Sylvie’s mother cornered her in the pantry right before dinner, the ice in her gimlet rattling. “I guess congratulations are in order,” she said coolly. “But really, he’s the one I should congratulate. I bet he thinks he hit the jackpot.”
Sylvie tried not to take it personally. Her mother had been drinking all day; she had said nasty things to everyone. The second after the last bite of pumpkin pie had been swallowed, Sylvie’s dad—who by then was living almost exclusively in New York but had made an appearance at the old house for tradition’s sake—promptly stood up and announced he had a big meeting in the morning, telling everyone good-bye except his wife. Her mother screamed out, “You don’t have a meeting, you dumb shit. You’re going back to the city to fuck that whore in the ass and everyone here knows it.” Years later, Sylvie would learn that her mother had found out about the metastatic lump in her breast the day before, which might have explained her behavior. Her mother would keep the lump a secret from the rest of the family, though, even long after the disease had spread to her bones.
Later, when Sylvie and James were driving back to Swarthmore, they stopped for gas. When Sylvie looked over, she saw her father’s Lincoln across the parking lot, its lights off. Her father was just sitting there in the car, staring straight ahead. After filling up the tank, James got back into the car and followed her anxious gaze. His eyes lit up. “Would you mind if I went over and talked to him for a minute?”
Sylvie let out a nervous chuckle, certain James was kidding, but James shrugged, his face open, earnest, and hopeful. Sylvie realized then how little she knew him.
“I don’t think now’s a good time,” she said slowly.
James’s gaze lingered on her father for a little longer, and then he hunched his shoulders. Sylvie still didn’t know what he was thinking, and her heart began to beat faster. After a while, he turned to her. “It’s just, I thought he’d offer me a job tonight. You know, since we’re getting married and all.”
“He runs my grandfather’s quarries and brickyards,” she cried out. “You certainly don’t want to do that. It’s worse than plaster.”
“No, I meant … something else. Like an executive job.”
Sylvie’s family business was far out of her control, something she’d never been involved in. And she had no pull over her father; she hadn’t for some time. More than that, her father might flat-out refuse. He was bitter, she knew, that she’d gotten the house instead of him—why should he toss her new fiancé a cushy job?
“I think Cousin Paul’s idea was a better one,” she said finally. “Finance. That sounds exciting.”
A look of embarrassment crossed James’s face. “Well,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”
He started the car, drove her back to Swarthmore, and pecked her good-bye impersonally on the cheek. Days passed and he didn’t call. She tried reaching him in Boston, but he didn’t answer. What had gone wrong? What had he expected of her? Had her mother been right—I bet he thinks he hit the jackpot?
Then, eight days after Thanksgiving, she found a message slipped under her door saying he was on his way down to the city and could she please meet him at 30th Street Station. She found him standing in front of a flower stand, holding a single pink rose. He’d found a job at Janney Montgomery Scott, he said. He was moving to Philly the following week. He’d rented an apartment on Pine Street, and he would live there until they were married.
Authority had been restored in him. The crackling, unstable insecurity she’d seen in the car on Thanksgiving night was gone. Sylvie was so relieved that she didn’t bring up her annoyance over his weeklong chilly silence … or what it meant.
Now Sylvie squared her shoulders and got out of the car. The air was cool and soggy, and dew had collected on the grass. Wind blew the edges of her hair. She’d picked up a cup of coffee at a drive-through Burger King a few miles back, and steam swirled around her face. She would be a woman out for a leisurely stroll with a cup of coffee, a woman alone with her thoughts.
Far away she heard a car alarm and then two people screaming at each other. There was an upended garbage can across the path; McDonald’s hamburger wrappers, bottles of beer, and a soiled diaper spilled out onto the scrubby grass. On second thought, the idea of her coming here to be meditative was ridiculous. This wasn’t an idyllic park, a nature trail. People didn’t perambulate around places like this.