Pontoon by Garrison Keillor Page B

having just promised to drop his grandma’s ashes in a bowling ball from a parasail, his friend Sarah was standing behind him, slipping her arms around Kyle’s waist. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. You must have been really really close to her. I remember when my grandma died. I was sixteen and it really tore me to pieces. She died in Tampa and I rode a bus all night and all day to get down there and my parents got really mad at me but I couldn’t help it, I had to be there. Her name was Hermione. She collected seashells. She played the piano.”
    Kyle unclasped her arms from his waist and headed for the kitchen. She followed, reminiscing about the death of her grandma. Sarah was like that. Anything that happened to you reminded her of something in her own life, however remote the connection. If he had mentioned Raoul, she would’ve remembered a Raoul, or maybe a Ramon, or a Newell, or maybe the Sun God Ra, and she could yak about it for as long as you’d let her. You were never at a loss for conversation with Sarah. She could talk for both of you. That was the nice part about having sex with her—she mostly shut up and you had a little peace and quiet.
    He poured himself a cup of cold coffee and put it in the microwave and lit a cigarette. She hated cigarette smoke. It made her sick. He blew a little her way.
    “That is just so incredibly sad,” she was saying. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to die? I mean, actually? I just can’t even comprehend it. It must be terrible.” She was trying to put her arms around him again and he slid between a chair and the refrigerator to block her and then crouched down and pretended to look for something in a low cupboard.
    “Was she alone when she died?”
    He nodded. “I think that she was ready to die,” he said. “I think she was actually looking forward to it. People come to that point where they’ve lived long enough and everything around them starts to seem weird and they go, like, Okay, I’m done now, get me out of here.”
    It was bullshit, but he liked to b.s. her, it kept her off balance.
    Kyle wasn’t set on Sarah. Not at all. They had hooked up at a Super Bowl party, in somebody’s apartment. She was cleaning up during halftime and he pitched in and washed dishes and when he said, “God, football is boring,” it endeared him to her, and the dishwashing too, and the bridge to couplehood appeared. She invited him home and they snuggled together and did stuff that felt good and the bridge to couplehood was crossed. It was a convenience, it saved time looking for a date, and then they moved in together to save on rent. An economy move. He was happy trying out the idea of couplehood so long as she didn’t take it as the first step to the Big M, which of course she did. Probing questions: “How do you feel about me?” she would murmur over the cornflakes. “Tell me the truth.” Or “Where do you think we’ll be two years from now?” Or “What do you think is the best age to start a family?”
    “Well,” he said, “unless you adopt, you have to start them at zero and let them grow up from there.”
    Big looping hypotheticals to which he could only shrug and make up an answer.
    Still, it was better than the panicky groping in high school, in some parents’ basement, the girl scared and yet egging you on, saying no no and yes yes at the same time and wanting to be violated and also to keep her innocence, pulling, pushing, pleading, protesting. Sarah was all for it. She said, “I want you.” She still did. Pulled him into bed and got the show on the road.
    “When is the funeral?” said Sarah. “Not a funeral. A memorial service. And it’s on Saturday.” He had to test his parasail. The shroud lines needed refitting. Last time he flew, it tended to drift sideways. And he wanted to paint eyes on it. He built it from a kit with money Grandma gave him a year ago to go to Europe. “Go see the world while you’re young,” she said.