My whole fucking world had fallen apart, Isabel, that’s the long and short of it. And no matter where I turned, I got no answers. For a while, I was pissed at my mom. Honestly, I could have survived all of it, even the BREAKING NEWS, if I could’ve counted on that one letter—hollow-sounding or not—per week. Just one.
But I’m beginning to suspect something, and it’s almost too awful for words. Among the reasons behind Dad’s recent actions (and there are many), what if one of them—God, what if one of them is her disease?
What if Dad got rid of my mom because she’s sick?
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
An Island Unto Myself
CINCINNATI, OHIO
(249 Miles to Go)
26
Remember the Rendezvouski!
A FLOCK OF teenage girls stands in front of us in line, each one carrying identical shopping bags. The bags depict a group of ripped, shirtless dudes on a pier. Plastered across the top in bold marquee lettering it says LIVE YOUR LIFE.
It’s an odd feeling, being chagrinned by your own generation. Long ago, I traded my pie-in-the-sky idealism—as it relates to what people are like and what they are interested in—for a more realistic worldview. It all starts in middle school. Friends with interesting quirks, like double-jointed thumbs, or overactive gastrointestinal reactions to Cheez Whiz, suddenly strive to hide the very things that make them interesting. Before you know it, you’re in high school, wondering if you’re the only one who actually read Brave New World, rather than its summary on Wikipedia. Or you’re sitting in the cafeteria, pondering the complexities of the latest Christopher Nolan film while the nearest table of cheerleaders discusses whatever reality TV show is popular that week, then argues over who gives the most efficient blow job. I used to remind myself that it was only high school. Surely, the real world would be different. But I’m beginning to wonder if the whole damn planet hasn’t been Wikipedia’d.
This shopping bag, with its profound LIVE YOUR LIFE, is a great example of this. Short of discouraging death, it means absolutely nothing. Some suit in some high-rise thought it sounded cool, and now it’s on a bag. In my face. Making me want to not live mine.
Walt, Beck, and I stand in the ticket window line. Beck is texting someone while Walt is holding a butterfly by the wings, inspecting its undercarriage.
“Y’all need tickets?”
A stranger sidles up next to us. He’s wearing an army jacket, a turtleneck, mittens, earmuffs, and a scarf. Dude is either deathly afraid of a sudden cold front or in love with winter accessories. Actually, stick a pipe in his mouth, and he could pass as a snowman.
“No thanks,” says Beck, tucking his phone away.
Snowman leans in. “I got primo tickets, man. Lap of luxury. Third base side, six rows back. Just above the dugout. Absolute fucking lap of luxury.”
Beck looks at the long line, then at me.
“How much?” I ask.
Snowman shrugs. “You guys seem like nice people. I’ll give you four for five hundred.”
“Dollars? What is this, the World Series? The Yankees aren’t in town, man.”
“There’s a holiday weekend fireworks show,” says Snowman. “After the game.”
Next to me, Walt shoves the butterfly into his empty Mountain Dew bottle; he screws on the lid, and offers all of us an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Snowman eyes Walt, turns back to Beck. “Fine. Four hundred—for three tickets.”
I step in front of Beck. Time to put an end to this debacle. “I’ll give you a hundred for three tickets, dude. Plus three free nights at a Holiday Inn.”
Snowman and Beck are both eyeballing me now.
“Long story,” I mutter. Then, to Snowman, “Look, the game’s already started. It’s Reds versus Cubs, and I’ll bet you got a stack of tickets, which in approximately two and a half hours won’t be worth a nickel.”
Walt pokes a stick in the bottle, torturing the poor creature.
“Make it one twenty, little lady, and you got yourself a deal.”
I kneel down and unzip my bag to get the money. Above me, I hear Snowman say, “Your little lady drives a hard bargain.”
I blush the blush of all blushes, grateful they can’t see my face.
Tickets in hand, the three of us make our way toward the ballpark. Walt is literally skipping with excitement, an act worth every penny I just forked over.
Beck reaches out, stops us in front of a bronzed statue. “Idea. If at any point one of us gets lost, let’s agree to meet back here. At this statue, okay? Sort of like a rendezvous point.”
I raise my ticket. “We have these. We could just meet at our seats.”
His eyes flutter toward Walt, then back to me. “I just think this might be a little . . . easier, you know? And fun. Or something.”
I think back to the one Indians game I attended, and how frenzied the crowd was afterward, everyone trying to get back to their cars to beat traffic. One look at Walt—currently jabbing his butterfly, oblivious to the world around him—and I follow Beck’s lead. “You know, I think that’s a great idea. Walt?”
“Hey, hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off the bottle. Inside, the butterfly’s wings have gone from flapping to twitching.
“Walt, look at me buddy, this is important. You see this statue?” His eyes follow my index finger to the bronze baseball player. “If you get lost or separated from us, come straight here, okay? Straight to . . .” I read the name on the plaque. “Ted . . . Kluszewski.”