Summerlong: A Novel Part 1

Summerlong.

a_novel.

Dean Bakopoulos.

DEDICATION.

IN MEMORY OF MY STUDENT AND FRIEND.

ARMANDO "MANDO" MONTANO, WHOM WE LOST MUCH TOO SOON.

PART I.

There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.

-Kazuo Is.h.i.+guro, Never Let Me Go.

In the hay gold dusk of late spring, Don Lowry takes his usual walk through town and out to the fields beyond it. In the newly turned black earth, he smells energy and promise, which buoys him in a way he has not felt buoyed in some time, and he feels, along with the whole twitching prairie, as if he is on the verge of something either beautiful or terrible. It is always hard for him to know which. And this is why, while walking home, when he sees a woman, her body sprawled beneath a thick, scabbed-up sycamore at the darkening edge of Merrill Park, he believes that she's fallen from a high bough.

Don stops at the edge of the park, reaching for his phone to call 911. But he does not bring his phone on these walks; his wife has urged him not to-he works too much, he has chest pains at night, and his face is often lit by a screen-and so he cannot call anyone. From this downhill angle, it's unknowable: has the woman in fact fallen from the tree or has she been injured or beaten in some way? But as he approaches her, it seems as if she is simply sprawled there for the pleasure of it, for the soft gra.s.s and a few stars salting the darkening sky and the moon, an icy coin.

For a moment, he wants to lie down next to her and whisper her name.

It surprises him that he knows her name: Amelia Benitez-Coors, or ABC, as she's called. He knows her name, and her nickname, in the strange, osmotic way people in a small town know things about perfect strangers; he knows some of her story: she had left the college a year before, and had gone off for a few months, and then, last fall when the leaves turned, she arrived in town again on a red bus from Omaha, to live with and care for the widow Ruth Manetti, whose lawn Don had cut as a teenager, twenty-five years before.

He looks at her form-peaceful, not bleeding or twisted in any way. She wears old jeans and a tight, gray WHERE THE h.e.l.l IS GRINNELL T-s.h.i.+rt, and she is barefoot, a hint of her midriff showing, her earth black hair thick and wavy and her skin an olive tone, deepened by sun.

Suddenly, she coughs, the wet hack of a summer cold, and opens her eyes.

Don steps back, as if she has caught fire.

"Were you watching me?" she asks.

"I was just making sure you were okay," he says, but he's been caught. He's lingered too long on the midriff and the diamond stud in the navel, the bare feet with painted toes and a silver ring on the third right one.

She props up on her elbows and says, "Don Lowry!"

He steps back a foot or two.

"Are you okay?" Don asks.

"I am!"

"Do you need anything?" he says. "I'm sorry, I thought you were-"

"You're Don Lowry!" she says.

This is something that happens. Don's picture is on business cards and FOR SALE signs and flyers all over town. He's recognized.

"It's your business!" she says, this woman, ABC, and sits up now and reaches a hand up toward him. He takes it, helps her to her feet. He is taller than she is, but not by as much as he expects. She is uphill from him, on a small slope, which gives her an extra inch or two. It's easy to look right into her eyes.

"It's your business!" she says again, and her dark eyes lock on to his, which is exactly what he wants.

Don has a slogan: "It's your home, but it's my business!" Now he is embarra.s.sed by it. Also embarra.s.sing: the sweat stains on his light blue golf s.h.i.+rt, the ill-fitting Walmart khakis, his newly formed gut, his hairline, the pen in his pocket, the permanent name tag, his thirty-eight years on earth. He lets himself look at her again. He looks at her legs, then at the soft fullness of the flesh under her thin T-s.h.i.+rt and begins to feel the first sin of middle age, which is self-pity.

"Yes, that's me," he says.

"Get high with me, Don Lowry."

"Pardon?"

A full-tailed orange cat struts his way across the park and the crows of some distant tree go crazy.

"I need someone to get high with me," she says. "Someone I don't know."

"How so?"

"Do you know anything about me?" she says.

"You're not special," he says, without meaning to, but that's the thrumming phrase in his inner ear and it comes out, the involuntary catharsis of a phrase he's been thinking all week, all afternoon, his whole walk.

"Ha!" she blurts out.

"I mean, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I meant me. I'm not special."

"Perhaps you've been sent here for this very purpose?" she says.

"To get high?" Don asks.

"Isn't this a magical night?" she says. "Is it too early for fireflies? Because I just saw some! I think."

"Or did you mean," Don says, "that my purpose here is to tell you that you're not special?"

"I live over on Broad," she says as if no questions have been presented, and begins to walk away from him. The back of her T-s.h.i.+rt reads: WHO THE h.e.l.l CARES?

"I know," he says, catching up to her. "The Manetti place."

"Will you be funny?" she says.

"I don't know," he says. "Why?"

"Just be funny when you're stoned, Don Lowry," she says. "Okay?"

Among his friends at the chamber of commerce, Don Lowry is known as a funny man, a teller of jokes. He always has three new jokes memorized-he does this every Sunday night. But now, those jokes leave him. It's as if he's never told a joke in his life. Jokeless, he walks alongside her anyway.

Later, after six or seven beers, and two joints, and a feeling as if he is being lifted out of his life into some other separate plane where nothing familiar exists, Don Lowry-that's how she refers to him the whole night: first name, last name-is drifting off into sleep, slung into a hammock on the second-floor sleeping porch, and he hears a voice, her voice, of course it must be, but he is not sure if he is dreaming or not dreaming when he hears a whispered moan in his ear: Don Lowry, by the end of this summer, I'm going to be dead.

Claire is not a regular runner, but she is an occasional one, and when she wakes up from a dream that same Friday night in late May, she feels like running, wants to run until she loses her breath and sweat slicks her limbs. Perhaps she too can blame the pulsing muscles and buzzing bones on the prairie spring, that sudden flux and flow of energy that comes when the body finally understands that winter is actually gone.

She is sleeping in her daughter's bed. Wendy, who is ten and has already inherited her father's insomnia and her mother's capacity for worry, sleeps next to Claire. Wendy lies in bed each night and worries aloud-bedbugs, bullies, shark attacks in city pools- and Claire lies down and tries to remain calm beside her, listening to her daughter's dark rambles, an emotional sponge. Sometimes, Claire sings to Wendy, the cla.s.sic rock B sides that her half-drunk father used to sing to her three decades before. Eventually, Wendy falls asleep; often Claire does too. Wendy cannot fall asleep any other way. For over eight years, Claire has lain next to her daughter until sleep has come.

At Christmas last year, they bought Wendy a double bed because of this, and before that, a white noise machine since every noise beyond the bedroom caused Wendy to bolt upright and say, "What was that?" The double bed, the noise machine, lying beside her singing "Simple Man" and "Shelter from the Storm"-was all this indulgence or necessity? Claire didn't know. It just was. Once your kids are older than five, you stop wondering, you stop reading the stack of contradictory parenting books, enjoy what you have as you have it, seeing the maw of the teenage years just a few steps away, realizing all of your new strategies and revised plans will simply evaporate with time anyway. A new obstacle will emerge and your routines will be useless.

On this night, the night in question, Claire has a dream that she is back in New York, seventeen again, smoking on the rooftop of a friend's apartment; "The Love Cats" plays on a boom box. Her life is before her, still shapeable and unknown, and the thrill she has from looking out at the skyline is palpable even when she wakes up, as is the craving for a cigarette, though she has not smoked in three years.

The dream is not just a dream, really, but a dreaming of a memory, a flashback to something that happened in real life, as vivid and clear as reality. Her brain becomes a time machine. In this memory, it is cold, and Claire is wearing a ma.s.sive parka, and she hears herself saying, "I will never leave this city," before she takes a long drag on a cigarette and watches her friends raise their beer cans in agreement. "Never f.u.c.king ever," they say. They drink. "Besides," says Anna Holowka, who'd been, since birth, her best friend, "where the f.u.c.k would you go? Iowa?"

How do you ever know what you will do? How easy it seems, at seventeen, to shape a life with clarity, ridiculing all the possibilities that seem impossible.

Claire gets out of bed and a thought stays with her: I was a different person then.

And then: where did I go?

For mothers, there is a daily, or nightly, choice: sleep or solitude. You can rarely have both, and for most of her parental life, Claire has chosen solitude. She's woken early to write, has done yoga while babies napped, has stayed up until three or four binge-watching a television series all her friends on Facebook have already seen. The dark circles under her eyes will confirm this, though she is still pretty enough, she knows, and for a woman almost forty, happily, she is still fit. Lately, she likes to have that confirmed. She dresses with less modesty than she did even in college (though in 1995, admittedly, billowing sacks of cloth were the rage); this summer's swimsuit, just ordered online with the help of a virtual mannequin whose expandable curves fascinated Wendy to no end, will be a two-piece. Claire does not fear the gaze of men the way she did when she was younger. She does not welcome it, not exactly, but she also doesn't mind the flirtation or the second looks she sometimes gets. It is, she knows, part maturity, part fearlessness, and part vanity-but how happy she is to lose the constant chatter of insecurity she heard her first two decades of adulthood.

This is the best part of middle age, she thinks. Or maybe she doesn't think this. Maybe she has just read it in O magazine, while soaking in a bath a few nights ago. It is a bad habit of hers-possibly the curse of a blocked writer-to believe that she's come up with ideas she's read elsewhere only a few weeks before.

Claire goes to her bedroom and undresses, then slides on running shorts, a sports bra, and a white tank top. She finds her running shoes in the back of the chaotic closet. Stuffed inside them, a pair of athletic socks. Shod for a run, she checks in on Wendy, who is in deep sleep, and then listens at Bryan's door; she hears a soft snore. Bryan is her oldest, now twelve, grown sullen and moody in the last six months. He sleeps with the bedroom door locked. He does everything behind a locked door. If he can look at a screen, he will. This makes her sad-all of the parenting books she's read about raising free-range kids have been rendered impotent by the iPad his father bought him a year ago, on an unaffordable whim.

On the first floor, she shuts her laptop, closing first the eleven open tabs of distractive drivel that occupy her browser, then closing a doc.u.ment called NovelNewStartMay12_2012v39, and logging off to pa.s.sword-protect her computer. After this, in the kitchen, she looks down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, sees the blue light of the TV and faintly hears the sound of a cable drama, the sound of televised gunfire. Her husband is watching his favorite show, a series about a sheriff in Kentucky; he has been trying to get her to watch it.

"I don't like to watch miserable things," she always reminds him, to which he always says, "But life is miserable."

He means it as a joke; she does not like his jokes anymore.

She does not go down the stairs to check in with him, to let him know she is leaving. He will look at her, puzzled. He might take it personally, somehow, that she won't slip in next to him, cuddle against him, graze his thigh with her hand. But the last thing she wants right now is to cuddle someone rea.s.suringly. This, she has begun to believe, is the curse of her life: everyone around her demanding rea.s.surance, as if there is a bottomless well of it, as if there is nothing that scares or overwhelms her, as if she is a source of endless cuddles, back rubs, and soothing tones.

She slips out the door.

She walks a block, then runs a block, then walks again toward campus, finally making a long diagonal dash across the abandoned lamp-lit green. The students are gone now, and most of the professors too. The campus feels abandoned, which is when she likes it best. She is almost never on campus in daylight.

Downtown, she jogs through the wide, empty streets. There is no traffic; the businesses-the cafe, the movie theater, the Mexican restaurant, and the sports bar-are all closed.

The only illuminated sign is ahead of her as she turns right on Fifth Street and sees a brilliant red, moth-flocked sign that reads k.u.m & GO. Years ago, when she came to Iowa from New York for school and saw this sign, she thought she was pa.s.sing by a p.o.r.n shop, one of those interstate s.m.u.t dens for truck drivers and closeted suburban dads. But no, it was a convenience store, earnest and well lit (which, she thinks, describes most of the Midwest).

She had taken a picture of the sign back then, and had the picture made into postcards that she sent to her friends back in New York. Wish you were here, she hand-lettered across each one with a Sharpie. On the back, she wrote only: Where the @#$% am I again? XO Claire.

She stops running in the parking lot, puts her hand on her hips to catch her breath, almost tasting the cigarettes she's about to buy, and from the sidewalk, she looks at the store and realizes that she has no cash or credit card with her.

This is why she begins kicking the ice machine.

Charlie Gulliver has been driving through the verdant yet desolate fields of I-80, through deadbeat postindustrial corridors oxidizing in the hazy spring light.

In Casper, and again in Denver, and again in Omaha, he stops to call old college friends, offering surprise visits, a fine time, beers and burgers on an outdoor patio somewhere-the winter is over, he texts, and I'm pa.s.sing through town-but he can reach no one. Calls go unanswered, texts unreturned. It is so easy to feel ignored when you are carrying a cell phone on a road trip, sending out missives to friends who are pretending not to receive them until you have rolled safely past.

But how can he take this personally? The world is busy, just as he used to be busy. Now Charlie seems to be the only person in America who has time to kill.

These meandering and endless thoughts suddenly redeem themselves with a wild, spilling sunset in his rearview mirror, a melting of the sun into the horizon, blasts of purple and orange that make him forget all of this and focus on a sun pillar pointing up to the heavens just over his left shoulder, and so when Charlie pulls into the Grinnell k.u.m & Go not long after witnessing this, he feels happy as he parks his old minivan, given to him ten years ago by his mother, by the ice coolers.

The Check Engine light had come on near Des Moines and he's glad the vehicle has made it to Grinnell, glad too that his debit card still works, the modest balance of his account having been decimated by the high cost of gas on the three-day trip. He buys a twelve-pack of Moosehead. He buys bread. He buys bologna, sour cream and onion chips, and a small bottle of yellow mustard. Suddenly, feeling hunger swelling his tongue, he buys a box of day-old doughnuts and a can of coffee and some cream. He is back in the Midwest and he intends to eat like it, a thought he says aloud, as if he has an audience, and then he feels a soliloquy emerging, like he's back onstage doing a show.

But he is done with shows.

In the coastal cities where he's lived these past ten years, New York, L.A., Seattle, Portland, Boston, as he's drifted from one sublet to another, every so often sleeping, for a few days, in his van or on a filthy couch, every fellow actor he's met pretends to like junk food, claims at Monday rehearsals that they binged on pizza and cupcakes all weekend, but binges in the Midwest are not followed by three-hour workouts the way they are on the coasts. You can't call something a binge if you try to undo its effects the next morning with a juice fast or herbal cleanse or three hours of hot yoga. Bingeing had to involve a deliberate decision to live with the consequences of the binge.

He takes his loot to the counter, tossing in some cheese dip and a bottle of c.o.ke before he gets to the register, as if he means to cement shut the end of his acting career through the consumption of empty calories.

He recognizes Ashlyn Harms behind the counter. Ashy, whom he's known since kindergarten, works the register as she did a decade ago, when Charlie was still in high school. She's heavier now, her hair shorter, but her smile is the same.

He pretends not to recognize her, because he is a d.i.c.k.

Still, she begins to scan the groceries and, without looking up, starts a conversation.

"How you doing, Charlie?"

"Good. You?"

"All right."

"Rough week?"