Water Balloon (24 page)

I think about that. He saw it. He picked it up. He took it home. This morning, it found its way into his pocket again. He didn't pick up the hat or the shoe, just the dog. You'd have to classify that as a Jack Hadley Gesture.

He takes my hand in his and puts the dog right in the center of my palm. He folds my fingers gently around it, then even more gently wraps his fingers around mine.

It is not easy to be brave. It takes courage to act. Jack is holding my hand and looking right into my eyes. I free my hand and place the dog back in his. He sort of nods, and while his chin is down, close to me, I call on some courage buried deep within and lean forward, brave as I'll ever be. Of course, my lips end up grazing his cheek, and I'm thinking that we have to find a way past this cheek thing. In that same instant, he turns his head, his lips seeking mine. Hoooo boy, do they find them.

Rig tries to walk between us. I feel him pushing through our legs, beating his thump thump thump tail against my leg. I soon forget, as I am wholly focused on a slightly more interesting activity.

***

Miracles are occurring.

All the twins want to do, all day long, is ride their bikes. They listen when I tell them it's time for lunch. They do not fight. They do not whine. They ride their bikes and eat their lunch and that is all.

But the bigger news, the truer miracle, is the fact of what my lips and Jack's lips did this morning. Though it didn't last long, I think about it so much I can almost feel that kiss again. I can't wait for the next lip-miracle.

After work, we drive past the hideous remains of Dad's cartons for the hundredth time. Before we even pull into the driveway, I have a plan. "Wait here," I tell him. Dad listens. (Miracles!) I run into the garage and return to Jack with an armful of big black trash bags.

"What a thoughtful gift," he says. And then kisses me.

Kisses me!

Is this my life now? Every time I appear I get kissed by Jack?

I like.

Together, we start packing up all the trash into bags.

Dad sticks his head out the back door. "What are you doing?"

"Let's take all this to the dump," I say, looking around at the Monopoly remnants, at Dad's papers, the soggy cardboard boxes that contain his old life. And parts of mine too. "I don't think a bulk trash truck's ever going to show up."

He nods. "Throw the bags in my trunk and we'll go. You coming, Jack?"

I'm so sure Jack wants to spend his time sandwiched in the front of my dad's trunk with a huge haul of trash in the back.

Jack takes my hand and squeezes it. "Wouldn't miss it," he says.

***

I've never been to a garbage dump, but I like to picture it as a vast and surprisingly unsmelly place that spreads out with infinite horizons.
(What? Dumps can be unsmelly in fantasies.)

A place where you stand in the back of your truck and get rid of your past, the broken parts of your past, anyway. The parts you no longer need. You throw it all away, two-handed, box after box. Just hurl it off the back of the truck. One thing, another, more! Goodbye!

Watch it all rain down on the not-at-all-smelly dump.

Just leave it there. Drive away.

Maybe it's the one place in this world where when you make the hard decision to get rid of something, it doesn't keep showing up. On its pink and yellow bike, just for example.

It doesn't hurt if there's a guy with light blue eyes in that truck, waiting to sit right next to you. To take your hand and rub his fingers softly over yours. To sometimes bring your hand to his mouth for a sweet and gentle kiss.

(For the record: that part is not a fantasy. It is amazingly, fantastically real.)

THE END

My mother, Judy Glassman, must be singled out. She was a wise, kind, and funny book-loving woman. I miss her every day.

Love and thanks to Jules and Barbara Glassman: staunch supporters, proud readers, and, I suspect, secret book salesmen. My sisters, Beth Arnold and Ellen Gidaro, are my foundation. For two so wee, they are crazy strong.

Mega thanks to Olugbemisola Amusashonubi-Perkovich, whose friendship is one of the great gifts of my adult life; Kim Marcus, my first-novel writing friend, who has a great eye and a great heart; Dorothy Crane, whose friendship and unwavering affinity for this book have always touched my heart.

Enormous gratitude to those who unwittingly inspired me: Laura Ruby, who has no idea that she taught me how to write a novel; Jeff Melnick, for a conversation about why writing matters even before the first sale; Patti Gauch, an extraordinary teacher, editor, and cheerleader, for making me really want to write a novel; and Esmeralda Santiago, Amy Hill Hearth, and David Wroblewski, real writers who treated me like I was one too.

Shout out to Holly Lemanowicz, my first (then) teen reader.

Two incredibly supportive groups, the Atomic Engineers and the Gango, have provided grand companionship on the bumpy road. The New Jersey State Council on the Arts honored an early version of this novel with a fiction fellowship; I will always be grateful.

A barrel of mojitos for Erin Murphy for having a good feeling when this manuscript went out into the world, and for seven million other things (NS).

My thanks to everyone at Clarion Books for the solid support and the deeply appreciated show of faith in a debut novelist, particularly Jennifer Greene, an editor with just the right touch and a very generous soul, even if she does favor the wrong season.

Big, back-slapping hugs to all my family and friends who celebrate each incremental achievement as though I single-handedly developed the alphabet, especially Aunt Eleanor, Karen Ravn, Tara Michaels, Abby Parigian, Sudipta Bardhan-Quallen, Pamela Ross, Lisa Mullarkey, and Karen Be son.

I end with love and thanks (and a Danish basket or two) for Michael, Jacob, and Anna, for allowing me to disappear to write and for the kind of unwavering support and pride that powers a creative life. I'm grateful that you've made our home a place filled with wise, kind, and funny book-loving people. It's my favorite place to be.