This Is What I Want

by Craig Lancaster

  “Here’s a direct quote: ‘I’d be incapable of loving you.’ ”

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  Randall, now back at his side, chided him. “Bad word.”

  “Go get some more candy, buddy.”

  The boy stormed the curb again, and Norby turned back to her. “I can’t believe it.” And he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen Megan Riley in ten years, not since an excruciating high school graduation ceremony in which Norby had been the only graduate among thirty-one who was booed in the Grandview auditorium. It hadn’t been a unanimous sentiment; he received a smattering of polite applause, too, but in any case, that had been the nadir for him in his hometown. In a few short months of his final year in Grandview, Norby had quit the basketball team midseason and broken up with the girl his parents adored. He’d walked out of his Grandview High days as surely the least popular student council president in the school’s history. Maybe in any school’s history. Now, here was Megan, with close-cropped hair rather than the ringlets of a decade back, blonde rather than brunette, maybe fifty pounds heavier than she’d been in high school. She wore them well, too. Norby had always thought her too skinny before. She grinned at his confusion.

  “Why aren’t you on the float?” he asked her.

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “Didn’t want to be.”

  “Neither did I.”

  As if on cue, the class of 2005 float, carrying twenty-two of their classmates, came into view. Steve Simic, the de facto class leader if neither Norby nor Megan was going to do the job, stood at the edge of the trailer, wearing wraparound sunglasses and holding a Super Soaker water gun. He drew down on a crowd of kids begging for a shot of water, and he drenched every last one of them, Randall included. When it was obvious that Simic had spotted Norby, he used his middle finger to slide the sunglasses up his nose.

  “I was going to ask if anyone held a grudge,” Norby said. He waved Randall back to him, and the boy returned holding out a piece of taffy as a peace offering.

  “Well, I don’t,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It took a fair amount of therapy to get there, though.”

  He looked at her, ready to apologize, and she couldn’t contain the laughter. “I’m just kidding.” And then, her laughter quelled, she added, “I am surprised you’re here.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Are you going to be downtown tonight?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Well,” she said, “if you come, I’d love to talk more.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  “OK.”

  Megan slipped through the folds of the gathered crowd, cutting across the street between two floats and fading into the packed mass on the other side. Norby watched her go, until he couldn’t find the top of her head anymore, and he startled himself with a sigh. He’d left here with so many things unfinished or unsatisfactory. Here was one more.

  He reached down and took Randall’s hand again, and they plied their way through the onlookers to a better vantage point up front. “Come on, bud, let’s go. Great-grandma should be coming up soon.”

  MAMA

  This is why you pray for what you really need and, sometimes, for what you really want. Because the good Lord, in his wisdom, will sometimes come through for you in the most generous and bountiful ways.

  Blanche sat in her wicker chair on the festively outfitted tractor-trailer and let the sun kiss her face. Her companion, Miss Richland County, took care of the entertainment, waving with unflagging enthusiasm and wearing a stitched-on smile. Aside from the matching tiaras, which Blanche thought the height of silliness, she felt a tinge of sheepishness about all of her fretting and fighting about being in the parade. As it turned out, this was downright pleasant—a nice ride on a sunny day, breeze whistling through her hair. It rather reminded Blanche of her Sunday rides with Big Herschel in those touring cars he always insisted on buying, never mind the complete lack of practicality for their farm family.

  Oh, how he would have loved to see this.

  Still, it was beyond her to explain how or why she was Queen of the Grandview Parade. Who decides such a thing, and on what basis? In a self-deprecating moment, Blanche might have posited that she had simply outlived the other contenders for the crown, but that wasn’t really true. Myrtle Davis, for example, had six years on her and was certainly more deserving, what with all the work she’d done to preserve the town’s history. There were others, too. Blanche had even tried to say as much that evening a few months ago when Sam and the mayor had come by to tell her the news of her selection. “But why?” she’d said, and nobody could really say, except that she deserved it as much as anyone did. The mayor had called it “perfect synchronicity,” with her coronation and Sam’s ten-year mark falling on the same July weekend.

  “Mama,” Sam had said, “I thought you’d be happy when you found out.”

  Many times since, Blanche had regretted letting him down that way. She wasn’t happy, at least not then, and she couldn’t rightly say why, except that she had recently started talking with the Lord and had been asking him to bring her home. That was pure selfishness in her heart, and it wasn’t right. She hadn’t been happy then but she was happy now, and she resolved to tell her boy so just as soon as she could. She would also remember to thank the Lord in her prayers tonight for letting her see this day. Much as she wanted to go, he had the wisdom to keep her here this long. Glory be.

  “Great-grandma!”

  Blanche fluttered open her eyes and followed the sound. So many people. Her tired eyes had trouble making solid reads of their faces.

  “GREAT-grandma.” Now she had a line on him, and there he was, sitting atop Samuel’s shoulders and waving to her. Blanche set a kiss on her fingers and blew it out at the crowd, aiming straight at Randall Junior. Such a fine boy, that one, and from all indications his brother was, too. That had been her dearest wish, that goodness fill the hearts of the littlest ones. It had seemed a bit of a long shot, given Denise’s general attitude and the profanity of the man she’d married, but here again God had provided. He is truly wise and generous. Let that never be forgotten.

  The slow putt-putt-putt of the float left the park behind now, and the main downtown stretch came into view. Blanche could hear the amplified, disembodied voice of Sam, calling out the floats and their associations as each passed the Sloane Hotel up ahead. She thought her heart might spring a leak, swollen with pride as it was at her son’s careful cultivation of his father’s legacy. Could she really be coming up on thirty years without Big Herschel? It didn’t seem possible, and yet she knew that the calendar turns with indiscriminate savagery. Were he here today, he would not recognize what his younger son had done with this celebration, but he’d be proud nonetheless. Sam understood what it means to be part of Grandview, and that appreciation had been passed down to him from his father. Sometimes it seemed like nobody was listening to Sam anymore, and that bothered Blanche greatly. It might be a quaint notion today to love your town, but that didn’t negate one ounce of Sam’s being right and proper for doing so.

  Isn’t it funny how that works? Blanche thought. Big Herschel could go on and on about Grandview and what made it special. Truth is, he could go on far past the point of Blanche’s wanting to hear it. And then he up and died and left her to finish out this life alone, and for all these years she’d have given anything to hear him just one more time.

  Sam never forgot a word of it. Everything he’s done, he’s done for this town.

  And now, here he was, just off to Blanche’s right on the viewing stand, and he was saying her name. “Blanche Kelvig, my mother, the light of my life, and, I’m proud to say, the Queen of the Grandview Parade for 2015 . . .”

  Blanche took a snort of oxygen, feeling it move into her and spread out in her system, like a shot of youth. She stood and waved,
and she blew Sam a kiss.

  PATRICIA

  Baby Chase lay asleep in the stroller, clutching the bottle he’d drained before slumber overtook him. Patricia leaned against the plate glass of Barry Bristow’s real estate office, out of earshot of the folks crowding the street to watch the parade, and she talked in a side-mouthed way to Raleigh Ridgeley, who matched her pose—one leg straight and rooted to the sidewalk, the other bent with the foot up against the masonry, butt against the glass.

  For the first time all weekend, Patricia was sorry to see him. She would have preferred to leave things as they were the night before, a kiss to communicate all the things she couldn’t say, a fluttering run to the door before she could change her mind. To her, that seemed the way of grace, the note that might be struck in one of Raleigh’s stories. Here and now in the daylight hours, she was loath to revisit it, but Raleigh had other thoughts on the matter.

  “I don’t know what you expect,” she said, and then she nodded at Raylene Marbury and her daughter, Alexis, as they passed on the sidewalk. Slight smiles came back at Patricia, and she gave the stroller a gentle roll forward and back.

  “No expectations,” he said.

  “Then I don’t know what you want.”

  Raleigh moved a few inches toward her, and she moved the same distance to her right, maintaining the gap between them.

  “We don’t have to figure it out today,” he said.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “What it means—” He cut the words short. A bystander turned and looked at them. Patricia didn’t recognize him.

  “What it means,” he said, softer now, “is we could start somewhere. Why don’t you come to Billings for a weekend?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes. Make something up. You’ve been to Billings alone. I’ve seen you there.”

  She scoffed. “Not for something like that.”

  “Something like what? What’s so scandalous, really? Damnit, Patricia, don’t you ever think there might be something more for you?”

  She bit her bottom lip, so much did she have to say and so few words did she have with which to say it. She made a quarter turn away from him and moved the stroller in front of her.

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” she said.

  “Are you happy?”

  She turned back to him now. “You don’t get to ask me that question.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He closed the distance on her again.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Please—”

  “It’s OK,” she said. “You always choose the right words. That’s one of your talents.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Raleigh cleared his throat for a fresh reply, but Patricia was on the move now. Something up ahead caught her eye, and now she was pushing little Chase ahead of her, trying to get close enough to see plainly.

  He called out to her. “Patricia.”

  Henrik?

  She fell into a dead sprint, the stroller wheels thumping on the uneven sidewalk. Down at the viewing platform where Sam sat, Henrik crested the top of the platform ladder, and the tire iron he drew back glinted in the sun before she could put it all together in her head.

  Her scream, when it came, was too late to do Sam any good.

  SAM

  Some things come naturally, and some take time. For Sam, comfort at being the voice of the Grandview parade had taken nearly all of his ten years in the role. As he read off the roster of floats and cars, he smiled at the memory of his first year up here, his words coming out wobbly and nervous, his jokes either shooting too far or landing too subtly. He’d gone home that first year and told Patricia, “I’m not the guy for this,” and he’d believed it. There was no explanation for it. These were his people, folks he talked with on the street or in his store every single day. At a school board or town council meeting, he could lean into the microphone and say his piece with complete confidence. Why had that capability abandoned him here?

  It was Patricia who properly diagnosed the situation. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself,” she’d said. “You know, Big Herschel wasn’t perfect.”

  And that had been it, really. She’d given him a way to wiggle out from under the legacy, and he’d gone on to make Jamboree his own. Each year, his confidence grew. He started writing jokes and observations on notecards. He got better.

  Now, after a decade at the helm, he felt like he was at his best. He’d found that easy middle between keeping the crowd engaged and becoming too much of a presence, and he’d learned over the years that the best joke was a corny one.

  Here, then, came the float carrying the Richland County Toastmasters and a chance to show off a new line.

  “Well, folks, here are the Toastmasters. They’ll talk your ear off if you let them. And, hey, they’re looking for new members, so if you want a silver tongue, see Sean Drury. Fair warning from me: If you join up, be sure to eat breakfast before you go. There’s no actual toast involved.”

  That last bit drew the happy groan Sam had hoped for when he wrote it. The mayor, next to him on the platform, gave him a nudge. “Good one,” he said.

  The class of 2005 float rolled into view, and Sam looked it up and down for Samuel, a vain hope, he knew. He’d wanted his son to take this opportunity to reconnect with his classmates specifically and his town in general, but he hadn’t given that hope very good odds. He wished he could transfer the hard-won wisdom he’d accumulated in his fifty-three years and pass it on to his boy, but he supposed that the point of getting through this life was finding out the most difficult things on your own. It should have been Samuel, not Steve Simic, standing up there, leading his graduating class through the first of its many reunions. His son would regret it someday, of that Sam was sure.

  The float neared the platform and Sam said, “Class of 2005, folks. These kids are now twenty-seven, twenty-eight years old. Put another way, most of my underwear is older.”

  A laugh went up, and Simic rewarded the line with a blast of the Super Soaker to Sam’s face, which set the hollers into a frenzy. Little asshole. Sam took off his ball cap and shook like a dog, then stood up and raised his arms to the sky, and the throng whistled its appreciation.

  Sam couldn’t bask long in the cheers. His mother’s float was next up, and he had decided that whatever he would say here would come extemporaneously, straight from the heart. This last year, in particular, had been so tough with her advancing COPD, and there had been times he wasn’t sure she’d make it to this day. That she had, and that she seemed to be delighting in it, gave a lift to his heart. Damn, she looked beautiful and regal, sitting there, taking it in.

  “Blanche Kelvig, my mother, the light of my life, and, I’m proud to say, the Queen of the Grandview Parade for 2015 . . .”

  Blanche tottered to her feet, a true surprise, and she waved to the crowd. Sam’s eyes found hers, her smile brought him in, and she blew him a kiss. At once, though, her face crumbled, and Sam’s breath seized up. The tiny hairs on his arms stood erect, a prickling sensation, and Sam thought he heard a voice calling out to him . . .

  THE MAYOR

  When Swarthbeck saw Blanche Kelvig pitching forward, he had a single thought: get to her. The old gal had gone from radiant to ashen in a single beat, and then her eyes rolled back and she began to crumple.

  The mayor planted one foot on the table and made his leap. His stomach took the brunt of the landing as he crashed against the surface of the tractor-trailer. Blanche was down, face against the steel, and Miss Richland County was at the old woman’s side, tending to her.

  “Stop the truck, Dexter!” Swarthbeck screamed. He pounded the side of the trailer with his open hand. “Stop the goddamned truck!” At that, it came to a lurching halt.

&nb
sp; A shrill electronic scream split the air. Swarthbeck scrambled to his feet, looking back at the platform. A huddle formed around Sam, and another group pulled Henrik down into the mass below.

  Swarthbeck pulled himself over to where Blanche lay.

  “Is she OK?”

  The beauty queen dabbed at Blanche’s head with the tail of her dress. “She’s breathing. Her head’s cut.” He ran his finger along Blanche’s forehead. Blood came from it in surges. He put her nosepiece in place and checked to make sure oxygen was still flowing.

  “It’s deep, that cut,” he said.

  He drew himself up to his feet and made a quick scan. Chaos had taken over. The men had succeeded in drawing Henrik off the platform and were working him over on the sidewalk. Eldrick Sloane sat beside Sam.

  “Eldrick.”

  Sloane looked up. “I think he’ll be all right, John. He’s out, but the damage isn’t too bad.”

  “What did Henrik do?”

  “Hit him with a tire iron.”

  “What?” Henrik was a crazy bastard—everybody knew that—but Swarthbeck hadn’t figured him for this sort of madness.

  “I know,” Sloane said.

  By now, Doc Porter had made it through the crowd and had climbed up on the float to get to Blanche.

  “She’s gonna need stitches, John.”

  “Him, too, probably,” the mayor said, pointing at Sam. “I’ll get you a ride.”

  Swarthbeck hopped off the float and pushed through the crowd to where Henrik lay, subdued by Adair Underwood and her officers.

  “Joe,” he said. “Take Sam, Blanche, and the doc to the Sidney clinic.”

  LaMer looked at Chief Underwood, who gave him a nod.

  “You got this?” the mayor asked the chief.

  “He’s pretty beat up.”

  “Well, I guess you better take him, too, before you book his ass.”

  “OK.”

  “I want to talk to him first, though.”