The Far End of Happy

by Kathryn Craft

  In the thirty-five years since his death, the population of this rental-heavy beach town had turned over several times, and no one remained who could tell Ronnie more about her father. Her mother was shut up like a clam on the subject. Why was Beverly so determined to keep the man to herself, when genetics would suggest that he belonged more to Ronnie than to her?

  Ronnie couldn’t imagine having her family wiped out in a single moment. She would have loved to ask her father about this. Already a budding journalist in grade school, Ronnie had once written out a list of questions she wanted to ask her father and had climbed onto the leather couch, faced its broad back cushions, and asked them out loud.

  1. What is your favorite TV show?

  2. Do you like cooked carrots? (I don’t.)

  3. How old were you when your mother first let you swim beyond the breakers? (Still waiting here.)

  4. Did you ever have a dog? (I’m not allowed. We move too much.) What kind? What was its name?

  5. How did it feel to lose your entire family at once?

  She then wrote the answers that came to her, pretending her father had whispered them in her ear.

  1. My favorite TV show would be whatever you’re watching, so I could sit next to you on my leather couch and watch together.

  2. Cooked carrots, blech. You kidding me?

  3. Fifteen. You have a ways to go yet, squirt.

  4. I did have a dog. He was a fluffy cockapoo, and his name was Max. For fourteen years, he was my best friend.

  5. Oh, Veronica (sorry, I mean Ronnie—Veronica is just such a beautiful name). I sure hope you never have to find out.

  The interview was written on stationery decorated with a string of daisies across the top and bottom. She had lined it herself, using a pencil and a ruler, to keep the questions straight. At first she’d kept the list in the bottom of her jewelry box. A few years ago she moved it to a pocket in the front of her first journal, when she redefined what was most precious to her. It wasn’t the jewelry Jeff had bought her, but the thoughts and imaginings now begging expression.

  Considering the accident of her conception and the impermanence of stepfathers, Ronnie still used the pages of her journal to question why she was meant to survive. Was it for the sole purpose of renovating a farmhouse in Pennsylvania? She couldn’t believe that; the next person to live in the house would swap out the Armstrong for tile, the Formica for granite. Was it to have her sons? Certainly this was true, yet in the great chain of life, she hoped to provide a stronger link. She must have some higher calling, and for a long time, it bothered her that she still had no clue what that would be. She’d found purpose in her writing, but pursuing it tugged at Jeff, who didn’t understand or respect her passion for it. But it energized her—and the more it did, the more run-down Jeff appeared in comparison. Ronnie had hoped that this year, some time at the shore would restore him.

  And restore her as well. This year Ronnie felt less like a whole woman and more like a mass-produced doll with different outfits. Mom Ronnie. Writer Ronnie. Farm store Ronnie. Barn Ronnie. Renovator Ronnie. Romantic Ronnie. Okay, she wouldn’t even know how to dress that last version anymore, but she hadn’t abandoned all hope of putting that piece of herself back into production. She was hoping for a dream vacation in that regard.

  Max jumped onto the leather couch and curled up for a nap. Ronnie held the door as Jeff and the boys brought in the rest of their luggage. “Who wants to get baptized?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but ran back down the stairs. The boys passed her on the way to the water. She checked over her shoulder with irrational hope. No Jeff.

  The boys awaited her at the wet sand’s edge. She joined them, huffing. “I don’t think I can lift and dip anymore,” she said. “You’re getting too big.”

  “That’s okay, Mom,” Andrew said. “We’ll do it like you do.”

  The next wave was on its way in. “Ready?”

  All three of them dipped their fingers into the water, touched them to their foreheads, then pressed the remaining water to their lips.

  When they got back to the house, the new owner, Kevin, was pulling tools from his pickup truck.

  “Hi. What’s going on?” Ronnie said.

  “I noticed yesterday that the garage didn’t survive the last renter. The door won’t go all the way up. Sorry I couldn’t get it fixed before you guys got here. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Jeff eyed the tools, practically drooling. “Need some help with that?”

  “No thanks. You relax,” Kevin said.

  That would be a problem. Even though this year he was vacationing with a recently strained back and a swollen knee, Jeff would never think of injury or pain as an excuse to relax.

  The midday heat was building, so after she unpacked, Ronnie brought Kevin a glass of iced tea. Jeff paced above her on the deck, smoking.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Kevin said as Ronnie approached.

  “Oh. Okay then.” She lifted the glass to her lips.

  “But I won’t refuse it.” She smiled and handed him the glass. He pressed it to his cheek before sipping.

  “The mint’s from our garden.” Ronnie leaned against the garage door frame. “So how’d you come to own the house?”

  “Hurricane Sandy,” he said. “I owned my own construction business on the southern tip of the island but lost my home, my workshop, and everything in them when the hurricane hit.”

  “That’s horrible,” she said. “I guess you had hurricane insurance?”

  Kevin set down the tea and returned to securing all the places where the garage door track was attached.

  “That was way too nosy, wasn’t it? Professional hazard. I’m a writer.” She could sense Jeff, above her on the deck, rolling his eyes at the word professional.

  “Hey, cool. I’ve never met a writer before. Have you written any books?”

  “Who knows, I may one day. And that insurance bit just sprang to mind. My husband’s family is so big on insurance you’d think they sell it or something. In this case, it sounds like it would have come in handy.”

  Kevin smiled, although his eyes seemed sad. There was a story on his face. “I was just trying to figure out how to shorten up the answer. Hurricane insurance is handy, yes, but it has a huge deductible. I used up my life’s savings paying it and purchased this home with the insurance money.” He was now slowly rebuilding his life, he explained, through rental income and the generosity of buddies willing to put him up when he needed to vacate the place. “We all kind of help each other out here.”

  “I appreciate you renting to us,” Ronnie said. “More than you know. This place belonged to my father back in the late seventies and to his parents before him.”

  “Really? You’ll have to tell me more about that sometime. I’m a bit of a history nut.”

  “You’ve kept a lot of the furnishings the same. Thank you. This place is all I have of him. I don’t have much money, but if you ever wanted to sell anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d at least let me try to make the first offer.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a contractor, not an interior decorator. Place suits me fine. I was lucky to buy it furnished.”

  Kevin set up a stepladder and went over to the breaker box and cut the lights. He then climbed up and removed the casing for the door opener’s motor unit.

  “You need me to hold a flashlight for you?” Ronnie said, falling into her typical role. Jeff could never see a thing unless she positioned the light just so.

  “No need,” Kevin said, pulling a small headlamp from his back pocket. He slipped its elastic band right over his baseball cap and turned it on. “Ah, this is all corroded. Hey, can you pass me the wire stripper? It’s that tool with the yellow—”

  “I know.” She handed it up to him. “If you’ll let me,” Ronnie suddenly found herself saying, “I
’d love to write up a profile on you and try to get it published.”

  A sound on the stairs drew her attention. Jeff was bumping a vacuum cleaner down the steps, unreeling an extension cord behind him. What the heck?

  “Ha! Not sure why,” Kevin said. “I’m nothing special. My block alone was full of more interesting stories.”

  “Such as?” Ronnie almost had to shout—for some reason, Jeff had started vacuuming out the Suburban. “Wait.”

  Ronnie opened the front door of the Suburban, pulled a pen and pad from the front door pocket, and mouthed to Jeff the word “stop.” He ignored it.

  Returning to Kevin, she said, “Mind if I take notes?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “You were going to tell me what else happened on your block.”

  “A tree came down on my next-door neighbor’s house and killed him, right in his bed. He hadn’t evacuated. His wife had gone to check on their kids—if she hadn’t, she’d be gone too. He was only thirty-four. I know it for a fact—I’m lucky to be alive.”

  “What happened to his family?”

  “They moved in with relatives near Pittsburgh. I don’t think they’ll be coming back.”

  “But you stayed.” Ronnie listened to the drone of the vacuum. “I don’t think it’s the hurricane’s story I’d want to tell as much as the story of human resiliency. I assume you evacuated?”

  “Yep. Stayed inland with my wife’s family.”

  “I’d love to meet her. She might have insight for the article.”

  Jeff turned off the vacuum. In the sudden silence, Kevin climbed down from the ladder. “Not everyone is as excited about resiliency as you are.” He drained his iced tea.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “The toughest loss, for sure.” His voice grew rough with emotion. He cleared his throat. “She couldn’t face rebuilding, and I couldn’t avoid it. Reminds me of something my grandfather used to say: ‘You can compromise on who takes out the trash, but you can’t compromise your principles.’”

  Ronnie laughed at the old man voice he adopted. “I think I would have liked your grandfather. Eek!” Cold water sprayed her legs and splashed onto Kevin. She looked out—Jeff now stood behind the Suburban with a hose.

  “Overshot,” he said.

  Ronnie darted him another look.

  “No bother, man,” Kevin said. “Felt good.”

  Ronnie wiped her notebook on the seat of her shorts.

  “Want to see what I found when I got back?” Kevin said, reaching into his back pocket.

  “Sure.” He leaned in close and held up his smartphone. Despite the day’s heat, a clean, fresh-from-the-line scent lifted from his T-shirt. Ronnie felt Jeff’s glare boring into her but refused to acknowledge it.

  Kevin flipped through picture after picture of houses collapsed and buckled, with sections displaced or missing. She flinched when she saw the tree crashed through his neighbor’s roof. “My god. Jeff, you should see these.”

  That was all the invitation she was going to give him. He did not join her.

  “See that Long Beach Bakery sign floating in this one? That store was five doors down. This was my block.”

  “Oh my god. Which was your house?”

  “It’s here.” He pointed. “And here. And I think that’s what was left of my roof’s peak over there.”

  “And people complained that we were without power for five days. Were you able to salvage anything?”

  “Just what I brought with me when I evacuated. I figure the sea turtles now have a pretty sweet woodworking shop set up on the ocean floor.”

  Ronnie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was one thing to see this sort of devastation on the news and another to meet someone whose loss was so complete and so personal.

  “Yet this place wasn’t damaged beyond a few roof shingles, the previous owner said.”

  “I know. Weird, right? The difference a few miles will make.” He flipped to a new picture. “Everything else was waterlogged from the flooding—look at this couch floating here—or swept away. I did find one thing, though.” He tipped his head, and Ronnie followed his eyes to the back wall of the garage and the nautical steering wheel now affixed to it.

  Kevin took off his headlamp and flipped the breaker back on. “Finding it felt like a miracle. My grandpa made this wheel himself and was so proud of it that to this day, I still picture him standing in his fishing boat behind it. Imagine walking through a complete wasteland, like I did, and finding this one object that reminded you of someone you loved.”

  He ran a finger along the brass in its center. Kevin was still wearing his baseball cap. Ronnie wondered what was beneath it.

  “Only had to polish it up and replace one broken handle. These were made for the weather, to be sure.”

  Ronnie ran her hand over the almost seamless repair. “You did a good stain match. Jeff’s also a great woodworker. Over the past twelve years, we’ve gutted and renovated our entire house.”

  “Takes a lot of heart. Many think they want to try, get a room or two in, and hire me to finish up.” He turned to Jeff, who was soaping up the hood of the car. “You a contractor too?”

  Ronnie tensed, wishing he could say yes. Wishing he had supported them by using his talent to help others. Wondering if he’d use the official title she preferred, “Food and beverage manager.”

  “Bartender.”

  “Ah,” Kevin said. “So woodworking is just a hobby then.”

  “One we spend most of our waking hours pursuing,” Ronnie said, to cover any slight Jeff might suffer.

  Kevin tested the door. It rolled easily and fully along its track. Ronnie couldn’t help but think of the big barn doors at home, heavy and sagging, and how she had to use her full weight to move them. Kevin packed up his tools.

  “One last question, for now. Weren’t you angry about all you lost?”

  “Sure, for a while. I mean, I figure I’m human, and humans are nothing else but a big bundle of feelings. But it’s not like the whole world is about me, you know? I figure I just have to keep on showing up, day after day, doing what I need to do to play my part.”

  “You said, ‘I figure.’”

  “I did?”

  “You said ‘figure’ two times, actually.”

  He turned around and said to Jeff, “Damn. She must be a firecracker to live with.”

  Jeff looked over from where he was circling his sponge over the driver’s side door. He didn’t smile. Positioned as they were, with Jeff in the background, Kevin seemed to vibrate with energy.

  “So it’s not like you had some sort of deep knowing,” Ronnie prompted.

  “I think that’s the entire point,” Kevin said. “We don’t know a blessed thing. We’ve just got to point ourselves in a direction that feels true, truck along at our own pace, and try to figure things out.” He peeked at her notes. “Did you write that down? That was ‘figure’ number three.” He laughed. “Anyway, if we do all that, when we get to the pearly gates, at least we can report in with some confidence.”

  “I heard a joke like that once.”

  “Grandpa had a lot of wisdom, a lot of jokes.” He winked at her. “If I have them all mixed up, the joke’s on me.”

  She offered her hand. “Kevin, I’m so glad we had this chance to talk. I think people are going to be inspired by the way you came back here and faced off against your loss. Can I reach you at the rental number if I have follow-up questions?”

  He wrote his cell number at the top of her notes.

  “Guess I’ll go for a swim then. You know where to leave the key when you leave.” Kevin picked up his toolbox and walked backward as he said, “Just don’t make me out to be brave. These days, any wind over fifty miles per hour has me wanting to hightail it in the opposite direction.”

  Ronnie smiled. “Un
derstandable. I’ll be in touch.”

  More questions immediately sprang to mind and Ronnie took a moment to write them down.

  Her mind was abuzz all through dinner. She was so eager to tell Jeff about her ideas for the article that she started in about it as soon as the boys asked to be excused from the dinner table. “I’ll have to interview a psychologist as well,” she said as she cleared the dishes. “Who knows—if I could find more stories of people who have risen above their losses, I might write a book someday.”

  Jeff said, “Ronnie, in case you didn’t notice, while you two had your little conversation, I cleaned our Suburban inside and out. My back is sore. I just want to sit and have a drink in peace.”

  “What do you mean, my ‘little conversation’? That’s what I’m telling you. I was working too.”

  “Volunteer work, you mean.”

  Ronnie put her hand on her hip.

  “Okay, what do you have to show for this work? A clean car? A sore back?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “A paycheck?”

  “That’s not how freelance writing works.”

  “Because it’s a hobby.”

  She set his dirty plate back in front of him. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Even the IRS says so,” he called after her. “If you came to the tax appointments, you’d know.”

  Ronnie slammed the door.

  She was going to write the article, and it was going to be the best damn thing she’d ever written.

  At the deck railing, she paused and felt the wood for what might be left of the day’s warmth. That afternoon she’d stood in the same place with Kevin’s empty glass in her hand, watching as he stepped onto the beach, pulled off his shirt and cap, and let the breeze ruffle his fine brown hair.

  ronnie

  “We’ve been reviewing options,” Corporal McNichol said, striding back into the room.