a bus to Detroit and get the plane. It cost a hundred bucks.”
“A regular hero.”
Olaf turned away, set his chin back on his chest. The sky sparkled with stars, lightening and darkening simultaneously as it got later and the moon rose.
“Your mother wanted you to play the piano,” Olaf said.
Noah sneered incredulously, nearly stood up to leave.
“She did,” Olaf said.
“What difference did it make who played the piano?”
“None,” Olaf said. “I’m just trying to remember.”
“Why are you doing this? You can’t even face it now, can you?”
“Chrissakes, Noah.”
Noah had to clench his teeth to keep from saying more.
When, one night early in their relationship, Natalie had asked Noah how his mother had died—they were eating oysters and drinkingPimm’s at a place out on Marblehead Beach—Noah had said loosely but with conviction, “Of a broken heart.”
His mother had, in fact, died of heart failure, of a heart attack brought on, Noah always imagined, by an excess of longing.
“They called you on Saturday. You got to port on Sunday morning. You didn’t get back to Duluth until Thursday. For four days you knew how sick she was, and still you didn’t get home? And somehow you were a hero for getting on a plane?”
“It’s not that simple,” Olaf said.
“She was dying .”
“We didn’t know that then.”
“Are you kidding me?” Noah stood up, walked to the edge of the water, picked up a rock, and threw it out into the lake.
“I didn’t expect her to die, Noah.”
“What did you expect, huh?” He threw another rock into the lake and turned to face his father. “We were fucking kids.”
“Your mother and I, we were hardly speaking to each other by then.”
“You had two kids, too. Did you forget about us?”
“I didn’t forget about anything.”
“You know what?” Noah said, stepping back toward his father. “That only makes it worse. We needed you and you weren’t there. You were never there.”
“The story is a lot more complicated than you remember,” Olaf said.
Noah dropped back into the chair and ran his hands through his hair. “What part of the story am I forgetting, Dad? All we wanted was for you to come home and tell us that the world hadn’t ended, that’s all you would have had to do.”
“The world ended long before that night,” Olaf said.
Noah heard a note of resignation in his voice, a pitiful, sad, thoughtful timbre that he’d never heard before but that he didn’t quite believe. “Don’t you get it? Mom had just died. Whatever tragedy you suffered shouldn’t have mattered. It still doesn’t matter. You had a responsibility, and you blew it.”
“Do you think I’m sitting here ignorant?”
“I think you’ve always believed that what happened to you was more tragic and more meaningful than anything that ever happened to anyone else. And that’s wrong. You just couldn’t shake it, that’s all, you lugged it around like a yoke and nothing else mattered. That’s what I think.”
“You’re dead wrong about all of that. Dead goddamn wrong.”
“Then tell me why you weren’t there. Tell me why you disappeared. Tell me why Mom never had a funeral.”
Olaf looked squarely at Noah, a face full of regret if Noah judged right. “I still have her ashes,” he said.
“What?”
“They’re in the shed. They’re stowed away.”
Noah was dumbstruck.
“I can’t tell you why I wasn’t there, Noah. I can’t tell you why I disappeared or why your mother never had a funeral. I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”
“They’re in the shed?”
“I never knew what to do with them. What are you supposed to do with your wife’s ashes?”
Noah had no idea.
They sat quietly for a long time. The night was stunning, cooling, the sky bursting with stars. Noah watched his father doze off, his chin on his chest. Twice Vikar stood and went to the shore to drink, and twice he came back to Olaf’s feet.
Eventually he thought
“A regular hero.”
Olaf turned away, set his chin back on his chest. The sky sparkled with stars, lightening and darkening simultaneously as it got later and the moon rose.
“Your mother wanted you to play the piano,” Olaf said.
Noah sneered incredulously, nearly stood up to leave.
“She did,” Olaf said.
“What difference did it make who played the piano?”
“None,” Olaf said. “I’m just trying to remember.”
“Why are you doing this? You can’t even face it now, can you?”
“Chrissakes, Noah.”
Noah had to clench his teeth to keep from saying more.
When, one night early in their relationship, Natalie had asked Noah how his mother had died—they were eating oysters and drinkingPimm’s at a place out on Marblehead Beach—Noah had said loosely but with conviction, “Of a broken heart.”
His mother had, in fact, died of heart failure, of a heart attack brought on, Noah always imagined, by an excess of longing.
“They called you on Saturday. You got to port on Sunday morning. You didn’t get back to Duluth until Thursday. For four days you knew how sick she was, and still you didn’t get home? And somehow you were a hero for getting on a plane?”
“It’s not that simple,” Olaf said.
“She was dying .”
“We didn’t know that then.”
“Are you kidding me?” Noah stood up, walked to the edge of the water, picked up a rock, and threw it out into the lake.
“I didn’t expect her to die, Noah.”
“What did you expect, huh?” He threw another rock into the lake and turned to face his father. “We were fucking kids.”
“Your mother and I, we were hardly speaking to each other by then.”
“You had two kids, too. Did you forget about us?”
“I didn’t forget about anything.”
“You know what?” Noah said, stepping back toward his father. “That only makes it worse. We needed you and you weren’t there. You were never there.”
“The story is a lot more complicated than you remember,” Olaf said.
Noah dropped back into the chair and ran his hands through his hair. “What part of the story am I forgetting, Dad? All we wanted was for you to come home and tell us that the world hadn’t ended, that’s all you would have had to do.”
“The world ended long before that night,” Olaf said.
Noah heard a note of resignation in his voice, a pitiful, sad, thoughtful timbre that he’d never heard before but that he didn’t quite believe. “Don’t you get it? Mom had just died. Whatever tragedy you suffered shouldn’t have mattered. It still doesn’t matter. You had a responsibility, and you blew it.”
“Do you think I’m sitting here ignorant?”
“I think you’ve always believed that what happened to you was more tragic and more meaningful than anything that ever happened to anyone else. And that’s wrong. You just couldn’t shake it, that’s all, you lugged it around like a yoke and nothing else mattered. That’s what I think.”
“You’re dead wrong about all of that. Dead goddamn wrong.”
“Then tell me why you weren’t there. Tell me why you disappeared. Tell me why Mom never had a funeral.”
Olaf looked squarely at Noah, a face full of regret if Noah judged right. “I still have her ashes,” he said.
“What?”
“They’re in the shed. They’re stowed away.”
Noah was dumbstruck.
“I can’t tell you why I wasn’t there, Noah. I can’t tell you why I disappeared or why your mother never had a funeral. I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”
“They’re in the shed?”
“I never knew what to do with them. What are you supposed to do with your wife’s ashes?”
Noah had no idea.
They sat quietly for a long time. The night was stunning, cooling, the sky bursting with stars. Noah watched his father doze off, his chin on his chest. Twice Vikar stood and went to the shore to drink, and twice he came back to Olaf’s feet.
Eventually he thought
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