You Could Be Home by Now (27 page)

G
RAN STOOD ALONE AT THE
edge of the space that had been cleared for dancing. She gave a cheerful wave at Lily's approach, but Lily caught her expression before she had a chance to gentle it: unsubtle hunger, fierce and so out of keeping with the mariachi soundtrack that Lily felt the start of an inappropriate giggle. One of the mariachis yipped as if bitten. Gran's mouth pulled into something that might someday grow into a smile. She gestured at the dance floor and then at herself. “Well. Aren't
I
a wallflower?”

“Our headmistress says that wallflowers make ivy,” Lily said.

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Ivy as in league. She thinks I'm all about trying to be popular.”

“She sounds like a ridiculous woman.”

“Mom and Dad think it, too.”

“Well. Then they're ridiculous also.” Gran gave Lily an assessing glance. “You have your problems, and you've made yourself plenty of extra ones, but homecoming queen's not the brass ring you're after.” The song onstage ended. The bandleader said something accented that was hard to follow.

Lily said, “We don't have homecoming at Day. No football team.”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make these prickly little corrections when I'm trying to say something real. It's lousy manners. Now. Say you were gunning for—do you have prom?”

“Yeah.”

“Prom queen, then. If you were gunning for prom queen, you wouldn't waste time with the Roskos. You wouldn't waste your summer down here with me.”

“But I—”

“You wouldn't have made your very brave announcement last year. You wouldn't let people see the truth of you.”

There were sour and cynical things she could say: I guess we're back to pretending I'm here by choice. Or: c'mon, I could make prom queen. What about the direct-to-video success of
Lesbian Prom Queens IV
? The thing she hated most about herself was that her brain went immediately there.

A new song started. It was like workout music, the way the same beat carried throughout. She and Gran watched the dancers, who, if the assemblage of pit stains was to be believed, were feeling quite the caloric burn. None of the women wore normal colors. Elder chic seemed to be either genteel pastels, fabric fading in advance of its wearer, or audacious neon, raging against that inevitable fade. She was glad that Gran wore khakis, unwilted by the heat, that her shirt was a simple, saturated blue. Gran linked her arm though Lily's like they were grade-school BFFs. Dancing couples arced and curved around one another with no discernible pattern and then, with a shift and a slide, Lily saw Ben Thales, holding his ex.

Poor Gran.

Die Exfrau
's hands rested on Ben's shoulders. His were light at her waist. They turned and turned, out of harmony with the music, which seemed less a song than an excuse to simply touch. Once, Lily had come across Rocky and Sierra at the edge of the lacrosse field, their tongues in an amphibious battle for intermouth dominance. His hands were on an exploratory mission up her cami, hers had vanished into the waistband of his soccer uniform. Weird that now even more than then Lily felt she had intruded upon something she had no earthly right to see. The Thaleses stood apart, revolving. You could fit a person in the air carved out between them, a whole person, provided she was slim.

Gran ogled outright, a dieter's-eye view of a rotating pie case.

Someday, Lily would forgive Sierra for the severe case of Sierra-noia that had lost her
Lipstick
. For the brain cells she'd exhausted saying Sierra, chill, you're cuter than/hotter than/better than the proverbial Her, and for the drama that was yet to come. Because all that investment had yielded this small return: Lily was prepped with the exact right thing to say. She indicated
Die Exfrau.
“Talk about a woman with a fatal case of duck neck.”

It was clear from Gran's expression that
she
knew duck neck wasn't actually a thing. “She made tea.”

Lily didn't follow.

“Last night. At Ben's. I saw through the window. Her first time visiting and she knew right where he kept the teabags. I miss that. Having someone in the world just
know
.”

Lily shut her eyes. “Teabags. Upper cabinet, left of stove.”

“You're a sweet girl. Upper cabinet on the right.”

“I meant left as you're facing the table.”

Gran snorted. “We should dance.”

Lily had an official policy about dancing with girls and that official policy was a full-on, plus-size no. Somehow, it always devolved into a game of bumper-tits for the benefit of some boy watching from the dim. Now she had no idea what to do. But Gran had attended cotillions as a girl; she'd met Grandpa at twelve and they'd twirled in country club ballrooms. She positioned Lily's hands, ceding to her the stance reserved for girls. “Box step,” Gran instructed. “Forward, together; side, together; back, together; side, together.”

They moved slowly, the music an exuberant universe apart. Gran asked, “Back at the necklaces. Did you really have to pee?”

Perhaps Lily
wasn't
the most subtle girl on the planet. “No. I just didn't want to see Mona.”

“Good. Front, together. Side, together.”

“What?”

“Back, together. I thought it might have been the necklaces.”

“Huh? They were pretty.”

Gran nodded and the spoiled, fetid feeling Lily'd had at the jewelry booth returned. Gran would think she was hinting for one. There hadn't been any obvious price tags, which translated to
a lot
. “They were mourning pieces,” said Gran. “Side, together. I thought maybe you'd figured that out. Back, together. It's the kind of thing you'd know.”

Lily heard
morning
not
mourning
.

Gran shuddered. “Front, together. Side, together. They used to make them out of hair. You learn something every day. Back, together. Side, together. No, other side.” Gran laughed. “It probably put a dent in the open casket business.”

“Gran.” There was a bank of Port-a-Potties across the floor. Gran had stood there last year, unknowing, while Grandpa crumpled and fell. And Lily. Even looking right at them, she'd heard
morning
and not
mourning.
Dancing gave her an excuse to look away, down at her feet and Gran's, twins in their Velcro shoes.

Gran said, “Widows used to wear black for a year. Why on earth would they need their husband's hair in—I don't know—a needlepoint locket?”

Grandpa'd been balding Lily's whole life, but she'd seen the wedding pictures. Gran's girlish dress, puff sleeves and a sash, a bow tucked up under her breasts like a secret, Grandpa's hair thick enough to lend him extra height. Her feet navigated another box and Gran said, “It's appalling. Just imagine. Having to make a big
show
of it. Appalling, but goddammit. At least you'd know what you were supposed to do. Let's try it up to tempo now. Ready? Front, together; side, together.” The lead mariachi yipped again; his backups clapped in unison. Lily managed not to step on Gran's feet. “Coming here today was ridiculous,” Gran said. “I know that. This whole idea.”

“It's okay.”

“I wanted a nice, sweet, sane normal day. I thought it would honor all the nice, sweet, sane, normal days we had.” Gran didn't sound nice or sweet or even very sane.

“I'm having fun,” Lily said.

“You're full of it.” Gran sounded amused, or mostly so. A layer of amused over the rest.

“Maybe a little.”

Lily was starting to get the hang of this. Front, side, back, side; lather, rinse, repeat. Her grandmother's gait was even, her arms strong-set and supple. With a better partner, she'd be a very fine dancer. Gran said, “I think you're ready for some turns.”

“No,” Lily said, because they couldn't possibly: a rotation of one hundred eighty degrees and Gran would face the outhouses. Ninety one way would be the mourning pendants; ninety the other, the incredible spinning Thaleses.

“Have a little confidence.”

What was she supposed to say? I am the only thing here that it is safe for you to look at. She shrugged. A surprisingly graceless gesture, given the formal position of her hands.

“Okay, then,” Gran said. “It's walk, walk, side-close-side.” She executed a fast series of steps that Lily would be able to master shortly after her reincarnation as Anna Freaking Pavlova. And they turned: the jeweler, the Thaleses, the people in line. Her grandmother's face betrayed no pain. She muttered something though.

“Huh?”

“Paper, cotton, leather, silk. The anniversary gifts. I used to know a rhyme to help me remember.” They'd reverted to simply box stepping. Lily couldn't see the Thaleses anywhere, which meant they were behind her, directly in Gran's line of sight. “There should be some sort of list to mark this. A year now he's gone. There isn't even a word.”

“Reverse-iversary?”

“You're funny.”

“I'm not trying to be.” She should be thinking only of Grandpa and Gran, but brassy old Sierra elbowed her way in. All their gods and goof-words, their codified Laws of Cheese. The point of an inside joke was to put the lesser rest of the universe outside it. Which was stupid. Your friends should make your world expansive, not exclusive. When she was small, Gran had pushed her on the swing and the whole of Lily felt open and endless as the sky.

“My funny girl.” Gran let out a whoop. She spun Lily and landed her in a low dip.

Lily let out a surprised, strangled sound.

“Oh, relax. I'm not going to let you fall.”

“People are looking.” Not that she could actually see them upside down. Only, there were Ben and
Die Exfrau
, leaving the floor. They didn't touch, but every causal step narrowed the gap.

“Let 'em look,” Gran said, but righted her. “It's my paper reverse-iversary. I'm going to do whatever the hell I want.” She watched the departing couple. They both did. Anyone could see their paths were not parallel and must therefore intersect.

“Okay,” Lily said. “Whatever you want.”

“Good. Let's do something terrible.” It wasn't the heat but the vim of all Gran's years that shimmered around her. She stepped back from Lily. “Something just—terrible.” She nudged her with an affectionate elbow. “You're on a roll. You'll come up with something.” She giggled like she was Lily's age, lips pressed against her knuckles. Time was a funny thing, or maybe only posture was, that so small a gesture could winnow away the years that cut between them.

T
WO THOUSAND MILES AWAY, BAT
and ball connected. Home field advantage: the stadium roiled with sound and superstition. Fingers crossed, lips mouthed prayers and go-go-gos. Cups upended. Popcorn and beer. Peanuts. Cracker Jacks. Detroit, Michigan. Two of the Big Three had filed for Chapter Eleven the previous year. Unemployment was closing in on thirty percent and whole neighborhoods teetered toward foreclosure. If ever there was a city in need of a spectacular win.

Ground ball, right side.

The Homeplate held its breath.

The batter ran like hell for first.

Galarraga sprinted to cover the bag.

Seth couldn't hear it, but he knew from childhood the ball's leathery thwack as the pitcher caught it, the solid planting of a white shoe on first base. Out! A perfect game! The crowd erupted, sportscasters crowed, and teammates tensed to rush the field.

But baseball's a funny sport. Even Alison, raised on its easy pace and lyricism, would have to admit that much.

Because here came the official call. The first-base umpire raised his hands to his chest. He was a professional, impartial to the point of anonymity. But not for long. In a second the world would know his name. Jim Joyce's arms splayed out, unmistakably to the side.

Safe!

The call was flat-out wrong. Obvious as the top
E
of an eye test. But this was baseball: no instant replays. No take-backs or appeals. The rules were the rules. A funny sport indeed.

For a slow, muscular moment, Seth thought his jinx had bent the universe and he shook off an unseasonal chill. The crowd's jubilation downshifted. Sportscasters lamented through the replays. The Homeplate deflated and diners began to make fussy
check, please
gestures. “Wow,” he heard a McCain say, elongating the word by two syllables. His McCain-companion griped that in football they could have changed the call. They used instant replay in hockey and basketball; hell, they even used it in figure skating.

“It's the game,” Seth said, because Ali would have said it had she stayed. The league had a history older than Adah Chalk.

“Well, it sucks,” said the McCain, using slang he was much too old for.

Seth felt ancient himself. Ossified and done, too ground down to connect, though connecting was why sports bars existed, why sports did. “It's the game,” he said again, and sat silent through the postmortem. Jim Joyce wept openly and apologized. Galarraga said he understood. He hugged the man. He said without bitterness, “Nobody's perfect.” He said this without the slightest ironic lilt, the kind of man Seth knew that he was not, clear-eyed and accepting. Rules were rules even when they did not serve you well. The past was past and unreachable by wishing. Galarraga said, “I know that I pitched a perfect game, I believe I got it.” Seth thought,
Yes. It happened. So what if they won't count it. It was real.
Galarraga said, “I'm going to show my son. Maybe it's not in the book, but I'm going to tell my son, ‘One time I got a perfect game.'” Son. Seth waited for the astringent pulse of envy. When it didn't come, he got out his wallet. He thought of the U-Haul. One state of fifty or another, randomly assigned. That preposterous bet. He had no clue if he'd won or lost it. Galarraga had pitched a perfect game, and also he hadn't. Seth didn't wait for the tab. He left a crumpled twenty.