you'd be a stranger, too by weston cutter book preview

7/31/2019 You'd Be a Stranger, Too by Weston Cutter Book Preview

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You'd Be A StrangerToo

Stories

Weston Cutter

[books]

Buffalo, New York


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You'd Be A Stranger, Tooby Weston CutterCopyright 2010

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may bereproduced without the publishers writtenpermission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Geoffrey Gatza

Cover image: detail from Cleveland No. 60byMichael Wille

First EditionISBN: 978-1-60964-047-7Library of Congress Control Number 2010939078

BlazeVOX [books]303 Bedford AveBuffalo, NY 14216

[email protected]

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BlazeVOX [ books ]

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11

Red Leaves

My fathers box of pictures on the kitchen table andoutside is the string music of autumn. The light today at 6:42

is what the light was yesterday at 6:45, and tomorrow, less.

On the counter an apple, a basket of bread.

Outside is my father in the light, standing still. The

dog has been gone for three years and still my father outside

calls his name as he comes in. My father at the door three

years ago: Bernard! My father at the door now: Ber

I would not be at the kitchen table if I were there. I

would not be outside with my father in the light.

Heres a picture of my father from his 27th year,

smiling still. Here his 30th, a smile change. Here his 40th

birthday party, a drunkenly mirthful face that doesnt blink

when the camera does.He didnt even run away. Just disappeared. One day

Bernard! and nothing.

My fathers box is closed on the table so the pictures

inside dont see the light at 5:37 today is yesterdays 5:41

light. On the counter an empty glass, a book of matches.

He keeps his years like you would a doll, my father

does. His father kept his years like nuclear secrets until

suddenly he was 81. The leak is always nearly too much to

carry.

Outside is a harp, the zither of prophecy. Snow.

Autumns nearly gone. My heart is one mans quiet

song, a treeless red leaf.Heres a picture of my father when he named me after

himself. Heres a picture of my father as I say our names out

loud for the first time.


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I would go outside now, even if I cant see him in the

light. I would go outside but I would not call.

My fathers table with a shadow left on the woods

grain from the box of pictures. He tells me, when I come

inside, that he doesnt call for the dog anymore, tells me to

look at his pictures, have a look.

He points to the table, where the box no longer is. I

bend to the tables grain, run a rough hand on its smooth

surface. Heres the picture of my fathers son, staring intowhat used to be a tree. Heres the picture of my fathers son

and the red leaves will be gone when we look for them next.

The light today is less than it will be tomorrow at this

time. And after that, brighter still. On the counter is an

envelope, dregs of tea at the bottom of a stone mug.

I am outside now with my father, and we stand, hands

cupped to mouths and silent, finally.


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Empty Lot

How would you tell the story of the empty

lot? Would you start with the butterflies, so slow and tawdry

as fuzzy, tirelessly hungry caterpillars until an August

morning split each cacoon just enough, just a slit for the first

resplendent black and gold wing to poke through, to free

what the children couldnt have known to call Monarch?

Would you describe the smell, faintly of lilac and dirt, wildchamomile and the sweet sweat of children? Or describe the

shade that mass of butterflies made the August morning it

crossed the empty lot, crossed between the children and the

sky, how the shade had the texture of Tariqs old torn and

lost blanket? How it was the first time Tariq had thought of

that blanket since the beginning of summer? How would

you describe what happened when Kirby called themechanical-looking but beautiful fluttering mass as it

grouped for a flight even he couldnt guess the length of, a

flock of Monarchs?

Or would you start with the sofa that sat at

the northeastern edge of the lot, deposited by who knows

whom, whatever trace of intimacy or quotidian goings-on

that it couched lost a little during each winters clawing

freeze, each summers drizzles then baking warmth? How

would you describe that summer night the couch got turned

around, how Rob stopped at Junies house, since it was right

next to the empty lot, and got his help but wouldnt say why

he wanted the couch to face away from the street? How

about that Rob lay there, from 6:00 on a hot July night, allthrough the long dusk and pressing heat, all the way to

dawn? Or how Junie went home and called the other kids,

called Kirby and Tariq, and once it got dark each of them

snuck about their homes collecting candles and Christmas


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lights and extension cords, and brought light to Rob as he sat

on the couch crying? And how they didnt talk to him, no

one questioned why he was crying, they simply sat and

tended whatever light he might need, eating graham

crackers?

Or would you simply say there was a night

spent there, a planned night two weeks after Robs night,

when along with running shirtless through the neighborhood

and empty lot, the children had a contest to see who could

best chew a graham cracker like the shape the moon was inthat night, which Tariq won, and no one was tired until

Kirby started singing and then everyone slept as Kirby

slowly lowered his volume until he just hummed to himself?

Would that be enough to tell the story?

Youd tell about Junie leaving and never

coming back, wouldnt you? You have to. You cant talk

about the empty lot or that summer or those childrenwithout saying that Junie, not long after Robs night of

unspoken grief, left the empty lot, and the neighborhood,

and eventually the group of children. His father explained

he'd got a new job in a new bank because a new town had

been built and new people needed money. Tariq never did

bring himself to say how he felt, did he? Never said that the

same old people who used to need money still did and that

the new people should have to wait their turn, life should be

more like a lunch room line, shouldnt it?

And then what happens? How do stories go

on at all, with someone always leaving, someone always

ready to cry or having just cried, someone else always

confused and wanting to help but unsure about how?There are only so many graham crackers,

only so many moons.

Right, thats what happens next: Kirby meets

a girl. Of course, thats always what happens next. But how


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do you tell that? About the first time the three children were

there with her, with Katherine, and how Tariq and Rob were

there for hours before Kirby showed up with her? Does it

matter that the boys waited, hiding in the ravine underneath

plywood boards theyd dragged from a nearbye construction

site, made a new rule that no girls were allowed in the ravine

that stretched from the south east corner of the empty lot to

the marshlands beyond?

Rob liked her more than Tariq liked her,

who liked her more than Kirby did anyway. Kirby had justanswered a yes/no question (do you want to close your eyes

and get a fun surprise?) and was hoping the lot would scare

her off. Remember how he thought that since there was a

sign, nearly five years old but repainted every year to fight

aging, at the north west edge of the lot, announcing its

salability, shed hate it there? He thought theyd been right

that summer, that day theyd buried frogs and toads andgrasshoppers and caterpillars and listened as Tariq convinced

them that girls wanted to own stuff, always wanted whatever

they could get their hands around, thats what his dad told

him. Which would you tell: how disappointed Kirby was

when Katherine didnt run away as soon as she saw the sign;

how Tariq didnt really want her at the lot in the first place,

didnt want anyone else in the empty lot ever again except

Junie; or how happy each of them were when they got to

leave and Katherine stayed with Rob, sitting, almost

touching elbows, on the couch and watching the sun droop

red and slow from the sky toward the scavenging, runty trees

past the dusty edge of the lot?

And then what? Trees, always trees at theedge of things to give the moon and sun scraggly arms to

emerge from and to give all children something to do.

Remember when they started climbing trees, around the

summers halfway point, as the threat of school clopped


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down the dead-end street, almost audible? Remember how

no matter what happened Tariq could climb the highest and

Rob never climbed higher than maybe ten feet and Kirby

eventually gashed his knee open jumping from tree to tree?

He never got a cast or anything, but Rob and Tariq signed

his leg instead, passing a Sharpie and, after writing each of

their names, forged Junies name in bigger letters than either

of them had written their own.

Would you mention the quiet August

brought with it, with the only noise the occasional chatter ofwhat kind of folders the children wanted, what Junie's new

school would smell like, how many markers? Would you call

what they were doing mourning? What made that silence?

Was it just some awkwardness that came with the three

children not running anymore since Kirby couldnt run with

his knee hurt, his handicap becoming the groups? Was it

that no one ever spoke of Katherine again, Rob as alwaysstaying silent and Tariq hoping his grandma was right and

that people usually just needed someone to be quiet and near

and Kirby not really caring one way or another, what with

his knee and all? Was it that the insects of the empty lot, even

the crickets, seemed to sense their own autumns slinking in

like heavy elements seeping from soil to plant? Was it that

the caterpillars thatd been so fascinating were all cacooned,

their pods stuck like spit-balls along the tall grass that never

swayed like they did in pictures?

They never did talk much, did they? They

never did, not even for untalkative kids. Junie talked, could

bring that out in all of them, and when he left...is that what it

comes down to? The children had a way to talk and then,suddenly, had none? It makes what happened with the

butterfies easier, doesnt it?

Wouldnt it be nice to say that Kirby called

them a flock of Monarchs, and that Rob and Tariq simply


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stared as the insects fluttered the first of their two thousand,

five hundred mile journey? Wouldnt it be wonderful if

thats how stories worked, if whats true and whats correct

could be the same thing? Its easy enough, if you imagine, to

remember those three children staring, mute in awe, not a

word further spoken and the summers magic kept, perfectly,

distilled forever.

But the summer had to end and Tariq had to

ask, of course he had to, what Monarch meant, and of course

Kirby knew, Kirby always did. Rob did too, sure he did:Kirby said Kingright as Rob closed his eyes and began to

shake his head. Didnt he shake his head? Were there tears?

Perhaps tears. How would you describe the scene as Tariq

and Kirby turned to see Rob shaking his head with his eyes

closed, and as he opened them, looked at the two other

children and then at the sky? Define summer. Define end.

What would you have said once Rob said, slowly, with ahitch in his voice he couldnt have predicted, it means

goodbye?

How would you tell it?


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Rhymes with Tux

Catherine Mulligan, twenty-six and toothachey and on

her way home for a three-day temperate June weekend to

visit her dad in Schraederville and get what she assumed

would be a cavity filled in one of her lower left molars,

always got a stomachache as she approached her old

hometown. About fifteen miles out, where the land stretched

flat and lusciously green to the edge of the sky, where hugeirrigation machines punctuated the edges of property and

looked, to Catherine, like discarded spines of brontosauri,

thered be a small pinch in her belly and as the next twenty

or so minutes of driving unwound the ache would bloom,

resembling the sensation of having eaten far, far too many

raisins. She hadnt been home for almost nine months. Shed

gone to school at Harrison University and had stayed afterthe degree and had now, four years later, grown to love her

adoptive hometown in an exactly inverse ratio to how much

she was enervated by Schraederville. Catherine hadnt been

to a dentist in three years and felt sure that this would be her

last time visiting good doctor Samuels in Schraederville, felt

as if it was improper, immature, something, to need to return

to her childhood dentistsurely one of the marks of being

an adult was securing ones own dental fate, or at least

finding a dentist nearer than almost three hours away.

Well, look everybody, if it aint my sweetie-pie, home

to sink the ship, was what her dad, Clancy, said to the

empty store hed owned and run for the last twenty-nine

years, Ph D. Waterworks, as his daughter walked in. Anewspaper was spread on the counter in front of him which

Catherine knew was yesterdays newspaper. The mand

spent his life in something like good-natured bewilderment

at what had already happened. Jack Pfeiffer, her dads


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neighbor, was more than happy to split the cost of a

subscription to the newspaper, and it had taken not a single

minute for Catherine to realize why shedbefore securing a

phone line, before dealing with cablegotten a subscription

to the newspaper on the very same day shed moved into her

first post-college apartment. The moment she entered and

saw him, elbows on the counter and headbowed, Catherine

had another pang of sympathy for her mom, gone for almost

ten years now, ensconced in her new, Canadian life in British

Columbia.Crossing the room, Catherine couldnt help but notice

that her fatherd begun decreasing his stock of certain Ph D.

Waterworks essentials, or at least whatd until then been

considered essential. The stack of waterwings, the inflatable

armwraps little kids wore before theyd learned to swim, was

depleted to the point of comedy, was actually nothing but

three sets of waterwings and, most remarkably, not a singleblue set was among those remaining. Catherine tried not to

recall the righteous indignation her fatherd once spoken

with when, at her own suggestion that blue waterwings

didnt matter all thatmuch, he said he might as well close up

shop and go off and die if he didnt have blue waterwings in

stock. The goggles display was equally picked-over, and

there were nowhere near enough diving rings in the large

wicker basket on the floor near the register.

Hi dad, Catherine said, hugging her old man and

realizing she was taller than he, not by much, but just

enough. She couldnt remember if hed been taller last time

shed seen him, though she thought not. He felt somehow

slight against her, softfull, with a protuberant belly, butloose, as if the lines of his body had morphed from solid to

perforated. His hair was a little long in back, enough to cover

his neck, and she wondered if it was intentional, a way to

save on sunblock.


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Just back? He asked.

First stop, she said, pulling away and looking at him,

fighting the urge to ask where else would I go?There were

diagonal hairlines on both sides of his neck marking the edge

of his daily shave, and even just the last time shed seen him

the lines had been further out, away from his face. It looked

like the back of his neck was growing ivy and it was

wrapping around, trying to choke him, and the half-inch

gray hairs along the lines looked sad, a proof of her fathers

forfeitagainst vanity, perhaps, but also appearance.Catherine wondered if he even looked in the mirror anymore

when he shaved, if it was just habit.

Nice surprise for an old man, his girl coming home to

see him. You coming home to see me, or is it something

else?" he asked. Catherine tilted her head before she had a

chance to stop herself, but looking in his watery gray eyes,

she knew he mustve really not recalled that shed called hima week ago to say that shed be returning for the weekend.

No, just you. She lied, figuring that if he couldnt

remember what shed told him about coming home than hed

likely forgotten what shed said about the dentist. She

wanted to say more but didnthed probably long ago

forgotten her nickname, and that shed left Schraederville at

what could fairly be described as a dead sprint, or that

thered been someone looming behind her as shed run away

and his name was still tough to say and so whenever she

thought or spoke of him she simply referred to him as

Rhymed With Tux and that whenever she came home she

was equal parts hopeful and terrified that, after all this time,

shed see him, finally. Her dad couldnt possibly have knownabout the Schraederville-induced stomachaches. He looked

her up and down and nodded like hed satisfied some

internal mechanization.


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You want to head home and start on dinner? Doors

unlocked, course, theres some chicken I think in the fridge,

maybe pasta. Catherine forced a smile, amused at how

quickly her dad was willing to turn her into his idea of a

woman, into one more person to care for him. Grow up the

youngest brother of six sisters and this was what happened,

she supposed, picturing her mom as shed last seen her, a

year back, skiing confidently in Whistler, sure that Walt

would have a glass of wine poured for her whenever she

returned, sure hed have things taken care of. Her dad wouldgo to his grave pronouncing itpaasta, like fasterspoken by

someone from Jersey.

Sure, Catherine said, pulling her sunglasses. It was

something shed picked up recently; shed always thought it

dumb but now here she was, sunglasses parked on her crown

like some Californian.

Whatever, pretty girlis how itd started with Rhymes

with Tux at the tender age of fifteen. Hed meant it as a dig, a

dismissive bird flipped. Hed turned to his friend Robert and

laughed but Catherine had almost ignited, thin blue flame

and etc. She knew just enough about chemistry to know that

magnesium burst pure when it oxidized, and for an instant

she wanted to close her eyes and revel in her magnesiumity.

Shed heard all three words hed spoken but later would only

recallpretty girl. She wore blouses too often, she knew,

starchy dress shirts, skirts when her peers mostly wore jeans.

Itd been sophomore year, theyd sat next to each other in

journalism class and when they werent being outright mean

to each other they were mean about the other to anyone whowould listen. Then itd been advanced chemistry and sitting

next to each other at a 3x6 black formica lab desk and sneaky

hands on thighs, itd been junior year and a time of any

number of bad jokes about exactly what sort of


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advancement, what sort ofplacement, what sort of

chemistry, plus still the meanness, the arch stubbornness, of

attraction mixed with something like viciousness, like

aggression. Like saying I want youand meaning it sharp as

knife. Then senior year and study hall and how and what

exactly to study, plus photo class and how dark the

darkroom, adjustments of focus and aperture, exposure time

and I love you. April was when her heart like an overworn

baseball was thrown in the dirt, was when Rhymes with Tux

Sputnikally launched Catherines nickname into the ether ofSchraedervilles senior class, all thirty-seven of them, and

forever she was sure shed be saddled and remembered for

just that stupid name, only that, not for being class

salutatorian, not for mock trial, June was somehow even

worse and by September, when she left for Harrison she

wanted nothing more ever again to do with Rhymes with

Tux, with Schraederville, maybe with boys. A friend of hersin college, having suffered through her own tumultuous high

school broken heart (sans nickname), exacted revenge on her

former love by hurting all boys within reach, anything

kissable. The girld loved like a Springsteen song, littered her

path with once-sturdy hearts shed ushered into terminal

jitteriness, was named Paulette and had eventually married a

doctor who specialized in feet. They didnt stay in touch

much past school, but for awhile Catherine wondered if

Pauletted had the right idea.

Catherine took two lefts, drove half a mile, cruised

slowly past Schraederville High. She crept her Ford to the

shoulder and sat staring, engine going. It mustve once been

bigger, right? Mustve shrunk. Mustve once been darker,more menacing. She couldve sworn the building itselfd

worn a sneer the last time shed seen it, rearview. Youre

halfway to thirty, she wanted to shout to herself, grow up.


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I dont believe you. Catherine said to her own brick

high school, and pulled back into traffic and continued on.

Driving through townthree stoplights, something right

around 14 blocks depending on what you were willing to

countCatherine tried to track changes, sure thered be

some but, as ever, surprised at the paucity of Shift's

dominance. Schraederville was a small lake town two hours

north and west of the twin cities, and though there were only

2200 residents, in summer the numbers tripled or

quadrupled, depending on the weekend. Locals couldnt helpa certain level of disdain for the weekenders, tourists with

their sporty primary-colored catalog-bought gear and

disinterest in Schraederville as anything like an authentic

place, as somewhere in which kids skinned knees and threw

rocks at bee hives and adults drank too much and wondered

what their neighbors wives were doing out so late every

night. When shed been growing up, Catherine had assumeda certain animosity with the town in which one lived was

common as frogs, and only after eight years in Harrison had

she come to see that animosity was one thing but

Schraederville was something else.

Dinner was a quiet, fork-scraping affair and all questions

were asked out of a sense of obligation. Yes, the store was

doing okay, or it would be soon, next couple weeks would

keep Ph D in the black for the year, June always started

slowly, everybody knew. No, she wasnt going to stay at the

toy store forever, but until she had a better idea of what she

wanted to do, selling handcrafted wooden toys to new and

rich families seemed like a pretty innocuous way to make aliving, plus Harrison wasnt what anyone would mistake for

high priced so she could live on 35 hours a week. No, she

wasnt likely moving from Harrison anytime soon, certainly

not back home. No, there was no woman he was interested


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in, but since Ginad left there was always a woman, every

summer, who made him do a double take but it never

amounted to more than a story to keep warm by in winter.

Yes, she had plans in Schraederville, the dentist, remember,

oh, well, maybe I didnt tell you. No, no plans other than

that.

The streets felt the same as ever, like foregone

conclusions. All the roads of Schraederville ended at the lake

eventually, and on the way some of them ended in front of

bars, in front of cute little homes that didnt make as muchsense on the inside as they did on the out. At Main she

stopped and looked left, sure she wouldnt be able to see the

street sign for Last Lake Road, Rhymes with Tuxs street.

She didnt see the sign and took a right.

At the Copper Penny, Old Fashioneds were even

cheaper than they were at the Trayful in Harrison, and it

took two before she was comfortable just sitting there like abutton waiting for an eye to fit into. Shed quickly

recognized a few boys of her youth, the same now as theyd

been then but for stranger facial hair and more struggling,

swaggering struts, cubs halfway to being bears. A bar in a

small town, Catherine thought, was a good staging ground

for the argument that humans dont, in fact, have free will,

and that its impossible for any person to ever change

anything, shoe size to eye color to how one handles

insecurities. The boys in the bar shouted as they always had,

the girls were aggressive or demure depending on what they

thought the boys wanted, and next summer thered be a few

more babies born in Schraederville.

Fuzzy Mulligan? said Tim Danner, suddenly toCatherines left and holding a bottle of beer. Catherine

couldnt place him for a minute, stared into his brown eyes

and looked at his frosted, sticking-up hair, and then it


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clicked: eleventh grade, AP Civics. Hed gone to, what,

Kalamazoo? Kenyon? Something with a K.

Tim Danner, he said, pointing at his own chest. He

wore a shiny, dark blue button-down shirt.

Right, right, I just remembered. She nodded as he sat

down uninvited.

Im gay, by the way, so this isnt about, you know...

He said, winking, then jumping his eyebrows. Catherines

mouth opened on its own.

I know, forward and whatever, but its easier this way. Ifucking hate coming back here so they might as well hate me,

too. He laughed loudly once and drank from his beer and

Catherine tried to recall if ever once shed suspected he was

gay.

Didnt you date whats-her-naChrissy, didnt you

date Chrissy for, like, ever?

Sweet girl. He nodded.When did you She didnt know what she quite

wanted to articulate.

Sophomore year of college, Id transferred to UC-Santa

Barbara and theres only so many surfer boys you can keep

drooling over before you admit that it's not because of some

unexplored desire to surf. He laughed again, this bursting,

sweeping thing, and Catherine felt her color rise. The subject

matter didnt phase her: the directness did.

Fuzz Mulligan, Tim repeated, smiling, shaking his

head. Catherine closed her eyes and put a hand to her

temple.

Im sorry, but I really, really dont like that name. She

tried to smile.God, Im sorry, Im sure. You still in touch with him?

Tim asked, pulling on his beer. Saved by the suddenly

materialized waitress, Catherine ordered a third Old


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Fashioned before fixing Tim with what she hoped was a

tough looking stare, then snorted.

June 6th, 1999. She could remember the last time shed

seen Rhymes with Tux, the way hed seemed surprised,

somehow. She could remember feeling embarrassed, both of

herself and for him. She could remember how she still

wanted to kiss him, even when she was telling him to go

directly to hell and rot, telling him she hoped the cancer

started in his balls and worked its disastrous way from there.

Without really thinking it through she raised the last bit ofher drink, toasted in silence with Tim, drained what

remained.

What brings you back, anyway? Here for the water

show? Tim asked, and Catherine rememberedcouldnt

believe shed forgottenthat the second week of every June

in Schraederville was when boats large and small took to the

lake for a show of watery silliness and rompery. Stunts,basically, water skiers and wake boarders and always, always

some jackass whod dress in a chicken suit and parasail the

tiny length of the lake. Catherine bit her lip, rolled her eyes.

Actually, Ive got a toothache.

Catherine was out for a run after a night at her fathers

house, the early morning already portentous with air thick as

syrup; by noon, the humidity would damn near curl horse

hair. Could he be here? Shed kept tabs on him, the way old

flames always do; hed spent time in Portland, in Austin,

both times just getting by, shed heard, working whatever

job presented itself, in one at a Rapid Oil Change, in the

other at a bar. Hed been in South Carolina for a time and noone she spoke with knew his reasoning for that move. Shed

given up his scent a year and a half ago, a year and a few

months anyway, sure that whatever it was she was looking

for was, by now, nothing he had, nothing hed kept.


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Shed fled the bar and Tim after her fourth Old

Fashioned, after the drinks had worked her like a jigsaw.

Pieces of her absent and then. Gaps in steps so. She was

running down Main Street now, toward and then past the

bar shed stumbled loosely home from last night. A cigarette,

thats what the burn in her lungs was. Shed bummed a

cigarette from a guy just outside the bar and the way hed

smiled she knew she couldve kissed him, taken him like a

secret, like an arrow into a target, and a part of Catherine

wanted just that, the risky tingle of saying yes to somethingjust for the yes of it. Home, she wanted to tell the boy, both

of them drunk and tangled for less than fifteen seconds in

that messiest rope, hope, is wherever your teeth hurt. Instead

she asked for a smoke, explained she was drunk, stumbled

away.

Tim Danner was gay! Who knew what could happen?

She felt charged as she kept good pace toward the east end oftown, her tongue nine-volted by his revelation. Everything

could change. Maybe shed get a tooth removed and come

back out to find her car could float, to find all dogs

meowing. Who knew? The water show, the water show. She

ran and ran, listening to tinny voices in her headphones. She

felt stupid, a touristhow idiotic! How could she forget the

water show? Of course the whole town would be back, the

whole goddamned world of Schraederville would repopulate,

and yet. And yet her dad hadnt said anything about the

weekends festivities when Catherined told him she was

coming home.

Her dad also hadnt yet mentioned anything about either

Uncle Charles or the SS PhD H2O. The boat was simple toexplain: Though hed lived in Schraederville for more than

thirty years, Clancy Mulligan had never owned a boat

greater in stature than a canoe, and so after Gina left him for

Walt with his money and his sophistication, Clancy went out


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and bought the first fixer-upper he could find, which ended

up being an old 18 footer with enough problems that hed be

busy for as long as he owned the thing, perhaps longer.

Catherine remembered how proud he'd been, towing the

boat up the street and parking it in the backyard beneath the

birch trees, next to the clothes line. Waitll I fix this beaut

up, her dad had said as theyd stood out back later that

afternoon, looking, and thatd been nine years ago. In all the

times hed since said the line Catherined never heard her dad

sound as convinced about the boats eventual transformationas on that first day. Rhymes with Tux had, for a time, tried

to convince Catherine he could help her dad out, could help

him without him even knowing itRhymes with Tux could

come over under cover of darkness, fix the boat little by

little, like that story about the cobbler and the elves. After

years of backyard pasture the boat hadnt moved an inch,

nothingd been fixed, and Catherine knew better than to askher dad about the boatnot because hed be embarrassed by

his lack of progress, but because shed be embarrassed for

him.

Catherine turned, heading toward the southern reaches

of Schraederville, thinking of her dad. Though a kind man,

Catherine had picked up early on that Clancy was simply

ineffectual, would that way forever remain. During her

sophomore year Mr. Lennox, a regular substitute teacher,

was teaching the journalism class for something like the third

time that quarter, and bored though she was with Mr.

Lennox, Rhymes with Tux was more than bored, was

something like sad. Catherined been watching his face for

most of the period even though he hadnt changedexpression once: he looked as if hed received the most

impossible-to-believe news, wore a thousand-yard stare of

confusion, his brains wheels, Catherine figured, either


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spinning wildly or not at all. They still, officially, hated each

other at that point.

Look at him, he said finally, after forty minutes of

mute staring, the dull background growl of students

laughter heightening his statement, lending it the intimacy of

a whisper. Catherine looked at Rhymes with Tux,

wondering if he was speaking to her, then up at Mr. Lennox.

Mr. Lennox sat at the front of the classroom with his feet up

on the desk, was leaning back in his chair reading a

magazine. Catherine watched as Mr. Lennoxs feet slidslowly toward the corner of the desk, eventually coming to

the edge, at which point hed shift in his seat, set his feet back

in their original position, and begin the whole process again.

It took about two minutes for his feet to shift from their

starting point to the edge of the desk. Catherine looked at

Rhymes with Tux again, who was now shaking his head.

Why doesnt he just change his position? he askedquietly, still not looking at her though now, clearly, talking

to her. Catherine shrugged.

Whats the big deal? His feet shift, he fixes them. So

what? Catherine thought that it would bother her to sit like

that, but she didnt really like reading with her feet up all

that much, anyway. Rhymes with Tux turned to her, his blue

eyes registering something close to hurt.

Hell never care. Hell never care enough to just do

things right. Mr. Lennoxs the kind of guy whod have a

leaky kitchen faucet but would never really hear it, let alone

get around to fixing it. He shook his head, looked away. A

few years later Catherine would read the first fifty pages of

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, see from whereRhymes with Tux had stolen the leaky-faucet line, and stop

reading the book right there, but that day she wanted to

believe he was on to something incredible, something

significant. Within a week, Catherine was watching her


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father closely, monitoring his doddering habits, how he

wouldnt put dishes in the dishwasher if he didnt think they

were dirty enough (a plate thatd only hosted a sandwich,

say), hed simply wipe them off with a towel; or how when

he heated up food in the microwave he never stirred it, never

rotated the dish halfway through its cooking time and so

whenever he ate leftovers they were hot at the edges, cold in

their centers. Two years after the Mr. Lennox revelation, her

dad bought the boat, swore to fix it, set dates on the calendar

and began to watch time slide.Catherine turned north after reaching the outer limits

south of town. Shed run almost three miles, which would

mean six total, and the mileage didnt hurtshe ran five days

a weekbut the jogging jarred something in her jaw and

made the already achy tooth ding like a bell at each footfall.

It was only when she was in Schraederville that she even had

thoughts about her dad as a man, as anything other than aonce-a-week phone call. She wondered what kind of man he

thought of himself as, wondered if there was some age shed

reach when asking him something like that wouldnt feel so

outrageous. The houses at the south end of town grew more

derelict in a progression of only a few blocks; lawns

morphed from thick, green, barefoot-beckoning carpeting to

patchy half-dead affairs littered liberally with debris. Uncle

Abel was the only person shed ever known whod lived this

far south and she hadnt seen him in years.

Hey, hows Uncle Abel? Catherine asked from the

front room sofa as her father came upstairs, quarter to one in

the afternoon. She didnt know if hed even been awakewhen shed returned from her run, but hed only emerged

from his room at half past ten, wearing khakis and a short-

sleeve button up shirt. Hed given her a flash of a quizzical

look when hed entered the kitchen and seen her as if she was


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some surprise, and had spent the rest of the morning

downstairs, doing God only knew whatbasements, in

Catherines world, were the provenance not even of men, but

of fathers, and she knew of not a single child whod been

satisfied by finding out exactly what transpired down

belowafter realizing what fathers did in basements, the

bloom was off the blossom forever.

Hm? Clancy stood at the top of the stairs, his hand

against the wall next to him. He didnt seem out of breath to

Catherine, but weak. He seemed old. He blinked slowlyseveral times and Catherine felt a sudden terror, shifting

mental plates. Hed forgotten she was coming, and hed let

the stores stock so diminish, and he hadnt mentioned

anything about the water show. Catherine nearly gasped,

though she didnt know at whatsimply that the ground

beneath her father was, in some way or another, crumbling.

Is this Alzheimer's?She cleared her throat, hoping to keep asteady, mostly emotionless voice. She wanted to ask him

details, old storieswanted to drag his mental river.

Uncle Abel. I havent seen him in years. Do you two

still stay in touch? Uncle Abel was her mothers brother,

older by two years, and hed broken family ranks during his

sisters divorce, siding with Clancy and, after a year, buying

a home in Scrhaederville, a crappy south-side house two

miles south of the lake, the very edge of the crappy part of

town. It was a disaster of a house but Abel and Clancy had

seemed, to Catherine, to enjoy themselves whenever she saw

them there. Shed never felt close to her uncle Abel, not

when her parents had been married, not afterhe was too

loose, a bachelor who never hesitated to proclaim thegreatness of singles living, of being free to enjoy whatever

sight, sound and company shows up, a phrase he repeated

so often that Catherine grew up immune to it, taking it be

her uncles mantra or something, and only late in high school


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did she pick up on the not-at-all-subtle double entendre.

Abel was the guy who wore a Hawaiian print shirt every day

of the summer which he only buttoned when he was going

into town. She wondered, seriously and for a long while, if

her dad and Uncle Abel were lovers, if that was why her

mom had left for successful, ski-fanatic, skydiving Walt, but

eventually quit considering the possibility. The last time

shed seen Abel had been several years prior, a Thanksgiving,

she was pretty sure, maybe the first one after college, she

couldnt recall. Abel was aging poorly, as would any five-martinis-a-day, SPF 4 sunblock-wearing (the brown

Coppertone bottle, God, that scent) sunbather, and there

was something rough and ugly to his increasingly loud

proclamations of life alone, in Schraederville, with good old

Clancy, salt of the earth Clancy. The women in summer, the

boys in wintera better life, hed argue louder and louder as

the day and alcohol wore on, was unimaginable. He wastoying, hed said, with selling the Omaha house (where he

lived and, ostensibly, worked, though Catherine wondered if

he might be a millionaire, not for some great financial

acumen, but simply because hed lived alone forever).

Catherine could recall that the turkey Abel had cooked had

been dry, despite Clancys praise to the contrary.

Abes gone, yeah. Sold the place last year, moved back

to Omaha. Then he fell in the shower and busted a hip, hes

laid up somewhere now, I suppose. We sorta lost track...

Her father trailed off as he walked into the kitchen, returning

with a glass of water. The day outside the shady windows

was as hot as it would get, mid-80s, and Catherine glanced at

the clock, considering whether or not they should headdown to the water show now or wait until it cooled a bit.

She was glad Abel was gone, she guessed, as hed always

creeped her out, though as she watched her dad gingerly

lower himself into a chair across the room from her, she was


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suddenly nervous about his solitude. He was sixty-one,

plenty young to live alonehe shouldve had a whole store

of agility left for another dozen years. Catherine sighed.

You wanna head down to the water show and watch?

Catherine asked, and her dads eyes flashed like hed

suddenly remembered whod borrowed his favorite tool.

The store! He stood, nearly shouting.

What aboutthe store? Catherine cried, actually scared.

The store! Its the weekend of the water show! Ive got

to open the store! He set down his glass of water sloshinglyand started toward his bedroom and Catherine tried to catch

her breath as she watched him move, more confused than

scared. It flashed in her brain that he was moving pretty

quick, so maybe he wasnt as old and invalid as shed feared.

Forever PhD WaterWorks was open 9-6, Monday through

Saturday, except for the weekend of the water show. There

was no business on that Saturdayeveryone was down onthe lake, and almost every toy and floatation device and pair

of goggles or flippers in and on the water had come from his

store. It was, he used to declare, his favorite day off, better

than Thanksgiving and Christmas put together. Catherine

stood as he walked past her and toward the garage, striding

intently.

Dad, you never open the store on the weekend of the

water show, remember? Dont you remember? Catherine

asked the second question very quietly.

Ill see you in awhile, you head on down there without

me, gotta go... His voice trailed off as he left the house. She

heard his car start and raced to the garage door to see him,

right arm over the passenger seat, ready to back out. Shestepped through the door and waved her arms, nearly

grazing the open lattice of the garages framework as he

started to slowly back away.


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Dad! Dad! She wanted to say more but would settle

for his attention. He glanced at her and she waved her hands

in front of her, hoping to signal no no no. He wrinkled his

face at her and she went round to his window.

Dad, you never open the store on the weekend of the

water show, nobody comes in, everyones down on the lake.

Its your favorite day off, member? She lowered her voice,

trying to imitate him, Better than Thanksgiving and

Christmas combined. Dont you remember? She watched

his face, hoping to catch some hint of recognition clicking.He slowly moved his hand to the shifter, put the car in park,

turned it off. They were quiet together for a moment.

Thats right. I mustveit was another day, I was

thinking of some other day, boy, I... He trailed off,

chuckling, and patted her hand though try as she might

Catherine couldnt catch his eyehe looked everywhere but

her face. He nodded several times, Catherine waiting for himto look into her eyes. Dad, its okay to be scared, she wanted

to say. Something. He undid his seatbelt, got out of the car,

and stood next to Catherine, rubbing his hands together.

Catherine felt an equal surge to protect him, stay and care for

him, and to shake him, hit him, wake him from whatever

sleep his brain had fallen, or was still falling, into.

Well you think theres still seats down there for us? For

an old forgetful guy and his daughter come home for a

visit? He asked and finally he looked at her. There was

sheepishness, a trace of fear, and Catherine smiled as openly

as she could. She looped her arm through his and, just like

that, the car half in and half out of the garage, the house

unlocked, they walked shady streets beneath towering pinein the midafternoon Minnesota summer heat down to the

lake together.


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The afternoon was waning when the Mulligans arrived,

the water show basically over save for the spectacle, the sheer

number of people out and about. The boats still on the lake

moved in fits and starts from spot to spot, dock to dock, like

a troupe of hungry people darting for the fridge at a

commercial break. She and her dad had found a spot along

Setters Hillone of the only hills in the whole county and a

meek hill at thatand the hill was dappled with shade and

sparsely populated (as most of Schraederville, locals or

weekenders, was out on the water). As a wind picked up andpushed its way through the early evening Catherine glanced

around, hoping for a reason to leave even though theyd only

been there twenty minutes. The wind brought its own birds

too, and Catherine watched the birds dive and wheel and

glide, glad to have something else to look at aside from

sunbathing Minnesotans, aside from searching for

It wasnt even that she wanted to see him, exactly. Andshe didnt have any idea what she would sayif she were to

see Rhymes with Tux, but shed readied herself to at least see

him and figured shed figure out what to say on the fly. It

wasnt pride, she didnt think: she wanted something back

from him. She felt like whenever she saw him, this weekend

or in a dozen years, shed ask him to return...something,

some essence. Whatever theyd been, she was sure he left

with the good parts, parts she still wanted.

Her tooth still hurt occasionally and in small bursts,

almost beeps of pain, a fire detector running out of batteries.

Her father was audibly farting and pretending not to notice

anything. She wanted to slap his arm, demand he say excuse

me. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, thissuddenly strange old farting man. She was tempted to ask

him if he remembered where hed parked.

Its a shooting star! a little boy toward the water

shouted as he let go of a homemade meteor which arched up


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and over a few heads before splashing into the very edge of

the lake. Catherine elbowed her dad, almost pointed to the

can.

Hm? He asked.

It had been ages ago, they probably hadnt thrown

homemade meteors together in fifteen years, but for awhile

thereage, what, eight or nine till about eleven or twelve

theyd made shooting stars by the week, it seemed like. How

you make a star, her dad would begin every single time,

theyd be standing at the kitchen counter with an empty tincan and a hammer and a wide flat-headed nail and though

Catherine knew all the steps there was magic in how her dad

would narrate the steps each time, like the process was part

of the magic, the steps incantatory, isyou take an old tin can,

this one here, say, and you(hed raise his hammer and, hard

enough to drive a hole through the corrugated tin but soft

enough to not crumple the whole can) tap little holes, allover the whole can, as many as you want. The more holes,

the brighter the star. Thing is, I cant do this all by myself,

my arms are getting tired from all the stars Ive made. Think

you could take this hammerits awful heavy, youve got to

be careful, there you goand help me out?

She couldve recited her fathers starmaker shpiel from

sleep.

After shed perforated a can to her liking, Catherines

dad would tap two holes across from each other at the edge

and tie twine loosely between them and, from that twine, tie

another, longer stretch of twinethe lasso or, sometimes,

her dad would call it the starleg. Catherine would hardly be

able to breathe by the time he was tying the lasso onto thecan, and of course her dad would always tie the string extra

slowly, hed smile or wink or sayjust cant quite tie this as

easy as I used to, hed give Cath some tell to let her know

this was dramatic buildup, was essential in the process of


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launching a shooting star, was not some senseless indulgence

to frustrate his daughter. Therehed say, finishing, and hed

step back and theyd look together at this tin can knocked

full of holes with string coming out one end of it and

Catherine would be, by that point, having a hard time not

just grabbing the thing and running outside but she knew to

wait, wait till her dad turned and asked What, you want me

to carry it?at which point shed grab it and lead her dad to

the garage where theyd stuff a few crumpled balls of

newspaper into the can and sprinkle a little lighter fluid in,too.

Remember how we used to do that? Catherine

whispered. The wind was getting worse, stronger, and was

pushing clouds from the northwest. It was too early in the

day for the boy to have done a real shooting star, there must

notve been newspaper in what hed thrown, but it hardly

mattered.Hm? her dad answered again.

Theyd walk to the end of their dead-end street and

Catherine would set the can on the ground to her right, and

while she held tight onto the twine Catherines dad would

crouch, a strike anywhere match in hand, and would look at

her, straight and serious.

I know weve done this before, but you gotta be real

careful, and aim for out there, into the swamp. No more than

eight rotations, kay kiddo?Shed nod, and hed nod back,

and neither of them would say anything about the time shed

accidentally swung the can nine rotations, how the fire had

enough time to burn through the twine, how the can came

smashing into the ground not a foot behind her and shedidnt get hurt, neither did her dad, but scared crapless is

what they were that night, forever thereafter heeding the

eight rotation rule.


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Is this meteor cleared for takeoff, over, hed ask, serious

as NASA.

Cleared, over. Shed answer, fighting every urge to laugh.

Hed strike the match.

Remember all those shooting stars? she asked,

whispering now. Catherine wasnt even asking her dad,

knew that somewhere inside that head of his lay the

memories.

Hm, he said. She looked at him, watched him nod.

Hed set the lit match in the can, in a recess theyd haveformed in the newspaper, and the paper would take a

moment, just a second, really, but come on, Catherine would

think with one hand clenched around the twine and then the

flamed catch and when it caught itjumped, the fire instantly

finding its way to the lighter fluid and Catherines dad

wouldve already moved back and shed start swinging the

minute that flame licked the paper's edge, shed swing thecan hard and clockwise and after two rotations, after three,

after four the speed was enough that she knew shed get a

great streaking arch of fire but she wanted more, shed swing

a fifth, a sixth, by the time she got to seven rotations there

were whole swarms of manic butterflies in her stomach but

she didnt even have time for their magic because shed

suddenly be on the eighth rotation, using her whole arm

now, giving everything her scrawny little-kid self had for the

release and then at the very last, perfect moment, the can

bright gold, flameful and luminescent, hole-poked tin

pouring electric honey, Catherine would let go and her

shooting star would rise out and above and beyond the end

of the street and past the shallow cattails and stunted birchand sugar maples that lined the swamp, would rise against

the backdrop of the newer, bigger houses that were going up

on the other side of the swamp, would rise into the fine navy

blue of the summer sky and Catherine never breathed, never


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once breathed as her shooting stars arched across the

Schraederville sky and lowered, blinking like a granted wish

into the swamp, and she knew it was silly, unlikely at best

impossible, reallybut Catherine could swear that as she

started breathing again after her meteors flight, as her father

would begin to clap and whoop and cheer, she could swear

shed heard the hiss of the can as it touched the water,

extinguishing itself just as she started to breathe again.

Catherine never remembered her dreams accurately andso was doubly frustrated to wake knowing that Rhymes with

Tux had been prominent in them, as had homemade meteors,

but she could remember no more than that. She plodded to

the kitchen, wondering what to do with her day. She didnt

quite hate Sundays in Schraederville, but she wasnt anything

close to liking them: the only good part of Sundays in

Schraederville, she thought, was that she usually ended themin Harrison.

Shouldve made the appointment for Friday, she

grumbled as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. She could

remember feelingthat a long weekend in Schraederville was a

good idea, she just couldnt remember thinkingthat way. No

more decisions based on your gut, she told herself.

The day was already bright and the windows in the

kitchen were open, allowing the trilling calls of birds, the

distant whoosh of a few cars going fast on Hwy 202 out past

the edge of town going away, away. Catherine supposed

shed go for a run again, maybe see if her dad needed help

around the house. As she sat down to eat some cereal her dad

came through the backdoor, and she looked up in totalsurprise. He smiled. His color was high and he was wearing

weekend work clothesa beat up old v-neck, cut off jean

shorts splattered with walls worth of paint.


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Morning, He said, rubbing his hands together roughly,

like he was trying to get something sticky to come off.

Where are you? As she began to speak Catherine

looked beyond her dad, into the yard from where hed come,

and rose from her chair in surprise, slow as hypnosis, before

she looked at him again.

Wait, youre Catherine was pretty sure her

enthusiasm was getting mangled in translation.

I didnt say anything about this? You sure I didnt say

anything? he asked, looking hurt, confusedly hurt, andCatherine, eyebrows high and eyes wide, shook her head,

pushed the back door open, and walked into the yard. The

cover for the boat was on the ground in front of it. Catherine

walked slowly to the boatblue fiberglass sides with a little

sparkle to them, cream-colored interior though the interior

was torn to crap, Catherine could tell from the groundand

her dad walked by her side.I figured, you know, well, Im not getting younger, and

its just sitting there and all, and I was never much of a

hobby guy, you know, model airplanes or reading books or

what-all. So I... Catherine quit listening as she climbed onto

the trailer to look down into the boat. Hed begun. The seats

were yanked up, stacked in the bow, and the padding on the

benches was gone. The steering column was pulled apart,

wires taped up and dangling, and the floor looked scraped

down, stripped. It looked like crap, was a complete mess,

and when Catherine got back down her dad was looking at

her with a fuzzy look on his faceshe knew he was just

waiting, wanted to know what she thought. She offered a

huge smile and put her arm around him.I cant believe youre really doing it. After all this time.

Youll be the first one who gets a ride if I ever finish it.

Theyd begun walking back to the house and he looked over


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his shoulder, back to the boat. Catherine realized her cereal

would be soggy, that shed have to get another.

Whenyou finish it, Catherine corrected, trying to be

encouraging.

Who knows? Im a happy old man: the minute that

thing isnt fun, thats that. At the door he looked back again

at his boat. Catherine watched him shake his head as if the

boat were some headstrong and impressive child he was only

reluctantly proud of. He was holding the door for her but

she wasnt going in.You want help with it? she asked. Hed never asked

once for help in his life, not for the guy stuff. For all the

times he just assumed Catherine or his wife would cook for

him, would straighten up the house just a touch, neither

Cath nor her mom had never once been asked to mow the

lawn or take out the trash, had only to say there was

something the matter with the sink, or the toilet, or theshower, or the car, and dad would calmly and without a

word take care of whatever the problem was. He looked at

her, amazed, his nose wrinkled to mark the beginnings of

outrageousness.

You think? I dont know, its pretty heavy-duty. You

know, lotsa pulling, moving stuff around... He shook his

head as he trailed off, shrugged.

Lemme help. Ive got nothing else to do. There was a

long moment of quiet as her dad looked down, moving his

hand first along his jaw and then his lower lip, and when he

looked back up he nodded without looking at her. Watching

him, Catherine realized she made this exact same move

sometimes, the lip-rub-of-deep-consideration. She almostimitated him but didnt want to frustrate him.

Okay, he said, looking her in the eye and nodding.

Okay. She nodded back, and headed inside to prepare

a new bowl of cereal.


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It wasnt as if they knew what they were doing, not by a

long shot. Catherine scrubbed various dirty parts of the boat,

though after an hour of scrubbing she realized all shed

cleaned would, later, of course, need more cleaning. She

didnt keep too close an eye on him but she was pretty sure

her dad was doing much the samescrubbing things,

removing old accumulated trash, taking care of what might

generously be called cosmetic problems. Rearranging deck

chairs, Titanic, etc. Plus there was the fact that what workthe boat really needed was mechanical: the inboard motor

was some holy terror of a mess and Catherine knew not

thing number one about how to fix anything like that. Shed

once, proudly, put her chain back on her bike after itd come

off the big gear in front, but that marked the distant edge of

her mechanical skills. Her dad, good with his hands to a

degree, couldnt handle a project like this one withoutprofessional help, and Catherine didnt hear him mention

hed made a move in that direction.

It was fun, working side by side in a dry-docked boat in

a very green and grassy lake of lawn, getting some sun and

bopping every once in awhile when the oldies station played

a song they both knew and likedRunaround Sue, or

Help! or Sweet Virginia. Catherine would sometimes

watch her dad while he worked beneath his long-billed

baseball cap, would watch how he fixed his eyes on

something and worked it ferociously for a minute, maybe

two, and then hed pause and look around, run his hand

along the work hed just done, take a break. She couldnt

help wondering whether he actually wanted to fix the boatcompletely, put it in the water and give it a zoom across the

blue lake, or whether he wanted the boat as an unfinishable

problem, as something that would defeat him and so make it

easier to go ahead and get defeated. Seems like something a


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guy who reads yesterdays newspaper would do, Catherine

found herself thinking darkly.

Dinner was BLTs featuring fresh tomatoes and basil

from the garden and was eaten on the deck in the 5:30 pm

June light. She looks good, her dad said, one leg crossed

over the other, looking toward the boat. The boat, in fact,

didnt look good, though it didnt really look bad, either. It

looked like a boat in a backyard. If anything, it looked a little

better than it might have otherwise just because it had gone

so long without being in water.She looks real good, dad. Real good. Catherine patted

his knee and they ate in silence.

After the meal, as Catherine was washing the dishes, her

dad came into the kitchen from heading one last time out to

the boat to make sure everything was put away properly for

the night and asked You gonna head out later tonight?

She hadnt done anything the night before and was still onthe fence about a Sunday night in town. In all likelihood,

there wouldnt be anyone around, shed probably already

missed her chance to talk more with Tim Danner, and she

was growing comfortable with the prospect that this

wouldnt be the visit thatd bring her face to face again with

Rhymes with Tux. Still, it wasnt like she was dying to go

out among her old town and have some watery drinks, plus

there was the dentist at 9am.

Dont know yet. Why? She turned just enough to see

him from the corner of her eye. His hands were in his

pockets and he looked down, like he was trying to calculate

something, or figure the right way to say something.

Just askin. He took a few steps forward and put ahand on her shoulder. Theyd never been the touchy-feely

sort, not the Mulligans. Once her mother began, as she called

it, Phase Twoafter shed moved out on Clancy, moved in

with Walt, and moved from Schraedervilleshe and


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Catherine greeted each other with those annoying European

cheek kisses and light hugs, and Catherine hugged her dad

every time she said goodbye, but past that none of them got

close. Her dad squeezed her shoulder a little, tenderly, and

opened his mouth to say somethingCatherine watched

him in the window over the sink, watched his reflection as he

opened his mouth and looked up at her reflection in the

window as well, then promptly looked down, closed his

mouth and squeezed her shoulder once more then let go.

Ive had a real nice time this weekend, dad, Catherinesaid, wanting to say more, terrified to say too much. She

turned to watch him look back from the doorway, to see him

smile and say Me too, and leave. It didnt feel like too

much, didnt feel like too little.

Within an hour she was out the door, walking the same

path shed taken Friday night, and on entering the CopperPenny Catherine felt momentarily like she was turning into a

regular, was regressing into the role of local. She wanted

someone to call Hey, Cathas she moved to a small circular

table and took a seat, scanning the room casually to see if

there was any company that looked promising. It was a

dismal showing at the Copper Penny, there was only a

handful of people in the place, none of whom she knew and,

from the looks of it, none of whom were born within fifteen

years of her. She ordered an Old Fashioned again, drank it,

and left quickly.

It was just shy of 9pm and Catherine didnt even want to

be out, though she supposed she wanted to be out a little

more than she wanted to be in. What she wanted was to be inHarrison, in her apartment, surrounded by her life, getting a

phone call from Angie about karaoke at Happy Sams or a

movie in Teller Park, something. She walked generally in the

direction of her dads house because she didnt know what


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else to do, but as she approached her street she passed it,

continuing toward the lake.

Shed been trying to think, earlier in the day as shed

been working on the boat with her dad, of the last time

theyd launched a homemade meteor, but she couldnt

remember. What had happened, far as she could recall, was

that one day Catherine had turned thirteen or fourteen and it

just felt silly to do something thatd made her so happy when

shed been nine years old, or one day she quit believing that

it was a great time to throw a tin can full of dirty newspapersand fire up into the sky and pretend it was something other

than tin and day-old newsprint and flame. She couldnt

remember if itd been she or her dad whod pulled the plug,

or if it was maybe something unspoken but simultaneous

and terminal. She couldnt remember, not any of it, and as

she thought of it again as she walked Main Street beneath the

dirty yellow sodium lights she almost headed home just toask her father in the off chance that he could remember.

When she got to Last Lake Road she took a right

intuitively, turning even before shed thought through what

she was doing. 917she said to herself, counting one, two,

three, four, five, six down to Rhymes with Tuxs old house.

The fastest shed ever made it to his house from her own,

starting from the moment she hung up the telephone in the

hallway, was a little over three minutes, and as she

approached the boxy, stucco home eight years after the last

time shed visited her body remembered how itd felt to

sprint to him, seventeen and so sure of their young, stupid,

defiant, love. She had butterflies in her stomach, loosey-

goosey legs, a buzz on her skin like shed just been pluggedin. Still one house away from his Catherine stopped on the

sidewalk, watching the old house she knew so wellall the

weekends Rhymes with Tuxs parents had gone to

conferences in the cities, the afternoons theyd spent out on


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46

their huge pontoon, entertaining and carousing and, she

guessed later, in college, tacitly giving their son and his cute

little girlfriend their house. She turned from his house and

began back toward Main Street, not sure what she was doing.

Its not like hed have somethingnot like hed have

answers, she told herself. She glanced behind her, then to

both sides, just to make sure she was alone. She turned right

on Main Street and headed to the lake, thinking to go find a

nice spot to sit and think and talk to herself.

Not like you could just get him to apologize and thatdmake everything better, she spoke casually, heading toward

the lake.

I know, I know, she responded, but then slowed

down, then stopped. She turned, looked back down Main

Street, toward downtown, toward her own street, and she

headed back from where she came. I dont know, she told

herself, whispering now, and she didnt know if she wastrying to convince herself or if she really believed it but for a

moment she could picture seeing Rhymes with Tux again,

could picture herself giving him a big hug and telling him Its

so great to see youand meaning it. She wanted to mean it,

wanted to believe.

She took a right at her street and headed past her dads

house, past the Pfeiffers, headed past the edge of the dead

end street and out onto the flat empty pasture that

surrounded the swamp into which she for so long threw her

meteors.

We should go find all of them, hed said once, lying in

his underwear next to her beneath a ratty blue blanket at the

base of Setters Hill, the water just a few feet from theirheads. Itd been senior year, fall, and theyd been talking

about leaving Schraederville, heading to college and starting

new lives. Neither knew where they were going to school yet

and so goodbye was still just a theory, plus theyd have


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plenty of time to get used to the awfulness of separation,

they figured, once it actually happened.

Find what?she asked, kissed his collarbone. Hed been

talking about his old dog, Mitch, whod been hit by a car

three years ago and how he still missed him, and then theyd

been lying in silence, kissing each other and listening to spare

noises in the still, late-summer night.

All those old shooting stars you and your dad threw, he

answered, kissing her again. Shed told him of them all of

once, she thought, maybe twice, and so long ago she wasamazed that he remembered. As she kissed him that night,

she remembered now, heading further out into the dark,

shed felt a tremendous surge of love that he remembered

details like that, about old meteors, how it was proof of how

closely he listened or something. It was the only time hed

ever brought it up.

A breeze passed slowly and she shivered. Maybe shedidnt want to see him, but as Catherine tromped through

knee-high weeds and felt the ground slowly soften and slope

downward toward water she wondered if maybe shed had it

all wrong. Maybe the past wasnt even something you

carried or lost to anyone but set down, a telephone on a

table, a slice of tomato on a piece of toast, a boat in a

backyard, and as Catherine got to the swamps watery edge

she squinted, hoping to catch a glint of one of the tiny,

shining things shed so long let go of.

you'd be a stranger, too by weston cutter book preview

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