A Soft Place to Land (31 page)

“Okay,” she said. And then she ordered a Bud.

The band was great, loud and raucous, but the most fun occurred afterwards when half of the bar emptied out into the parking lot and someone started shooting off firecrackers.

“Where am I, Alabama?” asked Ruthie.

“You’re going to see a lot of firecrackers going off this week,” said Gabe. “Southerners get really excited about the New Year.”

“There were no spontaneous firework shows where I grew up,” said Ruthie.

“That’s a shame,” said Gabe, slipping his arm around her waist.

An older man with a white beard stood next to her, holding an unopened pack of Roman candles, bound together with plastic wrap. He said something to her, but she couldn’t understand him. He had a thick accent and kept his cigarette in his mouth while he spoke.

“Excuse me?” said Ruthie.

He pulled out the cigarette. “You want to help me set these off?”

He held up the Roman candles.

“Take one,” said Gabe. “They’re fun.”

Ruthie shrugged. “Okay.”

The man tore open the plastic wrap and handed Ruthie the explosive.

It was over a foot long, a red and white cardboard tube with
ROMAN CANDLE
printed down its side. There was a bit of tissue paper wrapped around the wick at the top.

“Technically you’re supposed to plant this baby in the ground and light it from there, but you get more leverage if you just hold it,” the man said. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, inhaled, then released a line of smoke.

“Damn straight,” said Gabe. “If you stick it in the ground you can’t aim at anyone.”

Ruthie turned to look at Gabe, rolled her eyes at his joke.

“You’re sure it’s safe for me to hold it?” Ruthie asked the man.

“Oh yeah, it’s real safe. One of my buddies once taped together about one hundred of these things and lit them all at once. Made a Roman candle machine gun. Now that might not have been the safest thing in the world, but this sure is.”

Gabe clapped his hands together, laughed. “Are you serious, man? That’s insane.”

This was a new Gabe, this man who delighted in chicken-fried steak and jerry-rigged fireworks instead of Catholic mass and social justice work. Ruthie sort of liked it. Sort of liked the southern Gabe. Or maybe it was simply that she liked Gabe in general. Who knew? She was a little drunk. She had imbibed three Budweisers, plus the PBRs at the Yacht Club. She wanted to set off the firecracker in her hand. The whole thing seemed surreal, to be out in this parking lot with all of these strangers, lighting explosives in the middle of the street, the Atlanta skyline glowing in the distance.

“So should I just light it?” she asked the man.

“I’ll do it for you. Hold it way out in front of you, yeah, like that, arm’s length, and when you’re good and ready just give me the word.”

Ruthie held the explosive as far in front of her as she possibly
could. The night air cool against her exposed skin, she felt exhilarated, like anything could happen. Like she could take a risk and it wouldn’t blow up in her face.

She imagined her parents, boarding the Ford Trimotor, giddy with their shared sense of adventure.

“You ready?” the man asked.

She said a silent prayer—of sorts—to God.
Try me
, she said.
Just try me.

“I’m ready.”

The man took the cigarette from his mouth and held it against the wick of her Roman candle. There was a flash of light, and then a sizzling sound, and then she felt the force of the explosive leaving the cardboard tube.
Thwump.
The star shot from the tubing and traced a streak of light against the sky, ending with a pop that came sooner than Ruthie had imagined it would. Another star followed, then another, and another, and another again.
Thwump. Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.

“Now you’re an official redneck,” said Gabe, after the Roman candle released its final light.

“I want to do it again,” she said.

Gabe leaned into her, whispered in her ear, “That’s what you’ll be saying later tonight.”

He wiggled his brows at her, in an exaggerated motion. She punched him on the shoulder. Told him he was a dork.

She loved being with him.

They left the Westside Pub at 1:00
A.M.
, but Ruthie wasn’t tired. It was only 10:00 California time, and besides, she was wired from the band’s exuberance, from the illegal fireworks.

“Want to go to Krispy Kreme?” asked Gabe once they were back in Schwartzy’s old Volvo sedan.

“Let’s drive by my parents’ house,” said Ruthie, surprising herself with the idea. “I want to show you where I grew up.”

“Don’t you want to go during the day? When we can actually see things?”

“No. I want to go now.”

She was feeling charged, feeling reckless, and besides, she thought it might be easier to see the house at night, after a few drinks, with Gabe driving the car. She directed him, and though they weren’t far, she was surprised that she still knew the way.

“This is a beautiful neighborhood,” said Gabe as he cruised down Peachtree Battle Avenue, even though in truth it was hard to make out much of anything. It was so dark, and the houses were set so far back from the street.

“Go slow,” she said. “I don’t want to miss the turn.”

He slowed down, was creeping along. She remembered driving this same stretch of road with Julia, the day of her parents’ funeral, when Julia let her take the wheel. She saw the green street sign in the headlights,
WYMBERLY WAY
. It seemed strange that the street still existed, that it had not vanished as soon as she did.

“Turn left here,” she said.

They were on her old street, a place she had not returned to in nearly ten years. Wide lawns stretched on either side of her, each topped with a gorgeous home. If she thought about it hard enough she could remember the façade of each one, though not the insides. They had never really known their neighbors. Naomi had never really had any neighborhood friends.

Naomi. Her mother. Her mother who was so alive and then—so quickly, so finally—was simply gone. From matter to memory. Like that.

Ruthie felt something rising against the back of her throat. Gabe was driving so slowly, probably because he’d had too much to drink, was nervous about driving at all. It was the opposite of how Julia used to drive, used to careen, really, and yet it was as if she were back in Julia’s car, in the Saab, approaching the drive of 3225 Wymberly Way, during those months after the crash when they were still living in Atlanta, when it was Julia and not Naomi who chauffeured her to and from school. There were afternoons when somehow—
how?
—she would momentarily forget that it
would not be her mother waiting inside to greet her; it would be her aunt Mimi instead. And though Mimi was lovely, and though she was kind, she was never enough. She could never fill the loss. Still didn’t, though that was not something Ruthie allowed herself to think about much.

She remembered the dread feeling of waiting, waiting to lose her sister at the end of the school year, and not being able to do anything about it. She remembered, with a startling intensity, that she had been angry at her parents during that time, so angry at them for leaving instructions to split up her and Julia, and yet it had seemed so wrong to be angry at them, when they were the ones who no longer got to be alive. When they were the ones whose bodies had burned after the crash. It was so wrong that she had forced herself to stop feeling it. Yet here it was again, that forbidden anger, from all of those years back. She thought of Mr. Z, her ridiculous eighth-grade English teacher, the man who made his girl students sit in a circle on the floor and hold “powwows.” Who was upset with her for bringing in an orange instead of some meaningful memento from her past. Who warned her that whatever feelings she shoved down were going to have to come up again.

And then, even though she usually had an iron stomach, even though she had only drunk beer and nothing stronger, she knew she was about to throw up. Immediately. (Mr. Z was right! How annoying. How pleased he would be.)

“Pull over, pull over,” she gasped, and Gabe did. As soon as he stopped the car she opened the door and, thrusting her head forward, threw up pulled pork barbeque onto the edge of someone’s grassy lawn. Tears ran from her eyes. She spit several times, then lifted her head, remaining in the passenger seat, her body turned so her feet dangled out of the car.

“Are you okay?” asked Gabe, rubbing her lower back with his palm.

For a moment she was quiet, just letting the cold night air hit her face. She leaned over, spit again. The inside of her mouth tasted horrible.

She readjusted so she was facing forward in the passenger seat. She pulled the car door closed.

“Can we go home?” she asked. “To your house?”

“You just lean back and close your eyes and I’ll get you home as soon as I can.”

He put his hand on her thigh and she shut her eyes, leaned back against the headrest. She would just sit here, cool and quiet. Dignified. She would not say a word.

Except that she was crying. Blubbering, really, blubbering and drunk. And suddenly she felt overwhelmed by Gabe, overwhelmed by his kindness and care. What was he after? Why was he treating her so gently?

“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked, a wasted, slobbering mess of a girl who still had the taste of vomit in her mouth.

“Because I love you,” he said. And though he had never before said these words to her, he was almost nonchalant in his utterance. As if his love were a fact, a mathematical solution that made everything simple: solve for
x
and unlock the equation.

March 2002

Ruthie, Gabe, and Dara carpooled to Julia’s reading, arriving early, anticipating that it might be difficult to find parking in downtown Berkeley. Mimi and Robert were at that moment on a plane, returning from France, where they had gone on a research trip for Robert’s new book on chocolate, tentatively titled
The Devil’s Food
. They had promised Julia that they would be at her book event in Marin the following day. Ruthie planned on going to that reading as well. Afterwards they would all return to San Francisco and Mimi and Robert would take the girls to Zuni.

They drove by Cody’s, knowing that sometimes a space in front of the bookstore—rock star parking—would suddenly appear. On this night they had no such luck. There was always the option of parking in a pay lot, but Ruthie felt like a sucker using one. She circled around the block slowly, scanning for a space. She had to brake suddenly when a guy on a bike sped across the street in the pedestrian walkway.

“Good thing you didn’t hit him,” said Dara. “That would have started a riot.”

The bicycle rights people were very big in Berkeley. Every month they staged a “critical mass” and hundreds of cyclists, many in outrageous costumes, would ride together down the middle of the street during rush hour, blocking traffic.

“Do you want to jump out and I’ll circle and find parking?” asked Gabe. He was wearing an old Braves T-shirt, tissue thin from years of washing, along with jeans and New Balance sneakers. New Balance sneakers always made Ruthie think of Dara’s dad, who was devoted to the brand. Ruthie loved Dara’s dad, that sweet man who still sent his daughter care packages filled with candy and sugary cereals, even though she was a senior in college. Even though she only lived across the Bay Bridge from him.

“Let me do one more loop,” said Ruthie. “Readings usually start late, don’t they?”

“Hail Mary full of grace, help us find a parking space,” intoned Dara.

Ruthie glanced quickly at Gabe, to see if he was offended. He was frowning a bit, but Ruthie was pretty sure that was because he was concentrating on finding a space. Dara often said irreverent things in front of Gabe; she claimed it her duty to be a provocateur. She was flabbergasted by his conversion, and tried to talk him out of it. She had even implied that his becoming a Catholic indicated internalized anti-Semitism.

After meeting Gabe for the first time, Dara had declared to Ruthie, “He’s a dirty boy. But he’s sexy as hell. My prediction is you two will hole up and be dirty together, before he graduates and moves back to Atlanta.”

“What makes you think he’s going to go back to Atlanta?” Ruthie had asked.

“Are you kidding me? He went on and on about it. About the bungalow his mom bought for nineteen thousand dollars, and the ‘holler’ behind their house where all of the kids in his neighborhood would play, and the way he knew all of his neighbors growing up, and how his mom and some dude named Earl would share a joint every afternoon on the front porch.”

“There’s one,” said Gabe, interrupting Ruthie’s memory. A blue Toyota Camry was backing out of its spot. She put her blinker on and waited. The Camry had a bumper sticker that read:
BARBARA LEE SPEAKS FOR ME
.

Barbara Lee was the lone member of Congress to have voted against authorizing the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan.

“I’d send Schwartzy one of those,” said Gabe. “But people in Georgia would probably just assume Barbara Lee is a country music singer.”

Cody’s was a great bookstore, cavernous and overflowing, with tables and tables of books up front and rows and rows of books in the back. There was a balcony level, too, where readings were held. It was only 7:10 when they arrived. While Gabe and Dara headed for the bathroom, Ruthie scanned the store for Julia. She didn’t see her, at least not in the flesh, but there was a poster propped on an easel by the front display tables, announcing that Julia Rose Smith would be reading that evening from her “acclaimed” memoir,
Straight
. Julia’s picture was on the poster. It was black-and-white and in it her eyes looked very shiny. Like they would reflect anything. She was not smiling in the picture but instead stared straight ahead, her mouth a straight line. Julia looked good, smart, but Ruthie wished her sister had smiled. She walked over to the table of new fiction on display and started turning over books, looking for the author picture. In almost all of them, the authors met the camera with a serious expression.