Monday (March 2024)

 

The night before

 

If you really wanna hear about it. It really wasn't courageous like our sister seemed to think. After one play near the end of the varsity Spring Jamboree, I decided to quit. It wasn't easy. White quarterback for the undefeated junior varsity team—a dream come true for townsfolk who never missed their Friday night home game.

 

Some of 'em probably thought I must have been queer. Most thought I was afraid . . . and they were right. When you bust the play that coulda won the game, you hear 'em talkin, whisperin, and you see how they don't look you in the face.

 

That— What happened to Lucius . . . that was cruel. He went real fast from bein a stud to bein a nobody. Wasn't his fault— Out for the season his senior year. Folks couldn't even get his name right after that.

 

Coach told me I'd be a quitter the rest of my life. Uncle Sonny, who'd never spoken more than two words to me before, said plenty of great players—even Fran Tarkenton had bad games. Uncle Sonny was a Bulldog's fan. I wasn't.

 

The next three years are nothing to report. Somewhere along the way, I had the wits to go all out for Jesus, and that bought me all the protection I needed til I finished high school and left town.

 

Twenty-seven years earlier

 

They were the last ones in the chapel. The older brother wailed in fits and starts and dropped to his knees, his left hand firmly gripping the edge of the casket.

"Dad, I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry!"

 

Standing on either side of him, the younger brother and the mother exchanged quiet glances.

 

Behind them, the funeral director was closing the doors.

 

The older son reached in to touch his father's face.

 

"Don't do that!"

 

"Son, shh! It's OK, let him."

 

"You've got one helluva nerve, you know."

 

"You're not my judge. He was my father, too. This is between us. Nothing to do with you. Back off."

 

"Boys, please."

 

"You're just putting on a show."

 

"Go to hell!"

 

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

 

"It's just not right, Mom. He's always—"

 

"Leave him be. We gotta grieve in our own ways."

 

"Yeah. Leave me alone. We can't all be like you . . . stoic, if that's what you call it. I call it smug and unfeeling."

 

"You would, you—"

 

"Enough! Both of you. If you don't show some respect, I'm gonna walk right outta here! You don't want that. Trust me."

 

End of last July

 

"He's 17 for God's sake. Of course he's gonna have bad days."

 

"Yeah, but this was like no other."

 

"I wish you had woken me. I get up—don't remember when I finally fell asleep—and first thing I hear is ‘euthanasia.’"

 

"You needed to sleep. We've both been sleep deprived for months. And we've yelled and screamed at each other over every little thing. 'Did you update his chart? Why not? And now you're yelling at me?'"

 

"You yelled at me for the same reasons."

‘It doesn't matter. We were both over the edge."

 

"But that's a cop-out and you know it."

 

"I don't know. Maybe it is. But you know he couldn't walk or stand up on his own. His rear end had been collapsing on occasion for a long time. But this . . . was different. And those tremors he was having . . . they reminded me of Lucy's grand mals."

 

"I know. I know. But I can't help but wonder—"

 

"Me too. And if I let myself, I could work myself into a guilt frenzy in a skinny minute."

 

"But I didn't have enough time with him at the end. It was like 'wake up' and "We have to put the dog down. Why did we have to rush?"

 

"There was nothing more we could do for him. I remember the fear and terror in Lucy’s eyes. I couldn’t let that happen again.”

 

"But we've always done whatever it took. This time it was so gray, so vague. With our other dogs it was always 100% certain that euthanasia was the only choice, but—"

 

"WE had to make the decision this time. Of course, the vet supported our decision, but—"

 

"She— Just don't go there, OK. It's just too much. I can't handle that right now."

 

"OK. So, THIS time it was all on us. He was our boy. . . and he trusted us."

 

"My poor Ollie! My poor, poor Ollie! Oh my God, this is so hard." She crumpled to the floor, hugging herself.

 

Last Thanksgiving

 

"Sam, if you don't want to go to the party, just tell me."

 

"I'll go" dragging out the words with a deep sigh.

 

"Don't martyr yourself. I just thought you’d enjoy getting out."

 

"I said I'll go, OK?"

 

"It's not what you said, it's how you said it. You should hear yourself."

"Not everyone can be the life of the party, Ren."

 

"Don't think anyone would expect that, Sam."

 

"Touché! Feel better?"

 

"F___ off!"

 

"You're so emotional sometimes, Renate.”

 

Friday, a month earlier

 

"So, what's the problem? God, what are you doing man?" shouts the supervisor his little hands cupping the top of his cue ball head.

 

"I'm swaging these parts but the fittings don't match the plates, and—" answers the temp before he's cut off, his voice barely audible above the hammering of the presses.

 

"Didn't I explain this to you? YOU'VE GOT TO PAY ATTENTION! Now, see here, this block fitting goes on the RIGHT side of the frame and the hose fitting on the LEFT."

 

"But the plates—"

 

Still shouting the supervisor interrupts again, "You're using the wrong plates man! Where'd you get those? I told you the 4868 plates NOT the 4994s. Weren't you listening?"

 

"Well, I made a mistake." Attempting to smooth over and then move on, but the supervisor—like a dog with a meat bone—doesn't let go.

 

"You sure did! Lucky you stopped when you did."

 

"I said it was a mistake. I've never worked in a factory before—" says the temp, still trying to save face.

 

But the supervisor keeps coming, "Yeah, but this ISN'T rocket science. Anybody off the street should be able to follow simple instructions."

 

"Well, I don't know what you want me to do at this point," says the temp, the heat rising to his face.

 

"JUST PAY ATTENTION and ask me right away if you don't understand. Got it?"

 

"Yes" answers the temp avoiding 'Sir' at all costs.

 

"Now finish off this lot. Then come and find me." The supervisor jogs after the plant manager who is walking by, then turns back and adds, "Please and thank you."

 

Today

 

Papaw saw it back at the end of the war—the First World War—long before they built the Golden Gate. What would he have been thinking as he sailed out between San Francisco and Sausalito? Back then, Guam was weeks away. This was a whole different world from the pines and red clay back home.

 

Even today, past the strait stretches an endless expanse of raw ocean with no last-minute reminders of the great power and ingenuity of human civilization. And on a solitary sailboat heading out where all around is water. No land in sight and the vast bridge hidden in fog, a fog so heavy you’re wet to the skin. On your lips, the salty ocean water. Soon the foghorns will fade to silence. From there on out it’s open water for . . . forever.

Five years before

 

"Hey girl! It’s great to see you again. You're looking good!" pulling Renate close and kissing her on both cheeks.

 

"God, is it ever good to see you again, Rach! And how 'bout you? You look better than ever. What's it been . . . five years?"

 

"It was Chloe's graduation. You two were driving back from Philadelphia and you met us in Oberlin. She was so happy you could make it."

 

"We got a lot of catching up to do." To the maître d', "Karl, could we have the table for two over by the window?"

 

"This is a great little restaurant. Do you come here often?"

 

"We used to . . . but it's been awhile. I wasn't sure the maître d' would remember me. Are you okay to have a drink? You're not driving back tonight, are you?"

 

"Yes, I have to be back in the office first thing tomorrow morning . . . but we can have a glass. Do you they have a good Sauvignon here?"

 

"Yes . . . at least they used to." To Karl as he passes their table, "Karl, could we have two glasses of your best Sauvignon Blanc? Thank you." Turning back to Rachel, "So, tell me. How's life as a partner?"

 

"It's been a crazy six months. One of the senior partners left, and I ended up with a fair number of his clients."

 

"That's amazing! How'd the other partners take it?"

"Since the other two are also senior partners, they didn't feel threatened. They even invited me to meet with their prospects for the vacancy."

 

"Wow, I knew you'd take off given the chance. But tell me, do you miss the 'grunt work' of law? I remember you were at the law library till all hours when we were in school."

 

"I do, but you get older and you see the younger attorneys are just a little faster . . . not as seasoned but they can churn through the texts like I guess I used to. But that's enough about me, tell me about you? I'm dying to hear what you've been into lately."

 

"I'm no longer in HR per se. How ironic, huh—from a dissertation on privilege in East German literature to Human Resources! Sorry, old news. Anyway, after three years I’d had enough, so I started a small consultancy providing diversity and equity advice and plans to banks and insurance companies."

 

"With all your experience and connections from DEI in government and universities, you must be much sought after. I mean, I know that it’s highly contentious politically, but it is pretty much accepted as fait accompli in the private sector, isn't it?"

 

"Yes, it is though during the upswing of the election cycle, companies like to be more discreet. CEOs are beginning to see the writing on the walls and some have enough foresight to discount the hyped-up rhetoric of some of the radical nativists. But let's not talk shop. There's so much more we have to talk about."

 

"I agree. How about this for a change in topics? Chloe’s getting married in September?"

 

"That's terrific! Congratulations! Who's the lucky guy?"

"Umh, not a guy. She met someone through her community volunteering, and they've been together now for a year and a half. Shayne, C's fiancé, grew up in a very traditional Catholic family, and her parents are slowly processing. Mark and I are thrilled. We love Shayne. She's really a beautiful person, and we think they'll make great parents."

 

"Parents?"

 

"Of course, they'll adopt. They're not into this immortality thing, they say, and they'd rather not add to the world's overpopulation but help parent the unparented."

 

"I can see Chloe doing that. She always was so kind—no, what’s the word—

 

“Empathetic?"

 

“Yes, exactly.

 

"And neither Mark nor I know where that came from . . . but you know, we both respect that she is her own person and not obsessed with emulating or competing with us and our friends."

 

"I sometimes regret not having children."

 

"But—"

 

"Well, I'm not the mothering type and Sam has always been about work . . . and the dogs."

 

"Is he still not winding down? I mean, that's a grueling pace—"

 

"It is . . . and has been . . . for the both of us.” Renate fidgets with her cutlery as she speaks. “Until recently he was still flying to Europe two or three times a year—Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, you know."

 

"Were you able to accompany him?"

 

"No, and I'm kind of glad, because it sounded like he's always in meetings, so there was no time to enjoy.” She pauses. “Besides, I'm so busy flying cross country with guest lectures and seminars, I can only get away for a weekend to myself every now and then. It's not unusual for us be apart for a week to 10 days at a time."

 

"Remember when we were in school pulling all-nighters day after day. We thought working would be a reprieve—"

 

"It’s been anything but. Now, I'm happy when I get six hours of uninterrupted sleep. I imagine it isn't too different for you?"

 

"Mark is pretty good about keeping me from overextending myself, but there are days, even weeks, when nobody and nothing can hold me back."

 

"It's funny—not in a humorous way—but sometimes when I try to step outside myself and my life, I can see my whole world around me . . . but I'm not in it. I try really hard not to be alone, because I can't bear that any longer." She blinks and takes a long sip from her wine glass.

 

5 years from now

 

“I just love rooms filled with the clutter of decades. Everything here was at one time put in its place for a reason. Does anyone still remember why? This bunch of dried roses hanging by the window— This German literature— DDR? Had to Google that. Lots of music here but no stereo, just a smart speaker about the size of a dinner roll. And Covid masks—a couple of unopened boxes and one on a wooden peg collecting dust. An old Japanese—maybe—birch wood carving of three hikers. A stack of dog journals—the last one unfinished.“

 

"Quit daydreaming, Alice! The furniture's already loaded. You still gotta go through her clothes. Here, I'll take over in this room. We got less than an hour to get back before closing."

 

"Oh, alright. There's just one thing. I want this book of poetry. It was written by one of my teachers—one of the few I liked. Listen to this.”

 

"Take it, but get going. We got a big house to do on Lakeshore tomorrow morning early, and I'm tired and ready to quit for today.

 

“Alright already!”

 

“Think any of these books will sell?"

 

"Probably not. It's all e-books now."