Summerlong (20 page)

It has to be early, Ruth says, when ABC does it, hours before dawn—in the time of night when the magic is not afraid of being discovered by the morning sun. ABC will take some of Ruth’s painkillers and some of her own old anti-anxiety medicine and also wash down a few sleeping pills, those Driftozines the doctor had given Ruth, with beer, plus a bottle of Scotch just in case she is too wakeful, and a Ziploc bag of more pills, also just in case, and push herself out in a small kayak. ABC will wait until the lake is rough, a storm swell, maybe—Ruth has been reading about Superior online—and she will allow herself to be carried out to Lake Superior, where the spirit world will find a way to take her in.

“Just like that,” ABC says. “It’s like you’ve been thinking about this already.”

“I’m an old woman,” Ruth says. “I think about death a lot.”

Would ABC drown or would she freeze or would the pills shut down her body before either of these things happened? She hopes to be unconscious no matter what stops her heart.

“Will it work?” ABC says.

“Are you scared?” Ruth asks her.

“You’re like a goddess or something. Or maybe a good witch,” ABC says.

“You live long enough,” Ruth says, “you find much wisdom, you shed what doesn’t matter. You want to die, ABC, so you can find your dead lover before she wanders too far into the spirit world. Most of the world wouldn’t understand that, but I get it. I understand it.”

When ABC goes back upstairs, she looks at Don, swaying in the hammock, and he mutters, “Drown.”

He mutters it, so she cannot be sure, but she hears it as
drown
. Inside her body, a brief terror makes her tremble and sweat and shake with chills, but then a strange honey warmth spreads over her, beginning at her very core, as if coming from her womb. She pictures Philly and now knows with an odd certainty that she will
find her. That she will soon see her dead friend, as easily as if Philly is waiting for her to get off a plane.

ABC stands and goes to the window, and the blue night floats with fireflies.

And now she’s there and she’s ready. My God. She isn’t even scared.

I’m filled with desire
Could it be the devil in me
Or is this the way love’s supposed to be?

—Martha and the Vandellas,
“
Heat Wave
”

On the twenty-third day of July, the temperature, which has been rising through the nineties all week long, finally reaches 100 degrees. Grinnell’s wide empty streets bake in the desolate light. Claire has dropped off the kids that morning in West Des Moines, at Don’s sister’s house, and although Rosie has planned to take all of the kids to Adventureland for the day, the heat makes such an idea unfeasible. Instead, Rosie rents a stack of movies, and allows the kids to do nothing but lie about in the basement rec room all day. How did summer in the Midwest get too hot for kids to go outside and play? How many days would they spend inside basements, watching movies in canned and chilled air?

Claire can tell that her kids are disappointed. But she drops them off with their aunt anyway, craving a day of solitude, and, yes, if she is to admit it, there is actually a party she wants to go to that night.

It’s been a long time since Claire wanted to go to a party. Claire is the introvert, that’s what everyone says. Don is the social one. But now, having lived three weeks without the cloud of Don Lowry storming up her world, she’s feeling freer than she has in so long. So, a party! A stupid, shallow party of middle-aged professors and their ilk milling about in a wine-soaked haze of sexual innuendo and intellectual pretension.

She’s looking forward to it.

Since she’s moved into the Gulliver house with the kids, she’s tried to keep herself from being alone with Charlie somehow; her
attraction to him seems sadder and more pathetic with kids in the house: Claire, writing in her bedroom late at night—she’s resumed working, at Charlie’s suggestion having tossed out the ten-year-old bloated manuscript and begun something wholly new—stays up battling the hormonal surges she thinks belong better to a sixteen-year-old girl, not an almost-forty-year-old woman. So it’s not that she doesn’t want Charlie anymore—she does—but even the thought of her children suspecting that desire is enough to keep her away from him. She wants them to know that she has left their father for herself, for independence from him and his shadows, for a new start at life, and not for another man.

But then, though she’ll never admit this to anyone—she can barely admit it to herself—when she had heard that Charlie was going to this stupid party too, she had called Rosie, made up a story, and found a way that she could come home from that party, that night, just the two of them, maybe drunkenly holding his hand, leaning on him as he walked her up the path and to the empty, childless house.

Her foot on the throat of her marriage.

Rosie had texted Don that morning, after she had the kids:
Don. FYI I have the kids for a few days. Did u know??? Maybe u and Claire can have some alone time!!! May b just what u 2 need!!!

Thanks!!!!!
he texted back. His sister would appreciate the exclamation points.
GOOD IDEA!!!!!
He offered her some ALL CAPS for emphasis. She was that kind of person. When he read her texts, he always thought of her voice shouting and shouting.

Don knew that Rosie had been praying for Don and Claire to stay together. In fact, Don knew that an entire two-thousand-member megachurch had prayed for them a few Sundays ago.
Please pray for the brother and sister-in-law who do not know Jesus and who are in a dark time in their holy bond of marriage.
That’s how Rosie had asked for prayers in a weepy speech in front of all of those Christians. Rosie’s husband had taken the video with his phone and had sent it to Don with the subject line:
Jesus and his followers have lifted you up in prayer!!!!
It was a thing they did at that church. They prayed for you and e-mailed you a video about it.

THANKS!!!!
Don had texted back.
God is AWESOME!!!
Rosie’s husband was also that kind of person.

Rosie and her husband had not sent the video to Claire because they knew she would be mad; Don had not shown the video to Claire either, for the same reason. Though, truth be told, he wondered if she might have found it screamingly funny too.

Some days, what breaks his heart most is that he no longer knows if she will find the things he wants to say funny. How he
loves to make her laugh. How he once loved making her laugh more than anything else in the world, aside from making love to her after he had made her laugh.

Don waits a few minutes before he calls Claire on her cell. She’s driving down I-80 when she answers and Don suggests they meet at Relish for lunch.

“Don,” she says.

“What?”

“Lunch?”

“I just want to talk.”

“We’ve talked so much.”

“When will we go?” he says. “To counseling? Like I suggested?”

“One, that’s expensive,” Claire says, “and two, Don, I don’t think we should stay married.”

“Could we just do one session before Minnesota?”

“I think you should go there. With the kids, just you and them. I’ll stay behind.”

“I’m not gonna sign the divorce petition.”

“Don.”

“Relish? Twelve thirty. Please? I just want to talk.”

“I’m a sucker for you, Don. And I hate it.”

She hangs up.

He is sitting outside on the patio, in a normally lush and beautiful garden that is, this summer, dried out and anemic.

“Do you want to be outside?” he says as she approaches in a yellow sundress he’s never seen before. So many clothes he’s never known before. Was she saving them? Are they new? Where does she have the money? Does Charlie buy her clothes?

“Is this okay?” he says.

He stands and pulls out her chair; she grimaces a little bit, a slight roll of eyes.

“It’s fine,” she says and sits.

She shields her eyes from the sun, which has come out from behind a cloud in the hazy white light.

“Sorry about the sun,” he says. “Should we go inside?”

“No. This is good.”

“Is that a new dress? Are you trying to kill me?”

“Sit down,” Claire says, grinning, then grimacing, as if suppressing something buried.

“Sorry,” Don says.

“For what?”

“For the lunch invitation. And the comment about your dress.”

“You’re fine.”

“I know I’m fine. How are you?”

The waiter comes with water. When he leaves, they sip in silence for a moment.

“Why do you do that?” she says. “It has nothing to do with you. You shouldn’t apologize to me when I say things like that. Don’t take the blame.”

“Sorry,” he says again, not meaning to say it.

He suddenly realizes there—one does have sudden realizations like that, in the bright glare of summer, when one’s life is falling apart, and Don Lowry has been having sudden realizations almost hourly since he lost his family—that he has faulted himself for every disappointment that Claire has ever had to face: leaving college, leaving New York, leaving graduate school, buying a house she didn’t like, the sun in her eyes at lunch.

“Do you see how that infantilizes me? That it implies all of our life has been your choice and none of it has been me. We did everything together; we fucked up everything together.”

“We didn’t fuck up.”

“We’re broke, Don.”

He nods.

“I’ll get my sunglasses from the car,” she says, and gets up.

Men notice her as they drive by, as she walks down the street toward the Suburban.

Don watches as a student on a bike, a retired professor walking a dog, and a contractor in a mud-spattered truck all watch Claire
move down Park Street and back. He wonders if she is aware of it.

“What is it?” she says. “You’re staring at me.”

“You look amazing.”

“Don, do you see how offensive that is to me? I just told you how I feel like an accessory to your life, to your world, and you’ve just complimented my appearance as if to confirm that belief.”

“I just meant that—”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I’m done being mad at you.”

“I know that we did everything together. It’s just this: you had more potential than I ever had,” he says. “That’s what’s so sad about all of this. You know, when someone contacts me, on Facebook or e-mail or whatever, some old friend from college . . .”

“That’s why I don’t go near Facebook right now, by the way. You should get off it.”

“Anyway,” Don goes on, “when I tell them that we’re living back in Grinnell, they always assume you are a professor now, or maybe an associate dean. They never assume I’m doing anything like that, because they remember us, and they remember how many people looked at us and said, ‘What is she doing with him?’ Even back then.”

“Whatever, Don.”

“No, they used to ask that. To my face! And so when I tell them we live in Grinnell, an underperforming real estate agent and a part-time dining services staffer/novelist—”

“Former novelist,” she says.

“—and that we’ve recently lost our home, they don’t believe it. And they always say, ‘That’s terrible. How is Claire holding up?’ because me, they think I expected this life, these mediocre expectations and constant disappointments, but they know you didn’t.”

“Nobody expects the life they get, Don. That’s what makes life so strange. I am ready to accept it. Charlie’s taught me something.”

“Charlie?”

“He’s taught me to stop caring about where I am going, what I
could possibly do or get or achieve. You, Don, you can’t stop. You’re not happy. You know what I am understanding? I am a happy person at my core. I don’t care if I never write another book. You care. You do. You care what everyone thinks. You think you’re a failure ’cause you went broke. We went broke. I don’t care. You know what I want? I want someone who’ll swim with me at the end of the day and not talk about the next day coming, or the new week, or the next year.”

His heart breaks for her, and he suddenly wants to set her free, wants to let her loose in the world without the burden of him. It is okay to end things, he thinks. Still, he can’t.

“Are you in love with Charlie?”

“He makes me happy. He calms me down. Is that love?”

Don excuses himself to use the bathroom. He’s drunk five cups of coffee that day and it is suddenly urgent.

When he comes back out, Don is prepared to make an “I love you and I am setting you free” speech, hoping it has the opposite effect of Claire breaking free, hoping it makes her love him and miss him again. But at the table, he is disappointed to see ZeeZee Donovan, the art historian, and her partner Jean-Claude, standing near Claire in spandex outfits. They are on their bikes. Jean-Claude is blatantly looking at Claire’s breasts from behind his sunglasses, at her tanned legs. ZeeZee is talking.

Don hides inside the foyer of the restaurant until ZeeZee and Jean-Claude pedal away, their firm, spandexed asses wiggling farewell.

“I’ve been invited to a heat wave party,” Claire says when he returns to the table. “At ZeeZee and Jean-Claude’s. I saw you waiting inside for them to leave.”

“A heat wave party?” Don scoffs and sits down.

“I forgot to tell you about it. ZeeZee just wanted to confirm that I’d actually be going.”

“What’s a fucking heat wave party?” Don asks.

“Inappropriate summer attire is encouraged. That’s what ZeeZee said. They’ll have a slip and slide in the yard, sprinklers, kiddie pools, slushy drinks, and cold beer.”

“That sounds awful. No way,” Don says. “But why wasn’t I invited?”

“Well, the kids are gone for the night. I’m going.”

“You are?”

“The new Claire, not like the old Claire.”

“Oh, Claire!” Don says. He wants a wince of nostalgia from her, but he gets nothing, as if she doesn’t even remember, or want to remember, the note he once gave her.

Claire looks across the street and Don follows her eyes, because she is obviously looking at Charlie and ABC, heading down Park Street toward the Mayflower. Don and Claire, obscured, in part, by the café’s garden and leafy trees, do not call out. They watch Charlie and ABC in silence, poking at their summer salads.

It is ABC who notices them. Don watches, from the corner of his eye, as she drags Charlie across the street by the hand.

“Hey, guys!” ABC says. “It’s great to see you out and about together.”

“The kids are with their aunt in Des Moines,” Claire says.

“Seize the day,” Don says.

“They’re spending the night,” Claire says, looking perhaps too directly at Charlie when she says this.

“Well, you guys enjoy your lunch,” Charlie says.

“It’s not anything special. Do you want to join us?” Claire says.

“We’re just reminiscing about our twenty years together,” Don says, looking right at Charlie Gulliver.

Don studies Charlie’s silent, shifting form. Both he and ABC have wet hair, freshly showered or newly emerged from the pool.

“We’re going to see my dad,” Charlie says.

“If your kids are gone for the night,” ABC says. “You should know that there’s a party at Zee—”

“Yes, I’m going,” Claire says.

“Me too,” Don says.

“Really?” Claire says. “But you weren’t even—”

“Sure! Seize the day!” Don says.

“We’re going too,” ABC says.

“Slip and slide, right?” Charlie says.

“You guys are going together?” Claire says.

“Like a date?” Don says. “Very interesting!”

“Yes!” ABC says. “A hot date. Get it?”

“Not really a date,” Charlie says, looking at ABC, laughing. Then looking at Claire. Don sees the look, registers it, banishes the idea of clocking Charlie right there.

A few more pleasantries, some discussion of the heat, the promise of seeing each other later, and then Charlie and ABC walk off toward the retirement home.

“Do you think they’ve just fucked?” Claire says.

“Claire,” he says. “I want you to think about this again: Minnesota this winter, you and me and the kids. I won’t sign these goddamn papers until I believe that I, that we’ve, tried everything to save this marriage.”

“Do you know what the winters are like up there, Don?”

“Claire, he’s got a plow and a snow blower. Just think, all four of us, together round the woodstove. We can go down to Duluth once a month for supplies.”

She blinks at him.

“You’re nuts,” she says. “This is insane, Don. We just moved into new places. We’ve just set up our kids in new rooms and you want to play
O Pioneers!
this winter!”

“With central heat and a Jacuzzi,” Don says. “It’s hardly roughing it. And we haven’t settled down again. We’re crashing with twenty-something stoners! Is that a way to raise our kids?”

Claire frowns. “We don’t have a lot of choices.”

“That’s why my Minnesota plan is a great plan!”

“It’s not, Don,” Claire says. “It’s not going to work.”

“Define
it
,” Don says. “
What
isn’t going to work? Moving to
Minnesota? Our marriage? What? This is good, Claire. I’ve done it. I’ve come from behind. I have made a small amount of money, just enough money to fix our short-term problems. We can declare bankruptcy and live on cash up there. And then, I’ve been working with Mrs. Manetti, with Ruth, on this plan, a long-term one. Problems solved!”

It is this final statement that makes Claire, already exhausted and nerves worn down to a nub, burst into tears. When she regains her composure, she stands up. “I hate that you think this is about money, Don. I hate that you think you’ve fixed a goddamn thing.”

And soon after that, she is gone.

Don pays the bill with the last of the cash in his wallet, leaving a gratuity that is larger than necessary.

Later that afternoon, when Don Lowry goes home, as in home to the Manetti place, he finds ABC on the sleeping porch. She is rolling a joint. She points to an envelope on the counter. “That’s for you,” she says. When Don opens it, he finds a cashier’s check for $25,000, made out to him, and drafted on an account from a business named RM Enterprises LLC.

In the memo line, it reads: “consulting fees, summer 2012.”

“What is this?”

“Your paycheck. Ruth is paying you to take us up north. In advance of your getting the house, of course. A bonus.”

She lights a joint, takes a long drag, hands it and the lighter to him.

“But I never actually accepted her offer,” Don says.

“You want to take a nap before the party?” she asks after she’s inhaled a long deep pull of weed.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m gonna go back to the office and make some phone calls. I made a small sale this month. Are you sure Ruth wants me to have this money?”

“It was her idea.” As he turns to go, she says, “It’s been a while,
Don, since you’ve slept next to me. I don’t have those dreams of Philly without you.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Maybe tonight?”

“I’m sort of Charlie’s date for the party,” ABC says. “I’ll probably sleep there.”