Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

Barbara Lang’s ex-husband has a stepdaughter who is a catalog model. She is divorced once and widowed once, but you’d never know it from her great attitude. She’s currently writing a book on what to do when you’re beautiful but your life sucks anyway, and she lives in Boston, but the world is so much smaller these days.

Renee Harper is a certified matchmaker and she wants me to avoid the dangerous pitfalls of online dating by hiring her to find and screen potential dates. I wonder what organization certifies matchmakers, what the criteria are, and, more immediately, how a sixtysomething woman who wears leopard-print spandex pants and bubblegum-pink lipstick to a Sunday-afternoon shiva call can possibly expect to be taken seriously as an arbiter of good taste.

“So, you’ll call me?” Renee says, pressing her card into my palm.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“No. Not really.”

Renee looks at me uncertainly.

“He’s kidding.” Mom.

“No, I’m not.”

“He’s not.” Wendy.

“He’s serious as a heart attack.” Phillip.

“I’m sorry,” Renee says, sounding more pissed than contrite. “I was just trying to help.”

I look at Renee Harper, and Barbara Lang, and Lois Braun. They are smug and clueless and riding my last nerve. “I am still legally married,” I say, raising my voice to the point that all the other hushed conversations going on around the room die instantly. “I’m still married and I have a baby on the way and I’m dealing with the death of my father, and this pathological need you all have to throw every sad lonely woman you know at me is not helping.”

“Okay, Judd,” Mom says.

“Do I really look so pathetic to all of you? Like I couldn’t possibly meet someone on my own? Half the people in the world are women. Odds are that at least a few of them would be willing to go out with me.”

“Damn right,” Phillip chimes in. “And it’s not like he’s been celibate since he moved out. He had sex last night, FYI.”

“Don’t help me, Phillip.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Lois, Barbara, and Renee rise to their feet as one, lips pursed, faces burning with humiliation. They offer a chorus of mortified apologies in low, strained voices as they make their way out of the room. I estimate it will take them roughly three minutes to convert their shame to indignation. They’ll blame the whole thing on my bad manners, benevolently excuse me on the grounds of my grief, and live to meddle another day. They couldn’t have made it this far without developing some fairly foolproof defense mechanisms.

“Don’t worry about it, girls,” Mom calls after them. “You were just being kind. It’s not you he’s angry at.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it is them.”

Mom fixes me with a hard look, then leans back in her chair. “Well, I can see you’re beginning to vent all that anger you have locked up in you, and that’s healthy. I just think you could be a little more judicious in choosing your venue. There are a lot of innocent bystanders here.”

“You always encouraged us to express ourselves in the moment. To let it out.”

“That’s right, honey. I also encouraged you to move your bowels twice a day. That doesn’t mean I want to be there when you do.” She nods to herself for a moment. “That was good, the whole venting-your-waste metaphor. I need to write that down.” She pulls herself up off the chair, making a quick apology to what’s left of her audience, and exits stage left, through the kitchen to her office.

After my little outburst, I am deemed unfit for shiva, so I load Ryan and Cole into Wendy’s rented minivan to drive them over to Wonderland, a second-rate amusement park a few miles down the interstate. I figure Wendy could use the break, as she’s been offhandedly remarking, more than usual, about smothering them in their sleep. Wendy also told me to keep a close eye on Ryan, as he tends to wander, so I call for reinforcements.

“I’m taking my nephews to Wonderland. Want to come?” I say when Penny picks up.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of commitment,” she says.

She is waiting in front of her building when we pull up, looking edible in a T-shirt, short shorts, and tennis shoes. She could be nineteen. She could be my girlfriend. We could be going out to the amusement park, where we’d kiss on the lines, hold hands on the rides, and share cotton candy. I’d win her one of those giant stuffed animals and we’d carry it around the park with us like a badge of honor. Afterward it would take up permanent residence on her pink bedspread, where she’d lie across it while we spoke for hours on the phone.

Seeing her fills me up and breaks my heart all at once.

“I’m glad you called,” she says, climbing into the minivan.

“So am I.”

Her smile fills the car. Her feet go up on the dash, and she plays the drums on her raised thighs. The legs on this girl are really something else, smooth and toned and pretty damn flawless. If I look any longer, I will crash the van. We ride to the park, singing along to Cole’s Sesame Street disc. Penny still remembers most of the words.

At the entrance, I buy the premium package and goofy hats for all of us. The kids love the hats, which are baseball hats with built-in dog ears on the top. I have the three hundred dollars I stole from Wade’s billfold burning a hole in my pocket, and my goal is to leave here broke. A kid with a name tag and a digital camera asks us to pose for a picture with the cheesy plaster palace behind us. There are countless pictures of my family at various ages in just this spot. If we pulled them out of all the messy albums in the living room bookcases, you could probably track the steady growth of our family, like annual pencil marks on the wall to show how tall you’ve grown. Dad isn’t in any of the Wonderland pictures, because he was always the one taking them, with this old Yaschika he’d bought when he first got married, because why the hell would he pay for a picture he could take better himself? As a matter of fact, you’d have to turn a lot of pages to find Dad in any of our albums. The inadvertent result of being the default photographer is that he was relegated to the role of a bit player in the actual recorded history of our family. There are entire years of our lives where he doesn’t appear at all.

Penny puts her arm around me and we put our hands on the boys’ shoulders. She pinches my ass when the camera flashes. The kid gives me a claim ticket and points out the booth where I can buy the photo later. I pocket the ticket, but I know I won’t claim the photo. A photo of the four of us doesn’t make any sense.

The sky is gray but not threatening yet. Hired teenagers walk around in ratty medieval costumes, looking hungover and bored as they pose for pictures with their aluminum swords. We take the boys on the carousel, the balloon race, the scrambler, and an airplane ride, everything that goes around in circles. Then Ryan announces he’s too big for the kiddie rides, so I take him out to the larger park, leaving Penny to ride the mini coaster with Cole. Ryan and I ride the Buccaneer, the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Spider, and the Dragon, a wooden coaster famous for being the first ever built on the East Coast. Someone in an office somewhere actually thinks this is a valid selling point for a thrill ride. Ryan clings tightly to my arm, and I pretend for a moment that he’s my son, that later we will fall asleep together reading stories in his bed. Then we find Penny and Cole and we all sit down for a late lunch of pizza and fries at one of the concessions. Ketchup and Cole are a deadly combination, and by the time we’re done, his stained T-shirt makes it look like he’s been in a knife fight. I buy him a Wonderland shirt, and then Ryan, who is no idiot, purposely drips ketchup on his own shirt. Kids are transparent, but they get the job done.