Today Will Be Different

by Maria Semple

  My eye was pulled up the Space Needle towering fantastically overhead, its hot white spotlights beginning to win out over the bruising sky.

  “Can I pee?” Timby said.

  “Quickly.”

  “I’ll take him,” Alonzo offered and they headed into the children’s theater.

  I went to a deck, leaned against the rail, and looked out across the expanse.

  Summer was over: the cheery red popcorn wagon was locked and on its side by a concrete wall. Soft salmon the color on the weeping Japanese maples. Armies arrived each dawn to erase any sign of autumn on the ground; it was only on the trees. The lawn was freshly mowed and striped like vacuumed carpet. Bearded, topknotted men in their twenties walked their bicycles through, tech lanyards swaying. The enormous fountain in the center blasted water up and out, fifty nozzles pointed skyward, all synchronized to music, violent classical, it sounded like from my faraway perch. Kids in various stages of dress dashed up and down the fountain’s embankment trying to outrun the unpredictable blasts. Many shivered violently from having failed: it was the eve of winter.

  The Key Arena loomed.

  Ugly, squat, concrete. It was hard to imagine the thing was ever considered beautiful, even back in ’62. The Beatles played there. So did Elvis. It’s where the Sonics won the championship. But time had passed it by. The Sonics left for Oklahoma. No NBA team wanted any part of the place. Bands resisted playing there. The logical thing would be to tear it down. But there was always an outcry. Even its defenders couldn’t find anything to recommend it other than dogged sentimentality.

  Alonzo joined me at the rail.

  “I want to go home,” I said, feeling a sudden gust of fear. “I don’t want to know where Joe’s been going.”

  “I do!” Alonzo said with a laugh.

  “Timby, let’s go.”

  But Timby was gone, running down the hill toward a nondescript group of people strolling along, swinging Starbucks.

  “Dada!” he cried.

  And one of them was Joe.

  My mother was represented by the young theatrical agent Sam Cohn before he became the legendary Sam Cohn. She threw him a surprise birthday in our rambling, rent-controlled Upper West Side apartment. Her twist: Each guest had to bring one friend Sam had never met. While all Sam’s real friends hid in the back staircase, Sam entered to a roomful of strangers yelling, “Surprise!”

  Now it was me, scanning the unknown faces, wanting to be relieved to see these people who called up nothing.

  They smiled and chatted animatedly as if still trying to make good impressions. The silence of familiarity hadn’t yet descended.

  Joe spotted Timby. His face lit up. He handed his coffee to one of the strangers just in time for Timby to leap into his arms. Timby’s legs were so long it looked like Joe was holding a grown person.

  Joe looked around and spotted me at the rail.

  I gave him a wave.

  Joe shook his head, but not in surprise or remorse. It was almost as if… dare I say… he welcomed the wonder of it all.

  The Plan

  From where Joe was standing Eleanor was thirty again, in cutoffs and a button-down covered with red roses, her bare feet crusted in sand.

  Joe had been two years into his residency then, pulling a graveyard ER shift at Southside Hospital on Long Island. Friday night always delivered revelers with alcohol-related injuries, but never anyone as captivating as the Flood girls.

  Ivy was the one your eyes went to, six feet tall, milky skin, ethereal and lissome, her flowing yellow dress blackened at the hem from dragging on the ground. Something about her made you want to reach out and confirm she was real. Eleanor was the hurt one, though, her right arm in a sling made from a bedsheet.

  “So tell me what happened,” Joe said.

  Eleanor had green eyes and a dusting of freckles. Pretty, but not the pretty one.

  “You know how you’re walking along the beach,” she said, and paused to burp. “Excuse me. And you see those share houses with rickety decks and you think, What idiot would be stupid enough to stand on one of those, let alone throw a keg party and pack it with thirty people?”

  “The answer is…” Ivy pointed at Eleanor.

  “Let’s see the damage.” Joe rested her arm on a rolling table. He gingerly untied the bedsheet.

  Eleanor looked around, as if pillaging the exam room for details. Joe watched her watching. He caught himself and lowered his eyes. They landed on the curve of her waist peeking through a gap between her shirt buttons. He quickly looked away.

  Her wrist was badly swollen.

  Joe held out his hand. “Can you shake it?”

  Eleanor winced, unable to move her fingers.

  “I’m right-handed!” she said. “It’s how I make a living. If I can’t hold a pencil, my life is over.”

  “Or at least inconvenienced,” Ivy put in. To Joe, as if Eleanor weren’t in the room: “She tends to exaggerate.”

  “A life-changing job falls into my lap and what do I do before I even sign the contract?” Eleanor said. “Rent a house on Fire Island and throw a party.”

  “I wanted it to be a theme party,” Ivy said, pouting. “It’s midsummer, June twenty-first.”

  “You dress like Titania every day as it is,” Eleanor shot back, then turned to Joe. “What kind of hillbilly move is that? Spending money I don’t have on a keg party!”

  “Let’s get you X-rayed,” he said.

  “Oh. My. God,” Eleanor said. “What’s that T-shirt?”

  Joe opened his lab coat to check. The one he’d put on in the dark that morning was daffodil yellow with a cheery blue clown and the words Meyer Mania.

  Ivy came around. Now both sisters had him in their crosshairs.

  “Meyer Mania?” said Ivy.

  “Yeah,” he said, not sharing the excitement. “I’ve had it forever.”

  “But what is it?” Eleanor asked.

  “My theory is a family of Meyers had these T-shirts made for a reunion, and you could get a free image, so they picked a happy clown.”

  “How did you end up with it, though?” Eleanor asked.

  “I found it in the dryer at college.”

  Eleanor grabbed Ivy with her good hand. Ivy grabbed her back.

  “What?” Joe asked.

  “We may love you,” Ivy said.

  The X-ray came back showing a significant Colles’ fracture. Joe returned to the examination room to find the sisters yammering about the party.

  “I’m surprised you’re not in more pain,” he told Eleanor.

  “Oh, I’m in pain,” Eleanor said. “Pain I’m good with. It’s discomfort I can’t handle.”

  “You win!” Ivy said, poking Eleanor.

  Eleanor yipped; for a moment the laughing sisters were lost in each other.

  Ivy explained it to Joe. “We have a contest. We each try to prove we have a weaker character than the other.”

  Joe tried to do the math on that.

  “You get twenty bonus points,” Eleanor said to Ivy. “My life is over and you’re staring at yourself.”

  Ivy was on tiptoes, looking over her shoulder at her reflection in a clerestory.

  “Someone give Narcissus a hand mirror before she climbs onto the counter,” Eleanor said.

  “Her career isn’t over, right?” Ivy asked.

  “Nah,” Joe said. “I’ll put her in a short cast and she’ll be holding a pencil in two weeks.”

  “A cast?” Eleanor cried. “‘Hello, Violet Parry? I was on a deck that collapsed and I broke my wrist so you’ll have to find another animation director.’” Her voice jumped an octave. “Why now? Why my right hand? Things were finally starting to go well—”

  “Stop talking,” Joe said, surprised at the forcefulness of his tone. More surprising, Eleanor did stop talking.

  “Oh, my,” Ivy whispered.

  “The world isn’t your friend,” Joe told Eleanor. “It’s not designed to go your way. All you can do is make the
decision to muscle through and fight the trend.”

  Eleanor’s face spread into a smile. “And call you on Monday.”

  “And call me on Monday.”

  “Oh, my.” This time, Ivy said it out loud.

  Twenty years and Timby later, apartments bought and sold, belongings packed and unpacked, a move across the country, funerals of parents, career triumphs and washouts: how could Joe tell Eleanor his path had been leading somewhere that didn’t involve her?

  That for fifty years there’d been a hidden architecture to his life, like the aisle lights in the floor of an airplane. They’re always there, embedded in the ordinariness of the plane; no need to notice them until there’s an emergency and they blink on to lead you to safety.

  It came with no warning. A month ago. On a breezy Sunday, the day of the Seahawks home opener. As usual, Joe had arrived at the Clink two hours early to take care of the players.

  First up, Vonte Daggatt, a star safety who’d sustained a severe distal radius fracture at the end of last season. Joe had operated immediately, inserting a titanium plate. The bone had healed nicely over the summer. There’d been minor swelling on Wednesday; Joe hoped the cortisone shot would have eased it enough to clear Vonte to play.

  Coach Carroll, chewing his three sticks of gum, paced outside the exam room. In five minutes he had to submit his final roster; he needed Vonte on it.

  “How does this feel?” Joe squeezed Vonte’s wrist, watching for a wince.

  “Pretty good,” Vonte said with a loaded smile. He knew Joe knew he’d say anything to get out there and play.

  “Any stiffness?” Joe asked.

  “You know.”

  Gordy, a trainer, stood at attention. Joe turned to him.

  “Let’s do a padded splint.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Vonte said.

  Pete Carroll stepped in. “We good, then?”

  Joe gave the nod.

  “Ready to play some ball?” Pete gave Vonte a big, sloppy shake.

  “All in God’s plan,” Vonte said.

  “You mean all in the Sanders Splint Supply’s plan,” Joe said.

  “My plan now.” The coach headed out, full of vim. “Thanks, Joe!”

  “Got the whole family here,” Vonte said as Joe cut the foam.

  “My wife too,” Joe said. “Her first game.”

  “First game?” Vonte’s head jerked back. He launched into a long, sympathetic laugh. “Man, oh, man.”

  Joe said nothing.

  Eleanor not going to games had been understandable at first; over time, it grew annoying; over more time, it felt like a personal dig. Which was why Joe had insisted she come today.

  Joe applied the splint himself. It would give Vonte’s wrist good stability but allow full movement of the fingers.

  “First pick-six is for you, Doc,” Vonte said.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” said Joe.

  Joe followed up with other players and their minor dings. A sore knee. A back spasm. A sprained toe from a barbecue flip-flop accident.

  Close to game time, Joe found himself in the flow of players and personnel making their way to the field. Spirits were high but not too high. It boded well for a win.

  The team waited for their cue in the shadowy mouth of the tunnel. Out on the field, men rolled fire-shooting columns into place. The Sea Gals formed their glamorous gauntlet. Yellow-vested video crews swarmed. When the camera lights hit, the players pressed together in an amoeba-like cluster, bouncing and chanting.

  Joe ducked out of the way and found his friend Kevin, another team physician who’d agreed to run lead today on account of Eleanor’s rare appearance.

  “I’ll be in the stands,” Joe told him.

  “Cool,” Kevin said. “I’ll text if we need you.”

  Joe pulled out his shiny ticket and headed up.

  He emerged from the pleasantly echoing concrete of the concourse into a swaying, sparkling ocean, the seventy thousand fans an undulation of blue. White lights set the field ablaze in freakishly fake green. The September sky felt moody with patches of black; wisps of clouds rushed overhead. A twist of wind brushed Joe’s face. He breathed in the salty air.

  This.

  Jeopardy! champ and Seattle native Ken Jennings hoisted the 12 flag, then rushed to the rail, whipping a rally towel over his head, twirling the ecstatic crowd into a frenzy. Even the kickoff siren couldn’t compete with the ear-busting roar. The stadium quaked underfoot.

  Kickoff!

  The Cardinal return man signaled fair catch. The fans registered their disappointment, ripples on the sea.

  Joe lingered on the promenade, basking in the optimism. How he wished Timby were here! First thing Monday, Joe would submit a ticket request for every home game. On his way out, he’d hit the fan shop and scoop up matching jerseys.

  “We’ll take that if you’re not using it.” A pair of shopworn blondes with blue-and-green streaked hair made puppy eyes at Joe and the ID around his neck: FIELD AND LOCKER ROOM ACCESS.

  Joe chuckled and tucked the lanyard inside his shirt. He started down the popcorn-littered stairs. Every few steps a tipsy white dude high-fived him.

  “Seahawks!” screamed one who’d forgotten he was holding a beer. A wave of amber grain sloshed onto his fingers. He slurped at them lovingly.

  Every face said what didn’t need to be spoken: We made it inside this place, the best place. The collective pride buoyed Joe as he made his way to row J.

  His seat was six in. He scanned the row for Eleanor. Perhaps she hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Sorry, folks,” Joe said cheerily, making his way to his seat. “Hate to do this.”

  Eleanor was there. Sitting, legs crossed, hugging the purse in her lap. She stood to let Joe pass.

  “Hey, babe!” Joe had to yell. “Can you believe this craziness?”

  “I know! The rows are like sliced prosciutto. You have to be Flat Stanley to get by.”

  “That too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Oh!” she said. “I just stopped by the hospitality suite. Have you been?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The Cardinal offense had taken the field. The first play of the year, a running play. Gain of five.

  “Gah,” Joe said. “We should have stopped that.”

  Those around him grumbled in stressed-out agreement.

  “All they have there,” Eleanor was saying, “is bottles of room-temperature water, SunChips, and a giant bowl of watery fruit salad. It looked canned. At least the apples were fresh. You know how I know?”

  “Honey,” Joe said. “The game.”

  A pass play, the Cardinals quarterback going long… broken up… by Vonte!

  “There’s my man!” Joe cheered.

  A riot of high-fives, Joe giving and getting the love from all sides.

  Two rows down, four jerseys bobbed: DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT. Vonte’s family. Joe recognized them from the hospital. His wife, Chrissy, going bananas as the girls, Michaela, Asia, and Vanessa, took videos of the video replay.

  Joe sensed something near his face.

  Eleanor’s thumb. On it, the sticker from an apple.

  “Look what I almost choked on!” she said, grinning.

  A sudden rush of dark thoughts grabbed Joe by the throat.

  She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t like anything I like. Jazz, documentaries, bike rides. If it’s not her idea, she’ll sit there making disturbing grimace-y faces. My wife is a solo act. She’s always been a solo act. Why am I just seeing it now?

  “You don’t have to stay,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The plan wasn’t to torture you,” he said. “The plan was for us to enjoy the game together.”

  Eleanor’s whole being settled; her face relaxed. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  Joe chuckled. It was their least favorite Van Morrison song.

  “I can’t hear you!” a voice boomed. Macklemore,
pretaped, hamming it up on the Diamond Vision.

  Third down. Every fan knew what to do: Stand up and scream their guts out. Joe joined in, shrieking through cupped hands.

  He turned to Eleanor. She wasn’t there.

  Over his shoulder, between the fans, he saw her zipping up the stairs, two at a time.

  Unbelievable.

  She’d actually fucking left.

  Her seat was still down. The disbelief, the outrage, the alienation.

  The empty chair.

  Joe stumbled backward, one foot landing squarely on a clear plastic Seahawks tote. He picked it up. It was full of cracked makeup.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  Three frat bros standing above did the slow, sarcastic clap.

  Green sparkly fingernails snatched the bag. A pissed-off woman in a pink camouflage T-shirt with a sequined 12 whimpered in dismay.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said.

  “Walk much?” her husband quipped.

  “My favorite rouge!” the woman cried. “Now the hinges are cracked.”

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  Something within Joe awakened. His eyes darted between the frat guys and the husband and wife.

  “For real?” he said.

  To a person, they averted their gazes.

  Joe got the hell out.

  Shaky, he jogged along the promenade, back through the section tunnel, and along the concession stands with their meaty, yeasty, cloying smell-storms. He pushed down the stairs past agitated latecomers. Up on a platform, a shiny Toyota truck frozen in mid-adventure, tilted, about to flip.

  He flashed his pass at the guard posted outside the blue curtain. The restricted area. He followed the blue-and-green stripe on the concrete floor. It veered left.

  Overhead: FIELD ACCESS THROUGH THESE DOORS.

  “Dr. Wallace!” Another guard, Mindy, a secret Colts fan, stepped aside to let Joe through.

  In giant blue letters along the white cinder-block hallway:

  GET THE WIN.

  ALWAYS COMPETE.

  LET’S DO THIS.

  NEVER QUIT.

  Joe’s stomach seized from the harsh smack of the words.

  Another rush of dark thoughts.