“Ain’t no thang,” I say.
She smiles sadly and pats my knee. Without unbuckling, she leans in for an awkward embrace. I breathe deeply of her, fill my lungs greedily with the scent of her. I could hold her forever, long enough for her stiff body to slacken, to melt into mine. Even with my screwy neck, I could hold her forever. But Janet doesn’t have that kind of time.
“Good-bye, Ben,” she says, easing away from me. “Take care of yourself.”
“I’m gonna be okay,” I say. “Don’t worry about me.”
Buoyed somewhat by the suspicion that I actually might be okay, that like Janet, I might find a new context for myself, I duck out of the car and take a deep breath of the cold wet air. The daylight has faded completely now. The lights of the stores look almost inviting.
“I still think that Sunderland guy is a putz,” I say, and close the door.
Janet smiles apologetically through the glass.
I’m smiling, too, as I cover the eight spaces in long, brisk strides and hop back into the van. I find Trev with his chair angled back slightly, working clumsily away at his tiny keypad in the dark.
“Sorry about the wait, bro.”
“No worries,” he says, without looking up. “How’d it go?”
“Not bad.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Close enough.”
Janet is inspecting the papers beneath the dome light. It kills me to know her heart is beating fast. But I’m also glad for her. I wing a wide one eighty and angle across the lot toward the access road, looking everywhere but behind me. It’s troubling how big and dead this place is. Suddenly, I want to run from it. I hang a right at the exit and barely beat the signal.
I ease the van onto the interstate headed north, listening to the thrum of the wipers and the swish of the tires, knowing with every molecule of my being that I love Janet, that I still want to be with her, that in spite of everything, I still want to make it work. Because I still care deeply—about Janet, about my kids, about Forest and Trev and Elsa and Bob and Dot and Peaches and Little Elton and even about Big Elton. I’ll never stop caring. But the thing about caring is, it’s inconvenient. Sometimes you’ve got to give when it makes no sense at all. Sometimes you’ve got to give until it hurts. It’s not easy, and it can be downright thankless, but if you can do it, and you don’t mind working for squat, they’re still offering classes at the Abundant Life Foursquare Church right behind the Howard Johnson in Bremerton. Tell them Ben sent you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’M GRATEFULLY INDEBTED to so many wonderful people for their help on this novel that I’m sure to forget somebody, and for this, I apologize in advance. Let it be a testament to the extent of my indebtedness.
A million thanks to my friend Case Levenson, for being such a huge inspiration and hilarious companion. I’m ever-so-grateful to my wife, Lauren, for all her support and encouragement, and for lighting up my world with her smile. For sharing their expertise in their respective fields, I thank Dave Coatsworth and Dale Duffy. For their early readings and amazing editorial insigts, I thank Michael Meachen, Shelby Rogers, Dennis O’Reilly, Keith Dixon, Brock Dubbles, Mike Tassone, and Mark Krieger. For their unending support, Beth Branco and Carmela D’Amico. For their amazing advocacy in the field, Kurtis Q. Lowe, Phoebe “Gassy” Gaston, Matt “Don’t Call Me Jake Gyllenhaal” Wickiser, John Majeska, and Frazer Dobson.
To my amazing friend and agent, Mollie Glick, and her stalwart assistant, Kathleen Hamblin. Also, Stephanie Abou and Hannah Gordon Brown for all their hustle. To my Internet associates and partners in crime, Dennis Haritou, Jason Rice, Jason Chambers, and Brad Listi. Also, Richard Nash for always being in my corner.
To my whole family and my wife’s whole family, for their love and encouragement. You don’t choose your family, but I’d choose all of you if I could.
To my incredible friends—you know who you are. I’m blessed to have you. My door is always open.
To indie booksellers everywhere for their part in bringing my stories to the world.
At Algonquin, the greatest publisher any writer could ever hope for, I thank Craig Popelars, Kelly Bowen, Michael Taeckens, Sarah Rose Nordgren, Michael Rockliff, Katie Ford, Jude Grant, Brunson Hoole, Steven Pace, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Peter Workman, Ina Stern, Lauren Moseley, and everybody top to bottom at Workman and Algonquin. Unlike my family, I did choose you, and you were among the best choices I ever made.
And finally, a million thanks to my dear editor, Chuck Adams. Yo, pops, thanks for being my champion and advocate, and somebody to look up to.
Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2012 by Jonathan Evison.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title
Dedication
hooked on mnemonics
the pro
o-fer
the long way home
adventures in cartography
any other day
crossing the line
the whistle stop
profiles
pins and needles
bernard and ruth
technicalities
the horse
poetry
guess who’s coming to dinner
when does now begin?
battle of the blur
stations
three feathers
the trouble with bob
flight
no time
look at us now
monday, monday
green beans
postcards from the hinterlands
desperate measures
accidents
mr. goodbar
manning up
meet the replacement
liftoff
east of the mountains
george, washington
skylark
fingers
take no chances
here and abroad
dot
terrible things to say
the story with dot
the dealership
almost home
the box
grand canyon
the story with peaches
and many more
a year and a day
the calm
confusion
the daze
the long haul
ghost town
the edge
promise
nothing
old faithful
you don’t understand
something else entirely
volumes
out of the frying pan
boxes
west yellowstone redux
another long haul
the hide-a-bed incident
the biggest pit in the world
the longest haul yet
a king
close enough
Acknowledgments
Copyright
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