by Cook, Claire
We crept our way to the guardhouse. Carol rolled down her window.
"Welcome to Moon City," the guard said.
"Hi there," Carol said. "We're here to rescue our father. He's getting older and he's not wrapped quite as tightly as he used to be. And well, we think he's being held against his will by one of your residents. And we'd just like a few moments to check in with him to make sure he's okay."
The guard yawned. "Name, please?"
"William. Well, actually, he prefers Billy. Billy Hurlihy."
The guard tilted his chin down and looked over his sunglasses at us. "I mean the Moon City resident's name."
"Oh, sorry. It's Sug . . . I mean, Bel—"
"Belva Rae Garrity," I yelled from the backseat.
The guard shook his head. "That Sugar Butt. At it again, is she?"
He pushed a button and the metal gate groaned open.
"Hurry," I yelled.
We took a right off Moon City Boulevard onto Moon City Lane, then a left onto Moon City Avenue and another left onto Moon City Trace. We passed a mammoth clubhouse, a dog park, a tai chi class in progress under a pergola. Seniors—on foot, riding bikes, driving golf carts—waved to us as we passed. If your father had to be kidnapped, it wasn't a bad place to end up.
"Right here," Michael said. "It's the next one on the left."
Carol pulled into the driveway of a house that looked pretty much like the other houses on the street. We flung our car doors open.
Michael made it to the door first and rang the doorbell. He banged on the door with his fist for backup.
"Dad," Carol yelled as we jogged up the front steps to join Michael.
I put two fingers in my mouth and let out a shrill, ear-piercing Hurlihy family whistle.
Chapter
Thirty-one
Sugar Butt was wearing orangey-pink lipstick and a canary yellow visor that was an almost exact match for her hair. I had a vague sense of a knee-length sleeveless nightgown and terrycloth scuffs completing her outfit, but I kept my eyes averted.
"Where is he?" Carol shouted.
"Come on in and take a load off," Sugar Butt said. "And shut the door behind you. It's hot enough to fry an egg on a bald head already."
"Thanks, but we don't have time to take a load off," I said politely. My voice switched gears. "What have you done with our father?"
"Did I hear something about eggs?" our father said as he walked into the room. "I thought you were going to cook me pancakes, darlin'."
"Are you okay, Dad?" we all said at once.
"Peachy keen, kiddos, just peachy keen." He was wearing a bright yellow bathrobe that could only belong to Sugar Butt over his pajamas and carrying a cup of coffee.
We all kept talking at once.
Our father held up one hand. "Slow down now. Where's the fire?"
"Where's the fire?" I repeated. Carol checked her watch.
"Dad," Michael said. "Grab your stuff. We're going to miss our flight."
Our father put his arm around Sugar Butt. "Sorry, Mikey boy, but I'm staying right here. It's up to you to keep an eye on your sisters and make sure they get home safe and sound."
Being speechless was not something that happened often in the Hurlihy family, but Carol and Michael and I just stood there with our mouths open.
Our dad stepped away from Sugar Butt and put his coffee cup down on a little table. He opened his arms wide. "Come on now, give your daddy a big hug. I'll give you all a ring on the ting-a-ling right after Sunday dinner. You can just throw my mail and the newspaper on the kitchen table until I figure out what kind of thingamajigger I need to fill out to get my bills forwarded."
"You can't do this," I said.
My father ran a hand through his hair. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Sarry girl. I'm a grown man. Love might not come a knockin' for me again in this lifetime."
"But you barely know her," I said. "You just met."
"'When You Are Old' by William Butler Yeats," our father said. He pressed one hand over his heart and began to recite:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace—
"Find his duffel bag," Carol cut in. "And his phone."
Michael took off down the hallway. "Got 'em," he yelled from another room.
Sugar Butt took a step toward our father. "Lord love a duck you're romantic, Billy Hurlihy. But the children are right. I'll be tore up to see you go but we've got too much horse sense not to give this some air to breathe. Now get your purdy little behind out of my robe and head on home."
My father cleared his throat and continued his Yeats recital:
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
Sugar Butt leaned over and kissed him on the lips. "That dog won't hunt anymore, honeybun—we're going to have to save the sweet talkin' for another time. Now go change your clothes and skedaddle."
He stopped one more time on the way out the door. He reached for Sugar Butt's hand and brought it to his lips. "The pleasure was all mine, darlin'," he said.
Sugar Butt turned around and opened the door. "Call me."
As we drove past, the guard gave us a thumbs-up. We took a left on 278 West, merged onto 95 South.
Beside me in the backseat, my father closed his eyes and finished the poem softly:
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
"Sorry we had to rain on your parade, Dad," I said.
He sighed. "'Tis all for the best, Sarry girl, 'tis all for the best. I met a lovely filly on the wi fire this morning, and five will get you ten it wasn't going to fly so well with Sugar Butt."
Carol started to laugh first, then I did, then Michael. Our father joined in. As soon as we'd start to wind down, one of us would get us going again.
"Ohmigod," I said as I wiped a stream of tears from my cheeks. "I am in serious need of some caffeine. And a breakfast sandwich."
"I don't think that's going to happen till we get to Charlotte," Carol said. "We're just barely going to make the flight."
"It's a shame we had to leave before the pancakes," our Dad said. "Sugar Butt serves hers up with buttered honey syrup."
"Knock it off, Dad," Michael said. "All this food talk is killing me."
"She didn't happen to mention any casserole recipes, did she?" I asked.
"I thought Sugar Butt said she lived in Savannah, Dad," Carol said.
Our Dad leaned forward in his seat. "Her house got to be too much for her, so she downsized. Truth be told, I've dallied with a thought or two in that direction myself. There's a lot going on in those places for an old coot like me."
"You're not an old coot," Carol said. "You're an aging pain in the neck."
Our dad leaned back again. "Sugar Butt said I was distinguished."
"Better than extinguished, Dad," Michael said.
"Hmmm." Our father opened his eyes wide. "There's a wee chance I might have heard her wrong."
We laughed again, then yawned, one after another after another. I fought to keep my eyes open as the straight shot of highway began to rock me to sleep. We crossed from South Carolina into Georgia.
In the front seat, Michael cleared his throat. "Hey. Well. Thanks for coming with me and everything, you guys. I, um . . ."
I poked him in the back of the head. "You love us meeces to pieces?"
"Exactly," he said. "Thanks, Pixie."
"You're welcome, Dixie," I said.
"Okay, Mikey boy," Carol said. "It's payback time."
"Already?" Michael groaned. "Jee
z, can't it at least wait until I have my coffee? And after I send a couple of emails so my boss knows I'm working?"
"Nope," Carol said. "Now. Call Christine and tell her it's all your fault we left her at home."
"Seriously?" Michael said. "Why should I take the fall?"
None of us said anything.
"Fine." Michael grabbed his phone from the dashboard, scrolled through his contacts, pushed Call. "Hey, Chris. It's Michael. Listen. I had an emergency and Sarah was with me, and Carol just happened to call. Anyway, I wanted to call you but Dad told me not to wake you up. Savannah. And Hilton Head. I know, I know. Next time I'll call you first. Promise. Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. Really? Oh, good. Thanks. Okay, I appreciate that. I'll pick her up this afternoon."
He threw his phone back on the dashboard. "Done. She's got Mother Teresa. Apparently Maeve tried to give her a haircut."
"I don't want to hear about it," Carol said. "I'm still on vacation."
"I told you not to wake Christine up?" our father said.
"It was just a figure of speech, Dad," Michael said. "I meant it metaphorically."
I poked Michael in the back of the head again.
"Knock it off," he said.
I yawned. "So, spill. How'd it go with Phoebe and the girls yesterday?"
Michael stretched both arms up over his head and echoed my yawn. "It went okay. Miniature golf, a movie, the beach, the whole nine yards. Phoebe's plan was to have me drop her back at her parents' house and let me use the car, but the girls and I convinced her to go with us. She didn't exactly come out and say it, but I got the feeling staying with her family is starting to get on her nerves."
"That's good," Carol said.
"We'll see," Michael said. "Anyway, we're going to talk on the phone this week." He turned around in his seat to look at me. "Oh, and Annie and Lainie said to tell you they have a new verse for their butterfly song and they're up to ten thousand likes on their Facebook page."
"Lovely," I said.
We got off the highway at Exit 104, followed the signs for the rental car returns, found our way to the return lot.
"Okay," Carol said as a guy finished checking our car in. "Grab your stuff and run."
The Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport was so small that we didn't even come close to missing our flight.
"The good new is," I said as Carol handed out boarding passes like cookies, "the trip home is always shorter."
"And Mumbles Menino welcomes us to Boston once again," Michael said as we dragged our suitcases along the moving staircase.
"Somebody needs to get that guy some elocution lessons," Carol said.
"His Honor the Mayor," our father said, "can speak any way he chooses. It’s our civic duty to try to understand him."
We took the elevator to our floor, found our cars.
"Well," I said. "It's been real. Hey, what day is it anyway?"
"Friday," Carol said. "And yeah, we'll have to do it again soon."
"Hasta la vista, kiddos," our father said. "Thanks for buying lunch, Mikey boy."
"It was the least I could do," Michael said.
"That's for shit sure," I said.
"Language," our father said.
Carol and our dad piled into the Mini Cooper. Michael sent another quick email from his work account while I got our stuff settled into the back of his 4Runner.
We circled around the maze of the garage until we accidentally discovered the exit, headed south and paid the toll at the Ted Williams Tunnel, found 93 South.
We rode quietly, lost in our separate thoughts.
"So," I said, as Michael stayed left at the Braintree split. "What do you want to do for dinner? We can pick up something on the way to my place and nuke it when we're ready."
"I think Mother Teresa is on borrowed time at Christine's," he said. "I'd better head right over there and get her."
"Okay. I'll run to Stop & Shop while you pick up Her Poochness."
There was a beat of silence. "Thanks, but I think I'm just going to head home."
I felt oddly deserted and free all at the same time. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, I told Phoebe I was moving back in. You know, keep an eye on the house while she and the girls are gone. Maybe finish up some of the projects I was always meaning to get to."
"Does that mean she might really try to keep the girls in Savannah?"
"I don't think so, but who knows. We left it they'd all hang out in Savannah for as much of the summer as made sense, and I wouldn't bug her about it. And I'd take care of the house, and we'd kind of feel our way through this."
"Wow," I said. "That's frighteningly mature."
"I know. Who knew I could chill like that, right? Oh, hey, remember Uncle Pete?"
"Uh, yeah, vaguely."
"Turns out he's just this guy in Phoebe's yoga class. He broke up with his partner, who's a masseuse or something, and they're fighting over who gets to keep the apartment, and they also have to unload this timeshare they own together in Vegas."
"That sounds so familiar," I said.
"Anyway, they're just friends. I apologized for overreacting."
"Impressive."
A sign for Exit 13 came into view. Michael put on his blinker, moved into the right lane.
I tried to keep my mouth shut as we pulled off the highway, but in the end I had to say it because he was my brother. "Just try not to forget that you and Phoebe have been here a few times, okay? I mean, you're miserable together and then you're miserable apart so you get back together. And then before you know it you're miserable again."
Michael didn't say anything, perhaps his subtle way of trying to get me to stop talking, too.
I took a deep breath. "I can't stop thinking about what you said. You know, about the guy from the Boston Marathon bombing? That even though his legs were gone, he kept trying to stand up? Well, it made me think of this interview I saw at the time. A doctor who was just back from Iraq. He finished running the marathon, and then he ran a couple more miles to the hospital and saved people all day. I'll never forget this thing he said to the reporter—that you always choose life over limb."
Michael cleared his throat. "Your point?"
"You might have to choose your life over your marriage, Michael."
We twisted and turned along the back roads to Marshbury. Unlike the sensible grid of Savannah or the manicured perfection of Hilton Head, they wiggled randomly hither and thither. We passed old homes and older homes, landscaped and not, an occasional cemetery or golf course popping up in the middle of nowhere, like a timeline of the last three centuries.
"I'm not there yet," Michael said. "I still think I can save them both."
Chapter
Thirty-two
"We'll just have to make our own sunshine," our mother used to say when we were stuck inside the house. She'd break out the Silly Putty and dig up the Sunday funnies, aka the comics, which she saved religiously for just this kind of dank, rainy day.
We'd gather around the pine trestle table in the kitchen. While our mother made blueberry muffins or banana pancakes, we'd spend the whole morning lost in our Silly Putty. We'd roll our shiny pinkish glob into a ball, then flatten it until it was shaped like a medallion. We'd press it down hard to capture a colored newsprint picture, admire our handiwork, fold it over and over until it disappeared, and then do it all over again.
All these years later, whenever I thought of Silly Putty, I could actually smell its sharp, distinctive scent, and it would bring me back to my childhood in a nanosecond.
I scoured the shelves in the equipment closet in my former master bedroom-slash-office until I found a little wicker basket of red Silly Putty eggs. I'd bought them for my classroom, thinking the kids would be totally wowed. A couple of the more orally fixated kids tried to eat it, and one of the boys sat on a plastic egg to see if it would hatch, but other than that, it was mostly ignored.
I carried a Silly Putty egg out to my kitchen table and twisted it open. The ne
wer Silly Putty seemed to break apart when you stretched it. I wondered if the ingredients had changed, or if the attention span needed to warm the putty with your hands and slowly stretch it into shape just wasn't a part of our repertoire anymore. And these days it was harder to find the kind of porous newsprint that let you lift the ink right off the page. It was harder to find newsprint at all.
I spent an entire hour completely in the moment with my Silly Putty, picking up random images from the pile of catalogs that had been waiting for me in the mailbox when I returned home.
Since Michael had dropped me off on Friday, I hadn't left the house or talked to a soul. When I realized I was hungry, I'd opened up a box of Annie's and made my famous Sarah's Winey Mac and Cheese, substituting chardonnay for the milk and serving it to myself in a wineglass.
I'd slept in on Saturday, then wandered around in my backyard, taking it in as if for the first time. The impatiens someone had planted before Kevin and I bought the house had reseeded again and were starting to bloom. The blueberry bushes that had also come with the house were heavy with perfectly ripened fruit. I picked some blueberries and popped them directly into my mouth. It wasn't exactly like living off the land on a deserted island, but it still gave me a little thrill. I went back inside for a bowl. I picked enough blueberries to sprinkle over my cornflakes for breakfast, plus extras, in case I decided to bake.
Saturday night I opened up a can of yellow fin tuna packed in olive oil for dinner. I drizzled it with lemon juice and ate it right out of the can.
I'd once read somewhere that solitude is the state of being alone without being lonely. When you grow up smack dab in the middle of six kids, you might be lonely sometimes, but you're almost never alone. Even as an adult, I couldn't remember the last time I'd disconnected from my family long enough to do nothing. And maybe even to feel something.
Lots of people do digital detoxes, turning off their computers and tablets and smartphones for a weekend or a week. But by Sunday I realized that I was also doing a family detox. Maybe I'd finally figured out my own existential questions: Who was I without my family? And what did I want my life to be?
