August and Then Some (22 page)

We let each other go. Ricky runs his thumb under his nose like a boxer. We stand facing each other for a bit, letting the familiar sounds of the garage take us down a level. Ricky sucks an epic breath in then out. “Your dad?” he asks.

“I saw him.”

Stephanie and I sit in the back of a cab headed up the FDR Drive. I hold a brown paper bag; she's got a pocketbook in her lap. Today the city looks at us with the eyes of someone about to take a nap. Streets are wet from the early morning rain. Clouds and fog hold a low ceiling over the city that our tallest buildings disappear into. Streetlights and headlights glare through the mist on the highway, and tires spit up water from the asphalt sounding like long ripping sheets of paper. The East River and the sky are the same gray. A red halo frames the giant Pepsi-Cola sign; water taxis' lights disappear midway across the river. It's the kind of September day that feels like it never really broke.

It's somewhere in the upper sixties. People on the path that separates the river from the highway wear shorts and t-shirts, but keep their hands in their pockets and turn their heads to the wind. Soon we'll be wearing sweatshirts and sweaters, leaving sunglasses at home. We'll drink hot things, look for restaurants with fireplaces, and put outdoor café tables inside. The homeless will go back to sleeping near subway grates and exhaust fans. Women will start carrying more hand cream. Streets lucky enough to have trees will be lined in yellow and orange. The
weather will bring us a feeling of accomplishment for having made it through another summer.

I lean my shoulder into Stephanie's. “What time you got?”

“Twelve.”

“Why did we leave three hours early?”

She shrugs.

“Damn,” Stephanie says, “my ankles are already swollen. That shit ain't supposed to happen yet.”

“Yeah, but just think of all the amazing things that'll happen to your boobs.”

“I'm really looking forward to stretch marks.”

“You're young, you'll bounce back.”

On the bike path a kid with pants sagging six inches below the band of his underwear stands on the wheel pegs of his friend's bike and holds onto his shoulders. Parents ride behind their kids yelling for them to keep their eyes on the road.

“You nervous?” I ask Stephanie.

She looks at me with a low-level panic. “Ask me about something else.”

“Can I see the pictures again?”

She unzips her pocketbook and pulls them out.

Lunie and Odalis. Odalis: curly black hair to her shoulders, blue eyes, hefty in the right places. She holds her daughter's hand and stands in front of a rough but warm-looking house. “Not for nothing, but your Aunt Odalis is hot.”

She backhands me on the thigh. “Pig.”

“I'm not saying it like that. I'm just saying.”

“I'm just saying give me back my pictures.”

“She's not as hot as you.”

“You're learning.”

The driver yells back to us, “Which terminal?”

“Delta,” I tell him.

We get off at the 34th Street exit and file through traffic until
we dip into the Midtown Tunnel and its yellow lights that form a path under the river.

“You gonna pay him back for the ticket?” Stephanie asks.

“No.”

“You gonna see him again?”

“I don't know. I guess. Maybe.”

“How about your mother?”

“I think I have to at some point. And want to. But Jesus, one at a time, you know?”

At Kennedy Airport some people get dropped off in Lincoln Town Cars, some pull suitcases from the trunks of cabs and slip their driver a little extra for the help. Some are left by family members who hug and kiss them then wave through their window when they pull away.

I hand the driver a small fortune, tell him to keep it, and turn to Stephanie who stares out the window with a face slapped by fear. I tap her leg, which startles her. “It's safer than a car. And much safer than a New York City cab ride. You ready?”

After she gets her boarding pass we find a metal bench.

“It's not too late to swim there.”

“Stop giving me shit.”

“I'm sorry. Truth is I'm really impressed.”

“Great. Listen, you a good letter-writer?”

“Um, why do you ask?” I say looking at the paper bag.

“Cause if your letters suck then you ain't coming to visit.”

“Since when am I coming to visit?”

“Since I'm sayin you should. We got good beaches.”

“Yeah, with barracuda, man. You better stay out of the water cause the barracudas'll starve trying to eat your skinny ass. For the love of the barracudas let the fat people swim.”

“It ain't gonna be skinny for too long.” She puts a hand on her stomach. We hold each other's eyes like we've been doing for the past two days, trying to say and understand things with a look.

“I got some things for you,” I say.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show me what you got in that bag.”

I reach into the paper bag. “Here. On the off chance it gets cold down there.”

“That's …” She unfolds it and holds it over her chest. “Thank you. It's my size.”

“I kind of figured. I don't think it'll puff out at the waist, either.”

She folds it again, puts it on her lap and pets it flat with both her palms. “She loved you, JT.”

I nod. And feel Stephanie looking at me when I do. My hand is in the paper bag holding my notebook hard. “What time you got?” I ask.

She checks her watch. “I got time to go.”

“OK.” I decide to loosen my grip. I slip my empty hand out and fold the brown paper over the notebook. We stand up, I grab the handle of Stephanie's luggage and we walk toward the checkpoint.

I've come as far as I can. She takes the suitcase handle from my hand. It's done except for goodbye.

“JT, would you do something for me?”

“Name it.”

“Don't ever shave your head again.”

I laugh a little. Then a lot.

“Done,” I tell her.

She smiles something knowing at me. An expression I hope will never fade from her face or my head.

She walks through the metal detectors, gets nodded through by security and doesn't turn around.

I walk to a window and watch planes line up on the tarmac waiting for their turn. Behind them is fog. On their sides: fog. In front of them there's more. I drop the wrapped notebook in
a garbage can to my left. It hits the rest of the trash without much of a sound. The first plane in line looks like it's struggling to gain speed, but is moving incredibly fast for something so monumentally big. It finally lifts off the ground, getting small but staying in focus. Waves of heat roll out behind it. It gets fainter the deeper it goes into the fog, but I trust it knows its course.

Throughout the years it took me to write this book, many people gave me their help and encouragement in different ways. You all sustain me. And make me feel so friggin lucky. I'd like to return your favors with the best food I can manage, but that would be a logistical nightmare. So allow me to unpack my heart with words.

THE HOME TEAM:

Sarah Chalfant, for believing my instincts are worthy.

Jin Auh, for always seeming happy when I call. And passionate when we talk.

Mark Richards, for keenly helping to shape and maintain my voice. No insignificant task.

THE READERS:

Alex Lyras, you read and read again. You're so smart and ballsy that I'd rob a bank with you.

Brian Prager, us being born hours apart was no mistake.

Cathy Day, you're a great teacher, reader and friend. You have a way of making me forget that so much bullshit exists. (Trust me, that's a high compliment.)

Floyd Skloot, you read, you encourage, you share fine port, and you've donated your sperm to a great cause.

Heather Nolan, a careful reader and strong friend.

Kathy Chetkovich, #2, you're so damn insightful, cute, and kind, that someone should name an ice cream flavor after you.

Shannon Kemly Riccio, you're a great reader and friend. It's a joy to have made it past intermission with you.

Alane Mason and Denise Scarfi for invaluable feedback on the early drafts.

THE SPACE-GIVERS:

Betsy and Michael Hurley, you gave me your house where much of this book was written, because you never doubt, and always support, what writers do. I never told you this, but I broke one of your wine glasses. Sorry.

The fine folk of New Martinsville. First Jill (because you're my favorite. Don't tell anyone I said that). Then in no particular order: Jeff, Soren, Lou, Joe, Carla, Swen, Jacob, Donna, and Gary. Thanks for all the open doors, borrowed cars, washing machines, showers, ATVs, copperhead slayings, cook-outs, falling trees, falling trees, Wiffle ball games, mowed lawns, mailboxes, hot tubs, garden vegetables, and chainsaws. It wouldn't have been a real writing retreat without them.

Eileen, Mark, and Joe Roland, your hospitality at the Manasquan Writers' Colony was invaluable.

THE RESEARCH TEAM:

Alan Gompers, you decided to talk to me before you were sure who I was, and you shared your experiences so freely. I mean, who does that?

Paul Ostensen, Scott Klein, and Deirdre Van Dornem, you all gave great legal counsel.

THE HEAVIES:

Gurumayi Chidvilasananda, the idea for this book came while I was living in your house. I hope to have honored that genesis with this story.

Swami Umeshananda, of the all wise things you've said that have made a huge difference to my mind and heart—and there have been many—what you said about my writing remains a classic: “I never tell people what to do, but you have to do this.”

Swami Vasudevananda, you've used the words “writing” and “destiny” in the same sentence and have made them utterly believable. You validate my light. Thanks for staying so close. You're the best kind of brother.

Goose, let me start my gratitude by thanking you for not getting bent when I threw my first manuscript against the wall and scared the dog. And let me finish my gratitude never.

Cover photographs © Cameron Davidson/Corbis (Manhattan skyline);

Transtock/SuperStock (car); David Turnley/Corbis (number plate).