The Possibilities: A Novel (10 page)

“You must be finding all sorts of things,” he says. His eyes move to the back of the shop, then back to me.

“Not too much, really,” I say. “Boys. I mean if it were someone like Morgan, then I’d—”

I can’t believe I just said that. I traded in Suzanne’s daughter. I hypothesized her death.

“How is that Morgan?” he asks.

I take a sip of cocoa to avoid answering.

“Is she all set for this weekend?” he asks. “So, it’s a memorial service? Or—”

I almost choke on my sip. I swallow and my tongue feels raw. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m his father,” Billy says. “Don’t you think I’d be included?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I say. “It’s just that it’s Morgan’s thing, so I didn’t know how you’d even hear about it. It’s not like it’s a real service or anything. It’s a party or—I don’t know what it is. When I ask Suzanne she gets irritated because I don’t think she knows either. Sounds a bit silly.”

“Is it because she organized it and not you?”

“No!”

“It was good of her to include me,” he says.

I feel like he’s implying that I didn’t include him in mine—in its organization—and I look down.

I distanced Cully from Billy, for so many reasons that varied over the years. Inconvenience: the five-hour drive, longer in winter. Pride: I could do it on my own. He got in the way of our routines. Protection: I envisioned a bachelor pad filled with chicks and beer. And then later, fear. I feared that Cully would want to live with him, his cool dad with his cars and motorcycles, bigger house, stable relationship with the stay-at-home wife.

“When did she even invite you?” I ask.

“At the service,” he says.

“At the service? His service that I had four days after he died?”

The couple next to us looks at us and grins, as if we’re all in on something fun together.

“Honestly, I didn’t know what to say,” Billy says. “She said she was planning her own service at CC, something more celebratory, and she’d be honored to have me there.”

“That is so annoying.” My leg is jiggling like Katie’s.

“Why?” he smiles, knowing why.

“Why?” I ask. “Because she was thinking of this way back then. Because—”

Billy holds up his hands. “No, I know. I feel the same way. She’s a bit much.”

“And you’re going to go?” I lean back, showing my ease, but I don’t last long. I sit up and cross my arms, my fingers digging into my skin.

“It would be rude not to,” he says. “Maybe we can drive together.”

I shake my head. “That girl.”

“She’s sweet though,” he says. “Her speech was nice. Sad.”

At the small service in our back yard she spoke, so poised and articulate, even through tears. No one could bear it, seeing this girl, this childhood friend, holding forth, choking on her grief, yet delivering it without backing down.

“Cully was like my brother. He was everything to me,” she said to all of us around her—my dad, me, Dickie and Suzanne, Billy, some of Cully’s friends from high school, Billy’s parents, and Billy’s daughter, whom I swear I saw texting. At the moment, I was so relieved Sophie looked nothing like Billy and nothing like Cully.

“You are everything to me,” Morgan said, looking up. Her voice was loud, trembling, but commanding. “You are supposed to be by my side and I will go through the rest of my life imagining you there. You will be there.”

I walked to her, embraced her, and didn’t let go.

It was touching; it made me lose myself, shake with sadness and relief. I appreciated the speech, until she said a similar thing that night at Suzanne’s house to friends who came over to comfort her. I don’t dare look at his Facebook page, which she manages.

“Well, then,” I say. “So, we’ll go together.”

I want to call Suzanne, ask why she didn’t tell me. I want to tell her how I feel, but what would I say? Your daughter’s too inclusive? Your daughter is bathing in the glow of tragedy? Your daughter needs to grieve differently? Your daughter is faking it? Because I know none of this is true.

“That’s all I really wanted to talk about,” I say. “I’m glad that you guys spoke to each other so often. I am.” I just wish I’d known.

Our hands on the table almost meet in the middle.

“I’m glad too,” Billy says, his eyes watery. He sniffs and clears his throat.

“If you want any equipment or gear of his, let me know,” I say. “Or a keepsake.”

“It would be nice to have something of his,” Billy says. “I’d like that. Maybe one of his snowboarding medals or . . . I don’t know. The watch I gave him. A book he liked. Maybe that one about animals in space.”

“You know about that book?”

“I gave it to him,” he says. “When he was around ten, remember?”

“You did? God, he was obsessed with that book for a while there.” I picture him on his bed, reading the book, how the house would be silent and I’d run around looking for him, thinking he was getting into trouble, and there he’d be, immersed. “All those Russian test monkeys,” I say.

“The dog, Laika.”

“The dog,” I say. “I think Cully was upset by it sometimes.”

“Probably, but some animals came home intact.”

I take my purse off the chair and put my coat back on, but Billy makes no move to go.

“Maybe that’s why he was so into it,” he says. “To see who’d make it home. I’d like to have that book.”

“Okay,” I say.

Billy swishes coffee in his mouth. I hear “Daniel” by Elton John on the speakers; the woman next to me takes her turn and the man laughs and bounces his leg.

“And a jacket maybe,” Billy says.

“A jacket?”

“Yeah, something of his I can use. I’ll take something like that.”

“I’ll put some jackets aside,” I say, knowing the blue one I was saving would be perfect.

“Thanks again for meeting me,” I say. “It’s hard to talk to people. It’s hard to be with people. They really bother me now. People at work, friends, Miss Irony over there.”

“I don’t like people either,” he says.

“You are people,” I say in a way I hope conveys my appreciation of this. He shrugs and we sit in silence for a while, finishing our warm things. I always want warm things in the morning—eggs, coffee, oatmeal. Cully liked cold food, huge bowls of cereal.

“I should go,” I say. “Lots to do. I guess we’ll be in touch about tomorrow.”

“Do you want any more of my moist muffin?” he asks.

“Eew, stop it,” I say.

He finishes the rest of his coffee as though it’s a shot of whiskey, then shuffles the crumbs of his muffin into a napkin. “Why don’t I just come by in the morning?”

“Okay,” I say. “That will work.” He stands and helps me up. Cully had the same height, but it wasn’t just his height that made him seem immense. Like Billy, everything was so large—his legs and chest, his arms. On the couch I’d look at our legs side by side, amazed that he was ever my baby.

“Look at you!” I’d say, and punch his hamstring. “How did this happen?”

Billy and I walk toward the door and I’m oddly proud to be walking with a man. I haven’t been on a date in years. The town’s too small, a little pool to choose from, and no one stays around long enough. The last date I went on was two years ago with Case Delaporte, a timid, nerdy kind of man who wore loafers and khaki pleated pants, those deal-breaking pants that I overlooked. He was like a banana plant in an evergreen forest, but I gave him a chance because he was employed, intelligent, and didn’t talk incessantly about snow conditions.

His mother had just passed away at ninety-nine and I’d try so hard not to cringe at his overuse of the word
grieve
. It was like
nipple
, or
vagina
.
Grieve. I’m grieving.
Gave me the creeps. After a few dates I considered slipping my hand in his pants, accosting him, testing to see if he was really grieving or just using the word like some guys use roofies. But my mind projected: he was probably a horrible kisser. He most likely had a small penis, and I’d have to fake my enthusiasm for it, encouraging the thing like it was a clumsy Little Leaguer. There’d be slipping, losing, and searching, and how do you give a hand job to a baby carrot? Over.

Jeff was prior to him. We were together for a while. A cocky, athletic sort who had nothing on his bookshelf but
Men’s Health
magazines. He was a resort exec who would always be on the phone and saying, “We’ll talk. We’ll see,” while making a face at me indicating that they would not talk and they would not see.
Try harder
, I’d tell myself.
Give in.
I would get myself to think about Boo Boo magic. When Cully was little and got hurt, I’d rub Boo Boo magic onto his trouble spot. It was really just sunscreen, but he was lulled by it. Maybe a relationship with the Golden Boy could work this way. It would be Boo Boo magic on the wound. It wouldn’t really work, but it would work anyway. But I couldn’t get over our differences. He had a big truck that was hard to get into. He’d say “T Day” instead of “Thanksgiving.” He never spoke of marriage. I’ve given up on that anyway.

I don’t even know how I’ll date again. Or have sex. I can’t imagine showing anyone my body. I can’t even imagine someone wanting it after knowing my loss. Death and dating don’t mix, and I can’t imagine explaining it to someone new, watching them go through apologies and condolences while I wave them away like a plate of bad hors d’oeuvres. Like crudités.

I look back at the girl known as Tammy, imagining her legs clasped tightly around Cully, her long hair against his bare chest, his face tense with expectation.

“You seeing anyone?” I ask.

Billy opens the door for me. “Nope. You?”

I laugh as my answer. We walk down the steps to Main Street and stroll toward the lot. I shield my eyes from the sun, then feel guilty about it, like I should be grateful for the sun, for all this beauty, for being alive.

We walk behind some slow movers.

“Crowded,” Billy says. “Good, I guess.”

He looks at the shops we pass, maybe feeling the same way I did earlier—like a visitor in a place you once knew well. It manages to change without you noticing—like not seeing your child age until you look at pictures.

“All these shops blend in with each other,” he says. “They’re like the same place over and over again.”

“I know,” I say, as we pass a T-shirt shop, a souvenir shop, a gallery, repeat.

We walk by a group of young guys coming out of Motherloaded. One pats his stomach.

“That hit the spot,” he says. “That was so insane last night.”

Billy and I look at one another and smile to ourselves, maybe to the guys too, as if telling them,
We used to be like you.
We all repeat ourselves. They won’t know this for about a decade.

“That was crazy,” Billy says, imitating that cool kid drawl. “That was insane.”

The boys saunter down the street in front of us, one of them shouting out a “Wad up!” to friends across the street. With these transients there’s an entitled sense of ownership, of community, and yet I like them, these temporary residents. I appreciate their sense of adventure, their willingness to be behind and a bit ridiculous. I wonder if Kit came to the house yet.

We cut through the alley to get to the lot. We slow our pace. “Always good seeing you,” Billy says.

“You too,” I say, trying to be light and peppy.

He grins. He has a nice set of teeth. He looks like one of those Brad Pitt types, pretty yet masculine, the kind that married women have affairs with because their husbands don’t know romance from a bag of chicken feed. I look at his legs in his jeans.

“All right, then,” he says, opening his arms. I walk into them. Tears well up but don’t fall. They always come now when someone embraces me, my body’s own grateful reaction.

He moves his hand to my lower back.

“What are you doing?” I push him away. “What the hell is wrong with you?” My chest moves up and down. “God, Billy.”

“What?” He smiles. “It’s not like I grabbed your ass or anything. You were the one getting all snuggly.”

“I was not getting all snuggly,” I say. “I was just—I don’t know. I was just hugging you goodbye. Fuck.” It felt good. I’m angry that it felt so good.

He ruffles my hair and I cringe. “I’ll see you soon,” he says. “Unless . . . should I not go? I don’t need to go.”

My breathing slows. “I’m a little messed up,” I say. “I don’t care if you go or not.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I know. I’m not . . . in your life or anything, but I’ll always be here for you, okay? I can be.”

For some reason all I can think at this moment is,
What is my purpose? What is my connection to the world now that Cully’s gone?

“Is that the same belt you’ve always had?” I ask.

He looks down. “No.” He laughs. “Or, I don’t know. Maybe.”

He bangs his helmet against his leg and I finally ask him the question that’s been in the back of my mind since talking to my dad last night:

“Did Cully ever mention a girlfriend?”

He looks hesitant, like he’s unsure if what he knows will hurt me.

“He didn’t mention anyone to you?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“He did tell me about a girl. Not from here. I don’t know how serious it was.”

“Must have been a little serious if he talked about her with you.” I try not to look or sound upset. “What was her name?”

He scrunches his nose.

“It wasn’t Kit or anything like that, was it?” I hold my breath.

“No,” he says, unsure. “No, but something short like that. I think it started with an
L
.”

I feel both a relief and a disappointment. I don’t even know why it crossed my mind. Maybe just the way she seemed to know us, the way I seemed to know her. I liked her, and maybe that’s it—as with Tammy, I’m trying to set Cully up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And I am looking forward to it,” he says.

He puts his helmet on, then fastens the straps. He gets on the bike, starts it up; the chopper’s engine roars. I get into the car and watch him getting ready to leave, an inexplicable yearning for him to stay and come home with me, to eat at the table, to fix a broken appliance, I don’t know. Then I call out, “Billy!” He doesn’t hear. He drives away.
May as well stay the night
, I was going to yell.
We have a guest room now.