Сигрид Нуньес - Salvation City

Then it was his father’s turn to blow up.

“Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to pass up a great opportunity just so you can keep working for a nonprofit company that pays shit, and that you’ll probably end up leaving anyway as soon as the novelty wears off?”

“But you don’t even like teaching. All you ever do is complain.”

“It’s a great fucking job!”

“It’s in fucking Indiana!”

In the middle of fucking nowhere, was how she usually described it. Not even a major city. “Like there are really major cities in Indiana anyway,” she told her sister as she wiped her eyes—tears not from crying but from laughing at the name of the town: Little Leap.

No major cities. And no such place as Big Leap, either.

Aunt Addy lived in Germany but had come to Chicago for Christmas.

“I mean, the people are all right-wing, the climate sucks, there’s no music or theater. There are no museums, no decent restaurants.” The pills his mother was taking to make her less negative were not working at all. “All anyone cares about is fucking basketball. At least, I think it’s basketball.” Cole rolled his eyes.

Aunt Addy was more than his mother’s sister: she was her twin. He never saw much of her because she lived overseas. She was good at languages and worked as a translator and an interpreter for an international bank. She hated America, even to visit, and came back as seldom as possible.

“There are some twins who always dress alike and do everything together,” his mother told him. “But Addy and I were never like that. Even as kids we rebelled against matching outfits, and as soon as we were old enough we got different hairstyles.” Nowadays their hair was pretty much the same, short and fluffy, partly dark and partly light. But of course they were rarely seen together.

Aunt Addy had Total Freedom, his mother always said. Meaning she wasn’t married and she didn’t have kids.

Cole’s father was a runner, a racer, a winner of marathons. In college his nickname had been Miles-and-miles. Though he didn’t compete anymore, he still ran every morning to stay in shape.

When she was in a good mood, Cole’s mother called his father Miles-and-miles. Her own nickname was Serena-anything-but. But people only used it to tease her.

“You know it’s not my fault I didn’t get tenure,” his father said.

Cole’s mother’s silence seemed to say that it was.

But it wasn’t just herself she was thinking about. Did he really want their son to grow up in a cultural backwater? She had grown up in a cultural backwater and had escaped to the nearest big city the first chance she got.

Maybe because of the word backwater Cole has always had an image of his mother swimming to Los Angeles. (The truth is just as hard to picture: his mother—a girl — hitchhiking to Los Angeles.)

Cole’s father was from Seattle and always said Chicago was a town he could take or leave. Chicago wasn’t his mother’s favorite town, either; she would much rather have lived in New York. They’d ended up in Chicago only because of his father’s job. The one he lost when he didn’t get tenure.

Cole thinks of Chicago as his hometown, but he’d lived a third of his life in Amherst, Massachusetts. Amherst was where he’d been born and where his father had been teaching at the time. But it was in New York that his parents had first met. His father was in graduate school then, and Cole’s mother happened to be in town visiting her best friend from college.

“Your mom was the best-looking girl at this party, see, but I married her because she was the only one who laughed at my jokes” was one of his jokes.

Cole wonders if he will end up living in as many different places as his parents had lived. Pastor Wyatt has told him about visiting African villages on missions for the church, and Cole wishes he could visit them, too. He likes looking at photos from PW’s African days. PW had a good friend in Kenya whose name was Mwendwa, and there are photos of the two men together. Mwendwa has a very long, narrow, dark face and the only smile Cole has ever seen that really does stretch from ear to ear, reminding Cole of a banana. Though Cole knows the people in the photos are very poor and don’t have enough food or clean water or medicine, everyone—from tiny bare-assed toddlers to an old man missing both legs—looks happy, as if it was as good as getting toys or money just having your picture taken. There are some photos of men sitting on mats in a hut and carving wood, and in PW’s house there are some wood statues—a bird, a turtle, a woman carrying a child on her back—that the men gave him when he had to go back to America.

Cole hopes to go around the world one day. One of his favorite words is explorer . During the pandemic people weren’t allowed to travel anywhere unless they absolutely had to, and even now it’s not the way it was before. There aren’t as many airplanes. There aren’t as many buses or trains, and there aren’t as many cars on the highways.

Cole remembers his father saying that when he was a kid every boy wanted to be a sports hero or a rock star but that he wanted to be an astronaut. To Cole this never sounded terribly exciting, sitting strapped in for all those miles just to arrive at a place like the moon, where everywhere you looked was exactly the same and nothing was happening, no people or animals. But Africa . . .

PW says he would love to take Cole to Kenya one day, but it would be a lie if he said it was likely to happen. They were living in a whole different world these days.

“Let’s just say if I go, I’ll do everything to make sure you get to go, too. Fair enough?”

It was fair, but it was disappointing. And so PW made a promise he knew he could keep. For Cole’s next birthday he would bless him with a camping trip to the Kentucky mountains. Cole’s heart was full, and when PW said there would be just the two of them (“no girls allowed”), he thought it would burst from joy.

Cole doesn’t know what he’ll be when he grows up. Certainly not a lawyer. Not a teacher. Not a preacher, either. He can’t imagine getting up in front of people and talking to them the way Pastor Wyatt and the other preachers do. When he and Tracy listen to Pastor Wyatt on the radio, Tracy says, “Isn’t it something, how he doesn’t sound a bit nervous? I could never do that, knowing all those people out there were listening to my every word.”

“Me, neither,” says Cole. And he remembers that first day of school, standing up in front of his new classmates.

No, his mother was not working right now. Yes, he liked their new house. The house belonged to the college where his father was teaching, and it was much bigger than the apartment they’d had in Chicago, and now they could have a dog. A sheepdog was what he wanted.

The bully with closed eyes popped them open at this and exchanged a sneer with the other bully, and Cole figured a sheepdog must be a girly breed.

He has no idea why he lied. In fact, they’d had a dog in Chicago, an old basset hound named Sadie (full name: Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands), who’d died in her sleep a few months before they moved. And though it was true Cole wanted a new dog, he hadn’t decided on any particular breed. So what made him say sheepdog?

Cole didn’t tell the class his parents were getting divorced. Though she’d quit her beloved job at the theater and put all her energy into moving and getting them settled in their new home, his mother was planning to leave.

It was her secret, but Cole had found out about it.