The Long Road

By Lynne Kathryn Cote and Raffael DiLauro

FOR READER'S GUIDE visit: www.lynnekcote.com
The Long Road sets thirteen stories in a world too often less than kind. A world which includes Butte, Montana and New Yorks Hudson River Valley, a Manhattan apartment and a Florida airport, a small college town in Pennsylvania and a hospice in New England. The characters are affluent and poor, young and older, black and white, married and widowed, immigrant and long bred American. For some, their regrets and the burden of their haunting histories are too great; but more often Cote allows for hope, for the everyday of carrying-on. Her twists and turns, and surprise, add a suspense to both ordinary and extraordinary circumstances; and carefully crafted, layered metaphors -- as exemplified in the cover story of a man and a woman, and a dog and a kitten, walking the long road to divorce -- bring a surreal quality to this debut collection

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 1, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462849444

Lynne Kathryn Cote

Lynne Kathryn Cote began her schooling in Melbourne, Australia, but spent most of her growing up years in Colonie, NY. She is a graduate of Albany College of Pharmacy, Union University. During her twenty year career as a pharmacist, she has been recognized for her expertise in palliative end-of-life care. She lives in Connecticut with her husband, John.

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Copyright © 2006 by Lynne Kathryn Cote.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2006904561

ISBN :      Hardcover      1-4257-1698-9

                 Softcover         1-4257-1699-7

                 Ebook         978-1-4628-4944-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

The Long Road

Dinner on Thursday

Our Gangster

A Way with Words

The Art of Mothering

One-Eye

Danielle’s Story

A Vagrant at the Door

Four Sons

Friends for a Very

Long Time

The Depth of a Well

A Trilogy of Sorts

Happy Hours

Acknowledgments

For John Russell, and For Alison Felicia

The Long Road

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A man, not particularly handsome, tall, or well built, and a woman, equally as average, walked down a road. A long road without a defined beginning. A road that was at its worst two years back—potholes and flying-up chips—until it was stripped and resurfaced, and now passable.

There was some conversation, mostly token crusts of courtesy, between them as they walked; at times the man a step ahead, at times the woman. They asked if the other was thirsty or hungry, or had his or her legs cramped, or did his or her breaths feel too labored to continue. More than once they tried to stop, but there was no bench to sit on, or shelter in which to wait. So they kept on, whether the sun shined or clouds rained.

Around a horseshoe bend, the only bend, with their bodies taut and sharp edged, curving into the landscape, they shared a mental checklist of reminders. It took less than a minute. When the man got to Is the pantry stocked? a question requiring a mere yes or no, the woman rattled off packages of this and dozens of that. Then she reached out, tripping, regaining her balance, to give the man’s sleeve a tug.

Utilities?

Paid up, he answered.

Fire extinguishers?

Two, he told her.

She said there was a first aid kit.

Where?

In the downstairs vanity.

Good enough, he thought.

When night came, they realized they had neither sleepwear nor anything clean and unwrinkled for the next day, so even then they did not stop. What was the point if they did?

A dog and a kitten walked with them, but they had nothing to give the prancing, sniffing creatures, not even a pet. Shoo, shoo, the woman said lamely several times; but she was not annoyed when there was no response, no turn about, no high tailing it home, because if they had to decide about the dog and the kitten, they would. They could.

Animals are never as difficult as children, the man remarked in an ordinary way, which made the woman wonder, to herself, why they’d had the children. It had been expected of them, but they should have known and said No. Oh well, she thought, too tired, too ambivalent, for more than superficial regret.

Will we be there by morning? she asked the man, because she had not worn comfortable shoes. He’d been smarter, more prepared, thinking about it longer.

No, it’s a lot farther than we first imagined, we’ll have to walk through another night, the man replied.

The woman sighed and removed her shoes; barefoot would be painful but not unbearable. And for the first time she realized, then became amazed, that she had no need for a toilet, nor had the man excused himself to pee behind a tree. She spent a mile puzzling over the matter of elimination—the signature smells, the revelations of the stains—then looked around for the dog and the kitten, to watch them excrete in a spot they preferred. She wanted to be reassured that at least for some life forms, what went in, whether good or harmful, came out.

The man noticed her searching and told her the animals were gone. The last he’d seen of them they had scampered away toward a barn, lopsided with side slats missing, in the middle of a used-up field. He supposed mice and bugs and scraps came with the barn.

That’s a relief, said the woman. And she said scampered was a cute word, and the man looked pleased.

When the next night came, colder than the last, the sky starless, the moon a sliver, they said good night to each other although they were still walking. Before dawn it started to snow—odd for July. The flakes frosted their hair and coated their lashes. They blinked excessively between their exchange of worried looks: The snowplow man! Had they left his telephone number? What if he wasn’t home, eager for the unexpected work, instead away on a vacation to where it wasn’t snowing? But there was nothing for them to do, and for a few steps the man and the woman walked side by side, brushing their heads, wiping their eyes.

When the road ended, when there was no place to go but straight on through a prickly wooded area, the woman reminded that she was barefoot.

The man was confused. What did that mean?

It might be easier to turn back, said the woman.

Can you get the shoes on?

I don’t think so.

They called out, their voices like crackling ice.

They paced the edge of the woods, not looking in and not looking away, dodging with quick torso jerks a lone errant twig irritating their path. The wing of a butterfly, oranges and pinks, was caught on the end. The puncture was life threatening, but the butterfly lived, fluttering its free wing incessantly.

Finally the woman sat down on a rotting stump and let the ants scurrying out frolic in the folds of her skirt. The man took off his shoes, admitting to blisters.

To them hours passed, but according to any clock, it was less than half a one, before they heard a crushing of brush and a goddamn over the prickling branches; before a chubby midget, dressed to the nines, literally jumped from the woods, snapping the butterfly-tipped twig to the ground.

He was so little. The man and the woman laughed and touched hands. Surely he couldn’t be why they came.

Taking folded papers from a vest pocket, the silk braid trim fraying at one corner, the midget laughed back: You called ahead.

Sobered, the man and the woman allowed questions about the house, the cars, the furnishings; about bank accounts, mutual funds, and pensions. The man gave the answers. The woman agreed without speaking.

After they signed, which they did because they’d walked so far and the midget was so amiable, the woman admitted to the children, the ones they’d been expected to have. The man blushed, embarrassed he was not the first to show concern.

She explained the oldest was a girl of fourteen, bright beyond her years, capable of caring for the other two, ten and six, even though they were both boys.

Perfect spacing, the man said.

The woman looked his way.

With rushed syllables and a nervous muscle in one cheek bulging and twitching, he added, It made sense you see, the four years between.

There was an awkward pause. No one saw the sense, not even the man. He tried a shrug and a smirk, to say, Hey, these things happen.

The woman, tasting her lips long dried of any passion, dropped her eyes. On the ground were her bedroom memories, splintered into a meaningless, sullied pile of debris. On top lay the butterfly, finally dead.

The midget buffed the tops of his wingtips, Italian leather, with a square of soft ecru cloth. Done, he referred to his own checklist, a preprinted three-part form, pressing hard with a gold monogrammed pen. Had they left enough food? Was there available heat, and cooling, and paid-up gas? Electric? Telephone? How handy were the fire extinguishers, the first aid kit, the emergency numbers?

The man and the woman relaxed. They had done the right things. Then there was mention of the snowplow man.

Well, no one expected this weather, the midget said, without writing an additional note. He told them he saw a lot of this, and it usually—although he conceded to a few tragedies—worked out okay.

That’s a relief, said the woman.

When the midget was gone without a sound, leaving them unsure as to when and how, the woman, her soles and heels stinging, put back on her shoes. The man checked his blisters then did the same.

They said good-bye but did not immediately part. For they heard a bark, a wait-a-minute shout. They looked in all directions. In one, a fog was descending. In another, a river was rising. The third had already fallen to another starless night. Again the bark and again they waited, until, from a drought carved knoll, the clay earth cracking, down trotted the dog and the kitten, separated by the tear in the ground between them.

Shall I take this one? the woman asked, cradling the kitten into her chest.

Sure, go ahead, said the man, walking away backward from the woman, and from the kitten, with the dog sniffing and prancing and appearing happy and well at his side.

Dinner on Thursday

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The counters were spotless, rubbed to a shine, and barren; the lime green Formica nothing more than a useless strip connecting major appliances. The sink was empty, Ajax white. There was no scent of a spice or an herb. No scrubbed potatoes, no soaking beans. The window fan rattled annoyingly, and inefficiently. Flies peeked in then flew to somewhere more promising.

It was a late summer day in Central New York. A day my brothers and I assumed would become an ordinary yesterday—remember, Mike did lifeguard duty at the town pool from ten until two—remember, Jason and I shoveled out the barns of Nana and Grandpa Ed Chambers, relieved early because of the heat—remember, Nana’s bad knee was acting up—remember, it was a Thursday, so we were miserable.

If Mom didn’t have the car, I’d go to Pete’s and get some subs. That was Mike speaking, the only one of us who could drive.

Jason said, We could bike it, but you’re dreaming if you think she’d let a store-bought sandwich be our dinner.

Shit, I blurted. I hate these f’ing Thursdays.

Nice mouth, Mike sneered.

I smiled inside. Being recognized as having a nice mouth by Mike, the master of all masters when it came to colorful vocabularies, was a significant promotion for me. As the youngest of the three Klauf boys I was always trying to catch-up, only to find that my brothers had moved on to exciting new territory. Maybe with a nice mouth, they’d wait for me.

Then Mike agreed he was dreaming, which didn’t matter anyway because it was too friggin’ hot to bike the four miles to Pete’s Sub Shop, the only place we ever got subs. Besides when Mom comes home, I’m outta here.

You weren’t here last Thursday, Jason complained, and he and Mike shared I-dare-you looks.

I said, Shit, again, which for some reason greatly amused Jason, and lightened the mood enough for me to say, Hey, Jas, do the skit. Jason had this one-man skit he did, just for Mike and me of course, about Mom and Nana Chambers. It was so funny, we never considered it disrespectful.

Being a ham, he started right in, as usual with a very good, although exaggerated, impersonation of our mother. With his eyes wide and not blinking just like Mom’s when she spoke seriously, he mimicked, I consider preparing food for my family both a duty and a privilege. A pleasure. A joy. He danced about, smoothing his chest as if an apron bib hung there, then he pantomimed a hug and a kiss, which brought Nana Chambers into the scene. And because Nana and Grandpa Ed owned a dairy farm, he carried on about soda and sugary fruit drinks, about decaying teeth and weak bones. His finale was lying on his back with his mouth wide open and his tongue hanging out, his hands pulling down air as if it was a teat.

When Mike and I stopped laughing and slapping our hands on the kitchen table, I suggested a pizza. We could get one delivered.

We have pizza on Saturdays, Jason, the rule follower, said, referring to the fact that my parents made two large rectangular pizzas together Saturday nights. Dad kneaded and stretched the dough. Mom was in charge of the toppings.

Shit, I said for the third time. It felt good.

I’d love a beer, said Mike.

Yeah, right, Jason and I said together. If Dad found a beer missing, he’d ground Mike for many months to come.

We could call Dad and ask if he’ll stop by Pete’s on his way home, I said. He might go for that. We could remind him a submarine sandwich contains all the major food groups. Bread, meat, dairy, vegetable, even a fruit, if you think about the tomato. It could be a surprise for Mom. My voice was a little excited. I thought I had a really good idea.

And what happened the last time we tried a Thursday dinner surprise? Jason asked. He the wise elder, me the ridiculous child.

He didn’t expect an answer, so I didn’t give him one. It was never a good feeling when I thought too much about that last time and the several surprise attempts before that. In fact, it was a floating away to where there was no-land-in-sight kind of a feeling. It was the feeling that you had done something terribly, terribly wrong. So wrong, Mom’s voice was shaky as she said she didn’t understand the problem, and her moves were hesitant as she went about making her own idea of a meal, leaving our surprise untouched on the lime green Formica as a reminder of our indiscretion. And so wrong, Dad gave us don’t you guys ever do that again looks as we stumbled around, setting the table, pouring milk into glasses, trying to make amends.

When did all this start anyway? This Thursday night crap. Sweat trickled at Mike’s temples and had already marked the underarms of his T-shirt.

Jason looked up and closed his eyes, the way he always did when he was searching for a correct answer. I just shrugged, keeping to myself a gray tinted memory of stirring in my Road Runner pajamas; of being groggily aware of middle-of-the-night anger; of going downstairs in the morning before my brothers, in the leftover fog of what I thought was a bad dream.

Mom, her face unfamiliar, was smoking a cigarette. I’d never seen that before, so I kicked the floor. She continued to puff ever so casually, the cigarette her intimate friend, as she looked at Dad and me, strangers in the room, through hard eyes in a blotchy face. When I started to cry, only Dad—I could feel his heart racing beneath the flannel of his shirt—comforted me. Don’t worry, everything is the same. Nothing has changed, he said. The only lie in that came some years later, and only on Thursdays.

On Thursdays, Mom forgot about her duty and privilege; about the pleasure and the joy; about the nutritious needs of her family. The result, the reason we were miserable that day we thought naively as ordinary, was a hollow effort of no sense. Thawed cold peas heaped next to slices of nitrite-laden meats. Or uneven slabs of grilled eggplant barely softened, unseasoned, bitter. Or boiled potatoes left whole and a bottle of ketchup. Or cereal. Or sticky mounds of rice. Sprinkle some sugar on it, she’d say.

Somehow we ate our plates clean because Dad did. And he talked with Mom and smiled—as if Thursday dinner was a Friday dinner of crisp fish sticks and fries, or macaroni and cheese, creamy and sharp, crushed Ritz crackers baked on the top; or a Monday dinner of rigatoni and huge soft meatballs soaked in sweet red sauce; or a Tuesday, or a Wednesday, with chops or broiled chicken; as if there were warm rolls consuming a stick of butter among us, and a green salad, no radishes please; as if there was a pudding or a cobbler for dessert.

Once when filing to the table, Mike came through the doorway with If this is some kind of punishment, I’d like to know what the hell I did. Of course, because we weren’t allowed to swear in front of Mom, he was ordered from the room, banned from the meal, which was just fine with him. And once, when Mom left to answer the telephone, Jason, the goody-goody, murmured, Much more of this, and she’ll kill us, which made Dad bang the table hard. But mostly he was sympathetic, reminding us in a low tone Thursday mornings to eat a good lunch, slipping us candy bars after the so-called dinner, or money for the Dairy Queen, an easy flat mile away. We were forbidden, however, to go to Nana and Grandpa Ed’s. They were getting on and not to be upset.

And because Dad expected that at least two of his sons would be there for dinner on Thursdays, my brothers pretty much took turns for a Thursday off. Being less aggressive with my friends than Mike, and less creative than Jason, I rarely got off—a fact that earned me neither sympathy nor praise; a fact that made me pray, mostly in church on Sundays, about a problem I could only superficially define. Still, leaving our pew after Mass, catching a glimpse of the brighter outdoors, I always had full confidence that Dad would say sometime soon, perhaps in the privacy of their bedroom, Now, Barbara, about Thursdays… And I was always a little surprised when another Thursday came without a change. God evidently thought that six great dinners each week were good