Wish You Were Here (11 page)

“Corn on the cob,” he said, drawling it out, “and Lighthouse chicken,” just as they passed the market with its silly half-scale beacon on top.

Lise pinned him with a look, but he deflected it, distracted himself with the gas gauge.

The counter at the Putt-Putt had been covered with astroturf and the putters laid out by size, their rubber grips the color of hot-water bottles. By each tee stood a pole with a slanted metal plate on it (painted orange) for players to fill out their scorecards. When he made a hole in one and his ball was the color that was lit up on the special board, he sprinted for the snack bar to collect his winnings.

He'd never thought of his father like this, in a flood of images. It took a conscious effort to remember him, to bring back a moment the two of them spent together, tromping out in the snow to cut down the Christmas tree at his grandfather White's farm, or looking in on him in the upstairs office at home as he silently paid the bills. What that meant he was careful not to answer, let it float free to be picked up again and examined the rest of his life. He did not doubt his love for his father, or his father's for him, only the strange way memory presented it, mixed as it was with all this other garbage. Their bond was not automatic, a reflex, but, like his father, measured and reliable, bracing as medicine.

They were closing in on Mayville. Ahead on the left was a combination filling station and convenience mart, the Gas-n-Go. He posted up by the yellow line and let Meg go on, waited for a camper to pass, then turned in.

“Are they open?” Lise asked, because it was Sunday and the pumps were free, but there was a blaze orange sign in the window. He remembered the tank was on his side and pulled it up close.

There was another world outside of the car, away from them, and air. He stood there gripping the steel handle, watching the numbers turn as the cars passed, and wondered what it would be like to live here year-round, the wind blowing over the icy lake, combing the hollow reeds, rattling the windows. He could see himself feeding a fire, eating soup and crackers, piling extra blankets on the bed. In the mornings he would go out and work in the snow and the Scandinavian light. He would be patient, do a study of clouds, like Stieglitz dug in at Lake George. His life would be quiet and dignified, every second concentrated, aimed.

The pump clunked off, and he squeezed out a round number, slapped the latch down and replaced the nozzle. A white pickup pulled in as he crossed to the front doors, searching his pockets for a twenty. There was no one at the register, so he waited, scanning the tabloids with their overexposed candid shots and grainy long lenses. And people got paid for that crap, good money too.

He looked around the store, walking to the end of the short rows in case the clerk was busy shelving, but didn't see anyone. In the middle of one aisle sat an unopened bag of Cheetos like a pillow. A radio was going behind the counter, and a closed-circuit TV showing the pumps— the man from the pickup filling his tank. (He could see a whole series of these stills, each with its own story.) By the register sat a tall cup of coffee, a half-full ashtray beside it. He shook his head, crinkled his face like it might be a joke.

The rest rooms were in the far corner, in a low hall at the end of a wall of coolers. He knocked on both doors. “Hello?” he called. “I need to pay for some gas.”

When he came out, the man from the pickup was standing at the counter. Ken shrugged. “There doesn't seem to be anyone around.”

“That's strange,” the man said. He had a cowboy hat and graying muttonchops, and Ken wondered if he was local. He didn't have that honking, almost midwestern accent he associated with western New York State.

“You check the bathroom?”

“I knocked on both of them.”

“You got me,” the man said.

They went out front again, each of them taking a side, and Ken saw the truck; according to its license-plate holder, it was from Sayre, Pennsylvania—not far. Lise stared at him from the 4Runner and he waved that he would explain later. Behind the store three plastic buckets that had contained potato salad were drying next to the fence around the dumpster, a hose coiled on the wall, the end still dripping on the concrete. The ice machine was unlocked.

They tried inside again. Both restrooms were empty. He left the Cheetos where they lay, stepping over them.

“
Someone
was here.” Ken pointed out the coffee by the ashtray.

“I wish I had time for this,” the man said, and took out his wallet. He folded two twenties and wedged them into the keys of the cash register.
Meg and his mother would be parking by now, wondering what happened to them. It seemed reasonable, so Ken did the same with his twenty and followed the man out.

“What was that all about?” Lise asked.

“It was bizarre. There was nobody there.”

“Nobody?”

“The place was deserted.”

“Maybe there was an emergency,” Arlene guessed.

“Maybe they had to drive the tow truck to an accident,” Sam said.

“I don't think a place like this has a tow truck, buddy,” Ken said.

“So how did you pay?” Lise asked.

“I just left a twenty.”

“That's good.”

“It was weird. There was a cup of coffee right by the register, like someone was drinking it and then just disappeared.”

“They probably just stepped out,” Lise said, but couldn't come up with a believable reason. “Maybe they quit.”

“It's a mystery,” he said.

He started the car and punched the button so the tripometer read zero—usually a pleasing feeling—and pulled out onto the road. He glanced back at the gas station, expecting to see movement, a flash of uniform, an embarrassed teenager peering out from behind the wiper fluid, but there was nothing, just the posters in the windows, the sign on the door saying
OPEN
.

It was so unexpected that it shoved the Putt-Putt and his father from his mind, sent him dashing off after possibilities, chasing after the weird feeling of being in there by himself, the whole store, for a moment, his. As they came into Mayville and the lake spread wide beside them, he was still trying to figure out what had happened. He needed to think and didn't look when Arlene pointed out the
Chautauqua Belle
leaving its slip.

He thought he knew what it was. While he was in there, he hadn't been tempted to steal anything, though the opportunity—and the shared acknowledgment of it—crackled between him and the man in the hat like a live wire. No, he wanted more than that: to set up shop and capture the store in all its plain strangeness shot by shot, shelf by shelf, while it was still unaware of him. To catch it, as it had caught him, by surprise. And while thinking that and doing it were two different things, he felt as if now,
having experienced that ripeness, he might be able to recognize it the next time it happened.

Finally he understood what Morgan was talking about. The next time, he promised himself, he'd be ready.

Lise knew Emily would make a big deal of them being late, that she would be waiting for them in the dusty parking lot, clutching her purse. Where in the world did you run off to? she'd ask, as if she'd missed out on some grand adventure. Then Ken would go into the mystery of no one being at the gas station, and they'd have to hear about it the rest of the day, like CNN broadcasting the same headlines every thirty minutes.

Well isn't that interesting, she'd say.

Or, That's rather peculiar, isn't it?

Or, That's not standard operating procedure, I should hope.

Or later, bringing the prized piece out for reinspection, It's absolutely baffling to me, absolutely baffling.

She needed to put herself at the center of things she wasn't even connected to. Some of that was how lonely she was now, Lise allowed, but she'd always been that way, at least when it came to Ken.

He'd briefed her about Sam tipping his mother about the job. He didn't know how much Emily knew, but enough, and Lise could see he dreaded telling her, like a child ashamed of something he'd done. Lise wanted to say it didn't matter, that Ken shouldn't care what Emily thought after she'd consistently bad-mouthed any chance of his success, but she knew Ken better than that, so she promised to stay out of it, let him explain the situation, knowing—as he did—that she would only get into it with Emily.

She could be at home, getting work done, or at the beach, laid out on a towel. This wasn't a vacation.

Riding through the leafy edge of Mayville with its body shops and fenced-off electrical substation, she noticed herself dropping into that passive trance she used to make time move faster, to let the outside world slide by untouched. As the sole focus of her parents, she'd learned early to draw a curtain around herself, to save a certain privacy even in their midst, and that talent had never deserted her. She wished she'd brought her book, but that would be rude, and definitely held against her. This afternoon she'd be safe on the boat, and before supper she'd volunteer to run out and pick up the chickens. That left only those few hours before bed unguarded, and for that she had Harry Potter.

It was only the first day.

A half mile from the airport, cars were parked cockeyed on the grass on both sides of the road, like at a disaster. There was Meg's van, nosed in between two ancient station wagons. They were late, and Ken decided to pass on the easy, faraway spots and headed straight for the entrance (to catch up, Lise thought).

“I don't know,” she said.

“The first secret of parking,” he said, “is you've got to be positive.”

It was a conceit of his, his luck behind the wheel, and more often than not he would find a spot right by the door of a restaurant or theater when the place was packed, and then say mockingly, “They must have known I was coming.” But as they neared the entrance, they saw the lot was for exhibitors only, roped off.

“Shut down,” he said, doing his usual play-by-play. They had to go even farther on the other side to find a spot, and then when they were walking back, a truck pulled out right by the entrance, and Ken groaned as if he should have known.

She knew he was upset about the Putt-Putt, but also that he wouldn't want to talk about it now, so she left it alone, tried not to watch him for signs. Tonight they'd find time to be alone. Things would be better, she thought, if they made love. It always seemed to cheer her, to put things in perspective.

The airport was a worn strip of asphalt between two cornfields, a prefab hangar at one end with a wind sock on top. The plane that gave rides buzzed over, and when it was gone, the air was full of sputters and puffs, pneumatic exhalations like the
Chautauqua Belle
's. It sounded like a distant battle. Closer, they saw the far part of the field had been given over
to antique steam engines, their pulleys and flywheels cycling. Some of the boilers were taller than the leather-aproned old men tending them. With each chuff, a tiny cloud leapt up, drifted over the runway and dissipated.

“Check it out,” Ken said, but Sam was unimpressed.

“I want to go on the plane,” he said.

“You're not going on the plane,” she said flatly, so he'd know it was final.

“I never get to do anything.”

“That's right,” she said, because he wasn't serious, just testing her. She held his hand, staying on the outside as they walked along the gravel berm.

“Can I buy something?” Sam asked.

“Like what?”

“I don't know.”

“Not Hot Wheels,” she said. “You have more than enough at home.”

“How about this,” Ken suggested. “I'll give you a dollar to spend on anything you want.”

“Except Hot Wheels,” Lise said.

“That seems more than generous to me,” Arlene chipped in.

They waited for him to say “Okay,” but he did it so glumly that she wanted Ken to take the dollar back, and then she had to prompt Sam to say thank you.

Emily and Meg and Justin were waiting for them by an old Mister Softee truck selling hot dogs, a scarred nightstand set up for mustard and onions, already disgusting, flies feeding on blobs of relish. Behind them, display tables of merchandise spread the length of the runway, row on row of junk.

“What happened to you folks?” Emily asked, incredulous. “I looked in the mirror and all of a sudden you were gone.”

“We had to get gas,” Ken said.

“All this time?”

Why are you even interested, Lise thought. Arlene seemed to agree, curling off to one side and lighting up, waving the match out, bored with the subject. Lise envied how freely she disregarded Emily, and thought of the two of them in Pittsburgh, living alone just blocks apart. It was that kind of self-reliance she aspired to that Ken would never understand.

He told Emily about the station being empty, and immediately she questioned him like a detective. Had anything been knocked over? Were there signs of a struggle?

“Do you think we should call the police?” Emily said, stricken, and Lise had to corral a laugh. Emily ignored her, appealed directly to Ken. “I'm serious.”

“I think whoever it was probably went off to do something and got caught up,” Ken said. “We can check on the way back if you want.”

“Please, let's,” his mother said—as if it had anything to do with her.

That settled, they turned to the first row and headed down the left side. They would do the whole thing in order, like a serious trip to the supermarket. It was junk. Savaged luggage, stacked sets of tires, leaning bookcases. The grass between the tables was matted and dusty, littered with crushed cups. Lise vaguely wondered what time it was and how long going up and down the rows would take them. The drive back, then lunch.

Already the boys were out ahead of them, skipping the flatware and the collectible glass, the costume jewelry and Mardi Gras beads, buzzing from one side of the aisle to the other so she had to peer through the crowd to keep Sam's Red Sox T-shirt in sight. She paired off with Meg, the two of them leapfrogging along, Ken and Emily dragging behind them, Arlene off on her own.