All Your Pretty Dreams (33 page)

They went upstairs
together. As Jonny stacked dishes Wendy bounced into the kitchen,
looking for food. “You missed breakfast,” Sonya informed her and
sent her upstairs to dress. Wendy made a face, grabbed a piece of
toast, and disappeared.

They played the same songs
they had for the polka mass. Even, for Holti’s sake, the ‘She Likes
Kielbasa Polka.’ The crowd didn’t have the words to sing along this
time but they managed. Ozzie was solemn, and firm with his orders.
He gave a short, emotional speech about his father, as did a couple
of Holti’s old friends, then they all filed out.

The townspeople, and the
family, squeezed into Nora’s little house on Elm Lane for coffee,
cake, and pie. Carol brought her Lemon Honey Slaw and stood close
to Margaret, whispering and offering moral support. Jonny did his
best, shaking hands. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he escaped
out the back door to sit by himself in the chill afternoon wind.
Leaves had blown off the oak tree and made piles against the wooden
fence. He found a rake in Nora’s garage and set to work, stuffing
the brittle leaves into a garbage can.

He had to do something. He
felt a terrible sorrow coming on, the kind that lasts all winter.
He should feel happy for Nora, he thought, with Claude at her side
in the house. He wanted to. He should feel peace for Holti. Instead
all he could feel was a rising hollowness that felt black and ugly.
He was going to cry, he could feel it. And it wouldn’t be for Holti
or Nora or Ozzie or Margaret. It would be for himself.

He raked until there were
no more leaves to rake. Sweat gathered on his back and neck. He
stood with his hands on the back fence, thinking about his father.
He hadn’t said a word to Ozzie about Reinholt. What should he say?
He was still angry at the jerk. Why hadn’t he gone back to
Margaret? What was he waiting for?

The back door slammed.
Artie walked down the cracked sidewalk and stood with his hands
deep in his pockets. His face was the same as always, stoic and
unsmiling.

“
You gotta see something,”
Artie said.

Artie motioned him down the
driveway to the front of the house, stopping beside a blue spruce.
The neighbor’s flowers were dead, rattling in the wind. The tidy
lawns on either side of the street were yellow now, ready for snow.
Cars were parked down both sides of the block, and onto the
next.

“
There. In Dad’s
pickup.”

Across the street Ozzie’s
old truck was parked facing them. In the cab Jonny could see two
people, Ozzie and a woman. His stomach sunk, then he blinked. It
was Margaret. They were talking. She touched his neck. He hung his
head, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, laying her forehead
against his temple. “They’ve been out there for a half hour,” Artie
said.

“
Kissing?”

“
Making out like
teenagers.”

Lenny, wearing a sports
jacket over his black t-shirt, the same combination Jonny wore to
his last funeral, drove back to the house with them. He squeezed
between Jonny and Wendy in Artie’s back seat. Ozzie and Margaret
showed up an hour later, holding hands. Lenny sprawled on the sofa,
drinking a beer. He jumped to his feet. The others sat up
straighter with hopeful smiles.

“
Mr. and Mrs. Knobel,”
Lenny said formally, hiding his bottle. “I didn’t get a chance to
offer my condolences. And perhaps congratulations as
well?”

“
Thank you, Lenny,”
Margaret said, her eyes bright. “Congratulations to you as well. I
voted for you.”

“
So you’re back?” Wendy
asked, squinting hard at her father, arms crossed. “What happened
to whatsherface with the big boobs?”

“
Wendy, please,” Margaret
said, clutching Ozzie’s arm.

“
It’s okay, Marg,” he
said. “She wants to know. Wendy, boys. Sonya. I’m done with Loreen.
For good. I apologized to your mother and now I’m saying it to you.
I’m sorry. I lost my head. I hope you can forgive me.”

Wendy opened her mouth but
Artie put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a stern look. Yes,
Ozzie had lost his head. But his speech was so out of character,
not particularly ashamed of acting like a randy teenager but at
least repentant and honest. They were all speechless. Margaret
reached for Ozzie’s chin, turned him toward her, and planted a kiss
on his lips. Lenny sat down and took a swig of beer. And belched,
breaking the spell.

Jonny stood up. “I’m sorry,
Dad. About Grandpa.”

Ozzie hugged him so tightly
it made his eyes water. Then he slapped Jonny on the back. “Good
playing today, son. All of you. Really good job. Holti enjoyed it,
I know he did. One last swinging polka gig for the old man and the
old band.”

Over pizza and Cokes that
night the mood swung wildly. With old stories of Ozzie and Margaret
and the band, to older stories of Holti and his apple orchard,
there was laughter and wonder and tears. Wendy stuck with it all,
Jonny noticed, listening raptly to tales of bitter winters and the
time the goats got into the sour mash, the fire blight panic of
1969 and the day her parents met. Later in the kitchen she carried
in dirty plates.

“
Slide ‘em in,” Jonny
said, his hands in the suds.

Wendy eased the plates into
the sink and grabbed a dishcloth to dry. “Did you know Holti and
Nora met at a USO dance?”

“
That was a new
one.”

“
It’s just so weird,” she
said, taking a plate. “I wanted to leave this place so bad this
summer. I hated it here. You probably don’t remember how awful high
school is here. It’s like the end of the fricking world. I mean,
stick a fork in me. But if I hadn’t been forced to come back, I
would have missed all this. And I can’t imagine that.”

Jonny paused with the
sponge. “What do you mean, forced?”

“
Well, you know. I was
going to stay in Illinois and try to go to classes. See if they’d
let me in early and if they wouldn’t I’d get a job or something.
Anything to stay away from here. Until I got put on that
plane.”

Jonny turned to his sister.
She was wearing a gray wool skirt, still very short but with boots
and black tights, and a dark green sweater. Her hair was pulled
back and she looked, well, fresh and lovely and seventeen. For a
change.

“
You were in
Illinois?”

She shrugged and smiled
mysteriously.

“
How did you get
back?”

“
Oh, Jonny.” She looked at
him sideways.

“
What?”

“
You know how. And
who.”

“
Who put you on the
plane?”

“
Cripes, don’t be a
doofus.”

“
It wasn’t
Nora?”

“
Geez, Jonny. Of course I
stowed away in the van. Curtis never saw me. I stretched out on the
last seat.”

He put his hands on the
edge of the sink. “Were you in that bus barn?”

“
For a week.” She stacked
the plate on the counter. “It was filthy. There were mice and
cockroaches. But I sneaked out during the day and walked all over
the campus, filled out applications, checked out the buildings, met
all kinds of cool people. Went to coffee shops, read poetry at the
bookstore. Poetry! It was like being free. I was grown-up and
totally free. I took showers in the girl’s gym. It was fabulous.
Then I’d sneak back in and sleep in a van. It was
perfect.”

“
Until the weekend
came.”

“
The first weekend they
were working on the buses so that was fine. But the second
weekend.” She rolled her eyes. “When Isabel and the cop banged on
the door Sunday afternoon, I was desperate. I would have told her
anything to get out of there. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. So
let’s just say you guessed.”

Jonny saw Isabel in his
mind, that sexy short haircut over that serious face, so
intelligent, so determined. Twirling under the disco lights, happy
and laughing— and confronting her old boyfriend. Who she still
loved.

“
Isabel found
you?”

“
And put me on the plane.
She flew to Chicago with me to make sure I got on the Minneapolis
flight.”

“
And paid for it
all.”

“
She wouldn’t take no for
an answer. Queen Bee maybe, but a royal pain is more like it. Made
me march like she was my drill sergeant.”

“
Wendy. She had your
interests at heart.”

“
Really? I was sure it was
somebody else’s interests. Or at least his heart.” Wendy wrinkled
her nose and grinned.

“
What? No. You’ve got that
wrong.”

“
Suit yourself. She’s a
bit of a bitch anyway.”

The next morning Lenny
invited them all over to his campaign office, soon to be called
officially the ‘A-Round Red Vine Growth & Tourism Vortex.’ He
had a month before taking office and intended to make the most of
the grain bin as his own personal party space. The sun peeked out,
setting a fiery light to the last red maple leaves clinging to the
trees in front of the bank. A breeze brought the pine scent in off
the lake. The sound system blared ‘Thunder Road.’ A sign on the
door advertised free coffee and apple walnut victory muffins baked
by the proud mother of the mayor-to-be.

Jonny fielded questions
about the conversion of the old bin, amazed exclamations as if he
was a magician. There
was
a silk purse aspect to the old hog shed. Jonny
felt a moment of pride, watching the smiles. When Oscar Braun
whipped off his DeKalb cap and slapped his trousers, crowing in
astonishment, Jonny laughed and thought,
Gee willickers
. Maybe it wasn’t such
a crazy idea.

What a weekend. He felt
thrashed by emotions, the sorrow of death, the fragile nature of
love, victory and loss and redemption. Was it Holti’s final gift to
set his son’s head back on his shoulders and return him to the
fold? Just like Isabel had returned Wendy to the family? He had
lain awake last night, letting the sadness of the funeral sift away
into the cobwebs of his old room, dredging up his natural
cheerfulness. It was difficult. He hadn’t felt very jolly lately.
Isabel had found Wendy and sent her home. Somehow he had to repay
her for that. He would find out what the tickets cost and pay her
back. What did her smile look like? Trying to remember made him
feel a little desperate.

He rolled onto his stomach
and buried his face in his pillow. Her grandfather’s funeral. Now
his. Two old men, one for each of them. She should have been
here.

In the courthouse park that
morning the fine weather brought out more people to congratulate
Lenny and take a look at the unusual new tourist center. Free food
had, as always, brought in a steady trickle of citizens. Most
clapped Lenny on the back and wished him good luck with the town
budget. Margaret and Ozzie stopped by, happy as clams. Jonny spied
Cuppie’s parents and hid behind the new mayor. Lenny’s parents
stood on one side, beaming. Nora and Claude wandered in around
noon. Looking for fresh air, they claimed. They looked a little
pale from the week’s events, but ambulatory and smiling. Nora
brought blueberry tarts. There were a lot of hugs.

Claude toddled over to
Jonny, using only a cane. “Your grandmama gives me something to get
out of the chair for,” he said, his eyes alight. “And another good
mass with the accordion, my boy.” He put a hand on Jonny’s
shoulder. “I thought you played that second tune especially well.
From your heart this time. I heard the chords go clear up to
heaven, yes, I did. And guess what? I have taken out my old squeeze
box myself. Dusted it off and made a few squeaks.”

“
That’s great.”

“
I have some music for
you. Would you like? Your grandmama gives me your computer address.
I will send,” he said. “My music from old times. The
Cajun.”

Jonny told him he’d be
happy to get the music. The old man made him promise to try it out
on the accordion. To not let his grandfather’s instrument gather
moss.

“
Now I will tell you my
theory. Are you ready for an old man’s theories?” He grinned, big
yellow teeth on display, and waited until Jonny nodded. “Okay, here
it is. The genius of the squeeze box, one player to the other. No
one else understands.”

Claude’s voice softened to
a whisper. “You know the press, then the draw? Of the accordion? In
with the air, out with the air? Well, to me it is life, this press
and draw. Like a family. These people, strangers perhaps but they
are your family, you love them but they press in on you. They are
too close, too much like you, too different, too everything. They
have problems that make your heart ache. So you draw away. But they
are your family so you return when you are needed. And you feel the
press again. The pattern repeats, over and over. All life long. In
close, then run away. Press. Draw. Press again. You
see?”

He stepped even closer.
“Sometimes good music presses in like good news, happy times. A
wedding, a baby is born. But more often than you like, the music is
off-key. Your father goes a little bit crazy. Your sister runs
away. Your grandfather who gave you your beautiful instrument
passes into the great unknown. Or perhaps, heaven. We can hope. The
press feels like the weight of mountains. It feels like nothing
will ever be right again. Music will never come from the accordion,
or your heart, again. The tears only. No music. You are sad. Sad
things happen, every day.