Therese Fowler - Souvenir

‘Of course,’ she smiled, her white teeth artificially bright and even. She set a towel aside and leaned onto the bar in front of him, her V-neck blouse straining.

He sat back a little. ‘Why would a woman – young, beautiful, appealing – like yourself – what would make a woman like you want to marry a worn-out guy like me?’

‘You are the rock star, no?’

Rock star . That had been his tag for a dozen years now, and still it sounded strange to him, and wrong. He was a songwriter, a singer, front man for a band that sold out most of its venues – all of that was true. And yes, the music was rock music – though broader in scope than most, modeled after Queen and the socially conscious, always-fresh music of Sting, whom he’d met for the first time last year. Still, he didn’t see himself as a rock star , though he recognized that he lived the life of one. It was a strange disconnection, one he’d been aware of peripherally for a long time, but which had only in the last year or two come into focus. Probably the awareness was a result of his age – that midlife business his manager, Gene Delaney, said stalked men more relentlessly than band sluts. Gene had a way with words. Whatever it was, Carson felt increasingly dissatisfied with the rock-star label: it sounded shallow, two-dimensional at best. He wanted to be thicker than that. He wanted to be substantial in life, had once believed his deeply felt music would make him that way.

‘Right,’ he told the bartender. ‘I’m the rock star. Are you saying that explains it?’

‘ Non ,’ she said. ‘It is good, yes, mais non pas tout – it is not everything. You have a handsome face, and very good … qu’est-ce que c’est ?’ She gestured to indicate his body. ‘And you are not so much an American asshole.’

He raised his eyebrows, and the bartender clarified, ‘Not to hit his woman, or make a woman service him. You are généreux, non ?’

He shrugged. He supposed he was generous – he always tipped well above what was expected, news he assumed had spread to all the staff quickly. He donated to several charities, worked with Habitat for Humanity twice a year – some people might call that generous. To him it all seemed like the least he could do when he had so much money that it seemed to replicate itself.

Money management, now that was a job in itself, and he didn’t have time for it. He left that to his mom, who liked to tease him that a wife and half a dozen kids would help him put the money to use. She thought it was a shame Val had so much money of her own. ‘She’ll be too independent, Carson, mark me on that.’ When his parents came to Seattle to meet Val at New Year’s, his mom told her about a seven-bedroom Ocala estate she’d heard was for sale: ‘Plenty of space for you two and all the kids,’ she said, not even attempting to be subtle. ‘Kids?’ Val said. ‘Ocala?’

Carson told the bartender, ‘My fiancée is seventeen years younger than me – not that I mind, but shouldn’t she ?’

The woman reached over and laid one manicured finger on his arm. ‘Must be your motor is good, eh?’

‘For now.’

‘ Mais oui . What else is there?’

FIVE

When Meg drove into the parking lot of Ocala’s main library, her headlights swept over and past her daughter sitting alone, earbuds in, on a bench near the entrance. Savannah stood, lifting her patch-covered book bag from the bench and swinging it onto her shoulder as Meg pulled to the curb.

‘Hi, honey,’ she said when Savannah climbed in, loudly enough to be heard over whatever was playing on the iPod. ‘Take those out, will you?’

Savannah pulled out the earbuds and hung the cord around her neck. ‘Is that better?’ She turned and shoved her bag and the notebooks into the backseat, then grabbed the plastic bag with the fried chicken and brought it up to the front.

‘It is,’ Meg said, making herself not react to Savannah’s rudeness. She knew it wasn’t intentional, knew from past arguments that the ‘tone battle’ wasn’t a battle worth fighting. ‘What are you listening to?’ she asked instead.

‘Nobody you’ve heard of.’ Savannah began to rifle through the bag.

‘Why don’t you wait – I thought it’d be nice to eat together with Dad, at home.’ For a change. She couldn’t recall, right off, the last time they’d done this.

‘I’m hungry now,’ Savannah said, opening the box inside and taking out a wing. ‘You’re late.’

Meg pulled away from the curb, ignoring the weakness that remained in her arm and ignoring Savannah’s accusatory tone. Ignore whatever doesn’t suit: a strategy she’d learned at her father’s knee. She asked, ‘Where’s Rachel?’

‘ Her mom picked her up at eight.’ It was now seven minutes past.

Meg sighed. A parenting book she’d read advised fighting only the truly important battles. The challenge was in how to determine, while her buttons were being pushed, just which battles were important. Yesterday morning, both of them tired after the security alarm had gone haywire and awakened them all at two AM, they’d fought over whether the milk was beginning to sour.

Savannah added, ‘Thanks for the chicken. It’s good.’

There was hope. ‘You’re welcome. Why don’t you hand me a piece? A leg – and a napkin.’ They could eat together in the car; Brian probably wasn’t home yet anyway.

Savannah rummaged in the box and found a leg. ‘Here,’ she said, holding it out. Meg intended to reach for it, started to move her hand off the steering wheel, but her arm felt sluggish again. Something wasn’t right. She thought back to her anatomy courses, considered the networks and pathways of nerves and signals; something must be pinched, torqued out of place by the difficult entrance of that second twin this morning. Janey, the labor nurse, had been rooting for a C-section, but in Meg’s view C-sections were overdone, riskier sometimes than just patiently working with nature. Besides, Corinne, the mother, wanted to do it all naturally as long as the babies weren’t at risk. Meg had been very satisfied, as Corinne had, when little Corey and Casey came through unscathed. The only price for taking the harder route, Meg thought, was this nuisance with her arm – which could probably be fixed with a short visit to Brian’s orthopedist.

When Meg didn’t take the chicken immediately, Savannah said, ‘Mom?’

Meg forced a smile. ‘You know, I think I’ll just wait – keep both hands on the wheel. What sort of example am I setting if I eat while I drive?’ One I’ve set a hundred times , she thought. Well, what was parenting if not a series of inconsistencies and the occasional hypocritical action?

She changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about this project you’re doing.’

‘It’s no big deal. Cell anatomy and function. Pretty boring.’

Meg remembered taking high school biology, studying those same things with her lab partner, Carson. More often, not studying. Savannah, though, was a serious student, curious about everything – or so she’d been, back when her every thought manifested as a question or observation. Presumably she was still the same girl, just quieter. Was she caught up in identity issues? Questioning her sexuality? She hadn’t yet had an official boyfriend; maybe she was gay – which would be fine, Meg would love her no matter what. Or maybe Savannah was just picky; she could be awfully judgmental, the ‘curse’, her fifth-grade teacher once said, of gifted children. In truth, Meg hoped Rachel had persuaded Savannah to meet some boys, if only so that Savannah would start getting her feet wet.