Tom Perrotta - The Wishbones

It wasn't going to be easy, he could see that. But maybe he wouldn't have to convince her. Maybe Julie was having second thoughts, too. Maybe she'd opened her eyes that morning and had the same realization as Dave—that they were acting rashly, that this was precisely the wrong time to be making such a momentous decision. He resolved to go downstairs, have a cup of coffee, and call her at the office. It was entirely possible that they could straighten out this mess in a matter of minutes, and maybe even laugh about it afterwards.

As usual, he had the house to himself. His mother left at seven to catch the train to Newark, and his father left at eight for his part-time retirement gig as a deliveryman for a local printer who called himself “Mr. Speedy.” Dave did the same sort of work, driving on a freelance basis for a courier service owned by Artie's brother, Rick. Mostly he worked afternoons, but his schedule was erratic. Some days he drove for three hours, some for twelve. It all depended. Some days he didn't work at all.

He should have been used to it by now, but being alone in the house on a weekday still made him feel like he was back in high school and had just put one over on his parents. All sorts of exciting and illicit behaviors offered themselves up for consideration. He could smoke a joint, phone an escort service, fry up a whole box of breakfast sausages. In the end, though, all he ever did was sit down in front of the muted TV and strum his acoustic guitar.

On the way to the coffeemaker, he stopped to read the note his mother had left on the kitchen table. She never failed to dream up an errand or two to fill his morning, as though she couldn't bear the thought of a grown man alone for a few hours with absolutely nothing to do. But today's message was completely er rand-free.

“CONGRATULATIONS!!” it said. “We're soooo thrilled. Julie's a wonderful girl.” Then, at the bottom of the page, in tiny letters: “P.S.— It's about time.”

His mother answered on the second ring. “Mr. Nordberg's office.” There was a singsong lilt in her voice, a sunny, professional note that still caught him off guard after all these years of calling her at the office.

“It's me,” he said.

“HELL-loo,” she cooed, shifting to a more maternal, but equally cheerful tone. “I was just about to call. Your father and I are so happy, honey.”

“How'd you find out?”

“Dolores called this morning, right before I left. Didn't you hear the phone?”

“I must have slept right through it.”

“Have you picked a date?”

“Not yet.”

“September's a good month.”

“This September?”

“August is too hot. And lots of people are away. I think you should hold off till September.”

“You mean four months from now?”

“It's May now, so let's see … June, July, August … Four months sounds about right.”

“That's a little soon, don't you think?”

His mother laughed. “When you've been dating the girl for fifteen years, honey, you don't need a long engagement.”

“Mom,” he said, making an effort to control his exasperation, “we haven't been going out for fifteen years. Everybody says that, but it's just not true.”

“On and off,” his mother said, correcting her error. “Fifteen years on and off.”

“Okay, whatever. It's really not worth arguing about.”

“Anyway, for what it's worth, I still think September is a good month.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

A brief silence ensued. When his mother spoke, her voice had dwindled into a worried, confidential whisper. “She's not … in trouble, is she?”

“In trouble?” Dave teased. “You mean with the law?”

“Ha ha,” she replied.

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.” Another phone rang at her end of the line. “I have to grab that, honey. Bye.”

“Okay,” he told the hum that had replaced his mother. “Talk to you later.”

Julie Called before he'd swallowed his second sip of coffee.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Oh, hi.”

“What's wrong?” she asked quickly. He caught the barely perceptible note of fear in her voice.

“Nothing.”

“You don't sound too good.”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He saw the opening, but couldn't bring himself to take it. The kind of talk they needed to have, you couldn't do over the phone, he realized, especially during business hours.

“I didn't get to tell you last night. Phil Hart died at the showcase. He collapsed right onstage.”

“Phil Hart?”

“You know,” Dave told her. “Phil Hart and His Heartstring Orchestra. The guy with the artificial hips?”

“He collapsed onstage?”

“Right in the middle of'Like a Virgin.’ I'm not sure if it was a stroke or coronary or what.”

“God, Dave. That must have been awful. Why didn't you tell me?

“I don't know. I guess I didn't want to spoil the mood.”

“That was sweet of you.” She sounded vaguely perplexed.

Dave didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at the nutritional information on the side panel of a box of Cheerios, marveling at his own cowardice.

“I love you,” she said.

“Yeah.” He massaged an eyelid with two fingers. “Same here.”

“Oh, by the way,” she said. “You're invited for supper tonight. My parents want to celebrate.”

He forced himself not to groan. “What time?”

“Seven?”

“Okay.”

“There's so much planning to do,” she said happily. “I'm overwhelmed just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“By the way,” she added, “what do you think of September?”

Dave had two courier runs that afternoon—a quick in-and-out to Wall Street, followed by a trip to Morristown to drop off some X rays at a doctor's office. He liked driving for a living, especially since it meant he got paid for time spent listening to tunes on his car stereo. There was no better way to experience music, cranking the volume as high as it could go in an enclosed space, singing at the top of his lungs as he zigzagged like a stuntman through slow-moving traffic on the Pulaski Skyway. He could never understand how people managed to survive entire days cooped up in an office, with nothing to listen to but ringing phones and hushed voices. Even worse, a few of the places he visited had piped-in Muzak, the sound track of living death. Just thinking about it gave him the willies.

Another cool thing about his job was that it brought him into the city two or three times a week. Manhattan was always a jolt of crazy energy, a reminder that life wasn't meant to be safe or easy, the way it was in the suburbs. Dave even appreciated the stuff that gave most drivers headaches—the insane cabbies and squeegee men, the pedestrians who swarmed around his car at red lights like ants around a piece of candy, the whistle-tooting bike messengers and Rollerbladers who zipped past his windshield in suicidal blurs. Just making it in and out of this mess in one piece qualified as a triumph, an achievement he could carry around for the rest of the day.

Sometimes he wondered if things would have turned out differently if he'd moved into the city after dropping out of college instead of drifting back to his parents’ house and the routine of familiar places and faces that had consumed his life ever since. Maybe it would have sharpened him somehow, having to live in a dingy, roach-infested shoe-box apartment, eating canned soup and SpaghettiOs, following in the footsteps of Dylan and Lou Reed and Talking Heads and the zillions of wannabes who'd journeyed to the city to test themselves against the myth Sinatra sang about. It wasn't something he brooded about, just a possibility he turned over in his mind every now and then when he found himself trying to answer the thorny question of how it was he'd ended up a Wishbone instead of a star.