You'd Be A Stranger Too Stories

Weston Cutter

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York

You'd Be A Stranger, Too by Weston Cutter Copyright 2010

Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Cover image: detail from Cleveland No. 60 by Michael Wille First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-047-7 Library of Congress Control Number 2010939078 BlazeVOX [books] 303 Bedford Ave Buffalo, NY 14216 Editor@blazevox.org

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Red Leaves
My fathers box of pictures on the kitchen table and outside 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 into what 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, wild chamomile 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 the mechanical-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, all through 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 in that 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 children without 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 just answered 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 and grasshoppers 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 the edge 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 of what 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 always staying 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 King right 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 a hitch 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 huge irrigation 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 after the 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. A newspaper 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 single blue 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 that much, 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, but loose, 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 him a 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 known about 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 would go to his grave pronouncing it paasta, like faster spoken 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 girl is 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 recall pretty 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 who would 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 of placement, what sort of chemistry, plus still the meanness, the arch stubbornness, of attraction mixed with something like viciousness, like aggression. Like saying I want you and 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 of Schraedervilles 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 hers in 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 help a 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 assumed a 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 a living, 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 much sense 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 a button 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 to Catherines 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. I fucking 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 of her 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 no one 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 something just 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 of town, 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 to explain: 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 transformation as 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 ask her 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 changed expression 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 slid slowly 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 asked quietly, 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 where Rhymes 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 a once-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 awake when shed returned from her run, but hed only emerged from his room at half past ten, wearing khakis and a shortsleeve 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 slowly several 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 a steady, 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 the greatness 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 fivemartinis-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 was toying, 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 head down 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 about the 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 sloshingly and 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 on the 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. She stepped 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 him to 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 pine in 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 and pushed 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. And she didnt have any idea what she would say if 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, this suddenly 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 tin can 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, is you 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, all over 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 the can, and of course her dad would always tie the string extra slowly, hed smile or wink or say just 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. There hed 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 she didnt 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 have formed 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 it jumped, 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 the can 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 birch and 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 and so 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 them in Harrison. Shouldve made the appointment for Friday, she grumbled as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. She could remember feeling that a long weekend in Schraederville was a good idea, she just couldnt remember thinking that 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 total surprise. 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, and Catherine, 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. When you 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 the shower, 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 almost imitated 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 work the 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 without professional 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 boat completely, 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 on the 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 a hand 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, Catherine said, 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 Copper Penny Catherine felt momentarily like she was turning into a regular, was regressing into the role of local. She wanted someone to call Hey, Cath as 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 in Harrison, 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 newspapers and 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 to ask 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. 917 she 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, looseygoosey legs, a buzz on her skin like shed just been plugged in. 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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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 thatd make 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 was trying 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 you and 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 their heads. 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 was amazed 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 she didnt 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.

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