Steve Kistulentz - Panorama

A skycap came whistling over and offered to take it. “And just where is the gentleman headed this morning?” His hearty and effervescent greeting struck Richard as mercenary, artificial, but before he could answer, the skycap took the bag in his left hand and pointed at him with his right. “You’re that guy I saw on TV. Yesterday. Yessir, an honest-to-God expert celebrity. Where you flying off to with this beautiful lady? Let me guess. Antigua. Saint Martin. Puerto Vallarta?” The Vallarta came out strangled and weird, Vay-ar-tay.

“Dallas.”

“All the glamour spots. Am I right? Turtle Creek.” He stood waiting for instruction, and Richard handed him ten dollars, then showed his palm in dismissal. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be right over at the counter, sir.”

“You’re famous,” Cadence said.

“I’m not. I’m just familiar. I look like someone who everyone went to high school with.”

She smiled. She looked back into the car and noticed that Richard had left his scarf on the seat. She reached in and grabbed it, then put it over his shoulders, and Richard knew that she intended to say good-bye. She would put the scarf around his neck and pull him in for a kiss, and then she would be gone before he’d even made it to the automatic terminal doors. He could see it in her face.

“It’s not too late. You could come with me. We pick up the kid and make a road trip out of it. Try every chicken-fried steak between Dallas and DC,” Richard said.

She looked at her feet. He knew not to press her on the issue, that the answer was, and always would be, no. “That’s the trouble with us Americans. We want everything wrapped up in nice, neat packages.”

Richard was ready to argue with her. He didn’t expect all the answers now, but he at least wanted the chance to make his case. He imagined that she knew how disappointing this all was for him, but he’d given her nothing to convince herself; he had no speeches or compelling arguments, and he hadn’t even told her what was next, a new job and a new career, Pennsylvania. She’d spent her life trying to smooth the rough edges of coal country out of her voice, her mannerisms, and her thinking, and he could not imagine any developments in their romance that would make her suddenly crave to return to a place she had so strongly denied. She wasn’t the kind of person who capitulated. And so they stood there in silence, the cold rain having tapered off, until an airport policeman shuffled over and reminded Cadence that she would have to move the car. The cop swung out his metal baton and used it to tap on the sign: Immediate Loading and Unloading. Move it along.

Richard knew if he waited, she would say something. But he expected more than the two words she gave him, “I can’t.”

This departure would not be as pretty as the one he’d imagined, and in that way, it would be like so many other times when a man left a woman standing in the passenger drop-off line, a series of stifled expectations and disappointments. His new life would begin the moment he went through those terminal doors.

That she was leaving was a fact, and he felt it settle firmly between the two of them. The cop circled back and without stopping said, “Give her a kiss before I have to call a tow truck.” And the four of them, Richard and Cadence and the interloping policeman and the waiting skycap, all laughed. He could see that she knew what was expected of her—probably it was the only time all morning she’d given any consideration to the customs of departure and separation. The grayness of the sky and the sting of the rising winds and the bone-chilling wet of the cold foretold a deep and lasting winter. She gave Richard this kiss, a kiss of solemn grace, a kiss because it was the right thing to do, a kiss that would be the only part of her that could remain, a good-bye kiss.

I am grateful for the support of many people during the writing of this book. My wife, Tracy Kendrick, comes first here; she’s always been my first reader, my in-house copy editor and proofreader, and sounding board, and she’s a diplomat, too. Thank you. Thanks, too, for my agent Wendy Sherman and all her staff. She believed in this book from the beginning. To Ben George, Amanda Brower, and everyone at Little, Brown and Company, thank you for being the true professionals that you are and making this book so much better.

I was lucky to be taught by amazing people who inspired by the sheer eloquence of their example. That list starts with my AP English teacher, Jewell Alexander, who managed to show the ways in which all art was a conversation; I wish she were here to see this day. From the College of William and Mary, Peter Wiggins, Walt Wenska, and Scott Donaldson. At the University of Iowa, Ethan Canin, Edward Carey, Jim Hynes, Elizabeth McCracken, Thisbe Nissen, and Chris Offutt. Connie Brothers, Deb West, and Jan Zenisek made my life in Iowa City so much easier. I was in the last class taught by Frank Conroy; so much of what I say as a teacher and mentor seems to have sprung from Frank’s thinking and writing. At Florida State, Julianna Baggott, Robert Olen Butler, and David Kirby shepherded me through. Mark Winegardner shared career advice, fantasy baseball, and rock-and-roll trivia (the Paul Carrack question was mine!). Kurt Gutjahr, Tom McAllister, and Jennifer Vanderbes provided great feedback on earlier versions of the book. President Bill Lennox, Dean Mary Spoto, and my colleagues at Saint Leo University provide daily inspiration, especially Gianna, Pat, Lis, and Brooke.

A good portion of this book was written at the Hermitage artist retreat; I’m grateful to Bruce Rodgers, Patricia Caswell, and the entire staff there for their support of my work and that of so many others. Thanks due also to Josip Novakovich.

A handful of writers offered the necessary encouragements. Thank you, Rick Moody. George Garrett managed the difficult trick of always being a good teacher and a good friend. I never told the poets, George. Cheers to you.

Finally, my family. Thank you, Mom, for everything. Thanks to my mother-in-law, Valen Brown. Patrice and Dave. My cousin Andy showed me how to love books and changed my life. I’m glad you get to see the family name on this book. And, finally, to my daughter Colette; there are no talking parrots, pandas, or polar bears in this one, but I hope you love it anyway.

Steve Kistulentz is a graduate of the College of William and Mary and he holds an M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a doctorate from Florida State University. His fiction has appeared in, among other publications, Narrative and Mississippi Review. He is also the author of two books of poetry: The Luckless Age and Little Black Daydreams. He directs the graduate creative writing program at Saint Leo University in Florida and is currently working on a second novel. He lives in the Tampa area.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2018 by Steve Kistulentz

Cover design by Lucy Kim

Cover photographs: window © Dennis Lane / Getty Images; clouds © Michelle Dormer / Getty Images