“Hi Grandmom,” Alex says, wincing slightly.
“Hello Alex. You know I’m only going to be able to do that for a couple more years, until you’ve got some girl doing it for me.”
Michael rolls his eyes. Alex lets out a chuckle.
“You hear that, kid?” Harlan asks. “One of these days you’re gonna like having that happen.”
“Of course I will, Grandpa.”
“Are you ready to be an eighth grader?” Cynthia is starting the process. The subconscious grandmother checklist, similar to the mother inspection checklist Lauren had used the day of Alex’s accident, begins.
Kiss? Check.
Hug? Check.
Harlan chides him about girls? Check.
School? In progress.
Friends? Up next.
Talking about how his parents are messing up his life by being irresponsible, and are damaging him like a family heirloom in a fireplace?
That’s Harlan’s inquiry.
“I think I’m ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got most of my work done already.”
“What did you have to do?” Harlan asks.
“Read some summer reading books.”
“When I was your age, I was working, not doing reading assignments.” Harlan remarks, looking at Michael.
“Really?” Michael interjects skeptically, smiling. “You were working at the age of 13?”
“Of course!” Harlan says. “I was cutting grass for an older man who lived down the street! His name was Mr. Richard Collins. Ex-military, and he paid me three dollars every time I cut his lawn.”
Michael senses a story from Harlan. He interjects in the name of preventing sunburn.
“Alright, so I’ll just send Alex here three miles down the street to the next house and expect him to get paid, most likely in either apples or horses, like the olden days.” The nearest house is only a few feet down the road.
Harlan frowns. “He’s gonna have to learn someday, Michael.”
“I still haven’t.” Michael takes another cigarette out of his pack.
“You’re telling me.” Cynthia chimes.
“Hey now,” Harlan says, turning to her. Cynthia laughs.
A tapping comes from the glass door, snaring their attention.
Lauren wears a shy smile on her face, her black tee shirt bearing spots from her work on the day’s lunch, her jeans and bare feet comfortable on the floor of her home. Her hair descends in waves to her shoulders. Michael never understands why she makes herself look so good for his parents. A collision of emotions rocks him: there’s his wife, age not having done much to her over the 42 years it has held her in its grasp. How much effort does it take to construct her smile?
“If you don’t mind me interrupting, lunch is ready.” Lauren says, stepping outside.
She moves past Michael, giving him just a glance out of the corner of her eye.
Cynthia embraces her.
“Hello, darling.” Cynthia never fights with Lauren.
Cynthia has always been a freelance therapist, no degree or title required. She had taken a 16-year-old boy and helped turn him into the man who stands before her today. She has no biological children. Michael, and his sister Eve’s, birth mother had been a woman named Janice, who loved her bottles of liquor in the basement to resolve her problems. She had passed away from heart failure on a cold October night long ago, but Harlan and Michael had both made their peace with her. Janice’s words of wisdom, delivered from her occasional pulpit of sobriety, still float to Michael occasionally. The radiance and love of Cynthia’s guidance has been his lighthouse on the distant shore, the smoke on the horizon in the wilderness.
Harlan hugs Lauren next, ensuring his arms do not squeeze.
Harlan knows his son can be a manipulative bastard at times, but he loves him and doesn’t care for the baggage. Harlan knows his son’s dreams rest in the woman he’s embracing, and that she is aware of her power.
“Thank you for hosting us today, Lauren.” Harlan says, the summer air in his voice.
“You’re very welcome! We always love having you here.” Lauren replies.
“Hey, let’s not say our goodbyes, they just got here.” Michael puts an arm around Lauren’s shoulders. She smiles at his touch and looks to him. Alex lights up.
The moment, with Michael’s arm around Lauren, Michael’s parents peering at them reservedly, Alex standing to the side smiling at the boards of the porch, would be worthy of a camera. A picture should’ve been taken and prominently framed in a McGregor museum, as an eternal landmark in all of their lives, one where a fleeting second holds happiness.
Soon it shall be gone forever.
4
In the McGregor household, food is prepared in the kitchen, and eaten in the same room; the family does work in the dining room; the living room is in the hearth room and the hearth room is a place where chairs sit next to a wood stove and are never used. The island acts as a post for the cook to look out over their court at their expectant constituents. Turning around, one can use either the stove or the sink to prepare food. Lauren becomes upset if Michael tries too hard to change the way in which the kitchen is situated. She always prepares the house to be as if a Home Living magazine is coming for a photo-shoot the same day. With each cleaning session, she scrapes away the mold and mildew of her childhood. If only she could hold her emotions in a tank, perhaps under multiple layers of concrete, she might feel better with the reflection she sees in every clean glass.
The kitchen table infuriates Alex, who, when he tries to write on top of it, always finds his pencil slipping into the table’s cracks. The table is a quilt of plastic and wood, with sections of squares held together by a peculiar, adhesive connective material. During his homework, Alex always pets Roxy when he should be writing and pokes the material when he should be finding the answer to an algebraic equation.
The family seat themselves around the table. Harlan and Cynthia sit on one side, with Michael at the head of the table and his back to the window. Lauren sits across from him. Alex sits in view of Harlan and Cynthia, in the middle of his parents. The family is eating sandwiches constructed from components prepared by Lauren—the finest mayonnaise, cheeses, and meats available. While eating, the talking recedes.
A bird chirps in the distance, its rhythm repeating every couple of seconds as a miniature heartbeat. A proportioned breeze of summer air floats through the window, tinged with the smell of fresh cut grass nearby. Harlan’s overcoat drapes the back of his chair.
Swallowing, Michael takes a nice swig of cool milk.
“So,” Michael asks, looking at his father and mother. “Have we heard anything from Eve lately?”
“Nope.” Harlan responds.
Michael looks back at his sandwich quizzically, as if it’s suddenly turned alien.
“Funny, she usually calls around this time of year. April, August, and December.”
Cynthia and Harlan both nod mechanically.
Michael takes another bite. “I’ve thought about giving her a call. It’s been a couple years since I’ve tried.”
“She won’t answer you, you know.” Harlan says.
“I know, but I always think it’s worth a shot.”
“Why doesn’t Aunt Eve talk to us?” Alex asks. His sandwich has fallen partially apart. A ketchup bottle