a moonlit park. Our drama and crises came later, when we should have been old enough to know better. As it turned out, we were merely old enough to take something lovely and ruin it.

  He’s nearly on top of me now, and the pressure of him is reassuring and safe. So is the feeling of his hand in my hair, on my shoulder, my breast through my clothes. I smile under his kiss and he stops long enough to ask, “What?” with a teasing edge in his voice.

  I smile, then pull him down to me by the back of his neck. I won’t try to explain how delightful and sweet this is, our slow fumbling, fully dressed, just like kids. I can’t remember the last time I felt so innocent.

  He pulls back and whispers in my ear, his voice husky, “The house is empty. C’mon, let’s go in.”

  The illusion falls away like windblown ash. The house was empty five years ago, too, when we screwed in the guest room and he was still married, his little girl white-faced in the hospital.

  I sit up so quick I almost bash his face, and then I scramble backwards on the grass.

  “No.”

  “Anna . . .”

  “Look at me, returning to the scene of the crime. I’m an idiot.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I just—we’re single now. Can’t we just enjoy ourselves?”

  I start feeling around in the grass for my purse. “Sure. That would be great if we could leave it just at that, but how likely do you think that is? It’s time, Beck. Settle down with Amanda or another local girl. Stop holding out for me.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “Here we are on the grass with your hand on my breast, trying to get me into bed. You wouldn’t be doing that if you were serious about anyone. Have you had a single girlfriend since the divorce?”

  His silence is my answer. With a last explosion and an appreciative roar from the crowd, the fireworks end.

  “Don’t make me responsible for your loneliness. You’re free, okay? Move on, Beck. It’s well past time.”

  Finally I snag the handle of my purse, slip my feet back into my shoes, and trot through the grass back to the glowing torch lights of the party tent, as the rest of the crowd files up the stairs. When my mother and Al catch up to me near a hanging lantern, Mom’s eyes go wide. “Honey! You’re crying, what’s wrong?”

  So I am, as it turns out. “Tough memories here, Mom. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m sorry, I should never have asked you. I’d have thought five years . . . C’mon, let’s get you home. Where’s your sweater?”

  “I dropped it, I guess. It’s too dark to look. Leave it.”

  I allow her to lead me by the hand to the car, where Al climbs into the back without being asked. He’s such a considerate,
good man. I hope my mom doesn’t let him slip away for something as pointless as nameless fear.

  Before my mom starts the car, she hands me a tissue from her purse. “For fixing your makeup, dear. You’re a bit smudged.”

  I flip down the visor and open the mirror. Not only has my mascara run, but my lipstick is smeared all over my face.

  Chapter Six

  Beck

  Thursday, July 4, 2013

  As I rejoin the lantern-lit circle of the party, my father sees me first, shakes his head, and turns away.

  I look down to see what it is about me that’s disappointed him this time. That’s when I realize: I’m carrying Anna’s sweater. I found it when I was putting my shoes back on, picking up her wine glass and my beer bottle. I didn’t want anyone to break the glass and cut themselves in the dark.

  He thinks he’s figured it all out. Except he hasn’t, of course. Part of me wants to march right up and explain that Anna, whom he seems to think wants to get her hooks in me permanently, has in fact thrown me over for good.

  But I won’t get back into his favor, anyway, so I give it up and decide what I want more than anything is another beer. And maybe two or eight more.

  I go back over the last few minutes in my mind, reliving my latest stupidity. It all started so well. On the hill, in the fading light, she had never looked more beautiful and serene. Anna had been leaning back on her hands, with her long legs crossed. Her thin dress outlined her breasts, and her skirt hiked up her thigh. Then she lay down on her sweater as the sun vanished and the dark obscured us. I took a risk and reached for her fingers. She let me take her hand, and I felt this little jump in my chest.

  Her body was so familiar; soft and warm as ever. She seemed relaxed, even eager, as I kissed her. I was young again, like all the intervening years and disasters had dried up like dew in the sun . . . But of course she wouldn’t go back in the house with me; the moment carried me away or I’d never have asked. We’re not sixteen. Our old mistakes rear up over and over to remind us how careless and stupid we’ve been.