The Grown Ups (34 page)

The house sold
in two weeks and the new owners wanted a fast closing. The wife was pregnant with their first child, and she hoped to be settled before the baby came.

Marguerite and Sam's father had moved into the condo before the house went on the market. They had taken with them every
thing that mattered, forcing Marguerite to choose the items she hoped would jog some part of Hunt's brain.

The new place was part of a housing complex where, as Marguerite put it, they let them experience the last stages of life by moving them ahead one room at a time as they ailed, like a macabre board game. Right now, because Marguerite was fully able and living with Sam's father, they resided in a condo that had emergency call buttons in every room. They had day care for Hunt when Marguerite needed a break from trying to think for both of them. When Hunt became further incapacitated they could move to assisted living, with nursing care and meals included, or move just Hunt into a full-care nursing home, all there on the same grounds. Marguerite seemed too young for any of it, but she said there were a lot of women like her, and just a few men, willing to live out whatever days they had left with an incapacitated spouse.

Before the move, it had become painfully obvious that the more Hunt realized something was changing, the more agitated he became. There had been days where he accused Marguerite of leaving him, and others when he had unpacked boxes as fast as Marguerite packed them. He didn't know where he was going, only that he didn't want to go.

On one of the last days he was at the house, Sam's father followed him to the garage. All that morning he had been thumbing through the newspaper, although Michael and the doctors had said Hunt had lost the ability to comprehend written words. Still he sat frowning at the paper, maybe more from memory than anything else.

So it was a surprise when he followed Sam from the house into the garage. The garage was the last big clean-out before
closing, and Sam had planned to do it with Michael later in the day. Hunt hadn't been a fix-it guy but he had puttered, a stress reliever after a week spent behind a desk. There hadn't been much from the rest of the house that had any emotional weight—most everything like that had been removed during the renovation—but Sam was somehow sure there were things there, of value to no one but him, that he might want to save.

Hunt stood in the center of the room, staring at the fishing poles that were lined up against the wall and shuffling his suede moccasins back and forth on the cement floor. Sam had already told Marguerite he was bringing the poles up to Paradox to store them at the camp, but he had not gotten around to taking them down yet. He had intended to do it then, but something in the way his father was looking at the poles stopped him.

“Do you fish?” Hunt asked Sam.

“I do. You taught me.”

“I did?” Hunt looked pleased. “Of course I did.” He put his hands on his hips and leaned over to take a closer look at the poles. “My father taught me.”

“No, it was your mother.”

Hunt grinned, exposing a flat expanse of puffy, fleshy gum. Michael had told Sam that with dementia, personal hygiene was one of the first things to go. And often Sam heard Marguerite asking Hunt, as if he were a child, if he needed help shaving or brushing his teeth. Now Hunt's eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “That was a trick. I tricked you.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I told you my father taught me. I guess you know me after all.”

“I do.”

“From where did you say?”

Sam swallowed and cleared his throat. “Here. We know each other from the neighborhood.”

“I don't fish much anymore.”

“I could take you. I know a great place up north.”

“No, I don't think so. But you should take the poles. Get some use out of them.”

“Are you sure?”

Hunt nodded, distracted, and glanced around the garage as if he was looking for something. “Of course I am.” He walked with purpose toward the tool bench, a mess of junk from old Christmas tree stands to coils of extension cords, mouse traps and rusty saws, a broken birdhouse that Sam had built in Boy Scouts, and boxes and boxes of screws, nails, and assorted paraphernalia.

Sam watched his father. His clothes were too big; the khaki pants sagged in the ass despite a woven belt that cinched tight at his waist. He picked up random items from the bench and moved them from one place to another. When he was done he shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned down at the mess.

“Can I help you find something, Dad?”

Hunt spun around quickly, startled by Sam's question. “I thought you left.”

“No, still here. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

His father ignored Sam's question, instead turning his back and opening the many drawers underneath the tool bench. They were old and overstuffed, the runners warped and swollen, and he tried but failed to close a drawer all the way before he moved on to the next. When he was done there he stepped back and scratched the top of his head before he lunged for the step stool folded against the wall. But he couldn't figure out how the lever worked and he fumbled around in frustration.

Sam walked over and flipped the lock that held the step stool closed and then set it on level ground. He held on to the handle while his father climbed up the three steps and reached for a box on the shelf above the table. Sam took the box from his father's hands and cleared a place for it on the table.

Hunt stepped down and rubbed his hands together before he flipped back the four corners. He lifted out an old tin box decorated with silver bells. Sam recognized it: his mother had once used it for storing cookies. Hunt wrestled with the rusted lid until it popped open with an exhale of air. Sam watched his father as he pawed through the contents and smiled to himself as he picked out a tangle of fishing lures. He held them out to Sam. “You are going to need these if you take the poles.”

“I can have them?”

His father nodded vigorously, tufts of hair flapping against his scalp. “Of course. They go with the poles.” He pushed the tin in Sam's direction.

Sam held it carefully in his hands and looked inside. Among the clump of lures was a Christmas ornament Sam had made in the shape of a fish. The word DAD had been spelled out on the body with elbow macaroni, but now only one piece of pasta remained, looking as if it was on its way to dust. Underneath the ornament was a smaller frame made out of Popsicle sticks. In the center Sam had glued a picture of him and Michael standing on top of the sledding hill, an old flexible flyer between them. Sam was no more than five and was making a goofy pose, one hand on his hip, the other flashing a peace sign behind Michael's head. For his part, Michael appeared to be suffering silently, a slight smile on his lips. The photograph had been in color, but now had cured to ocher. Sam actually remembered removing it from the avocado-colored refrigerator where his mother had Scotch-taped
the photograph to the door. They had been making presents at school and he had dropped and broken the clay handprint that was to be his gift, so the teacher had suggested he bring a picture from home and she would help him make a substitute gift. How had something so minor lodged in the recesses of his brain?

Sam held the frame out to his father. Hunt took it in his hands, casually running a finger over the photograph. He studied it for a long time before he tried to hand it back to Sam.

Sam waved him away, but his father kept insisting, and now both of their hands were locked on the fragile frame. “You should keep this. I'll just take the lures.”

“No, you.” Sam's father pushed the frame at him but still didn't let go.

Sam pushed back and his father looked him in the eye. It was a searching look, and Sam hoped for a glimmer of recognition. He held his breath, every muscle and fiber wanting that one moment. His father's mouth was open, his face unshaven. Hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears. “Dad,” Sam said gently, “one of us is going to have to let go.”

His father tightened his grip on the frame and laughed, as if all along they had only been playing a game. “Dad,” Sam ventured, slowly letting go of the frame. “Dad,” he tried again, a little more forcefully even though Hunt was staring at the picture and not paying any attention to Sam.

Sam opened his mouth, afraid to let the moment pass without telling his father he loved him, that he wasn't going anywhere, but Hunt spoke first. “My boys,” he said, gesturing with the frame toward Sam, “my boys.”

I
am forever indebted to Jeanette Perez, who introduced an
early draft of this book to Katherine Nintzel at William Morrow. Kate, wise and wonderful editor, asked all the right questions to get that fledgling baby draft to become
The Grown Ups
. A mention here seems hardly adequate when it comes to my brilliant agent, Carrie Kania. Her unwavering, unquestionable belief in my ability to spin words into stories continues to sustain me. For Greg Olear, exquisite writer and friend, who read the original draft, and then some: I owe you big-time. For the ladies of Beth's Book Group: your support feels like a superpower. For everyone who so tirelessly promoted my last book: You changed my world. For Mom, Dad, Nick, and Holly, much, much love. Finally, for Hannah and Tessa, who make me want to be a better grown up, and for Frank, who still makes me feel like a kid.

About the author

Meet Robin Antalek

About the book

Reading Group Guide

Just for Fun: Playlists for
The Grown Ups

Read on

Excerpt from
The Summer We Fell Apart

Photo by Jill Cowburn

ROBIN ANTALEK
is the author of
The Summer We Fell Apart
, chosen as a Target Breakout Book. Her nonfiction work has been published at The Weeklings and The Nervous Breakdown, and collected in the following anthologies:
The Beautiful Anthology
;
Writing Óff Script: Writers on the Influence of Cinema
; and
The Weeklings: Revolution #1, Selected Essays 2012–13
. Her short fiction has appeared in 52 Stories, Five Chapters, Sundog,
The Southeast Review
, and Literary Mama, among others. She has twice received honorable mentions in
Glimmer Train
magazine, as well as been a finalist for the Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction.
The Grown Ups
is her second novel. She lives in Saratoga Springs, New York.

You can visit her site at www.robinantalek.com

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1.
    
Robin Antalek introduces us to the summer of Suzie Epstein by writing, “It was the summer all the children in the neighborhood caught a virus.” Why do you think she begins with this detail? How does the set piece of the virus add to the tension of the summer, and how does it foreshadow the themes of the novel?

2.
    
Why do you think Suzie chose to hurt Sam? Even if she were to tell Sam about his mother and Mr. Epstein, why did she build a relationship with him first, and why did she wait until the day she left to show him the pictures?

3.
    
Why do you think Marguerite and Hunt choose to renovate the family home? Does it go beyond the physical space? What are they trying to achieve?

4.
    
Did you have a group of friends in your life similar to the one Sam had? Did you keep in touch? What pulls people together and pushes them apart over time?

5.
    
On the surface, Sam and Michael are complete opposites. What do you think their most inherent difference is? Do they have anything in common? Who do you think ends up happier?

6.
    
When Sam leaves Bella's apartment, Bella says, “Pretending was nice, wasn't it?” What do you think she's referring to? In their relationship, what is real and what is pretend?

7.
    
When Suzie and Michael get engaged, Bella says that she is happy but that she doesn't “quite feel there.” What does she mean by this?

8.
    
Sam says that he is going to tell his father he is flunking out of school, but instead Sam goes to see his mother in Vermont. Why is it so important for him to see her at that moment in his life?

9.
    
Of Suzie, Sam says, “I loved her only if love was all about getting to the next base.” Do you think this is true? Is a fifteen-year-old capable of love, and is that what Sam felt?

10.
   
Each of the characters experiences personal tragedy. How does their tragedy shape each of them?

11.
   
The concept of being “grown up” is a recurring motif in the novel. How does each of the main characters define this differently?

 

W
HEN
I
WRITE
, if I'm really lucky, I'm really just transcribing this big movie in my head that unrolls and plays on a loop until I put it on paper. That's the only way I can describe what happens when I've really fallen into the story with a group of characters all clamoring to be heard. The songs I picked for Sam, Suzie, and Bella map out their emotional territory—and add to the their lives as only a great soundtrack can enhance a movie and sweep you right back into the moment.

Lenny Bruce
, the Historic 1962 Concert When Lenny Was Busted

West Side Story
, Original Cast Soundtrack

Mr. Ed: Straight from the Horse's Mouth
, Mike Stewart and The Stable Hands

At fifteen Sam's world is his friends and not much else. A lot of his free time is spent in the basement of his friend Peter Chang's house, where the boys hang to play video games, get drunk, and listen to a few albums belonging to Peter Chang's mother on an old-school stereo cabinet. The diversity of these albums is absurd, but that's half the fun.