He shook his head. “I have these sores in my mouth,” he told her, indicating the contents of his basket. “This is about as much as I can handle.”
“I’m so sorry,” she told him. “Is there someone helping you?”
“My mom,” he said. “Kind of ironic, actually. She was the whole reason I came here. To get away. But when she figured out what was going on she flew in from Illinois.”
After he got sick, Harry had tried to keep the record store open for a few months, he told her. But even when his health was good he never had that much business. Once word of his illness got out—my situation,he called it—nobody came in the store anymore. He had sold off the last of his inventory a month or so back.
“Selling old vinyl records was my big dream,” he told her. “That and the Cubbies taking the pennant, and playing with a bunch of guys on a softball team.”
“Two out of three, anyway,” Eleanor said. “I’ll never forget that amazing catch you made. Nobody who was there that night ever will.”
“That was something, wasn’t it?” he said. “I can still remember what it felt like when that ball landed in my glove. I was just so amazed, all I could do was stand there.”
“We were all so happy.”
“I was a pretty terrible ballplayer,” he said.
“It’s funny how things work,” Eleanor observed. “At the time, you think it’s about whether or not you win the game. After, you figure it out. That part doesn’t even matter anymore. The great thing is, you caught that ball.”
77.
Reply Hazy, Try Again
Back when her attorney drew up the settlement papers in the divorce, the date they’d arrived at for the buyout of their farm had seemed far away, the idea of their oldest child going off to college, unimaginable. The official deadline for Cam to buy out Eleanor’s share of the farm—Al’s eighteenth birthday—was just two years away now, but it was clear that Cam would never come up with the money. Eleanor just hadn’t been able to bring herself to call the lawyer. Meanwhile, though Eleanor hadn’t set foot in her old house since the day of the event she still thought of as the Great Children’s Book Heist, her name remained on the title, alongside her ex-husband’s. The idea of forcing Cam to sell the property—knowing what that would mean to their children—filled her with dread.
It was late in February, a few days after Al turned sixteen, and Eleanor had picked Al up from school to bring her to the DMV for her driving test. In the car on the way over, she’d tried a few times to get Al talking—about school, basketball, a science project she was working on. Al had told her recently about a program she hoped to attend that summer where they taught advanced skills in computer programming, a concept as remote from Eleanor’s world as professional wrestling or bungee jumping.
“It costs a thousand dollars,” Al told her. “But I know I’m going to make a lot of money someday as a programmer. When I do I can pay you back. I’m going to have my own computer company.”
Eleanor wrote the check. She took on a job for a commuter airline that needed drawings depicting the correct manner to attach one’s oxygen mask in the event of a loss of pressure in the plane. When the airline liked that one, she did a second series of drawings, illustrating evacuation on a body of water. Her two least favorite jobs ever.
The computer school Al wanted to attend was in upstate New York. “I still don’t get the idea of sending a kid off to a place where she’s going to spend all day sitting at a computer terminal,” Cam said, when she picked Al up to drive her there. This represented more than his usual level of communication. All business, as usual.
“It’s what Al loves, Cam,” Eleanor said. She had volunteered to bring Al to camp chiefly because she knew Cam never would, but she had also been looking forward to time with her daughter in the car. She’d bring Ursula and Toby along. They’d make a family trip of it.
Al had the headphones on for much of her drive. But somewhere around the New York border the batteries on her Walkman ran out. Ursula was reading a magazine. Toby, in the front seat next to her, had been holding his Magic 8 Ball, turning it around in his hands, studying the fortunes, not that he could read what they said. Ursula did that for him.
“Are we going to stop at McDonald’s?” he asked the 8 Ball.
“Cannot predict now.”
“Will I ever get a pet monkey?”
“Signs point to yes.”
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Eleanor said to them. She had been thinking about this ever since the Vermont border. Now felt like the moment.
“It’s looking like your father might not be able to come up with the money to buy out my half of the farm,” Eleanor said—her voice even, no evidence in it of the anxiety she felt addressing this topic. “I hope he can, but it’s a lot of money for him. He might not manage it.”
“What are you talking about?” This was Al speaking. Instantly on her guard. All three children had learned long ago that conversations in which their mother got onto the topic of their father and money meant trouble. No doubt Al was wishing she’d brought an extra set of batteries along on the trip so she could get back to playing music on her Walkman.
“I’m going to need that money,” Eleanor said. “For you guys.”
“We don’t care about clothes and trips,” Al said. “None of that stuff matters.”
“I’m talking about paying for college, and your brother’s schooling,” Eleanor said. She could have mentioned computer camp but knew that if she did, Al would only say she didn’t really want to go anyway. She would not put it past Al to jump out of the car. As it was, her older daughter just stared out the window.
“Money, money, money. I’m sick of money,” Ursula said. “I just want to be happy.”
