TWO WEEKS LATER, Dad had a heart attack. When I got to the hospital, he was in a bed in the emergency room, his eyes closed. Mom and Lori were standing1 next to him. "It's just the machines keeping him alive at his point," Mom said.
I knew Dad would have hated that, spending his final moments in a hospital hooked up to machines. He'd have wanted to be out in the wild somewhere. He always said that when he died, we should put him on a mountaintop and let the buzzards and coyotes tear his body apart. I had this crazy urge to scoop2 him up in my arms and charge through the doors梩o check out Rex Walls杝tyle one last time.
Instead, I took his hand. It was warm and heavy. An hour later, they turned the machines off.
* * *In the months that followed, I found myself always wanting to be somewhere other than where I was. If I was at work, I'd wish I were at home. If I was in the apartment, I couldn't wait to get out of it. If a taxi I had hailed was stuck in traffic for over a minute, I got out and walked. I felt best when I was on the move, going someplace rather than being there. I took up ice-skating. I rose early in the morning and made my way through the quiet, dawn-lit streets to the rink, where I laced up my skates so tightly my feet throbbed3. I welcomed the numbing4 cold and even the jolt5 of my falls on the hard, wet ice. The fast-paced, repetitive maneuvers6 distracted me, and sometimes I went back at night to skate again, returning home only when it was late and I was exhausted7. It took me a while to realize that just being on the move wasn't enough; that I needed to reconsider everything.
* * *A year after Dad died, I left Eric. He was a good man, but not the right one for me. And Park Avenue was not where I belonged. I took a small apartment on the West Side. It had neither a doorman nor a fireplace, but there were large windows that flooded the rooms with light, and parquet8 floors and a small foyer, just like that first apartment Lori and I had found in the Bronx. It felt right.
I went ice-skating less often, and when my skates were stolen, I never replaced them. My compulsion to be always on the move began to fade. But I liked to go for long walks at night. I often walked west toward the river. The city lights obscured the stars, but on clear nights, I could see Venus on the horizon, up over the dark water, glowing steadily9.
VTHANKSGIVINGI WAS STANDING ON the platform with my second husband, John. A whistle sounded in the distance, red lights flashed, and a bell clanged as the gates were lowered across the roadway. The whistle sounded again, and then the train appeared around the bend through the trees and rumbled10 toward the station, its massive twin headlights pale in the bright November afternoon.
The train eased to a stop. The electric engines hummed and vibrated, and after a long pause, the doors opened. Passengers spilled out, carrying their folded newspapers and canvas weekend bags and brightly colored coats. Through the crowd, I saw Mom and Lori getting out at the back of the train, and I waved.
It had been five years since Dad died. I had seen Mom only sporadically11 since then, and she'd never met John nor been to the old country farmhouse12 we'd bought the year before. It had been John's idea to invite her and Lori and Brian out to the house for Thanksgiving, the first Walls family get-together13 since Dad's funeral.
Mom broke into a huge smile and started hurrying toward us. Instead of an overcoat, she was wearing what looked to be about four sweaters and a shawl, a pair of corduroy trousers, and some old sneakers. She carried bulky shopping bags in both hands. Lori, behind her, wore a black cape14 and a black fedora. They made quite a pair.
Mom hugged me. Her long hair was mostly gray, but her cheeks were rosy15 and her eyes as bright as ever. Then Lori hugged me, and I introduced John.
"Excuse my attire," Mom said. "but I plan to change out of my comfy shoes into some dress shoes for dinner." She reached into one of her shopping bags and pulled out a pair of banged-up penny loafers.
* * *The winding16 road back to the house led under stone bridges, through woods and villages, and past marsh17 ponds where swans floated on mirrorlike water. Most of the leaves had fallen, and gusts18 of wind sent them spiraling along the roadside. Through the thickets19 of bare trees, you could see houses that were invisible during the summer.
As he drove, John told Mom and Lori about the area, about the duck farms and the flower farms and the Indian origin of our town's name. Sitting beside him, I studied his profile and couldn't help smiling. John wrote books and magazine articles. Like me, he had moved around a lot while growing up, but his mother had been raised in an Appalachian village in Tennessee, about a hundred miles southwest of Welch, so you could say our families hailed from the same neck of the woods. I'd never met a man I would rather spend time with. I loved him for all sorts of reasons: He cooked without recipes; he wrote nonsense poems for his nieces; his large, warm family had accepted me as one of their own. And when I first showed him my scar, he said it was interesting. He used the word. "textured20." He said. "smooth" was boring but. "textured" was interesting, and the scar meant that I was stronger than whatever it was that had tried to hurt me.
* * *We pulled into the drive. Jessica, John's fifteen-year-old daughter from his first marriage, came out of the house, along with Brian and his eight-year-old daughter, Veronica, and their bull mastiff, Charlie. Brian hadn't seen much of Mom since Dad's funeral, either. He hugged her and immediately started ribbing her about the plucked-from-the-Dumpster presents she'd brought for everyone in the shopping bags: rusting21 silverware, old books and magazines, a few pieces of fine bone china from the twenties with only minor22 chips.
Brian had become a decorated sergeant23 detective, supervising a special unit that investigated organized crime. He and his wife had split up around the time Eric and I did, but he had consoled himself by buying and renovating24 a wreck25 of a town house in Brooklyn. He put in new wiring and plumbing26, a new firebox, reinforced floor joists, and a new porch all on his own. It was the second time he'd taken on a true dump and restored it to perfection. Also, at least two women were after him to marry them. He was doing pretty darn well.
We showed Mom and Lori the gardens, which were ready for winter. John and I had done all the work ourselves: raked the leaves and shredded27 them in the chipper, cut back the dead perennials28 and mulched the beds, shoveled29 compost onto the vegetable garden and tilled it, and dug up the dahlia bulbs and stored them in a bucket of sand in the basement. John had also split and stacked the wood from a dead maple30 we'd cut down, and climbed up on the roof to replace some rotted cedar31 shingles32.
Mom nodded at all our preparations; she'd always appreciated self-sufficiency. She admired the wisteria that wrapped around the potting shed, the trumpet33 vine on the arbor34, and the big grove35 of bamboo in the back. When she saw the pool, an impulse seized her, and she ran out onto the green elastic36 cover to test its strength, Charlie the dog loping after her. The cover sagged37 beneath them, and she fell down, shrieking38 with laughter. John and Brian had to help pull her off as Brian's daughter, Veronica梬ho hadn't seen Mom since she was a toddler梥tared wide-eyed.
"Grandma Walls is different from your other grandma," I told her.
"Way different," Veronica said.
John's daughter, Jessica, turned to me and said, "But she laughs just like you do."* * *I showed Mom and Lori the house. I still went into the office in the city once a week, but this was where John and I lived and worked, our home梩he first house I'd ever owned. Mom and Lori admired the wide-planked floorboards, the big fireplaces, and the ceiling beams made from locust39 posts, with gouge40 marks from the ax that had felled them. Mom's eye settled on an Egyptian couch we'd bought at a flea41 market. It had carved legs and a wooden backrest inlaid with mother-of-pearl triangles. She nodded in approval. "Every household," she said. "needs one piece of furniture in really bad taste."The kitchen was filled with the smell of the roasting turkey John had prepared, with a stuffing of sausage, mushrooms, walnuts42, apples, and spiced bread crumbs43. He'd also made creamed onions, wild rice, cranberry44 sauce, and squash casserole. I'd baked three pies with apples from a nearby orchard45.
"Bonanza!" Brian shouted.
"Feast time!" I said to him.
He looked at the dishes. I knew what he was thinking, what he thought every time he saw a spread like this one. He shook his head and said. "You know, it's really not that hard to put food on the table if that's what you decide to do.""Now, no recriminations," Lori told him.
After we sat down for dinner, Mom told us her good news. She had been a squatter46 for almost fifteen years, and the city had finally decided47 to sell the apartments to her and the other squatters for one dollar apiece. She couldn't accept our invitation to stay awhile, she said, because she had to get back for a board meeting of the squatters. Mom also said she'd been in touch with Maureen, who was still living in California, and that our kid sister, whom I hadn't spoken to since she left New York, was thinking of coming back for a visit.
We started talking about some of Dad's great escapades: letting me pet the cheetah48, taking us Demon49 Hunting, giving us stars for Christmas.
"We should drink a toast to Rex," John said.
Mom stared at the ceiling, miming50 perplexed51 thought. "I've got it." She held up her glass. "Life with your father was never boring."We raised our glasses. I could almost hear Dad chuckling52 at Mom's comment in the way he always did when he was truly enjoying something. It had grown dark outside. A wind picked up, rattling53 the windows, and the candle flames suddenly shifted, dancing along the border between turbulence54 and order.
The End
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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maneuvers
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| n.策略，谋略，花招( maneuver的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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sporadically
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| adv.偶发地，零星地 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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get-together
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| n.(使)聚集；(使)集合 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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textured
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| adj.手摸时有感觉的, 有织纹的 | |
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rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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perennials
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| n.多年生植物( perennial的名词复数 ) | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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gouge
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| v.凿；挖出；n.半圆凿；凿孔；欺诈 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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45
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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48
cheetah
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| n.(动物)猎豹 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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miming
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的现在分词 ) | |
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51
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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52
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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53
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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54
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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