All Your Pretty Dreams (24 page)

“
It’s big. But
tasteful.”

“
Come on. You can do
better than that.” She squeezed his knee playfully. Last weekend he
had listened willingly to her tales. Now her edge seemed spiteful.
Was she jealous of the Yancey’s? He decided it was time to get a
scone. When he returned she looked at him sideways. “You’re into
that banker’s show-palace style. All cold marble and spotless
upholstery unsullied by the travails of human
suffering?”

“
I don’t have to live
there.”

He didn’t even know Isabel
was rich until a week before. It was a bit of a shock. He’d never
known anybody seriously rich. All his acquaintances, his colleagues
at work, were middle class. Some of the architects lived in fancy
houses, but they were cool modern ones they designed themselves.
What had Isabel called her house?
The
poster child of the bored and wealthy
.
Kiki seemed to agree on the subject of soulless interiors. She kept
going on about it.

A pretty girl, yes, but
with a dark side. He noticed now how she talked out of one side of
her mouth like a cigar-chomping politician. Her eyes were a little
too close together. She harped about the Yancey’s long after Jonny
lost interest. She dissected every shoe and earring, knew the brand
of Italian leather chairs, identified the painting over the buffet
from a River North gallery, discovered a wine spill on the carpet,
and condemned the shortage of forks.

Kiki had more opinions than
Isabel. He hadn’t thought that was possible.

“
I know you agree with
me,” she said, draining her latte. “Men just never notice things
like sterling versus stainless.”

“
It was a
funeral.”

“
Exactly! Why did they
feel they had to put on a show? Nobody really cares about these
things at such a sad time. The poor old man. They say he was out of
his gourd but clinging to the tentacles of power. Wouldn’t retire.
My mother worked for him for five years and he was so good to her.
So generous. Christmas bonuses and all that.”

“
So the family isn’t all
bad.”

“
Egon was a gem. The
others— well. I’m too polite to say.”

After forty-five minutes of
rich-bashing he’d had enough. On the highway he worried he hadn’t
gotten all the blood wiped up from the Mexican tile on the pool
house floor. He imagined Mrs. Yancey yelling at Isabel about the
mess. Did she yell? Mostly she seemed to smolder, if ice cubes
could smolder. He’d spent half an hour with a sponge, trying to
find all the blood spots and slivers of glass.

Ten o’clock and just
leaving the suburbs. Was Isabel up? He had debated about the note.
He pressed harder on the gas pedal. Forget about the summer. He had
to get this life of his back in the fast lane. Enough time in the
roundabout. The Fairlane roared past a minivan full of kids in
soccer uniforms.

Why had he written her
that note?
Idiot.

Chapter 17

Isabel searched the pool
house for a sign of him. The cups were drying in the sink, the
trash taken out, the blood washed away. She sighed and sat down at
the table. It was no good. She closed her eyes, trying not to
daydream about him. The knock on the patio door woke her up.
Howard, the gardener and driver.

“
Excuse me, Miss,” he
said, poking his head inside. Howard had worked for the family for
years, longer even than Solana. “I moved your boxes and cases up to
your room.”

“
You didn’t have to do
that, Howard. I’m perfectly capable of moving my stuff.”

“
Had to get the car out.
No problem, Miss Isabel.”

She hated it when he called
her ‘Miss.’ Like they owned the plantation. But it was a habit he
refused to break.

“
Thank you, Howard. You’re
the best.”

What did she have to do
today? Odd to have nothing planned, no work, no one asking for
advice or complaining about the food. The students were back with
their families, traveling home. She missed them. How odd. They had
been like a family in Red Vine, a vocal, partying, rambunctious
sort of family. As much as they annoyed her, she liked them. Silly
girls and nerdy boys. They had been— oh, man. They had been
fun
.

In the closet she found an
old bikini of Daria’s. A little skimpy, but good enough. She
grabbed a towel, some sunglasses, and a baseball cap, poured a Coke
into a plastic cup, and stepped into the sun.

Isabel woke to the sound of
an umbrella being cranked. The shade felt deliciously cool. She
blinked up at the sight of her father’s face. Howard was doing the
cranking on the big yellow umbrella.

“
You’re sunburned, Isabel.
Your mother was worried.”

“
What time is
it?”

“
You missed lunch.” Max
held out a cell phone. “Your phone’s been ringing.” He walked away,
dressed for golf in a pink polo shirt. Howard loaded his clubs into
the trunk of the Mercedes.

The damn phone. It read
3:09 pm. She’d slept for hours. Her legs were rosy and her stomach
was starting to sting. She opened the phone. Five
messages.

Slipping into the shallow
end of the pool she punched the buttons. The first message was from
Daria, yesterday. The next four were from her advisor, Professor
Mendel. The first came just after she’d gotten on the road home.
All asked the same thing:
Where are
you?!

Strange to get panic from
the professor. She pressed the numbers.

“
Isabel! Thank God.”
Lillian Mendel didn’t sound like herself. “I thought something had
happened to you.”

“
My grandfather
died.”

“
Oh, I’m so sorry.” A
rustling. Voices. “What bad timing. I hate to tell you this. I’m in
the hospital. Nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

“
Are you sick?”

“
I broke my leg.
Spectacularly. I was waterskiing in Wisconsin. I know, at my age.
I’m going to be laid up for awhile. I have a favor to ask. Would
you be able to take over my classes for the first couple
weeks?”

Isabel stepped out of the
pool, dripping under the sun. “I— what day is this?”

“
The semester begins in
ten days. Undergraduate advising starts next week. I had surgery
two days ago and I’ll be in what we used to call traction for at
least a week. Maybe more. There’s talk of a rehab
hospital.”

“
I’m so sorry, Lillian.
I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“
Oh thank you, dear. When
can you get here? I’ve been making notes.”

She remembered the Bug,
marooned in Red Vine. “I have to get my car back from Minnesota.
Two, three days tops.”

“
Monday?”

“
I’ll try.”

——

Jonny woke with a start.
The damp of the basement saturated the thin blanket and penetrated
his nose. What was he dreaming? The Fairlane. In Red Vine, or on
the road maybe. Going somewhere, the happy excitement of leaving
everything behind. Isabel curled on her side, eyes closed, her arms
hugging her knees, the sun glinting off her pale cheek. Her hair
alight. He reached for her and she evaporated.

Why was he dreaming about
her? It had just been that one moment, one kiss. He rewound the
note again and wished he could go back and tear it up.
Forget about it. Wipe this summer from your
mind.

He turned over on the sofa
and stared at the ceiling. The room was dark, a thick blackness.
The faint glow from a tiny window told him the hour was
dead-of-night. Maybe he’d watch a little TV. His brother had bought
a new one. Television would wake them. He made lists in his head.
Find an apartment, call the lawyer, pick up his stuff.

The return trip to Red Vine
had been like waking from a dream. The houses in town looked older,
shabby, paint peeling, trash in the gutters, the stores around the
square boarded up, deserted. Harsh sunlight scorched the sidewalks,
highlighting every crack. Leaves on the maples hung limp, waiting
for a breeze. Lawns dried to a crisp. Jonny swung by Lenny’s first,
to check on the grain bin. He found Lenny up on a ladder, painting
the funnel-shaped roof a shade of green affectionately known as
puce.

“
Hey, what do you think?”
Lenny was splattered with paint but grinning.

“
It’s
colorful.”

“
And cheap. They mixed up
eight gallons then the customer hated it.”

“
No kidding.”

Jonny stuck his hands in
his pockets. The door and windows were in place, waiting for
Lenny’s paintbrush. Jonny had promised to return to paint the
curling vine on the siding and work on insulating. The way Lenny
was going at it there wouldn’t be much left to do.

He stared at the old metal
walls, rust gone, shine restored. The grain bin wasn’t going to be
his savior after all. It wasn’t going to be the thing that lifted
him up from his funk, that transformed him into a new improved
version of himself. Why had he thought it would? It was only an old
rust-bucket grain bin. It would be fun, that’s all. Anything fun
wouldn’t be helpful. Helpful stuff, the stuff that makes you grow,
is hard work. It doesn’t drop in your lap with a smile and a box of
candy. He was going to have to face up to the reality of his life
back in Minneapolis.

“
Just came to pick up my
stuff.”

Lenny came down the ladder.
“So how’d it go with Queen Bee? She show you around the
hive?”

He didn’t want to talk
about her. “Good luck, Thunder. I know you’re going to win. Shoot
me an email at the architects.”

He found his mother in her
rose garden, a determined look on her damp face. She hugged him
without taking off her gloves. At his grandmother’s he was
surprised to find his father’s 1969 Ford pickup out front. Inside
he found Ozzie and Nora staring glumly at the carpet.

“
Did something happen?”
Jonny asked.

Nora said, “It’s your
grandfather. He’s taken a turn. They’ve moved him.”

“
To the
hospital?”

She nodded. Ozzie muttered,
“Going nowhere fast.”

“
I’m just heading out. I
picked up my accordion, and stuff.” His father looked up, a flicker
of interest in his blank blue eyes. “Unless you want me to leave
it. Maybe you could find somebody else for the band. If Stumpy
doesn’t come back?”

Ozzie shook his head so
slowly Jonny thought it might fall off. “The band’s
finished.”

Nora frowned. “What do you
mean?”

“
Finished for years. I
just didn’t notice.”

“
Your father wouldn’t
agree. You saw how much he enjoyed it at the mass. We always love
the polka.”

Ozzie gave her a soft,
pitying look. Jonny felt cut loose. The polka band, his father’s
lifeblood and obsession for nearly fifty years, would be no more.
Eleven years old and flailing the skins ever since. It was like a
death in the family. An inconceivable hole in the fabric of their
lives.

“
Is it because— “ Jonny
felt his blood chill. Was this where he volunteered to take over
the Notables, like Ozzie had taken over for Holti? Was this where
his guilt surged and he offered something that he would never be
able to give? Spots floated in front of his eyes. He saw himself
living in Red Vine, remarried to Cuppie, owning the Rainy Days,
playing in a polka band.

He had to sit
down.

“
It’s because of me.”
Ozzie stalked to the window. “Oldest living teenager in
Minnesota.”

Jonny took a breath. What
else was there to say? He hugged his grandmother, slapped his
father on the shoulder, and headed for the door. His father called
his name. “I’ll see you soon, son.” When had his father ever called
him ‘son’?

Jonny ran down the porch
steps as fast as he could. He pulled out of town just in time for a
thunderstorm to sweep in from the northwest, bearing pea-size hail
that pinged off the Fairlane like shotgun pellets. The fresh scent
of Canadian pine swept in as the highway filled with
puddles.