Commuters (19 page)

Bob smiled, either at what she had said, or what he knew to be her train of thought. “People in Hartfield get angry and impassioned and obsessed, just like anywhere else. Come on. It’s late. Let’s get the girls.” Rachel let him put his hand on her shoulder and guide her in.

There was music inside—a loud cabaret song that Rachel at first assumed must be coming from a stereo. Gathered together again in the living room were all the strewn-out participants of Thanksgiving: Lila, sleepy-eyed, on one side of the den doorway with her sister leaning against the other; Thomas, with his back to them, sitting on the couch, his legs crossed, foot dangling. Avery was perched on the slate bench built into the front of the fireplace, his hands on Nona’s waist. Winnie and Jerry were in the center of the room, arms around each other, dancing. And Nona—Nona was the music. She was singing as if possessed by the spirit of some famous 1930s chanteuse. The rich, melancholy song pouring out of her open, red-lipsticked mouth might have been dubbed from an old jazz club performance.

Jerry stopped dancing and interrupted the song. “Now do Annie Ross,” he commanded. “Can you do Annie?” Nona, who had stopped mid-phrase, just grinned and put her hands behind her back. Everyone waited. Then she burst out in a completely different, faster, jazzy voice.

Rachel saw Jerry had shut his eyes and was nodding his big head. He was just standing there in the middle of the room, with Winnie close by—they couldn’t dance to the strange, fast beat of this song.

Nona sang, and then Jerry joined in, exactly in unison, for the chorus.

The group clapped, breaking up the song. Bob whistled.

“More scat?” Nona asked. “I can try some Ella, the earlier stuff. Decca.” She moved her voice up and down, giving him a taste.

“I like the Cole Porter years better,” Jerry argued.

“Or what about Peggy Lee?” Nona countered. She hummed
and Avery thumped time on her hip. Everyone looked to see how Jerry would react.

But the old man shook his head stubbornly. He was about to say something else, when a touch on his hand from Winnie made his face soften. He stiffly took up a slow-dancing position with her and said only, “Lena.”

Nona saluted. She put a hand on her stomach and tipped her head forward. Soon a rich rushing melody burst forth, with another, twangy accent. Everyone knew this one; it was a standard, with lyrics about love and desire and whether it’s just too late.

Winnie took tiny steps, pressed up against her husband. And Jerry held on to her, mouthing the words as Nona gave them her all.

It was nearly 1
AM
. Avery stood in front of the Blue Apple in the freezing pitch-black of Myrtle Avenue, watching for the cops. He launched into a coughing fit and worked up a thick wad of phlegm; unwilling to either spit it out right in the doorway and unable to move even a few feet, he swallowed it back down.
Perfect.
Typical of this hellish week, in which he’d been fired from his craft services gig (for sneezing into his hands just as the short guy from
Seinfeld
walked past), found out the fire rating for the Blue Apple was pegged at nine (out of a possible ten, one being the best)—which would triple his premiums—and Nona was still out of town, first for an endless music festival in Rhode Island, and now in Pittsburgh to spend Christmas with her mother.

Rhode Island,
he muttered inwardly, and kicked at a piece of broken pavement.
Pittsburgh!

From behind him, inside the restaurant: loud
whams
and a high-pitched, screeching whine. Two guys Avery barely knew were putting in city code-mandated grease traps, one in the front, one in the kitchen. It was one big hassle, start to finish. No, Avery
shouldn’t have skipped that dumb-sounding all-day “small business boot camp” only to find out it was mandatory for filing the first set of permit papers. Nor should he have blown off the Health Department inspector—he’d either gotten the days wrong or, more plausibly, just stayed in bed with Nona—whose eventual revenge produced a long list of code violations, several involving the phrase “putrescible solid waste.” And he’d screwed up the order of things: he should have had Buildings come first, then Health. Apparently, he needed new grease traps in order to get the next round of permits—but needed those same permits in order to install the grease traps.

Christ. Avery could barely figure it out when he
wasn’t
fludelirious. And he didn’t want to think of what he’d had to pay, cash of course, for the new traps themselves or for this off-hours, off-the-books installation. Wind whipped the garbage on the street into dark, swirling cyclones. Two hard-looking black guys slowed as they passed him, SUV lit-up rims spinning backward, offering Avery twin glares of unmistakable displeasure.

He pulled out his cell phone, woozy from the effort of standing upright. Problem was, he couldn’t figure out who to call. He started to dial Nona, and then erased the number, one digit at a time. He knew she had been sleeping badly, and she’d had a long drive today—or was it yesterday?—from the festival to Pittsburgh. Also, they had just gotten back to a warily balanced good place after the stupid fight, which mostly consisted of Avery’s being pissed that he wasn’t invited to spend Christmas with Nona and her mom, but not admitting that was the real reason.

God, he missed her. New York was a huge swarming planet of emptiness, without Nona’s face and voice during the day, her body
against his at night. He was staying in her room, and Thomas, who had been in town for an unprecedented three weeks straight—
of course
—had taken to calling him “sir,” in little yellow notes scattered around the apartment like “your turn to buy toilet paper, sir.” This had to be some snickering reference to the insane scene that had gone down in Hartfield at Thanksgiving—which Avery was doing his best to block out entirely—and he refused to dignify it with a response. Actually, he and Thomas had settled into a grudging, not-unfriendly truce; at breakfast together, one would shove the cereal box or milk over to the other, without a word, without looking up from the
Post
. Two grumpy old guys, Avery thought, missing their girl.

It crossed his mind to call Winnie. Ridiculous, at this hour, and of course he wouldn’t do it. But the memory of all her recent messages stayed with him—the tone of her voice: at first lively—something about that tree in her yard, how it was headed for the wood-chip pile this week—then concerned, then sad and unsure. “He’s been asking about you,” she said simply, in the last one. That had been over a week ago. Again Avery felt an inner pull on his conscience, but he was still in the throes of the way he’d been caught off guard, and pretty much humiliated, by Grandad, made to seem like nothing but a little lost rich kid caught in the crossfire of a battle between grown-ups, right in front of everyone at dinner—right in front of Nona. Whose careful, respectful silence on the whole matter showed she understood everything about how it was roiling Avery’s mind, which was good—but was worrying too, because it suggested they were both in agreement about how big an obstacle this would be to them. This money. Money that wasn’t even his. Money he didn’t even want! No, he wouldn’t be calling
Winnie back anytime soon. Or going out to Hartfield. Everyone would just have to get over it.

So Avery—chilled and feverish, blood pounding in his eye sockets—called his mother. He let the phone ring, picturing the polished, shadowy foyer of the house in Winnetka, with its sweeping white staircase and the tiny flashing red dot of the burglar alarm. It rang and rang, and the answering machine picked up. He ended the call and hit redial. After two rings this time, he heard Rich’s voice, frogged with sleep and aggravation.

“It’s me,” Avery said. There was a slow-moving wheelchair across the street; he couldn’t make out the occupant’s gender. “I know it’s kind of late, I just—”

“Avery?” Rich said. “What’s wrong?” In response, Avery could only sigh. Where to begin? It had been so long since he’d talked to Rich. Or to his mother.

“Let me go into the hall. Are you in trouble?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I just had some free time—”

“You’re still at work? What time is it?”

“Sort of. I mean, yeah. I’m at work.” Whoever was in the wheelchair was balancing two twelve-packs of soda on his or her lap, scooting forward with little steps, feet on the ground. “Is Mom there?”

Rich exhaled. “She’s asleep,” he said, after a long pause. “We were going to give you a call tomorrow. Later today, I mean. You got the box I sent, right?”

“How come tomorrow?”

“Just to say Merry Christmas. You’re not going to have to work, are you?” Avery’s mind whirled. He tried to calculate what day it was. Christmas tomorrow? He guessed that made sense. “Did
that jacket fit? I can exchange it if you want—and definitely let me know if you want a different color.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. No, I mean, it’s fine.” His current mail situation was a little sketchy, so Avery couldn’t imagine where any kind of box sent to him would end up. “Thanks. I, uh, I have something for you guys. I just have to get to the post office. So, can I talk to Mom?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Rich said gently. “Not right now.”

“Why not?” The wheelchair occupant got out, went behind to the handles, and pushed the chair carefully over a raised curbside. Fury rushed Avery. “What’s she pissed at
me
about? This is really fucked up, you know. I don’t have anything to do with it, this thing she’s got against Grandad. If you even knew what I—”

“Maybe you could try to see it from her side,” Rich said. “For once. Do you even know the strain she’s under? We’ve just finally recovered from all the shit
you
put us through—”

“Hey!”

“And now Jerry’s moved to New York and lost his mind. He’s bent on jeopardizing everything about your mom’s career, the company’s reputation…and frankly, it doesn’t help matters that you’re so under his sway.”

“Just because I wouldn’t promise not to go over there? Not that I even want to go over there now, but—”

“She’s on all kinds of medications for the stress. Last night she couldn’t sleep until nearly dawn, and even then she was crying, saying over and over, ‘She’s stolen him from me, she’s taken him away.’”

“What?” Avery scoffed, unsteady on his feet.
How did his mother
even know about Nona?
“That’s stupid. I haven’t been
sto
—” The words died away, unspoken. He wiped his nose. Not him. It was
Jerry
that his mother had been talking about, not him. She hadn’t been thinking about Avery at all.

Rich had continued speaking. “—best for everyone if there’s some distance. We’ll call tomorrow. Okay, bud? We all need to take this slow.” Avery scrubbed at his face, trying to smooth out its sudden crumples. “Avery? Get some sleep, all right? You don’t sound so good.”

He slammed shut the phone and started walking, fast. Anywhere, any direction, didn’t matter. The bite of the wind was welcome; Avery hoped it would slap his face enough to stop the tears, freeze them, stop this lonely anguish filling him up inside. Half walking, half running, in a demented kind of loping jog, he turned the corner and headed west. Once around the block. That’s what he needed. Just a little fresh air, clear his mind, and then he’d get back inside to check the grease-trap progress.

But just as he reached DeKalb, something about the corner building caught his eye. Avery slowed, drawn to the neatly refinished exterior and the classy, unobtrusive sign out front:
snack. bar.
, it read, trendy lower-case script and periods firmly in place. Dark inside, unopened, but a fine, copper-edged bar already installed, at least ten bistro-style tables, and funky artwork on the walls. He studied the menu under the stay tuned sign.

“Fuck me,” Avery whispered. A surge of illness overtook him.

“Global New American,” it said. And divided the different parts of the meal based on distinctions of region and provenance, not the arbitrary first, second, dessert course usual—just like Avery had planned to, in his rapidly filling notebook. He wiped runny
snot with the back of his glove and then ran a finger down the listings: Maine diver scallops with saffron potato purée,
check
; confit of Muscovy duck breast with fingerlings and honey-tarragon haricots,
check
; seared loin of lamb with local baby greens in a caramelized bourbon glaze,
check.
And on and on. Each one a version of something he’d imagined serving. He squinted to find the carefully understated, italicized name at the bottom of the menu. Chef Daniel F. Miller. Avery didn’t know the guy, and instantly hated him. Even the desserts—even the
pricing
of the desserts, a ten-dollar flat charge for each—echoed his plans. Trio of chocolate beignets with sea salt and a cinnamon-pepper crème fraîche…

Shit.

Avery walked back the way he came, his hands jammed way down into his coat pockets. This place was, what, a whole four blocks over from the Blue Apple’s deserted mid-block location on an ugly stretch of a busy, ugly throughway.
snack. bar.
Well,
suck. my. dick.,
Avery thought.

As he neared the Blue Apple, it seemed even dirtier, more rundown, more
orange
than he’d remembered from a few minutes ago. He could hear a buzzing roar within, and the guys shouting above the noise. Suddenly, Avery knew who he wanted to call, the one person he wanted to talk to about all of this mess. Grandad. Grandad, with his nine dozen different stories about run-ins with the Feds, and God knows Avery had sat through most of them. He could picture Grandad’s narrowed eyes at his description of
snack. bar.
, could hear the old man work up some choice epithets for chef Daniel F. Miller. None of that would help the immediate situation, of course, but it sure would feel good. Avery realized how proud Grandad would be, hearing how he was solving the permit
problem tonight, with the illegal plumbers and the black-market grease traps.

It was his grandfather’s money behind this, behind all of it. Avery stopped, one shaky hand on the Blue Apple’s door. But it was more than that—it was his
backing
. Grandad had backed him. It hit Avery what that meant, and even though fear slivered through—
what if I let him down?
—the overall sensation remained, of having someone believe in him, of having someone in his corner. Avery guessed it had been a while since he’d felt that. Or had he ever?

When he came back inside, there was an instant blast of stench from the broken toilets. One of the plumbers, Hernando, looked up quickly from a table with a wide, guilty smile; there was a woman with him and take-out containers everywhere:
sopa de elote
and fresh tortillas,
chile rellenos
and
carne asada
. They waved Avery over, filled him a plate. Pounding behind the bar:
Blam! Blam!
Avery wobbled a little, feeling like he was crossing the deck of some ship tossing around in a plunging sea.
MMMzzzzzzzzzzz
came the drill saw, and then a series of squealing, high-pitched squeaks. He tried to steady himself near the table where Hernando and his girlfriend sat. Then he saw the woman’s head duck down and tilt back fast—a familiar, lost motion that Avery recognized in his very bones.

“This cool with you, boss?” Hernando said, talking about the lines of speed laid out amid crumpled paper towels and half-empty plates of food. “Our vitamins, right? We need ’em when we work late.”

Avery took a seat nearby, heavily. His head swam. The drugs were more than an arm’s reach away. But not much more.

Blam! Blam! Blam!
Angry hammering drowned out whatever
the girlfriend was saying, and Hernando’s laughing reply. Avery concentrated on not passing out. He realized that a cab, at this hour, from this location, would be impossible. The thought of the subway—the thought, even, of standing up again—threatened to make him cry.
I’m going to sleep here,
he thought, or maybe even said out loud.
On the floor, next to my brand-new grease traps.
Hernando rubbed some speed around his gums and then dug into a container for another piece of grilled meat. His girlfriend was chattering away at a whining buzz-saw pitch. Or maybe that was the drill again. In his haze, Avery couldn’t tell the difference between the thumps behind the bar and the pounding in his head. The talking went on around him, shit and food smells mingled together, and the drugs lay on the table. Why should he be surprised? Avery had figured it out: the drugs would always be on the table.