Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  All you had to do was hang on. You could let go anytime you wanted.

  Sam was the only one who wanted to go first.

  “If you want to stop,” Uncle Ken said, “make a thumbs-down like this.”

  Sam jumped in and swam to the tube in his life jacket. He waved and Justin waved back. Aunt Lisa came back to sit with him so she could see Sam. She made a big deal about getting a picture of him.

  “Okay,” she said, and Uncle Ken started off, standing up and looking behind them as he drove.

  The yellow rope pulled tight and the inner tube rode on top of the water. They went faster and the tube bounced Sam around. He held on, smiling at them. Uncle Ken turned the boat in a circle, and the tube skidded sideways, Sam’s legs kicking into the air when it hit a wave. He cut the boat the other way and the tube shot across their wake, skating on one edge. Sam hung on.

  “Not too fast,” Aunt Lisa warned, and the engine slowed. Sam gave them a thumbs-up.

  What would happen, Justin thought, if you fell off and another boat couldn’t see you and ran you over? What if you hit the water wrong and broke your neck? What if the rope got caught around your wrist and snapped it?

  They went around again, the boat tipping so he was sitting higher than Aunt Lisa and had to hold on to the edge, then they straightened out and slowed and Sam made a thumbs-down.

  “Who’s ready for a turn?” Uncle Ken asked.

  Sarah was.

  “That was so awesome,” Sam said while she was swimming out. “You gotta try it.”

  Compared to Sam, Sarah looked big on the tube. Her legs didn’t flop around as much. She wanted Uncle Ken to go faster, and he did until Aunt Lisa said that was fast enough.

  Ella fell off twice during her turn, but when she climbed the ladder she traded high fives with Sarah and Sam.

  “All right, Justin,” Aunt Lisa said.

  “Come on, Just,” Sarah said, “it’s easy,” and then everyone was cheering him on. They’d all done it and had fun, and it did look easy. He knew waiting would make him look bad, so he stood up and Aunt Lisa helped him take off his water shoes and climb onto the seat and then held one hand as he stood on the slippery edge.

  The water was darker out here. It was impossible to tell what was under it. He pictured a car sitting on the bottom with a dead guy in it, floated up against the ceiling, his face pressed to the window.

  “Just jump,” Sarah said.

  And he wanted to—he wanted to be able to—but his legs wouldn’t move and he held on tighter to Aunt Lisa’s hand.

  “If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” she said.

  “I’ll go again,” Sam volunteered.

  “I’m gonna go,” Justin said.

  “Then go,” Sam said.

  “He’s going to,” Ella scolded.

  “A little less pressure, huh guys?” Uncle Ken said.

  They were waiting for him now, and he wondered why he’d stood up on the edge, why he’d gotten into the boat, why he’d put on his suit in the first place. He couldn’t go back in the boat or he would hear about it not just the rest of the week but the rest of his life. It would turn into a story, like the time he shoved the peas up his nose when he was a baby, or the time he fell on the escalator at the airport and grabbed the fat lady’s leg. At dinner someone would start the story and then everyone would pitch in. At Christmas or next summer he’d hear it. Everyone would laugh, and he would have to laugh too.

  All he had to do was let go of Aunt Lisa and lean forward. The life jacket would hold him up—but what if it didn’t work? Maybe it was old. What if it filled up with water and he couldn’t get it off in time?

  He let go and started to fall back, then waved his arms and fell forward.

  “All right!” Sam shouted, and then he was going over, the water coming closer.

  He hit it and went under—freezing, the cold making him groan—then popped up because of the life jacket, gasping to catch his breath.

  “Way to go!” Sarah called. Aunt Lisa was laughing and clapping. The side of the boat seemed too high. His first reaction was to head back to the ladder, but someone had pulled it up.

  “Good job,” Uncle Ken said. “Now stay away from the propeller while you’re swimming out.”

  He swam stiffly in the life jacket, looking at nothing but the tube. The water was colder in spots, then warm as pee. He would not think of what was under him, the man in the car, the fish looking up, watching him, a shadow with kicking legs. That’s what drew sharks to you.

  The closer he got to the tube, the harder he swam, so that when he reached it he barely had the strength to drag himself up on top. They were all watching him. The rubber wasn’t slippery like he thought it would be. It stuck to his knees and arms so he couldn’t just slide into position. He felt better out of the water, but the boat still seemed a long way away. He grabbed the handles and lay down flat with his legs spread out like Sam and gave Aunt Lisa a thumbs-up. She gave him one back. He was disappointed—she’d forgotten to take his picture. He wanted proof that he’d done this.

  Uncle Ken had to wait for another boat towing a girl on water skis to go by, then revved the engine and the rope pulled tight, jerking him forward. He kept his head up to see where he was going and concentrated on holding on. The tube made a hollow, ringing sound as it skimmed along, like the inside of a basketball. Uncle Ken went faster, and water shot up through the hole and tickled Justin’s stomach, but he just held on tighter.

  He laughed. It really was easy—easier even than swimming. If there was only a way at the end where he could float over to the ladder and get back on. It didn’t matter; he liked flying along like this, water spraying up from the rope when it hit a wave. The tube jumped another wave and he bounced up like when he went sled riding, his legs flopping like Sam’s, and he was laughing again. His mother was right. He couldn’t believe he’d almost missed the most fun thing because he’d been a chicken.

  Uncle Ken turned hard, and Justin saw the girl on water skis come past in front of them. The tube slid sideways, swinging out on the rope, and Justin could see the side of the boat. He thought the tube would swing back but it kept going, whipping him over the wake of the other boat. The tube bumped once, twice, then flew up in the air.

  Justin could feel it tipping and held on. It flipped, went over, then hit with a smack, filling one ear, and he was underwater, upside down and being dragged, the water pushing at him, prying his fingers from the handles. He couldn’t hold on any longer, and let go, still under, drowning, the sound of the engine pulsing away, dissolving to nothing.

  His jacket saved him. He popped up in time to see the tube racing off, spinning into the air and splashing back down. He coughed and snot ran out his nose and he pinched it away, wiped his lip, panting. Uncle Ken was turning the boat, and Justin looked around to find the girl, afraid she might run him over, but they were way down at the end of the cove.

  Beneath him, his feet hit a cold spot, and he raised his knees. Uncle Ken was still turning in a big circle. They seemed far away to Justin, and he began swimming toward them, the jacket getting in the way. The boat curved around and came straight at him. He stopped swimming and waved his arms above his head in case they didn’t see him.

  Uncle Ken slowed the boat and turned it sideways, and Aunt Lisa hung the ladder over the side.

  “You okay?” she called.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Can I try again?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go ahead, Just,” Sarah cheered.

  He swam around the back of the boat, staying away from the engine, and followed the rope to the tube. It was easier getting on the second time. This time Aunt Lisa did take a picture of him giving her a thumbs-up, and then Uncle Ken started off, the rope lifting out of the water. The tube thumped and rang, shuddered across the waves. Justin held on, thinking of how he would tell his father.

  9

  “The chickens are under Maxwell,” Emily instructed. “And ask if they’re takin
g orders for cheese bread. Where are you going for the corn?”

  “Haff Acres, I thought,” Kenneth said.

  “I’m not sure they haven’t closed down. If not them, then Red Brick Farm. Get half Silver Queen and half Butter and Sugar if they both look good. That way we can see which we like better.”

  “What else do we need for tomorrow besides hamburger and buns?”

  “We have regular relish but not the yellow hamburger relish you like. Get an onion for people who want onions on their hot dogs. And we need another gallon of milk. Better make it two at the rate we’re going.”

  “It’s on the list,” Kenneth said. “How are we on beer?”

  “There should be some in the garage unless you’ve drunk it all. So they didn’t say anything?”

  “They said they weren’t making anything public yet.”

  “We should be watching the news,” Emily said. “I’m surprised no one tried to interview you.”

  “There was nobody there. I guess they’re trying to find this other guy, but I don’t think he saw any more than I did. Anything else?”

  “Yes, get some new crackers. These have seen better days.” She dumped them in the sink with a clunk, stuffed the wax-paper sleeves back in the box and, out of habit, neatly closed the tabbed flaps. She noted with dismay that the trash needed to be taken out again—she could have sworn she’d just put a new bag in—and then she saw that someone (one of the children, obviously) had thrown half a sandwich in with the paper trash.

  She pulled the sandwich out only to find a scattering of potato chips, a soggy pickle stuck to a used tissue. “Could you please remind the children that all food garbage goes in the disposal. It’s not like the old days when pickup was free.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  “It’s probably the boys. Remind me, tomorrow’s garbage day. Oh, and if they have those Greek olives, the salty ones. That might be nice for before dinner.”

  “That it?”

  “I can’t think of anything else,” she said. “Use your best judgment. We’re shooting for no leftovers. Here, let me give you some money.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “No, really.”

  She had her wallet on the mantel with the boat keys and old flashlights and the nut dish filled with matches and batteries and gum bands, all the other junk. She took out two new twenties and handed them to him. He thanked her and folded them away, and while she was happy to help, she wished he’d argued a little harder. Lisa was waiting for him outside, steering clear of her, which was just as well after how she’d treated her at Christmas. Emily watched him back their huge SUV out of the driveway (the money must have come from Lisa’s parents) and then head off, not bothering to wave.

  No one was on the dock, and the empty bench tempted her. Sarah and Ella were out walking Rufus, Margaret was on the porch watching the boys play croquet. She hadn’t seen Arlene since they came back from the Institute; maybe she was taking a nap, or reading. The quiet pleased Emily, and having everyone there—even Lisa, because she was with Kenneth. She went back to cutting slices from a block of extra-sharp cheddar, nibbling as she arranged them daisylike around the plate. A glass of red wine would be nice, but all the bottles in the cheap lattice rack were probably vinegar by now.

  It reminded her of how much she would have to throw away. The food. The dishes. It was easier to think of them as categories. If she stopped to think of the insulated plastic Snyder’s potato-chip mug they’d had since the sixties, she would balk, remembering one of the children drinking orange pop from it at some lawn party, or Henry pouring a beer so it foamed over. The cupboard was filled with glasses, orphans from the house in Pittsburgh or curiosities gleaned from the flea market. Jelly glasses with the Flintstones fading away to colored shapes. Beer cups from Pitt Stadium and Three Rivers. Maybe the children would feel something for them and take them, the way she hadn’t been able to resist their old salt and pepper shakers.

  The silver. The heavy butter knife that said U.S.N. on the handle. It had traveled the world only to find a home here. The pink plastic spoon that turned purple in hot oatmeal. These things had delighted them once—still did, she thought. It seemed a waste to throw them away. It was foolish, she knew. She’d become too sentimental, an old lady and her plates.

  The cheese crumbled on her tongue, grainy and tart. She wanted a drink, something to keep her company while she worked on the hors d’oeuvres. There was Henry’s beer, but the thought of it bubbling inside her made her open the cupboard over the microwave. In the back, behind a box of chicken noodle soup, hid the fifth of Cutty Sark Henry kept for late nights and campfires.

  She chose one of his tumblers, a Model A on the side. They’d been gas-station giveaways. As if to infuriate her sensible nature, Henry had driven miles out of their way to collect the whole set. Esso or Atlantic or Boron, she didn’t remember which. What she did remember was Henry dropping one on the hearth, the scotch splashing over his slippers, staining the suede.

  “Easy come,” he said, but she could see he was upset.

  She filled it to the running boards, rolled the scent under her nose. She went to the window over the sink and held it up to the light, long now and mote-struck, casting shadows under the chestnut, firing an amber glow in her hand. The glass could have been crystal. Scotch never went bad. It was magic that way. It only took a sip to convince her to bring the bottle home with her.

  She returned to the cutting board, setting the glass down on the counter, then held on as a shiver rode up her back like a breaking wave. She decided she should drink scotch more often. And to be careful with that knife she was holding.

  The dip was solidifying in the fridge in an old sherbet tub. She worked on the green and red peppers, the broccoli and carrots and celery, until her fingers were sore.

  One of the girls should be doing this, she thought. In her day—

  Yes, well. Her mother’s kitchen was gone, the hours of instruction and drudgery, her mother teaching her the value of work. She’d learned. She wished she could say the same of her children.

  She took a good-sized drink and had to breathe out the fumes. The glass was suddenly empty in her hand.

  “Well, well,” she said, a saying of her father’s.

  She poured one up to the door handle. Her uncle Magnus had actually had a Model A. She must have ridden in it at some point, but she couldn’t picture herself in the backseat, holding a ribboned hat on, her hair streaming behind. The one on the glass was from 1921, nearly eighty years ago. Uncle Magnus died when she was thirteen or fourteen. The subtraction evaporated. She was obsolete, the product of another century, like her grandparents. Everything she had loved was gone, everything she knew was useless, all the songs and dances, the trendy recipes, like an old lady whose clothes had long gone out of style. But that’s what she was, that least desirable of things: an old lady. She’d never thought it possible.

  The vegetables were done. All they needed were the crackers for the cheese. Around her the house was quiet. She thought she wanted music, but before she could take a step in the direction of the tape player (one of the boys might use it), she stopped to listen to the murmur of a powerboat far out on the lake, leaves rustling like static. The very air of the house had a frequency, vacant and electric at the same time, not a hum but a wire of concentrated nonsound threaded through her ears.

  In the distance, a dog barked—not Rufus, but it reminded her that he needed his dinner. She stooped for his bowl and almost fell over.

  “Easy now,” she said, as if she were a horse.

  That was another thing she remembered: the man who sharpened scissors coming around in his horse-drawn cart, ringing a bell.

  She spilled the awkward bag of kibble across the counter and onto the floor.

  “Clumsy.” Her mother had called her that. Something to do with the gravy boat overturning, the tablecloth a lake, and then her father coming after her, upstairs in the dark where she was hiding, saying it wa
sn’t her fault, it could have happened to anyone. It was a holiday, but whether it was Christmas or Thanksgiving she couldn’t say.

  She scooped up the food and topped off the bowl, set it on the floor and washed her hands. She didn’t see how he ate the stuff day after day.

  The scotch was going down easy now, and she thought she’d better watch it. She added three ice cubes to the glass and covered them, the Model A fully submerged. She looked around the kitchen again as if she’d forgotten something but couldn’t find what it was.

  Margaret looked up from her magazine when she came outside. The boys were on the dock.

  “Do they want to go fishing?” Emily asked. “We have all of your father’s stuff in the garage.”

  “They’re playing their Game Boys. They think they’re being sneaky.”

  “I see. How much time do they have left?”

  Margaret tilted her wrist. “Eleven minutes, twenty seconds.”

  “Did you want a drink?”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Margaret said, and it was not a challenge, not defiant, the way she could be.

  Since the separation she seemed defeated to Emily, and while it was easier to talk to her, it was unnerving. She’d always had more spirit than Kenneth. Emily had never worried about her making her way in the world, and now it seemed she’d been wrong.

  “Yes, I want to know.”

  “Do you?”

  “We were going to talk before,” Emily remembered.

  “We are talking,” Margaret contradicted her. She looked to the boys. “What I wanted to tell you before is that the divorce is going through next week.”

  “Next week.” Even though she’d been preparing for this moment for years, Emily thought she needed more time. It wasn’t as if anything had changed. Jeff had not been strong enough to say no to marrying her and then had not been strong enough to put up with her. “I’m sorry.”