The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs

by Matthew Dicks

  Caroline forced a smile upon her face and entered the kitchen with as much spring in her step as she could muster. This morning would be different. If she could tell Mary Kate Dinali to fuck off, she could handle her own daughter, goddamn it.

  “Morning!” she said.

  Polly was sitting at the kitchen table, head hanging low over a textbook as she hoisted Frosted Flakes to her mouth from a plastic bowl. She was wearing a shirt that Caroline did not like—but this was not uncommon given her daughter’s vast and unusual T-shirt collection. This morning’s tee was black and white with the images of a seal, a manatee, and a panda lined across the chest. The words above the images read:

  THIS SHIRT IS 100% ORGANIC.

  65% BABY SEAL. 20% MANATEE. 15% PANDA.

  ALL DELICIOUS AND NUTRITIOUS.

  Caroline had found the shirt mildly amusing when she first saw it, but that was before Polly began wearing it, and others like it, to church functions, school concerts, and the recent statewide high school debate, where she had placed a surprising second.

  The only thing the shirt had going for it, in Caroline’s opinion, was that it suited the image that her daughter had carefully crafted for herself perfectly: cropped hair that looked as though it had been cut with garden shears; an eyebrow ring and stud in her nose (neither one parentally approved); blue jeans covered in ink drawings; a tattoo of the ace of spades on the small of her back that Polly had yet to mention and Caroline had yet to acknowledge.

  And T-shirts. Lots and lots of T-shirts. All of them emblazoned with sentiments just as sarcastic and snarky as this one.

  Caroline had confided in her closest friend, Wendy, that she thought her daughter was becoming a Goth but had been immediately corrected. “She’s not Goth. She’s punk.”

  Wendy explained that Goth was worse but temporary. More of a phase than an actual lifestyle choice. Goths were sullen and detached. “Purposefully disinterested,” Wendy said, which could be incredibly annoying but almost impossible to pull off for very long. “You can’t not care about anything for only so long.”

  “Punk,” she had said by way of comparison, “was a way of life.” It represented anger and nonconformity, but punk was still employable. Dateable. Relatable even to the nonpunk. Punk had earned some respect in the world. Punk was slightly mainstream.

  “Polly is definitely punk.”

  Caroline was not consoled.

  When Polly didn’t respond to her greeting, Caroline almost let it go, opting to preserve the peace of the morning over the platitudes and pleasantries of proper parenting. Why pick a fight when one could be avoided? On any other morning she would have done exactly that, happy to escape without a full-blown argument. But on this day, Caroline was determined not to let her sleeping-dog-of-a-daughter lie. A mingling of desire to do the right thing, along with an inexplicable willingness to embrace potential conflict, forced her to speak.

  “Hey!” she said, trying to maintain a tone of cheeriness. “When someone says good morning, it’s nice to say something back.”

  Polly’s spoon paused on its arc to her mouth. With her head still buried in her textbook, she said, “Did you know that shrapnel was named after its inventor?”

  “What?”

  Polly sighed. It was one of the things that she did best. She had elevated the sigh to an art form.

  “A guy named Henry Shrapnel invented shrapnel,” Polly said. “You know. The stuff that kills you when a bomb explodes. It was named after him. Crazy, huh? Kind of like if mustard gas was named after Colonel Mustard. Except it wasn’t. But wouldn’t it be great if it was?”

  “Sure,” Caroline said.

  “And I thought George Washington had it bad for having that freakin’ bridge named after him,” Polly added through a Frosted Flake mumble.

  “You’re studying history?” Caroline asked.

  “No. Chemistry. I’m not even taking history this semester. Geez, Mom.”

  “Chemistry?”

  Polly sighed again. “That’s what I said.”

  “Need any help?” she asked, pouring coffee from the pot that Polly had brewed for herself earlier this morning. A reminder of a dietary battle lost last year.

  “Not unless you can explain the noble gases to me in the next three minutes,” Polly said. “I wish you’d let me study.”

  “I know a lot about the noble gases. I’m practically an expert on noble gases. But nothing I could explain in just three minutes.” She smiled, hoping for one in return.

  “Right,” Polly said, and stuffed another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

  Caroline took a seat across from her daughter, realizing that Polly had yet to even look at her. “I know you don’t believe it, but there will come a day when you and I won’t see each other very much. You’ll be off living your life somewhere, and we’re going to regret not spending more time together when you were young.”

  “I believe it,” Polly said, still not looking up. “At least the part about not seeing each other every day. I sure as hell don’t plan on living here forever.”

  “You’d be surprised how quickly things can change.”

  Polly finally looked up. “I’m fifteen, Mom. I’m not stupid. I get the whole time flies thing. It’s flying by right now.” Polly looked up at the clock and winced. “Fuck, I got to go.”

  It hadn’t been a great conversation, but at least it had been something. Caroline didn’t want to ruin it by bringing up the rule about swearing. Besides, she was hardly one to be making speeches about the use of four-letter words. She remained silent as Polly rose from the table, slung a backpack over her shoulder, tucked the chemistry textbook under an arm, and left the house without another word.

  Polly’s cereal bowl, half filled with milk, was still on the table. Her spoon lay beside it in a small white puddle.

  three

  The spider had apparently finished with her web for the day. Either that or she’d decided to take a much-deserved break. The gossamer threads stretched from the edge of the brick windowsill over to a teetering shelf, then across to an ancient, wooden stool, where they formed a tiny trampoline of sorts. Charlotte, the admittedly less-than-creative name that Caroline had given the small, black creature, was nestled in the corner of her web, her legs hidden beneath her bulbous body. It wasn’t the best place for the spider in terms of composition, but this project had become more about web and light than spider. Lying on her back beneath the web in what seemed like the dust of a thousand years, Caroline pointed her Nikon upward, waiting for the first ray of sunlight to knife through the broken window above.

  Right on schedule, at four minutes before 9:00 A.M., the single yellow ray appeared, reflecting off dust particles suspended in the air before cutting through the spider’s web. Caroline held her breath and depressed the shutter button, capturing her first image of the day. This vast room had once been the home to many men and machines, but now the silence was broken only by the click and whir of the camera. Caroline fired off about twenty shots before the single ray of light had blossomed into a warm, gauzy glow.

  She stood and inspected the images using the small screen on the back of the camera. She was pleased. After a moment of scrolling between them, Caroline narrowed her choices down to three. She would make the final decision when she saw them on a larger screen at home.

  What now? Wait to see if Charlotte became ambitious again? Hope to catch her in the middle of a meal? Finish off this project with today’s image and move onto something else? She didn’t need to decide now. She would be back tomorrow. She’d let Charlotte decide.

  Caroline turned and crossed the enormous space, picking her way between overturned tables, rusted machines, and crumbling brick pillars. She was trespassing in this abandoned factory, as she’d been doing every day for more than a year, but she had begun to think of this space as her own. Her workshop. The studio she had always wanted.

  In truth, she felt this way about a lot of abandoned buildings that she visited—an even
dozen in her current rotation—though this was the only one she visited daily. It was close to home, easy to enter, and most important, the light was spectacular. The windows were boarded up in many of the mills and warehouses where she worked. But this factory, which once produced shoes, leather bags, and dressage saddles, still had many of its windows intact—including two rows of rectangular windows at the top of the vaulted ceiling. In another ten minutes, the sunlight would strike those windows, sending a cataract of fiery rays down upon the factory floor. No matter how many times Caroline returned to this place, she always found something new to shoot. Decrepit furniture and machinery made beautiful by the right combination of sunlight, dust, and age. Frozen gears and idle chains that had not moved for decades. Cracked, dirt-smeared glass capturing the light in new and seemingly impossible ways.

  And best of all, the creatures that had taken up residence in these abandoned places. Charlotte and her insect brethren. Birds. Squirrels. Bats. Mice. Even rats made for some of her most interesting subjects. Caroline had once managed to capture the image of a rat mother feeding her tiny, pink babies as the slanting sunlight made her eyes sparkle gold. Even Tom, who didn’t have an appreciation for anything that wasn’t presented in the written form, had found great beauty in that photograph. He had gasped when she showed it to him. At first, she thought his reaction was to the rats themselves.

  “I know they’re rats,” she had said. “But they’re—”

  “Beautiful,” Tom, had said, finishing her sentence. “Look at them. Look at her,” he said, running his index finger over the image of the rat mother’s whiskers, which had picked up flecks of sunlight. “You made her look … glorious.”

  “You think?”

  “I know that rats are God’s creatures,” Tom had said. “But until now, I don’t think I ever really believed that. I mean … just look at them.”

  That had been a very good day.

  Despite Tom’s reaction, Caroline was hesitant to show him or anyone else her work. Tom was encouraging and tried to offer feedback, but he simply wasn’t equipped to appreciate what she was doing. He liked her work, but he didn’t know how to express his opinions clearly.

  Or maybe he only liked her work because he was married to the photographer.

  Caroline’s college classmates had been almost desperate for attention, willing to plaster their images on any wall they could find. Their thirst for eyeballs was insatiable, but to Caroline, these public displays were terrifying. Heartrending. Offering her work to the world required a level of courage that she couldn’t muster. I work for myself, she had tried to convince herself for the past ten years. She imagined herself as the novelist who refused to share her masterpiece with anyone until it was complete.

  She was simply waiting for her first masterpiece.

  But she had also fantasized about presenting at a local art show under an assumed name. Maybe even visiting the show and listening in to what people would say about her work. The idea appealed to her. She craved the combination of honesty and anonymity that only a fly on the wall could enjoy: the ability to both receive and hide from the possible criticism. In the end, though, a pseudonym would only protect her identity. The rejection (and it was rejection she feared), would still fall squarely on her shoulders, pseudonym or not.

  But this project, beginning with the first version of Charlotte’s web three weeks ago, was the best work that she had ever done. No doubt. She felt prouder of these images than any she had ever captured before, and with that pride came a glimmer of confidence that she rarely felt. Not enough to pitch the series to a local museum or an art show, but enough to show Tom and maybe even Wendy or her cousin Julie. Maybe even Polly. See what they thought.

  Maybe.

  four

  There were days when Caroline wished that Tom had taken a job with a firm after he graduated from law school. He’d had plenty of offers. And he had enough student debt to choke a horse. They both did. An attorney’s salary would’ve gone a long way to cover what they were still paying back twenty years later. It also would’ve meant that the health insurance Caroline’s job afforded them wouldn’t be so critical to the family’s well-being.

  Nevertheless, Tom had decided to hang up his own shingle. He worked hard for almost ten years before the practice finally went under, partly because the economy collapsed, partly because of the fierce competition, but mostly because Tom was an excellent attorney and a less-than-excellent businessman. By the time he was forced to admit that he couldn’t make it on his own, the offers from the larger firms had evaporated as younger, hungrier law school graduates filled the few positions available.

  At thirty-five, he was an old man in the eyes of the big firms.

  But then there were mornings like this one when Caroline was glad that Tom had decided to forgo a career in corporate law and the enormous time commitment that it would have required. Sure, their fixer-upper farmhouse was more of a fixer-upper today than when they bought it. And Caroline’s Subaru was almost as old as their teenage daughter. And they hadn’t been on a real vacation since they had taken Polly to Disney when she was six. But they had the freedom of days like these, when Tom could meet with her for breakfast without worrying about rushing off to a court date or clawing through a pile of paperwork or making partner. Though he would’ve made an excellent corporate attorney, the law would’ve taken Tom away from Caroline and Polly far too often for both their liking.

  When his business finally went under, Tom continued to practice law on the side whenever he could while starting a house-painting business (something he had done while in college), and later adding replacement window sales and installation to supplement his income. He liked working with his hands. He enjoyed the freedom that came with owning his business, and unlike the complexities of a law practice, this business was simple.

  Paint a house. Collect payment. Repeat.

  It wasn’t a long-term plan, but it was a way to pay back the debt that his business had incurred. Plus, Tom liked the work.

  Then, about a year after launching his painting business, the ramshackle church that they attended (and that Tom had recently painted free of charge) was in need of a new deacon. The minister asked Tom if he would like the job. He was surprised by the offer. In the ten years that the Jacobs’ family had been members of the church, Tom had helped out whenever possible, but he had hardly been on a leadership track. Besides, he had no formal training as a deacon and barely understood the job. These turned out to be small hurdles to overcome. The aging minister had a good feeling about Tom. The congregation trusted him. It wouldn’t hurt to have an attorney working for the church, either. And unlike passing the bar, there was no test in order to become a church deacon. No official requirements. Tom could learn on the job and collect a small paycheck to add to his collection of small paychecks.

  Tom and Caroline had discussed the possibility of Tom becoming more involved with the church over a dinner of macaroni and cheese and peas. She remembered the conversation well. Tom had been more excited about this job than any other in his life, and the schedule would still afford him the freedom that he now prized. Caroline was proud of Tom for the trust and responsibility that the church was willing to offer him, but she was envious, too. Someone had noticed him. Without any real effort on his part, someone had recognized his talent and tapped him for something important.

  Caroline was still waiting for someone to notice her talent.

  In the end, the church turned out to be a true calling for her husband. He wasn’t the most devout man in the church (Caroline sometimes wondered if he even believed in God), and he wasn’t the most knowledgeable in terms of Scripture, but Tom was a natural leader whom people wanted to follow. A year after becoming deacon, Tom was asked to launch an adult Bible study program and become one of the program’s first teachers. A year after that, he began counseling congregants on issues ranging from marital problems to substance abuse. He found that he was surprisingly adept at helping people solv
e their problems or leading them to people more capable than himself.

  He still sold replacement windows and painted homes, hiring college kids in the summer when business occasionally boomed. He had also become a notary and a justice of the peace, officiating weddings when the minister was unavailable and even for couples who weren’t affiliated with the church. Anything to bring in a little more money. “I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that,” he would tell people when asked about his occupation, and it was true. So what if money was almost always tight? They were almost always happy.

  Today they were meeting in the rose garden in William Wynne Memorial Park. Caroline found Tom sitting on the south end of the garden on a flannel blanket beside a picnic basket, a book in hand.

  “Reading Scripture?” she asked, knowing he was not.

  “Sort of,” he said, holding up the book. “The Steve Jobs biography. A story of redemption.”

  “If you’re not an ass, you don’t require redemption.”

  Tom laughed. “How’d it go?”

  “Good,” she said, sitting beside him. “Pretty great, actually.”

  “Lots of creepy crawlies?”

  “Just one.”

  “The spider?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “I still don’t understand why you don’t shoot here. Look at this place.” He pointed to the rosebushes, which formed an intricate series of paths that led to a central gazebo.

  “Everyone shoots here.”

  “Everyone shoots here because it’s beautiful,” Tom said.

  “So is Charlotte, if I shoot her right.”

  “Can I see her?” Tom asked.

  “I didn’t shoot her today,” Caroline said. “Just the web.”

  “Didn’t look her best?”

  “Something like that,” she said, smiling. “I’ll print a few at work today and show you tonight.”