Hanging Up. Delia Ephron
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the hearts.”
“Very pretty,” I said.
“I’ll teach you,” said Maddy. “It’s really fun.”
We walked through the airport, Maddy clumping along on thick platform shoes, Isaac’s head bobbing, as if there was music in it and he was keeping time. “Isaac’s a musical genius,” she said. “He’s like hot, I’m not kidding.” She tugged playfully on his ponytail.
“Get lost,” said Isaac.
“What’s your instrument?” I asked him.
“He can play everything, bass guitar, keyboard …” Maddy thought a second. “Bass guitar, keyboard.” She put a period at the end this time. “They’ve got this group—Isaac, Aaron, Kevin, Presto.” She ticked the names off on her fingers. “I’m going to be the lead singer, and we’re going to make a demo tape. Do you think Georgia would know anyone who could help us get, you know, arrested?”
“Why Georgia? Madeline, don’t you think you should live at home?”
She ignored that. “’Cause Georgia works at Mademoiselle. Even though they only do stories on dumbos like Karen Carpenter, I thought maybe …”
“Are you going to school?”
She laughed. “When I want. Listen, Eve, we’ve got this groovy song that Isaac wrote. ‘Born Too Late for Woodstock.’ We just missed it, you know.” Her voice was pained. “If Woodstock had been this year, we would have been there. Isaac’s got some dirt from it. He bought it at this head shop. You’ll see it—it’s on the dashboard.”
“I don’t know, ask her.”
“Ask who?”
“Georgia, if she can help you. That’s mine.” I pointed at my suitcase rolling toward me on the conveyor belt. Isaac didn’t move so I pulled it off myself.
“The car’s right over there.” Maddy indicated the lot directly across. Isaac preceded us, his head still bobbing. “Isn’t he cute?” she whispered. I nodded. She squeezed my arm. “Do you believe your little sister’s going to be a rock star?”
We rode home in a car with a peace sign dangling from the rearview mirror over a mayonnaise jar filled with dirt. Isaac stayed in the car while Maddy helped me get my suitcase out of the trunk.
“Don’t ask me to go in, okay, Eve? I can’t stand it.”
“Why?”
“It’s creepy. He’s creepy.” She pulled one foot up behind her and stood there like a flamingo.
“Get going, Maddy. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Peace,” she shouted as they took off.
The house looked the same, except for the rosebushes. They hadn’t been cut back. The stalks were long, with the remains of dead blooms on the ends, pathetic yellow centers with a petal or two hanging off.
I tried the door. It was unlocked. “Dad?”
“Hey, Evie, I’m out back.”
I left my suitcase in the entrance hall and walked through the living room to the garden behind. My father jumped up from the patio table. “Evie, baby.” He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his tennis shorts and mopped his eyes. “I always cry,” he explained to the woman who was sitting with him.
“It’s true,” I said. “He used to cry when I came home from Brownies.”
“Or from camp,” he said. His mouth wiggled as he tried to get control, stiffen it up. He tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket and hugged me. “This is my Evie,” he said proudly.
“Well, don’t I know it,” said the woman.
“You do?” I said doubtfully.
“I knew she wouldn’t recognize you. Want a hint?” my father crowed.
“Sure, but what happened to your nose?”
My father touched the bridge of his nose, where there was a big scab. “I hit myself serving.” He paused. “But at least I got it in.”
“Well, that’s what matters, isn’t it?” I smiled at the woman.
“Mouthwash,” said my father.
“Oh my God, Esther.”
She was the receptionist at our dentist’s. She’d been the receptionist forever. Her hair, an assortment of browns that would be very attractive on a puppy but was unlikely on a person, was piled on top of her head in large loopy curls, and she had frosted orange polish on very long nails. I had always viewed them with wonder while she filled in the card for my next appointment.
“I’m so sorry about your mom. It’s tragic,” said Esther.
“What hap—” I saw my father put his finger to his lips, shush. I corrected, “Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Myself, I hate to fly.” She fixed some of her stray hair in place with a bobby pin. “I think it was so brave of you to get in that airplane to come home for Christmas. If that happened to someone in my family, I’d stick to cars.”
I noticed a pitcher of iced tea on the table. With real lemons floating in it. That’s great. Mom left, and Dad finally learned to make something: iced tea. He even made it with loving care, which is more than Mom ever did.
Esther poked around in her purse and pulled out a little round compact. She peered into the mirror, remade her lips, and snapped the compact shut. “I’m going to buzz off now and let you two gab. Would you like me to leave the tea and just take my pitcher home?”
“You brought that over?”
“I did.” Esther arranged the ruffles around her neckline.
“Leave it here,” said my dad. “You know where the refrigerator is.”
“I certainly do.”
She was not anything like my mother. My mother was not coy, did not wear ruffles, and would never make the words “I certainly do” into a sexual innuendo. At least I didn’t think so. But every time Mom brought Tom Winston a beer—that’s what I imagined a large, meaty science teacher drank—maybe she sat in his lap and blew the foam off for him.
My mother wasn’t here anymore. That was clear from the neglected roses. But her leaving made everything about her behavior when she was here mystifying. Not only didn’t I know who she was now, I didn’t know who she was then.
Before disappearing into the house, Esther waved goodbye by holding her hand up next to her shoulder and flapping her fingers.
“Great gal,” my dad whispered.
“Are you dating her?”
“Yeah, she’s a great lay.”
“Dad, please, I don’t want to hear about that, all right?”
“Sure, kid. Let’s go sit with the bullet.”
On the mantel in the living room was a gold-colored bullet standing straight up like the Empire State Building. John Wayne had presented it to my father when he wrote a movie called Luck Runs Out, in which Wayne played a sheriff who had to track a killer named Lucky. The year was 1956. I was five years old, and I met John Wayne on the set. There was a fake saloon and five cancan girls. “Your father’s a great writer,” Big John had said, and he patted me on the head. I always insisted I had no memory of this, because my father had told the story so many times it made me perverse, actually made me perverse by age ten, but I did remember. I had looked up at this tall man. I remembered his red neckerchief and stubble—little black hairs sprouting like grass on his cheeks and chin. I remembered knowing that this was supposed to be a really important moment. I had said, “Howdy,” which had made