Commuters (28 page)

Avery woke with a jolt, an hour into the flight. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was and he held still as it slowly came back. It was a night flight; most passengers were either asleep or reading under yellow cones of light from the overhead panel. He raised the putty-colored window shade an inch or two—indigo swamp of clouds and wetness—and lowered it again. His shoulder ached (he was at least a foot taller than whoever they designed these crappy seats for), and his mouth was dry.

“Excuse me,” he called to a passing flight attendant, but she didn’t hear him and moved briskly up the aisle.

“You need to get out?” The man next to him asked. His wife was on the aisle, asleep with her head lolling forward, chin to chest.

“No,” Avery said. “Just some water.”

“You want a Coke? I brought it on for her, but she won’t need it. It’s taking up room here, anyway.”

“But if she wakes up?”

The man smiled, his face thickly creased. He was short and
thick, and had one wandering eye. “No, she’s good. She takes one of these little white pills and
zzvip
—she’s out.”

“Well—okay, thanks.”

Avery drank the warm soda. It was sticky and sweet, but it cleared some of the fuzziness from his head. He tried to ignore his pounding heart; he told himself it was just air travel—no little white pills for him—but the truth was that he had never been scared of flying. So, why wasn’t he happier? What was with these nerves? Where was the exultation in leaving New York, where was the soaring music meant to accompany this transition: the close of one part of his life, the beginning of another? This planeload of snoring seniors wasn’t exactly the setting in which Avery had pictured himself making his big move, going through with a decision—the first true one, it felt like—that he’d made all on his own.

He pulled the books he’d brought out of the seat pocket and weighed them. Both were paperbacks, picked up at one of those sidewalk tables set up just outside NYU’s hulking terra-cotta library. The books were slim, with torn covers and big print: Jim Kjelgaard novels, ones he had read and loved as a kid—
Big Red
and
Snow Dog
. Wooden stories about boys and dogs, and boys rescuing dogs, and dogs rescuing boys. Tests of courage and friendship. Avery flipped through and read a few pages, here and there. Yep. The writing was as bad as he’d guessed it would be, but he didn’t care. The sight of the books themselves—at the NYU table, here on the plane—brought him back to childhood, when a new Jim Kjelgaard title was a reason for real happiness. And now he suddenly remembered a Halloween from years and years ago, when he had dressed as Danny, hero of
Big Red
(in overalls and black watch cap, carrying a stuffed dog that looked nothing like an Irish set
ter). No one at any of the trick-or-treat houses had known who he was supposed to be, which pissed him off, but Avery remembered something his mother said. She rarely got home from work in time for this most important night of the year, and once she had even forgotten to buy candy to hand out. Nor had she been any great shakes as a costume maker; she had to be badgered into finding the black cap, for example, and she had pinned a dorky sign on his front that read danny. But that night—a year or two after his father had left—she had said emphatically, “So what?” to interrupt Avery, who was whining that nobody knew the story of
Big Red
, anyway, and they should have found a rifle for him to carry.

“
You
know who you are, and that’s the point.”

Avery snorted, on the plane. That was probably the last time Annette had said anything worthy on its surface of motherly wisdom, and it figured that the remark came unintended, as a random aside on Halloween. Still, it came to mind.

He unrolled the magazine he’d brought too—Winnie had insisted he take a copy, since she had a whole box, so he’d just stuck it in his pack. Flipping past a lot of dry-looking articles, at first he even overlooked Bob’s.

Avery stopped. He rolled up the magazine again and wedged it in the seat pocket. It wasn’t that he didn’t find Bob’s story interesting, sort of—though for a busted-head essay, there sure was a lot of random musing about Life—it was just…

Well, he was done with all that. With those people, all of them. It’s not like they were family, or anything. Without really noticing, Avery was bouncing his right leg up and down, fast.

“You from New York?” The man next to him said, eyeing Avery’s leg in a way that suggested he wasn’t
entirely
annoyed by the jittery motion, not yet.

“Hartfield.” It just came out.

“Yeah? Is that upstate a ways? We’re from Roslyn. On the Island.”

“It’s—yeah. On the New Haven line. You know Metro-North? Right. Anyway, that’s the one you take.” Avery hoped this would be sufficient. He had no idea where exactly Hartfield was, relative to the city, and he really didn’t feel like getting into a whole backing-down discussion about it.

“This your first time going to Italy? My wife went once, back when she was in school, but I’ve never been. So it’s kind of a birthday present, this trip. I’m turning sixty next year.” The man shook his head slowly.

“No, I’ve never been,” Avery said, pressing a hand down on his knee to stop its bouncing.

“You’re not on the package deal, are you? Apple Travel?” The man pulled a sheaf of folded pages out of his thick paperback
Rome: A Traveler’s Guide
. Through the yellow glow of their overhead light, Avery could see the shiny red apple logo, and the header,
Tour Itinerary
.

“No, I’m just…doing my own thing.”

“Yeah.” The man studied the pages. “They’ve got us on a pretty full program for eight days. Hope we don’t miss the forest for the trees, you know?” He held out the jam-packed list of sightseeing trips.

Avery, who was all prepared to pass on browsing through some boring tourist pamphlet, caught sight of the restaurant listed first:
La Graviata
.

“Wait. They have you going to
this
place? On your first full night in Rome? Uh, no. Let me take a look at that.” La Gravi
ata was name-checked by nearly every foodie website as the most overpriced, overrated tourist trap in the city. Avery scanned the rest of the itinerary, and then handed it right back. “You don’t want to go to these places. Here, give me your book.”

“This?” The man held up his
Rome
paperback. He looked at the printed itinerary uncertainly. “I think we’re gonna have to go with the group, since…”

“All right,” Avery said, having found the right section in the tour guide. “You got a pen? Good. I’m going to make some marks here. And no, you don’t always have to go with the group. You’re in Rome, it’s the best restaurant town in the world, and it’s your sixtieth birthday. You call the shots. Right?”

“Right,” the man echoed. “I call the shots.”

“Okay, so if this is a can’t-miss place, I’m going to put a star next to it. Do everything in your power to go. Seriously: beg, borrow, or steal. Forget the Coliseum, if you have to. And I’m not saying these are the expensive joints—most of the time, they’re going to be pretty cheap. Now, if it’s just somewhere really awesome, I’ll put a checkmark, and you should get to those too, whenever possible.” Avery bent his head over the book, whipping through the pages, looking for restaurant names he recognized or remembered, or for any descriptions that included the words
oxtail
,
grandmother
or
saltimbocca
. “Personally, I recommend skipping breakfast. You do that, you can probably fit in two lunches, and then a late dinner. Okay, when I put this—” He showed the man the squiggly blot he’d just marked. “It means stay away at all costs.”

“I thought you said you’d never been,” his seat companion said, but he was following Avery’s notations intently.

“Trust me,” Avery said. And the man just shrugged.
Why not?

He bent his head to the travel book and fought the big dumb smile that was spreading across his whole face. Nona had no idea he was coming; no one did. He’d switched the ticket yesterday; nothing could have been easier. All the stupid, necessary phone calls—he wouldn’t think of his mother’s sputtering response when he never showed at O’Hare—would be made from Rome, sometime tomorrow. Or maybe he would just e-mail them, Mom and Rich, and Winnie too? Even better.

Avery had no idea what he was going to say to Nona. He had not an inkling of how she would receive him, or what her face would look like that first time they met. He didn’t know if they would kiss right away, or not for a few hours. He didn’t know if he’d be humiliated in front of all sorts of smirking Italian guys—he hoped not, but he was willing to take the risk. A phrase from Jerry came back to him—
always like your chances
—and Avery considered this. He did. Sure, he could picture being sent away in disgrace, a big scene, lots of gaping from locals. But he didn’t think so. He liked his chances.

And so he worked his way diligently through the long list of Roman restaurants for this nameless man sitting to his left. They talked together quietly for a long time, there on the sleepy plane, and all the while Avery thought of the first moment he and Nona would sit together in a restaurant; he held it close, savoring something that hadn’t even happened yet—that might not even happen. He didn’t know where they would go or what they would say to each other. But he knew what to order—there would be
ciriola
and
murena fritta
; there would be
osso buco
and
semifreddo
. It would be laid out in front of them, the first dishes of this incredible meal, the aroma swirling around them, and the colors of the walls and
the wine, and he would wait just one moment—he promised himself, there on the plane—before beginning to eat. He would match that sensation with this one, and see if there was something to be learned.

And then, with Nona’s hand in his, Avery would take that first bite.

It was hard to sit still, even on such a hot day. The air in every room of 50 Greenham was thick and musty, but Winnie pretended not to notice. She moved from the living room upstairs to her bedroom, to get a drugstore magnifying glass, and then to the bathroom to study the tiny print on a prescription bottle of sleep pills (she hadn’t argued when Dr. Markson suggested them), which reminded her that a set of sheets needed to be moved from washer to dryer, and so it was down to the laundry room, just off the kitchen near the back door. Along the way, she stopped to pick up a pile of unread magazines, forgot the sheets and went to get the recycle bin. In the garage, she glanced at the small but heavy box packed with all those leftover cans of green-label soup; the cabinet that had held them looked so strange and awful now, empty, that she went out of her way not to open it, even if she needed salt or tea or tuna fish.

Even from the den, where she now stood, Winnie could hear shrieks and splashes coming from the pool outside. She peered out the window but couldn’t see anyone above the hedges that grew
thick and tall, close to the house—only flickers of water catching sunlight, and the occasional glittering drops thrown up by the wild waves Lila and Melissa must be making. For a moment, she lingered in the echoes of their shouting. And then moved quickly away, farther into the house. Earlier, she had brought out cookies and sweet tea, but to sit idly by a pool was just more than anyone could ask of her; there was too much to do inside.

For example, she hadn’t sorted these library books, on the table in the hall, in weeks. How on earth had she let that go? Winnie tried to remember which was due when—this new system, with one receipt-like printout, wasn’t helpful at all. Why had they started that, when the cards in the individual pockets worked so well? She flipped through a biography of Zora Neale Hurston—now surely, she had read this, even if the details of the woman’s life were slow to come back to her. The new Christopher Hitchens book would go back—she hadn’t tried it but never understood his appeal, anyway. Then there was that Jhumpa Lahiri novel that someone’s book club had loved, and so Winnie had checked it out, but now she worried that it was one of those two-week-only new-item loans. She carried the book over to the computer desk in the living room. You could do everything online now.

“EVERY MEAL I EAT CONTAINS SOME PART OF A PIG,” read the subject line in Avery’s e-mail, the one she had left up on the screen. He’d sent no message, just one photo of himself, wearing a spattered apron, grinning hugely next to a piece of meat hanging on a hook and giving the thumb’s-up sign. Winnie studied the expression on her—what?—one-time step-grandson, avoiding the sight of that pig dangling next to him. Avery was mugging for the camera, goofing off, but she detected, she hoped, happiness
there under the silly pose. He had mentioned nothing about Nona, but he wouldn’t still be in Rome, almost three full weeks now, if things hadn’t gone well. Would he?

Winnie slowly clicked shut the photo, and both Avery and his pig shrank away and disappeared.

He wouldn’t be there, in Chicago, when Jerry died. A pang went through her at the thought of Jerry slipping away without either of them at his side. It could be anytime now, Rich had told her, the last time he phoned. They had brought in hospice care for these last few weeks. But he wasn’t in any pain, Rich made a point of saying, twice. Jerry was comfortable; they were doing everything they could to ensure that. Winnie had said little in response to all of this. She thanked Rich for calling, though in part she wished he wouldn’t, unless it was to tell her that it was all over.

“I know she’s thankful for what you’ve done,” he said, a bit uneasily, before hanging up. He didn’t need to specify who or what.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Winnie had answered tartly.

“Mom?” It was Rachel, in the kitchen.

“Out here!” Winnie called. She took up a pair of reading glasses and peered at the screen. What had she—oh, yes. The library.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get caught up with everything,” Winnie said, clicking through the various menus. She glanced over her shoulder at her daughter in a bathing suit, dripping wet, with a polka-dot beach towel wrapped around her waist. “How’s the water?”

“Mom, why are you sitting alone in the gloom here? Come get some fresh air. And you should see Lila—she’s really putting on a show.”

“The air in here is perfectly fresh, thank you.”

“You know what I mean. Come be with us.”

“I’ll be right out. You go ahead. I’ll finish what I’m doing and then—”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

Winnie swiveled in her chair to look at Rachel, now perched on an arm of the love seat, shivering. Tiny rivulets of water ran off her bare legs onto the patterned carpet.

“That’s ridiculous,” Winnie said, exasperated, but Rachel only shrugged. She picked up one of the library books and riffled through its pages. Winnie understood that her bluff was being called. She studied her daughter, this tall, auburn-haired woman with such strength in her arms—it seemed Winnie had never noticed the muscles in Rachel’s shoulders, her straight back, her long, solid legs. She had always favored her father that way, Winnie thought, watching Rachel pretend to read the collected letters of James Baker. Tall, just like George.

“Bob says he has a title, for the book. Ready for this?” When no answer came from Winnie, Rachel went on. “
My Commute: Head Trauma, Recovery, and Finding My Way Back
.”

Winnie clicked through the menus on the library’s home page.

“Can you believe it?” Rachel said, but her voice was warm. “I mean, I can barely
get
the man to commute. To his job. Anyway. At first I thought it was a reference to the train station, with your father and all that—but apparently it’s
literary
. What do I know.”

“Commute,” Winnie echoed, eyes on the computer screen. The dictionary impulse was as ingrained as ever. “To change, or exchange. To give one thing in exchange for another.”

There was silence. After a moment, Rachel spoke again. “Bil
lie says no word yet, from the lawyers.” She was referring to the Realtor who was working with both of them. “It’s bogged down again.”

The lawyers had at first cautiously agreed to allow Winnie to put the house on the market, and then changed their collective mind. There were ongoing issues in the courts to be dealt with, long-lasting repercussions from Annette’s—and Jerry’s—lawsuits. So far, Annette hadn’t openly challenged Winnie’s right to 50 Greenham, but things might change, as Ed Weller had put it delicately, “later.”

“Well, looks like I win the steak dinner,” Rachel said, flipping pages in
James Baker: A Life in Letters
. It had caused Hartfield no small amount of amusement that both Rachel’s and Winnie’s homes were up for sale this summer, and Friedland Realty was taking bets in the office, they’d heard. Rachel’s reaction to all of it—50 Greenham for sale, not for sale, possibly Winnie’s, possibly Annette’s—had been strangely equable. Winnie waited. What Winnie had expected was a barrage of pressure, suggestions, and advice, but Rachel only continued to read, damply, on the couch.

“I probably shouldn’t have done it,” Winnie said, looking down at her hands on the keyboard.

“Done what?”

“Put that pool in. You were right, it’ll make the house that much harder to sell.”

“Maybe not,” Rachel said. “People want different things—you never know. And it’s beautiful out there, today, that’s for sure. Come see.”

Winnie smiled briefly at this attempt to make her feel better. But it couldn’t work; everything about that pool reminded her of
Jerry, and of her own folly and willfulness; and of how lonely she was.

“I don’t even own a swimsuit.” Winnie had meant to say this lightly and was caught off guard by the way her voice shook.

“Mom,” Rachel said.

“Just—” Winnie held up both hands, warning her away. “I need to be alone, all right?”

She stared at the blurry screen, unseeing. But by the time she turned around, different words half formed in her mouth, Rachel had gone, having left the book behind and wet patches on the couch cushions.

Damn. After a while, she stood and went upstairs. The door to what had been Jerry’s room was closed, and she passed quickly, eyes averted. In her own room, Winnie wandered about, picking things up and putting them down. She started to run a bath, and then abruptly turned the faucet off. She took off her shoes and lay down on top of the bedspread, intending to rest, but rest wouldn’t come; around and around, she heard the words she had spoken to Rachel, so harshly. The muted shouts and splashes of her granddaughters bounced around the room. Winnie lay flat on her back, eyes open. There was the clock on the nightstand, an implacable tick. The walls in here were thick and soft, paint layered over paint, the ceiling moldings now blurry, almost indistinct.

She thought about the small, lovely party the week before; Rachel had organized it, to celebrate Bob’s essay now running in
The Atlantic
. They had gathered in the back room of Mary’s Café, only ten or so guests, plus Winnie and the girls of course. Everyone invited was cheerfully asked to pay for their own meal; about
this, Rachel was lighthearted, practical. There was wine and tea sandwiches and a dense, dark chocolate cake with raspberry sauce. After much urging, Bob had stood to read a short section of his article; Winnie didn’t remember which.

Her attention had wandered away from the words, and instead she watched her daughter, from across the table. Rachel’s hair was down. It caught the light each time she moved her head, brushing her shoulders. She had an arm slung over the back of Lila’s chair, and occasionally she would exchange a look with Melissa—
careful, don’t spill that
—or reach up to twist her earring. But all the while she was listening, as Bob read. Winnie saw how her eyes flicked up to him at a certain line, and how she nodded, slowly, almost imperceptibly, as he described something.

Jerry’s absence was a physical thing, a raw wound.

Dust motes spun in the air above the table. The guests were still and attentive, her granddaughters were close enough to reach out and touch, and Rachel’s smile was slow and real, as Bob’s voice filled the room.

Winnie sat up on the edge of her bed. She tied her shoelaces and went carefully downstairs. She held in her mind the image of Rachel that night, hair flowing around her shoulders, the ease about her. A sharp pain broke through when Winnie thought of the rich pleasures of a long marriage, and the inevitable bad patches—
we won’t have that
, she thought, meaning Jerry. And then, after considering:
I’ve had that
. Meaning George.

By now she was at the front door, and when she pulled it open, the welcoming puff of warm air on her cheeks and throat really did surprise her with its freshness. The noise from the girls grew
louder as Winnie went down the front steps, closer to the pool. They hadn’t seen her yet, the four of them by the water. Rachel was sitting on the edge of a chaise, the towel still wrapped around her waist. She had her sunglasses on, so Winnie couldn’t see what expression her face held. Next to her was Bob, in a swimsuit and baseball cap, with his hand on her curved back. Melissa floated in the water, slung over a plastic foam noodle. She was shouting instructions at Lila, who was standing still and straight, and beautiful, on the diving board. The impractical but regulation diving board that Winnie had had installed for just this reason, her diving-star granddaughter.

Winnie gripped the stair railing. Late afternoon sun ignited the water, nearly blinding her. Bob chimed in with a different request for Lila, and Melissa tried to overrule him. They argued over what dive she should perform, and all the while Lila waited patiently, a hand on one hip, her long hair twisted up into a smooth knot.

Past her was the low stone wall that bordered Greenham Avenue, and just past that the Realtor sign staked deep in the soil, a white plastic board that swung gently on two hooks. Across the street, on the corner, the Greenbergs’ flat red Federal. As her gaze traveled past the front of the house, Winnie caught a glimpse of Vi through the picture window in the kitchen; her small gray head was bent to some task, although now she moved out of sight, called away. Down the hill that led away from Greenham, only the tops of the trees were visible, their highest branches waving back and forth. Past that, the fading blue of the summer sky, patchy with clouds. From where she stood, Winnie couldn’t follow the streets that spread to the edge of Hartfield on the western side, the ones
that traveled into Mount Morris, and from there to the highways, and the wide hills of the surrounding county.

She must have said something out loud, although her voice was rusty and hardly carried. Because now they turned to her, one by one, each face turned to her standing there above them on the stairs. Rachel took off her sunglasses and put them on top of her head. The water lapped and sparkled. Wind blew by softly, with a faint trace of chlorine. Her family waited, so Winnie cleared her throat and tried again.

“How about a reverse pike?” she called out, meeting Rachel’s eyes. Lila smiled. “That one’s my favorite.”