Tim Horvath - Understories

“I’m in a relationship,” Pete says. “It’s her child.”

“I see. Have I a new niece? A nephew at last?”

“It’s just for the afternoon.”

“Look, man, I really need you on this one,” says Angus. “We’ll make it kidogenic. Take ’em sledding. Run through a simulation with them. Be a bro. In the truest sense.”

Ariana drops off Hanh that morning at seven. Freed from a puffy red snowsuit, he is still in pajamas and at least half-asleep. Sasha herself is wide awake and glued to a cartoon, but every few minutes Pete overrides her objections and switches to the weather. They’re watching a storm, and Ariana is reluctant to leave at first. She makes a call and confirms that the conference is on. Should she go? Of course — she has a pair of interviews set up, and maybe this is where she gets out of the vintage clothing shop and back to what she’s capable of.

Pete has everything set up. Not only did he give the place a thorough scrub right down to the grout, he’s set up activities: a drawing station, a Jenga tourney, a ministage consisting of an old storage crate and some plywood and drapes. A pair of sleds lean up against the wall in the hallway, ready to plunge forth. Angus calls again; he’s running a little bit late, and again Pete tries to dissuade him from coming. Having the situation at least semi-under-control, he desires none of the volatility that Angus inevitably brings.

“Be there in a half hour,” says Angus, and Pete thinks, Fine, we’ll put you to work, at least.

Sasha and Hanh are drawing their fave planets — Saturn and Jupiter, respectively — when Angus arrives. It’s eleven o’clock, precisely. The power goes out exactly thirteen minutes later, the number 11:13 burning itself irrevocably in Pete’s mind. They wait for things to come back on, and when nothing happens, Angus asks, “Ya got any flashlights or anything, bro?” Pete scrambles, looking around. All his preparations for naught — what good are immaculate tiles when you can’t see? Angus steps out, says he’s going on a quest. While he’s gone, Ariana calls. The conference is a complete bust, the grid knocked flat from Essex County to the South Shore, flights into Logan either canceled or delayed. She keeps apologizing and repeating how stupid she was to go, and he keeps reassuring her. The kids are great, the kids are fabulous, the kids are all right, remember how they are with each other? We’ll be fine, he tells her. After he gets off with her, he remembers to call Bethany, too.

Angus comes back with candles and matches that he’s sweet-talked from Pete’s neighbors. Lighting a couple, he insists that Pete hear out his business plan.

Hanh whimpers, “Where’s my mommy? I want her.”

“Just a minute, guys,” Angus says. “Let’s do this storm right, eh? Whip up some hot chocolate like the Aztecs did. Electricity? Pshhht. I don’t care if we have to use cold fusion.”

They pull out every blanket Pete owns, and Pete cuddles in with Sasha close, holding Hanh’s hand with his free one. Angus, meanwhile, has retrieved a dry-erase board from his trunk and set it up, in the flicker of candlelight, like they are all in some Neolithic cave boardroom together, kids and adults alike. It might be as bad as February was, but it isn’t nearly, because he’s not alone. Sasha asks whether the hot chocolate is ready, and Angus tousles her hair. “Just listen up first.” VACATION REDUX, he has written at the top. “So. . when you want to take a vacation, you plan it out, right? Figure out the itinerary, go to a tour guide or a travel agent. Take the kinks out, et cetera. But what’s the worst part of any vacation?”

The kids and Pete shiver-shrug.

“When it ends , of course,” Angus declares. “‘Vacation Redux’ is the service that makes sure it never ends. We store your pictures, sit down with you and help you relive the memories. It’s multisensory. We’re not just talking about inflicting slides on the gaybors.” Pete’s neighbors, the ones Angus procured a candle from, are , in fact, gay, though how this is relevant under these circumstances — burrowed in these blankets, trembling on the couch, teeth jerkily percussive as they ride out his rant — is ultradubious. “We’ll figure out what your favorite dish was on the trip and make it for you to the chef’s exact specs. We’ll bring on smells — lake aroma, eucalyptus, you name it. We’ll have sounds. The blues you heard down in N’awlins? Or let’s say you went to Maine. Heck, it will be like there’s a loon in the room.”

“I’ll say there is,” chatters Pete.

That afternoon, they decide to venture out to try to find something warm to eat, someplace warm to sit. The car, to begin with. The moment they step outside, it is disconcerting, the rain-rattled ice, the air a shell of silence punctuated by the continuous sound of branches cracking and hurtling downward. The trees are crystal, spruce and pine tipping, top-heavy, as if a film of them is paused in mid sway. With every light gone, afternoon feels like evening, with night coming on. Down into town they drive. It’s ghostly and grim. The heat has come on in the car, and Pete creeps at a steady five mph. Ignoring Angus’s impatience makes it easy to tune out the line of cars behind him. Screw that, not with just one but two (three?) kids in the car. Even the gas stations are all out, silent. The one that’s open has a line of cars stretching an eighth of a mile up the road.

“This is nuts ,” says Angus. “Pull over anyway.” He runs into the minimart, returning with crumbled Lorna Doones; they’ve sold out of water, flashlights, batteries, wood, hot chocolate.

“When did we arrive in the Third World?” Angus scowls. “Good thing I’m the King of Exact Change.” He offers Pete a Doone.

“Maybe for the kids?” Pete says.

They can see lights in the distance, and Pete heads toward them. A single string of stores on the main drag has, through some fusion of fluke and dumb luck, managed to keep its juice flowing.

“Run. . a. . round. . and. . scream. . a. . lot!” shivers Sasha. She used to not be able to say it. Maybe the cold makes it easier.

“What’s that?” asks Angus.

“It’s a place we go,” explains Pete. “Where we first met Hanh, actually. Remember, guys?” He eases into the lot, jam-packed with cars, like the site of a rock show.

“And here’s the thing,” Angus says, to him the ride merely a temporary hiatus in his business proposal. “Let’s say the vacation didn’t work out. Let’s say you got food poisoning from the raw oysters the second night. Well, then you get to decide whether you want to relive it or — what is this place?”

They pile out and go in, enveloped by the light and the din. Familiar faces — lots of families, sharing their horror stories, laughing, rolling their eyes. Tru Renfro is in her element: running around making coffee and tea and decaf and cocoa. Kids are playing in their jackets, moving around, keeping warm. Pete gets them on the beverage line as if it’s just an ordinary day and he’s brought the kids here. Once he feels them settling a bit, he turns to Angus.

“‘Vacation Redux’?” Under ordinary circumstances, the idea might have seemed slightly eccentric, like most of his brother’s notions, noteworthy for its sheer audacity. Like it was not a good idea unto itself but in a slightly different world it would’ve been. With some tweaks to either the idea or the world. But here, with half the town gathered, trying to stay warm, keeping their chins even, it doesn’t seem like even a decent one. It seems demented.