by Micah Nathan
Broome was how he remembered. Quiet and flat, with subdivisions marked by power lines and sound-deflecting fences erected along the highway. His childhood home was a modest ranch with seasonal decorations on the front door; in the winter a wreath, in the fall an inflated vinyl skeleton, and now, in the summer, a plastic penguin wiping sweat from its forehead.
Ben took the key from its usual spot underneath the second piece of slate and rummaged through the front closet until he found his father’s blue-and-white sneakers. He stared at them for a moment, brushed some of the crusted dirt off the stiff laces, and scratched clean the blue Nike swoosh. Then he stuffed them into the kitchen garbage, tied the bag shut, and brought it out to the cans standing near the garage. He watched TV on the couch until his mom came home late from work.
She took off her shoes and sat next to him. Her gray suit looked worn. She undid her hair. “Ben, is that your car?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s nice. Was it expensive?”
“Not really. I bought it used.”
“It looks expensive, though. Do you need any money?”
“I’m okay. I sold some stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“An Elvis belt buckle.”
She yawned. “Oh, well, that explains it. People go crazy for Elvis. I never understood the appeal.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Of course.”
“You know, Jessica called a few days ago. She said you weren’t answering your cell phone.”
“I saw her.”
“And are you two getting back together?”
Ben smiled and shook his head.
“Thank God,” his mom said. “You know I never cared for that girl. Too fickle.”
18.
en leaned back with his cell pressed to one ear. He watched the dying sun glint off the water. He listened to the wind and the sounds of people walking below.
“Is this Alex?”
His apartment was clean and spare with a small patio for watching the sun set. He’d bought a canvas and a beginner’s oil painting set but they sat in his room, unopened. Instead he filled his days with wandering. A Dutch language class; a hash bar with bad paintings on the wall; a canal cruise with some fat Americans; a nightclub where he’d met a German girl and they fooled around in the backseat of her car.
“Who’s this?”
“Ben. Ben Fish. Do you remember—”
“Coyote Café. You and Elvis. Of course I remember. That was like a month ago.”
“Thirty-three days.”
“You’ve been counting?”
“Yep.”
Ben was a little surprised there’d been no dramatic transformation, no epiphanies. Just some mild culture shock—he was embarrassed to speak only one language after meeting a Dutch couple who spoke fluent English, German, and French—and the occasional lonely morning, because he’d always felt mornings were lonelier than nights.
“How was Memphis?” Ben said.
“Okay, I guess. Fiona hooked up with a guy in his forties and Heather and I saw a terrible Elvis band. The singer didn’t look anything like him. Not as bad as your grandpa, though.”
“He wasn’t my grandpa.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. It’s been thirty-three days, you know.”
One afternoon Ben swore he spotted the old man walking past a fountain in the Rijksmuseum Gardens. He ran to catch up with him and saw it was a middle-aged tourist in a white jumpsuit with shiny black boots and thick gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. Eating popcorn from a paper bag, street map in hand, reading over the top of his sunglasses.
“So,” Alex said. “Did Elvis ever find his granddaughter?”
“He did.”
“Reconciliation, I hope.”
“Not quite.”
A few days earlier in the top floor of an English bookstore Ben heard the cashier singing “Suspicious Minds,” and he expected the old man to walk out of the back room, carrying a stack of books, a trail of employees following close behind. On one of the racks sat a gossip rag, the front page a grainy doctored photo of an old fat man in a white jumpsuit exiting a classic car—maybe a 1958 Ford Fairlane Skyliner, Ben couldn’t be sure—with a younger woman wearing sunglasses. The headline read:
ELVIS CONTACTS DAUGHTER
SHOCKING DETAILS OF THEIR
TEARFUL REUNION
“Don’t you think this is a little weird?” Alex said. “I mean, I’m not trying to ruin the reunion vibe, but it’s been over a month—”
“I had to make some arrangements. Is that a bad excuse?”
“It’s a terrible excuse.”
“Well, I wanted to let you know that you were right. The Kit Kats are better here.”
Silence. Alex laughed. Then she laughed some more.
They talked while Ben watched the sun set over the Herengracht Canal. The canals weren’t as big as he thought they’d be, little rivers running along city streets with canal boats that looked silly because it seemed so much easier to walk or bike. But sometimes he didn’t want to walk or bike. Sometimes he wanted to get on one of those canal boats and pretend he was headed for parts unknown, to the edge of the map, all the way to the end of the universe and through the keyhole in God’s bathroom door. To a place bigger than his father. Bigger than the world. Bigger than anything he ever knew.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Born during lunch in the backyard of a Cambridge home—DG laughed the longest and hardest at the karaoke scene. I’m indebted to the incomparable Jud Laghi, and to Sarah Self, who pushed when it needed pushing. Steve Trefonides and Brian Jenkins read the early drafts and offered much-needed feedback. Heather Lazare provided better edits than anything I could have come up with. Peter Guralnick’s Elvis bios were an invaluable resource. Jake Halpern was a mensch, as always. Ted Wyman offered his Back Bay apartment as a rock-and-roll sanctuary. Leslie Esptein and Ha Jin filled in the gaps.
Mom, Dad, Sis—gratitude would take up too much space and reader patience. This is yours. It always was. Anything good in these pages is the result of my wife’s encouragement, her careful eyes, and her uncanny ability to get me back to the shed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Micah Nathan is an award-winning author, screenwriter, and essayist. His debut novel, Gods of Aberdeen, became an international bestseller.
Nathan’s short stories have been a finalist for the Tobias Wolff Award for Short Fiction and the Innovative Fiction Award, and his work has appeared in the Gettysburg Review, the Bellingham Review, Boston Globe Magazine, Eclectica, Diagram, Glimmer Train, and other national publications. He received his MFA from Boston University, where he was awarded the 2010 Saul Bellow Prize in Fiction. He currently lives in the Boston area with his wife, their dog, and an assortment of curiosities.
