My Life Next Door

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “Here you two are,” Tim says, pulling into the Garretts’ driveway. “Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Good night, young lovers.”

  After we say bye to Tim, we’re left standing on the Garretts’ lawn. I glance over at my house to find, as expected, all the lights out. Mom’s not home yet. I pull at Jase’s wrist and check the time. 7:10. Must be another motivational meeting/civic function/town hall arena…or whatever.

  “What’s going on with Tim?” I ask, flipping over his wrist to trace the faint blue lines of his veins with my index finger.

  “Dad made ninety meetings in ninety days a condition of employment,” Jase says. “That’s what he says people need to not drink. I kinda knew he’d do that.” His mouth brushes gently against my collarbone.

  “Ninety meetings with him?”

  “Ninety AA meetings. Alcoholics Anonymous. Tim Mason isn’t the only one who ever screwed up. My dad was a major partier, a very heavy drinker, in his teens. I’ve never seen him have a drink, but I know the stories he tells. I had a hunch he’d figure Tim out.”

  I raise my hand, touch Jase’s lips, tracing the full curve of the lower one. “So what if Tim can’t handle it? What if he just messes up?”

  “We all deserve a chance not to, right?” Jase says, and then he slips his hands up under the back of my T-shirt, closing his eyes.

  “Jase…” I say. Or sigh.

  “Get a room, you two,” suggests a voice. We look up to see Alice striding toward us, Brad trailing after her.

  Jase takes a step back from me, running his hands through his hair, leaving it rumpled and even more appealing.

  Alice shakes her head and walks past us.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Our house is buzzing with this strange energy on the Fourth of July.

  The Fourth, you must understand, is the town holiday for Stony Bay. Early in the Revolutionary War, the British burned some ships in our harbor as a quick gesture on their way somewhere more significant, so Stony Bay has always felt personally invested in Independence Day. The parade starts at the cemetery behind town hall, goes up the hill to the Olde Baptist Church, where the veterans lay a wreath at the grave of the unknown soldier, then wends down the hill, running into tree-lined Main Street, past the houses painted regulation white and yellow and barn-red, neat and tidy as the boxes in a watercolor set, and finally to the harbor. Bands from all the local schools play patriotic songs. And since her election, Mom always gives the opening and closing speeches. The valedictorian of the middle school recites the Preamble to the Constitution, and another star student reads a paper about life, liberty, and the pursuit of justice.

  This year, that student is Nan.

  “I can’t believe it,” she says over and over again. “Can you? Last year it was Daniel and now me. I didn’t even think this Four Freedoms one was my best paper! I thought the one for English on Huckleberry Finn’s and Holden Caulfield’s rebellion against life was much better.”

  “But not exactly apt for the Fourth of July,” I point out. To be honest, I’m surprised too. Nan hates creative writing. She’s always been happier with memorizing than theorizing. And that’s not the only weird thing today.

  Mom, Clay, Nan, and I are in the living room. Mom’s been listening to Nan practice her speech while Clay goes over the usual Fourth of July proceedings, trying to figure out how Mom, in his words, “can put some extra zing in this year.”

  He’s lying on his stomach in front of the fireplace, press clippings and pieces of yellow-lined paper spread out in front of him, a highlighter in one hand. “Seems as though you’ve got your standard stump speech goin’ on here, Gracie. The curse of the ‘common weal.’” He looks up and winks at her, then at Nan and me. “This year we’re going to need fireworks.”

  “We have them,” Mom says. “Every year Donati’s Dry Goods donates some—we get the permit lined up months in advance.”

  Clay ducks his head. “Grace. Sugar. I mean figurative fireworks.” He slaps the press clippings with the back of his knuckles. “This is fine for the expected line from the local pol. But you can do better. And darlin’, if you’re going to win this year, you’ll have to.”

  Pink washes across Mom’s cheekbones, the unmistakable flag of blond chagrin. She comes over next to him, rests a hand on his shoulder, bending to see what he’s highlighting. “Tell me how,” she says then, clicking her pen open and flipping to an empty page on her pad, Nan and me forgotten.

  “Wow,” Nan says as we get on our bikes to ride to her house. “That was freaky. That Clay’s really pulling the strings with your mom, huh?”

  “I guess,” I say. “It’s like that all the time lately. I can’t figure out…I mean…she’s obviously really into him, but…”

  “Do you think it’s”—Nan lowers her voice—“the sex?”

  “Yuck, Nan. I have no idea. I don’t want to think about either of them in that context.”

  “Well, it’s either that or she’s had a frontal lobotomy,” Nan murmurs. “So what do you think I should wear? Do you think it has to be red, white, and blue?” She slips off the sidewalk onto the road so she can ride parallel with me. “Please say no. Maybe just blue. Or white? Is that too virginal?” She rolls her eyes. “Not that that’s not appropriate. Should I have Daniel film me reading the essay and sub that with my college application? Or would that be dorky?”

  She keeps asking questions I don’t have answers to because I’m completely distracted. What’s happening to my mother? When did Mom ever listen to anybody but Mom?

  Tracy comes home for the Fourth of July command performance. She’s okay with that because, she tells me, “The Vineyard is jammed with tourists over this weekend.” There’s no point in asking her how a month or so of waiting tables at a Vineyard restaurant has separated her from the tourists. Tracy is Tracy.

  Flip’s home too. He’s given Trace a tennis bracelet with a tiny gold racket dangling from it that has spawned lots of new Tracy hand-and-wrist flicking gestures designed to show it off. “The note that came with it said I live to serve you,” she whispers to me the night she gets home. “Can you stand it?”

  To me it sounds like one of the T-shirts Nan would sell at the B&T, but my sister’s eyes are shining.

  “What happened to the long-distance love thing and how that wasn’t going to work?” I ask. Call me Killjoy.

  “That’s September!” Tracy laughs. “Jeez, Samantha. Months away.” She pats me on the shoulder. “You’d understand if you’d ever been in love.”

  Part of me so much wants to say, “Well, Trace, actually…”

  But I’m so used to saying nothing now, so used to being the audience while Mom and Tracy are the ones with the stories. I just listen as she tells me about the Vineyard and the Harbor Fest and the Summer Solstice Celebration. What Flip Did and What Flip Said and what Tracy did then.

  By the time the school bands assemble at eight in the morning on the Fourth, it’s already eighty-five degrees, and the sky is that searing summer slate-blue-gray that tells you it’s only going to get steamier. Despite this, Mom looks cool and poised in her white linen suit topped by a big blue straw hat with a red ribbon. Tracy, under protest, is wearing a navy sundress adorned with a white sash. I’m in a smocked white silk dress Mom loves, in which I feel about ten, tops.

  Standing with Mom and Tracy as the parade marchers assemble, I can see Duff balancing his tuba, red in the face before the marching even begins, and Andy, squinting her eyes shut, tightening one of the strings on her violin. She looks up as she perches it on her shoulder, spots me, and gives me a broad grin, braces twinkling.

  Garrett’s Hardware isn’t open today, but Jase and Mr. Garrett are selling little flags and bunting and streamers for bike wheels outside the store, with Harry next to them hawking lemonade in an aggressive fashion: “Hey you! Mister! You look thirsty. Twenty-five cents! Hey you! Lady!” Mrs. Garrett is somewhere lost in the throng with George and Patsy. I don’t think I ever realized b
efore how everyone in town really does come to this parade.

  The first song the band plays is “America the Beautiful.” At least I think that’s what it is. The band’s pretty bad. Then Mr. McAuliffe, who leads the Stony Bay Middle School band, is off and marching, the parade dragging behind him.

  The drummers roll as Mom stands behind the podium. Tracy and I sit on the bleachers right behind her, with Marissa Levy, the middle school valedictorian, and Nan in their assigned seats. From where we are, I can finally locate Mrs. Garrett, on the sidelines with a huge fluff of cotton candy in her hand, doling it out sparingly to George while Patsy reaches for it. The Masons are front row, center, Mr. Mason with his arm around his wife and Tim next to them in a…tuxedo? I know Mrs. Mason told him to dress up. Trust Tim to take that to the extreme. He must be boiling.

  Mom gives her speech, all about how two hundred and thirty years of pride have brought Stony Bay to this point, two hundred and thirty years of excellence, etc. I’m not sure how it’s any different from what she usually says, but I see Clay over near the NewsCenter9 camera, nodding and smiling, bending in close to the photographer, like he’s making sure they got the key footage.

  After Mom, it’s quiet, and Nan walks quickly to the podium. Like so much in their twin-DNA exchange, the height genes were measured inequitably. Nanny tops me by two inches, at the most five four, while Tim shot over six feet years ago. She has to climb a few steps to peek over the lectern. She sets the paper down, brushing it flat and swallowing visibly, her freckles vivid against her pale face.

  Long silence, and I start to worry. Then her eyes meet mine, she quickly crosses hers, and begins. “We are accustomed now, in this country, in this time, to celebrate what we have. Or what we want. Not what we lack. On this day that celebrates what our forefathers dreamed and hoped for us, I would like to celebrate the four freedoms…and to note that…while two, freedom of speech and freedom of worship, celebrate what we have, an equal number celebrate what we are missing…freedom from want…freedom from fear.”

  The microphone is a little squeaky, periodically sounding out a high-pitched whine. Mom has her head tilted to the side, taking the speech in intently, as though she didn’t hear Nan rehearse it half a dozen times. Tracy and Flip are knocking their feet together, hands intertwined, but both their faces are somber. I look into the crowd to find Mrs. Mason, her hands clasped under her chin, and Mr. Mason, his eyes fixed on Nan, shoulder tipped toward his wife. I search for Tim, only to find him with his head ducked, his fists over his eyes.

  When Nan winds to a close, the applause is thunderous. She turns the shade of her hair, bobs a quick curtsy, and backs up to sit in the bleachers next to Mom.

  “Could that have been more beautifully stated?” Mom calls. “The Fourth of July is a day to celebrate what our forefathers chose—and what they refused—what they dreamed for us, and what we made reality from the power of their dreams.”

  There’s a lot more in that vein, but what I see is Nan being hugged by her parents, her mom and dad finally celebrating Nan’s accomplishments, not focusing on Tim’s disasters, her face so joyous above their interlocked arms. I look around for Tim, expecting to see him close the circle, but he’s gone.

  Mom goes on with her speech, freedom and choice and how we stand strong. Clay, now planted back in one of the last rows, flashes her a smile and a thumbs-up.

  The wreath to commemorate soldiers lost is dropped after the slow march down the hill to the harbor, and Winnie Teixeira from the elementary school plays Taps. Then everyone recites the Pledge of Allegiance, and the formal part of the Fourth of July disbands into getting cotton candy, frozen lemonade, and Italian ices from carts set up by Doane’s.

  I look for Nan, but she’s in the crowd with her parents. Tracy and Flip are rapidly moving away from Mom, Tracy calling something over her shoulder and waving. Mom’s in a swarm of people, shaking hands and signing things and…erk…kissing babies. Mom doesn’t even like babies, but you would never know it as she exclaims over a series of tiny, bald, drooling citizens. I stand there irresolutely, wondering if I’m supposed to stay by her all day, wanting only to get rid of my itchy childish dress and go someplace cool.

  Arms come around my waist from behind me then and Jase’s lips nuzzle my neck. “What, Sam? No uniform? I was trying to guess whether you’d be the Statue of Liberty or Martha Washington.”

  I turn in his arms. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  More kissing. I’ve turned into someone who kisses on a public street. I open my eyes, pull back, glancing around for my mom.

  “You hunting for Tim too?”

  “Tim? No—”

  “He came by the stand,” Jase says, “looking kinda grim. We should find him.”

  We stay by the turnstile at the top of Main Street for a while, me perching on the white brick stand, Jase using his height to scan around, but there’s no sign of Tim. Then I see him, stark in his black tuxedo with all the festive summer colors, talking to Troy Rhodes, our ever-dedicated local drug dealer.

  “He’s over there.” I nudge Jase.

  “Great.” Jase bites his lip. “In good company.” Guess Troy makes the rounds at the public school too.

  Jase and I wade through the crowd, but by the time we reach Troy, Tim’s vanished again. Jase squeezes my hand. “We’ll get him,” he says.

  He’s back with his parents. We reach the Masons just in time to hear old Mr. Erlicher, who runs the volunteer league at the Stony Bay Library, say, “And here’s our shining star,” kissing Nan. He turns to Tim, who’s thrown himself into a slouch in the seat next to Nan. “And your mother tells me you’re having a bit of trouble finding your feet, young man.”

  “That’s me,” Tim tells him without looking up, “the guy with lost feet.”

  Mr. Erlicher prods him on the shoulder. “I was a late bloomer myself, you know. Heh-heh-heh. Look at me now.”

  He means well, but since the biggest achievement we know of his is being nearly impossible to escape from once he starts talking, Tim looks anything but consoled. His eyes search the throng of people, lock on me and Jase, and skip away as though that’s no help at all.

  “Hey,” Jase says neutrally. “It’s hot. Let’s get out of here.”

  Daniel has found his way to Nan, looming behind her as she accepts more congratulations. Nan’s beaming so much, the sun pales.

  “C’mon, Tim,” Jase repeats. “I’ve got the Bug over by the store. Let’s hit the beach.”

  Tim looks back and forth between us, then into the crowd again. Finally, he shrugs and slogs after us, hands stuffed in the pockets of his tux. When we get to the Bug, he insists on crawling into the back, even though the length of his legs makes this ludicrous.

  “I’m cool,” he says curtly, waving away my repeated offers of the front seat. “Sit next to lover boy. It’s a crime to keep you guys apart anyway, and I’ve got enough of those on my conscience. I’ll just sit back here and perform a few of the more acrobatic positions in the Kama Sutra. By myself. Sadly.”

  The sun’s so hot and high that you’d expect everyone in town to lemming to the beach, but it’s still deserted when Jase, Tim, and I get there.

  “Whew,” Jase says. “I’m swimming in my shorts.” He pulls his shirt off and tosses it through the window of the Bug, bending to pull off his sneakers.

  I’m about to say I’m going to walk home for my suit when I see Tim fall back into the sand, tuxedo and all, and I’m not going anywhere. Did he buy anything from Troy? Even if he did, when would he have had time to smoke it or take it or whatever?

  Jase straightens. “Wanna race?” he calls to Tim.

  Tim moves his forearm away from his eyes.

  “Hell, yeah. Race. ’Cause you’re an athlete in peak training condition and I’m an out-of-shape fuckup. Let’s definitely race. On the beach. With me in a tux.” He holds up a finger. “No. Second thought, let’s not. I have too many unfair advantages. Wouldn’t want to make you look bad in fron
t of Samantha here.”

  Jase kicks at the sand. “Don’t be an ass. I just thought it might help get you out of your head. I run when I’m trying not to think about stuff.”

  “No shit?” Tim’s voice is at its most sarcastic. “That works for you? Does running keep your mind off Samantha’s hot body and—”

  “If you want me to hit you, man,” Jase interrupts, “you don’t have to be more of a dick than usual. You don’t need to bring Samantha into it.”

  Tim drags his arm across his eyes again. I look out at the blue waves. I want to get my suit, but what if Mom’s already there and I get sucked into some political event?

  “Alice always keeps suits in the trunk of the car,” Jase tells me, just as my cell phone rings.

  “Samantha Reed! Where are you?”

  “Um, hi Mom, I—”

  Luckily the question is rhetorical because Mom charges ahead. “I looked around at the end of the parade and you were nowhere to be found. Nowhere. I expect this from Tracy, not you—”

  “I—”

  “Clay and I are taking the Steamboat train upriver. I’m making a speech in Riverhampton, then we’re taking the riverboat back down to the sound to see the fireworks. I wanted you to come along. Where are you?”

  Tim’s methodically taking off his cummerbund and bow tie. Jase leans against the Bug, bending one ankle, then the other, to his thighs, stretching out. I scrunch my eyes shut. “With Nan,” I say, leaping off a precipice of hope that Nan’s not standing right there next to Mom.

  Thank God, her voice softens. “She was wonderful today, wasn’t she? A perfect lead-in to my speech. What?” she calls, muffled, to someone in the background. “The train’s leaving, honey. I’ll be home about ten. Check in with Tracy. I’m coming, Clay! Be good, sweetheart. See you later.”

  “Everything good?” Jase asks.

  “Just Mom,” I tell him, frowning. “I can find a suit where?”

  He flips open the front hatch of the Bug. “I don’t know whether they’ll—well, Alice kind of…” He looks chagrined, and I’m wondering why, but then my cell beeps again.