Laura Furman - The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011

It’s up on the big street, I say, pointing with my mitten. My hand is shaking. I’m sorry to discover that I’m hopping up and down on the front mat.

Jesus, it’s cold, Richard von B. says. Get in here, and we’ll figure this out.

I walk in and the dog immediately puts its big paws on my shoulders. Batman, down, Richard von B. says.

My boots drip water onto the Oriental rug in the hallway. To my right is the flowing dining room and kitchen, everything gleaming; to my left is the living room with deep red walls, bookcases and pictures, and a huge piano. Oriental rugs all the places my parents have carpeting. Richard von Behren is skinny and has the same thick blond hair and pink cheeks as my dad. A blonde woman comes down the stairs with an empty laundry basket. Her hand squeaks along the banister.

Dick, Richard von B. says to me, holding out his hand. And that’s my wife, Sherry. Hi, Sherry says, making the same face her husband did.

This young lady is lost, Mr. von B. says. Oh, no, Mrs. von B. says.

Share, I say. I’m Sharon. My car broke down a few blocks back. I wave my hand behind my head. I’m stamping my feet, but quietly.

And you came all the way down here? Sherry von Behren asks.

Where are you trying to go? Dick asks, interrupting her.

I thought I went to school with somebody who lives on this street, but I was wrong, I say. I was coming home from band practice, I say, and my car broke down.

It’s Saturday, Sherry von B. says. She makes that face again.

Sherry, where’s the map? Dick asks, heading for the kitchen. Where did you say you were going? he calls back to me.

My car broke down, I say again. But I’m lost too. And I need to tell my brother where to meet me. Somewhere up by my car, maybe.

Here, Sherry says, following Dick into the kitchen. You’re no good at finding anything.

So, wait, you’re not from around here? Richard calls from the kitchen. I can hear him going through a cupboard and Sherry whispering.

No, I say. I moved here two weeks ago. On a shelf in the living room next to a set of old books are coins in a frame. I take three steps to my left, lift the frame off the shelf, and slide it down inside my jacket. Then I’m back in the hall on the rug, waiting. Batman wags his tail.

What am I thinking? Dick says. He’s coming out of the kitchen with a phone in his hand. We need this more than a map. Here, call your brother.

I dial RJ’s cell. My car broke down, I say when he answers. What? he asks. Meet me at-, I say. Where should I meet him? I ask Sherry, who is now back in the hall with her arms crossed. What’s on the big street? I ask.

Go to Carl’s, Dick says. It’s a restaurant two blocks west of Oak on Grover. Grover’s the big street, he says laughing.

Meet me at Carl’s, Brad , I say into the phone. It’s on Grover. Who is this? RJ asks. What the fuck?

I hang up and say thanks about twenty times. The dog sticks his nose in my crotch. Dick stretches out a leg and pushes the dog back, all the time saying good luck with band, he played trumpet in high school and college, forcing me to say I play glockenspiel, which is the only instrument I can think of at the spur of the moment.

You know, I say, von in a name means your family were princes or something in Germany. Way back. I’ve got it too.

You told her our last name? Sherry asks, her voice high.

Dick just frowns. He’s not sure, I think. Royalty, he says. He laughs. Tell it to my accountant.

It’s hard to start school in the middle of the term, isn’t it, Sherry von B. says. She holds herself tight.

Really hard. Unless you get pretty good grades and have extracurricular activities that keep you busy and confident, I say. This last was what the guidance counselor suggested to my parents.

Good for you, Dick von B. says.

I had a horse, I say quickly. But the truth is that my parents decided not to buy me one once everything caught up with me, and once my total lack of concern for the welfare of others required a second mortgage. Have a horse, I tell the von Bs. His name is Star. He looks like Black Beauty. Dick’s face is starting to freeze, but I can’t stop myself. I say, When Brad picks me up we’re going out to the stable to see Star. I have some carrots in my trunk. Does your son like sports? I ask.

Well, Richard says.

I was in soccer when I was little, I say. It’s suddenly way too noisy under my hat so I take it off, which is not good because the von Bs can see my scalp and all its tufts. There’s a big bell clanging inside my head. Goalie, the hardest position, I say. We won city for our age group one year. I fought off a lot of balls that season. Then there was gymnastics, five years.

Whose life am I telling? This one belongs to another kid-the kind of kid I never talked to.

Senior play I was Eliza Doolittle, I say, the bell inside me ringing. They put a notice in the paper. Math was my favorite subject, which is not usual for girls. It’s like I’m sure you’ve said to your kid, find something you’re passionate about. All the teachers at school said goals were important. Achieve has an I in it, I say.

I stop talking. My brain is clanging like a church bell. All of this was before, I say. Before I moved here from Illinois two weeks ago. We stand there looking, even the pictures on the walls. That does it for Richard and Sherry von Behren, their son, and my old neighborhood.

Know where you are now? Sherry asks me. She herds me toward the door. Dick manages to get a hand on my shoulder, so I look back. Take care, he says, but he glances away at the end like I hurt his eyes.

I practically knock myself out saying thanks some more, and then I’m out of the house and the door is closed and I’m trying to catch my breath. I bend down and pretend to tie my boots for a minute, and then I check the mailbox. I take what’s there and walk quickly down the street. When I’m a few houses away, I take a sharp left and crunch through a snowy yard until I’m on the next street. Back on Grover I take the first guy that stops, an old farmer in a pickup. He’s silent the whole way to James’s, as if I’m just some stock he has to transport.

RJ loves the coins. This one’s from 1903 Germany, he says. That’s their kaiser on it. He strokes the glass. Man, you know you have a lot of money when it just sits out on display, he says. I’ll take that, James says, pulling the frame from RJ’s hand. RJ goes back to chasing Riley around the house.

Riley and Merilee are here, picking up money and giving Riley a chance to see his dad not framed in a car window. Little Fry finds a bank statement in the last delivery of mail Richard von Behren will receive for a while, so James gets me on the phone immediately to 24-Hour Customer Service.

This is Sherry von Behren of 653 Oak, I say. How are you?

Wonderful! the helpful person says. What can I do for you?

I’d like to get your credit card but I lost the offer, I say. I give the checking account number.

Password? the helpful person asks.

Batman, I say, and then I’m in.

A while later, Riley wants to go outside. The sun is low again, this time striped with clouds. James makes us all go with Riley, even Little Fry. RJ, Little Fry, and I have a foilie in the pantry before we venture forth. Home, again. The chef stands by the barn with a cigarette, carefully flicking his ash into a tin can.

There’s a big cow pond behind the barn that’s frozen solid. RJ takes off and slides on his stomach like he’s stealing a base. Riley cracks up.

I took Richard von Behren’s change of address card down to the box myself and put up the flag. The mail truck comes late here, we’re so far out. Dick and Sherry are going to visit their own mailbox over and over-nothing there. Every day will be like pressing on a bruise to test the pain. Those two will figure it out quick, but by the time they do, Little Fry, RJ, me, and James will have their finances in a snarl and then James will sell everything about Richard von Behren to someone else. People get passed around that way. They get lost.