Lydia Netzer - How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky

“George, you need to punch everything! And start with yourself! Look, we just need a reframe. You can see this as a positive, eventually, and you’re going to end up thanking me.”

“Bullshit,” said George. He punched the boxes again. He felt strong and angry. Almost like he might stand up on his feet, turn on the light, storm around.

“You’re free, George!” she said. “You know everything now. You know what happened, what I planned for you, what I did. So hate me. That’s fine. Hate me all your life. But now you’re free to find someone you can love that’s not all tied up with that nightmare. Someone good. Someone new. Think of how many girls are out there, George: smart, pretty girls with no skeletons in the closet. This girl’s not worth it, George. You think she is, but she’s not. I tried to make her something worthy of you, but I failed. So now you try it. Find someone on your own—I promise to stay out of it. George, you’re a handsome boy, so beautiful and funny, and you’ve got everything you need to find a wonderful wife and have a happy life. Happiness, George. Not with some crazy, twisted, little accident from Toledo.”

“I want her back,” said George. He punched the pile of boxes one, two, three, four times, one for each word. “And I’m going to have her. This has nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? Nothing to do with you.”

Irene sat on the plane in a window seat. The flight would take four hours. She had never been on an airplane before in her life, but now that her mother was dead, she felt released from her solemn promise that she would not fly. She had a young man next to her in a coat and tie, a woman in sweatpants next to him on the aisle. They were both reading magazines. They had been in the air for thirty minutes when someone announced that drinks would be served. The flight attendant stopped her metal cabinet in the aisle next to Irene’s row and asked if they would like anything to drink.

“I’d like a gin,” said Irene.

“Gin and tonic?” asked the flight attendant. She was a redhead, her bright hair pulled back into a stiff bun, her lipstick very crisply applied, a dull burgundy.

“No,” said Irene. “Just gin.”

Irene passed over her credit card. The business-suit guy next to her was having tomato juice. The woman in sweatpants was having Diet Coke. So they didn’t have to pay anything, but Irene had to pay because she was having gin. The gin came in a little bottle, and the flight attendant gave Irene a clear plastic cup with five rounded, hollow ice cubes in it. Irene twisted the knob and let the tray fall from the back of the seat in front of her. She set the cup with the ice on it but kept the gin in her hand.

“I’m going to drink this,” she said to the man next to her.

“OK,” he said. He was reading a magazine about running and competing in triathlons. The article he was looking at talked about how it was a good idea to finish every run really strong because it would give you a good feeling about starting up your next workout.

“I’ve never had a drink before,” she said. “Not even wine. Not even Communion wine.”

The man next to her turned the page to read more of his article, and then reached into the pocket of his suit coat to retrieve some earbuds, which he applied to his ears without bothering to turn on any sort of music-playing device. The woman in the sweatpants was sipping her Diet Coke and reading In Style.

Irene twisted the cap off the gin, the noise from the plane making a low hum in her head. She put the little bottle to her lips and paused, knowing that a whole life of keeping herself in check was about to end. She had not wanted to be like her mother. She had never had a drop to drink, never taken a puff on a cigarette or a lick of a line of coke, even after it had been sniffed away, and never hovered, breathing deeply, around a group of people smoking pot. She had not wanted to lose control.

Her lips parted and the gin went in. It didn’t taste like much. She swallowed it, and it felt warm inside her esophagus, like it had left a trail of heat down it that could be detected by an infrared camera applied to Irene’s chest. This is where the alcohol went. With the second swallow, Irene had a black realization and understood herself a little. I thought it was the same as sex , she thought. I thought drinking was the same as sex, and it makes you lose control, and that’s why I didn’t ever want to do it. She emptied the rest of the little gin bottle into her mouth and then followed up by crunching the ice in the cup between her teeth, letting it slide in slivers into her throat. This is why I wanted to stay a virgin, thought Irene. It’s because drinking is like sex. Except it’s not. Is it?

There were no effects. The plane landed safely. She had flown for the first time in her life, and nothing bad had happened. Her mother had been terribly, wonderfully wrong about the plane crash predictions. When she got off the plane, she only felt a little tired. She registered for the conference at the hotel, checked in to her room, undressed, and went to bed. I drank alcohol, she thought. I had sex. I’m just like my mother. I’m just like everyone.

In that moment, Irene felt sorry for her mother. What if, after all, she had only been trying to do something good? What if she had always been working for Irene’s benefit, even in her drunken way, and Irene’s success? Irene had judged her harshly, and that was fair. But if it was fair, it was also cold. In the shadow of the gin in her body, Irene felt a bud of warmth for her mother, a bud of something she might someday recognize as forgiveness.

I lie on the ground in the Hinterland. The sky is pale over Dark House. Since I threw myself into that broken hole, it has closed over. My mother’s house, Dark House, and the wishing well stand like silent sentinels on the square. The buildings are crumbling and fading, and I know they’ll soon be gone, along with all the evidence that I had ever shared this dream with my mother or allowed her to collaborate in its shape. I lie there on the scrubby, dry grass missing her, missing George, missing everything I have lost, gained, and then lost again in such a brutally short amount of time. I want to sleep, but I am already asleep.

I sit up and look around the town square of this place that I’ve built. I’m the only resident of it now. I’m the only resident of my entire life. George is gone. He was my love, and I his golem. I was built for him by a stranger and then yanked away from him by that same heartless stranger. Now even Sally is gone. I had not realized she was even there, but she was, moving the pieces around on her stupid chessboard. I was not even a pawn. I was a red checker chip, invading the black-and-white board. I resent her. That’s an understatement.

Now I’m all alone. What do I want?

I stand up to play Mother’s old game with the wishing well. I close my eyes and say, “Show me something pretty.” I pull out a handful of brightly colored fall leaves. I toss them into the air and they float away, dissolving into puffs and fragments. “Show me something funny,” I say. I reach deep into the well, and my hand touches something rough. I pull out a carrot that’s grown two knobs and a peg, so it looks like genitals. This makes me laugh. I toss the carrot up as high as I can, and it dissolves as well. I reach my hand back into the well. “What do I want?” I say. “What do I want? Show me what I want.”

My hand brushes against something soft, like fabric. I tug on it, and I pull it up out of the well. It is a shirt, and it is attached to a man. George. George is here in the Hinterland with me, and I lift him out and set him down. He is sitting on the side of the well. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and no shoes, and he’s smiling, but his eyes don’t focus.