September 2009

That’s when there’s this thud. A huge mass of darkness flips over the hood, comes right through the windshield. Laura screams. There’s a sudden stench in the car, unwashed animal, and its hoof is an inch from her face. I can’t see anything else. The car swerves. I try to brake. The world turns around. My head hits the roof. It’s like watching a movie. This isn’t happening to me. I’m at the drive-in. We roll again. There’s a jarring crash. There’s pain.

We stop moving. Hot metal pings, the radiator hisses. Laura is absolutely still. Her eyes are open and blank. I try to lift my hand to touch her but my hand does not obey. I can’t feel it. Every part of me is numb. I’m so cold. My last thought is, She’s gone to heaven, so I’ve gotta be good all my life so I can see my baby when I die.

That’s the night I can’t stop thinking about.

“I’m here,” she says to me now, “I’m here with you.”

I reply, “And I’m here with you.”

We’re up in the trees on Make-out Point, watching Lincolnville. Once, it was a small town. Now it’s all grown up. I no longer recognize the streets down there. Houses crowd around the mountain. I only have a dim memory of men building them. Every time I look away, this strange sprawl fades and Lincolnville comes back to me the way I remember it. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming with my eyes open.

Laura is terrified of the city. Even if we could, she would never go down there. The people that pass through the trees are all the contact she wants to make with the city. They don’t talk or dress like anyone we’ve ever seen, even in the movies. If this is a dream, I wonder how we could invent them. Maybe we were invaded by the Commies. The kids listen to music with profane lyrics that are about sex and murder. Maybe we’re in hell.

It’s midday and my eyes are wide open.

“Guests,” Laura says. I turn away from the unfamiliar city and look into the clearing below. A man and a woman stumble up a path. They emerge from the shadows of the forest, blinking at the sunlight. In their late forties, they have the pinched look of PTA squares. The man lugs a picnic basket as reluctantly as a prisoner does his ball and chain.

These faces are sort of familiar. I say, “I think we knew them.”

Laura nods. We observe with mild interest. It’s rare for us to recognize the people who pass through.

The woman’s head jerks bird-like. She says, pointing at the edge of the clearing, “Oh my God! Look at that!”

The man grunts, “What? Where?”

“That! Oh, it’s flying away. Didn’t you see it, Brad?”

“See what?”

“A huge butterfly. This big.” She interlocks her hands and flaps them.

“Sure.” Brad shrugs. His ill-fitting sports coat tents behind his neck.

“I did.”

“I wasn’t saying you didn’t, Alice.”

He deposits the picnic basket right under our tree. I stare down at his bald spot. It catches the light.

“Good enough,” Brad says.

“But further on, there’s a better view.”

“We never came here for the view.”

“I liked looking at the lights of the town.”

“Furthest thing from my mind. No, I’m tired of walking. This is good.” He spreads a tartan quilt and plumps himself down. “Well, Alice?”

“Fine.”

“Okay then, sit down.”

“I think I’ll limber up first. I’m a bit stiff.” She does a jumping jack, loose floral-print dress flapping. “One, two, three — join me, it’s good for you.”

Brad hunches over the picnic basket, taut with tension.

“Yes,” Laura says, “I’m sure we knew them. But they’re so different now.”

“I’ve almost got it,” I say. “Brad and Alice. They were…”

“Yeah, I remember them now. Brad Stone and Alice Templeton.” Sudden tears roll down Laura’s cheeks like perfect pearls and fade away before they reach her chin. “Oh, Jerry, they’re so old.”

“Ten,” Alice says and starts twisting around. It looks like she’s doing the Locomotion. It was a big hit in our senior year. She huffs out, “I wonder how Tom is doing?”

Brad sighs.

“I worry,” she says, “that’s all.”

“He’s a big boy now.”

“I just want to know how he’s doing.”

“Call him. And he’ll say what he says every time: ‘Hi mom. Yeah, things are great. Uh-huh. Oh, gotta go.’ That’s how he’s doing. He doesn’t want you calling him all the time.”

“But…”

“Stop worrying about him. I thought we agreed that now that he’s finally out of the house, we can just enjoy ourselves. What was I thinking? Shit.” He packs a lifetime of frustration into that word.