Well, that’s good. I’m never sure what’s in that garage.”
“What coolers?” Dad asks.
“The ones in the garage,” I say. “You know, in the storage area? Once in a while you guys really ought to take a look at what’s out there. You might find something interesting.”
Dad tilts back his wineglass. “Like what?”
“Like Renny’s bike.” There’s a moment of silence running between my parents. “The Schwinn,” I add.
“The Schwinn?” Mom mumbles as she holds a forkful of rice in midair.
“Don’t you remember? Red road bike? She got it when I got my Raleigh?”
“You girls had quite a few bikes over the years,” Dad says.
“Yes, but this was her last one. It was called a Paramount.”
Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d remember it if I saw it.” She looks away.
“I didn’t know we still had Renny’s old bike,” I say. “I thought you gave it to the thrift shop ages ago when you took mine there.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t,” she says, with that little edge in her voice that sometimes comes out when she talks about Renny. She glances at my father. “Doyle, would you please pass the butter?”
“The bike’s a mess,” I tell them. “Really dirty and rusty. The salt air’s gotten to it. I couldn’t believe it was out there all this time. I took it to the Bike Peddler to see what they can do.”
“Are they going to fix it?” Dad asks.
“I think so. I’m waiting for them to get back to me.”
“What are you planning to do with the bike?” he says. “If they can fix it, I mean. Are you going to take it back to New York? Is it safe to ride a bike there?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. I don’t have a lot of room in my apartment, but I’m not going to put it back in the garage. It shouldn’t have been out there in the first place.” I look at Mom.
She frowns at me. “So what are you saying? That the bike was my responsibility?”
“I’m just saying, once in a while you should take a look at what’s in the garage. If you did, you would have seen that it was getting ruined.”
She drops her fork, and it hits the plate with a clank . “I didn’t let it get ruined on purpose, if that’s what you’re implying, Grace. Why would I do that?”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m just saying it was out there and nobody bothered to notice, and now it’s ruined.” I reach for the butter and knock over my wineglass, one of a set Mom found tucked away in some shop, antique crystal from Prague. The glass shatters, and red wine spreads across the table, toward Renny’s empty seat. Mom throws a napkin over the wine, and I run to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels.
“Sorry about the glass,” I say as I finish mopping up the spill.
“It’s all right,” Mom says, a resigned expression on her face.
My father’s sitting in his seat, but he’s not looking at me. And he’s not looking at my mother. He’s studying the mural over the fireplace, those yellow hills, that green river. Maybe he wishes he could walk into it as well.
It’s only ten o’clock when I go upstairs to my bedroom. I turn on the bedside table lamp, and the light hums through the shade, a quiet amber glow. I fold down the white coverlet, climb into bed, and lie between the crisp sheets, my head half-buried in the soft pillow.
The wallpaper, with its pink rosebuds, wraps me in a gentle embrace, and I remember the day Mom took me to Accents, a home decor shop that used to be in town, and I picked out that paper. I was in ninth grade, trying to decide between rosebuds and daisies. I chose the rosebuds because they reminded me of the roses that grow on the trellis behind the house.
I gaze at the bookcase across the room, the bottom shelf lined with poetry anthologies. The book with the gray cover summons me, and I cross the floor and pull it off the shelf. Back in bed I find the poem, but as I read the lines I realize I don’t need the book because I
“What coolers?” Dad asks.
“The ones in the garage,” I say. “You know, in the storage area? Once in a while you guys really ought to take a look at what’s out there. You might find something interesting.”
Dad tilts back his wineglass. “Like what?”
“Like Renny’s bike.” There’s a moment of silence running between my parents. “The Schwinn,” I add.
“The Schwinn?” Mom mumbles as she holds a forkful of rice in midair.
“Don’t you remember? Red road bike? She got it when I got my Raleigh?”
“You girls had quite a few bikes over the years,” Dad says.
“Yes, but this was her last one. It was called a Paramount.”
Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d remember it if I saw it.” She looks away.
“I didn’t know we still had Renny’s old bike,” I say. “I thought you gave it to the thrift shop ages ago when you took mine there.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t,” she says, with that little edge in her voice that sometimes comes out when she talks about Renny. She glances at my father. “Doyle, would you please pass the butter?”
“The bike’s a mess,” I tell them. “Really dirty and rusty. The salt air’s gotten to it. I couldn’t believe it was out there all this time. I took it to the Bike Peddler to see what they can do.”
“Are they going to fix it?” Dad asks.
“I think so. I’m waiting for them to get back to me.”
“What are you planning to do with the bike?” he says. “If they can fix it, I mean. Are you going to take it back to New York? Is it safe to ride a bike there?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. I don’t have a lot of room in my apartment, but I’m not going to put it back in the garage. It shouldn’t have been out there in the first place.” I look at Mom.
She frowns at me. “So what are you saying? That the bike was my responsibility?”
“I’m just saying, once in a while you should take a look at what’s in the garage. If you did, you would have seen that it was getting ruined.”
She drops her fork, and it hits the plate with a clank . “I didn’t let it get ruined on purpose, if that’s what you’re implying, Grace. Why would I do that?”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m just saying it was out there and nobody bothered to notice, and now it’s ruined.” I reach for the butter and knock over my wineglass, one of a set Mom found tucked away in some shop, antique crystal from Prague. The glass shatters, and red wine spreads across the table, toward Renny’s empty seat. Mom throws a napkin over the wine, and I run to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels.
“Sorry about the glass,” I say as I finish mopping up the spill.
“It’s all right,” Mom says, a resigned expression on her face.
My father’s sitting in his seat, but he’s not looking at me. And he’s not looking at my mother. He’s studying the mural over the fireplace, those yellow hills, that green river. Maybe he wishes he could walk into it as well.
It’s only ten o’clock when I go upstairs to my bedroom. I turn on the bedside table lamp, and the light hums through the shade, a quiet amber glow. I fold down the white coverlet, climb into bed, and lie between the crisp sheets, my head half-buried in the soft pillow.
The wallpaper, with its pink rosebuds, wraps me in a gentle embrace, and I remember the day Mom took me to Accents, a home decor shop that used to be in town, and I picked out that paper. I was in ninth grade, trying to decide between rosebuds and daisies. I chose the rosebuds because they reminded me of the roses that grow on the trellis behind the house.
I gaze at the bookcase across the room, the bottom shelf lined with poetry anthologies. The book with the gray cover summons me, and I cross the floor and pull it off the shelf. Back in bed I find the poem, but as I read the lines I realize I don’t need the book because I
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