Laura Kasischke - The Raising

He’d hated the idea of surprising them.

Even with their other daughters at home, even gathered around an organ, Perry imagined that the grief of the place would have its own texture—those shadows—and a smell, maybe the smell of the Dumpster in the parking lot behind Dumplings. When Perry was first learning to ride a bike, his father would sometimes take him to that parking lot on a Saturday morning before the restaurant opened, when there was no one there. It had a hill that sloped down into nothing but high grass, so it was a good place to practice turning, braking—better than the street in front of his house, where a car might be coming. Perry used to smell the Dumpster those mornings, and it wasn’t a bad smell. Just yeasty, tired, soft disintegration. Wet bread, he thought. And the scraped-off remnants of cabbage some child had refused to eat. Maybe half a piece of black cherry torte some woman on a diet hadn’t finished. Gravy in a garbage bag, bones.

Perry got out of the car and slammed the door loudly behind him (more warning), and then he took a slow step toward the door, which Mrs. Werner had opened before he’d even had a chance to knock—and although she looked happy and flushed (just as he remembered her from years before, bustling around her restaurant, bringing special treats of dark bread and homemade jam over to the tables where “my daughters’ chums!” sat), she did not look pleased to see him.

Perry glanced beyond her to the place where the family had been gathered, but there was no one in the living room now. Still, he could see a bright red electrical dot glowing over the keys of the Hammond organ.

The Hammond organ was on.

Perry thought he could hear it humming when Mrs. Werner, reluctantly, it seemed, stepped aside to let him in.

“Nice to see you, Perry. How are your folks?”

“They’re fine, Mrs. Werner. I—”

“What can I do for you?”

“I just came by to say hello. I—”

“I was just getting ready to go out, but if you’d like to sit down for a second—”

Mrs. Werner pointed to a white couch. There was a sheet of plastic over it, and Perry remembered the long-haired black cat, Grouch, who’d hissed at him once when he’d knelt down to pet it, and how Nicole had laughed like crazy. (“God, he likes everybody. He’s never done that to anyone! That’s why we call him Grouch.”) Perry had never bothered to ask her if she was just kidding—if, in truth, that cat hissed at everyone and she was being ironic, or if it was true, that the cat really was friendly, and the name Grouch was ironic. Now he wished he knew.

“Do you still have Grouch?” he asked Mrs. Werner—stupidly, he thought, as soon as the words had left his mouth. (After all that had happened, he was asking about their cat?)

“Why do you ask?” Mrs. Werner said, sitting down in a matching white armchair, also covered in plastic, across a glass-topped coffee table from him. Perhaps it had been a stupid question, Perry thought, but he was still surprised by her response, and all he could think of to say was, “I remember him.”

“Well, yes, we still have Grouch. He’s old. But a cat can live for over twenty years.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Perry said.

“How are your parents?” Mrs. Werner asked again.

“They’re fine, Mrs. Werner. They’re great. I mean, I haven’t seen them yet, but Thanksgiving’s just around—”

“You came up to Bad Axe to visit us ?” Mrs. Werner asked, opening her eyes wide, her expression alarmed. Perry thought she looked as beautiful as any of her daughters ever had. Her face seemed nearly unlined, bright with good health. Her hair was gray, but it wasn’t the dry gray he remembered from the funeral, the last time he’d seen her. Now it looked soft. It fell in silver waves around her shoulders.

“Well, no,” Perry said. “But since I was here, I wanted to say hello.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Werner said, and clapped her hands on her knees, as if that sealed the deal. End of discussion. “That’s very kind of you, Perry. We always thought a great deal of you, and also your parents. We’ll miss them.”

“You’ll miss them?”

Mrs. Werner looked at Perry curiously.

“Oh,” she said. “I assumed you knew, that it was the reason for your lovely visit. We’ve sold the restaurant. We’re moving to Arizona. In two weeks.”

“In two weeks?”

“Yes. I know some people think it seems sudden, but we’ve been considering retirement for a long time. Mr. Werner and I are not spring chickens, and, well—”

“Of course.” Perry was being polite. What he felt was confusion, and a strange disbelief. Who was he to question the plans and the motives of these people? But all these generations in Bad Axe? His first school had been Werner Elementary. Now they were moving to Arizona? In two weeks?

Mrs. Werner stood up. She said, “I certainly appreciate this chance to say good-bye, Perry. It was delightful to see you, and if you ever get to Arizona—”

“Where in Arizona?”

Mrs. Werner cleared her throat and said, “That’s yet to be determined, Perry. Probably Phoenix. Of course, I’ll send word to all the good folks up here when we have a permanent address.”

The smile on her face was anxious, but not entirely false. She was happy to see Perry, he could tell by the warmth of her embrace, and she was sorry about something, too, but when he asked if he could use her bathroom before he left, the smile evaporated.

She stood looking at him for several seconds, as if she expected him to take the request back. When he didn’t, she said, “Well, dear, let me just take a peek in there first to make sure there aren’t any towels on the floor. You know, we’ve gotten sloppy, getting ready for the move, and I wouldn’t—”

Before Perry could object, say he really didn’t care about the state of their bathroom, she disappeared through a door in the hallway attached to the living room, and when she returned, she said, “It’s fine. Go ahead,” and Perry stepped past her, closed the door behind him.

There was light blue tile. Seashells on the wallpaper, just like the wallpaper his mother had hung one Saturday afternoon a few summers back (probably bought it at the same store: a sale, a promotion, at the same time). As quickly as he could, Perry got on his hands and knees on the white carpeting and began to search for anything other than black cat hairs (Grouch: they were everywhere). He couldn’t find anything. But when he stood back up, he saw it: a hairbrush on the shelf above the toilet tank. A brush with a tortoiseshell handle and white bristles. It was small, the kind of thing he could slip into his jacket pocket. He looked at it and saw that it was a treasure trove: There were long blond strands of hair floating ethereally out of it, and shorter gray hairs mixed in with those. A feminine nest, something made out of silk and breath. He took a Kleenex out of a box on the sink, wrapped it around the head of the brush, and put it into his pocket just before flushing the toilet, clearing his throat, opening the bathroom door, and stepping back into the living room.

“Okay?” Mrs. Werner asked. She held the front door open for him, despite the cold wind blowing through it, and there was no mistaking her fervent desire that, now, he leave.

Perry reached out and extended a hand to Mrs. Werner, who took it in hers and squeezed with genuine warmth, until he looked down, and she must have noticed him noticing the amber ring on her finger (it had not, he felt sure, been there when she’d taken his hand when he first arrived), and then she was pulling her hand back and closing the door without saying good-bye.

He went back to the car, walking as slowly as he could. He wanted to turn back, wanted to think up some good reason that he would. Was there any conceivable thing he’d “forgotten” to say to the parents of the girl at whose funeral he’d been a pallbearer only nine months before? Maybe We’re thinking Nicole is still alive? Or We think your daughter may have risen from the dead?