Wish You Were Here (51 page)

Behind her, a mallard glided between the docks, dipping his green head to feed, tipping his feathered rump up, a sinking ship. He worked his bill as if tasting the grass, smacking his lips. He pushed himself along, his ridged wake glossy, swiveling his head, stiffly vigilant. Rufus was drowsing and didn't see him.

And where is Mrs. Mallard? she thought, but not heavily. She could not see Henry everywhere. There were ways of short-circuiting these things, stopping them before they started. The first was learning to recognize them.

She noticed she was kicking her feet like a child, letting them swing for no reason, a hedge against thinking. It was just the day, the gift of perfect weather. The sun was hot on her arms and knees, and she hoped Kenneth was up. She wanted to get off before the rush. There was nothing worse than waiting for other people to hit.

A breeze wrinkled the surface, bringing the boggy vegetable smell of algae. She closed her eyes and listened to the different birds, identifying them, the sun burning red through her lids, insistent, and all the time she was aware of her legs, still kicking. In the distance, a lawn mower snarled. Smart—the afternoon would be brutal.

A tremor ran through the dock, and she opened her eyes and turned to see Arlene tromping toward her, carrying something black. Beside her, Rufus lifted his head, then subsided. Emily consciously stopped her feet.

“Finally, a decent day,” Arlene said, waving an arm at the sky.

She had her camera, and wanted to borrow that film they talked about. She needed new shots of the children for her refrigerator, and she wanted a good one of the cottage. Maybe Kenneth would lend his professional skills.

Emily checked her cup—almost done. “Did you look on my dresser?”

“I didn't see it.”

The mantel, the kitchen table, maybe by the phone.

No.

“Can it wait a minute?”

“Sure,” Arlene said, but instead of taking the hint, she sat down on the bench and started talking about going out in the boat. “Remember when it was new and we'd drive the heck out of it?” she asked, ruining any chance Emily had of losing herself.

She remembered. She knew that Arlene missed him too. She was just annoyed at having to leave the birds and join the rest of the world again. It was inevitable, and not Arlene's fault, but still she felt hurried, gave up her perch unwillingly. Rufus wasn't happy either.

She was surprised to find Kenneth stalking the yard with his camera, as if he'd forgotten their game.

“I was under the impression that we had a golf date,” she said.

“The light's so good, I thought I'd get in a quick roll. It'll take ten minutes.”

“We're leaving in ten minutes then.”

“I'll be ready.”

“I hope so. It's going to be a zoo.”

Inside, the boys were killing each other with guns. Margaret and Lisa and the girls weren't up yet—no surprise. She found the yellow box on her dresser where she'd left it, in plain sight. She didn't understand why Arlene felt the need to stand on ceremony after so many years, but didn't have the time or energy to get into it with her. She washed her coffee cup and brushed her teeth and rubbed sunblock on her face and arms and legs. She had enough cash, and her credit cards, in case, and going through the musty zip pocket of her bag she discovered an unopened package of tees—two years old, at least. A bottle of water would be a good idea, but the one in the fridge was nearly empty, obviously the work of one of the boys.

“Please do not leave empty bottles in the refrigerator,” she told them both, holding it up.

The blame fell between them, unacknowledged.

Outside, a car slowly rolled by the windows—the Wisemans' red Cadillac coming up the drive. She followed it through the screenporch, caught up to it before Marjorie could open her door. Herb Wiseman sat strapped into the passenger seat, emaciated, barely managing a wave, and Emily had to temper her reaction, freeze her surprised smile. The windows
were closed for the air-conditioning, and Marjorie left the car running. Arlene and Kenneth came over to pay their respects.

“We're leaving,” Marjorie explained, and enveloped Emily in a perfumed hug.

“We've been meaning to come see you,” Emily protested, looking her over.

Arlene hugged Marjorie as well. Kenneth shook her hand with manly concern. Emily marked how unchanged she was—the neat white hair and enviable tan and even teeth, her summer uniform of faded alligator shirt, madras shorts and moccasins. She seemed fine, untouched by his illness, if anything more capable. Emily worried that that was how she'd looked, her health shocking next to Henry, vampirelike.

“I hear you sold the place.”

“I did,” she admitted.

“It's a shame. The old gang's breaking up. I'm so sorry about Henry.”

Emily thanked her—a reflex she thought she'd lost. She wanted to ask after Herb but couldn't with him right there. He hadn't moved, and wouldn't, out of pride or infirmity she didn't know.

“I don't think I've ever seen you drive this car before,” she said.

“On the highway it's fine. You'd be surprised, you get used to it.”

“You're brave,” Emily said.

When they'd said their good-byes (she and Arlene craning their heads through the open window to give Herb a scratchy kiss) and the Wisemans had driven off, she puzzled over her own remark, wondering what part of it was directed at herself, self-congratulatory after the fact. They were only driving to Buffalo. She could tell from Herb's mushroom color what was in store for Marjorie, the hope and panic, the preparation and the waiting. She'd have to call her when she got home, already dreading it along with the bills and her estimated tax payment, and reluctantly added it to her list.

“Are we ready?” she asked Kenneth, to get him going, and he dragged himself inside to find the sunblock.

Arlene took the rocker on the porch, her mission forgotten. The Wisemans had crushed whatever momentum they had, changed the tone of the whole morning. Emily didn't dare sit down or she would succumb too, and she couldn't afford to, not now. At home she'd have nothing but time to dwell on these things. Today she was playing golf.

She lugged her clubs to the back of Kenneth's car and figured out the latch, got a good grip and hefted the rattling bag in, surprised at how light it was. She'd always taken care of herself, and her mother had lived to be eighty-three. Again she thought of trim, prim Marjorie. They could each have another twenty years, hunched and shrinking to nothing inside their empty houses until the children worried for their safety and installed them in old-folks' homes.

Kenneth came out of the house with his bag, walking flat-footed, fussing with his zippers, taking his sweet time.

“Let's go!” she called, a tough coach. “Come on, Maxwell, let's see some hustle!”

Lise heard the car start and turned her face toward the open window for a minute—the curtains motionless, the chestnut dusty and sun-dappled beyond the screen—verified the familiar engine, then turned back to the page with Harry eating Christmas dinner, hundreds of plump roast turkeys followed by flaming Christmas puddings and crumpets and cakes. Filch, Professor Snape and Professor Flitwick. It was like Dickens, everyone had funny names.

Across the room, Sarah opened the bathroom door and clicked it closed behind her. Lise checked her watch on the cedar chest. It was still early. Meg was asleep, and Ella. Outside it was blinding, but inside the light was flat, the room shadowed. Emily was gone, and she was free, the whole morning hers. She slouched down, curling her back, making mountains of her knees, vowing not to get out of bed until she absolutely had to.

Sarah took Rufus with her—any excuse to get away from them. Aunt Arlene was busy taking pictures and didn't ask to tag along, just looked at her funny, as if it was too early for her to be up.

“It's so nice,” Sarah said, “I thought I'd go over to the ponds.”

It was simple lying to her, she didn't even have to try. With her mother it was tiring, keeping track.

I hope we can still talk the way we used to.

She hated the way people said they were sorry about things like it wasn't their fault, like someone else was doing them. Like Mark apologizing when he was getting what he wanted.

It was sunny and she'd barely slept, and the walk seemed farther than usual. Her stomach hurt. There was nothing in it, but she was sure she'd throw up if she tried to eat anything. The hot asphalt smell of the road reminded her of last month, riding her bike past the mailbox, the slow days she waited to hear from him, and she felt stupid and pathetic, let down again.

The hardest thing was not being able to talk to him, to scream at him all the things she'd thought of last night, to ask him why. At least with Colin she'd told him face-to-face. “I think we should break up,” she said, not “I want to break up.” It wasn't a request. She had reasons if he needed them, as if he might agree with her, think it was a good idea. She didn't say she was sorry. Once the words were out and she could see his face change, she thought he would hit her, but suddenly he was helpless, blinking and red-cheeked, stunned, saying he didn't understand, asking her to explain, and she knew it would be easy. She wanted it to be over and for him to go away, but otherwise she felt nothing, not even relief, just a dull impatience like a headache.

That was how Mark felt about her now, and she was just as confused as Colin had been. “What did I do wrong?” Colin had asked, and
she'd tried to be nice, saying, “Nothing.” Now she saw how useless that answer was, how cruel. It said, There's nothing you can do, so don't try. You don't exist. It was the same feeling she had after her father dropped her and Justin off, when he said he'd have to ask their mother if a certain day was okay—the feeling of not being wanted the way you wanted someone else. She knew it too well.

And still, she wanted to call the camp office long-distance and talk to him. She'd started a dozen letters in her head full of biting lines, selecting exactly what she could say to hurt him—that he was clumsy and dumb, a child—and then pulled back, thinking they weren't true, not completely.

The terrible thing was, she didn't even like him that much. She'd known it from the start. She never expected him to write. All July she'd been fooling herself. It was the time of year more than anything. She'd felt the same loneliness last summer at Grammy's, spent the cool, buggy evenings wishing she were home, and then when they were back in Silver Hills she couldn't stand her room, the stuffed animals and yellow walls reminding her of how long she'd been in that house, how long she still had to go.

The thought of school starting soon only made things worse. She'd wasted the whole summer. She was supposed to be excited—“Think of all the new people you'll meet,” her mother gushed—but secretly she was afraid. She didn't think it would be that different from middle school, the same gray routine of the bus and the cafeteria and band practice while the weather turned, the days growing shorter, made up of phone calls and homework, but the place was huge and Liz's parents were sending her to Dearborn Academy. For the first time since kindergarten they would be split up. When she asked her mother how much it cost to go to Dearborn, her mother laughed and said, “Too much,” as if she couldn't be serious. Her father said the only reason they moved to Silver Hills was for the school district. “For you kids,” he said, as if it was a sacrifice and she was supposed to be grateful.

Rufus pulled her toward the shortcut, passing the empty A-frame. The grass hadn't been cut, and the ditch by the road was high with black-eyed Susans. Ahead of them, insects circled out of the woods, specks caught in the light, then swung back into the shadows. Rufus padded along, panting, a drop hanging from the tip of his tongue. She'd have to make sure he had water in his dish when they got back.

She heard the truck before she saw it, jolting and squeaking over the road to the marina. Her first reaction was to hide, to duck into the cool woods, tugging Rufus with her, but it was coming too fast and on principle she didn't want to give in. Fuck them. She saw the black shape of it flashing through the leaves and thought it was a van or a big pickup towing a boat. It was only when it crossed the intersection ahead that she saw it was a small dump truck hauling a trailer with lawn mowers on it. In the bed, leaning on the back of the cab, were two guys in baseball caps and T-shirts, and without seeing their faces, she knew one of them was him.

They hadn't seen her, and for an instant she stopped, trying to decide whether to turn around and hurry and cut them off or pretend she hadn't seen them. Rufus looked up at her and then back down.

“You're a big help,” she said.

She thought of how desperate she'd been with Mark, and walked on, slowly, checking over her shoulder, and when the truck crossed Manor behind her, she kept going. She wasn't going to run after it waving her arms. She didn't even know his name. She didn't even know if it was him.

If he was cutting their lawn, she didn't want to miss it. There were only two days left—one, really, since today had already started.

She kicked a white stone from the A-frame's driveway and watched it skitter and hop along the asphalt, adjusted her course and caught up to it and kicked it again, and then again until it slid off into the weeds, and by that time she was almost to the road, her mind filling with possibilities.

The sun made her squint, the flat ponds shadowless. The crooked lines of tar used to fix the road were soft and smelled strong, intoxicating as magic markers. There were no cars coming, so she walked Rufus down the middle, past the hatchery. The same official pickup stood by the door of the building, the same hum of a pump coming from inside. Once they left the road and climbed the dirt path up the side of the dike, she took Rufus off his leash.