THE RANCH HOUSE was grim, and not nearly as spacious as their last home, or at least it felt that way because there was less light. But it was only a few blocks away from their last house, which made it ideal because the girls could stay in the same school, and her parents could use the same sitter, plus it was only fifteen minutes away from the university. They still had three bedrooms, and a living room and a dining room and two baths, but the new study didn’t have the towering twin set of built-in bookshelves like the last house, and there wasn’t a crawl space, either, which was fine by Diane—those things could be death traps, but that meant less storage space and more clutter. So before they moved, Diane started throwing things away without asking her husband, and when he put up a fight (They spent hours talking about it. Hours. Like she didn’t have a thousand other things to do with her time. And he wanted to talk), together they decided he should rent a storage unit for all his books, the ones that wouldn’t fit in whatever new bookshelves they bought, or in his office at school.
Still, despite her best efforts, the day before they moved, their house was filled with boxes. There were the girls’ boxes, full of dolls (the new ones and the old favorites she couldn’t get them to part with, no matter how much she begged) and board games, their clothes and favorite beach towels, bedtime books, daytime books, records they liked to sing along with while they helped Mommy fold laundry (she usually just had them pair socks, made it into a game to keep them quiet), toiletries and medicine (allergy medicine for Holly and an array of vitamins for Maggie, each one more expensive and useless than the next), and every single art project they’d made since they’d been old enough to pick up paste, glitter, and childproof scissors. And then there were Diane’s boxes, which had everything else for the home, from the kitchen and the bathroom and all of the bedrooms, things to cook with and to make you feel comfortable and to keep you healthy. Basically everything you needed to furnish a home she had covered, in her boxes.
Finally there were her husband’s boxes; he had insisted on packing his separately ever since he found his collection of Rolling Stones records at the curb in front of their driveway on garbage day. “It’s the Stones, for God’s sake, Diane! The Stones!” he had moaned. He told her to stay away from his boxes.
To tell the truth, she didn’t even want to know what he had packed in them. She was only going to have to contend with them when she unpacked them at the other end. He had done it haphazardly, of course—she noticed when she woke up early the next morning—hadn’t even bothered to tape them shut. Diane cursed him silently. The movers were coming at 8:00 AM, and here she was at 6:00 AM, walking around in her bare feet and nightgown, taping boxes shut when he’s the one who should be taking care of things like this. A little help, she said to herself. All I am asking for is a little help.
MAGGIE NEEDED a glass of water. Now. She looked desperately around the patio. Their waitress was busy, balancing a pitcher of beer in one hand, a tray full of plates in the other. A busboy helped a band of long-haired musicians carry their equipment to a small stage area on the far side of the patio. She turned to Robert, who was plowing through an obscenely large pile of nachos. Maybe he can help me, thought Maggie. Maybe that’s what he’s there for.
“I really need some water,” she said slowly.
Robert’s head shot up. “Of course you do. I’m sorry. Hold on.” He got up and walked over to the busboy. She watched him motion to the table and then thank the busboy.
“He’ll be just a second, honey,” he said.
I really don’t think he should be calling me “honey,” she thought, but instead she said, “Tell me the end of your story. I hope it’s a happy ending.”
“I don’t know if I would call it happy. It’s not sad, either. It’s more…”
“Bittersweet?” said Maggie.
“Something like that,” said Robert. “So. I said I’d take her wherever she needed to go, took all of her boxes, put them in the trunk of the ol’ Saturn, put the suitcases in the backseat, put the little old lady in the front seat—”
“What was her name?”
“Ann. That’s my mom’s middle name, actually. Huh. I should have told her that.” Robert looked off thoughtfully in the distance for a second.
“What?” said Maggie. “What are you thinking about?”
“Oh, I was just wondering if that band is the same one I’ve heard here before. They do a lot of Jimmy Buffett covers. Good stuff.”