“It’s awfully late. Is everything okay?”
If it’s not, she won’t tell me—not at first. The worse the news, the harder she’ll work to counter it with cheerful tidings from the Busy Bee Cafe.
“Did you hear about Burt’s medal?” The Lovely Man. “Our congressman finally cut through the red tape and it looks like the Navy sees things our way now. They might do a ceremony at Fort Snelling.”
“Great.” I cross to the mini-bar for a pick-me-up, set the down the receiver, grab a beer, twist off the cap, and get back on the line, confident that I haven’t missed a thing.
“It only took thirty years,” my mother is saying. “It all came down to the definition of ‘combat.’ ”
“How’s the wedding coming along? Excited?”
Throat clearing, nose blowing. I’ve hit on it.
“We spent all day stripping thorns off yellow roses. My hands are all scratched. I’ll need gloves for the reception. Julie’s gone missing. They’re cabbage roses—beautiful.”
It’s out, and she’d hang up now if she could. Now it’s my job to press her for details. So she can feel the pain all over again and I can fear I caused it.
“How long’s she been gone?”
“Ten, eleven hours.”
“Are she and Keith fighting?”
“No.”
“You have to talk, Mom. This isn’t a cross-examination. Talk.”
“Keith is here. Should I put Keith on?”
“Please.”
“What time are you getting here Friday? I need a flight number. There’s a special line that I can call to find out if you’re on time. I need that number, though. Our weather’s been crazy, hail and thunderstorms, so there might be delays.”
“I’ll find it. Give me Keith.”
My future brother-in-law’s Minnesota accent—the one so many comedians make fun of and which I don’t hear in myself, though others do—prevents me from judging his level of concern. “Ryan, I’ll get to the point here: she took off. No, we’re not arguing. It’s about her job. She lost two dogs this morning at the rescue farm. They jumped the fence and ate some gopher poison and pretty much died in her arms, from what we hear. It got ugly, I guess: they coughed up lots of blood. She split in her van and no one’s heard from her.”
“She hasn’t called Kara? She usually calls Kara.”
“We think someone saw her in Rochester. A cop.”
“Has Julie been eating?”
“Like a horse.”
“I doubt that.”
“It was the dogs, I swear. They’d been abused. Two Border collies with collars grown into their necks. Should I be worried? She’s done this in the past, right? Your mom says this is typical.”
She’s wrong. Yes, my sister runs when she’s unhappy, but there’s a novel element in play here: Julie’s attachment to the poisoned animals. This is a girl who assumes all bonds are temporary, who’s famously well-defended against loss. Her divorces were strangely painless; she skipped away from them, demanding no money, no car keys, nothing. The weekend after our father’s funeral, she sang in and won a karaoke contest at a supper club. She took the job at the rescue farm not out of pity or tenderheartedness, but because the vet in charge was a family friend who didn’t hold her history against her.
“You call me as soon as you hear from her,” I say.
“Kara’s flying up from Utah tonight. She thinks Julie’s probably crashed at some motel, crying things out.”
“This isn’t wedding jitters? That farm must lose animals every other day.”
“I know what you’re saying. Your sister’s changing, Ryan. Stuff affects her now. Pray for her, okay?”
“I never stop,” I say. “Put Mom back on.”
I finish my beer while I wait. It tastes like mucilage, that glue that’s used to paste photos into albums.
“Is it raining there?” my mother says.
“It never rains. It’s the desert. About this dog story: I don’t buy it, Mom.”
“Portland’s not the desert.”
“I’m in Nevada. This wedding is being rammed down Julie’s
If it’s not, she won’t tell me—not at first. The worse the news, the harder she’ll work to counter it with cheerful tidings from the Busy Bee Cafe.
“Did you hear about Burt’s medal?” The Lovely Man. “Our congressman finally cut through the red tape and it looks like the Navy sees things our way now. They might do a ceremony at Fort Snelling.”
“Great.” I cross to the mini-bar for a pick-me-up, set the down the receiver, grab a beer, twist off the cap, and get back on the line, confident that I haven’t missed a thing.
“It only took thirty years,” my mother is saying. “It all came down to the definition of ‘combat.’ ”
“How’s the wedding coming along? Excited?”
Throat clearing, nose blowing. I’ve hit on it.
“We spent all day stripping thorns off yellow roses. My hands are all scratched. I’ll need gloves for the reception. Julie’s gone missing. They’re cabbage roses—beautiful.”
It’s out, and she’d hang up now if she could. Now it’s my job to press her for details. So she can feel the pain all over again and I can fear I caused it.
“How long’s she been gone?”
“Ten, eleven hours.”
“Are she and Keith fighting?”
“No.”
“You have to talk, Mom. This isn’t a cross-examination. Talk.”
“Keith is here. Should I put Keith on?”
“Please.”
“What time are you getting here Friday? I need a flight number. There’s a special line that I can call to find out if you’re on time. I need that number, though. Our weather’s been crazy, hail and thunderstorms, so there might be delays.”
“I’ll find it. Give me Keith.”
My future brother-in-law’s Minnesota accent—the one so many comedians make fun of and which I don’t hear in myself, though others do—prevents me from judging his level of concern. “Ryan, I’ll get to the point here: she took off. No, we’re not arguing. It’s about her job. She lost two dogs this morning at the rescue farm. They jumped the fence and ate some gopher poison and pretty much died in her arms, from what we hear. It got ugly, I guess: they coughed up lots of blood. She split in her van and no one’s heard from her.”
“She hasn’t called Kara? She usually calls Kara.”
“We think someone saw her in Rochester. A cop.”
“Has Julie been eating?”
“Like a horse.”
“I doubt that.”
“It was the dogs, I swear. They’d been abused. Two Border collies with collars grown into their necks. Should I be worried? She’s done this in the past, right? Your mom says this is typical.”
She’s wrong. Yes, my sister runs when she’s unhappy, but there’s a novel element in play here: Julie’s attachment to the poisoned animals. This is a girl who assumes all bonds are temporary, who’s famously well-defended against loss. Her divorces were strangely painless; she skipped away from them, demanding no money, no car keys, nothing. The weekend after our father’s funeral, she sang in and won a karaoke contest at a supper club. She took the job at the rescue farm not out of pity or tenderheartedness, but because the vet in charge was a family friend who didn’t hold her history against her.
“You call me as soon as you hear from her,” I say.
“Kara’s flying up from Utah tonight. She thinks Julie’s probably crashed at some motel, crying things out.”
“This isn’t wedding jitters? That farm must lose animals every other day.”
“I know what you’re saying. Your sister’s changing, Ryan. Stuff affects her now. Pray for her, okay?”
“I never stop,” I say. “Put Mom back on.”
I finish my beer while I wait. It tastes like mucilage, that glue that’s used to paste photos into albums.
“Is it raining there?” my mother says.
“It never rains. It’s the desert. About this dog story: I don’t buy it, Mom.”
“Portland’s not the desert.”
“I’m in Nevada. This wedding is being rammed down Julie’s
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