“We’re pioneers,” Jonathan says. “Can’t expect all the suburban comforts right off the bat.”
“I think,” she says, “that both of you are some kind of retards. I honestly do.”
She holds the baby close and hurries ahead of us, deeper into the woods. Bars of light, fractured by pine boughs, hang stodgily. Jonathan takes off after her, as if he believes she might be planning to take Rebecca and raise her alone in the wild.
Our restaurant will open in less than a week. Jonathan and I work all day, finishing it up. It’s nothing grand, just a nine-table restaurant in a former saloon. We’ve reformed the saloon like a pair of mail-order brides newly arrived on the frontier. We’ve painted it white, and hung striped curtains. Jonathan has covered the walls with old photos: school pictures of kids in bow ties and pinafores, men and women in plaid Bermuda shorts posing sunburned beside a lake, somebody’s grandmother shoveling snow. He’s hung a record-breaking salmon caught in 1957 and a shelf full of trophies. On the trophies bright gold men and women, sexlessly naked as angels, act out human excellence in bowling, golf, badminton, and citizenship. This will be a simple place, just breakfast and lunch. We’ve bought unmatched tables and chairs from the same secondhand stores where we found the trophies and photographs and the lacquered salmon.
“Come on down, everybody,” Jonathan says. “The Homo Cafe is just about open for business.” He daubs white paint over a scar on the molding. He is wearing overalls, with his hair tied back in a ponytail.
I’m in the kitchen, loading five-pound jars of preserves and ketchup onto the shelves. “They didn’t send strawberry jam,” I say. “They sent, like, half boysenberry and half peach.”
“I’ll call up and yell at them. They probably think they can send us whatever they’re trying to get rid of, just because we don’t know what we’re doing.”
When the jars are all stacked on the shelves I stand at the counter, watching Jonathan paint. “Clare thinks we should think what we’re doing is strange,” I say.
“It
“Well, I guess she thinks we should be more upset about it.”
“She’s just anxious because she’s paying the bills. She’s waited all her life to get this money, and now, wham, it’s being spent.”
“It’s being, you know, in
“Right. She has been sort of a pain in the ass lately, hasn’t she?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d say that.”
“I’ll say it. Clare has been a bitch for a long time now. Really, since she got pregnant.”
“Well, you know,” I say. I punch a new cassette into the sound system. Jimi Hendrix sings “Are You Experienced?”
“I guess she’ll be okay,” Jonathan says. “Motherhood is hard on all of us. I know it’s hard on me.”
I get a paintbrush and help with the touch-ups. Jimi puts out his velvet growl, a living voice from the world of the dead, as Jonathan and I cover the last nicks. We sway to the music. There is some kind of small perfection in this, painting a wall together while Jimi sings. There is a knitting of times, the past tumbling into the future. It comes to me suddenly, in the form of a surprise: I’ve got what I wanted. A brother to work beside. A revised future shining like a light bulb over our heads.
Here is what’s unsayable about us: Jonathan and I are members of a team so old nobody else could join even if we wanted them to. We adore Clare but she’s not quite on the team. Not really. What binds us is stronger than sex. It is stronger than love. We’re related. Each of us is the other born into different flesh. We may love Clare but she is not us. Only we can be ourselves and one another at the same time. I daub paint over an old scar. The tinted faces of grade-school kids, all in their forties or fifties now, look out from the walls with toothy, clear-eyed optimism.
Later we lock up the restaurant and go to our car by way of the main street. I prefer walking through the middle of things—I’m the one who likes town. I’ve been on my way to Woodstock since I was nine and now, more than twenty years later, I’ve arrived. My brother was right—there are still people here. The concert, I’ve learned, happened sixty miles away, in a broad grassy field that is no more or less than that. An empty space ringed by green-black trees. Jonathan and I tried swimming in the chocolate-colored pond while Clare sat with Rebecca in the weeds, but mosquitoes drove us all back to our car. We ended up having lunch at what Clare believed was the same place she went with her husband-to-be when they fled the actual concert. She said the hamburgers would come with three pickles and a sealed ketchup envelope, and they did.
Woodstock is what towns were supposed to become before the old future got sidetracked and a new one took its place. Bearded romantics still strum guitars in the town square, still dreaming of themselves as forest creatures and apprentice magicians. Old ladies with their gray hair frizzy and loose nod in time on the benches. Clare calls it pathetic and Jonathan doesn’t pay close attention one way or the other, but I appreciate the kindness of its quiet streets and the people’s cheerful determination to live in ways that are mainly beside the point.
Jonathan and I drive home in our used Toyota, up and down the rises, with branch shadows flicking across the windshield. He sits low in the passenger seat, his sneakers propped on the dashboard. “I’ll tell you what’s really strange about all this,” he says. “What’s really, truly strange is the fact that we’re doing it at all. People say they’re going to move to the country and open a little cafe, but who actually does it?”
“We did,” I say. “We are.”
When we top the last hill, I hit the brakes. “What is it?” Jonathan asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I just want to look for a second.”
From where I’ve stopped we can see our old brown house raising its chimney among a riot of junipers. Three dormered windows catch the light that will soon slip away behind the mountains, and the ivy that has grown unchecked for decades flutters, the leaves showing their silver undersides. The house has stood for more than a century without giving in to the landscape. No vines have snaked their way through the masonry, no underground lake has increased its boundaries by seeping into the foundation. Although I usually sing it to tease Clare, now I sing the Woodstock song to Jonathan, with a half-serious attitude that is all the pleasanter for being only half. “We are stardust, we are golden, and we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.” He listens to a few bars, and joins in.
At dinner, we talk about the restaurant and the baby. Lately our lives are devoted to the actual—we worry over Rebecca’s cough and the delivery of our used-but-refurbished walk-in refrigerator. I am beginning to understand the true difference between youth and age. Young people have time to make plans and think of new ideas. Older people need their whole energy to keep up with what’s already been set in motion.
“I don’t like Dr. Glass,” Clare says. She is sitting beside Rebecca’s high chair, spooning vanilla pudding into Rebecca’s mouth. Between each bite Rebecca looks suspiciously at the spoon, double-checking the contents. She has inherited my appetite but has also inherited Clare’s skepticism. She is both hungry and watchful.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Well, he’s a
“I agree,” Jonathan says. “Glass does Tai Chi. I’d rather find somebody who plays golf.”
“Glass seems okay to me,” I say. “I mean, I like him. You can talk to him.”
Jonathan says, “I suppose what it really gets down to is, you want your baby’s doctor to be some sort of fatherly type. You know? Someone who seems unaffected by trends.”
“Amen,” Clare says. “Tomorrow I’m going out looking for a new pediatrician.”
“I really think Glass is fine,” I say.
Clare holds a spoonful of pudding an inch from Rebecca’s open mouth. “I want to try someone else,” she says. “I’m nervous about Glass, I think he’s too easygoing. Okay?”
“Well. Okay,” I say.
“Okay.” She slips the spoon into Rebecca’s mouth with smooth, practiced accuracy. Clare is turning herself into the Mom character from our Henderson days. We don’t talk about the Hendersons anymore, maybe because the difference between our actual lives and their hypothetical ones has shrunk below the measuring point.
Later, after we’ve put Rebecca to bed, we watch television together. It’s what there is to do at night, with a baby, in the country. We lie on the queen-size bed, surrounded by corn chips and beer and Diet Coke. The upstairs bedrooms are snug and dark. Their ceilings follow the curve of the roof. The last owners—the ones who did the
