Action!
Wide aerial shot of a crowd gathered on the beach. Next shot, from the ground. A helicopter approaches from the horizon. Zoom to a close-up of my face. A five o’clock shadow shows the hardships of my travels. I lean out the door and the wind blows my hair. The pilot asks, “Are you ready, Mr. Gunderson?” I lower my Ray-Bans and reply, “I’m always ready.” One final check of my straps and I swan dive from the door. As I plummet toward the ocean, I see the heads turn—the heads surrounding the girl in the canvas beach chair. I’d heard tales of her beauty. Just before I hit the water, the bungee catches and my tear-away clothes fall off, revealing my bulging Speedo. The crowd on the beach gasps as the sun reflects off my copper, washboard abs. I ascend from the recoil, reach the apex, then tumble into a ball while simultaneously releasing my harness. Three flips and a jackknife later I return to meet the water with a splashless dive.
New shot, from the beach. I reemerge being pulled ashore by two dolphins, one on either side. The crowd is applauding. Slow-motion shot of me walking out of the water onto the white sand, approaching the camera. Water drips from my body. The crowd parts, and Rose lies before me, glistening in the sun. One man remains. He releases his blue hair from its knot and it spills to his shoulders. He peers menacingly at me through yellow-framed glasses. He looks at Rose, licks his lips, then nods to me. “What are you going to do about it?” he asks. I calmly approach him and remove my Ray-Bans. “Step away, or deal with this.” I point to myself with both thumbs. His face turns craven and he bows away, apologizing. The crowd cheers. The girl looks at me. “Mr. Gunderson,” she says. “Miss Santos,” I say. She extends a hand, which I take. I tuck a lock of her black hair behind her ear, then gently tilt her head back with a lift of her chin. I lean in and—
“Ground Control to Major Zeus, do you copy?” said Axl.
I blinked a couple times and looked around, reacquainting myself with my surroundings. Axl was looking at me. He had asked me something. I should reply. I scanned my brain for context. None. Shit. Say something neutral and noncommittal, I thought.
“Oh, well, you know how that goes.”
Axl made a face and looked at his sister, then back to me. “I said, are you free to practice tomorrow night?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, sure.”
“Cool, we’ll pick you up.”
Dylan made a groaning sound that startled Agatha awake from her dog dreams. He appeared to be rereading the text on his phone.
“Maybe we should . . .” I motioned toward the stairs with my head.
“Right,” said Novie. She and her brother stood.
Axl slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “We’re here for you, bud. You don’t need her anyway. Same time tomorrow.”
“I’ll let DeeDee know you’re coming,” said Novie as she walked past Dylan, patting him on the head.
Dylan dry heaved.
We practiced every night that week. The songs sounded mediocre at best, with our guiding light suffering from acute heartbreak. But I’d like to think our presence helped with Dylan’s overall morale, at least a little bit.
After the ten longest days of my life, Rose returned home on a red-eye flight. I biked to her apartment before my deliveries just to see her.
We met with a long embrace.
“I missed you,” Rose said.
“I missed you, too.”
I could still smell the ocean in her hair.
TWENTY-SEVEN
AFTER WEEKS OF POSTPONEMENT, MOM FINALLY SCHEDULED OUR annual trip to see Aunt Willow, an art teacher and painter by trade. My aunt’s cottage was only a two-hour drive north to Wisconsin on Geneva Lake, but when I found out we were leaving the day after Rose returned from Saint Thomas, it may as well have been the Arctic Circle. I know, I know, what’s one or two more days when it’s already been ten, right? But when has logic ever trumped the heart?
So, after some pro-level negotiating, I’d gotten Mom to allow Rose to join us under the strict guidelines that we’d sleep in opposite corners of the house. Got it, Mom.
We met Saturday in front of the café after Mom had closed everything up. The plan was to return Monday morning in time to open. Mary had dropped Rose off with her things, but not before a full debriefing. Mom assured Mary she’d keep an eye on us, and that all would be well, as if we were on our way to the moon, not Wisconsin.
Mom had worked out a deal with Mo the psychic to borrow her SUV in exchange for free lunch the rest of the summer. The Lego had developed a suspicious rattle and would be spending the weekend at the mechanic’s infirmary.
“Thanks again, Mo, we really appreciate it,” said Mom.
Mo waved it off. “Keep that delicious food coming and you can use it anytime.”
“Anything we should know before we leave?” I asked. “Potholes to avoid? Traffic jams? Bad spirits?”
Mo lowered her gaze at me. “I’m a palm reader, not a fortune cookie.”
“Duly noted,” I replied.
We threw our bags in the back, then took our seats. Mom drove, Grub grabbed shotgun, Rose and I rode bazooka. As soon as Mom started the engine, a psychedelic, guitar-laced jam blasted from the car speakers.
“I should’ve known Mo was a Deadhead! I love these guys,” Mom exclaimed, turning the volume up even louder as we drove away from the café.
Rose and I shared an apprehensive look. While our musical tastes didn’t overlap much, clearly neither of us wanted to listen to the Grateful Dead for the next two hours.
Twenty minutes later we were heading north on the interstate, and the same damn song was playing. Mom drummed on the steering wheel. Grub had fallen asleep. I stared at the ceiling as endless guitar solos swirled around bouncy bass lines. After another ten minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Do they ever actually sing? I don’t know how much more noodling I can listen to.”
“It doesn’t need words, Zeus. They’re improvising. Listen to what the guitar is saying,” Mom replied, weaving her head to the beat.
Rose chimed in. “It’s true. A lot of my favorite songs are instrumental.”
I jokingly rolled my eyes. “Okay, you two, but we’re on a road trip. We need something we can sing to. Something with words.”
“All right, we’ll take turns then,” said Mom. “Zeus, you first. Make it a good one.”
I plugged my phone into the auxiliary port in the back of the center console and played “London Calling” by the Clash. The opening guitar chords came crashing out with the drums. I played air bass as it joined in. Then I turned to Rose and mouthed the lyrics: “London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared and battle come down.” Rose laughed at my obnoxious lip-synching but nodded her head along with the beat. When the song ended, I motioned with both hands palms up. “See? The Clash rocks.”