Ginger looks at her, her eyes wet. “We all will. He was special.”
“I guess I missed that.”
“No, you didn’t.” Ginger wraps an arm around Darcy’s back. “You knew.” She holds her tightly. “You knew.”
Then the tears come. Darcy feels uncivilized. She feels foolish, but she is safe with Ginger. They are safe down in this basement, Luke’s time machine. “God, I loved him.” She sobs as she says this. “I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t ever understand… he was so lost. I kept pestering him, but I didn’t understand.”
She wonders about her makeup. She must look so ugly. “I never clapped for him. I never saw him sing the way a nice mother would. My dear, he thought about you so much after you went away. He was lost without you, and then Mr. Crowley died, and Mary Jane and I were there for each other, and he was all alone. I should have told him to go after you. I should have let him be messy with his feelings, let him tell me how he felt.”
“You loved him,” Ginger whispers.
She nods. “But I wanted better.”
They don’t say anything. They stand there in the quiet basement, and Darcy feels her anger lighten a bit. What would Luke say if he saw them there? She looks at his red drumsticks, and wishes she could give them to Ginger.
But she wants to keep them. To hold them where her son’s hands were.
20. Highways
If you fly over Connecticut in a helicopter, you might be surprised to see all the rivers: the Naugatuck, the Connecticut, the Farmington, the Housatonic. Rivers everywhere, blue and brilliant among thick green trees and spreading hills, like blood vessels splitting up the state.
Connecticut could be a dozen sets for a dozen movies because it has everything: acres of farmland, thick clusters of woods, cities and towns, bridges and houses, red and white, with stone chimneys. There are churches, tall buildings, stretches of coast with sturdy lighthouses with fresh paint, the rocky shoreline, white triangle sails of boats on the water. You could get lost looking at Connecticut.
You wouldn’t notice Wharton right away because it looks like so many small cities, but late summer is its best time, with its rows of marigolds in orange bunches in front yards, the patches of sedum and Limelight hydrangea turning pink by the elementary school. Everyone is out during this time of the year, soaking it all in. It’s almost through; this is almost it. Late August in Wharton is daring green, full blue. Late August is the Firefighters’ Carnival at Woodsen Park, with the snack bar serving hot dogs and hamburgers. Trucks parked in a neat row selling waffles and ice cream and fresh squeezed lemonade. Kids laughing as they try to win goldfish or pull a prize lollipop from the lollipop tree. Adults pushing strollers and stopping to say hello to people they haven’t seen probably since last year’s carnival. “Oh, look at you.” And, wagging a finger, “Hope to see you before next year!” You can hear the clicks of the spinning wheel from one booth or the ding of the penny pitch as the coins hit old glasses and mugs.
If you look, in the open field where the kite club usually flies kites or where the junior high kids play soccer, you’ll see the bright lights on the Ferris wheel and the slick yellow of the potato sack slide or the sea dragon ride for small children creeping in a circle. In the air is the scent of cotton candy and the last of the summer flowers: honeysuckle, roses. The Wharton firefighters are everywhere: volunteering at the dunking booth （“Oh!” as the bench collapses） or holding a spatula while sausages and peppers sizzle on the grill.
Tonight as the cars creep through town, past the Regent Theater, past Let’s Bagel, past the apartment building where Luke Crowley used to live, past the Mildred Vines statue and wishing fountain, past the Garroway & Associates building, past the Wharton Library with its drooping willow trees and green metal benches, there is a certain radiance in Wharton, and everyone who lives there wishes it were always this alive, this sparkling.
Alex and Kay Lionel stroll slowly home from the carnival. Alex looks down at the spot of mustard on his gray Ralph Lauren shirt. He shrugs and smiles and reaches for Kay’s hand. Kay wears a light cotton sweater over her shoulders and holds a caramel apple for later. She always brings something home for later, to delay gratification, and Alex pictures her standing in the kitchen in her white eyelet nightgown with her bathrobe over it tonight, slicing the apple on a white plate and bringing some to him. “What a treat,” she’ll say, and when he thinks of her now, he still thinks of her that day they met in college, so animated and beautiful, such a straight head on her shoulders. When he looks over at her, he smiles because she still looks so much the same as she did fifty years ago. When she takes his hand, he feels in her fingers something that makes him warm and grateful.