All Your Pretty Dreams (34 page)

“
But eventually, sooner
than you expect, the draw comes again, lightening your burden. The
sun shines. You find your own way, your own music. Write your own
song on the music of life. Times are good and you forget. Then
poof, something else goes wrong. It will happen again but don’t
dwell on that. Accept it. It is the way of the squeeze box. Don’t
wait to enjoy the good times. Press in, draw away. Life is ups and
downs, ins and outs. You can’t stop it. And if you’re smart, you
don’t try.”

Jonny looked into the old
man’s blue eyes, bright in the midday sunshine. For an old man he
had such an optimistic view. Realistic but hopeful. He wouldn’t
feel down about having a weird family, a chirpy little wife, a
grandfather’s demise. Claude would say, “
C’est la vie.
That’s life. On to the
next thing.”

Jonny felt embarrassed, for
his mood, his crazy funk of a year. He was young, relatively
speaking. He had made mistakes, yes. Had some family traumas, yes.
But no more than others. He had time that Claude would love to
have. He would move on, figure it all out. Should he feel ashamed
that his marriage had collapsed? Embarrassed that he was born into
a polka band? Depressed that he felt lost and alone sometimes? He
could only be true to himself. That was difficult in a family, any
family. Just figuring out who you were, independent of all of them
and next to all of them. Deciding what worked for you, what you
believed. All that was difficult. That was life.

Was that what Claude was
saying? Jonny leaned closer but the old man was now only tapping
his fingers to the beat of the rock and roll. He had said his
piece. Maybe Claude was just saying change would come, like a key
change. Don’t fight it. Just get your fingers ready and press the
box with all your heart.

The recorded music from
inside the grain bin suddenly swelled. Standing like an army bugler
next to the visitor’s center, Artie pulled up to full height and
put his trumpet to his lips. The notes soared, high off the brick
facades, higher than the bare tree branches, into the sky. He
played along with the E Street Band’s ‘10
^th
Avenue Freezeout.’ Everyone
laughed as Lenny tried to wrestle Wendy’s trumpet case away from
her. She shrieked and giggled, swatting him. “Only one big man
joins the band, sister,” he cried.

The crowd thinned. Lenny
grew tired of handshakes. He stood Jonny in front the grain bin and
took about a hundred photographs destined for a brand spanking new
town website courtesy of the new mayor’s computer business. Just
before they got in Artie’s car to return to Minneapolis, Wendy
grabbed Jonny’s arm.

“
You know I’m right,” she
whispered.

In the front seat, Sonya
moaned and stuck her head out the window to get fresh air, leaving
Jonny shivering. Artie said, “She gets this way a lot. Mostly in
the morning.”

Jonny looked at his brother
in the rear view mirror. Morning sickness? Was Sonya pregnant?
Artie wiggled his eyebrows and cracked the biggest smile Jonny had
ever seen on his brother’s face.

Jonny slapped him on the
shoulder. “No wonder you were tooting your horn.”

The divorce was final two
weeks before Christmas, in those gray, cold days Minnesota does in
style. The sky was low and glowering, full of muttering
advice:
Gird your loins. Stack firewood.
Buy boots
. Jonny got the call at work from
his lawyer on a Wednesday that Cuppie had signed the
papers.

That Friday he left the
office early. He had worked enough late nights and weekends for
Jill Martel to take another month off. Now it was three in the
afternoon and he was halfway towards getting drunk— anything not to
go back to the sterile apartment— when his new cell phone
rang.

“
Jonathan Knobel?” A
woman’s voice, very smooth. “We are thrilled to inform you that
your converted grain bin has won first place in the GGT Architects
Sustainable Building Contest. Thank you so much for entering. There
were some very creative ideas presented. You should be
proud.”

Jonny managed a “Hold it,”
while the woman took a breath. “Who is this?”

She mumbled a name,
Dorothy somebody, and repeated “GGT Architects in Chicago,
Illinois.” Before he could ask more she ran on: “There will be a
reception in Chicago on the 21
^st
. We’re hoping you will be
able to attend.”

He set down his beer. “I
have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She began to repeat
herself. He interrupted: “I didn’t submit anything.”

“
This is Jonathan Knobel,
correct? You are the designer of the ‘A-Round Red Vine Tourism
Center?’”

“
Well, yes. But— how did
you get this number?”

“
From your submission
materials. Now if you’ll give me your email address, you did leave
that off the form, I can send you all the information. We look
forward to seeing you very soon.”

He gave her his email
address at work then called Lenny. “Somebody just called saying I’d
won some contest. Is that your idea of a Christmas
prank?”

“
The mayor does not
prank,” Lenny said. “What kind of contest?”

Jonny told him. “You didn’t
submit it?”

“
The water treatment plant
is at capacity and we still need to move the damn landfill. Mabel
in payroll is hinting at a Christmas bonus. Shirley keeps trying to
push me under the mistletoe. If you won, enjoy it. Don’t be so damn
gloomy.”

“
So you deny
it.”

“
Categorically, my good
man. I put the photos on the website but that’s it.”

Jonny set his phone down on
the counter and finished his beer. Had someone done this to
embarrass him? Was it just a crank call, someone pretending to be
from Chicago? He called back on the number of the woman who said
she was from GGT Architects.

A younger woman answered.
He asked for Will Franklin. She put him on hold. Franklin did work
there. Maybe it was legit.

Will Franklin was a little
confused by Jonny’s tone until he explained he hadn’t entered the
contest himself. “Who submitted the photos?”

It was all done through the
website. All the contact info was Jonny’s. He began to suspect he
really had won the contest, and that Will Franklin was serious in
his praise of the grain bin. Despite its humble and decidedly rural
nature.

“
Will you come to the
reception?” Franklin asked. “We want to blow up some of the photos
and get you to talk about it. We’ve invited some reporters. The
runner-up will be there too.”

“
What’s his
design?”

“
A solar outhouse. Burns
the waste. Perfect for off-the-grid cabins.”

At least he had the
outhouse beat. Maybe he’d go. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else
to be. When he woke up a week later on that Saturday morning, too
early and with a mouth full of cotton and a headache from the night
before, the choice was either get drunk again or go to
Chicago.

He went to
Chicago.

Chapter 23

Isabel stretched out under
the covers. It felt good to be home again. Living with Lillian
Mendel didn’t count. Her time, space, and energy was not her own
there. After the holidays she would find her own place.

Hard to believe the entire
semester had flown by while she taught the professor’s classes and
tended to her needs. Dr. Mendel was back on her feet, out of her
cast and using a walker, but hardly her old self. She didn’t drive
yet, although Isabel suspected she just liked having a chauffeur.
Isabel had been taking her to the campus and back every day. And
doing her errands, grocery shopping, taking her to the hairdresser.
It was exhausting but she’d stuck with it. She could in all
conscience move out and be assured that her professor would be
fine.

She sat up in her bed. The
drapes were pulled against the thin winter morning. Boxes from the
summer were stacked under the window. She’d never had a chance to
get back here for them. Downstairs she heard her mother’s voice,
then her father’s, anxiety in both. Tonight was Daria’s engagement
party. Her mother was talking about the caterers, her father about
the wine list. Poor Daria. Her night and she had nothing to do with
it.

On the closet door a
garment bag held her dress for tonight. Daria had picked it out,
with Edie’s help, no doubt. Isabel stepped out of bed and unzipped
the bag. The dress was soft and short and drifty, way too girly.
But at least there were no ruffles and it had sleeves. And a pearl
gray, far from pink, thank god. She stripped off her pajamas and
pulled the dress over her head. It was tight and she struggled,
reaching around and zipping it.

In front of the mirror she
gasped a little. Christ, her breasts were smashed up like a Jane
Austen heroine! She could barely breathe. The tight bodice was
pleated in gray chiffon that then floated down to her knees. She
fingered the soft fabric. It was lovely but they bought the wrong
size. She would get them to take it back.

Before she could get the
dress off a knock came at the door and Daria stuck her head in.
“You tried it on, good. Do you like it?”

“
It’s too small. Look at
this.” Isabel pointed to her cleavage.

“
That’s the way it’s
supposed to be. It’s beautiful.” Daria spun her around. “Try on the
shoes.” Isabel worked her toes into the sandals, a ridiculous
choice for December. “The color isn’t exactly right. I told Edie it
would wash you out. But the dress is perfect, Iz. You look
fabulous.” She adjusted the long, gauzy sleeves over Isabel’s
wrists.

“
But it’s your night.
Nobody cares how I look.”

Daria shook her head,
smiling, and headed for the bathroom. Isabel squinted at herself
one last time in the full-length mirror and sighed. She had nothing
else to wear.

In the kitchen her mother
asked her sharply how she was feeling. Isabel was back in jeans and
t-shirt, her bare feet tucked under her. She scooped up the
scrambled eggs and toast Solana served her. Edie sat across the
table, dressed in red cashmere with full makeup, frowning. “No
headache? Because you must have had too much to drink.”

“
What do you mean? I
hardly had anything.”

“
Then why did you sing at
that ridiculous bar?”

Edie hadn’t been invited to
go out to clubs with Daria and her friends last night, a sort of
pre-bachelorette party, but Isabel had. They ended up at a karaoke
bar. Isabel had been pleased to find a slow, romantic song by
Corinne Bailey Rae that she liked and was even more pleased that
she managed to get through it.

“
Oh, that.”

“
Yes, that. I’ve had two
calls this morning already.”

“
What about?”

“
It’s on the internet,
Isabel. Everyone is watching it.”

In a few minutes Isabel and
Daria, flanked by their irate mother and amused father, stood in
front of the computer in the den. There on a video site was Isabel,
singing with her eyes shut, cradling the microphone like a pop
star. “Who shot the video?”

“
Julia. Remember her
little camera?” Daria glanced back at Edie. “It’s no big deal. She
sounds good. Who knew she had such a nice voice?”

“
She looks completely out
of her head,” Edie said. “You weren’t drunk?”

“
Nothing to be ashamed
of.” Daria put her arm around Isabel’s waist. “I think she was
great.”

Isabel retreated to her
room. She wasn’t embarrassed by the singing— her voice wasn’t that
bad. But the look on her face in the video was scary. She had maybe
one glass of champagne, that was all. She remembered exactly how
she’d felt once she’d closed her eyes and managed to forget about
all the people in the bar. Like her heart was broken. In those few
minutes her heart was definitely shattered. The words to the song
were about love, of course, and the impossibility of finding the
perfect man.

That
was
embarrassing. Everyone thinking
she had a broken heart and wondering who caused it. She sighed,
sitting at the end of her bed. Also on the internet was her little
toast to Daria, and the dedication for the song. “This goes out to
a special guy,” she’d said. She had been thinking about Jon last
night. The longer she went without seeing him— it had been months
since he’d come searching for Wendy— the more she thought of him.
Sleeping on the sofa at Dr. Mendel’s, working on that funny round
farm bin, sitting at the Owl, drawing pictures. Dancing with her.
Driving her home. It kept her sane in the little bedroom under the
eaves, a comforting tale, a fairy story, replaying the weekend they
spent together, burning every minute into her memory.