David Gates - Preston Falls

That first night, the four of them — Jean, Jeff, Jennifer and Jeff's college friend — drove up to Hartford to see Bob Dylan. (Jean bit her tongue.) This was during the born-again phase, and it was so weird and so loud that they all agreed, in dumbshow, to walk out. They ended up at Denny's, where Jeff's friend started going on about how he must be getting old, and maybe he could still handle Perry Como. Jean found herself thinking that she could get this man into bed. Though this wasn't her style, at all, to in any way come on to a man. And did she even want to be in bed with this man? Well, actually yes, she very much did. And she still refuses to believe that it was only about her own low self-esteem, though now, of course, after fifteen years of Doug Willis, there's no sick motive she can't pick out in herself. And everybody else in the world.

Even back then, Jean never thought of herself as the world's most

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sexual person, so it was a shock and a joy to be noticing that she was noticing this man's cheekbones, his mouth, the way his eyebrows came together, making him just the teensiest bit apelike. Hair along the edges of his hands from wrist to pinkie. He was saying that lately he was in practicing mode — he played the guitar — and something about his calluses. She wasn't listening, really: just rudely drinking him in. Then Jennifer said, "Oh, can I feel?" and he held up his index finger as if about to declaim.

"Yuck," said Jennifer. "Jean. You won't believe this."

"Could I?" Jean asked him.

"Not if I'm exposing myself to more withering criticism," he said.

"Oh, Jean's not a ballbuster like me," said Jennifer.

"But darling, who />?" said Jeff.

Jean took his index finger in her palm and ran her thumb over the tip; it was like it had this hard thing packed inside. Then she ran her thumb over his fingernail, which seemed like an incredible trespass, way over the borderline of what she'd been authorized to do. She said, "I wish my calluses were in that good shape."

"You play?" he said.

"Not a lot." She had a nylon-string guitar and at one point had figured out most of the songs on Blue.

"You guys didn't prepare me," he said to Jeff and Jennifer. He looked back at Jean. ''And she plays guitar. This is very cool."

A couple of weeks ago, Jean told Mel that if she ever felt like learning guitar — Mel's the ideal age — she was welcome to use her old one in the closet. Since Willis's guitars were just so precious. Plus he'd taken them all to Preston Falls. In fact, Jean said, she'd be glad to show her some chords to get her started. Thinking this might be a little bond that wouldn't just be like Mel helping out in the kitchen, which essentially was women being drudges together.

Mel said, "No, thanks, Mother." In a way that just cut.

"Well, if you change your mind. I was thinking how much you enjoy listening to music, and it can be really sort of liberating to be able to play things for yourself."

"I said no, thanks, Mother."

"Right," Jean said. "I heard you."

The sun has set when she comes up the real last hill and turns, again, onto Ragged Hill Road. Past the tumbledown barn, the first trailer, the new little house. (Framed in its picture window, a brightly lit glimpse of a woman bearing a baking dish in oven-mitted hands, like a technician handling something radioactive.) Past Calvin Castleman's, where her headlights pick up the Hog Roster, full of dead leaves. Around the last corner, and there's the house: all lit up except for the window with the plastic over it. White smoke pours up out of the chimney. Weird that the place looks so cheery. A police car's parked in the yard — almost as alarming as if she hadn't expected it.

Jean gets out, into the sharp cold. November, and so far north. The light's on over the kitchen door: it's like, welcome to what? She picks her way through the high, frosty grass, then stops to look in the kitchen window; Mel's sitting at the table and Jean just wants to run to her. Yet at the same time, now that she knows Mel's safe, she wants to turn tail and not have to do this.

She opens the door and feels the heat of the stove on her face. A man in a police uniform stands up — skinny, shorter than WQlis — and lays a fanned handful of cards facedown on the kitchen table. Mel's sitting with her back to the door. She twists around in her chair, still holding her cards, and looks at Jean with her just-about-to-cry look — ^wrinkles between her close-set eyebrows. Her face looks fresh-scrubbed. The policeman's belt is full of bullets, and he's got such a disproportionately big gun hanging off of him that it's hard to look at anything else. He sticks out a hand and says, "Mrs. Willis? Tony Petrosky." Not a handsome man: long chin, long flat nose, low forehead. Monkey man. She takes his hand: he's got a strong grip, but not crunching; he gives her hand a single squeeze before letting go. Then he flips his thumb at Mel. "Your daughter's a cardshark."

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Mel blushes.

"She's good people, though." His voice sounds deeper than on the phone. The voice of a thin man with a big penis, which is an awful thing to think when he's done all this for them. For whatever reason. "The water's turned off in here," he says, "so she boiled some seltzer to make me a cup of tea. Hey, and she had Sgt. Pepper's with her. Kids still seem to go for it. My kids, same way. I got a fifteen-year-old and a ten-year-old. So you made pretty good time. How was it coming up?"

"Fine," says Jean. "But I worried about this one." She goes to Mel, who's still sitting at the table, puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. First Mel stiffly allows it, then she puts both arms around her mother's hips. Jean strokes her hair. Mel takes her arms away.

"You two need a little time together," Petrosky says, and goes into the dining room.

Jean drops to her knees, grips Mel's upper arms and looks up into her face. Mel looks past her, toward the doorway. "I was so terrified for you," says Jean. "What were you doing?''

"Well, you weren't even trying to get Daddy back." Mel still won't look at her.

"Sweetheart, I've been trying everything I know to find Daddy."

"Yeah, right."

"Captain Petrosky's been helping, Aunt Carol and I went to see somebody she thought might be able to help, I've called everybody I could think of, the police have him in their computer that goes all over— everything's being done."

"Well, you didn't tell us. It was just like, big deal, Daddy's gone and nobody knows where he is and now shut up and be quiet."

"But I did tell you he wasn't here" says Jean. "Did you think I was lying to you? And anyway—" Okay, why not? "Apparently they found his truck in New York, honey."

"You mean he's in New York? And you knew that? Mother, I don't believe you didn't even—"

"Melanie." Jean puts up a hand. "I only found this out yesterday."

"Then why didn't you tell me yesterday, and then I… I hate you. You made me do this for nothing."

"I didn't make you do this," says Jean. "And you were very, very lucky it didn't turn into a very dangerous situation. Why would you do such a thing?"

Mel closes her eyes and clenches a fist.

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"Look, this is stupid, okay? But I thought if I came here, then he would like have to be here, you know? Because I thought maybe he was like hiding or something when you came, but I thought that if I came, just by myself, it would make him be here. Because I just thought" — her shoulders start shaking—"that he would know and then he'd have to be here, to take care of me" — ^weeping now—"and then he'd come back"

Jean gathers her in, pulling her off the chair and onto the floor in her arms, a slow collapsing, Mel shaking inside her mother's embrace. But as close as she hugs Mel, she can't press love and rest into her. And in fact isn't this just needy craziness, wrestling your daughter down onto the floor? She strokes Mel's hair and says, "I love you so much," which only sounds like a confession of helplessness in all directions.