The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  “Hi there!” she chimed as she reached out to shake his hand. “Sean, I’ve heard so much about you!”

  “Great to meet you, too,” he said. “So, you’re a photographer?”

  She shook her head, and he had a moment of worry that he’d botched the one detail he could remember about her.

  “Yes, you are,” Cormac chided gently. “Stop telling people you’re not.”

  “I take pictures,” she corrected him. “When I’m done with school and I get my first paying customer, I’ll call myself a photographer.”

  “Ah, then you’re a picture taker,” said Sean.

  “Exactly!” She turned to Cormac. “See? He gets it.”

  Over dinner in the tiny kitchen, they caught up on each other’s families. Cormac’s mother was active with the Belham Garden Club and had risen to the rank of secretary. “She takes it very seriously,” said Cormac. “Has an extra cup of tea before the meetings. You wouldn’t want to mix up your pansies and petunias in front of the Garden Gestapo.”

  Sean laughed. “She must see my aunt quite a bit.”

  “Not very much anymore, since she stepped down. But Mom stops by with a copy of the minutes so Miss Preston can keep current.” Cormac gave a wry smile. “Mom says she always reads them carefully and calls the next day with a suggestion or two for improvement.”

  Aunt Vivvy wasn’t in the Garden Club anymore? She’d been president for as long as Sean could remember, and he’d always assumed she would die with a trowel in her hand. He sent up a little prayer for her, but it gave him no sense of having done something actually helpful; it felt like a bubble that popped and dissipated before rising into the sky.

  Cormac asked, “Hey, how’s your sister’s play coming?”

  “Good, I guess. She’s an understudy, but I’m pretty sure she’s planning to slip E. coli into the leading lady’s smoothie before the first performance.”

  “Can’t blame her—she’d make a killer Mrs. Potiphar.”

  How’s he know about that? Sean gave his friend a questioning look.

  “I had lunch at Carey’s Diner last week,” Cormac explained. “That girl’s gonna make it big one of these days.”

  “That’s the plan,” said Sean, buttering a slice of sourdough.

  “Oh, my gosh, yes!” said Barb. “We saw her in Wicked—she was Elphaba. Her voice is unbelievable. I took a picture when we went backstage to congratulate her.” She hopped up from the table and left. A moment later she was back, handing Sean a photograph of Cormac grinning widely, his arm around the shoulder of a woman with green makeup and a black wig. The woman stared straight into the camera, her eyes practically boring a hole into the lens. Without her auburn hair and abundant freckles visible, Sean could barely identify her as his sister.

  “She played a witch?”

  “Ha!” said Barb in mock outrage. “She played the witch—the main character. She was onstage practically the whole time!”

  Sean stared at the picture. “No wonder she’s so pissed off at being in the chorus.”

  “Well, the Worcester Footlight,” said Cormac. “That’s like a farm team for Broadway. Competition’s a heck of a lot tougher.”

  Sean took a bite of his bread while he considered this. His sister was more serious about her acting career than he’d thought. Until now he hadn’t really believed she had a career.

  “Hey,” said Cormac, “guess who’s living in Weston?” Sean hadn’t a clue. He glanced again at the picture lying on the table beside his plate. “Come on,” said Cormac. “I’ll give you a hint.” He waved a hand back over his shoulder as if he were flipping imaginary locks. “Oh, Sean,” he trilled in falsetto. “I’m sooooo cold!”

  Sean’s gaze came up from the picture and leveled at Cormac. “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “Who?” said Barb. “Who is it?”

  “Tell her, Sean.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Herman?”

  “Herman?” said Barb, confused.

  “Hell, yeah.” Cormac grinned. “It’s highly enjoyable.”

  “Jealous,” sneered Sean.

  “Me and every other guy in school. Except Ricky Cavicchio. He was enraged.”

  “And I got the scars to prove it!” Sean laughed and ran his finger across a small white line on his elbow.

  “Who’s Herman?”

  Cormac put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his enormous thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you this way, honey, but you’re married to him.”

  “Herman Munster?”

  “Geez.” Cormac’s face fell in dismay. “Didn’t take you long to make that leap.”

  “Man, it’s too obvious!” Sean cackled.

  Barb wrung her hands in a spot-on Mrs. Munster imitation and said, “Oh, Herman!” Both men nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.

  After dinner they sat on the low couches eating ice cream out of porcelain bowls with Crème glacée in curvy cobalt script around the rims. So un-Cormac-like. Sean grinned—innocently he thought—but Cormac made sure to mention they were a wedding present.

  When Sean rose to take his empty bowl to the kitchen, he miscalculated how much effort it would take to hoist himself out of the squishy cushions. His back clenched in response, and he found himself falling backward into the couch. He was thankful that he made no embarrassing grunt of pain, but his face must have shown it because Cormac said, “Hey, are you—?” and Barb said, “Oh, my gosh, Sean!”

  He meant to say, “I’m fine,” but what came out was “Christ.”

  Barb rushed to take the bowl out of his hand, which he held aloft to keep from spilling melted ice cream onto the slipcovers. “What’s happening? Cormac, get him some water!”

  Sean slid slowly down until he lay prone across the couch. “I’m all right,” he insisted through clenched teeth. “Just a little back thing.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t chest pain?” She slid a pillow under his head.

  “It’s better if I’m flat,” he told her, tugging the pillow out. “Not chest pain.”

  “Can you breathe okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just my lower back.” It was the first time he’d ever mentioned it to anyone. He never imagined that when he finally did, it would be to a perky picture taker with pink heart earrings. Cormac came in with the water, and Sean told him, “She’d make a good triage nurse.”

  “She’s obsessive about keeping her CPR up-to-date.”

  Barb gave Cormac an annoyed look. Sean patted her hand. “Good girl.”

  As he lay there waiting for the spasm to subside, Barb pep­pered him with suggestions about MRIs and osteopaths and physical therapy. Sean politely declined all the advice, but asked for some ibuprofen, which she hurried off to find.

  “Spin,” said Cormac quietly. “Is this . . . uh, is this related to . . .”

  “No. Actually, I’m starting to think . . .” It felt weird to say it out loud. “I think I might have dodged the bullet.”

  “Wow,” Cormac breathed. The two of them sat silently, contemplating the implications. Sean was glad Cormac didn’t say something sappy like congratulations. Not having Huntington’s would certainly be great news. But while it would solve one huge problem, cropping up in its place would be a whole lot of smaller ones, which generally fit under the heading of What Now?

  Returning with the ibuprofen, Barb insisted again that he see someone about his back.

  “I just need some rest,” he told her, downing four tablets with the water.

  “But you’re in pain.” She said this as if he needed reminding.

  “Yeah. Back pain. I haven’t had a limb hacked off with a rusty machete, Barb. I’ll deal.”

  Barb flinched
as if she’d been slapped.

  “Hey.” Cormac’s face went dark with warning. “She’s trying to help.”

  Oh, shit, thought Sean, as he looked at his only real friend in Belham. He’d come and gone from so many friendships over the years, mostly by virtue of geography, sometimes by waning interest. But with the end of his days now likely far in the future, he had a sudden revelation sitting there in the tiniest house in town: You can’t afford to screw this up.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured penitently to Barb. “My social skills haven’t caught up with my change of address.”

  She shook her head and flicked a hand toward Cormac as if to brush away his words. “Pain always makes me crabby,” she said. “You should see me with cramps—I’m such a bear.”

  Sean glanced quickly at Cormac and caught the fleeting look of amused admiration.

  “Thanks for understanding,” he told her.

  Suddenly she slapped her hands onto her thighs. “I know! A massage! That’s what you need. And I have the perfect person—Missy over at Tree of Life Spa. She’s a miracle worker.”

  Sean nodded, feigning enthusiasm. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’ll definitely try that.”

  “Great! I knew we could figure something out. Let me just get the number.” Barb bounded upstairs to get her address book.

  Sean’s gaze met Cormac’s, and he imagined his friend thinking, Nice save.

  “She’s great, Herman.”

  Cormac’s face softened, accepting the apology. “One in a million,” he said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Over the next few days, Sean kept himself busy rereading his childhood copy of The Magician’s Nephew from The Chronicles of Narnia and doing minor home maintenance projects. Some were handed down by Aunt Vivvy, and some he came across himself, surprised that no one had yet discovered them. The bathtub drain was slow, the water level reaching his ankles whenever he took even a brief shower. He tried plunging it, but the water still rose like the tide. Down in the boiler room, he found a plumbing snake and wound it into the drain. That seemed to do the trick.

  “I snaked the tub, Auntie,” he said as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

  “Snake?” Her teacup clattered into its saucer, her eyes wide with anxiety.

  “Not a real snake. I was just saying I cleared the tub drain.” It took a moment before she relaxed. He sat down at the old oak table next to her. “How are you feeling?”

  “Right as rain.” Her standard response. She resumed sipping her tea.

  “Deirdre says your joints are bothering you. Have you talked to Dr. Krantz about it?”

  “Simon Krantz died two years ago. So no, I have not pestered him with my petty aches and pains.”

  He took a Fig Newton from the small china plate where she’d laid them out like fallen dominoes. “Who’s your new doc?”

  Another sip. “I am between health care providers at present.”

  “Well, let’s get you hooked up with someone new and see if there isn’t something they can do for those joints. No need for you to stop doing the things you love if you can get on a good anti-­inflammatory.”

  The teacup went down into its saucer with a clank. “What leads you to believe I’ve stopped participating in activities I enjoy?”

  “Well,” he stammered, thrown off by her testiness. “Cormac said you weren’t doing the Garden Club anymore. . . .”

  She turned to him, eyes narrowed. “The Garden Club has devolved into a flock of chattering flibbertigibbets who’d rather preen about their grandchildren and critique the executive committee than actually plant anything. It was no longer worthy of my time.”

  “But . . . what about all your friends?” Aunt Vivvy’s laserlike glare had always had the effect of reducing his reasoning and communication skills to those of a five-year-old.

  She glanced away, and Sean felt the relief as if someone had turned off a thousand-watt bulb. “Some have moved to warmer locales or to live closer to adult children.” She took a sip of her tea. “And many have passed.”

  Lonely. He’d never thought of her as someone who needed much in the way of human interaction. She was a doer, not a talker. But even the most independent, unemotional people felt the loss of those they’d come to rely on, if only for their presence. Sean had seen it many times. An imperious, commanding village leader would crumble into incoherence when he learned his subordinates hadn’t survived a natural disaster or tribal attack.

  That’s why she got the dog, he realized. She wasn’t losing it. She just wanted company.

  * * *

  A few days later, Deirdre flopped down onto the couch next to Sean and put her sticky sneakers on the coffee table. She pulled a wad of bills out of her khakis and began counting.

  “Do they still do the clapping thing at the end of fifth grade?” he asked, closing his book.

  “Clapping thing?”

  “Yeah, Kevin’s last day is tomorrow, and it reminded me how all the families used to line up in the hallways and clap when we left on the last day of elementary school.”

  “I have no memory of that,” she said dismissively.

  “Dee, think,” he said, a little annoyed that she was unwilling simply to confirm an inconsequential memory of his. “On your last day of fifth grade, your last day at Juniper Hill, didn’t everyone come and clap for you?”

  “And who’s everyone, Sean? Dad was gone, Hugh was probably busy getting high and crashing the car, Viv didn’t do school events . . . and where were you? Greenland or something? Who would’ve come?” She picked a flake of dried ketchup off her pant leg. “Assuming the stupid clapping thing even happened, which, as I said, I have no me­mory of.” She swung her legs down and rose from the couch. “Besides, I’m pulling a double tomorrow, so unless they’re clapping all the way to Carey’s, I’m out.”

  His original question had been an idle one. And yet her evasiveness had somehow made him feel weirdly strident about it. If he were right about this vague memory of his elementary days, and if the tradition still held, shouldn’t somebody go down to school and clap for Kevin?

  Dinner that night was a box of linguine and a jar of marinara that Sean found in one of the cupboards. Deirdre had gone to rehearsal, and Aunt Vivian hadn’t yet risen from a brief rest that had begun two hours before.

  “Hey,” he said, as he and Kevin sat at the kitchen table and ate pasta from cereal bowls. “When I was your age, they did this clapping thing—”

  Kevin slurped a strand of linguine into his mouth. “Uh huh,” he said. “The Clap Out.”

  “Okay!” Sean gave the table a triumphant little slap. “I’m not crazy!”

  Kevin looked at him as if he most certainly were.

  “No, see, I asked Deirdre and she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  Kevin shrugged as if to say, Why would she?

  “Don’t they send notices home about stuff like that?”

  “They do it by e-mail.”

  Aunt Vivvy had a typewriter. Period. “Aunt Dee has a laptop, right?”

  “Yeah, but she’s not on the parent e-mail list.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s not a parent.” Kevin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—the annoyance showed only in his eyes.

  Sean nodded, chastened. They ate their last strands of linguine in silence.

  As they cleared the table, Sean said, “So what if . . . I mean, would it be all right if I, like . . . came? And clapped?”

  Kevin glanced over at him with a sort of bafflement.

  “If you don’t want me to, that’s fine. No offense taken. And you wouldn’t have to introduce me or anything. I could just clap and go. You know, like . . . like the Lone Ranger of clapping.” He grinned. “Then I’d gallop off on my whit
e horse. . . . Very inconspicuous, I promise.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes, but Sean could tell he was stifling a smile.

  “Or I could take you with me,” he offered. “A big white stallion is a pretty sweet ride—great way to impress the chicks.”

  “Gross!” said Kevin, a faint pink rising under his scattered freckles.

  “Okay, no horse. Got it. How about if I just say a quick ‘Hi-ho Silver’ and trot away?”

  “No!” said Kevin, giggling with embarrassment.

  “Please?”

  “No! You’re crazy!”

  “All right,” said Sean with a dejected sigh. “I’ll just stand in the back and I won’t even clap very loudly. Come on, give your old uncle Sean something to do tomorrow.”

  Kevin shrugged, but he couldn’t erase the grin from his face completely.

  * * *

  Juniper Hill School seemed to be just as he’d left it. Oh, there were a couple of additional classrooms tacked onto the back, and a fence across the sledding hill where he and his friends had often endangered the integrity of their spines by sliding down on lunch trays. But other than that, it was the same. Same smell of tempera paint as he walked past the art room; same bulletin boards covered with book reports, each stapled onto a different color of construction paper; same sound of children’s voices growing shrill with impatience as they ticked down the last moments of the school day. And not just any school day—the last day. Summer beckoned from just beyond the heavy fire doors at the end of the hall.

  Parents were arriving, claiming space along the hallway like fans lined up for hot concert tickets. Sean thought he had a good spot near the lost and found until the smell of mildewed fleece wafted by him. He maneuvered down toward a drinking fountain installed at the height of his thigh and found himself outside a classroom door with a sign that said MS. LINDQUIST, GRADE 5. Sean peeked through the narrow window in the door. There was Kevin sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on something across the room. The kids around him were poking each other or rifling through their desks. Sean shifted so he could see what Kevin was gazing at so intently.