Wish You Were Here (70 page)

“Wouldn't that be a shitty situation,” Emily punned. She seemed to think this was risqué. Lise just smiled, playing along.

She was tired. The drive tomorrow would be long, but in a way she was looking forward to it. It was their last long drive of the summer, their last time together before the school year scattered them.

The coffee came, and her crème brûlée, a raspberry on top, the same as Ella's. Lise tapped at the crust, then ate with just the tip of her spoon, savoring every bite, making it last. The sundaes the boys ordered were huge; they could have split one.

The waitress wasn't dumb. She'd figured out who was in charge and set down the leather folder with the bill next to Emily.

“Let me get that,” Ken said, but Emily already had her wallet out.

“You can get it next year,” she said. “How's that?”

“Are we going to be here next year?” Ken asked.

It almost sounded rehearsed to Lise, a setup.

“We're going to be somewhere here. I'm not staying in the city for the whole summer.”

Lise had never expected to get off that easy. It felt like a defeat, everything settled without a word from her.

The gift shop was the next stop. The boys wanted to run ahead and meet them there, but she made them wait while Emily finished the dregs of her coffee. They all rose and pushed their chairs in. Arlene nearly forgot her purse.

There was a bowl of peppermints by the coat check. “One each,” she had to warn the boys.

The way to the gift shop was through the lobby, across its nautical blue-and-green indoor-outdoor carpet. The windows of the front doors were translucent and impure, the color of beer (colonial, she supposed, as if this had once been a tavern), and a tiered rack by a fake rubber plant offered brochures for places like Panama Rocks and the Lucille Ball Museum. Inside, the aisles were bright, full of people they'd just eaten dinner with, looking over pot holders and china bells and glasses of all sizes, maple syrup and muskie refrigerator magnets and local cookbooks. The muzak coming from above was the same as in the dining room but seemed louder in such a small space, and the smell of chocolate was toxic.
The back wall was a glass display case, behind which three women in hair nets cut blocks of fudge on a marble-topped table; a crowd had gathered, clutching numbers. Sam made straight for the corner with the squirt guns and superballs, Justin right behind him. She was almost glad to have the job of watching them. Ken and Emily were over by the fudge, Meg and Arlene probably outside smoking. The girls were drawn to the jewelry, modeling bracelets for each other.

Sam ran back to her, desperate. “How much are we allowed to spend?”

“Five dollars.”

“That's all we ever get to spend.”

“Five dollars is a lot of money,” she said—and it was. She'd never been given five dollars to spend in a gift shop. Her parents were too aware of spoiling her.

“You can't get anything for five dollars.”

“I think you can find something,” she said, and accompanied him to the corner to prove it.

What he wanted was a balsa-wood glider on the wall that cost $6.99. “See?” he said, and showed her the other price tags.

He was half right. Everything on the wall was over five. The cheap stuff was in the bins behind them—windup ducks and frogs, decks of cards and monstrous erasers.

In one bin were dozens of miniature bottles with shiny new pennies inside, a gift she remembered buying as a child, pinching the tiny cork out. The penny was supposed to be lucky. These cost a dollar ninety-nine.

“What's wrong with these?”

He didn't answer her, and from Justin's blank look she realized it was a dumb question.

“Look,” she said, “I'm not going to argue with you. Do you want the five dollars or not?”

“Yes,” Sam said, as if she were persecuting him.

“Good. Find something.”

She just wanted to get out of here, the ugliness of it was that oppressive. They'd been there long enough.

Sam and Justin conferred over the bins, and then Sam came back.

“Can me and Justin go in on it together?”

“And then who gets it—you? That's not fair. We're leaving tomorrow. He'll barely get a chance to play with it.”

“That's okay,” Justin said.

He was such a pushover.

“We'll play with it tonight,” Sam said.

“It's dark out,” she reasoned, then heard herself. She knew she shouldn't give in, but she didn't want to make this a battle, not here, not now. Let Emily say what she wanted.

“Fine,” she said, and comforted herself with the thought that more likely than not they'd break it tonight.

She knew that they'd be back here next year, or somewhere with his family. She didn't expect to be rewarded for her patience, not by Ken. He got along with her parents. He had no idea how she dreaded this week, the days paid out like a sentence—almost over. She had to focus on that.

At the register, Justin set a bottle with a penny in it next to the glider. She'd misread him, or maybe he'd been waiting for Sam to say it was uncool, because when she paid, the bottle went straight into his pocket. Sam grabbed the glider like it was his, and now that it was too late she wanted to take it back.

Ken and Emily were still waiting for their number to be called. No, she didn't want any fudge, but thank you. She gave Ella her five and took the boys outside.

As she pushed through the door the heavy air closed over her, warm and fresh after the chocolate air-conditioning, smelling of the lake and the asphalt of the parking lot. It was not quite night out, the sky a strange blue-green between the trees. The
WEBB'S LAKESIDE RESORT
sign was lighted, the white anchor surrounded by geraniums. Meg and Arlene were standing by the van, looking out over the water.

“Walk,” she told the boys, already racing away from her, and she slowed. It was a relief to be by herself for a minute.

A tractor-trailer whined by on the road, its wind stirring the leaves, making gravel hop along the berm, and in the quiet that followed she saw what Meg and Arlene were looking at—the
Chautauqua Belle,
outlined in white Christmas lights, its reflection glimmering in the dark water. A band was playing on the top deck. She could hear the horns and a snare drum muffled by the distance. It was a dinner cruise, or a wedding reception, and she wished she were on it.

It reminded her of their wedding, the end of that endless day, leaving the hot, loud ballroom of the beach club to drunken applause and stepping into the cool humidity of the cape, the ocean detonating somewhere behind the dunes. The lot was calm like this, a promise of rest. Their friends had decorated their car with crepe paper and shaving cream and balloons—no, up close they were tied-off condoms—and she and Ken laughed, popping them with his cigarette, smearing the windows clear so they could drive off to the motel they'd been able to keep a secret, knowing that in a few minutes they would be completely, totally alone.

Tomorrow, she thought, and relaxed. It was easier in the dark, not as much work.

“Where's the rest of the crew?” Meg asked.

“They're coming,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” Emily said, “I know, we forgot to leave a light on for you. I'm sorry. Were you scared or were you sleeping? Sleeping would be my guess.”

She took her jewelry off in front of the mirror and hung up her dress and changed into her clean jeans, sitting on the bed to roll up her cuffs. When she bent down, Rufus shoved his nose in her hair and knocked the closet door with his tail.

“All right, all right, I hear you. Can you wait till I get my tennies on?”

She chose an old windbreaker of Henry's and after a few tries—shining them into her palm—found a working flashlight on the mantel. She took Rufus out in the side yard and told him to go. He watched her as he squatted, looking worried, as if asking her for a little privacy. She paced the septic field like the inspector, bent and sniffing. Fireflies lifted from the rhododendron, locusts called from the trees. With every step she expected
purple puddles in the grass, her tennies bleeding, but all she discovered was a wiffle ball.

Rufus was done, and pleased with himself. She fetched him a treat from inside and left the flashlight by the sink, and they walked down to the dock. She'd have to take him in before the fireworks started, turn her radio on and close the door to her room, and still he would end up quivering under the bed. Now he stuck close to her though. He'd seen her filling boxes in the kitchen and knew they were leaving. She wondered if he'd had a good week, and thought so. The days would have seemed normal to him, tagging after the children or flopped on the concrete, the smell of the carpet. Next year would be harder.

The dock shimmied under her feet, Rufus clicking by her side. She'd done this unthinkingly so many times, and now she wished she'd paid more attention. Bless him, Kenneth had covered the boat like she'd asked. The moon was low over Prendergast Point, and to the north the Gothic arches of the bell tower shone orange. A couple of docks up, the Nevilles had congregated, their laughter floating across the water. A whole flotilla of boats stood off of Midway, eclipsing one another's running lights. She sat on the bench and Rufus laid his head on her knee.

“You missed us, huh? Yes, I know you.”

She scratched and he stopped panting and then began again, harder, his wet breath warming her hand. A mosquito landed on him and she shooed it. The kids would have to put on bug spray.

The stars were up, the lake still. It hadn't been a bad week, everything considered. She hadn't expected to see Niagara Falls. They'd managed to fit their golf in, and seeing Herb and Marjorie had been important. She and Arlene had had a good day at the Institute. It had been a full week, maybe that was more accurate.

She would miss the place, it was that simple. After taking everything into consideration—Henry and Arlene and the children and the money—she would regret her decision because she enjoyed coming here every summer. The cottage was familiar, a place she still knew while the rest of her world had changed. She'd been wrong to think she could break that bond so easily. And yet tomorrow she would. She would lock the door and drive away and that would be that. Already it nagged at her like a task left unfinished. She didn't even have to stop by Mrs. Klinginsmith's
and drop off a key. There was something dishonorable in such convenience, as if she hadn't suffered enough.

She'd felt the same way when Henry died—that night, riding back from the hospital, all her worries and terrors fulfilled and obliterated at the same time, and nothing to take their place. Kenneth and Arlene had put her to bed, but in minutes she was in the bathroom, doubled over the bowl, and the next morning she was frantic, a kind of mindless anxiety that remained with her through the funeral and into the following week, leaving her empty and bedridden. She couldn't imagine going through that again.

She wouldn't. She would go home and pick up where she'd left off, working in the backyard all morning, swimming at the club after lunch, paying the bills. They'd find a nice place for next year. They could even take a drive by and see what the new owners had done.

Rufus belched under her hand.

“Well, excuse you.”

The
Chautauqua Belle
was out in the middle of the lake, lit up like the Fourth of July, and she thought she should take him inside before things got going. She stood and tottered back toward shore, the boards jiggling underfoot. Henry had built this dock. She remembered him and Herb Wiseman sinking the pilings—she had home movies of them in their plaid swim trunks. Every year at the end of the season they'd pull the sections up and stack them behind the garage. The new owners would probably rip the whole thing out and put in a new one. That was their prerogative.

The boys passed her as she crossed the lawn, each of them carrying something white—popcorn. She stole a handful for Rufus, who hunted in the grass for a kernel she'd dropped. She had to grab him by the collar. If she didn't get him inside before the first big boom, he'd run away and they'd spend all night trying to find him. Kenneth and Lisa had the boys' drinks, and here came everyone else with blankets and sweatshirts and bug spray. She kept heading for the door with Rufus, who didn't understand what he'd done wrong.

“Where are you going?” Sarah asked. “You're going to miss the fireworks.”

“I'm coming,” she promised over her shoulder. “Don't let them start without me.”

They sat together like always, but there was no point. Sam and Justin were right beside them, and her mother and father, all of them crowded onto the dock. And even if they were alone, Ella wouldn't risk it. She'd had her chances this week and done nothing, and still she felt cheated.

The thump of another rocket going off came across the lake as it traced its orange path upward, disappeared between the stars and opened in a green circle, a white flash at the center giving them a second to brace for the boom and then the echo rumbling over the hills. Beside her, Sarah leaned back on her elbows and tipped her chin up like she was sunbathing, waiting to be kissed.

Another thump, and another. Ella could read the colors on Sarah's cheeks—a red one, an orange one that turned blue at the last second. She had to stop herself from watching her, but the fireworks were so not what she wanted right now, and she fought them, sharp-eyed, flattening them as they tried to jump out at her. In between she could hear clapping from the other docks. The embers fell in streaks, drifted with the wind.

“Whoa,” Sarah said at a double one, purple blooming through green.

A huge orange one like a sun that stayed together till it went dark.

“Oooo.”

A small white one that broke into pinwheels that squirted away.