“She says because she hasn’t been.”
“What kind of a reason is that?”
“She says because we went to Ireland without her.”
“If I hear one more word about Ireland!”
“Shh. I know.”
“I hope you were forceful, Mother. I hope you said no.”
“I was forceful. I said no.”
“But what?”
“But nothing.”
“No, I can see by your face it’s something. What?”
“She’s insisting.”
“So? We’re going to allow the child to make the decisions?”
“She said something about turning eighteen.”
“Oh, so she’s going to play that card!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why does she really want to go?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy.”
“What’s in Barcelona?”
“Nothing. It’s not Fryeburg, not Brownfield, not Maine.”
“So why doesn’t she go to Canada? We’ll drive her to Montreal. It’s only a few hours away. In another country. We’ll leave her and Hannah there, then pick them up a few days later.”
“Yeah. Well. I haven’t told you the half of it.”
There was rustling, cooing, small giggles. “You haven’t heard my half of it, sweet potato. It’ll give you and me a chance to stay in a hotel. Like newlyweds.”
“Jimmy, don’t be bad.”
More rustling. Even some grunting.
“Jimmy, come on …”
Sweet God. Chloe couldn’t even eavesdrop on her parents’ conversation about her without it becoming a study in her own mortification.
“But seriously,” her father said. The cooing had stopped, thank God. “We can’t let her go.”
“I agree. How do we stop her?”
“We’ll just tell her she can’t go.”
“I look forward to our spicy pork chops tonight over which you tell her.”
“I’ve never liked that Hannah. Why couldn’t that no-good father of hers have gotten custody instead?”
“I think the answer is built into your very question.”
“That Terri is a piece of work. Doesn’t she know what’s going on with her own kids? I hear Jason is always in trouble up in Portland. By the way, the raccoons got to her garbage again.”
“I saw. I smelled.”
“Did you talk to her about cleaning it up? Or am I going to have to?”
“She told me this morning the animals have to eat, too.”
“I’m going to shoot them next time I hear them near her cans. They’re a rabid nuisance.”
“Jimmy, carry the potatoes. She better come home soon. Dinner is ready.”
“Should I go get her? Did you drive her?”
“No, I didn’t drive her to Hannah’s house. It’s forty yards away.”
There was silence. “I didn’t drive her, Jimmy. She’s fine. She’s next door.” Chloe heard the pot being placed on the table.
“So what are we going to do?”
“Talk some sense into her. She listens to you. You’re her father.”
“If she listened to me, she’d never ask for something so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, Jimmy, it’s just kids being kids.”
“I never did nothing like that.”
“Okay. We did some stuff too.”
“Not like that.”
“Worse. We were young, too.”
“Hmm.”
“You remember Pembina? The paleo flood in the Red River in ’77? All right, Mr. Comedian. I know you remember. We were so bad. We didn’t need to go to Barcelona.”
“We never needed to go anywhere, sweet potato.”
“Get the drinks. I’ll go get her.”
Pembina was where Lang was from. Pembina, North Dakota, less than two miles south of the Canadian border. The Red River is slow and small. It doesn’t have the energy to cut a gorge. It meanders through the silty bottomlands. Yet every few years it floods catastrophically through the marsh at its delta. It causes immense destruction. In 1977, the river flooded, and the National Guard was called in to help the locals cope. Jimmy Devine, National Guard, met Lang Thia, whose father was a prominent local businessman who made hearing aids.
Her mother didn’t need a hearing aid. She came to the window near which Chloe was hiding and said into the screen, “Chloe, come to the table. Dinner is served.”
With a great sigh, Chloe peeled away from the wood shingles and walked, head hung, to the door.
LANG TURNED ON THE LIGHT ABOVE THE SMALL RECTANGULAR table. They sat silently, their hands folded. They blessed their food. Jimmy said amen. Chloe asked him to pass the potatoes. Jimmy poured Lang a jasmine ice tea. Lang poured Jimmy a beer. They cut into their pork chops. The silence lasted two or three minutes. Jimmy had to get some strength before he began, though he looked pretty strong already. He was a big Irish guy, blond-haired once, now gray, blue-eyed, direct, no nonsense. He was funny, he was easy, but he also had a temper, and he never forgot anything, neither a favor nor a slight. It was almost his undoing, the merciless blade of his memory. Sometimes he had to dull it with whiskey. Sometimes he had to dull many things with whiskey. Tonight Lang eased him into Chloe’s summer plans by letting him eat for a few minutes in peace while she grilled Chloe on irrelevant matters.
“Did you do your homework?”
“I
