couldn’t guess. Strange, but whatever. She probably didn’t have a lot else going on. No, he didn’t want a ride, thanks. Yes, another soda would be great. Avery had to get out of there.
He had to get out of there, but Jesus-fucking-Christ, this kitchen. Six-burner stove, immaculate. Two pristine convection ovens. A soundless freezer the size of his closet. And the island—a prep area set off from the counters, four square feet of two-inch maple butcher block. It had its own tiny fucking faucet and sink. Perfect. He had the heft of an imaginary knife in his hand, and he was aching to dice an onion on that butcher block.
Winnie caught him looking around. “Or how about a snack? You have time. Let me see—” She started opening drawers and cabinets, and Avery saw the bags of salt-free pretzels, the rice cakes, and boxes and boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes.
“No, really. I’m fine. But…can I ask you something?”
Something in his voice made Winnie stop completely and turn to him.
“Have you heard of Garbo? I mean, is that a kind of makeup brand, or just the name of a lipstick, or what?”
“Garbo?” Winnie looked so helplessly lost that Avery just said forget it. He was embarrassed.
And soon he was running, lame soccer sneakers slapping against the pavement, swooping in a glorious burst of awkward, breath-heaving movement down a long, winding hill, past all sorts of suburban folk doing their Sunday suburbs thing. They glanced at Avery, but he didn’t have time to say much since he was running . Literally running, with no hurry and no point, a pointless gorgeous action it seemed he hadn’t enjoyed in years, and why wasthat? Maybe he’d buy some running gear. Maybe he’d join one of those groups and run around Central Park every morning. It felt like laughing, this pell-mell formless pounding; it felt like being a little kid. Avery could smell himself, rank and unwashed, but that heat rising up from his chest and armpits just merged with the way his feet gripped the sidewalk and the swish-sound of cars whipping by. He’d be early at the station. He’d probably have to wait a while for that next train back to the city, back to Brooklyn. To Nona. That didn’t matter, though, not one bit, and Avery ran on and on down the hill into town.
Seven
W INNIE
It may have been the first week of October, but Jerry still refused to put on an overcoat. He’d looked at Winnie like she was crazy when she suggested it, and began a litany of winters in Chicago. Now that was where you learned to dress warmly, et cetera, et cetera.
The high school was lit up on this evening, and their group joined a modest stream of people on the paved path to the auditorium entrance. Bob was at his writing class, although he said he would leave early in order to catch at least some of Winnie’s big night. When she’d protested this—no need, her part was so small—he had said he wouldn’t miss it. Rachel had said nothing. And now, although Rachel was hurrying ahead with the girls, Winnie slowed, matching her steps to Jerry’s labored ones.
The opening reception for “Hartfield Station Stop: A Photographic History” was being held in the Girls’ Gym—the photos themselves were installed along the corridor walls just outside, where two dozen people milled and peered closely at the black-and-white images, plastic drink cups in hand. This left the gym itself strangely empty, its two refreshment tables, podium, and rows of folding chairs all stiffly arranged on the waxed, putty-colored floor.
“It’s not really the Girls’ Gym anymore,” Rachel was saying to Jerry, in the crowded foyer. “What do they call it now, Lila?”
“Everyone still says Girls’ Gym,” Lila said. Unlike Melissa, who had hurried down the hall to a friend, Winnie’s older granddaughter stuck close to her mother.
“Really? What about all the drama, with the name change? What ever happened to that?”
“What’s wrong with Girls’ Gym?”
He had to get out of there, but Jesus-fucking-Christ, this kitchen. Six-burner stove, immaculate. Two pristine convection ovens. A soundless freezer the size of his closet. And the island—a prep area set off from the counters, four square feet of two-inch maple butcher block. It had its own tiny fucking faucet and sink. Perfect. He had the heft of an imaginary knife in his hand, and he was aching to dice an onion on that butcher block.
Winnie caught him looking around. “Or how about a snack? You have time. Let me see—” She started opening drawers and cabinets, and Avery saw the bags of salt-free pretzels, the rice cakes, and boxes and boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes.
“No, really. I’m fine. But…can I ask you something?”
Something in his voice made Winnie stop completely and turn to him.
“Have you heard of Garbo? I mean, is that a kind of makeup brand, or just the name of a lipstick, or what?”
“Garbo?” Winnie looked so helplessly lost that Avery just said forget it. He was embarrassed.
And soon he was running, lame soccer sneakers slapping against the pavement, swooping in a glorious burst of awkward, breath-heaving movement down a long, winding hill, past all sorts of suburban folk doing their Sunday suburbs thing. They glanced at Avery, but he didn’t have time to say much since he was running . Literally running, with no hurry and no point, a pointless gorgeous action it seemed he hadn’t enjoyed in years, and why wasthat? Maybe he’d buy some running gear. Maybe he’d join one of those groups and run around Central Park every morning. It felt like laughing, this pell-mell formless pounding; it felt like being a little kid. Avery could smell himself, rank and unwashed, but that heat rising up from his chest and armpits just merged with the way his feet gripped the sidewalk and the swish-sound of cars whipping by. He’d be early at the station. He’d probably have to wait a while for that next train back to the city, back to Brooklyn. To Nona. That didn’t matter, though, not one bit, and Avery ran on and on down the hill into town.
Seven
W INNIE
It may have been the first week of October, but Jerry still refused to put on an overcoat. He’d looked at Winnie like she was crazy when she suggested it, and began a litany of winters in Chicago. Now that was where you learned to dress warmly, et cetera, et cetera.
The high school was lit up on this evening, and their group joined a modest stream of people on the paved path to the auditorium entrance. Bob was at his writing class, although he said he would leave early in order to catch at least some of Winnie’s big night. When she’d protested this—no need, her part was so small—he had said he wouldn’t miss it. Rachel had said nothing. And now, although Rachel was hurrying ahead with the girls, Winnie slowed, matching her steps to Jerry’s labored ones.
The opening reception for “Hartfield Station Stop: A Photographic History” was being held in the Girls’ Gym—the photos themselves were installed along the corridor walls just outside, where two dozen people milled and peered closely at the black-and-white images, plastic drink cups in hand. This left the gym itself strangely empty, its two refreshment tables, podium, and rows of folding chairs all stiffly arranged on the waxed, putty-colored floor.
“It’s not really the Girls’ Gym anymore,” Rachel was saying to Jerry, in the crowded foyer. “What do they call it now, Lila?”
“Everyone still says Girls’ Gym,” Lila said. Unlike Melissa, who had hurried down the hall to a friend, Winnie’s older granddaughter stuck close to her mother.
“Really? What about all the drama, with the name change? What ever happened to that?”
“What’s wrong with Girls’ Gym?”
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