The Shortest Distance Between Two Women (44 page)

Emma forced them out of the yard and into the wide alley to protect her plants and flowers, and after less than an hour of the joyful madness each one of the adjoining neighbors came out and asked if they could also join the loud fun. Some of their children were in bed but the adults really, really, really wanted to play Kick the Can like they did when they were kids and they opened up their yard gates so that the game extended into their backyards as well.

Joy, of course, instituted a rule that required a pause every twenty minutes to get drink refills, and knowing what was about to happen the following day, no one said a word or tried to stop the breaks.

Robert cranked up the outdoor fire pit and when they ran out of food Marty had pizzas and sandwiches delivered and absolutely no one cared that it was not a weekend evening, that it was unlikely that the bus driver would actually be able to drive them home, or that someone might laugh at them if they found out what they had been doing for three hours in Emma’s neighborhood.

Just after midnight Rick had the good sense to start the coffee machine and sit with the bus driver who kept assuring him that he’d be fine as long as someone could point him in the right direction. He was, of course, lying through his fake teeth. The man had not stayed awake past midnight since 2001.

Emma’s yard and house were finally depressingly quiet just before two a.m. One of the gay guys finally admitted that he could drive the bus and dropped everyone off and then graciously allowed the exhausted bus driver to sleep in their guest room.

And then Emma was alone.

She did not bother to lock the front door, which she rarely
locked anyway. She turned off all the lights but the one above the kitchen sink, which she always thought of as the heart light of her home, poured herself a lively glass of earthy Chilean carmenère, and went out to survey her now quiet, but rather debris-lined, yard.

Emma stepped down from the porch and saw paper plates in little clumps as if they had gathered together for protection, and noticed that one pile was dangerously close to the brazen red hot pokers, there were discarded beer cans propped up under shrubs, a pizza box sat gently on top of one birdbath, someone’s shirt straddled two lawn chairs, and there in the middle of everything was the lime green dress that made Emma laugh out loud every time she saw it.

Where was the rock-laden can that was used during the game? Emma moved off the steps and walked up one row and then down another in her garden, trailing her fingers through cool leaves and flowers as she looked for the magic can as if her hand was dangling off the edge of a boat and skimming the water.

The can was not in the yard and Emma walked towards the gazebo and felt a swell of loneliness that took her breath away because of the quiet, because when she closed her eyes she could still hear everyone laughing, shouting, and screaming with unexpected pleasure and surprise. Her eyes were closed when she stopped under the gazebo and tucked the memories of everything that had happened during the past few hours, days and weeks inside of her heart. And when she opened her eyes she saw the can and it was right where Marty had placed it moments before she had left and kissed Emma on the lips and said, “I love you, babygirl.”

The can had already become a new Gilford memorial object that would never be auctioned off but that would be used again and again and always kept in a place of honor at Emma’s house. That undisputed fact had already been decided.

Marty had known she would come back here to say good night to her gardens. She had known Emma would walk around and then come look for the can. She had known Emma could not simply go to bed.

She had known.

Marty had anticipated this night, this moment, the second Emma would close the front door, wave good-bye and then switch on that soft light above the kitchen sink.

She knew.

When she finishes reading the letter, Emma picks up the envelope and a photograph flutters to the top of the table. She holds it up to the neighbor’s yard light and immediately smiles. It is a photo of her and Marty taken just days ago at the wedding, arms linked, similar smiles, heads turned in the same direction.

Emma picks up the letter and the picture, grabs two blankets and a pillow off her porch swing, and strolls through her gardens until she decides on the gracious and extraordinarily lovely ferns. The hardy perennials have never let her down, are always one of the last to fold inside themselves when the temperature dips, are the ones, so she thinks, who spread the word to the other plants about how important it is to thrive on organic fertilizer.

Emma makes herself a bed so that the ferns are dancing right above her head, a gregarious tangle of gorgeous green, and she places the letter under the pillow and slips the photograph into the top of her bra so that it sits directly over her heart, and then falls asleep like an overfed baby.

And in the morning what she notices when she opens her eyes,
as a jagged leaf gently dances in her hair and the photograph slips out of her bra, is how absolutely close she was standing to her mother when the picture was taken.

Immeasurable space.

Closeness.

The shortest distance between two women.

Then she laughs, and the neighbors who are weary from playing Kick the Can half the night wonder why Marty is back at Emma’s so early. Perhaps they think, when they hear the laugh again, she has never left.

And then Emma gets up, walks purposefully towards her kitchen trailing Marty’s white scarf like the fine tail of a kite, and heads directly towards the answering machine and the telephone that is sitting on top of it.

This is not a game for the weak of heart. This is not a game for those who are afraid and who do not like a challenge. This is a game of daring, fun, and wild chance, and it also helps if you cheat a little when the first person kicks the can. How exactly to do this will eventually come to you, like any great thought.

The game is best played at night. It can be played during the day and this is a great way for younger players to learn, but the excitement and danger of the darkness—that is what makes this game fun. Well, if you happen to be related to adults who are a little off the wall, that works also.

Any modifications of this game are totally acceptable as long as all the participants agree on them before the can is kicked. It also helps to wear dark clothing, have a light meal and a power drink, and to be kind of sneaky.

It’s fun to be It in this game too, so if you think you lose if you get tagged … think again. Just like everything else in life, this game is not always what it seems. Also, you can change anything, bend the rules, make participants wear non-optional clothing … Most of the time none of us have any idea what we are doing, which actually helps in this game—and most other places as well.

Ready?

1. People

2. An empty can

3. Darkness

4. A wide open space

1. Pick some poor fool to be It.

2. Find an area or home base for the can that is about the size of a little car.

3. Agree on a spot for the jail where the people who get caught will hang out while the game continues. Some adults like to locate the jail near beverages.

4. Have Mr. or Ms. It stand in the center of home base, cover both eyes, and count to 50.

5. Everyone else run, run, run and find a place to hide before It says “Stop.”

6. It must now try and find those who are hiding, call out a name, and then beat him or her back to the can. If It tags you before you can kick the can, off to jail you go until the can is kicked by someone else and you can sneak out of there.

7. The point is not to get captured and to kick the can.

8. When everyone is in jail, the first person caught is the new It unless you want to pick the person you caught cheating.

9. If none of this makes any sense, just put a can in a circle, have everyone but one person run like hell, hide, and then have the one person try and tag everyone else.

Uncle Frank initiates empty-beer-keg-throwing contest.

Aunt Janet passes out when her ex-husband, Jimmy the Greek,

attends the reunion with her second cousin, Gloria the Slut.

Beard-growing contest a smashing success. Best idea ever: blindfolding judges who had to braid one contestant’s beard to another.

Everyone came back. Even with this Korean War mess and the boys signing on and the uncles wearing their Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine hats from the last damn war.

Impromptu talent contest includes everything from Cousin Francine walking on her hands across two picnic tables to Uncle Dell whistling “Strangers in the Night” with his back turned because he was needlessly embarrassed.

Avoided a very close call when Cousin Jack’s son, Bill—a police officer—discovered a mess of teenagers, a few aunties, and that
damn Grandpa Harold smoking marijuana in the men’s bathroom.

N
ote
Send Bill a thank-you note for not arresting anyone, especially my daughter Joy, who is now grounded until she is fifty years old.

Just when you think things might slow down, we set a record for the longest reunion. Sixteen people spent the night sleeping under picnic tables, on picnic tables, and inside the shelter.

What are the chances the same Gilford would get struck twice by those now-banned Lawn Jarts? Cousin Freeman is limping, but fine.

It seemed like a reunion but it was Louis’s funeral and what a grand celebration of his life it was, and all this information, all these pages of notes, helped us plan the arrangements.

This group of Southern-bred and mostly out-of-place liberals spent most of the day saluting slain President John F. Kennedy. Tears, laughter, joy, sadness, and so much anger we ended up roping off some trees and had wrestling matches.

Uncle Frank’s wife, Stella Ann, also decided to throw the uncooked chickens and invented a wild game call Wing Toss. This is clearly a marriage made in the clouds—can’t wait to see what their kids come up with in ten years or so.