The Magic of Found Objects

by Maddie Dawson

  “Of course she does,” he says.

  “Yes. And so one thing led to another—the music, the mud, the stars, what have you, yada yada yada, and Hendrix and I got conceived right there. At Woodstock. Under a blanket, in a tent.”

  “Hendrix is . . . ah . . . your twin?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he’s named Hendrix because . . . no!”

  “Exactly. Because Jimi Hendrix was playing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ right then.”

  His eyes shine. “Get outta town! You got conceived during Hendrix’s rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’? Like, for real?”

  I laugh. “Well, I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure. But that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Oh, you were there, Phronsie. The little spark that was you was absolutely there.” He sits back and rubs his eyes. “Wow. This is a heavy, heavy story.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate it. That’s the end of the good part, because after that, it all got screwed up. My dad, it turned out, was sort of engaged to someone else when he left for Woodstock. Or at least his girlfriend thought they were. And his parents and all the people in their town agreed with her.”

  “Ah. And so then—what does a guy like that do? Does he stay there with your mom, or does he go back home?”

  “He stays. Doesn’t come back to help his dad out on the farm, like he was supposed to do. Abandons the aggrieved girlfriend. Stays in Woodstock, marries my mom in a little hippie ceremony, and has us.”

  “Does he stay because he’s a dad now and has a duty to perform? Or because he’s madly in love?”

  “Well, now that’s the question. That may be the question I’ve been grappling with my whole life. My theory has always been that he really was madly in love with my mom, who was like nobody he ever met before, and that he really took to the whole Woodstock lifestyle he was living. But—who knows? Anyway, it doesn’t matter because when Hendrix and I were two years old, my grandfather died, and my dad had to go back to take over the farm. And so that’s what he did. Gave up. Settled down.” I put my hands flat on the table. “So that’s the story. Aaaand . . . we don’t have to keep talking about it.”

  Adam is watching my face. “No, I want to. And I happen to remember there’s a stepmom in this story. So I’m thinking . . .”

  “Correct. He brings my hippie mom to the farm, they break up soon after, and then later he gets married to—”

  “Please, please tell me it’s the old girlfriend.”

  I laugh. “Yes!”

  He claps his hands. “Wow! She forgave him? How did he manage that?”

  “Well, who knows, really? I was four when it happened. I suspect a lot of groveling was involved.”

  “And what happened to your mom? She went on to work for the universe as a message-deliverer?”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “That’s right. She went back to Woodstock, became an artist who picks up stuff off the ground and makes art out of it, and she does spells and runs spiritual meetings, and gets married to people that she has no business marrying, and that’s pretty much it.” I look down at my hands.

  “Hey,” he says. “You just went dark on me. What happened?”

  “I-I don’t know. She’s just . . . she’s just never been all that dependable. She’s all about fun and magic and art and stories, which would be great, but she left us and didn’t come back. And my father and stepmother did all the day-to-day raising of Hendrix and me. But they’re—I don’t know. Old before their time, maybe? They seem fixated on all the hard parts of life. While my mom just flits around, having fun with whatever life throws her, and no matter who gets hurt by her. And I don’t really belong to either camp, is the truth of it.”

  “Well, are they happy together—your father and stepmother?”

  I shrug. “What does happy look like?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing happy looks like, and that is dancing. Because ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ is playing, and I used to play that in a band, and if I don’t dance, I might start playing air guitar and singing.”

  “Oh, please do that.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard me sing.”

  We go out on the dance floor, and this time he takes my hand like it’s just a perfectly natural thing to do, the most normal thing in the world. People are pouring out onto the dance floor, and I let myself be swept into the music, which is loud and Motown. Familiar as my own name. Words everyone knows. Everyone’s smiling and some people are singing along. Rock music is the great equalizer. Like Woodstock was, maybe. Bringing people together who had no idea there were so many of them out there who were all part of the same culture. I wonder if something like that could ever happen again.

  It hits me as I’m shimmying and twirling and smiling that Judd has never once wanted to talk about my family life. I’ve always assumed that’s because he was there living it with me for a lot of the time. Being my best friend and all. But there’s a way he just shuts down whenever the subject of my mom comes up. He believes the worst about her and thinks I should just get over it.

  Not your most introspective person, Judd Kovac.

  Adam pulls me to him, and I feel his breath in my hair and move my body just slightly away from his. There are warning signs flashing in my head. You are making too many mistakes here! Telling an attractive, already-a-bit-flirtatious coworker about your family, and then slow dancing with him in a bar!

  Also drinking. Drunk!

  Also looking at his eyes.

  Also the karate-admiration thing.

  And the gnome-flirtation thing.

  And now comparing him to Judd. Favorably, I might add.

  By the time we make our way back to the table, he’s telling me how he grew up in Orange County, California, and was always sure he’d turn out to be a professional surfer. “When you had the beach at the end of the street, it was pretty much the goal of everybody I knew to spend their lives surfing and getting paid for it,” he says. “It never occurred to me that I was going to have to work on dry land. Until I was about eighteen and wasn’t getting all that much money from surfing.”

  “How much were you getting?”

  “Zero. But, not to worry, because I made ten bucks every now and then for my guitar playing. Kids’ birthday parties mainly.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “So my father had a little talk with me, and we came up with the plan that I’d better go to college.”

  “And what did you major in?”

  “Philosophy.” He shrugs. “Yeah. I have a super instinct for careers that have pretty much no chance of any income.”

  “Until now. Darla Chapman is paying you, I hope.”

  “Mostly.” Then he shrugs. “So I have a question, now that we’re two drinks in and I’m about to order another one for both of us.”

  “Is the question whether or not I want another drink, because if it is, I do.”

  “I kind of suspected you might.” He holds up two fingers, and the tiara-wearing waitress knows what that means and brings them over. When I look up at him, he is looking right at me.

  “Sooooo . . . if I may ask, and it’s clearly none of my business—but just out of curiosity—what is it about you and this guy you’re marrying?” he says. Dead serious.

  “What?” I say. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I dunno. Just interested. I mean, with all due respect, I don’t get the idea that this is the love match of the decade, no offense. And apparently the universe is in agreement with that. It sent you a yelling message, I believe you said.”

  “Yeah, but, no offense, what the hell does the universe know about anything?”

  “True. When did it ever get things right? All those oceans and mountains and stars and stuff . . . that was pretty much a fluke. Lucky accidents.”

  He keeps looking at me. Right into my eyes.

  After a moment, I mop up some of the condensation that has come off our glasses. I watch a couple at the
next table, who are deep in conversation, heads together. The woman is upset, and she’s hissing something at the guy, and her mouth is all distorted, and the guy is nodding, looking gloomy, and then she says something to him, and he protests, and then she hauls off and slaps him on the hand. He draws back, looks at her in shock.

  “Wow,” whispers Adam. “I did not see that whack coming.”

  “No, I didn’t either. And evidently neither did he.”

  “You know what’s going on?” Adam says in a low voice. “Okay. I think I’ve got it figured out. This is their third date. She’s mad because he’s clueless. He probably hasn’t even kissed her. And so she’s yelling at him trying to get him to react to something, anything. And all he does is just look forlorn. Like a big wuss. So—she had no choice but to clobber him.”

  “Yup, trying to get feelings from a stone. Been there,” I say. “But, alternatively, it could be that he’s the one pushing things too fast. Maaaaybe with his other hand—which we cannot see—he’s taking some pretty bold liberties, and she’s warned him, but he’s hard of hearing so he didn’t know she was upset—”

  He gives me an admiring look. “Hard of hearing, is he? Now that’s a plot twist. I can see why you’re a novelist.”

  “—and then, pow, he gets hit. And now he’s stunned. He thought things were going so well.”

  “That could be the theme of tonight,” Adam says. “I Thought Things Were Going So Well: The Gabora Pierce-Anton Story.”

  “I Thought Things Were Going So Well: The Weather Channel Story.”

  He gives me another long look. “I Thought Things Were Going So Well: The Friendly, Nonjudgmental Discussion Among Colleagues of the Engagement of Phronsie Pepper Linnelle.”

  Somehow, we don’t seem to be able to move off the subject of me and my love life.

  I find myself telling him about the forty-four dates and the piece I’m going to write, and how sick I am of first dates and men who talk to me like they’re reading off their résumés or employment histories. How my mother said marriage isn’t any good for women, but then she did it three times. And then I’m babbling about Judd and his gym and how he carefully removes spiders from my apartment, and the fact that he washes the dishes and takes the dog out, and he’s so good with children. Wears babies on his chest just like a pro.

  He listens. God, this guy listens. He smiles, he tilts his head, his eyebrows lift, he mops his brow. And he never takes his eyes off mine.

  “So what are you thinking while you’re staring at me like that?” I say when I wind down. Because I am drunk. I’m leaning on my elbow. My third Snow Hurricane has been demolished. And it occurs to me that if I’m not careful, I’ll soon be telling him about my marriage to Steve Hanover, and then I’ll find myself telling him the plot of my novel, and offering to read his pages, too. And then—oh God, things will get so out of hand. I need to get control of this.

  “I have some questions,” he says. “First of all, why did you go on forty-four dates when you already had a person you were attached to?”

  “What kind of question is that? Because he’s a good friend, is why. I-I didn’t expect that he was going to want to get married.”

  “Well, but did you miss him when you were out with other people?”

  “Adam! It’s not like that. It wasn’t like I was pining for him. He was dating, too. We both were—and then he said something like, ‘This sucks, and we should marry each other.’ And so I thought about it and then I said yes, because he’s been my friend since we were five, and besides that . . . I mean, I know him through and through, and he’s really responsible and fun and steady, and my family loves him, and there’s a shorthand when you know somebody so well. And also—getting married means no more first dates!” I give him a grin when I deliver that last triumphant part, but I can feel my mouth wobbling.

  “Huh,” he says. “Then I think you totally should do it, because that makes perfect sense to me. It’s a brilliant, brilliant plan, marrying somebody just so you don’t have to date anymore. And what do you say to going back on the dance floor? While we’re still young and before you get yourself married off.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  We go back on the dance floor, and wouldn’t you know, they switch immediately to a slow dance. I hesitate, but he takes my hand and pulls me close to him.

  He says in my ear while we’re dancing, “I just think—well, just an observation here. I notice that when you’re talking about your mom, your face kind of lights up. And when you’re talking about the Walton kind of life—well, you look a little bit pained.”

  I pull away and look at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I guess I just know what you look like when you love something. You have this face that shows all your emotions. Your eyes get big. But when you talk about this fiancé of yours, there’s none of that. I just feel I should report that news to you, as a public service. You don’t look happy when you talk about him. Or getting married. Just saying.”

  I stop dancing. “Look. I don’t know what you’re seeing in my face, but I do love him. And what’s more, I trust him, and I know everything there is to know about him, and he’s part of my family. It’s easy to be with him, and we get along well, and I tell him everything, and that’s love. And as for my mother—my mother . . .”

  “What?”

  “I spent years wanting to be like her, but I don’t want that anymore. The way she goes about just letting life take care of itself, falling into one thing and then another, thinking that creativity is all that matters. Hearing from the universe. I don’t want to be like that. I want a life where you don’t have to constantly worry that you’re about to get left. And I want real life, not pretend. I picked Judd for a reason.”

  “Okay. Sounds absolutely, insanely perfect.” He takes my hand and spins me around. “But I’m just saying—if I loved somebody, and she went out on a date with someone else—never mind forty-four someone elses, because that would not happen—I’d want to make my feelings for her clear. I’d do what I could to make her happy, and part of that would be wanting her with me laughing and eating dinner and going to clubs. Making love. I don’t think I could stand it by the time we got to—oh, I don’t know—date number two, let’s say. That’s just me.”

  The song ends, and we walk back to the table. I’m having only a little trouble walking, and I feel something turn over in my gut. The Snow Hurricanes?

  “Well,” I say, “while we’re talking, what’s your situation? Are you in love with somebody right now? Why don’t we dissect your love life for a while?”

  “Dissecting my love life would take about five seconds. I dated a girl through college, and then we broke up when she found somebody else. And I spent some time traveling in Europe by myself, and then I moved to New York for this job, and I’ve gone out with a few people, but basically I spend all my time at work.”

  “Maybe you should go on Match.com.”

  “Yeah. Sounds like a real fun time.”

  We stay until the bar closes, until the DJ starts packing up and some sadistic person turns on the overhead lights, and we’re left blinking and shuddering in the sudden cruel light of reality.

  Good, I think to myself. Now that the lights are on, I can snap myself out of saying way too much about my personal life. And how I’m getting all shook up, and everything is so confusing.

  In the staggering light of the bar, I look down at my phone, which has blown up with messages. A million of them—or at least ten. I had forgotten to turn my phone on after the reading. Oh God. One after another, ten messages, all from Darla Chapman. My heart stops right there in the fluorescent light horribleness, knowing there’s going to be some other, even worse, horribleness to come. I feel like someone has just poured ice-cold water over my head.

  “What is it?” says Adam.

  “Just a minute,” I tell him. “Something . . . Darla’s been trying to reach me.”

  “Did she say why?”

&nbs
p; I scroll through, rapidly. “Mostly they just say variations of Call me when you get a chance, but—uh-oh. This one. Gabora’s daughters have driven to the hotel, and they’ve taken Gabora home with them. She was so upset about the way the reading went and then there’s the weather, and then all in caps she wrote: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT HAPPENED AT THE READING? The hotel says you’re not answering your room phone. Call me when you get this!!!! And in Darla fashion, she has included four exclamation points, and we all know what that means.” I look at him, feeling the blood draining from my face.

  “What the actual hell—Gabora’s daughters came and got her? If they were so nearby, why couldn’t they have taken her to the reading in the first place?”

  “Yeah. I think they live in Georgia. So not that far away.”

  My head hurts a little, a preview of the headache I’m going to have tomorrow perhaps—and all through next week when Darla fires me for reasons I can’t quite discern just now but which are certainly sure to be legitimate.

  “I wonder if Darla means I should call her now, when it’s nearly two in the morning. Do you think ‘call me when you get this’ includes now? Do you think she’s still up?”

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “Are you nuts? That’s why God invented tomorrows, so we could do all the things we didn’t get to in the current day.”

  I keep staring at the phone, as if it’s going to have answers. “This is just unthinkable! Why didn’t Gabora call us?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But would we have gotten it, even if she had?” There are a few stragglers still getting themselves together. The DJ is gone. The bartender, wiping down the counter, calls out as we walk to the door, “Good night. Be careful out there. It’s kind of crazy.”

  And that’s when I see that it’s snowing. Like, blizzard kind of snow. It’s coming down sideways, and the night has turned bright white. New Hampshire–style.