The Happiest People in the World (20 page)

H
ow many times had Ellen been about to ask the question? Once, when they'd stood in the
PARTY
aisle at Walmart, trying to decide how much yardage of streamers they would need and in what colors; twice, at Comstock's Food and Beverage Wholesale Distributors, listening to Bill Comstock Sr. congratulate himself on what a great deal he was giving them on kegs of Michelob because, hey, she was a longtime, valued customer, and hey, she was getting married, but hey, don't expect the same great deal if she got married again, that is, if they even made Michelob at that future date and time, because as it was, pretty much no one drank it anymore, even though it used to be one of their biggest sellers, but anyway, you're welcome; thrice, at the gas station, looking back out the passenger's side-view mirror as Henry filled up the tank in her truck with regular unleaded. Now, for the fourth time—was there another way to say “the fourth time”?—at the Lumber Lodge. It was six o'clock; the place was pretty much empty, except for two old guys whom Ellen remembered from back when she was a girl and her mother ran the bar and who always only drank their beer out of juice glasses, and Ellen herself, and Henry, who was sitting at the bar, addressing a basket of chicken wings. Until very recently, Henry had watched in disbelief as the drunks at the Lumber Lodge ate those grotesque bird parts by the dozens
.
How can you eat that stuff
?
his pinched face had always seemed to want to know. But now apparently he knew; now he couldn't stop eating the things. Although he also couldn't seem to quite make himself believe that they really were chicken wings.

“They're so small,” he said to Ellen, who was standing behind the bar. “Are these really the wings of a chicken?”

“Yes,” Ellen said. Although really she had no idea. Now that he mentioned it, they didn't look like the wings of any chicken she'd ever seen. Some of them were drumsticks, not wings at all. But they did come in an enormous bag that said
CHICKEN WINGS
. “That's what it says on the bag,” Ellen said. But it didn't seem to matter to him what they were: Henry kept eating them. If he didn't stop, eventually he'd get fat, like everyone else. But for now, here he was, the slimmest, most handsome chicken-wing-eating Swede Ellen had ever seen. A Swede, not a Dane, right? She wondered that, because why would a
Swede
be calling
Denmark
at 5:17 at night from Matty's phone? Did you call Denmark from Matty's office phone last night at five seventeen? Ellen almost asked him, for the fourth time. But she didn't. There is a kind of IOU embedded in the psyche of the about-to-be-wed, the postponement of the paying of the bet that is the marriage itself. I'll forgive, or ignore, this latest thing, the engaged thinks. But if there's one more thing . . . Although maybe this wasn't limited to people who were preparing to be married. After all, Ellen had made similar promises to herself about Matty when she was still married to him, until finally there was the one more thing, which was Henry.

“Did I ever tell you,” Ellen said, “the name of the woman Matty cheated on me with?” When Ellen said that, she thought of Matty—not of him cheating on her, but of how he, in their distant past life together, had gently teased her about ending sentences with prepositions. Later on, in their more recent past life together, the teasing had been so ungentle that it couldn't be called teasing. But back further, when Kurt was a baby, a toddler, the teasing was gentle, full of love. Those were good times, Ellen thought, and then thought, Why am I thinking about this now? Meanwhile, Henry was still working on his wings. She'd never talked about this before with Henry. In some ridiculous but definite way, she thought talking about it would diminish her in Henry's eyes. And if it did that now, if she told him about Locs and Matty, and Henry looked or acted or talked about it as though her talking about it made her a lesser person, then that would be the one more thing. “Her name was Locs.” Henry didn't react; he was busy stripping the
meat
from the
bones
with his
teeth
. Had he always eaten this loudly? Maybe he hadn't even heard her over the deafening crunching of his disgusting wing eating. Ellen said, louder this time, “Locs!” This time Henry flinched.

“Yes, I heard you,” Henry said. He placed the last gnawed bone in the basket, wiped his hands on a napkin, crumpled it, threw it in the basket also. “Locs,” he repeated. “Was that her first or last name?”

“Neither.”

Henry nodded as though this made sense. He stood up and walked behind the bar until he was standing in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently. “I knew about this,” he said.

“This what?”

“This Locs.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “People talking,” he said. And there, he'd done it! He'd made her feel diminished! But now he was looking at her like she wasn't diminished in the slightest. “I am going to marry you in two days,” he said. And then he kissed her, and then she didn't feel diminished anymore. She did almost ask him, for the fifth time, Did you call Denmark from Matty's office phone last night at five seventeen? But then she didn't because they were kissing. But one more thing, she thought. And then she stopped kissing him and refilled the old guys' juice glasses, and then she and Henry started putting up streamers in preparation for their wedding, day after next. They worked in silence—hammer, nail, streamer, repeat—until Ellen said, “Kurt's band concert is tomorrow.” Henry nodded. He looked at her as if wanting more information. “You don't have to go, you know.” Because unlike the baseball game, faculty and staff attendance at the concert wasn't required. Henry got down off his ladder, and Ellen hers. They moved both several feet to the right and then climbed their ladders again, holding another streamer between them
.

“Kurt is going to be my stepson,” Henry finally said. It was just another declarative sentence; Henry was locally famous for them—famous for approving or disapproving of them, famous for speaking them. But this one felt more important—for Ellen, and maybe for Henry, too. “I want to go,” he said.

“I want you to go,” Ellen said.

“Then I will go,” Henry said.

D
ownstairs, Matty and Lawrence were drinking their drinks, sitting next to the woodstove. Upstairs, Kurt was messing around with his trumpet. You could not call it practicing, although a few minutes earlier Matty had reminded Kurt that he needed to go practice his trumpet for the concert tomorrow. Now, intermittent aggrieved noises drifted downstairs; it sounded, to Matty, like a lamb who every now and then remembered that it was supposed to bleat. Meanwhile, Lawrence was looking thoughtfully at the woodstove, bobbing his head as though in actual appreciation of the sounds coming from upstairs.

“Vienna!” he started to say, but Matty interrupted.

“Yesterday,” he said, “Kurt thought Henry was a spy.” Lawrence listened—to Matty, to Kurt and his trumpet—nodding, nodding. “Today, he's not so sure.”

“No?” Lawrence stopped nodding. He looked at his brother. “What do you think?”

“I think he's the guy who stole my wife,” Matty said, and Lawrence started nodding again. “I think he's also the person who called Denmark on my office phone last night.” And then he told Lawrence the story: Of how Gina had told him about the phone call. Of how Ellen had come into the office. Of how Matty was pretty sure she and he were reaching the same conclusion about the phone call. Of how . . . and wow, Matty really wanted to tell Lawrence the truth. Ever since Ellen had left him, ever since Locs had disappeared, Matty had really wanted to be able to confide in someone; he had really wanted someone to trust. He had always loved Lawrence, but he had never exactly trusted him. Things were different now. Besides, if you can't trust your brother . . . But that was a rhetorical question and not worth finishing. Matty told his brother the truth anyway. “According the phone records, the call was made just after eleven. But I told Ellen that it was made at five seventeen.”

Lawrence stopped nodding again. He looked at his brother with wide eyes, as if seeing him for the very first time. “Which was when our Henry was out perambulating.”

“I guess.”

“By himself.”

“I miss Ellen.”

“Do you miss Locs?” Lawrence said. Matty had never mentioned Locs to Lawrence. But he'd assumed he knew; he assumed everyone in Broomeville knew. Now he knew they knew; he knew his brother knew. Matty felt it again: shame, regret, defiance, loss, shame. But Lawrence was nodding in an encouraging way. You can tell me anything, the nod seemed to say.

“That doesn't matter anymore,” Matty finally said.

“Probably not.”

“I shouldn't have lied to Ellen about that phone call.”

“Probably not.” But Lawrence was smiling when he said it. That made Matty feel very good. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Matty felt what a lucky thing it was to have a brother. “The great game!” Lawrence shouted.

“What does that mean?” Matty asked, and then he was sorry he had, because all the joy drained out of Lawrence's face. Lawrence sipped a little raki in a transparent attempt to try to compose himself and then tried to explain his meaning.

“East versus West!” Lawrence shouted. “Old World versus the New! Democracy versus communism! Ex-husband versus future husband! The great game!” Matty didn't say anything. He knew that no matter what he said, it would sound to his brother like Matty was saying, God, you're weird. Why have you always been so weird? Meanwhile, Lawrence was looking at Matty, clearly waiting for some sort of response.

“Right, sure,” Matty said. “I get it now.”

And his brother really did seem to want that: he really did seem to want Matty to understand. Lawrence finished the rest of his raki in one gulp and then leaned toward Matty as though preparing to tell his brother an important secret.

But just then, Kurt came bounding down the stairs. His face was red and his lips were white, in the way of trumpet players. “I
practiced,
” he said, and he hurled himself onto the couch, next to his uncle. His uncle leaned back, too, his empty glass resting on his chest. Matty got up to pour Lawrence some more, but Lawrence shook him off. Whatever he'd been about to tell Matty was gone. They were back to being the kind of brothers who'll never quite get each other. Lawrence turned his head to look at Kurt. “I hear,” Lawrence said, “that you have an interesting theory about your future stepfather.”

“I thought he was a spy, but he's not.”

“Well, what is he, then?” Lawrence said thoughtfully.

“I don't know,” Kurt said. “I feel like it's right
here
.” He then started pounding the side of his head, the way you do when there's water in your ear. After a few moments of this, Lawrence stopped his nephew's hand and gently placed it on the couch between them.

“My Civics Club has its weekly congress tomorrow afternoon,” Lawrence said. “Perhaps you'd like to join us.”

Kurt laughed at that. Matty didn't blame him. The boys in the Civics Club were all freaks, dressed in their jackets and ties like they were perpetually trying out for the part of Little Nixon. But then Kurt seemed to get that his uncle was serious, and stopped laughing. And then Matty was proud of his son. If it were Matty, he would have kept laughing and laughing until his brother wanted to punch him in the face. But Kurt wasn't like that. Kurt would end up different from his old man, maybe; he would end up better than his old man, maybe. “Maybe,” Kurt said to his uncle, and then he went back upstairs to practice his trumpet some more. And only once they began to hear the bleating sounds of Kurt's trumpet again did Lawrence wonder, out loud, “Who
did
call Denmark from your office phone?”

PART SEVEN

F
riday. The plane was in the air. They were well on their way to New York.

“If you want to ask any questions,” Locs said, but then she stopped. She couldn't believe how loudly she was talking. Nor could she bring herself to stop. Wow, she hated to fly. And Locs hadn't been able to score any of her usual calming narcotics before she'd gotten on the plane. Now, every hum, every rattle, every acceleration and deceleration, seemed to surge through her, through her bones, her lungs and heart, and up through her throat and into her mouth. Even with the drugs, she'd probably talked this loudly, but the drugs didn't let her hear that. That's what they were good for. “If you want to ask any questions,” she said again, shouted actually, “now would be the time.”

Mr. Korkmaz didn't hesitate. “Why do you hate us so much?”

“Us,” Locs repeated, not really listening, fingers drumming on her armrest, looking around the airplane—not for anyone or anything in particular, just hoping that the sight of someone much calmer than she might make her much calmer. No one. Everyone else looked nervous, too. Fuck! Locs looked at Mr. Korkmaz. Now,
he
looked calm. He was drinking orange soda through a straw, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, like a businessman's on vacation, although now that she was paying attention, Locs knew what he was asking her. “You mean Muslims.”

“Yes,” Mr. Korkmaz said. He pushed the straw aside with his nose and sipped directly from the cup.

“We don't hate Muslims,” Locs said with a sigh. Capo, that asshole, had been adamant on this subject during her training. Muslims are good people, he insisted; Islam is a noble, peaceful religion with a long, rich history of intellectual inquiry and scholarship, he taught them; Muslims are not our enemies. He made them say that out loud, like they were kids in school. Locs had not liked that.

“They're our friends except for the terrorist murderers who hate us and who you're training us to kill,” Locs had said once and possibly more than once. Capo had not liked that.

“Why are you like that?” Capo had said.

“Like what?” Locs had said, although she knew what he'd meant, sort of, and sort of also knew the reason: she'd always been like that. Contrary. So unhappy. So angry. Matthew wasn't the reason; Matthew, she'd felt, was her chance for not being like that, and that made it twice as bad when she'd twice lost that chance. But now . . . “I don't hate Muslims,” she said.

“You hate my son.”

“We knew who your son was. We knew what he'd done. And we still didn't arrest him.”

“That doesn't mean you didn't hate him.”

This was true enough. But Locs decided to argue some more; maybe pointless arguing would calm her the way the drugs did.

“Your son was a terrorist-arsonist,” Locs said. “But actually, I kind of liked him.”

Mr. Korkmaz looked alarmed when Locs said this. She wondered why, until he said, “You said ‘was.' You said ‘liked.' As though Søren . . .” He didn't need to finish the sentence. Locs had actually already been wondering whether Søren was dead. She'd not gotten any more e-mails since the initial four. She closed her eyes and saw all four of them—Capo, London, Crystal, Doc—and also Søren, who was in a chair, probably tied to the chair, probably with a hood over his head, and then that vision made her want to open her eyes, and when she did she saw herself on a plane from Copenhagen to JFK, just as a week earlier Søren had been on a plane from Copenhagen to JFK. And Locs had paid for Søren's ticket; Locs had more or less made him get on that plane. Yes, she thought, Søren probably was dead.

“He's not dead,” Locs said. “And I still do kind of like him. Even if he did try to kill that cartoonist.”

“And of course the cartoonist is certainly blameless.”

“The cartoonist is a fucking idiot,” Locs said, more loudly yet. She unbuckled her seat belt, stood up slightly, and looked around to see whether anyone was paying attention to her. No one was. Across the aisle from her was a thin blond woman wearing yoga pants, and in fact somehow her legs were crossed in a yoga position, even though the seats were so small. A pair of clogs was on the floor. She was wearing clunky black-framed eyeglasses and was flipping through a magazine that focused on modern design. There were at least a half dozen other women on the plane who looked more or less exactly like her. The woman might as well have a sign around her neck that said
DANE.
Locs sat back down and turned to Mr. Korkmaz. “A fucking idiot who drew a fucking cartoon. Which was bad enough.”

“The cartoon was very bad.”

“But not as bad as, say, burning a person's house down.”

“I have known this argument,” Mr. Korkmaz said. He was smiling with his eyes. “This argument is at the time when you defend free speech.”

“It is.”

“This is when I must talk about the importance of you having the proper respect for our religion. And in response, you must talk about the importance of free speech.”

“You know,” Locs said, “I don't really care too much about either of those things.”

Mr. Korkmaz nodded. He raised the cup and shook some of the ice into his mouth. He crunched on it. Then he shook the rest of the ice into his mouth and crunched on that, too. “I have not been making the argument that the cartoonist deserved to die,” he said.

“Oh, he deserves to die all right,” Locs said. She'd pictured it many times over the years. She was picturing it now, too. Maybe Søren wasn't dead. Maybe he really had managed to kill the cartoonist. Wouldn't that be great? But wait: would that be great? If the cartoonist were dead, then Ellen couldn't marry him. And if she couldn't marry him, would she go back to Matthew? Would Matthew go back to her? Locs hadn't thought of this. How had Locs managed to not think of any of this?

“I really hope Søren doesn't kill that cartoonist,” she said to herself, but of course Mr. Korkmaz heard her. He placed his now empty cup on the tray and turned to her as fully as the tray and seat belt would permit.

“Do you have any children?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She said it so quickly that it felt like it really was true.

“A son?”

“His name is Kurt,” Locs said. “He's sixteen years old.” And then she just kept talking: About how Kurt lived with his father in Broomeville, New York. The father's name was Matthew. He and Locs had never gotten married. They'd had their share of troubles. They'd had their share of other people's troubles. But all that was past them. She and Kurt and Matthew were all going to be together now. It was time. Mr. Korkmaz listened to this, nodding, nodding, as though he understood perfectly. When she was done, he said, “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Way too long.”

“You must have missed him.”

“I can't even say,” Locs said. This was true. She felt that if she were to say more, she would start to cry. Matthew, I've missed you so much, Matthew. Although of course Mr. Korkmaz thought they were talking about Kurt, not Matthew.

“What would you do if someone tried to hurt him?”

“I would kill that person.”

Mr. Korkmaz nodded. “So you and I feel very much exactly the same way.” Just then the plane banked; the engine made some ominous shifting sounds. A
ding
sounded overhead, and the attendants began fast-walking their carts down the aisle, and Locs was absolutely certain that this was the first moment in what would be a series of moments that would conclude in each and every person on this airplane dying in a terrible crash. Locs turned to Mr. Korkmaz, and he was smiling. “I have been an imam,” he said.

“What's that?”

“I have been an imam, but only to Søren.” And then Mr. Korkmaz told her how he'd pretended to be an Internet imam, how every Saturday night he'd gone to the Internet café and contacted Søren in that disguise, using that medium, just so that Søren would know that he wasn't alone, just so Søren would have someone to talk to.

Why didn't you just talk to him as yourself? Locs thought but did not say. Because she knew. Because everyone knows that there's nothing more antagonizing to a son than a father who tries. “Did it work?” Locs asked.

“Not as of this moment,” Mr. Korkmaz said. He did not sound sad; he did not even sound resigned. There had even been a note of hope somewhere in his sentence. Locs thought she understood why. Sometimes the most difficult problems called for the most ridiculous solutions. And even then you weren't sure they would work. But that did not mean you stopped trying. On the other hand, it might be that to stop trying would end up being the solution. And it also might be that Locs herself was the problem. But it was ridiculous for her to be thinking that. Why was she thinking that? Maybe it was the plane, which was now bouncing around as though some enormous being, some large meteorological presence with hands, was actually shaking it. She closed her eyes and the shaking got worse. She opened them and looked to Mr. Korkmaz for some more of his wonderful, calming influence. But he was putting up his tray and stuffing his cup in the seat-back pouch and straightening his seat and basically doing all the things that people who are worried on an airplane do when they're trying not to act worried.

“Perhaps you'd better fasten your seat belt,” Mr. Korkmaz said to Locs. And those were his last words to her before they landed at JFK.