Songs for the Missing (18 page)

“Why don’t you just call him?” Lindsay said.

Sensible advice, but not helpful. Even if it was true, the last thing she wanted was to come across as needy. There was no romance in bugging him when he was almost home.

Five minutes stretched to seven, then ten. She had to stop looking at her watch.

For an instant the fear pierced her that he’d been in an accident. She dismissed it not because it was far-fetched—they happened every day—but because the odds were so long. She statistically denied the idea, aware of the flimsiness of her defense. She knew better than anyone that life was random, that lightning did strike twice, but, hurt and stubborn, she couldn’t imagine having to bear any more than she already was. It was the kind of wishful thinking she’d seen at work, and again she felt stuck on the wrong side of the window.

As she tracked an ant zigzagging along the floorboards, Cooper lifted his head and perked up his ears, making her turn. The block was empty. She didn’t hear anything, but he stood and joined her. He panted and then stopped with his mouth closed, intent, as if holding his breath.

“Who is it?” she asked, and he broke down the stairs and across the yard, barking, only the invisible fence keeping him out of the street.

“I can hear it,” Lindsay said.

Fran strained, and then she could too.

While it was gone she couldn’t have described what the Chevette sounded like. Now she knew the burble of its exhaust instantly. The purring resonated from a distance, hidden in the trees, slowly growing until the car emerged from the green halo of the oak in front of the Naismiths. It was him, puttering up the street. He’d told her about the bumper, but as he swung into the drive, she saw the damage.

“Oh God, Kim,” she said, and looked to Lindsay.

Cooper ran alongside the car, clamoring. Fran thought Ed would stop at the walk, but he kept going around back. The garage door clanked and rattled, retracting. As she and Lindsay turned the corner of the porch, he eased the Chevette into the empty bay, the door already sliding down behind it, sealing him in, and she felt cheated. She didn’t want the neighbors to gawk, but he could at least give her a chance to see it.

He came out the side door with his bag. In his T-shirt and jeans and hiking boots he looked thin as a teenager, and his limp was gone.

“You’re so tan,” she said, holding him.

“Careful, I stink. I think the air conditioner’s out of freon.”

She let Lindsay take her place and saw that she still had her book. Cooper yapped, jealous. It reminded her of a game they played—just a thing they used to do, a little in-joke. Ed probably started it. Whenever all of them were clumped together in a small space like the kitchen, the first person to notice would call “Whole family in one room.” She hadn’t thought about it in those terms—it was probably bad luck—but this was their whole family now.

Lindsay took his bag and led them toward the back door.

“Sorry I’m late. Cleveland was crazy.”

“I haven’t put the chicken on yet. You’ve got time to take a shower if you want.”

“That sounds good.”

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, and took his hand like they were in high school.

“So am I.”

She escorted him upstairs as if he didn’t know the way, then sat on their bed as he undressed. She wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost his paunch, his hip bones poking out. “Are you eating?”

“I’m eating fine, I’m just not sleeping.”

“You look thin.”

“It’s probably all the walking. It’s got to be ten degrees hotter in the city.”

He stepped out of his boxers and leaned across the tub to turn on the water. When he got in and pulled the curtain she pictured herself joining him, lathering his chest, and like so many other thoughts she’d had lately, immediately vetoed it.

“Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” she said.

“Great,” he called over the spray. “I’m starving.”

Out on the deck the coals were glowing a volcanic red. She set the chicken around the edges and closed the cover, then went inside and poured herself a glass of wine, congratulating herself for making it till seven. The potato salad was done, the broccoli would take ten minutes tops. She stepped out again and stood at the rail, sipping and following a jet silently chalking a line across the sky. From beyond the garage came splashing and the sing-song—“Marco,” “Polo!”—from the Finnegans’ pool. The roses along the garage were full-blown and starting to drop their petals, but what caught her eye was the side door. She still wanted to see the car. She had time, and she craved it now, as if she’d been deprived.

She flipped the chicken so it wouldn’t burn, set her wine on the rail and then, as if she were running away, crept down the stairs and across the lawn.

It was dim inside, suffocating, the air smelling of hot tarpaper and burnt oil. In the bare rafters there were wasps’ nests; one buzzed against the far window. As she looped around the Subaru and circled the Chevette the engine gave off a staggered metallic ticking. Besides the bumper the outside looked like it always did. She couldn’t resist gingerly placing her palm on the hood, as if taking its temperature. She trailed her hand up the slanted windshield and along the roof and dipped to peer through the driver’s side, naturally grasping the door handle to let herself in, only to discover it was locked.

Why would Ed do that?

She hadn’t asked him how the drive was. Not traffic, but being in the same seat as the person who’d taken Kim, if that’s what happened. As much as they wished things were different, it wasn’t just her car anymore.

On her way in she turned the chicken. It was almost ready for the sauce. She needed to be careful. Too early and the sugar would burn, too late and the coating would be goopy.

The spare keys to the Chevette were hanging in the back hall like always, but she could hear Ed moving around upstairs. She would have all kinds of opportunities tomorrow when he was gone. There was no rush. He was home. That was enough.

She got the broccoli going and stuck a toothpick in the mudpie to make sure it was setting. He came down in a golf shirt and cargo shorts, his hair slicked back, still wet. He wanted to help, but she told him to get a beer and go sit on the deck. It was too nice to be inside.

He arranged two chairs facing each other so he could put his feet up. While she brushed the sauce on he tipped his head back, basking with his eyes closed, one hand absently scratching Cooper behind the ear.

“Feels like Saturday,” he said.

“I was thinking Sunday.”

“Poke me with your fork if I snore.”

As she tended the grill she stole glances at him. With his stubble and his tan he had the same rugged look that came from spending all his free time at the ballfield or on the water. Summer had always been their favorite season. They’d met at camp, teaching kids to swim during the day and taking each other a little further every night on the musty mattresses of the rifle range. She’d been seventeen, and though she knew it wasn’t true, she felt like they’d leapt all the years in between and landed here, middle-aged and gray. They’d had a good life until now. She’d been proud of how long they’d been together, as if they’d weathered a test. She wondered if he had any private regrets, or did such mundane heartaches no longer apply to them?

“I talked to my mother,” he said.

“What did she have to say?”

“We’re supposed to see her next week.”

She felt bad for Grace—this was their time with her—but it wasn’t realistic. “What did you tell her?”

“I said maybe we could all come for Labor Day.”

“Maybe.”

Inside, the timer beeped, and they left the question at a stalemate.

The broccoli was just right, a little underdone. She poured herself a second glass of wine before calling Lindsay to help bring out the serving bowls. Though it was almost eight, Ed was still nursing his first beer. After so many nights alone she needed to pace herself.

As they sat down and reached across the table to join hands she became aware, as she did every meal, of the empty chair. It was so common now, after a month, that they no longer remarked on the obvious. Every table they owned came with four, and to banish one would be even more glaring, as if they were no longer saving a place for Kim. Instead, they included her in their prayers, asking God to bless her and watch over her. Because he was a guest, Ed did the honors.

“Looks good,” he said, giving Lindsay first choice.

“Go ahead,” Fran said. “I’ve been testing the sauce all afternoon.”

“Homemade?”

“This ho made it.”

Lindsay gave her a cross-eyed look.

“Well I did!”

It had been so long since she’d cooked that she’d nearly forgotten the pleasure of watching them eat. She wasn’t hungry, and sat back after her first piece, offering her second to Ed. Lindsay picked hers up and gnawed on it, kissing the sauce off her fingertips.

“This is exactly what I needed,” he said.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s really good.”

“A round of applause,” he said, and clapped in a circle.

This was the silly Ed she loved, and the quiet life she wanted for her family, down to the soft light of evening and the mellow buzz from her second glass, and because she could see how perfect the moment was, she did what she promised herself she wouldn’t do. There was no quicker way to ruin the mood. She could feel the tears building like a sneeze, hot and ticklish, and pressed her napkin to her face, jumping up and groping blindly for the sliding door, already sobbing.

He caught her in the kitchen and cradled her head against his chest.

“I know,” he murmured, “I know.”

“I’m so stupid,” she said, sniffling. “I wanted everything to be perfect, and then it was, and it just hit me.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“How’s Lindsay? She freaks out when I get emotional.”

“She’s probably afraid it’s contagious.”

The screen was open. “The bugs are getting in.”

“Fuck the bugs,” he said, to make her laugh, and she cried some more.

“I’m such a mess.”

“You’re my mess.”

“Lucky you, huh?”

Later, after she apologized to Lindsay and cut the mudpie and he helped her clean up, she wondered if that was all she wanted, for him to say they were in this together.

Having him home calmed her, yet she already dreaded him leaving. By the time they finally got the dishwasher going, it was dark out. Cooper stuck close to him, and unlike the nights they were home alone, Lindsay didn’t hole up in her room but stayed downstairs to watch the Indians game. They were winning, but the innings dragged.

They didn’t talk about Kim or discuss visiting his mother. He told stories about the motel. Last night there was a wedding party from England staying there. The couple had gotten married on the Millennium Force after-hours, saying “I do” on the lift hill and kissing down the long first drop. The story prompted Lindsay to remember the time she almost lost her glasses.

It was a legend, all she had to do was mention it and the scene appeared, their roles frozen forever. The girls were in the car right in front of them when the coaster leapt a hump and the glasses rose off her face. For a second they floated in zero gravity as if time had stopped, then slowly drifted backwards, caught in the slipstream. Kim turned and snatched at them but missed. Fran was holding on tight to the lap bar (she hated roller coasters, but went out of solidarity) and couldn’t let go. The glasses had actually swum past them when Ed reached back over the headrest and plucked them from the air. The freakish physics and heroic last-second rescue still amazed them, and yet, as they recapped the rest of their visit (eventful and expensive, never to be repeated), Fran thought: It was just a pair of glasses.

The Indians were threatening again.

“Come on, Pronk,” he said, as if he were urging on one of his own players, and clapped when the batter knocked in another run. They didn’t need it. The game was already out of reach.

As ordinary and relaxing as the evening was, she was afraid they were wasting what little time they had. Lindsay was curled on the far end of the couch with her book, Cooper dozing on the cool tiles of the fireplace—whole family in one room. They had to get up early so Ed could make the eight o’clock bus. Fran wanted to give in to the inertia, but even with him sitting right beside her, his hand on her knee, she felt like she was waiting, and was relieved when the game finally ended.

The TV clicking off brought Cooper to his feet. When she stood he bounded into the hall and spun around, wagging his tail and yipping as if she wasn’t going fast enough. Usually his frantic demands amused her—he knew he was going to go out and then get his treat and go to bed—but tonight she understood how routine could breed impatience. “Yes,” she said, “I hear you.”

Ed went around checking the windows and taking care of the lights. Since he’d been gone it was her job to batten down the house. She gladly ceded it to him. There was no way Lindsay would be up when he left, so they hugged good-bye at the bottom of the stairs. She took Cooper with her, closing her door, making Fran feel like she’d run her off.

They rarely prepared for bed together. She was used to having the bathroom to herself and some quiet time to read while he watched the news. Now she had to make the delicate decision of what to wear with him right there—not that she had much to choose from. Black was not an option, or red. She waited until he was brushing his teeth to get undressed, and settled on her white silk nightshirt, a conservative pick but a step up from her pajamas.

He was done with the bathroom, and by the time she moisturized her face and brushed her hair he was in bed. He lifted the covers for her. She’d changed the sheets, she said. She could feel the difference.

“After the Country Inn, this is paradise. Remind me to take my pillow tomorrow.”

“Did you want to try one of my pills?”

“No,” he said, “I think I’ll sleep tonight.”

In the hall, Lindsay’s door opened and the bathroom door closed.

“You’re not going to read?” he asked.

“No.”

He raised up to turn out the light, and as he lowered himself he leaned in, pressing against her shoulder. She twisted so he could kiss her.