Anne Korkeakivi - Shining Sea

“We need a new contract today, where everyone gains — not just a few…”

Jennifer is clapping loudly, her hair and breasts swinging. A pleasant young woman, but what a physical spectacle girls make of themselves nowadays, tossing their vim and vigor all over the place. A sparrow skims the air over their heads. He doubles back and alights on a lamppost, letting out a brilliant trill. Who is he calling to amidst the thousands of humans on this campus this morning? Above, the sky stretches clear blue, streaked with ribbons of white cloud. The little girl has fallen asleep, one arm and one foot flung onto her lap. She pats the child’s chubby ankle aimlessly, smoothes her skirt down over her pink tights. The sweet thing is the same age as Francis’s daughter. She’d have liked to see Mia while she was East. She would have liked to see Francis, too, for that matter. But now that the fuss over his music has died down, he prefers his privacy up on that farm in Massachusetts, and she has to accept that.

How sprawled her family has ended up! Patty Ann on one coast. Francis on the other. Mike smack in the middle of the country, in Texas. And Sissy — not even on the continent. At least Kenny will be in Arizona.

The degrees are being conferred now, the dean of each school introducing a mass of graduates and formally requesting that the president of the university bestow diplomas on them. The actual diplomas will be handed out in the individual ceremonies this afternoon. For now, graduates of each school rise in turn by their places, while related members of the audience seem to rise along with them, a spirit of shared elation as buoyant as the bright spring air. Each dean tries to say something funny, something to set apart their throng of optimistic hearts and faces, and no one jeers at the goofy jokes and awkward attempts to be clever.

The family next to her cheers. The little girl wakes and touches her hand milkily.

“It’s all right,” she says. “They’re shouting because they’re happy.”

The law school dean steps away from the podium, and a new bunch of students rise from their chairs. Their necks are flecked with deep green; it’s the medical school!

She lifts the binoculars and scans the standing graduates; they are to the right of the dais, toward the front, with their backs to the thousands sitting behind them. They sway and clap, and she is sure she’ll be able to pick out her Kenny. Kennedy. Twenty-two years ago, he sat beside her, a skinny seven-year-old clutching a torn sweater of his mother’s in the place of a stuffed animal as they drove away from his parents’ pitiful hovel in Los Angeles, through the desert, toward her and Ronnie’s comfortable home in Arizona.

Give me his brother, too, she told Patty Ann. Give me Sean also .

No. Sean needs to stay with me .

Then Patty Ann married Troy and suddenly wanted Kenny back. But she’d been smart enough to make Patty Ann sign over legal guardianship. It’s just a formality, she’d said, in case of an accident or something. We can tear it up later. She wasn’t so uneducated as people might think.

How Patty Ann yelled at her when she refused to return Kenny. Go ahead, she told Patty Ann. Shout as much as you like. Kenny is staying right here, where he is safe and happy. During the worst of times, Patty Ann would call in the middle of the night, three sheets to the wind, shouting about Luke, shouting about Kenny, virtually incoherent.

Kenny would have been torn to bits trying to protect his mother in that household. Instead he grew up with Sissy walking with him to school and Ronnie taking him to his baseball games and helping him patiently with his math homework. A sweet boy in a happy household. He would never be here today if she’d sent him back to Patty Ann. That’s the real reason Patty Ann backpedaled on coming today, not Glenn’s wrist surgery. They’ve called a truce over her keeping Kenny, finally. Neither of them wants to reopen old wounds.

“I respectfully request, sir, that you grant these degrees, along with the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereto attached…”

She scans the backs of the graduates again. That’s Kenny! Boxing the air with his latex glove!

“I solemnly swear by whatsoever I hold most sacred that I will be loyal to the profession of medicine…”

She lifts a white-gloved hand to her mouth. A little sob, like a hiccup, escapes.

“…and just and generous to its members. That I will lead my life and practice my art in uprightness and honor…”

“Mrs. McCloskey, are you okay?” Jennifer whispers, hand hovering over hers.

“Congratulations, and welcome to the profession of medicine!”

“Of course I’m okay, dear. Haven’t you ever seen a grown woman cry before?” She’s earned these tears. She stands up proudly.

* * *

For lunch, Kenny has reserved a table for them at a large Mexican restaurant on Broadway. Cheerful approximations of southwestern life hang on the ceilings and walls: brightly colored sombreros and ponchos, brilliantly red plastic chili peppers. A waitress, noting Kenny’s cap and gown, congratulates him, then reels off the day’s specials like a train barreling through a tunnel.

Everything seems to happen quickly in New York City. Pedestrians walk quickly; even the squirrels dart around like their tails are on fire.

“It’s not fancy, but I thought the theme would make you feel at home,” Kenny says. “And Jennifer loves southwestern cuisine. She can’t wait to try the real thing.”

So Kenny is planning to bring Jennifer out to Arizona, at least for a visit. “It’s a perfect choice for lunch,” she says. “Best of all, I won’t have to pretend to know how to speak Spanish.”

“Your Spanish is not so bad, Grandma.”

“When I went to buy my new purse”—she lifts it up for them to see—“the salesgirl kept showing me bags made from canvas. She was very pretty but not very good at speaking English. I kept telling her, ‘No, no, I only want to see leather.’ Finally I lost my patience and said, loudly and firmly: ¡Basta! Lo que necesito es de Cuervo .”

Kenny breaks out laughing. “ Cuero is leather,” he explains to Jennifer. “My grandmother was announcing that what she needed was some tequila.”

“By then, I did need a shot of tequila.” She takes a gulp of her margarita, delivered already by the waitress. Fast, fast, fast — New York City. The margarita isn’t quite right, though. Ronnie became a real expert at them, mixing them every Friday evening. After Luke died, Ronnie never made a daiquiri again. He understood she’d always associate the taste with life before.

Life before, life after. She’s had a few of those.

“Did you know that tequila can be used in the treatment of colds, irritable bowel syndrome, and even colon cancer?” Kenny says, sipping from his Diet Coke. “Seriously — it’s the cactus it’s made from, the blue agave. It helps deliver medicines to the intestinal tract and can kill toxins.”

“Seriously — we’re going to talk about bowels at the lunch table?” she says, raising her eyebrows at him, taking another sip. It may not be the best margarita ever, but it’s cold, and she hadn’t realized how hot and thirsty she got out there during the ceremony. New York has its own kind of heat.

Kenny looks chastened. “I just thought it was interesting. The Mexicans have used it medicinally for centuries.”

“Kenny just can’t stop practicing medicine,” Jennifer says, smiling. “Even while having lunch. He was born to be a doctor.”

She licks her lips, sweet and salty. “Then why doesn’t he practice?”

Kenny frowns. “I will be practicing medicine, Grandma.”