You Could Be Home by Now (23 page)

He said, “Sadie and I are headed to the Founder's Day Festival tomorrow. Lily, too.” They hadn't actually discussed this and he didn't even like carnivals. But Veronica had to be made to understand. This was a full life she was invading.

His ex sniffed. “A festival. Well, imagine that.”

Sadie looked adrift, but went along with it, graciousness personified. “You're welcome to join us, Veronica. The more the merrier.” Lily gave a confused half-squint, but for once in her life didn't question or contradict.

“Fantastic!” Veronica sounded like a very bad actress attempting to sound very drunk.

He said, “I suspect Veronica will be much too busy for us. I suspect she's in town for a last-minute conference.”

Everyone tensed at that. Even Lily, who had no context. All around them, the evening was a study in soft light and safe noises. Gnats sparked up from the grass and from the golf course you could catch the first steady ruckus of crickets.

Veronica said, “Actually, she's in town because her husband's too busy gallivanting to answer his phone.”

“Gallivanting? Veronica, please.”

“You're married?” That was Lily. She made married sound lethal.

“Lily. Please.” Sadie's voice was cool and adamant.

“No,” Ben said. “We're not married. Decidedly not.”

Veronica said, “Look at your phone. Look at all those calls.”

“We've gone weeks without talking before. Like I said, we aren't married.”

“And thank heavens for that.”

“Weeks, Veronica. Maybe even a month.”

“Maybe. But you always call back. Always.”

“This'll be good. I don't pick up the minute you want me to so you fly down like a lunatic—”

“Always.” She sounded like Veronica now and not some frenzied theatrical interpretation of herself. Because of this, he felt more invaded than he had before.

“Like a lunatic. So I missed a few calls. You could've tried the landline.”

“Check.”

“E-mailed.”

“And check.”

“You could've—”

Sadie broke in. “We really should be going, Ben.”

Veronica gave a perky, finger-wriggling wave. “We'll see you at the carnival then. Ta!”

He said, “You know, you really can be a gold-plated—”

“All I wanted was to tell you how things went with Rand.”

“Fine. And?”

Her shoulders gave a little. “Same as always.”

“Thanks. Now I know. Can I call you a cab?”

Sadie pulled into her garage across the street. In the few seconds before the door rolled down, he saw her tuck Lily's arm into the crook of her own. The women marched into the house like a paired-up bride and groom. Ronnie whistled a few malevolent bars of the Beatles' “Sexy Sadie.”

“Oh, shut up.”

She gave another vicious whistle, this time approximating the lethal fall of a bomb. Veronica had gotten the frequent flier miles in their divorce settlement. He hoped this insane jaunt had burned through the lot of them. “Why did you come?” he asked.

“Look at the calls, Benji.”

He scrolled through again. “Fodder for a restraining order.”

“Can it, you.” She rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the look. You'd have to know her well to spot it. “I was worried. You weren't answering your cell. Your landline rang and rang. I called Stephen to see if he'd heard from you and he was worried, too. He sent me this . . . link.” Her face curdled. Ben remembered. That series of anonymous phone calls. The way he'd stormed about and unplugged the landline.

“About that interview. It was a—”

“You didn't look like you. You were—you know what? You were hysterical.” She steepled her fingers. “You were paranoid. You weren't making any sense.”

Naturally Veronica had collected pamphlets. Your Loved One in the Wake of Trauma. Families and PTSD. They were facile, busybody, trifold things. Veronica went over them with highlighters. Two colors of highlighters, if he recalled correctly. Her own special coded system. He hadn't read a single one, but you could bet at some point his ex had highlighted paranoia as a warning sign. That and whole paragraphs about angry outbursts. Fixation on past slights. A quick upstep to anger. Get out of your own head, squint a little, and you could see where she was coming from. He didn't have to be happy about it though. He said, “I'm fine. I was actually pissed off.”

“Believe me, I noticed. But—”

“No. Actually pissed off. Actually, as in not diagnostically.” A light came on in the Birnam kitchen. Another followed. Sadie's living room. His neighbor and her granddaughter, doing something small and contented to unwind. A movie and a massive bowl of microwave popcorn. An affectionate dispute over how vigorously to salt it.

“Benji. The whole interview sure as hell looked like you were—”

“But I wasn't. It wasn't some kind of—I was just mad.” He was grateful that the Birnams had gone into the house. It would be so like Lily to broadcast his fall-apart scene at the meeting. She'd do it in half a heartbeat for the pleasure of seeing Veronica wring him out. It'd be like Sadie to spill, too, although she would have kinder motives.

Veronica rubbed her eyes, like their children had done when they were past due for a nap. The movement set her new glasses briefly off-kilter. “That's what Stephen said. You were just mad. And I thought, fine. Only—”

“Only what? We don't trust Stephen now? You're the one who needs your head examined.”

“Anjali said you missed your crossword this morning.”

“Huh?”

“That crossword you do every day. She said you skipped this morning.”

“Well God forbid I take a break now and then. Maybe stay offline when the whole damn world is against me.” The words sounded paranoid and he regretted them. But better that than to say he'd quarreled with Sadie this morning and had been distracted. Veronica knew. Fighting could be as intimate as hygiene.

“And Anjali said she won yesterday. By a wide margin.”

“So? She had a lucky day.”

“She'd never come close before. So you see why I might worry about your cognitive—”

“I let her win.”

“Nonsense. You're the most competitive—”

He lied, mind wild with the watery ghost of that dream. “She's got that trial coming up. I figured she could use the ego boost.”

“She was third in her class at BU. Jesus Christ. I hardly think she needs—”

“You know what I don't need? The lot of you spying on me. Talking about me—”

“Listen to yourself. You know what you sound like?”

“Well, it's true, isn't it? The crossword's your clever excuse to check up on me. Make sure the old noggin's—”

“It's a sweet thing the two of you share. If it happens to—”

“Be some kind of failsafe?”

“You make it sound like we're all plotting—”

“Enough. I'm grand.” He couldn't remember who'd first found the crossword site, whether the daily challenge had been his idea or Anjali's. “You can tell my daughter-in-law to stop her snooping.”

“She likes you. And she didn't want Stephen to worry. She knew you'd get—well, that you'd get like this if he started checking in all the time. Anjali wanted to help. Married people do that for each other, remember?”

“Don't start.” It was early yet for the moon to rise, which was a shame. For no reason at all, it felt vital that he know its phase.

“You can see why we worried, that's all. Stephen kept calling. I kept calling. Anjali did, too.”

“So the three of you wait. I'd have called back as soon as I—” He searched his pockets. He must have left his fool phone inside. “Look. I didn't have my cell on me. It happens. It's no reason to hop on a plane and—”

“Damn straight, you don't have your phone on you. Because I called and called and someone finally answered. A lovely sounding RN. Turns out your phone was lying about some hospital snack bar—”

“I have no idea what it was doing at the snack bar, but—”

“He was kind enough to give me the hospital's main number. I spent forever trying to get someone on the line who could tell me why on earth you'd been there.”

“Ahh, yes. About that.”

“No one would say a peep. Not one word.”

“Patient confidentiality, Veronica. And it was nothing. I'm fine.”

“Do you know what I was thinking? Do you know what Stephen was thinking?”

The rant, the crossword, the two days of unanswered calls. The unyielding silence of the hospital switchboard. You could see how it might add up. “You didn't have to come,” he said. “You could've—”

“If I hadn't come, Stephen would've. And you know the firm would've loved that.”

“I still say the three of you scare too easily.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She shrugged and spread her arms wide. The gesture looked out of place, like it ought to be capped with a gleeful spin. “Hey. You
are
all right, aren't you?”

“It's been a strange few days. Do you have a suitcase?”

“No. Just the blue carryall.” She gestured to where it waited beside the steps. “A change of clothes, a toothbrush. I didn't know what I was packing for. I figured that's why they invented credit cards.”

“Bring it on in. I guess you can bunk down in the guest room.”

“Ahh, chivalry.”

“Tone down the sarcasm and I'll throw in breakfast.”

“And a festival. I was promised a festival.”

“Don't push it. We'll see.” They went on up the steps and he turned the key. Veronica whistled again—when had she picked up
that
habit?—and pronounced his new digs very swank. She ran a hand along the smooth planes of the Chrome Monstrosity. Ben had planned for this, or for something like it. Veronica here, her sweater on the back of his kitchen chair, her purse on his gleaming granite counter.

Of course, the way he'd planned it, he'd had a week's advance notice. He'd had the chance to run the vacuum before she arrived and time to pick up a loaf from that bakery down the road. Veronica would like their bread; the older she got the more stock she put in grains that were visible to the naked eye. His plan had involved tuning up his old Schwinn and finding a rental bike for his ex. It involved timing the invitation so that they could attend one of the twice-monthly lectures by professors imported from Arizona State. He'd intended to stock up on Veronica's preferred shampoo and on the carrot-based hand lotion she always used in the summer. He'd meant to spend an afternoon going through his box of framed family pictures that didn't look quite right on his shelves. He'd meant to pick a handful to display.

F
OUNDER'S
D
AY
. O
NE YEAR EXACTLY
since Grandpa died. Clearly an occasion best commemorated by taking your miscreant granddaughter, post-freakout possiboyfriend, his ex-wife, and her probably real Kate Spade satchel to an arts and crafts fair. Gran was nuts. She insisted Lily borrow a pair of Velcro-strap sneakers. Practicality was in order, she said. They'd walk over. Parking had been difficult last year.

Lily wasn't perfect. Ask Benjamin Thales (whose shoes, joy of joys, also employed Velcro). Ask Nicky Tullbeck. Ask Tyson Rosko and his grandmother, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree. She was basically a one-woman interpersonal wrecking ball.

Still.

Really, Gran?

Parking had been difficult?

She wasn't perfect but least she hadn't signed up for a complete emotional lobotomy.

They stopped at a display of hardwood puzzles. A great white with a belly full of surfboards. An ark with a cheerful crew of pair-bonders. Gran hummed the tune from the ballerina music box Lily had loved as a child. It was probably something famous in real life, reduced to wind-up plinking. She caught Lily's eye and the humming stopped. “We're going to have a great time.” Her way-too-happy, deep-fried Rasta leprechaun accent was back. Lily nodded, then complimented the ex's bag to distract from whatever was going on with Gran's cognitive processes. The ex said she'd gotten a discount through Anjali's sister, who did something for the company's website. Lily acted like she knew who the hell Anjali was, because apparently they were all such friends, tra la.

Ben traced the edge of the Noah puzzle piece. “You left out Mrs. Noah,” he told the artist, because marriage was the best possible thing to allude to in this particular social context.

Lily pointed to the next booth. “Let's try on hats,” she said, before either woman could respond to the per-vet and turn the whole conversation insta-symbolic.

Gran brandished her—off-brand—handbag. “Onward!”

Lily winced. In the face of a rival, calculation was in order, not descent into full-on, French-fried freakdom. She'd learned that much from Sierra. That, and how to play scorekeeper. Her grandmother's whackadoo accent made it
Die Exfrau
one, Gran zip.

Die Exfrau
tried on a green hat that looked like a satellite receiver.

Gran's beige, feathery confection turned her into Big Bird's anemic cousin.

The per-vet donned a pink, rectangular, felted thing. He winked.

“Very Jackie O,” said Gran.

He winked again in response.

Gran one,
Die Exfrau
one. Tie game.

Die Exfrau
exchanged the satellite for undulating waves of stiffened tulle. She pursed her lips. “How about this for the Turners' next Derby party?”

Make that
Die Exfrau
two, Gran one, unless she also scored an invite to the Turners' soiree. They moved on, past oil-paint mesas and ceramic Kokopellis. Every third booth featured pastel coyotes profiled against the moon.
Die Exfrau
inspected a funny tiled pot for succulents. Ben clattered a display of inert wind chimes. Gran fingered the hem of a gauzy tunic. On the festival stage a band of mariachis in glittering shoulder pads began to set up. Their little group came to a balloon vendor. Visiting grandchildren and their keepers clustered. Lily checked that none of the kiddos was Tyson. A handmade poster labeled the street just beyond as the Kiddie Korral. It was mostly empty. A woman with a foam clown nose applied face paint to another grandkid who wasn't Tyson. Photocopied coloring sheets waited next to buckets of melting crayons.