“What?” said Veronica.
“Which train?” said Vern. “Where are you going?”
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Are you speaking in metaphors now, too?”
“No,” said Vern, emptying the pickle jar of its bills, its change. “I’m just making small talk.”
“Oh,” said Veronica, confused, wondering if Vern recognized her or not, if this were memory or something stranger. “I, uh, I suppose I’m heading home.”
“And where is home?” said Vern.
“You are speaking in metaphors, aren’t you?”
Vern smirked. “Aren’t we all?”
Veronica leaned against a pillar and sighed. “I’m supposed to tell you it’s all going to get better, I suppose.”
Vern laughed as she picked up the guitar case. “Sure. Maybe,” she said. “That’d be a lie, and I’d know it. But that’s what we’re good at, you and me. So, go ahead.”
“Okay,” said Veronica. “It’s all going to get better.”
Vern smiled, then mocked, “You almost sounded convinced.”
“I’ve got years more practice than you,” said Veronica.
“True, that. But here’s a question for you: better than what?”
“Excuse me?” said Veronica.
“It’s going to get better than what?” said Vern, setting her free hand on Veronica’s shoulder, looking her dead in the eye.
“Than life right now,” said Veronica. “I mean, we’re going to leave the Runt.”
“I know we are,” said Vern. “It’s a matter of time. But that’s just going to be different, right? Not better.”
“Life without the Runt is way better than—”
“For you,” said Vern, shaking her head and walking away. “But what about for Tracy?” she said, reaching a hand behind her back to rub the sleeping infant. “What about for your daughter? What is life going to be like for her, without her dad around?”
“I’ll still be there,” said Veronica. “And Desiree, too. And there are plenty of men in our life to play the father figure if she needs one. My brother, my cousin Michael. Things will get better, as she gets used to it.”
“And when she gets used to it,” said Vern, “what then? You don’t think something else will come up? What about puberty for her, middle-age for you?”
“Watch it,” said Veronica, offended.
“What about the stress of trying to cram all the years you should have spent with Desiree into the few years you have left?”
Veronica sighed. “Things will never get better,” she said. “Is that your point?”
“No,” said Vern, exasperated. “My point is that things are just things, that life is just life. It’s never better or worse. It just is. And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you remember that—”
Veronica pulled herself out of her slouch, pulled herself away from the pillar that was holding her tired body upright. “Remember that?” she said. “Remembering that implies that I ever thought that to begin with.”
“You have,” said Vern. “In the quiet moments. In the, for lack of a better word, ‘best’ moments.”
Veronica ran a hand over Vern’s cheek. “When did I lose you?” she said. “When did I lose this part of myself, this hopeful, smiling part?”
Vern took Veronica’s hand in her own. “You didn’t,” she said. “I’m still here.”
“So,” said Veronica. “What do I do?”
Vern stomped over to the station’s exit. “To begin with,” she said, pointing up the stairs with the guitar case, “you stop waiting for the piano of death to fall on your head. Instead, you leap up into the air to meet that son of a bitch and you play the shit out of it until you both come crashing down together!”
Veronica chuckled. “Did you just mix your metaphors?” she said.
“Hellifiknow,” said Vern. “Our brother was the English major, remember? We just write silly pop songs,” she said, crossing to stand in front of Veronica once more. “Don’t ever think too hard about what they mean, or they’ll stop meaning anything.”
Vern set the guitar case between them, then pushed it gently into Veronica’s hands. She gave her older self a bear hug and a peck on the cheek, and then she ran for the stairs.
Veronica slung the guitar case over her shoulder and followed the lead of the girl she had once been, the woman she would strive to be again.
III
Better Off Than the Wives of Drunkards
July 2000–April 2001
8
The Second Man on the Moon
The roller coaster came to a full and complete stop just after they’d slid past the loading area and the control booth, just as they’d descended the small slope that would take them into the ride proper. Ahead of their train, Veronica saw the tunnel of pulsing blue lights grow suddenly dark. She heard the sounds of the Space Mountain “energy surge” fade into silence. And then she turned around in her seat, as best she could with the T-bar restraint keeping her in place, and she asked her cousin, “What the hell is going on here?”
Michael shrugged and said, “Dunno.”
The overhead lights came on, washing out the attraction’s eerie ambience. A few moments later, one of the ride attendants came bouncing down the set of stairs just to the left of their vehicle, a heretofore invisible set of steps which descended down the slope and into the now bright white light of the tunnel.
“What’s going on?” cried Veronica to the attendant.
“Nothing to be worried about, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “You’ll be on your way shortly.”
Veronica groaned.
“Chill out,” said Michael. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon.”
Veronica held her left arm up, twisted her wrist back and forth. “You see what time it is, Michael?”
“Oh, Jiminy Cricket,” said Michael. “Not the damn schedule again.”
“We’re supposed to be leaving for the next park in twenty minutes, and we haven’t even gotten in line for Dumbo yet, let alone ridden the stupid thing.”
“If you were that concerned about Tracy getting to ride flying elephants, why didn’t you have Des and Jenna take her over there while we were in here?”
“Because I want to see her on the ride,” said Veronica. “You don’t understand, Michael. Getting your kid on all the rides she wants to ride is only part of it. The other part, the bigger part, is being there to watch her enjoy them. That’s what makes the interminable flight and the hellish heat and the exorbitant price of the watered-down soda all worth it. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“I think the point is to enjoy yourself,” said Michael. “If you didn’t want to ride this ride, we could’ve—”
Veronica turned her head to look him in the eye as best she could. “I wanted to ride Space Mountain, Michael. It was the one thing I wanted to do for myself. I’ve told you that.”
“Okay,” said Michael. “I’m just saying… If you wanted to do Dumbo instead, we could’ve come back another—”
Veronica sighed and turned away from him again.
“What is it about Space Mountain anyway?” asked Michael. “You’ve avoided every other thrill ride in the place.”
This was true, Veronica thought to herself. She was much more of a “It’s A Small World” kind of girl than a “Big Thunder Mountain Railroad” chick. But there was something about Space Mountain, something she wasn’t quite sure she could articulate to Michael, not because it was all that difficult to explain, but because it sounded so silly when she explained it to herself.
Summer trips to Disney World had been something of a tradition for Michael’s family. They’d gone four times that Veronica could remember, and they had the overstuffed photo albums to prove it. But for Veronica’s family, the Disney experience had been a one-time thing. It was 1988, the summer before the Great Schism. Mom and Dad were doing their best impression of a happy couple, even carrying their act into the evening so that, after the first night, Veronica didn�
�t bother to stay awake waiting for the sounds of their fighting to break through the thin hotel walls. Her brother Matt’s performance wasn’t so convincing, at least not to Veronica, who saw the glum expression that he wore at night, saw the ghost of that glumness in his face even when he smiled and played the part of the favorite son during the day.
Her most solid memory of that week—the rest of it was a blur of bright colors and the cheery sounds of children at play—was of the ride she and Matt took on Space Mountain, and of the aftermath of that ride.
She supposed now, with the power of hindsight at her command, that she should have known what was going on between the ride attendant and her brother as they snaked forward through the line. She remembered how odd it seemed to her that they kept staring at each other, but she also remembered writing it off as nothing more than boyish machismo.
“You nervous?” her brother had asked her once, or twice, or a half a dozen times. And now she realized, again through hindsight, that it had been as much a question for himself as it had been for her. As the attendant directed them to their car, there had been one last look shared between the two boys. And then Matt was back to his old sullen self. He made his way up front, and she sat behind him. They’d lost track of Mom and Dad, who’d probably been shunted off into a train on the other side.
It wasn’t until they’d descended the slope, made their way through the tunnel of flashing blue light, and rocketed into the ride proper that Matt changed, changed for the moment and for good. As they rocketed through the darkness at thirty miles per hour, she heard a distinct change in his screams. They went from shrill yelps of terror to deep, guttural, almost primal bellows. He’d lost it. That’s what she’d thought at the time. He’d flipped his lid. Matt screamed, “That the best you got?” as they hurtled down an unseen drop.
Veronica felt as if the very soul of her had lifted up out of her body for a moment, as they tumbled down, a heavy, leaden weight rising up out of her stomach and into her throat. And, for a moment, she was lost to the world. But then that weight came crashing back down into her, and she was back in that car, with her screaming sibling in front of her, and, try as she might to scream, she couldn’t make a sound.
When they found Mom and Dad again, out in the center of Tomorrowland, Matt, breathless, told the lot of them that he was going back, that he wanted to ride it again.
It wouldn’t be until later that night that Veronica would get the truth out of him. There had been no second ride. Instead, there had been a stolen kiss in a Tomorrowland bathroom, and a promise to meet up again before the week was over. Matt came back to the hotel room that night and confessed to Veronica who he was. “I like guys,” he’d said. “And there’s no use denying it anymore.”
“Does this have anything to do with all that screaming you did on Space Mount—”
“Yes,” he’d said. “A hundred times, yes. I mean, how many different ways could that ride have gone wrong, Veronica. And if you and I had died in there—”
“Died? Who dies on a roller coaster?”
“—if we had died in there, Veronica, think of how much in life you would have missed out on. And all because you were afraid, or because you were playing by someone else’s rules about what you were allowed to do as a teenager, or as a girl, or as a boy who liked boys.”
“You’re a weirdo,” she’d said. But the truth was that, even back then, she’d thought he might be right. There had always been so much to be afraid of in their family. Fear seemed to be the motivating factor in every decision their parents made. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to live like that. She wanted to be rid of fear in the same way that he appeared to be. Or, well, if not in exactly the same half-crazed way, then in some way, in some other way.
And yet, here she was, twelve years later, still quivering.
From behind her, Michael said, “So, it’s that Space Mountain fills you with a Zen-like sense of peace, is that it?”
“I was just thinking,” she told him. “Did you know that the summer before Matt came out to the family, he came out to me?”
“I always figured that you knew before the rest of us,” said Michael.
“It was after we rode Space Mountain,” said Veronica.
“Well, listen,” said Michael, “I hate to break it to you, but I kinda figured out the truth about you and Desiree a long time ago. You know, even if you’ve never come right out and said it, a straight girl can only go to so many Ani shows before she’s a gay girl.”
Veronica smirked back at him.
“So, you’re hoping what?” said Michael. “That you’ll somehow find the courage to run away with Des just as soon as we’re done here? That she and you will take Tracy and go hide away in some lesbian coven in Idaho or some damned place?”
“I’m not sure Idaho is the first place a group of gay girls would think of to hide out.”
“Why not? All those potatoes…”
“Potatoes?” said Veronica, not following.
“All natural, easy to carve, come in all different sizes…”
Veronica laughed. “Cuz, you’ve got problems.”
“Hey,” he said. “apparently, it runs in the family.”
She sighed. “I have the divorce papers in my purse, Michael. Or, well, Desiree has them, because she’s got my purse. And I kind of figured that if I was ever going to find the courage to sign on the dotted line, it might be here. Right here, after this ride.”
“Oh,” said Michael. “Well then, I’m gonna get out and push, because there is no way I’m letting them give you enough time to change your mind about this.”
Veronica reached a hand back toward him, as far as it would go.
“Are you trying to hit me?” asked Michael.
“Grab my hand, idiot,” she said, and he did.
She squeezed his hand and said to him, “It’s going to be hard for Tracy, without a dad around.”
“The Runt was never much of a father to begin with,” he said.
“Do you think,” said Veronica, “that you…?”
“What about Matt?” said Michael.
“He’s got his own issues to deal with,” she said.
“Father figures are overrated,” said Michael. “Two women, you guys’ll do it much better.”
“But,” said Veronica. “If she needs someone.”
Michael squeezed her hand back, but didn’t say a word.
The overhead lights went off with a quick flash.
“Oh boy,” said Michael. “Here we go.”
“You know what to do, right?” said Veronica.
“No,” said Michael. “What?”
“When this thing gets going, you’ve got to scream. You’ve got to scream your damned lungs out.”
“Ah,” he said, sounding unconvinced, “the people who scream on these things—”
“Don’t be judgmental, Michael. Give it a try. Scream like there’s no tomorrow. Scream like you have nothing to lose. And then just scream because you feel like screaming.”
“Okay,” said Michael.
“Ready?” said Veronica, pulling her hand back. The tunnel of blue light began to pulse again.
“Sure,” said Michael.
“Hands in the air?”
“Okay,” he said.
The train slipped forward, down the hill. Light and sound pulsed around them. And then, as they rocketed forward into the darkness, they began to scream.
And it felt good.
9
The Old M’am and the Seams
Veronica stood on a pedestal, chewing on a piece of bubblegum that had long ago lost its flavor. She watched the storefront window shudder in the November gale that raged outside and she sighed, wishing with all of her heart for just a moment of that breeze. Sweat dripped down along her bare back and down between her breasts. A spaghetti strap was sliding down her slick shoulder. On the couch in front of her sat two girls she hardly knew and the daughter who was becoming more of a stranger to her every day, each
of them sweating as well, sleeves rolled up, sweaters discarded. And at her feet crouched a bony old seamstress, shivering in a shawl, fretting with the hemline of a dress that refused to fit, mumbling some kind of curse in some kind of old world tongue, the only kind of profanity which carried any weight anymore. Veronica gritted her teeth and swallowed her gum. It was going to be a while yet.
She was twenty-five years old, a tall shapeless mother-of-one in a slinky lilac gown that wasn’t doing her worn-out body any favors. The same dress which had looked good on Mellie, the pleasingly plump sister of the bride, the same dress which the seamstress assured them, based on the measurements provided by email, would look stunning on Veronica’s cousin Ashley, this dress seemed to want nothing to do with Veronica. A child-sized version of the ensemble even managed to make Tracy, Veronica’s bookish tomboy of a daughter, look like some sort of princess, the heiress to the throne of the Purple Kingdom. But on Veronica, the dress just did not work. It hung on her like an undersized drape thrown carelessly over a coat stand. She had no hips to fill it out, and barely enough chest to hold it up. And yet, Tracy and Mellie would not cease showering her with compliments. “You look wonderful,” said Mellie. “The most beautiful mom I know,” said Tracy. Only Jenna, the bride-to-be, remained undecided.
“Jenna,” said Mellie, “don’t you think she looks good?”
Jenna frowned. “It’s just not flattering on her, is it?”
Veronica could have kissed this girl, so relieved was she to finally have an ally.
The seamstress rose to her full height, her creaking joints crackling and popping as she did. She stepped backwards, away from Veronica, and sat on the arm of the couch.
“Do you see what I’m saying?” asked Jenna.
The seamstress chewed on the end of a pin. “I am not one to admit failure,” she said.
“Oh,” said Jenna, taking the seamstress’s hand in her own, “that’s not what I’m saying.”
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 6