Dave Eggers - Heroes of the Frontier

“I’m tired,” Josie said, and by that she meant she was tired of being apart from the world. They had been alone and on the road for many days, and those days had seemed like weeks, weeks where she had only her children to talk to, and there was nowhere they knew to be home, and now they were watching again, or Josie was watching again, people who belonged in the world, who were rooted and reveling in their place, who were dancing triumphantly inside. It was never good to think about Carl, his then-disdain for weddings. She didn’t want to be with Carl. What if they’d been married? Good god.

But a wedding would have been nice. She’d never had everyone in one place, the people she loved. Could you have a wedding like this at forty, forty-one? A raucous thing like this, the women barefoot in their tight dresses, dancing naughtily? You could, she could. Or perhaps she had made too many mistakes. Two children from one eel-like man, a fractured past, no family. Was she a drifter? Josie had a heavy warm child in her lap, Ana’s red hair smelling like lemons, and she had another child standing next to her, above her, leaning against her, and he was a noble human and always would be. And yet her life was that of a drifter. Where are you from? Here and there. Where are your parents? Doesn’t matter. Why aren’t your kids in school? We’re doing an independent study . Where are you going?

And then a door opened in the meeting house, a bright white sliver that enlarged into a yellow rectangle. Light poured out from the building, and down the lawn all the way to Josie and Paul and Ana, caught in the light. A man was in the door, and seemed to be relieving himself. It couldn’t be. There had to be bathrooms in the building. But no. He stood, one hand on the wall of the building, the other holding his fly open, a man pissing dramatically, and even from their distance, Josie could hear the spatter of urine against the clapboard wall. When he was finished, he turned, as if to take in the night air and bask in good work well done, but he seemed to freeze, as if he’d seen Josie and her children and was appalled by them.

And now he was walking toward her. Shame came over her at once. She knew he would scold her for sitting there and watching their sacred event. It had been a vulgar thing to do, to just sit there like it was all some show for their amusement. She would tell him she was nearsighted and couldn’t possibly see that far. That she was blind and was just listening to the music.

Now the father of the groom was upon her.

“You and your beautiful children have to join us,” he said.

He was standing over her, his face round and kindly and bright with drink and sweat. His hand was outstretched as if asking her to dance.

“No, no,” she said, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

“Oh no,” he said, “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Josie apologized. “No, no. It’s very nice of you.” Why was she crying? Her face was soaked and she was choking. “No. I didn’t mean to,” she managed to say, but couldn’t complete the thought.

But he understood. He understood that she’d spent the day wondering why she hadn’t had happiness like this, Jesus Christ why had she made all the wrong decisions, these stupid teenagers getting married knew how to have a beautiful and humble wedding by this Alaskan river, goddamnit, why did she make it all so difficult when it could be so simple? And now the father of the groom was taking her hand and leading her to the lights of the party. She choked desperately on her tears but the father only held her hand tighter. She turned around and took Paul’s hand and he took Ana’s hand and like a string of construction paper people they walked to the white tables and the lights and music and when they arrived Josie was still crying, and expected to be deposited at some far table and given cake.

But the father pulled her and her children deep into the dance floor, and they were suddenly in the wild heart of it all, with the groom and bride making their fluid thrashing movements, everyone jumping and no one questioning for a second why Josie was there. And now Ana was on the groom’s shoulders. But how? And now a bridesmaid had lifted Paul to her level and was dancing with him, cheek to cheek. Everyone was turning, turning, and somehow Josie managed to dance, too, finding the rhythm and drying her face and smiling as much as she could, to tell everyone she was okay and knew how to dance, too.

The band played until two, and when the band left, the guests retrieved instruments from car trunks and drunken music was made until four. Josie couldn’t recall when she’d gone to bed. The kids were asleep on their feet at midnight, and she carried Ana to bed at one, the red-haired groomsman carrying Paul, and for some time Josie lay, trying to sleep in the Chateau, so close to the campfire laughter, and finally she returned to the party, was welcomed to the fire, and one by one the guests passed out as the best man, knowing his duty, kept the fire fed.

WHEN SHE WOKE AGAIN and ventured outside, the park was bright and empty. The guest cars parked near the overpass were gone. The vans and trucks were gone. The flowers were gone, the tent was gone. It was just before noon. The right thing would be to leave. Josie knew this. The park was desolate without the wedding guests, and Josie had already stayed too long. More than a few days in any place was unwise. She knew they should go. But instead of leaving she went to the office and told Jim she was staying another night, and asked if he’d like to eat lunch with them.

“I just had lunch,” he said.

“Dinner,” she said.

“How about I make you some salmon?” he said. “My brother sent me a bunch from Nome and I need to eat it. It won’t keep much longer in the fridge.”

The kids played in the river with a new group of kids who had arrived that afternoon, and at six they walked to Jim’s cabin, a hundred yards or so through a birch forest, and found him at the grill, wearing ironed jeans and a peach-colored polo shirt.

“Made you a mojito,” he said, and handed her a glass of cut-crystal. She took a sip. It was cold and far too strong.

“Got a head start,” he said, indicating his own empty glass, and poured himself a second.

Josie stared at him, imagining what he would have looked like as a young man. He looked like he’d gotten everything he wanted.

“Grenada,” he said.

“Okay,” Josie said. Nothing surprised her anymore — certainly not a man suddenly saying “Grenada” while holding a spatula.

“I saw you inspecting the ink,” he said, and pointed to his arm, the military tattoo. He raised his sleeve, to reveal the words obscured before: Operation Urgent Fury. Josie had never heard this moniker. These words, Urgent and Fury, applied to Grenada seemed a wonderful joke.

“It’s just a joke now,” he said, and Josie relaxed. She was relieved, first of all, that he was not a Vietnam vet, and that they wouldn’t have to talk about that, or about her parents, or Candyland, and she was so grateful that though he’d been part of the invasion of a country the size of the Mall of America, and though he felt, or had felt, some pride in this (the tattoo), he didn’t take it too seriously. In an instant Josie pictured a show, Grenada! No. It would be called Grenada? A dozen soldiers would parachute onto the stage, and ask themselves where they were. “Grenada,” one would say. Another would ask, “Grenada?” This would go on throughout the show. People would die, helicopters would crash, medical students would ostensibly be rescued, a petty dictator would be overthrown, and all the while the U.S. soldiers would keep forgetting where they were. One would knock down the door of a local home, pointing his gun at a family of five. “Where are we?” he would demand. “Grenada,” they would say, their hands in the air, a baby wailing. “ Grenada ?” the soldier would say, mugging for the audience. You could call it a comedy.