The Laments (28 page)

LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED
. Love is in the air. Love makes the world go round. Love is a many-splendored thing. The songs on AM radio sang only to Will and every song was about Marina. They walked to school together, they walked home together. They slipped notes to each other in class. They signaled each other from their bedroom windows at night. The glue that bound them was teenage contempt for an adult world full of pretense and hypocrisy. Their love was sweet and infinite. On Valentine’s Day they wouldn’t be corrupted by candy and corny sentiment; those were for phonies and show-offs. Marina and Will carved their initials high up on an ancient birch tree, where the mark would remain for a hundred years.

WHEN THE ANNOUNCEMENT
was made at breakfast, the boys realized that the balance of power between their parents had shifted. Julia explained their plans, and this time the light of new adventure was in
her
eyes. Howard spent a considerable amount of time buttering his toast.

“Are we broke?” asked Julius. “I don’t want to be broke.”

“Nonsense,” replied Julia. “We’re just moving to a more affordable house.”

“Where?” asked Will.

Julia expected Howard to answer this question, but Howard’s attention was focused on removing every trace of butter from his knife.

“Darling?” she prompted him.

Howard blinked, and asked for the question again. “Queenstown,” he finally explained. “It’s not far from here, farther out in the countryside; you’ll go to a new school.”

“Well, I don’t want to move,” announced Will, hoping that he saw some leverage in Howard’s hesitation.

“Did Daddy get a new job?” asked Julius.

Julia turned to Howard, who eventually replied. “No, Julius. But Mummy’s got a job.”

The twins picked up on Howard’s ambivalence.

“Is it a
good
job, Mummy?”

“Of
course
it is,” Julia replied.

Marcus was most worried that he and Julius might be separated, but Julia assured him that they would be together, which left them with Will’s protestations.

“I won’t go. I’m staying here!” he declared.

I’M LOSING YOU
. Breaking up is hard to do. I fall to pieces. Only you. Curiously, the songs on the AM radio addressed his heartbreak, too. Now every song seemed to be about losing Marina. He wept on the way to school, and on the way home. They shared solemn glances across the classroom, knowing exactly what sadness each felt for the other. Nobody understood their pain. It was awful and exquisite and unlike anything that had happened in the universe before.

“I won’t be too far away,” said Will.

“Miles and miles.”

“I could call you on the phone.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“I could write letters.”

“My parents might not give them to me.”

The zeal with which Marina said this prompted Will to wonder if, in some way, she was enjoying this a little more than necessary.

“When I leave, will you forget me?” asked Will.

She paused. “Never.”

Marina told Will that there had been changes in her house. Mr. Himmel had traded in one of the Mercedes for a gleaming white Ford Galaxie, and Astrid had been sent to a boarding school in Vermont.

Will observed that Marina was going through changes of her own. She shed her familiar sweater and donned leotards, gray ones that matched her eyes and showed off her breasts. She threw out the barrettes and wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Once tentative and catlike, Marina now walked with a confident stride. She was no longer the mischievous girl who whispered behind his shoulder.

“You look beautiful these days.”

She smiled, playing with her hair in the dappled sunlight. Then she glanced back at him. “Do you like these?” she asked, fluttering her newly painted fingernails before him.

“No,” he said. “I preferred when you bit them to pieces.”

She smiled. “You’re so strange, Will.”

He looked at her with regret. “Yes, and you used to be
just
as strange.” When this amused her, he continued bitterly: “You’ll find somebody else, the minute I’m gone. . . . But I’ll probably find somebody else too.”

She searched his eyes, unsure if he meant to be so cruel.

“Probably forget you in a few weeks,” he added. “When you move, it’s better to forget people, or you’ll just be sad for the rest of your life.”

Tears welled up in her beautiful gray eyes. In another moment, she was sobbing. He wanted to grab her and apologize, but he resisted: better to leave than be left.

THE TRUCK THAT ARRIVED
on moving day was a six-wheeled leviathan that swallowed their possessions and proved that the Laments could vanish from University Hills without a trace. Across the street, the Imperatores watched without comment or farewell. Abby Gallagher made no parting gift; she had not forgiven the twins for their Halloween visit.

“I’m sure the people will be nicer where we’re going,” said Howard.

“Yes,” echoed Julia, “they would have to be.”

Julia recognized Howard’s attempt to rally the charge. If their alliance had been shaky, the move secured it. It was all part of the Lament tradition. Moving is good. Damn the neighbors. On to better things.

But just as they were getting into the car to leave, Rusty Torino trotted by with his terrier. “We’ll miss you folks,” said Rusty.

“Actually, I’m sure everyone will be relieved to see us go,” declared Julia.

“Not me, ma’am,” said Rusty sincerely. “You and the Himmels gave us an
international
flavor.”

If only he’d stopped before that line.

“International flavor? So we’re a
condiment,
are we?”

“That’s not what I—”

“And I suppose we offered a
handicapped
flavor, too!” Julia was helpless against her own sarcasm.

Though Howard was tempted to intercede, to smooth the ruffled feathers, he held back, relishing Julia’s desire for a send-off that would make them feel good about leaving.

“Look,” Rusty sighed, “what can I say? ‘Best of luck’? How’s that?”

“I hope you’ll give the
next
family an even warmer welcome,” concluded Julia.

“Sure!” said Rusty. “I was just going to ask you about them. Are they foreigners, too?”

“No,” said Julia acidly. “Americans. From Montgomery, Alabama.”

“Southerners!” said Rusty. “Great! Kids?”

“Three.”

“Ah, and what’s their name?”

“Washington.”

Rusty’s smile changed just slightly. “Washington? No kidding? Like Booker T.?”

Howard ordered the boys into the car.

“Are they black? They’d be our first black family. Of course, I do hope they’d be comfortable here. Sometimes people can be a little, well, hostile.”

He pressed his hand to his heart. “Not me, of course. I’m not a racist, but there are people less tolerant than me. . . .” He squinted at Julia. “
Are
they black?”

“Washington.” Julia smiled. “Such a patriotic name. I’m sure
they’ll
hang the flag on Memorial Day!”

WILL’S THOUGHTS WERE ELSEWHERE
; he was gazing at the blue house, looking for a trace of movement in the window. A sign. A farewell wave.
Something
. With the family waiting in the car, he ran up to the Himmels’ door and knocked. But no answer came from inside.
I’m sorry,
Will mouthed to Marina’s vacant window. He slumped into the car, slamming his door, head bowed.

“How far is it?” asked Marcus.

“Only twelve miles,” replied Julia as Howard started the car.

Only twelve miles, but Will knew an infinite chasm lay between him and Marina. Not only would he probably never see her again, but he had left her hating him. That was the Lament way: burn your bridges and move on.

“I hated that place,” said Marcus, peering back at the Finches’ yard with its infamous tire swing.

“Me too,” agreed Julius.

Julia and Howard said nothing, but in their minds they were reshuffling their opinions of the neighbors and the sprawling house with its leaky cellar, putting their memories in order, and preparing for that new and improved Somewhere Else.

“What’s the new house like?” asked Will.

“It’s old, rustic, charming; we’ll be very happy,” said Julia.

Howard nodded at the boys. “Your mum sounds like a real estate agent already,” he remarked.

“Thank you, darling,” Julia replied, sensing her husband’s barb, but refusing to let it draw blood.

Starting Over

It was an old house, all right. Number 33 Oak Street was a gray Georgian with peeling clapboard, a gable roof, and a small, drooping porch. Its doorways were low, the floors uneven, the cellar an earthen pit. The walls were plastered and stained from leaks and ancient repairs; the kitchen featured an ancient Kelvinator fridge with rounded corners, and a dirty enamel stove. But Julia pointed out its charms—the staircase had a solid oak banister, carved with acorns and oak leaves. The windows were small, with warped glass panes, and the rooms were bright, with stenciled designs on the wainscoting.

And, of course, it was close to the boys’ school and to Julia’s job.

Roper Realty was perched on Route 99, in the center of Queenstown. A former county jail, it was a one-story building made of granite blocks. Claude Roper, the deceased founder, had bought the building from the county for a song and wooed business with a blend of flattery and self-deprecating humor. The office was cold and damp, and on windy evenings the walls whistled. Claude used to joke that after you visited Roper, any other house would seem like a palace.

The office was full of men attempting second careers: there was a former detective, Mike Brautigan, a sleepy-eyed Brooklynite with a thick accent who told unintelligible stories of his adventures on the force; Emil DeVaux, a former football coach, a balding, forlorn fellow with a handlebar mustache; and Carey Bristol, Roper’s manager, an older fellow, big as an ox, his nose a mess of burst capillaries. But Carey was tenderhearted and the first to reach out to Julia.

“When’s yer birthday, Julie?” he growled.

“It’s
Julia,
and it’s none of your business, sir,” she replied.

“Look, lady,” said Carey, pointing a meaty finger at her, “in this office we celebrate
everybody’s
birthday. Even if yer older than Methuselah, you getcher birthday up on Carey Bristol’s calendar, got it?”

“June sixteenth,” Julia replied grudgingly.

Bristol’s eyebrows shot up. “Bloomsday, eh?”

“Yes,” said Julia, with surprise.

Carey nodded. “An Irishman should know his writers, and I
am
, and I
do
.”

In spite of her co-workers’ male chauvinism, their repeated declarations that they’d never let
their
wives work, and the constant questions about Howard (what kind of man sits at home while his wife beats the pavement?), Julia liked her new colleagues. She sensed that in spite of their thickheaded opinions, they were trying to accept her.

“So, what will it take for all these women’s libbers to go back home and quit trying to wear the pants in the family, Julia?”

“I couldn’t possibly speak for every woman, Emil,” replied Julia.

“Then speak for yourself. What will it take for
you
to go back to the washing and the ironing?”

Julia thought for a moment and smiled. “Oh, I suppose hell would have to freeze over. That’s all.”

Then there was the stir when Mike Brautigan picked up Julia’s takeout lunch from the Chinese restaurant on the other side of Route 99.

“How much do I owe you, Mike?” she asked.

Brautigan frowned. “I never let a woman pay me nothin’.”

Julia settled her gaze on him, her eyebrows fixed like pikes. “You’d turn the woman down who wanted to buy a house from you, then?”

This brought laughter, but Brautigan stuck to his guns. “When Mike Brautigan treats a woman, her money’s no good.”

“Well then, I’ll have to stop eating,” Julia replied.

“Christ, what’s your hang-up, Julia?” cried the ex-detective. “Those goddamn feminists have you brainwashed!”

Julia replied softly, “Michael, you have your pride, and I have mine. My money should be as good as yours, shouldn’t it?”

Brautigan tossed his head. “Look, I buy Carey lunch all the time!”

“Only when you owe me,” muttered Bristol.

Emil DeVaux frowned. “You never buy
me
lunch, Mike.”

Julia placed her money in Brautigan’s breast pocket. He took the money, rose, stuffed it into the jar marked
COFFEE FUND,
and returned to his desk. A tense silence followed.

But finally, Bristol got up, squinted at the jar, and slipped his thumbs under his jacket lapels.

“Ladies and gents, this is history in the making,” he said. “First time Brautigan donates to the coffee fund. Maybe now we can afford a new pot!”

THE CEMETERY OF
the Queenstown Presbyterian Church extended along Oak Street for about three lots. Six thin weather-scarred tablets just beyond the wrought-iron fence identified patriots who had died in the Revolution. These graves always had fresh roses upon them, bestowed (according to a brass plaque) by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Will had never actually seen a Daughter of the American Revolution replacing the roses. But the flowers were always fresh; to make sure, he hurdled the fence one icy November morning to pluck a few petals. When they bruised between his fingertips, he decided that the Daughters were ghosts, wraiths draped in old flags, gossamer hair tied up in buns, doomed to mark the graves of these six American patriots for an eternity. Passing this graveyard was the most unsettling aspect of his journey to his new high school each morning.

In that first year, Julia also passed the graveyard every morning, and she noted one white marble stone featuring the cameo of a woman, Eliza Seward, good wife to John. Eliza had given birth to five children, three of whom didn’t live past the age of two; their tiny headstones lay on Eliza’s grave, three white tablets poking out of the ground like baby teeth. Julia regarded those little tablets with a pang of guilt. Had she deserted her children by taking on this job? Those three white tablets troubled her. Poor little abandoned souls.