“Maybe there was an emergency,” Arlene guessed.
“Maybe they had to drive the tow truck to an accident,” Sam said.
“I don’t think a place like this has a tow truck, buddy,” Ken said.
“So how did you pay?” Lise asked.
“I just left a twenty.”
“That’s good.”
“It was weird. There was a cup of coffee right by the register, like someone was drinking it and then just disappeared.”
“They probably just stepped out,” Lise said, but couldn’t come up with a believable reason. “Maybe they quit.”
“It’s a mystery,” he said.
He started the car and punched the button so the tripometer read zero—usually a pleasing feeling—and pulled out onto the road. He glanced back at the gas station, expecting to see movement, a flash of uniform, an embarrassed teenager peering out from behind the wiper fluid, but there was nothing, just the posters in the windows, the sign on the door saying OPEN.
It was so unexpected that it shoved the Putt-Putt and his father from his mind, sent him dashing off after possibilities, chasing after the weird feeling of being in there by himself, the whole store, for a moment, his. As they came into Mayville and the lake spread wide beside them, he was still trying to figure out what had happened. He needed to think and didn’t look when Arlene pointed out the Chautauqua Belle leaving its slip.
He thought he knew what it was. While he was in there, he hadn’t been tempted to steal anything, though the opportunity—and the shared acknowledgment of it—crackled between him and the man in the hat like a live wire. No, he wanted more than that: to set up shop and capture the store in all its plain strangeness shot by shot, shelf by shelf, while it was still unaware of him. To catch it, as it had caught him, by surprise. And while thinking that and doing it were two different things, he felt as if now, having experienced that ripeness, he might be able to recognize it the next time it happened.
Finally he understood what Morgan was talking about. The next time, he promised himself, he’d be ready.
5
Lise knew Emily would make a big deal of them being late, that she would be waiting for them in the dusty parking lot, clutching her purse. Where in the world did you run off to? she’d ask, as if she’d missed out on some grand adventure. Then Ken would go into the mystery of no one being at the gas station, and they’d have to hear about it the rest of the day, like CNN broadcasting the same headlines every thirty minutes.
Well isn’t that interesting, she’d say.
Or, That’s rather peculiar, isn’t it?
Or, That’s not standard operating procedure, I should hope.
Or later, bringing the prized piece out for reinspection, It’s absolutely baffling to me, absolutely baffling.
She needed to put herself at the center of things she wasn’t even connected to. Some of that was how lonely she was now, Lise allowed, but she’d always been that way, at least when it came to Ken.
He’d briefed her about Sam tipping his mother about the job. He didn’t know how much Emily knew, but enough, and Lise could see he dreaded telling her, like a child ashamed of something he’d done. Lise wanted to say it didn’t matter, that Ken shouldn’t care what Emily thought after she’d consistently bad-mouthed any chance of his success, but she knew Ken better than that, so she promised to stay out of it, let him explain the situation, knowing—as he did—that she would only get into it with Emily.
She could be at home, getting work done, or at the beach, laid out on a towel. This wasn’t a vacation.
Riding through the leafy edge of Mayville with its body shops and fenced-off electrical substation, she noticed herself dropping into that passive trance she used to make time move faster, to let the outside world slide by untouched. As the sole focus of her parents, she’d learned early to draw a curtain around herself, to save a certain privacy even in their midst, and that talent had never deserted her. She wished she’d brought her book, but that would be rude, and definitely held against her. This afternoon she’d be safe on the boat, and before supper she’d volunteer to run out and pick up the chickens. That left only those few hours before bed unguarded, and for that she had Harry Potter.
It was only the first day.
A half mile from the airport, cars were parked cockeyed on the grass on both sides of the road, like at a disaster. There was Meg’s van, nosed in between two ancient station wagons. They were late, and Ken decided to pass on the easy, faraway spots and headed straight for the entrance (to catch up, Lise thought).
“I don’t know,” she said.
“The first secret of parking,” he said, “is you’ve got to be positive.”
It was a conceit of his, his luck behind the wheel, and more often than not he would find a spot right by the door of a restaurant or theater when the place was packed, and then say mockingly, “They must have known I was coming.” But as they neared the entrance, they saw the lot was for exhibitors only, roped off.
“Shut down,” he said, doing his usual play-by-play. They had to go even farther on the other side to find a spot, and then when they were walking back, a truck pulled out right by the entrance, and Ken groaned as if he should have known.
She knew he was upset about the Putt-Putt, but also that he wouldn’t want to talk about it now, so she left it alone, tried not to watch him for signs. Tonight they’d find time to be alone. Things would be better, she thought, if they made love. It always seemed to cheer her, to put things in perspective.
The airport was a worn strip of asphalt between two cornfields, a prefab hangar at one end with a wind sock on top. The plane that gave rides buzzed over, and when it was gone, the air was full of sputters and puffs, pneumatic exhalations like the Chautauqua Belle’s. It sounded like a distant battle. Closer, they saw the far part of the field had been given over to antique steam engines, their pulleys and flywheels cycling. Some of the boilers were taller than the leather-aproned old men tending them. With each chuff, a tiny cloud leapt up, drifted over the runway and dissipated.
“Check it out,” Ken said, but Sam was unimpressed.
“I want to go on the plane,” he said.
“You’re not going on the plane,” she said flatly, so he’d know it was final.
“I never get to do anything.”
“That’s right,” she said, because he wasn’t serious, just testing her. She held his hand, staying on the outside as they walked along the gravel berm.
“Can I buy something?” Sam asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not Hot Wheels,” she said. “You have more than enough at home.”
“How about this,” Ken suggested. “I’ll give you a dollar to spend on anything you want.”
“Except Hot Wheels,” Lise said.
“That seems more than generous to me,” Arlene chipped in.
They waited for him to say “Okay,” but he did it so glumly that she wanted Ken to take the dollar back, and then she had to prompt Sam to say thank you.
Emily and Meg and Justin were waiting for them by an old Mister Softee truck selling hot dogs, a scarred nightstand set up for mustard and onions, already disgusting, flies feeding on blobs of relish. Behind them, display tables of merchandise spread the length of the runway, row on row of junk.
“What happened to you folks?” Emily asked, incredulous. “I looked in the mirror and all of a sudden you were gone.”
“We had to get gas,” Ken said.
“All this time?”
Why are you even interested, Lise thought. Arlene seemed to agree, curling off to one side and lighting up, waving the match out, bored with the subject. Lise envied how freely she disregarded Emily, and thought of the two of them in Pittsburgh, living alone just blocks apart. It was that kind of self-reliance she aspired to that Ken would never understand.
He told Emily about the station being empty, and immediately she questioned him like a detective.
Had anything been knocked over? Were there signs of a struggle?
“Do you think we should call the police?” Emily said, stricken, and Lise had to corral a laugh. Emily ignored her, appealed directly to Ken. “I’m serious.”
“I think whoever it was probably went off to do something and got caught up,” Ken said. “We can check on the way back if you want.”
“Please, let’s,” his mother said—as if it had anything to do with her.
That settled, they turned to the first row and headed down the left side. They would do the whole thing in order, like a serious trip to the supermarket. It was junk. Savaged luggage, stacked sets of tires, leaning bookcases. The grass between the tables was matted and dusty, littered with crushed cups. Lise vaguely wondered what time it was and how long going up and down the rows would take them. The drive back, then lunch.
Already the boys were out ahead of them, skipping the flatware and the collectible glass, the costume jewelry and Mardi Gras beads, buzzing from one side of the aisle to the other so she had to peer through the crowd to keep Sam’s Red Sox T-shirt in sight. She paired off with Meg, the two of them leapfrogging along, Ken and Emily dragging behind them, Arlene off on her own.
“This pattern reminds me of your aunt June’s old breakfast set,” Emily was lecturing, and Lise sped up.
Laid out on the tables, the items seemed random and sad—dented beer trays and broken pocket watches, browned and fragile dress patterns, board games missing pieces, greasy skillets. It was as if someone had emptied out a house long abandoned, the good stuff already gone—exactly what they were supposed to be doing this week.
The next table was interesting though, Meg poring over a tray of amber rings and pendants, insects frozen inside the hardened sap. “That’s pretty,” Meg said, pointing to an intricate Victorian setting, and Lise agreed, prodding her to try it on. She looked up and found Sam and Justin across the aisle, flipping through plastic baskets of baseball cards.
“How’s this look?” Meg asked, holding her hand out as if to be kissed.
“Almost,” Lise said, and noticed she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring anymore, an untanned line of skin where it had been. So were they divorced? In spring they seemed headed that way, but Ken hadn’t said anything.
Tagging after her, Lise tried to imagine how she would feel if Ken left her, but couldn’t. Ken wasn’t Jeff. She would be more likely to leave him, take Ella and Sam and start over somewhere, maybe her parents’, north of Boston. Not that she’d ever consider it seriously. It was more of a daydream, an empty wish when she was tired, and her own inability to picture herself leaving Ken made her pity Meg more, especially since in a way she’d brought it on herself. She couldn’t see how it would be a good thing for anyone but Jeff, and even he had misgivings, she supposed, leaving Sarah and Justin. And while that was awful, she couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t want to have to live with Meg.
Cracked books that smelled like mold, scuffed record albums she’d owned as a teenager. Knives, baby clothes, 8-tracks, campaign buttons dating back to Al Smith. They detoured around a table of fishing gear that snagged Ken and Emily, then turned at the end of the row. Sam and Justin had given up on the baseball cards and were digging through a box of rubber insects, menacing each other with giant flies and centipedes.
“In real life he’s terrified of them,” Lise confided.
“Justin too,” Meg said. “And Sarah’s fearless.”
“Not Ella, she’s the ultimate scaredy-cat.”
“I wonder how they’re doing.”
They wandered, sauntered, stood flat-footed. The plane came in and they watched it land, wings tilting, and then when they’d lost themselves in someone’s collection of typewriters or old can openers, it took off again, the racket making them look up. The steam engines coughed and ratcheted. She saw a Tiffany lamp she liked but knew she couldn’t afford, a child’s rocker. Meg was losing interest too; they walked down the dry middle of the aisles, keeping the boys in sight.
They were almost to the head of the next-to-last row when Ken and Emily caught them from behind.
“Will you look what I found,” Emily said, holding out two fist-sized ceramic pigs in vests, waiter’s towels folded over their arms. Meg looked to Ken, mystified. “They’re the salt and pepper shakers we used to have! Don’t you remember?”
“Not really,” Meg said.
“You remember. We used to keep them on the windowsill of the breakfast nook. They used to have a napkin holder in the shape of a barn. They were a wedding gift from your aunt Lucille. Oh, your father despised them, but you kids loved them. You used to call them Salty and Peppy.”
“Oh my God,” Meg said, “you’re right. Whatever happened to them?”
“I’m sure they broke years ago, they’re cheap little things, but here they are. Isn’t that wild? Aren’t they darling?”
“They’re something all right,” Lise said when Emily passed them to her.
“They’re fun,” Emily said.
An entire week, she thought. She wouldn’t be able to do it.
Arlene came over to see what they were looking at. To Lise’s relief, she seemed unimpressed, turning one over like a bruised tomato before handing it back.
Together they faced the last row, the steam engines huffing and popping beyond the far tables—all taken up by one vendor whose specialty was used tools. Set out on the tops in precise, mazelike designs, largest to smallest, were hundreds of hammers and wrenches and screwdrivers, pliers and vise grips and drills.
“Incredible,” Ken said, and she could see he wished he had his camera. He stood there taking it in, as if to memorize it.
“Makes you wonder who they belonged to,” Arlene said.
“They’re probably from estate sales,” Emily said. “Brokers will buy up lots to get a few antique pieces and then sell the rest for next to nothing.”
“Where’d you learn that?” Meg asked.
“Since your father died I’ve learned more about that side of things than I care to admit.”
That was sad, Lise thought, but in a strange way it sounded like bragging.
The boys dodged through a group of old ladies, and Meg told them to slow down. They were coming to show off their purchases. Sam led, holding up an R2-D2 for everyone to see. Lise could have sworn she’d seen it before, then remembered: it was a prize from a Happy Meal. It couldn’t have cost more than a penny to make.
“Don’t we have a thousand of those at home?” she asked, and he stopped bouncing.
“No,” he said doubtfully.
“I’m sure we do.”
“You said I could buy anything.”
“Who is this again?” Emily asked, sweeping in to save him, and then gaped, fascinated by his explanation. “Justin, what did you get?”
He’d chosen a C-3PO so they could play together, and Lise felt foolish and cruel. The plane buzzed overhead, a speck, and she wished she were in it, the wind deafening, taking away her thoughts. She could be so small. Emily seemed to provoke it in her.
Ken was done with the hardware; it was time to go. The kids wanted hot dogs from the Mister Softee truck, but Emily said there was perfectly good salami waiting at home. Arlene had a last cigarette on their way to the car, flicking it into the road, where it rolled, smoking, across the yellow line. Lise climbed in and buckled up. The clock on the dash said they’d wasted the morning, yet it didn’t feel like a success to her.
“You okay?” Ken asked.
“It’s nothing,” she answered under her breath, putting him off till later. He would hover, concerned, until she absolved him.
On the way back they passed an Amish family selling pies by the roadside, their horse hitched to a telephone pole, the daughter in a plain bonnet. Traffic was surprisingly heavy through Mayville—the church crowd, she figured, going out for brunch at Webb’s. They were caught in a pack leaving town, and then it was stop-and-go, bumper to bumper.
There were police cars all around th
e gas station, and a state trooper standing in the middle of the highway directing traffic. Another was spooling out yellow tape, wrapping it around the pumps to block off the front doors.
“I guess something did happen,” Ken said, and while it was obvious, Lise couldn’t quite believe it. She’d completely misread the situation, and Emily, with her penchant for melodrama, had been right. While the proof was inescapable, Lise refused to accept it.
“I better stop and tell them what I saw,” Ken said.
“Yes,” she managed.
Ahead of them, in the back of Meg’s van, Emily was pointing frantically, as if they might miss it.
“We know,” Lise said.
6
“I’m not supposed to know,” Sarah said, lying on her back and looking up at the ceiling like it was the sky. “So, you know …”
“I wouldn’t,” Ella said, happy that Sarah trusted her with something so big. “How old is she?”
“My mom’s age, I guess.”
“Whoa.” Ella couldn’t imagine her dad having his own apartment and a blonde girlfriend—or Uncle Jeff for that matter. She couldn’t see Uncle Jeff anywhere without Aunt Margaret and Sarah and Justin. The four of them were a team, like when their families played wiffle ball. She didn’t say it to Sarah, but it felt like he was missing, like he might show up today while they were out on the boat. Sometimes he would do that because he had to work. They’d come back from tubing and he’d be sitting on the dock drinking beer, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap backwards, his little sports car by the garage. He’d make chocolate-chip pancakes and play chess with them when it rained, and at night he was the one who showed them how to build a fire. Now Ella wondered if that was the real reason he was late all those times.
“Does he ever visit you guys?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like does he ever come over and just hang out?”
“No, it’s all written down on the calendar. My mom’s still mad at him.”
“Well, yeah,” Ella said.
“She’s gotten really weird, I don’t know. Like even weirder.”
Wish You Were Here Page 9
