“OK,” she said, after a spoonful of oatmeal. “Thanks.”
He swigged the last of his coffee. She ate her cereal. When the waiter came around, Russell got a refill and asked for the check.
“So, you were born here?” she asked, dropping her spoon in her bowl and wiping the suggestion of a smile away with her napkin. He thought to tell her that this was, in fact, the very parcel of land that marked his entrance into the world, but refrained from informing her of the specifics.
“Yeah,” he began. “I haven’t been back in a few years. Still have good friends here. Family’s all moved away. It’s a weird place. I’m thinking I’ll get caught up with my friends, see what’s up, try to find a ride out west. Just see what happens. Who knows?”
The waiter brought the bill. Russell finished his third cup of coffee; Gloria left half of her first cup. A steamy parking lot greeted them as they stepped out the door.
“So, the gas station’s just up here,” he said, nodding in the direction.
She leaned close and whispered, “You have the keys.”
He barked out a little laugh and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. She walked behind him as he approached the passenger-side door. Before he unlocked it he stopped, turned, and kissed her.
In a flash she struck out in a roundhouse slap that connected with his temple, sending his glasses flying. He dropped her keys and went scrambling for his glasses.
“What the hell,” he spluttered.
She snatched the keys off the pavement and glared at him. “What do you mean? You tell me what the hell.”
He squashed his glasses back on his face. She opened the car door, grabbed his backpack and hurled it to the pavement.
“I’m sorry,” he said, going for his pack. “It was just an impulse.”
He picked up his pack and quickly scanned around to see if anyone was watching this scene. The lot was empty. They faced each other. To him, it looked like she expected something.
“Can I still buy you gas?” he tried with a weak smile.
“Goddamn,” she blurted, then slammed the door and cranked the ignition.
“No, really,” he said, reaching out a hand. The transmission coughed and the car lunged into reverse. He stepped aside and watched her leave. As he slouched over his backpack and pondered his next move, it occurred to him that she’d driven off with his new walking stick.
2
The hot pavement shimmered under a climbing sun. Russell sighed and looked down the road where Gloria had left, then strapped on his pack and walked slowly, trying to find the posture that most comfortably carried the weight on his back. That walking stick would be useful about now, and he regretted its loss. He’d already grown fond of it, as he did with certain objects. By nature he was something of an animist. He once had a bicycle that he would pat and stroke like a pet, and he had even been moved to hug a mailbox after dropping in a letter. Down the road he came to the small grocery store that used to deliver orders to his grandparents’ house. A sturdy old woman struggled out the door, a wagon filled with goods squeaking behind her. She stopped, kicked the rear axle and walked on, the wheels now rolling silently.
He meandered past the house where he’d grown up. Things had sure changed since his great-grandfather settled here after emigrating from Russia at the outbreak of the First World War, but the house he’d built and the neighborhood he’d built it in remained largely the same. It was a place of simple wood-frame homes and small garden plots. Russell was the third generation to be raised in the house, after his grandfather Charles and mother Liz, and he was the last. That was about all he knew of the history of his family, one that had disintegrated by the time he was aware enough to be curious.
What little he did know, he’d pieced together from fragments of stories that had stuck in his memory. He knew he was an accident, one that his parents did their best to put behind them. His birth did briefly unite Dick Pinske and Liz Czanderra in matrimony. The marriage, tenuous at best, didn’t last long. By the time Russell was five, his father had remarried and relocated out of state, dropping out of Russell’s life for good. His mother, about that time, entered graduate school at Northwestern, then began an academic career there. She told her parents that she didn’t want to uproot Russell, and she arranged to keep him with his grandparents indefinitely.
So his childhood unfolded in the kind indulgence of Charles and Alma. They kept him fed and in school and provided for him as best they could, with Liz sending money but showing up rarely. Russell was an easygoing kid content to hide away for hours with his books and the worlds they took him to. He cultivated his fertile imagination and developed a knack for making friends, talents that would serve him well.
Charles died when Russell was fifteen. Alma couldn’t cope on her own, so Liz had to step in. She moved back and began commuting the sixty miles to Chicago each day while Russell finished high school. She hated it in Door Prairie, and spent as little time as possible there. Once Russell was on his own, Liz beat it back to the city for good. Alma sold the house and went to live with her diabetic sister in northern Michigan. It was during this time that the deep friendships he’d formed nourished him in ways his fractured family could not.
The idea of going to college was appealing, but even with scholarships he balked at the expense. A friend told him about a culinary school in Cincinnati and he went to check it out, reasoning that kitchen skills would prove practical. He liked it there and decided to stay. The city seemed romantic to him, a well-worn place of sagging brick that stood like a natural outcrop on the eroded hills. There was something dreamy in the air of that river valley, and indeed the years passed as in a dream. It was nice while it lasted, but it had come to a dead end.
He wound his way in the shade of trees by the renovated marina and praised the town’s investment while making use of the newly built public toilets. The breeze came cool off the lake as he sat in the park under a leaning oak. From there he could see the extent of the development: rows of new condominiums and docks. He got up and walked along a trail. The woods were still moist with dew, the foliage and spider’s webs jeweled with sun-glazed droplets. He came to a swimming beach, where he took off his pack and sat on a bench by a playground. The beach was empty, except for a man playing with his dog. Russell searched through his gear for a canteen he’d packed away. He pulled out half of his stuff before he found it, and spent a good deal of time re-packing, trying to make it all fit again. He filled the canteen from a water fountain then headed toward the fairgrounds and the last known address of Helen Kolopnok.
Russell and Helen had met six years ago, when he had just turned eighteen and she was going on twenty-five. They were introduced at a high-school graduation party thrown by the parents of Carl Paulette, one of Russell’s closest friends. Helen had been invited to the party by Carl’s older sister, who was a nurse at the hospital where Helen volunteered. They hit it off right away, and spent most of the evening making wry observations about the increasingly inebriated partygoers. Before she left she gave him her phone number. He called the next day and they became fast friends that summer, sharing their stories and enjoying each other’s company.
They had last seen each other four years ago, when she’d gone with him to Carmela and Manny’s wedding. That night she told him all about a difficult relationship she’d been in that had recently ended, and thanked him for lifting her spirits. He was glad to oblige. They’d stayed in touch, but gradually the frequency of their communication declined. Now while he walked down her street, he felt bad that he wasn’t even sure she still lived here.
He consulted his old pocket watch. It was pretty early, but she always made a big deal about being a morning person, so he thought she’d most likely be up. She might even be at her summer job, if she had one. Her main livelihood came from managing the rental properties of her parents, but most every summer she took a part-time job for both supplemental income and experience. A carpet of wildflowers surrounded the house, colorful