Now
What do you mean you got a job?”
Dawt Pi furrows her brow. “You told me look for a job. So I did.”
I can’t argue with her. But now that there is some slim chance of saving Brick & Mortar Books, I can’t quite picture its future without her.
“Yes, of course, that’s great.”
“It is just on the other side of the river, at a salon.”
“But don’t you need a license to cut hair in Michigan?”
Dawt Pi rolls her eyes. “Anyone can cut hair. I cut my own hair since I was ten. I cut my sisters’ hair, my brothers’ hair, my parents’ hair, my aunts’ hair. But it does not matter for now. I will be the receptionist, and the owner says she will help me get my license.”
I try to imagine the permed old ladies of River City attempting to make appointments with someone with such a heavy accent. Will they think her name is Dorothy like the postal worker does?
“Wednesday.”
“This Wednesday? That’s only two days.”
“It’s okay, Robin. I will still come by the store. I promise. But you don’t need me. Anne’s salon is very busy. She needs me.”
“Who will I talk to?”
Dawt Pi is unable to stifle a little laugh. “The better I speak English, the less we talk.” She puts a hand on my arm. “Talk to your customers. There are more since the book drive. You talk to them, okay? Talk to Sarah. And Ryan. Ryan is nice.”
We go about the day as normal. Only it’s not normal anymore. Every action takes on new significance as I count it among the last of such things. The last time Dawt Pi will straighten that book, the last time she will sweep that corner, the last time she will get the mail. I hardly acknowledge today’s fat, padded manila envelope. It sits unopened behind the counter until closing time when Dawt Pi flips the sign and locks the door.
“Are you ever going to look at this?”
I sigh and pick it up. It feels like my heart—large and hard and heavy. I already know what it is, and I don’t even have to open it to remember the poem I wrote after reading it that fateful week when everything I was building in Sussex—everything I was building with Peter—fell apart.
I chase my death upon the waves of Fate,
Thinking it a trophy for my shelf
And, triumphing, I leap into my grave
And pull the tender dirt upon myself.
In bless’d oblivion beneath the ground
My peace with vengeful rancor I have found.
I knew, despite my hunting faithfully,
Death was always in pursuit of me.
I put the package down again and start to count down the register. “You can open it.”
“Kentucky,” she says, followed by the dry hiss of paper fibers breaking apart as she pulls the red tab. “Mobby-Deek.”
“Moby-Dick.”
I don’t need to give her a summary of the plot, because it is spelled out in oil paints on the cover. A small boat, an angry monster from the ocean depths, a crew of terrified men on the brink of drowning, and one defiant captain looking into the great eye of the creature that will destroy him.
“Looks exciting.”
“It is. But it’s a tragedy.”
“What is that?”
“A story that ends badly with no one getting what they want. Often lots of people die.”
She examines the books that have taken over the shelves behind the register. They fill every inch of space and flow like water onto the floor. A few hand-scrawled notes proclaim their unavailability for the curious customer. Dawt Pi has been on me for weeks to box them up and take them to my apartment.
“Most of these books are tragedies?” she says.
I make my own perusal. Do any of these books end happily? As I scan the spines I begin a defense a few times, only to have memory cut me short. For the most part no one gets what they seek, or if they do it’s not what they thought it would be. People die, love is lost, lovers are destroyed, lives go on empty of meaning. So much heartache and pain. So little hope. Sometimes there is justice. Sometimes not. They don’t all fit the textbook definition of a tragedy, but most come close. Then at the bottom of one stack I spy a series of spines that lift my spirits.
“Jane Austen’s books end well. Those aren’t tragedies. They’re comedies. Comedies of manners. They poke fun at the way people act—their misunderstandings and mistakes—but the hero and heroine turn out okay in the end.” My smile fades. “Maybe that’s why they’re not always taken as seriously.”
“Is tragedy better?”
“I don’t know.” I take Moby-Dick from her hands. “Maybe it’s truer.”
An hour later I find myself alone in my apartment, bathed in the glow of my laptop, staring at the novel I am attempting to rewrite. Is it a tragedy? It’s certainly not a comedy. Are those my only options for this story? Are those the only options in life?
These questions swirl around in my head for the next few days as my own little tragedy unfolds. Dawt Pi’s last day. Then a quiet, gnawing emptiness, until at last it is Independence Day, the only day in this town that’s bigger than St. Pat’s.
Evidence of the impending celebration has been popping up all week. The carnival being erected on the east side by chain-smoking nomads who roam the country tightening and loosening bolts and taking tickets. Signs touting prices to park at churches and businesses. Municipal workers trimming grass and installing battalions of extra trash cans. Trucks laden with porta-potties rumbling over the bridges. Close to one hundred thousand people visit the city during the Independence Day weekend, triple the population.
The river is already getting crowded by midday as people take their boats out and claim the best spots to watch the fireworks. The wind sends whiffs of fried food and carnival-ride screams and snippets of songs from the long string of concerts being held in the park across the river. By late afternoon, the streets on both sides of the river are jammed with honking cars, every spot of green grass is covered with picnic blankets, and parking lot attendants are dragging sawhorses in front of their full lots.
A little before twilight, I head up to the roof with a lawn chair. I am about to sit down when I hear my name from the roof across Chestnut Street, where the bar crowd has gathered. Sarah is waving frantically. Glittery red, white, and blue stars wobble about at the end of springs a few inches above her head.
“Come join us!” she bellows, red plastic cup in hand.
I shake my head and sit down.
“Come on!”
“No thanks!”
She makes a face. “I’m coming over!”
“The door is locked.”
“So unlock it!”
“Go to the back.”
A few minutes later, Sarah appears at the alley door in a tiny patriotic halter top and cutoff shorts that would be considered underwear if they weren’t made out of denim. The crescent-shaped scar from the long-ago surgery on her shattered knee shines white against her otherwise tan legs. She’s still gripping her red plastic cup.
“Come on, Robin. Come over there with me. You’ll have a good time.”
“I’m pretty sure I won’t. Go have fun and I’ll be peachy over here.”
I head back up to my own roof, Sarah following, determined as always to get her own way.
I sit down in my lawn chair. “Sorry I don’t have two. I could grab a chair from the kitchen table.”
“No need.” Sarah plops down sideways on my lap, and her beer sloshes over the side of her cup and onto my chest.
“Sarah!” I push her off of me, and she lands on her backside on the hot black roof. “Now I’m going to smell like the bottle return room at the grocery store.”
I head back down to my apartment, Sarah on my heels like a fox running down a rabbit.
“Why won’t you come hang out with me? I haven’t seen you in weeks. I know Dawt Pi is gone. I saw her at the salon when I had this done.” She points to the red and blue streaks in her peroxided hair.
“I don’t want to be stuck on a roof with fifty people spilling beer on me. I’d sooner jump off it.” I hurry into my bedroom.
“Fine, then let’s go down to the river.”
“There are even more people down there.”
“Ryan texted me he’s at Dockside tonight. Let’s find him.”
“Dockside’s on the other side of the river. I am not driving anywhere tonight. I’ll be stuck in traffic for an hour before I can get home, even though it’s probably less than half a mile away. Why can’t we just watch the fireworks from my roof in peace?”
“He told me you haven’t been down to the marina in a few days.”
I throw up my hands. “Why were you guys talking about me? Why is my life always everyone else’s business?” I search my closet for a new, beerless shirt.
“Wear this.” Sarah pulls out a filmy white spaghetti-strap tank top I bought to wear under other practically see-through white shirts. “And this.” She hands me a red pencil skirt from a suit I had bought online a year ago at her relentless badgering and then never worn.
“My shorts are fine.”
“Not with this shirt.”
“That’s not even a shirt. That’s an undershirt.”
“It’s sexy.”
“I don’t need a sexy shirt to watch the fireworks.”
“We’re wasting time. We’re going to miss the start of the show. It’s getting dark. No one will see you anyway.”
I do as Sarah commands, if only to get her off my back. “I’m not going up on the roof over there.”
“Fine. Get your shoes on.”
I slip my bare feet into some old flip-flops.
“No! Gross! Not those.”
Sarah rummages around the bottom of my closet and comes up with a pair of strappy high heel sandals she gave me last summer, right after she saw me wearing the very same old flip-flops she’s just rejected. I roll my eyes and put them on. As I struggle with the tiny buckles on the side, Sarah takes out my braid and fluffs my hair with her fingers. I make a move to stop her, then reconsider. At least I’ll be able to cover my chest with my hair now.
“Perfect,” she says. “Now let’s go.”
I head for the roof, but Sarah easily pulls me downstairs instead. Sitting on my butt in a bookstore for years is no match for her thrice-weekly gym attendance, and the ludicrous shoes have made me clumsier than usual.
“Where are we going?”
“To the river. We’re going across to find Ryan.”
I stumble along behind her. “What, are you going to swim? How long have you been at that bar?”
“We’ll get a ride.”
“On a boat? Have you seen the river? It’s packed.”
“Fine, then we’re walking across.”
We push our way past hordes of people, and I somehow navigate the decline down to the river in the unnaturally tall sandals without twisting my ankle. Across the river I can clearly see the strings of lights outlining Dockside’s large outdoor patio.
“The bridge is that way,” I say.
“We don’t need a bridge.”
We pick our way down the packed dock to the sounds of appreciative whistling. At the end of the dock, I arrange my hair back over my chest. The closest boat is ten feet away.
“Yoo-hoo!” Sarah calls sweetly. “We’re trying to get to the other side. Can we walk across your boat?”
It doesn’t look to me like there is room for even one more person on board. But the guys seem to appreciate Sarah’s attire and spunk. One throws a rope onto the dock and Sarah loops it around a cleat. Hand over hand, the man draws the boat close enough, and two other men reach out for Sarah to help her onto the deck. Then they turn to me with beckoning hands and hopeful grins. I feel their hands on my arms. Then I am floating above the river for a moment before they set me down on the deck. I make my way to the other side of the boat where Sarah is busily flirting her way across the river.
She scans the water a moment and picks out our next stepping stone. “That one.”
“You got it,” the man next to her says.
The first firework screams into the sky and explodes overhead. A loud whoop goes up from the crowd, followed by more fireworks. After much shouting and many hand motions, the man with the rope has managed to draw close enough to the next boat for us to move ahead on this insane errand. We alight on the deck of a pontoon strung with blinking white lights and crawling with baby boomers. A couple gray-haired men tear their eyes away from the sky to ogle us. A woman scowls.
Head down, I make for the side rail. If I were not in this restrictive skirt and these impractical shoes I could leap to the next boat. But as it stands, a couple of inches seems to be the farthest apart my knees can go.
Another set of shouted instructions and a rope bring us close enough to bridge the gap. The next boat is one of five already latched together, a group of quite obviously wealthy friends who seem to be split on their opinions of our escapade, one half bemused and ready to join us, the other half suspicious and hugging their purses. The air is thick with smoke and chatter. Reflections of the ongoing fireworks sparkle in eyeglasses and wine glasses.
We pick our way across the group of boats with the help of plenty of willing hands until we are on the last one. Up on her tiptoes, Sarah searches for the next step.
“Hey, down in front,” says a voice from the distant past.
Sarah doesn’t notice it. It’s not from her past. It’s from mine. I look in the direction of the voice. The reds and greens and blues of the fireworks alternately cast eerie light and deep shadow on its source. A man sits alone on a bench seat at the back of the boat.
“Here we go!” Sarah says as the next boat is drawn closer.
I move toward the man to get a better look. Why do I know that voice? I can feel the hairs on my arms shift and stiffen. A flash of bright white as several fireworks blast into pieces at once. I see him clearly. And it all comes back in a rush of moments. That face—in doorways, turning back from the front seat of a black sedan, at funerals, at backyard barbecues. Always serious, yet always with a wink in my direction.
This man worked for my father.