Song of Summer (4 page)

“Yes! Tomorrow!”

Carter

The wind whips around me as I ride the New York State back roads early Sunday evening. I get lost in the trees and the woods and the farms. There are a few good things about getting away from civilization for the summer, and this is one of them. I ride under a canopy of trees and the road turns to gravel. I take a left by the Amish church and glance inside. A boy with a bowl cut is staring out the window. I wave to him and gun the motor up the hill, and the yellow Ducati rumbles beneath me.

Past a few ramshackle houses and farms, I find what I'm looking for—the parking lot for a park. There are a couple of picnic tables, a few charcoal grills, and a little pavilion. Families sit at tables or picnic blankets. But I didn't come for a picnic. I came for the view. I get the Nikon out of my saddlebags and start snapping pictures.

The hill I'm standing on is blanketed in green grass and white clover, overlooking the entire town and the expanse of blue that is Lake Erie. I see the steeple of the church in Westfield's park. I see little houses, like toys. White caps dot the waves of Lake Erie in the distance, and there are boats out—sailboats, barges… I can practically see to Canada. The sky is just beginning to turn colors.

Heaven. It looks like Heaven. Or at least what I think Heaven would look like. I don't often think about it, really. I wasn't brought up to follow any religion, but my parents encourage us to explore and try things out.

Sometimes I think that some people are born with a religious sense. And some aren't. You know? Like a lot of people are born with a sense of hearing. And I was not. Maybe there's some kind of a soul-sense that some people have, and I just don't have it.

The colors in the sky grow more intense. I take shot after shot but I need to get back before dark. Because I'm eighteen, New York State says my motorcycle license has no restrictions. In spite of the fact that I'm eighteen, my parents beg to differ.

Putting my camera away, I turn back to the bike and find a little boy, maybe six years old, and his maybe ten-year-old brother gawking over it. The little boy has reached his hand out, running it from the pommel to the back without actually touching the bike.

I walk up to them heavily. Sure enough, my footsteps turn their heads and their eyes settle on the helmet under my arm. The older one snatches the little one's hand back and both of their mouths start moving at once.

I think I see the older one say “sorry” in his blabber, and he starts to lead his little brother away.

I hold up a hand to stop him and mouth the words, “It's okay.”

I kneel down in front of the bike, next to them. They're standing, frozen, with big eyes. The younger one keeps glancing over at the bike. I put my finger to my ear and shake my head mouthing, “I'm deaf. No hear.”

The older one's eyes get even bigger, if that's possible. The little one takes it in stride. I hold out my hand as if to shake his. He looks at me and puts his hand in mine. I take his little hand and set it gently on the bright yellow pommel of my bike, right across the word, “Ducati.” His mouth makes an “o” as he pets it reverently.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see adult legs. It's their mother, from the looks of it. Her mouth is going a mile a minute and the look on her face is a cross between panic and apology.

I stand up and hold a hand out to stop her. She stops talking and looks at me quizzically. I put a finger to my ear and shake my head, mouthing the words, “I'm deaf.”

“What?” her mouth says.

“I'm”—I point to my chest—“deaf.” I point to my ear. “No hear,” I mouth, shaking my head.

“You're deaf?” her mouth says. Her foot starts tapping. “And you have a motorcycle?” She points at my bike. The younger boy is still petting it like it's an exotic animal. The older one looks up at her and shrugs.

I sigh and reach into my wallet to get my motorcycle license. I have shown it to more hearing people than I care to think about. People who really have no business in my business. I've never had to show them to a cop—not once. Just curious hearing people who have to know that I'm legally allowed to drive my motorcycle. She examines the card and nods, handing it back.

While I'm in my wallet, I take out my family picture. I point to everybody— my parents, my older sister, my little sister, and me.

She catches my eye. “Your family?” she asks, her lips overenunciating every syllable. One eyebrow is arched.

I nod, but I can see why she's skeptical: My dad is the quintessential white American male with graying hair. My mom's brown hair is “blonding” instead of graying (with the help of some expensive salon) as she gets older. She has a beautiful smile and light skin that tans easily. My older sister is obviously Indian. We don't really know what my origins are—probably South America, maybe Italy, maybe Greece—I guess there are DNA tests and stuff, so I could find out if I really wanted. But I'm okay—I have my culture. My little sister is blond haired and blue eyed. In short, we look nothing alike.

“Adopted,” I mouth and sign to the woman.

She nods and gives me a thumbs-up and a smile. I feel a tug on my shirt and look down to see the younger of the boys. He holds out his hand and points at the pad and pen. I dutifully hand it over and wait.

His mom settles a hand on his shoulder and reads as he writes. I zip the Nikon into my saddlebags and glance up at the darkening sky, trying not to look too impatient. The mom glances at me and holds up a finger, asking me to wait. I smile but can't keep my foot from tapping. After a few more minutes, the mom smiles and shows me the paper. “Thanks,” wrote the kid in scrawly handwriting. “You have a nice motrsikl.” There is also a picture of what is supposed to be my bike.

My smile turns genuine. “You're welcome,” I mouth, and sign. “And thank you.” I Instagram a picture of the paper before folding it up and shoving it in my pocket. Waving good-bye, I pull on my helmet and kick my bike into gear.

I ride out carefully. Downhill is tougher than uphill. Especially on gravel, with these turns. I finally ease out onto a paved road and gun it for home.

It's a good half hour before I roll into the Chautauqua parking lot and park my bike, wiping it down and covering it before scanning in and walking to the house.

My sister's playing some video game and my parents are out on a walk around the grounds. My phone buzzes. A text from Denise, my big sister who's still in NYC: “VP?”

“Sure,” I text back. I head up to my room to chat with her on the video phone, stopping to wash the motorcycle sweat off my hands. Denise's absence is most noticeable here in our “kids' bathroom,” an anomaly of our summer house, as we each have our own bathroom back in New York. I guess I never realized how many shampoo bottles, eye shadow compacts, and tampons she had until this summer when they're gone and our bathroom seems twice as big. After washing my hands, I step into my room with just enough time to answer the VP.

Denise's face is on the screen and I can see into the middle of her messy room way back in Manhattan. A pang of homesickness blindsides me.

“Hey little brother,” she signs, a smile lighting up her face.

“Hey.”

“Guess what?” She's got a mischievous glint in her eye.

“What?” I ask. “Matt give you a ring?”

“No,” she signs, like I'm the dumbest. She got to skip this year's summer in Chautauqua because she's twenty and she had to “work,” which actually means “make out with her boyfriend.”

“I'm coming to visit!”

I give her mock applause and she rolls her eyes at me. “Great,” I sign. “What does that have to do with me?” As siblings go, we're pretty close. She's only two years older than me in our relatively small school, so we share a lot of the same friends.

“I was wondering if I could bring Jolene.”

I bristle, trying to keep the teasing attitude I had before. “Yeah, sure.”

“You know, girls' road trip,” Denise continues, too bright.

“Why not?” I sign. “Why would it bother me?”

“Carter,” she signs. “It obviously bothers you. You are so transparent.”

“Why can't you bring Daniel?” I ask.

“Because then it wouldn't be a girls' road trip and he's not really my friend,” she answers. “Plus, isn't he at some summer camp?”

I sigh. He is at some summer camp. “Yeah.”

“So can I bring Jolene? That thing between you two… it was a long time ago and—”

“Bring whoever you want,” I sign, interrupting. “It's fine.”

“Carter.”

“It's fine! You're right! It was a long time ago and I should just grow up and get over it.”

She sneaks a smile. “You said it, I didn't,” she signs.

I mock applause again. “Very funny.”

“So I can bring Jolene?”

“You can bring Jolene. When are you coming?”

“In about a month—beginning of August.”

“Cool,” I sign, but, again, my face takes some convincing. Time to change the subject. “What have you been up to?”

“We've missed you! Saw the new superhero movie the today at Walter Reade,” she signs and I shake my head. There are no open-captioned theaters around here. Of course.

“Jealous,” I sign back to her.

“What did you do?”

“Hid in the house and played video games,” I sign. “Went for a bike ride. You know— Sunday. Chautauqua's open to the public. People everywhere. Not really my scene.”

“Lots of people? Oh no! You poor baby. That's nothing like New York,” she signs back sarcastically.

I give her a look.

“Anything else?”

“Saw some trees,” I answer. “And cows. Lakes. And… lectures. Pavilions. Amish.” I have to spell that last one. I don't know if there's even a sign for Amish. I pause for a minute, deciding whether I should say anything about the cute girl at the diner. I give in. “And a waitress.”

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “A waitress?”

Big mistake. I shrug, playing it off. “Yeah. A waitress.”

“A waitress… What kind of waitress… ?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything. No waitress.”

“Doubt it.” She grins.

She turns her head from the screen and says something with her hands and her mouth to somebody who's out of the frame.

“Sorry,” she signs, facing me again. “Gotta go. Matt.”

“Make good choices,” I sign, and she rolls her eyes at me.

“Good night,” she signs.

“Good night.”

I reach around and click off the computer. A waitress. I wonder if she works on Monday…

Six Weeks of Summer Left

Robin

“Anywhere ya want!”

The door swings shut behind me, and once again I enter the restaurant at 11:00 a.m.

“Hey, Violet. It's just me,” I say, sliding my purse into the cubby, pulling out my apron, and wrapping it twice around me so it skirts out over my hips.

I wave hi to Elsie, who helps with lunch on Mondays, since Violet gets out early. She's twentysomething and going through a divorce. She waves back to me as she looks through
Hair
Weekly
while making salads.

“Anything… interesting happen on Sunday?” I ask Violet as I write “ROBIN'S MARTIN DREADNOUGHT JUNIOR FUND” across a paper cup and set it on a shelf. Twenty bucks. Gunning for twenty bucks to put toward the guitar. It's a Monday, so that's ambitious.

She smiles at me. “No, he didn't come back yesterday.”

I laugh. “That's not what I was talking about.”

“It's not?”

She shimmies her shoulders, making a kissy face at me before staring absentmindedly out the plate-glass windows, her hands wrapping silverware seemingly on their own. It's second nature to her, like tying a shoe or typing. Her face lights up as Rex pulls up in their old Ford pickup. Mondays are date night- he has the day off from the factory and she gets off work early. He parks the truck and busts through the door, limping on his bad leg.

“Ready, babe?” he asks.

Her penciled-in eyebrows crinkle and her shoulders droop. “In a minute,” she says, nodding at the unfinished silverware.

“Gimme that. I'll finish it,” I say. It's not like I have anything better to do. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?

“Would you really?” It's like she's a 50s Disney movie.

I nod. “Yeah. Don't worry about it. Go be in love.”

She unwraps her loaded apron and hands it to Rex, hefting her purse from the cubby under the counter.

“Thanks, sweetie! See ya tomorrow!”

“See ya!” I yell after her.

“Bye!” shouts Fannie from the grill. “I'll call you later with that recipe!” She seems strangely incomplete without Violet.

“Hey.” Elsie sidles up to me after sliding the tray of salads into the cooler.

“Hey, what's up?”

“Nothing. It's dead.” She sighs and sits at the bar. Her limp blond hair hangs from its ponytail, brushing the bar. For somebody who wants to be a stylist, her own hair always looks a little lackluster.

Sometimes, on slow days, we just take a crossword and I sit at the bar and call out the clues: “six-letter word for nostalgia!” It's not like we'll get in trouble; there's no prayer of seeing the boss. I've seen him exactly three times—once when I was hired, once when he wanted breadsticks, and once when he brought his girlfriend to lunch. They got lasagna.

But today I want to rush. I want excitement. Since “rush” and “excitement” aren't possible on a Monday in Westfield, I take a rag and start going around the restaurant, dusting the Styrofoam-filled milk bottles, farming tchotchkes, and plastic-framed black-and-white photographs that cover the walls.

I sing along to the oldies with a porcelain cow as a microphone, upping Elsie's tip as her one table smiles at me bemusedly. Then a noise stops me in my tracks.