Trying the Knot

by Todd Erickson

  They continued dancing and swaying to the pop song from their youth; all the while Chelsea brooded solemnly until the song was over. Then she said morosely, “It wasn’t until I got old I realized how depressing that song is.”

  “You’re hardly old,” Thad protested, “that’d make all of us old.”

  “Hell, it’d make me a freaking geriatric,” Tristana said, who was all of twenty-eight.

  “I propose another topic to ponder,” Chelsea began, “I wonder what Portnorth was like back in 1963.”

  “Is it even there yet?” Tristana asked doubtfully.

  “Everything must’ve seemed innocent and untouched back then,” Chelsea said. “Just imagine it.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather not,” Tristana said, shuddering at the thought.

  “Then came the dirty hippies.”

  “Oh, but they were innocent and untouched, in their own naive way,” Chelsea said, staring dreamily into the fire.

  “Peace, love, and granola – it all makes me sick,” Tristana snapped, and Chelsea looked crushed.

  “Were there any hippies in Portnorth?” Ben asked, moving the conversation along.

  “Doubt it,” Tristana said, and she added as if it was at all relevant, “I used to make Nicky play Charlie Manson and the Creepy Crawlers with me. We’d lay my Barbie Dolls around the pool outside the dream house, and then we’d attack them with his GI Joe and Skipper, who doubled as Squeaky Fromme.”

  “Hey, I used to imagine my GI Joes were shell-shocked Vietnam Vets,” Ben said. He felt a renewed sense of kinship with Tristana, who had forgotten him for the mere thought of Jack. “They always died in fiery stake outs.”

  “Thank God for Desert Storm,” Thad said drolly, and he confessed, “I used to be afraid of long-haired freaks. My uncle and his friends would hang around the courthouse lawn playing Frisbee, smoking pot and drinking PBR. They all sported handlebar mustaches, but that was back during the bicentennial.”

  “The Spirit of Seventy-Sex,” Tristana interjected.

  “So, I guess they weren’t really hippies.”

  “Just gross cling-ons to a bygone era,” Tristana said. “All overly hairy men scare the shit out of me.”

  “Listen, I wish it were 1963 right now,” Chelsea said, sadly nostalgic for a time she had never known. “I wish some worthwhile cultural icons shaped my formative years.”

  Chelsea purged them of their mutually embarrassing Eighties history, which climaxed in a benignly depressing present – no fun 1991. Belonging to the first generation expected to achieve less than its parents, they insisted on living a sort of prolonged adolescence in order to stave off their inevitable inheritance, which amounted to a stagnant economy and a calcified conservatism that smacked of an isolationism still formulated by the Greatest Generation, who still had one racist foot in the Cold War and the other in the grave; their overly entitled Baby-Boomer children gladly evaded any responsibility of leadership to pursue mindless mass consumerism.

  Ben assembled a sticky S’more, and he interjected an “Amen, sister” into her tirade against Reagan, Bush, Oliver North, Dan Quayle, Trickle Down Voodoo Economics, Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson.

  Tristana lit a cigarette, and she said sarcastically, “But what about all the high fashion, like stirrup pants, parachute pants, neon tiered skirts, and banana clips?”

  Thad imagined them in support groups, trying to Twelve Step from their shameful pasts all the horrible trends that invariably became outdated faster than their parents’ overdrawn credit cards had a chance to cool.

  “Speaking of outdated fashions,” Tristana said, eyeballing Ben’s leather coat.

  “If the world doesn’t become a better place, I’ll just hide away in Portnorth forever,” Chelsea vowed.

  “I could never put my trust in this small town,” Tristana said. She lit another clove cigarette and asked, “This place is literally a pit, what do they do with all the rock they dig up from that hole in the ground anyway.”

  “That despoiling crater is our pride and joy – our forefathers’ livelihood,” Chelsea said, and she held up four fingers. “Well, not my forefathers, mind you, but maybe Evangelica’s four fathers. Ha! Get it?”

  “I hate puns.”

  “Too funny,” Ben said, and he turned to Tristana. “I think the limestone is used to make steel, which is no longer made in Pittsburgh, for all the cars no longer made in Detroit.”

  “So, this town is like at the bottom of the industrial food chain, and Detroit is at the top,” Tristana said, and she ashed her cigarette upwind of Chelsea.

  “What a horrible thought.” Chelsea grimaced as she swiped the ashes from her face and fleece. Then she paused for a few minutes and said, “I’ve got to get the hell out of the Midwest.”

  Hand in hand, Nick and Kate emerged from the sprawling house and they looked very much like picture perfect newlyweds. The warm breeze tousled her long dark hair and tugged at the tails of her chambray shirt. She resembled a young housewife dressed for a trip to the market while Nick could pass for a medical resident. They were a sight to behold, and they inspired envy or revulsion depending on whatever the company they kept. As they approached the bonfire, it became obvious Kate had been crying, and Nick unquestionably reassured her with his comforting words and gentle touch. Their song was playing on the radio, More Than Words.

  They were visibly consumed with one another to the point of infectiously brimming over. Radiating mutual adoration, Nick grabbed a couple marshmallows and proceeded to roast them while Kate prepared graham crackers and broke apart chocolate bars for the S’mores. She admired his steady command of any group he encountered, and his ability to remain humble only compounded her respect for him. Kate could feel Tristana’s brooding disapproval, but her glowing disposition remained unaffected. Tomorrow promised to make her the happiest woman above the 45th Parallel.

  Since Kate emerged from the house, Ben put a respectable distance between himself and Nick’s sister. Jokingly, he attempted to knock Nick’s roasting stick into the fire, and he informed, “We were just discussing the relationship between Portnorth and Detroit.”

  “Symbiosis,” said Nick. “You know, the quarry is only one of three manmade structures you can see from outer space.”

  Tristana said, “No one wants to hear it.”

  Nick gave Ben a friendly shove and taunted him with a flaming torch of marshmallow, but Ben dodged away. “Hey, man, watch the hair. You always threw the best parties.”

  “Remember that one time when we all went skinny dipping?” Thad asked. “Nick kept spitting out Bacardi 151 and setting it on fire all over the lake.”

  “Oh God, then I puked my Bacardi all over the lake,” Chelsea added.

  “And remember the homecoming bash?” Ben asked.

  “Who could forget when Vange kicked off her shoes when she did the can-can. One of them landed right in the punch bowl,” Kate said, handing Nick a S’more.

  “I always called her WVAN-TV, because she always acts as if a camera is recording her every move,” Ben said, “as if she were on MTV’s Real World.”

  “So, why isn’t she here to liven things up?”

  In response to Tristana’s questioning gaze, Thad said flatly, “Coma.”

  Heavy silence befell the bonfire, and everyone remained quiet until Thad said, “Catch her in syndication because she won’t be doing any live performances for a while.”

  “Ha!” Chelsea guffawed, covering her mouth as beer spewed out. She wiped the liquid from her chin and continued chortling until everyone joined in except for Kate.

  “Girlfriend in a coma?” Tristana asked.

  “I know, it’s serious,” Ben added.

  “I really hope she pulls through,” Thad concluded, and the three of them could not help but erupt in a fit of hysterics.

  “You guys are cruel,” Kate said, suppressing her own mounting laughter. Her seriousness only made everyone laugh harder. Ben threw a marshmallow at her and jokingly call
ed her a hypocrite. Eventually, Kate could not contain her own giggles, and she pelted the crowd with fluffy ammunition.

  “Start burning these palms. I don’t want anyone to see the evidence all over the beach,” Nick said. He grabbed a handful and threw them into the fire. “Thankfully, I don’t have any criminal siblings, just Nanette here –

  “Tristana,” she corrected.

  “Whatever,” Nick said. “Hey, Kate, does your family know what time the rehearsal is?”

  “I left Jack a note,” Kate replied as she warded off Ben’s onslaught of palms. “Should I call the bar and remind my dad, or just hope he forgets?”

  Nick failed to suppress his disapproval, and Ben sang out obnoxiously, “Kate Hesse’s brother is a punk and her daddy’s a drunk.”

  Chelsea doubled over, and once again foam shot out of her straight little nose. “To my best friends in the whole world,” she cried out, toasting them. She then took another pull from the beer. “I love you guys.”

  Tristana lit yet another clove cigarette and said, “I swear I’ll leave if you haul out the yearbooks and start reminiscing.”

  Chelsea slurred, “Don’t be tho thynical, right Thad?”

  “She’s drunk,” Thad said. He poked at her with a stick, and they all watched Chelsea topple over in a fit of giggles. After she crawled to her feet, she staggered behind overgrown yew bushes to throw up.

  As they yelled words of encouragement if not exactly support, Kate said softly, “She still does this every time.”

  Nick observed, “She has a better disposition when drunk.”

  “Yeah, I can actually stand her,” Ben added.

  “For instant personality, just add alcohol,” Thad said.

  “You’d know firsthand,” Tristana said

  “Maybe she’s an alcoholic,” Kate said worriedly.

  “She doesn’t have any tolerance, that’s all,” Nick corrected.

  Looking a little green, Chelsea returned from the bushes and asked for anything to drink besides beer. Thad fetched a cold Faygo Red Pop from the walkout basement and returned out of breath. Chelsea drank it slowly and leaned against him for support. She smelled faintly of beer, sweat, and Lake Huron. He thought the not-altogether unpleasant aroma should be bottled and sold as her signature scent – Chelsea’s Morning Dew.

  “Would you like another S’more?” Kate asked her future husband.

  “No thanks,” he replied, chomping on a handful of chocolate. Unconcerned he asked, “Do you have any idea where our wedding attendants are?”

  “At the cottage. We’re supposed to stop out there,” Kate said, disinterested in the idea.

  “Maybe I should check to make sure they’re still safe and relatively sober,” Nick said annoyed as he gathered up the last of the palms.

  “Wait, I want one, please,” Chelsea grabbed a palm from his hand, and she watched him pass one to each one of his guests as a keepsake to commemorate the occasion. “What a great guy – always thinking of everyone, never leaving anyone out.”

  “I’ve never left you out, have I, Chels?”

  “Certainly not,” Chelsea said. She flashed him a forced knowing smile, but Nick chose to ignore her.

  “Hey, give me two,” Ben demanded. “Vange will want a stolen palm when she’s out of the hospital.”

  Nick looked doubtful, but he passed Ben two anyway. To celebrate the once in a lifetime palm-burning bash, Nick pulled out a bundle of firecrackers from his pocket, and he requested everyone take a step backward. Instead, they all inched closer.

  Nick cleared his throat and announced, “Now for the grand finale.”

  “In honor of what?” Tristana asked.

  “Vange,” Ben suggested.

  “Something more universal,” Chelsea said, feeling left out.

  Nick tossed the last of the fronds into the flames, and he ceremoniously held out the firecrackers for Ben to light. Kate winced, backed away and plugged her ears.

  “How about in honor of a generation so pathetic, it’s doomed to be less successful than any of its predecessors,” Thad said, and Tristana nodded in agreement.

  “Real cheery,” Ben said as he slugged Thad’s arm.

  “Rephrase it,” Chelsea insisted. She thought for a moment, and Ben waited to ignite the illegal explosives. “Let’s see, how about in honor of an irreverent and incongruous age.”

  Grinning, Nick added, “Or as Thad says, the pathetic generation.”

  Ben lit a long wick, and Nick tossed the firecrackers near the bonfire. They backed up in unison and awaited the festive bangs. Deafening silence erupted in the wake of the explosions. When the air cleared of gunpowder, smoke, and noise, Kate suggested, “Hey, how about a trip to the hospital to check on Vange while Nick goes to the cottage?”

  “That doesn’t really sound like fun,” Tristana said.

  “I’m supposed to take Alexa to the tailor to get the dress altered,” Thad remembered, checking his watch.

  Chelsea offered, “I can take you since your car is dead in the Derry Kafe’s parking lot.”

  “Don’t look my way, I don’t even know her,” Tristana said.

  “Okay, I’m getting the picture,” Kate said disappointed, and finally she turned to Ben.

  “I’ve got to meet Nyda Czerwinski, to estimate the cost of painting her house,” Ben said. “Maybe next time.”

  “They’re painting the house?” Kate asked. She wondered what other ways the new owners were transforming her childhood home.

  “Yup, holy roller red with bible belt blue trim,” Ben joked. He smiled awkwardly and offered her a sympathetic hug.

  “Considering the accident and all, maybe it’s a good idea if Jack doesn’t help you with that job. It might make Nyda uncomfortable,” Kate suggested.

  “What accident?” Tristana asked annoyed. Small town life seemed to her to be a series of inside jokes and highly unclassified information. Glaring at Kate and Nick, she wrapped her arm around Ben. “No one tells me anything around here.”

  No one was about to start as they all ignored her while she lit one more clove cigarette. Kate finished gathering up the empty beer bottles and snack stuff, and she walked alone to the house without looking back. She did not need their company; she merely thought it would be nice to take a group trek to visit Vange. Kate was not sure why she felt compelled to visit her stepsister’s bedside, especially since they were no longer close and had nothing in common. She said she did not want to think of Evangelica as being alone, or maybe it was a way to fill the nagging void within her.

  chapter eight

  “If Evangelica hadn’t really wanted to die, don’t you think she would have called Ben, or you, even me, if she had to?” Chelsea asked. “Wouldn’t she have tried to get a hold of at least one of us?”

  “I don’t know.” Thad was not so in tune with the suicidal mind he could answer such a hypothetical question.

  He tapped his foot, not to the beat of the music but rather with impatience. Chelsea drove her ecru 1972 Malibu with typical grandmotherly caution. She did not have it in her to be a female Evil Kenievil, plus it was a gift from her father and those were few and far between.

  Chelsea chose this slightly buzzed moment to get up close and personal; she focused her rapt attention on him by kept her eyes off the road for what seemed like a dangerous length of time. “What’re you thinking? Are you really happy?”

  Slightly taken aback as to the point of her inquiry, he placed his hand instinctively on the dash. Although she was motoring along at a relatively slow speed, she had not bothered to look at the road for several blocks.

  “Really, being the local newspaper man? You’ve always hated this town –

  “No, not the town itself, just everybody in it,” Thad interrupted jokingly as he pointed in order to save the life of a random pedestrian.

  Chelsea swerved nonchalantly and asked, “So, what are you still doing here, living with your parents, lingering like bad morning breath?”

 
“I don’t know.”

  “What do you know? Anything – anything at all?” she asked exasperated. “There are two types of people, Thaddeus. People who value things and people who value doing things.”

  “I guess you mistook me for a person of action.”

  “So, you’re satisfied being a fledgling nobody?”

  “It’s a good time to be back, Chels, that’s all,” he said defensively. “With Alexa starting her senior year next week, and Vange being in a coma and all.”

  “Make me barf. Let’s take off for San Francisco tomorrow. It’ll be an adventure,” she said.

  “Would I have to be Thelma, or could I be Louise?”

  She stopped the car in front of the boutique and waved at Alexa, who stood forlorn in the front window. She disregarded his reference to the suicidal feminists and said, “I have an Aunt who lives on the East Bay. She could harbor us like fugitives.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Thad said, with little intention of doing any such thing.

  “Hey, did you ever call the girl you’re so in love with?”

  Thad sighed as he opened the car door.

  “That’s what I figured,” she said gloating. “Do you still love her? Don’t you have any dreams?”

  “I did,” he said and quickly exited the car. “Die young and leave a beautiful corpse, but it looks as if Vange might beat me to it.”

  Still barefoot and carrying his shoes, he was thankful to be alive and outside the vehicle. He pulled open the paint-chipped boutique door. Chelsea called after him in small worried voice, and he turned to face her.

  “I’ll see you later, at the church, okay?” she said pointlessly.

  As she slowly drove away, Thad wondered why she was acting so strange. He hoped she too was not also considering killing herself. A series of copycat suicides from the same bridal party would merit national media coverage. Thad imagined the matron of honor, who spent last night with Ben, would be the next to off herself in the tragic chain of events. He would win a Pulitzer Prize for capturing the entire macabre weekend on film. He imagined caskets lining the Catholic school gymnasium, like in the 1950s when the Carl D. Bradley freighter sank, drowning a quarter of the townsmen with it.