Tim Horvath - Understories

For the next few Saturdays and Sundays and Wednesdays, Pete hopes for another rainy day so that he can maybe see her again, the woman. Hanh’s mom. Mrs. Hanh. Ms. Hanh-Beatrice-Kaminski-Thorunsson. Her name could be anything. It seems only right that the world should present her to him again, with or without Sasha. For he doesn’t need Sasha, right? Surely they can make conversation without the safety net of kookily endearing, incorrigible kids. He tries to find her online. Maybe she is a famous researcher. But typing in the name of their town (and the neighboring ones) and fungus and Hanh isn’t very helpful, although he learns some facts about athlete’s foot and that Hanh is a Vietnamese name.

In an effort to meet destiny halfway, he takes himself places he wouldn’t otherwise. He dredges up outfits that haven’t been dry-cleaned in eons, takes them in. If business picks up, he could need them as soon as tomorrow. Plus, he’s pretty sure the woman who works there is Vietnamese. If only they could get past the nuts and bolts of garment-readiness dates, he might be able to ask her about life in Vietnam, which could be interesting in its own right. Beyond that, he explores various veins of intrigue, actual or potential — in antiques, in tchotchkes, in cheese. If only there were a mushroom specialty shoppe. Maybe he ought to venture out into the woods.

Of course there is the chance he’ll bump into Hanh with Hanh’s strapping, chiseled, blithely successful dad. “Is that Hanh?” he’ll say. He’ll introduce himself regardless. Might even slip him a business card — nobody gets a lifelong vaccine against the need for copies.

He considers walking back into Runaroundandscreamalot! — his official name for it now. But she’s a woman of the outdoors, one who gravitates toward dampness and moisture and earth, not plastic and titanium and artificial bricks (yes, yes, all bricks are artificial, he knows). He could get in touch with Bethany, volunteer to take Sasha for extra days. It would be good, he reasons, for both of them. But the arrangement they’ve worked out is running smoothly enough that they oughtn’t to break it now. Bethany’s a rhythm person.

The next four Wednesdays are among the sunniest on record. They’re so transcendently temperate, he can’t even justify going to Runaroundandscreamalot! for the air conditioning, which he’s not even sure if Tru is running because he talked to her about it once and even though it can still get hot this time of year, she puts it on only if there are a certain number of people there because it costs a lot to cool a space of that size, and there probably wouldn’t be enough patrons to warrant it. Back when it was an adult store, he could remember, it was intensely air-conditioned and he thought this was sort of a poor business decision because being cold was, was it not, a bit of an anti-aphrodisiac? He didn’t think he’d ever seen goose-pimpled flesh in an X-rated film, although he can imagine that there’s probably some small subset of people that get off exclusively on goose-pimpled flesh, for whom smooth skin is decidedly lacking and who have to take hot showers rather than cold in order to get their passions to simmer down. Such folk would’ve made good company this past February. If he is not careful with his finances, they will make good company this coming February.

Most of the time, Pete is okay with being on his own, but on occasion he misses certain things about his life with Bethany and Sasha. How Bethany would fan out his mail on the table like the plumage of a gaudy bird. Or the way she would hang up pictures of both of them equally, a true champion of photo democracy. Bethany even included Angus and his parents, and even his disreputable grandparents got some mantel inch. The picture of him and Angus at the beach (they are dripping, and cowlicked Angus looks like he is about to pancake Pete’s sand castle, which he is, but he also has his arm around Pete) won pride of place. They are so young, so grinful, Pete’s glasses so clunky, Angus so handsome, and Pete too, if you take the time to really look. Now that picture lies somewhere in storage. Most of all, he misses sneaking in to steal glimpses of Sasha after dark, her lungs working without any mechanical tricks, her macaroni-shell nostrils pulsing just slightly, and he’d known at once, then and still, where the word breathtaking came from. Always in these tiptoed forays, he was certain she would awaken, but she never did. When she stays over, he’ll still rise, creaking, off the foldout couch he sleeps on so she can have the bed, watching her puffs of CO 2invisibly make their way into his room.

Mrs. Dobbins, Sasha’s new teacher, sends them an email reminder about their fall conference, which Bethany relays to Pete, also calling and sending a text. Pete would’ve been there early, though, grateful for an excuse to get up first thing and slip into a newly perm-pressed outfit. Sasha, too, is smartly attired. In a sour-apple-candy green dress, she looks older to him than maybe she ever has, and she’s wearing actual shoes with laces and socks, not froggies. It’s a bit shocking.

While they wait, Pete sips coffee loudly to fill the morning void. What did he and Bethany used to talk about? Before Sasha, that is, because post-Sasha they talked, he realizes, mainly about Sasha.

“How’re classes looking?” Pete tries. Sips.

“Egh.” Bethany shrugs. “Approaches to Society is packed. They should split it into two sections, but. .” She makes a motion that indicates money that is not there. He waits for her to ask about how Society is treating him, but she spares him from having to sputter unwarranted optimism. He looks around. The floors are freshly burnished, and though the school year has barely begun, already there are displays on the life cycles of plants. He looks for Sasha’s handiwork but can’t pick it out. No dandelions, either.

What, he wonders at times, was his relationship with Bethany ever all about? What did they spend those endless hours discussing? He wants some transcripts, or one — he can extrapolate. But he can’t imagine what that one would look like. Did they talk about quirky coworkers? Immigration reform? Guano-zany relatives? His projects with Angus couldn’t have met with much more enthusiasm then than now. By whatever freak course, though, those conversations led to Sasha, and maybe that makes it all worth it.

Bethany chats away with another couple who have arrived early for their slot. They yammer about a mutiny on the school board and who will chaperone the class trip to the apple orchard, both of which he was unaware of. Playdates are being tentatively scheduled through the end of the decade when Dobbins steps out to relieve him from this purgatory. Ushering them in, she offers Pete and Bethany diminutive plastic blue chairs, set awkwardly close, while setting Sasha up with blocks on the other side of the room.

Dobbins has her act together. Possessor of a snazzy tablet, funded no doubt with taxpayer dollars, she summons up a spreadsheet and flips it around from horizontal to vertical.

“This,” she says, “is a breakdown of the behavioral and learning objectives that we’re going to be focusing on this year. Although I’ve split it into yes/no, keep in mind that it’s still October.”

“So there are likely to be a lot of nos,” says Bethany.

“Not yets. ” Dobbins nods.

Sasha is stacking up a storm, leading Pete to want to say, “Are you seeing this?”, point out her architectural prowess.