“I never plan anything beyond the time. But I wanted to give you something to commemorate your new job. Is that okay? And then I wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never gone. I did that, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”
She kisses him, and it’s only a matter of seconds before they begin clawing at each other. It has been three months, after all. But there have been longer gaps over the years they’ve been meeting each other, so that can’t be the sole reason. Something has changed. She is new again, her title excites him. Her clothes are off in seconds, except for the scarf, which he ties around her eyes. The headboard slaps rhythmically against the wall, the sound familiar. It reminds her of the tiny wavelets of Wilde Lake, lapping at the shoreline. “Don’t stop,” she murmurs. “Don’t stop.” A vague memory tugs, but the present is stronger than the past. She wants to stay here, in this room, as long as possible. This is the only place where she is allowed just to be—no kids, no employees, no pink message slips. It’s as if time stops in this room.
Then she goes outside and is surprised to see the sun is already setting. It’s an orange sunset today, fiery and rude, a light that makes her glow, brings out the more subtle hues in her new scarf.
KODACHROME
It is possible to anticipate something ferociously, then one day forget that it’s happening at all. Part of this is the passage to adulthood; birthdays fade in importance, holidays become something to be endured. I know there are grown-ups who still become excited about Christmas, although I find them suspect. Part of the reason I agreed with Gabe to raise Penelope and Justin as Jews is because I wanted to be done with Christmas. The tree, the stockings, the crash that happens in every household sometime between 11 A.M. and 4 P.M. on December twenty-fifth, when it’s all done and the first toy has broken and the kids are frayed from sugar and overstimulation.
Yet Christmas is back in our lives, with a vengeance. I made the mistake of having a holiday open house two years ago, in part to showcase what my father has done with the house, and it became a tradition, just that fast. Even this year, as I prepared to take office, I was still expected to put out platters of smoked salmon and cold turkey, make or procure cheese straws. Inevitably, I feel Gabe looking over my shoulder—not scolding, but disappointed that I would break a promise. However, I made the promise to a living man. His death invalidated all promises as far as I’m concerned. Heck, if I had been the one to abandon him by dying, he would have been married within the year, probably to some happy-to-stay-at-home little lady. His presence was especially strong at this year’s Christmas party, but perhaps that was because Bash, much to my annoyance, conned AJ into inviting him. Only Bash, no Lucinda. I’m not sure what he thought he was doing, but I was careful not to go anywhere alone in the house, not to drop my guard for a second.
Where was I? Oh, anticipation. Yes, it’s in adult life that we begin to lose track of things that once shaped our years, those little peaks of celebration—birthday, Christmas—and find ourselves living mostly in the valleys, and content to do so. This jadedness begins happening earlier than we might realize. In the fall of 1976, Life magazine had come to Wilde Lake High School and posed the then freshmen in the bleachers for what was to be a cover story about the Class of 1984, the year in which AJ and his friends would graduate from college. For weeks, they spoke about it constantly. Would the photo be big enough to show everyone? If so, would they be recognizable? And the accompanying article itself? Would they be interviewed, would they be identified as the best and the brightest? Why wasn’t the reporter more interested in them, so clearly the stars of the school?