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College towns, as a concept, have an unrecognized variety amongst them. I can sort these into three basic camps. First, there are the towns that are devoted to the schools that put them on the map. Second are towns that are essentially subjugated by the economic powerhouse of such an institution. And finally, some towns just make the most of it.
Dustford had elected to be the latter with Stella Maris. There was a lingering tension between the “townies,” as they were called snidely by the students, and the university as a whole, but it wasn’t outright hatred. Rather, it seemed to be understood that the university was the source of that constant infusion of money and resources that kept the town going after the local factories shut down and the labor–along with the (significantly lowered) salaries–were sent somewhere else entirely. Industry was gone, but the university remained. And most of the money that came into Dustford came either from or on behalf of the university.
The restaurant scene was a big part of that as parents of students and fans of sports flooded the area regularly with full wallets and empty stomachs. At first glance, it felt like 80% of the businesses in Dustford were bars, pubs, or restaurants, offering every cuisine and experience imaginable, and that feeling would be spot on. If you looked at the statistics of restaurants per capita in that town, you’d be greatly confused. How can so many food-based places in a small(ish) town be financially solvent? Well, it’s because so many other people come and go through this town, and they all have to eat, and they all want to enjoy eating. Enjoyment, as a concept, will vary from person to person. This creates a river of financial opportunities that many people with different ideas or culinary talents can fish thick stacks of cash from. And those stacks are so thick that even in down seasons like early July–when there are no sports and almost no students–there’s a calm in empty airs and streets that is free from any of the fears that other businesses would have when there was no immediate flow of customers. A college town just has a different rhythm of living, but that rhythm can still create a beautiful life.
Which is all a long way of saying that I really didn’t know what to pick when Professor Evory asked me what I was hungry for. There were so many options and dishes that all hit different spots. Also, I hadn’t spent any of my time at Stella Maris learning the land. I hadn’t ventured off campus and ordered delivery from the same five places that my first roommate had found. And during catered events when outside food was brought in at no cost to me, I didn’t question the free lunch or where it came from.
So I didn’t know what to tell him, and I was immediately flooded with guilt about that. I didn’t want to keep Professor Evory waiting or inconvenience him, considering we were already in his car and driving around with the memory of that bad coughing spell haunting us.
Even if the pressure was imagined, my mind raced until it settled on a halfhearted answer. “Didn’t you just find a new place? Like a diner or something?”
The spark of recognition immediately caught in his eye. “Right. It’s...” he started. “Well, it’s not a new place, exactly. I just found it on a whim when I was out on my bike. There’s a lot of restaurants around here, and you know, you can mean to get around to them all, but that’s not what happens. You find ones you like, and then, when you want to go out, it’s just easier to return to your favorite places. Once you find a rhythm, it can be hard to break.”
I didn’t want to talk, and Professor Evory seemed to know that. He had likely read the room–or car–and was adjusting accordingly. Everything would come in time, I figured, even the questions that loomed over our heads. I just needed a moment to adjust, to catch my breath and thoughts.
When his speech lulled, it was as good of a time as any. I was as ready as I could ever be with a weight that was about to crush me like that. I turned to him and chewed some mystery words in my mouth.
Professor Evory took that to be his cue to break the ice and carefully asked, “How’s... your sister?”
The word choice wasn’t going to come naturally. He knew that. After all, he was the one to say that Lynette was technically a stranger who just so happened to share part of my genetic code, and they weren’t great genes.
“She hasn’t called,” I told him.
At first, he said nothing. Either he was carefully considering his reply for a moment, or he was trying to not hit any of the birds that were lingering in the road. In the Midwest, a flock of birds was the equivalent of a tumbleweed, signaling that a place was relatively deserted or clear. But they were more stubborn than the tumbleweeds that submitted themselves to the whims of the wind. Also there was something more nefarious about running them over.
“Do you think she will?” Professor Evory finally asked when the flock reluctantly dispersed.
“I think so. I mean, she has to, right?”
Another pause before he asked, “What makes you think that?”
“I mean, who else is going to tell her about our dad?”
“Well... Her mother,” he offered.
He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t know how to follow that up. Dad’s relationships never ended well or cleanly. They burned hot and left nothing but ash in their wake.
“I just think going to the cemetery was a bit extreme,” I tried to explain, but that wasn’t a full thought.
“But it’s in your dad’s hometown, right?”
Wincing, I stammered, “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
I didn’t want to elaborate. That sentence needed some sort of follow-up, but I couldn’t muster it. And Professor Evory understood that.
He ended the matter for me by saying, “It has been a long time since he was back there.”
It had and hadn’t been, but in a town like the one Dad was born in, his departure was a surprisingly difficult concept to lay out. On one hand, you could drive away and be long gone. No one was going to stop you. But the stories that you were a part of continue to be told after you drive away. Those who knew you–which was pretty much everyone–kept some sort of elegy alive and in your place. In the right light, it looked so much like you that it might as well have been you. But on the more technical side of things, Dad died relatively young, so the actual time he had lived a life away from the town that bore him was somewhat reduced, so do you count the time he was alive and away or just the time that had passed? No one can give you an answer to that. That isn’t to say he died tragically young, which he didn’t, but he was young enough that–playing the odds–many of his high school classmates had to still be alive and maybe still telling stories that included him.
Which might not have been many, I suddenly realized. Dad wasn’t all that social, and he didn’t get to spend that much time in class given how poor his health was even then. So maybe he was gone from that town, and Lynette found nothing of him there but the grave his parents’ rested in. Or maybe she found his elegies. And maybe those were practically him. Who even knows.
I watched Dustford pass by through the windshield of Professor Evory’s car. In many ways, it wasn’t that different from the town my dad grew up in, otherwise known as the town he ran from. And maybe it’s just because the forest was a vibrant green that contrasted the desert tones of my upbringing in Arizona. Or maybe it was because the skyline was unbothered by buildings and only the stray tree reaching up towards the heavens.
But cosmetic differences aside, you could imagine that in Dustford, a small town made larger by the university it held, the social norms that defined small towns still rang true here. The comings and goings of students, parents, and tourists didn’t matter in that. After all, those who lived in the town didn’t care too much for them, especially the students. They didn’t count the young souls in search of themselves as their neighbors. They hardly had any real neighbors. With so few names to learn, it was easy to learn them all, and with fewer frills to hide behind or less space to swallow up the neighbor’s whispers, certain ‘things’ (i.e., gossip) were inevitable. And those were the things that drove Dad away.
While I couldn’t imagine how anyone could bear to live with that level of openness and the ensuing scrutiny, it was even worse for Dad. His poor childhood health drew attention and made him a spectacle among the townspeople. The tone of the unintended attraction was a tragic, ominous, and foreboding one created by a dark family history. Almost all of Grandpa Ernst’s siblings died in childhood from measles, and it didn’t really end there. As you went back in time, the Vogel family ledger was full of tragedies and heartbreak, and there was a looming suspicion that Will was destined to be another entry in that grim book. And the theory was out in the open. With it came other pieces of gossip or stories about what a distant Vogel must have done to have such a cursed bloodline.
It was a lot to carry. The weight of it all just wore Dad down.
Or that’s the story Mom and Grandma always told me. But it was hard for me to listen to the stories my mom told once I knew what their relationship was like. On the other hand, Grandma Sarah was my anchor when my dad died, and she was always so eager to share those stories of the son she lost. It was how she coped. Even if she always knew she was going to outlive him, it still hurt to lose him, more than anyone who hasn’t lived that horror can imagine. Consequently, I was inclined to believe Grandma Sarah’s version, whether or not it was corroborated by my mom. Maybe the amount of analysis and commentary Grandma Sarah would include was a reason to be suspicious, but I believed her. I believed the version of my dad that Grandma Sarah kept close to her chest until her dying day. It was the only version that made sense, and its original keeper was gone.
That meant that if Lynette wanted to know who our dad was–not just what afflicted him from a medical standpoint but who he was–if she wanted some sort of connection to the person, then it was me and only me that could help her. She had no other options.
“Maybe I shouldn’t assume she wants to know him,” I mused aloud.
Professor Evory shrugged. “I’ve heard many adoptees of varying circumstances say that they needed answers. That it was important to know so they could find themselves. Does she live near that town?”
“She’s from Rhode Island from what I can put together. And our grandparents are buried in Pennsylvania.”
Professor Evory’s face twisted as he quickly did some mapping in his mind. “Not a quick drive, even if everything back east is a bit more crammed together.”
I sighed. “Also I guess it’s possible her daughter wants to know her grandpa, but Lynette would maybe want to screen me before she lets us talk, even if she has no interest in knowing for herself.”
Professor Evory reached the town’s train tracks just as the warning lights started flashing. He stopped at the designated point, and we were left waiting. But that also meant we could focus more on the conversation.
And yet, we were already set in a conversational path. He asked, “What makes you say that?”
“No social media for my niece,” I said and then realized that such a statement was going to need to be explained. “I... may have looked my sister and her daughter up online. I got their names from the groundskeeper at the cemetery, and I know that there are flaws with that process. Okay. Maybe he didn’t remember them right, but I found pictures of my sister but zero sign of my niece. No profile. No picture. Nothing. My sister apparently runs a tight ship.”
Professor Evory didn’t ask where that left me, even though that was the only logical question. Was there room for me on this very tight ship my sister was the captain of? It was an honest and relevant question but not one he wanted the answer to. I really didn’t want to think about that either. It struck too close to the heart of the problem.