See You in Paradise

by J. Robert Lennon

  It was John, the five-year-old. He seemed to have a stunned look on his face, and for a moment she imagined that somehow he had heard the news. But of course he hadn’t. He was sleepwalking. This was something the boy did. Once he had brought his pillow downstairs and mashed it onto a bookshelf and went back up again. Another time, when she went up to check on him, she found him curled on the bathroom floor, clutching the bath mat. Now he looked at her without seeing and said, “I can’t find my dog.” Maybe he was referring to his stuffed dog, Albert, who was tucked under one arm. The sitter got down from the bed and took the dog from him and gave it back. “Here’s your dog, John,” she said. John didn’t smile, didn’t change his expression at all, but his voice registered relief. “I found my dog,” he said. She put her arm around his shoulders and led him back to his room. He climbed into bed on his own. She sat on his small wooden chair while he closed his eyes and returned to restful sleep. There was a rhythmic sound in the room, and she realized it was her own breathing. She was breathing fast, shallow breaths, and her heart was thumping. She tried to calm down but couldn’t. The breaths just came faster. She left John’s room, closed his door behind her, and went back to the Gearys’ bedroom.

  For a short while, the sitter stood there panting. Then she threw open the window. Inside the wall, the sash weights rattled. She picked up the plastic bag and shoved it into her pocket with the photo, and she stripped the bed and carried the sheets down the hallway and stairs. In the downstairs bathroom she emptied the bag into the toilet and flushed away the joints and dropped the bag into the little wastebasket beside the toilet. She loaded the sheets into the washing machine and turned it on. Then she went back to the sofa to wait.

  It wasn’t long before Mrs. Geary’s sister arrived. She didn’t knock, she just walked right in. She looked like Mrs. Geary, but older, thinner, with a longer face. The sitter had never seen her before, but clearly the woman was transformed by grief. Her face was wet and frantic and her long hair stuck to her cheeks. The sitter stood and the sister came right at her. At first the sitter thought she was about to be struck, but the sister embraced her, harder than the policeman had done, and let out a cry. The sitter said, “The children are sleeping.”

  Mrs. Geary’s sister pulled back and seemed to search the sitter’s face for something. “They’re all right,” the sitter said. “They don’t know.”

  The sister nodded, backing away. She seemed afraid of the sitter somehow. Her husband had entered and stood behind her now, a lanky Asian man wearing large, wire-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled shirt. Now the sitter understood: their name was Lo, L-O. Mr. Lo nodded as his eyes met the sitter’s. She nodded back. The washing machine churned and thumped.

  The sitter looked at the two of them, who stood apart, not touching. She wanted very badly to leave. “I’ll go now,” she said. She bent down and picked up her books and notes from the coffee table. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I can babysit later this week, if you want. If you need help.” She certainly did not want them to take her up on the offer, and they didn’t ask for her name or phone number. She said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Okay,” said Mrs. Lo. She looked at the ceiling, as though the children might be visible through it. The sitter moved to the door. She looked back at Mr. and Mrs. Lo once more. “Goodbye,” she said, and walked out.

  She walked home in the dark, feeling the photograph bending in her back pocket. It was a beautiful, clear night. A spring smell, the smell of dead things exposed to light and warmth, filled the air. The sitter felt a strange precipitousness, as if a hand were pushing her from behind, threatening to topple her. She jogged the last few blocks to her dormitory, clutching her books in both arms.

  It was past two when she got to her room. She had a roommate, but the roommate was out, studying with her boyfriend. She put down the books and went to the sink, where she filled a glass with water and drank it. Then she lay down on her bed in the dark and closed her eyes. She tried to think about the Gearys—it seemed like the right thing to do—but only the children came to mind: Emma’s determined walk, the way she pumped her small fists, the sound of her small sneakers dragging across the carpet. She thought about John’s obsession with dinosaurs. All children liked dinosaurs, but at this moment his interest seemed incredible to her. All the amazing things he knew, the facts. She thought about this for a while, and then her phone rang. She got up and went to the kitchen, where she had left it, and sunk into a chair as she answered. It was Officer Clarke.

  “I wanted to thank you,” he said. “Most people would have gone home.”

  “Anyone would stay.”

  “Well, thanks anyway. It was a good thing you did. I’m here now and Mr. and Mrs. Lo are seeing to the children.”

  “Are they awake?”

  “No,” said Officer Clarke, but he was obviously lying. “They’re inside,” he added. “Actually, I’m sitting in my patrol car.”

  “Oh,” she said. She felt the invisible hand pressing into her back, and she leaned forward, supporting herself with her hand on the table’s edge.

  “Listen,” said the policeman, “I was wondering—”

  “Officer Clarke?” she said suddenly.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I stole something. From the Gearys’ house. I stole a photograph.” There, she thought: that’s better.

  A silence followed. If he asked her to return the photo, she would go back right now and do it. But he said, “I guess that’s all right. I guess … you just keep it.”

  “Okay,” she said. She stood up. There was another silence between them now, a companionable one, even though she was alone at home and he was sitting in a car in someone’s driveway. She listened to him breathing and didn’t feel the need to add anything. At last he said her name.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’d like to … see you again. Sometime. When you’re … over this experience.”

  For a moment she didn’t know what he meant. She thought it had something to do with the night’s events. Then she understood. She realized that she wanted him to come over right now. She would give him a cup of coffee, or maybe a beer, even though she was slightly underaged, even though he busted her once for drinking. She was sure he didn’t remember the beer party, or at least not her involvement; he had taken one look at her and told her to go home. He said she was getting off easy this time. Now she thought: a policeman, asking me out. Her friends, were she to tell them, would be shocked and amazed. But all she said was, “Yes, okay.”

  “Is it really okay? I know I’m kind of old.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. I was married before.”

  “Twenty-eight’s not old.”

  He said, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

  “Me too,” she said. And then she remembered something.

  “All right, then. I have to go. I’ll call you. I think … I think you’re a very good person. I don’t know how I know that.”

  After a moment she said “Thank you,” though of course there was no way he could know that. Anyone would have stayed. Nevertheless she liked hearing him say it. She hung up the phone and went back to bed. She didn’t want to get undressed. She lay there, her hand on her jeans, drawing shallow breaths.

  What she remembered was the dream she’d been having, hours ago, the one that Officer Clarke interrupted. In it, she was working at a warehouse of some kind. She had to pack some very tall shelves with boxes, pamphlets, bulging envelopes, glass jars. There were so many of them, and they were all different sizes. She wedged them and turned them, trying to fill every inch of available space, trying to prevent the objects from squeezing out and falling on the floor. More objects were piled on a table behind her, and the pile was growing, supplemented by unseen workers. There was no way they would fit.

  It was an anxiety dream. The memory of it sent a thrill through her. She
shivered, as if with pleasure. It seemed wrong to be so excited; she tried to put the feeling away, to make herself feel the way she thought was appropriate, but the excitement persisted. It was all over her body, the feeling of getting away with something.

  Total Humiliation in 1987

  We rose at four in the morning—Margaret, the girls, and me—and zombied into the already-packed van to depart on our final family vacation to the little cabin on the shore of Lake Craig. The month was August, the sky was purple and empty, and the trees bowed before the oncoming thunderstorm that, with any luck, we wouldn’t be here to enjoy. The drive into the mountains would take five hours, and I had loaded up the iPod with a special family vacation playlist that began with mellow ambient electronica and minimalist classical and gradually ramped its way up to classic rock and big band jazz. If I had calculated correctly, we would hear Duke Ellington’s “Rockin’ in Rhythm” (the Fargo 1942 version) as we turned onto the winding switchbacked road that, a thousand feet later, would hoist us over the pass between Mounts Ringwood and Edgar and down into our week of isolation from the world.

  Everyone but me was asleep before we’d even left the county: Margaret with the seat belt supporting her wan face like a sling; Lynnae and Lyrae conked identically in opposite corners of the back seat, in their way-too-skimpy hipster duds. Lyn was eleven, Rae was thirteen, and both knew something funny was going on, though neither had dared ask what. Heaped behind them were our possessions—recreational equipment, outdoor clothing, plastic sacks of food, a case of beer, a case of wine. At each of the girls’ feet lay a satchel full of personal possessions—Rae, no doubt, her phone, her journal, and the thick romance paperbacks I winced every time I laid eyes on, absolutely contributing to her affection for them. Lyn’s bag was most likely filled with gum and candy wrappers, her own music player (probably stuffed with contraband pop), and the nine-hundred-page science fiction epic she was determined to finish reading this week. Margaret’s leather backpack was probably filled with work—menus, recipes, staff schedules—and her beloved BlackBerry, fitted into its fetishy leather holster.

  I had brought little, and had nothing with me in the driver’s seat, save for my water bottle. “That’s because,” Margaret had said without looking at me, when the previous night I had proudly stated my need for nothing more, “you are uncomplicated,” the word signifying a whole collection of shortcomings I was supposed to embody, and which had come, in her mind, to constitute a kind of passive aggression. I did not entirely understand this theory and had vowed to give it some serious thought while we were at the lake. As for keeping a stash of goodies beside me in the car, what was I supposed to be able to do while driving, other than drink water? But this was unproductive thinking, Margaret would say, were she awake and I speaking my thoughts aloud, so I clammed up mentally and tried to focus on the road.

  This was a pleasure. I love to drive. When it’s early, as it was that day, the road is endlessly interesting, a gift that renews itself mile upon mile, and the few other drivers you pass are all your greatest friends. The road signs, the flashing lights are there for you alone, the state cops in their cruisers your personal protectors. The stars were winking out on my left, the sun rising on my right, and the van clung to every hill and dale as though it were driving itself. From time to time I cracked a window to let the air replenish itself; the girls seemed not to notice, though Margaret stirred, scowled, moved her stiff mouth as though dreaming of an uncooperative employee.

  Everyone was awake by six, when we were about to leave the Thruway for our traditional stop at Mister Bip’s. The girls were subdued and expressionless, their hair stuck to their faces; Margaret was staring out the window. I signaled and pulled off at the exit.

  Rae, newly weight-conscious, had only toast and black coffee. Lyn ordered oatmeal, her breakfast every single morning since she got on solid food back in ’96. Margaret chose the Greek omelet, and it sounded so good to me I asked for the same. She glanced at me as though wary of being mocked. I offered a thumbs-up, which she rebuffed with a blink.

  “I wonder if this is all from the same part of the field,” Lyn said ten minutes later, the first words any of us had spoken to the others in hours.

  “What?” Margaret asked.

  “Like where it was harvested.” She held up a spoonful of the oatmeal. “If I was out there in the field, like, I could see all of my breakfast around me.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Do you really need that much brown sugar?” Margaret wanted to know.

  “I love brown sugar!”

  “You are going to be so zit-infested someday,” Rae offered.

  “I think it’s all from the same corner of the field,” Lyn said, her tone indicating that the debate was over. “I think all these oats are friends.” She switched to a tiny oat-voice. “Heeey, buddy! Wassup?”

  I guffawed. Rae said God. Margaret looked at her watch.

  An hour later, with Bob Dylan yammering about somebody’s new hat, Rae said, “Damn, I’m hungry, Dave.”

  “You shouldn’t have had just toast and coffee,” I said.

  “I know.” She sighed. “Damn.”

  “That’s enough damns,” Margaret said wearily.

  “Your mother’s right.”

  I could hear Rae’s lips smack. “Sorry, Mags,” she said.

  Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking.

  “I saw you making love with him,” Bob Dylan said. “You forgot to close the garage door.”

  A new alertness overcame us as we crested the mountain pass; everyone sat straight in their seats, on the lookout for minor changes in the landscape. The next fifteen minutes would set the tone for the days to come: was the bait and tackle stand still open? Was the Adirondack Backpacker’s Gazette still in print? Would the water-stained map still be safely bolted behind cracked plexiglas in front of the defunct post office, as always? Yes, yes, and yes. Tentative good cheer reigned as we bumped and shuddered our way down the gravel road to the water. I glanced over at Margaret and saw the corners of her mouth twitching, as though in pleasure. The final test of our journey’s success, however, still lay ahead: the Grimy Fisherman’s Bass Shack, our favorite restaurant anywhere in the world. Its owner, Belinda, had become a good friend over the past decade; and though we wondered how many other “good friends” she had, among the many vacationers who wished, as we did, to feel like locals for one week a year, we nevertheless were certain her friendship with us was something special. Furthermore, the food at her Shack was fantastic, and Margaret had stolen, with Belinda’s permission, many a fine dish from its modest menu.

  It was to Margaret that Belinda’s place was most important, and it was her sharp eye that noticed it first, set back in the pines at a bend in the road. “Thank God,” she said, and I honked the horn as we passed. The place looked pretty empty, though—it didn’t open until eleven.

  Our cabin was not far beyond. We pulled into the gravel drive and leaped out with a collective cheer, the girls hugging one another the way they used to all the time when Rae was seven and Lyn was five. Margaret inhaled deeply. “Seems the same,” she said.

  “It’ll be like always,” I assured her.

  To this, she had no response.

  The key was under the stump behind the trash hutch, as usual, though it was a new stump: I had noticed the old one going rotten last year. We crowded around the door as I unlocked it, and tumbled in like a pack of stray cats.

  The cabin was of rough-hewn, unpainted logs, and consisted of one large common room and two bedrooms, each containing a bunk bed. The four of us fanned out, sniffing around our favorite objects and areas, making sure they were as we left them. Dozens of visitors occupied this place every year, but we always got the impression, upon returning, that it had been empty since our last visit. There were always small differences—certain decades-old magazines missing, sheets that bore the scent of a new detergent, a favored dishrag retired from service—but rarely
any of substance. One year there was a new refrigerator, which we all stared at in shock for some seconds. Another year, a woodstove appeared in the corner, presumably in order to draw late-season customers.

  But this year, nothing much. The lightbulbs had been replaced by energy-saving compact fluorescents, and the bathroom was filled with new towels and washcloths—overall, though, our cabin was the same. GUESTS PLEASE PROVIDE BALANCE OF RENT AND DEPOSIT AT OFFICE THANKS, read the familiar manila envelope, twice-laminated with packing tape, that was affixed to the fridge by a (surprisingly powerful) Mount Rushmore magnet. The sight of it loosened something in my chest, and I went off to the kitchen window to gather myself.

  When I came to, the girls had run down to the lake in their swim-suits, and Margaret was out on the path, taking her annual Inaugural Stroll. I went to the bedroom. Her backpack, suitcase, and straw hat lay on the lower bunk, staking their claim. My own suitcase had been heaved onto the top, along with my plastic grocery sack of rock and roll biographies. She was a small woman, Margaret, and it had probably taken a lot of effort to get that stuff up there. I climbed the wooden ladder and lay facedown beside it.

  Margaret was the owner and head chef of Chez Maggie, a popular bistro in Nestor, the college town where we lived. She was extremely popular there, and was featured in the restaurant’s print and TV ads, flashing her trademark wink and “waggling OK” hand gesture. She wrote the “Feedbag” column for the local paper, a kind of half-recipes, half-entertaining-philosophy thing, which she was in the process of trying to get into syndication. Indeed, after nine years of running Chez Maggie, Margaret had acquired ambitions. She was prone to making snarky comments about Nestor and its smug hippie attitude, and had been doing a lot of research on up-and-coming American cities (Portland, Denver, Salt Lake) for reasons she declined to provide. She attempted to enthuse me about these places but never explained why I ought to be enthused, and seemed annoyed and unsurprised when I failed to follow her lead.