Desire Lines (2 page)

“Oh, she’s doing great. Has her hands full with our two little boys. Here, I’ve got a couple of pictures.” He reaches into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and flips it open for Kathryn to see.

Both kids in the photo have Chip’s frank gaze and Donna’s shiny blond hair. “They’re adorable,” Kathryn murmurs dutifully. All at once she’s filled with dread at the idea of returning to Bangor. Here is Chip, self-satisfied, robust, with a stable marriage, two kids, and a prosperous business, treating her, she imagines, with a smug, pitying kindness—the way you might treat a starry-eyed adventurer who sets off in search of fame and fortune and comes home empty-handed.
We always knew you’d be back, and look!
his expression seems to say.
Here you are! What a shame, what a pity—and yet, how thoroughly predictable….

“So where’re you and—I’m sorry, what’s your husband’s name?”

“Actually, Chip,” she says, taking a deep breath, “I’m not married anymore.”

“Oh,” he says. “Jeez. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

“When did it happen?”

“About twelve hours ago.”

“Oh, jeez,” he says, reaching out and touching her shoulder. The woman beside him glances up, then looks back down at her magazine. His words fade, and Kathryn can feel the humming vibration of the slowing plane through her seat.

KATHRYN STEPS OFF
the small plane and down the narrow steps onto the tarmac. The air is pleasant and warm, almost hot, and smells of the pines at the edge of the runway. Chip, just behind her, offers to lift one of her bulky carry-ons.

“I think I’ve got it,” she says. She smiles, so as not to seem impolite.

“So,” he says as they walk toward the terminal. “You going to the reunion?”

“Reunion?”

“Our ten-year reunion. I thought that might be why you were coming home.”

“Oh—no.” She feels that familiar dread rising up in her stomach. “I didn’t even know about it.”

“Didn’t Daphne Cousins send you something in the mail?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ve been kind of hard to reach.”

“Well, it’s not until the end of this month. You’ve got some time to think about it.” He fumbles in his jacket with one hand and pulls out a business card, then slips it in her handbag. “If you want to go, I’ve got the info. Just give me a call.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She can feel Chip looking over at her for a moment. Then he says, “I can understand why you might not want to go. Jennifer disappearing like that on graduation night kind of changes the way you think about high school, doesn’t it? I know it does for me.”

“Yeah,” Kathryn says. She looks at him curiously. Does he mean it, or is it just something to say? He and Jennifer barely knew each other; they probably exchanged ten words during four years of high school.

He shakes his head. “It’s just so … weird, you know? Poof. Gone.” He balls his hand and then opens it, like a magician making a handkerchief vanish. “But heck,” he continues, rallying, “it’d be a shame to let it ruin our reunion. Right? Right?”

“Right,” she murmurs.

“It should be quite a party.”

She nods. “Okay. Well. I’ll think about it.”

As they enter the building, Kathryn squints in the darkness. She can make out shadowy forms bobbing around, a sparse crowd. “Kath?” she hears from somewhere in the back.

“Mom?”

“Kathryn!” All at once she feels her mother’s cool fingers touching
her cheeks, pulling her into a quick embrace and then pushing her out to arm’s length. “You look tired, sweetheart.”

“I am tired,” she says, dropping her bags. “But thanks for pointing it out.”

“Oh darling, you’re so
sensitive.”
She smiles. “After all you’ve been through, is what I meant.”

“Well, you look good.” It’s true. Her mother has just turned fifty-two, but she looks younger. Her short, highlighted hair is swept stylishly away from her face, which is tan and glowing. She’s wearing jeans and white Reeboks, a deep green long-sleeved cotton shirt, and small gold hoops in her ears. “Matte lipstick, Mother—I’m impressed. Very ‘in.’”

“Oh, you like it? The girl at the Clinique counter forced it on me.” She fingers a strand of Kathryn’s newly tinted hair. “Is red the ‘in’ color these days?”

“I don’t know. Just thought I’d try something different.”

“As long as you’re making changes in your life.”

“That was my thinking.”

Her mother bends down over the bags. “Let me carry one of these.”

Kathryn urges her up. “I’ve got them. They’re light.”

“Now, look, I can handle it. Didn’t I tell you I’ve been working out?” She stands up straight, hefting one bag like a barbell. “You’re right—it is light.”

“Hello, Mrs. Campbell!” Chip’s outstretched hand emerges from behind Kathryn’s shoulder.

Her mother reaches out and clasps it. “Let me see if I get this right: Skip Sanborn.”

“Good memory,” he says, “but it’s Chip. You almost had it.”

She beams. “Chip! Of course! So nice to see you. You know, I see signs for Sanborn Home Decorating all over the place these days.”

“That’s part of the new ad campaign I’ve been working on,” he says, tilting his head modestly.

“I’m going over to wait for the rest of my bags,” Kathryn mumbles, and tries to slip away. Her mother reaches out and holds her arm. “Darling,
you remember Skip—Chip Sanborn. He has a decorating store….” She squeezes Kathryn’s arm lightly, an old code for “behave,” and turns back to Chip. “It sounds like you’re making a lot of changes over there.”

“We sure are. And are you still doing interior design?”

“A little bit. Mostly real estate, these days.”

He fishes around in his jacket and pulls out another card. “Well, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come on over to the store when you have a moment and let me show you around?”

“I’d like that.” She smiles widely, just long enough, and takes the card. “Your father must be awfully proud of you, Chip.”

“I don’t know about that, Mrs. Campbell. But I think he appreciates the help.”

“I’ll bet he does. And call me Sally.”

“Sally it is.”

After he leaves, as they’re walking over to the baggage carousel, Kathryn’s mother turns to her and says, “You could be a little more friendly, dear. People might think you’re rude.”

“We went to high school together, Mother,” Kathryn says, lifting two suitcases off the conveyor belt and loading them onto a cart. “He knows I’m rude.” She wheels the cart into the lobby, out the automatic glass doors, and onto the sidewalk. “And anyway, I’m not in the best frame of mind for encountering local success stories.” She pauses for a moment. “If there was ever a sign not to go to my high school reunion, I guess that’s it.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you—you got some kind of letter about that. We’re over here.” Her mother motions toward a sporty silver Saturn parked illegally several yards down. “Well, it’s silly to burn your bridges. You never know when you might need Chip Sanborn. He could be a very good business contact.”

“For
what?”

Her mother stops and faces her, one hand on her hip. “For me, maybe. Did you think of that?”

Kathryn shakes her head. “In fact, I did not think of that.”

Her mother turns toward the car and unlocks the trunk. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, Kathryn, but you and all your little friends are grown-ups now.”

“No we’re not, Mom,” she says, heaving the bags in. “We just act like grown-ups every now and then to fool you.”

“But that’s what being grown-up is all about.” Her mother pauses, a serene smile on her face. “Gosh, it’s nice to have you home.”

“Are you serious? We’ve been bickering since I got off the plane.”

“This isn’t bickering. This is classic mother-daughter communication. I’ve been reading up on it.” She goes around to the driver’s side and unlocks the door. “You have to learn to think of us as representatives of our generations instead of personalizing everything,” she calls across the top of the car. “Now listen, honey. I’ve got a few little errands to do on the way home. They’ll just take a minute, okay?”

What can she say? “Okay.”

Her mother smiles brightly. “Good. Then we’ll be taking the scenic route.”

Chapter 2

B
angor is a quiet place, a town of about thirty-five thousand people, the second-largest metropolitan area north of Portland. Even at midday, in the middle of the week in the middle of town, there is a quiet that blankets everything: the two-story, clapboard houses, the city bus making its slow, empty rounds, the low-lying malls that have multiplied like barnacles on the rough edges of town.

“So here we are,” Kathryn’s mother says lightly as they drive along, “mother and daughter, both of us divorced. Do you think it might be hereditary?”

Kathryn looks out at the flat, treeless expanse surrounding the airport. On one side of the long road that leads to the interstate lie several strip malls—low, boxy buildings with brand-name storefronts and fast-food islands in their parking lots. A few stores are new; others, their windows dark and empty, look recently abandoned. Their blankness makes her inexplicably sad.

It was twenty years ago, when Kathryn was eight, that she saw this town for the first time. She was riding in the cab of a sixty-foot-long moving van, sitting up on her knees to see over the dashboard. Her parents were following in the car behind; halfway through the interminable four-hour stretch of wilderness that led from Boston to Bangor, she convinced her father to let her ride with the two movers, her father’s cousin, Patrick, and a coarse longshoreman named Gus, for the rest of the trip.

“Middle of fuckin’ nowhere” was Gus’s only comment as they began passing exits for the town. He stubbed a cigarette into the ashtray for emphasis.

“Long as there’s a bar somewhere, it’s okay with me,” Patrick said.

“Oh, sure, there’s a bar here. Has to be. Nothing else to do in a place like this but drink.”

Gus lit another cigarette and Kathryn looked out at the few motels scattered along the highway like birds on a telephone wire. Every few miles they passed houses clustered around an overpass. The town of Bangor seemed to be mostly trees, the houses just a little oasis in a desert of forest. There weren’t many cars on the road in either direction. The place looked unnaturally clean, as if someone had taken a scrubber and soaped it up, rinsed it down.

Kathryn’s grandmother, who was born and raised in Bangor, had told her stories about the town—about what it was like before it had an airport, back when the train still came up from Portland, stopping along the way to pick up passengers and produce and dry goods. Heading south, the train carried potatoes from Fort Kent, blueberries from Cherryfield, raw lumber from the Maine woods. As a child her grandmother had sat in her bedroom window and watched the black smoke rise from the valley, closing her eyes to hear the slow-chugging train as it passed, the low haunt of the whistle.

“You crying?” Patrick asked Kathryn, peering at her closely.

She wiped her eyes. “I—It’s just the smoke.”

“Put your goddamn ciggy out, Gus, you’re making the poor girl sick,” Patrick said.

Gus looked at her sideways, then ground the butt into the dashboard and dropped it on the floor. “Can’t take it, maybe she shouldn’t be riding up here.”

“Oh, relax. We’re almost there, ya bully.”

Kathryn sat very still between them, looking out at the gray road stretching ahead into oblivion, the gray sky, shoebox houses hunched forlornly against the hills, separated from the highway by chain-link fencing. She was sure they were going to the end of civilization. Her eyes began to water again, and she tried to choke back the tears.

“What grade you in?” Patrick asked kindly.

“Third.”

“So you’ll be going to a new school. Could be fun.”

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Ever been here before?”

“To visit my grandparents.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “But that was different.”

He nods. “You knew you’d be leaving.”

“Yeah,” she said miserably.

He squinted out the side window. “I grew up in a place like this. It’s not so bad. And it’s not true you can’t leave,” he said, looking down at her. “You can, but you have to be headstrong to do it. Then again, you might come to like it. There’s a lot to be said for living in a small town.”

“Like what?” Gus said.

“People know you. There’s such a thing called
neighbors,
Gus—ever heard of ‘em? Take my word for it, they’re a whole different breed than the vagrants and pimps that congregate on your street. When’s the last time anyone brought you a tuna casserole?”