“We did the best we could. You did, especially. And they’re fine, they’re fine.”
“They deserve to be happy. I know I’ll never be happy again, but I want my girls to be happy. That’s all I want. At least let them find some happiness in this shitty world.”
“It’s not a shitty world.”
“What’s good about it? Look at us, in the middle of nowhere, the wedding off, taking my autistic son to some godforsaken place a thousand miles away, some institution.”
“It’s not an institution.”
“And then I’m going to go home and be alone in that big house. Sally sick, the girls gone, Ethan gone, you…” She waved her hand.
I glanced at the front desk, saw the clerk was gone, then inched my chair closer and tried to put my arms around her, pull her toward me, but she brushed me away.
“Anyway.” She picked up her big bag from the floor, stood. “What time are we meeting tomorrow?”
“Where are you going? Sit down. Come on.”
She ran a finger under an eye. “I hope Karen’s things get here in time.”
I took in my ex-sweet-sweetie, standing in the lobby of a roadside hotel on a rainy night, broken and lonely, but decided not to push things. “They should be here by nine.”
“What about the other van?”
“They’re going to pick it up. We don’t need two vans anymore. It’s more of a hassle.”
“It’s going to be crowded.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to bed then.”
“Good night, Mary.”
“Okay.”
10
Karen’s things didn’t arrive until after eleven, so rather than lose more time deciding what to ship, we jammed everything into the remaining Odyssey, making things very tight. Mindy sat in the far back, a bag on her lap, while Karen and Ethan were barricaded by boxes in the middle. Up front, Mary had bags wedged tight against her feet, and even though it was warm and sunny, I was forced to wear my jacket because there was absolutely no room for it anywhere.
“This is crazy,” Mary said.
“We’ll ship some more stuff at the next stop.”
“Why didn’t we ship it now?”
“Because I want to get going. We’re losing time. We’re supposed to be there in three days.”
Back on I-95, Tony Bennett singing “Little Drummer Boy,” the road clear and the sky a deep blue, the morning gradually settled. Though she had skipped breakfast, Karen seemed no worse for the wear. Ethan was fine too, alternately playing with the Etch A Sketch and his cell phone while Mary and Mindy read newspapers. There was no residue of last night’s drama, no shadow of what had transpired. One thing life with Ethan had taught us all was that yesterday’s issue, for the most part, was yesterday’s issue.
“It’s nice outside,” I said.
No one, not even Ethan, responded, so I drove on in silence. As we made our way up the interstate, I tried to take advantage of this burst of peace, tried to put my William Least Heat-Moon hat on and sponge up what I could of the Eastern Seaboard, but instead was diverted by a memory from the War Years. We were having dinner, all of us, an unusual occurrence since Ethan, while a saint in restaurants, was a hellion at the kitchen table. Consequently, most of our attempts at family meals disintegrated into street fights, complete with food throwing, milk spilling, and my escorting Ethan from the table. But this one evening, for reasons unknown, he was calm, eating slowly and quietly, his head down over his plate. Mindy and Karen talked about their days at school. Mary asked me if I wanted more meat loaf. We even had ice cream, chocolate chip, for dessert. I remember Mindy taking in the bucolic scene and saying, “Wow, look at us, we’re like a normal family.” That was all we’d ever wanted. Moments like that, moments like this.
The quiet was broken, but not by the likely source and not by a likely sound. It was Karen, and it was her laugh. I glanced in the mirror to confirm this Halley’s-Comet occurrence and saw Mindy leaning forward holding her phone over Karen’s shoulder. They were both watching something and smiling.
“Pretty hilarious, huh?” Mindy said.
“Yeah, funny,” Karen said. “Do you know that guy?”
“Yeah, he’s kind of an asshole, but he’s funny.”
“Yeah, he is.”
Mindy sat back, pleased. Ethan remained transfixed by his Etch A Sketch and phone. Mary yawned and turned a page of her paper. I turned up “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and we drove on. Just like a normal family.
*