6/11/12

Do You See the Big Dipper?
By Mathieu Cailler


Jack and Polly sat on the sloping lawn, bowered by oaks, ready for the outdoor concert to begin. Around them, on blankets of their own, rested other couples, some with children, some elderly, some teenage. People sifted through picnic baskets, and pulled out pasta salad, barbeque chicken, deviled eggs, and large triangular slices of watermelon. Jack lay down on the blanket and aligned his eyes with the tops of the trees. The sun was beginning its descent, as it was seven o’clock in the evening, and Jack studied the way some of the rays trickled through the leaves and cast bright patches along the grass.

“It smells like summer,” Jack said. “I have no idea what that means, but it does, doesn’t it?”

Polly laughed.

“I know what you mean,” she said, her hand finding Jack’s atop the red plaid blanket.

Jack always loved holding Polly’s hands—they were small and soft and fit nicely inside his. Tonight, she’d painted her nails a purple color, “aubergine” she said it was. Jack thought that was what Europeans called eggplant, but he didn’t say that to her. He just continued to run his thumb through the peaks and valleys of her knuckles, listen to the wind play with the trees, and feel the breeze sweep through and allow for a few leaves to flutter to the ground, a sort of summertime snow.

“Who’s playing tonight?” she asked.

“Sax and the City,” Jack said, “you know, like last summer. I remembered how much you liked them.”

Polly squeezed Jack’s hand. “That’s so sweet,” she said.

The members of Sax and the City took the stage—the drummer in the back, the saxophonist up front flanked by the bassist and guitarist. The drummer and sax player tinkered with the amps, while the bassist and guitarist fiddled with their strings.

“Weren’t their five before?” Polly said. “What happened to the piano player? He was cute. And, oh my God, the sax player put on a lot of weight.”

“That’s the same guy?” Jack said. “Maybe he ate the piano player.” Jack slipped his free hand into the pocket of his khakis and brushed the velvet fibers of the little black box. He thought about a day down the road—maybe he and Polly would be getting ready for a night out with some friends. Polly would be in the bathroom and he’d be looking for his dressy watch and come across this box. He’d remember petting the fibers on this very night; he’d remember thinking how nervous he was, how he swept through the grocery store with a big list, how he bought the perfect blanket, and how the saxophonist had put on a whole bunch of weight. He wanted to remember everything, though—the way the trees looked, what they ate, the songs that were played, the stars in the sky.

“Doesn’t it look dressed up?” Jack overheard an old woman say to her husband.

“Doesn’t what looked dressed up?” the old man said.

“The sax,” she said, “it looks so dressed up—like it’s going out or something.”

“Marie, you tickle me pink,” the old man said.

Jack played with the box, cracked it open, and slid a finger inside to make sure it was still there. It was hard for him to believe. After all, he’d made fun of people who got married, saying they were all co-dependant, that the whole institution was out-of-touch, and that it was just invented so that the government could keep tabs on you. The idea of registering for gifts and having round balls of butter on little plates at the reception used to make him sick to his stomach. Plus, he’d seen his parents—they taught him a great deal, mostly what not to do, but still. Some might call it premature—ten months—but he knew. What was the point of waiting when you knew? He’d known since their first encounter at LAX. There was this woman who looked like she’d spent the afternoon in the tub, then lacquered herself with moisturizer, shimmied into tight black jeans and a leather jacket, and wrapped a string of pearls around her neck—a straight proud neck, the most pearly thing about her, pearlier even than the pearls themselves. Who wore pearls with a leather jacket? he thought, figuring her to a harmonious blend of Joan Jett and Audrey Hepburn. He hadn’t seen that before. She was waiting at the same gate as Jack, D7, passing time, with her legs crossed. Jack wanted to sit close enough to her so that he’d be part of her aura, but not close enough to be in her space. He plopped down with a seat in between them and set his coat in the middle, then opened the paper. Wanting to look smart and impressive, he read the “Calendar” section with “Business” close behind—in case she was one of those. When Polly turned his way, he smiled a light smile, one where his lips curved upwards but didn’t part to expose his teeth. “Are you going to read the ‘Sports’ page?” she asked. “Wanted to see how Kemp did last night—he’s having a great year.” Jack nodded. Quickly and efficiently, Polly quartered the Times. “I’m Jack,” he said. “Polly,” she answered.

“All right,” the saxophonist said, a v-shaped sweat stain on the collar of his orange t-shirt. “We’re ready to go.”

People clapped in anticipation. Jack looked at the family to his left, a family of four—a mother, a father, a boy, and a baby girl. The mother’s hair was curly and loose, and her jeans were genuinely tattered; she hadn’t bought them that way like so many Angelenos. The father wore a cap. The little boy had a sunburn on his nose, beginning to peel, and clutched an action figure: a Roman-style gladiator with two swords crisscrossed over his head. The baby girl was sleeping a deep sleep and not wearing any shoes. They looked happily disorganized. To Jack’s right were a couple of teenagers. They both wore the same type of Converse sneakers, sat on a single beach towel, and ate from take-out containers with plastic forks. Tomato sauce slathered the guy’s lips.

Polly peeked into the picnic basket that Jack had prepared. He’d ensured that there were two of everything—a Noah’s Arc of picnicking—except for champagne; he’d only bought one bottle of that, but he’d picked one with a French name that was difficult to pronounce, one that looked north of forty dollars on appearance alone.

The music started. The drummer brushed the cymbals and the bassist walked his fingers across the strings. Then, moments later, the guitarist added more rhythm. Polly and Jack listened to the steady beat and waited for the sax to come rolling through. Jack didn’t know much about jazz, except for the fact that he felt better looking and more intelligent when it lingered in the air.

He plucked the champagne from the picnic basket; the bottle was cold and icy and made his hands turn white. He took off the foil, unscrewed the wire cage, held the cork, and rotated the bottle. The old man looked over at Jack and smiled, so did the father with the family. Jack poured Polly a glass.

“To us,” Jack said.

“To us,” Polly said.

But just as Jack was about to bring out the box, the father with the family tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re making every guy here look terrible,” then laughed.

“Leave him alone,” the mother said, “You could learn a thing or two.”

Jack smiled and looked at the man’s chin; it was one of those dimple chins, like John Travolta’s. The little boy nestled himself in his father lap and slid his action figure into the front pocket of his dad’s t-shirt.

It’s okay, Jack said to himself. So much time to go. It’s early, real early. Have some more champagne. Get loose. Let Sax and City work through their playlist a bit more. It’s only song one. Polly pulled out her Greek salad; Jack did the same. They clinked cups of dressing and drizzled them on. Jack listened to the cold notes escape the sax’s bell and savored the way the sultry music swept through the warm night. He knew that Polly was the right woman for him because when he was with her, he never wanted to be anywhere else. At work, he dreamed of being at ball games, and sometimes with friends, he wished he were alone, but with Polly, he was always content, stupidly and foolishly content.

“What a cute kid,” Jack whispered to Polly, referring to the boy in his father’s lap.

“You always say that,” Polly said as the saxophonist wailed.

“It’s true, though. Hard to find a kid that isn’t cute, right? They’re like puppies: even the not-so-cute ones are cute.”

“They’re so not like puppies,” Polly said, titling back her champagne. “Kids are a whole different thing.”

“Of course, of course.”

Jack and Polly laughed more, set their champagne glasses atop the picnic basket and watched the little bubbles in the gold liquid head north and burst.

When the sax player picked up a clarinet, the old man was startled. “What in the world?” he shouted. “How did that happen?”

“Louie, it’s a clarinet. He picked up a clarinet.”

“Oh,” he said. “Thought my hearing aid was acting up again.”

Polly squeezed Jack’s hand.

The saxophonist, or clarinetist, rocked back and forth. The little boy, nestled in his father’s lap, began to clap, copying other audience members. The old man whistled a little to show his appreciation, yet soon after, began coughing wildly, prompting his wife to say, “Louie, you shouldn’t whistle so hard. You’re gonna blow something out.”

“Please, Marie—it’s got nothing to do with it. One of these damn crackers went down the wrong pipe. I told you to buy crackers with rounded corners. Why do they need to make the edges so sharp?”

Jack rested his eyes on the old couple’s hands; their knuckles were bumpy and their fingers were so swollen it’d be impossible to remove their wedding rings. Jack then looked over at the teenagers. They didn’t talk much, but they laughed a lot. On the rubber toes of the guy’s Converse high-tops, scrawled in black marker was “RC loves CB” and on her shoe was “CB loves RC,” but the shoes were new, no more than a couple days out of the box. The little boy played with the drawstrings of his father’s hoodie—braiding, tangling, pulling and tying them. When the boy saw that Jack was looking at him, he stopped, then continued when he understood that Jack didn’t seem to care. Another song came to a close, and Jack clapped. The boy turned around and did the same, even screamed a little. His mother looked over at Jack and said, “Sorry.”

“Kind of ridiculous,” Polly leaned over and whispered to Jack.

“What’s that?”

“Bringing a little kid and baby to an outdoor concert, I mean—they aren’t going to appreciate this.”

“Oh, it’s kind of nice,” Jack said. “More champagne?”

“Yes,” Polly said.

They continued to eat their salads, smile between bites, and enjoy the concert. The sun began to set, casting long stripes of red and pink and yellow across the horizon. Jack liked the way the warm colors of dusk lit Polly’s face, giving her skin an inviting glow. Sometimes, many times, actually, Jack found himself staring at her for sheer enjoyment. He imagined it was the way others must have felt when pursing an art gallery. Every feature was where it was supposed to be. He studied the little curve between her nose and top lip. He wanted to shrink himself and lie down in there, curled up like a seed. He looked at her eyelashes—fanned out and dense like a peacock’s tail. He took in her eyebrows—immaculately groomed, resembling small, mown hills, too arched, not at their best tonight, but still. He thought of the way she donated twenty percent of her salary to the poor, cared for her sick grandmother and planned to work as an environmental lawyer so that she could protect endangered species. Just then, he thought he should work that into his popping of the question—add something about how she was an endangered species. Or maybe he was, maybe it was he who was about to disappear, without her, he would say. But, a few seconds later, he vetoed that idea.

“I’m so happy to be with you tonight,” Jack placed his hand on Polly’s leg. “In fact, I’ve been happy with you for a long time.”

“I’ve been happy for a long time, too,” Polly said, a piece of arugula caught between her shiny teeth.

Jack thought this might be the perfect time to propose, but he pictured the scene after the answer—people would clap and tap their glasses with their spoons or keys or whatever, and the kid would scream, and the mother would apologize. Polly would explode into a smile. He didn’t want her to be embarrassed by a piece of arugula, so he told her about it. “There,” Jack said. “Right there.”

“Here?”

“No. There.”

“Is it gone?”

“No…lower.”

“Did I get it?”

“No…higher.”

“Now?”

“No…to the right…no, your right.”

“Did I get it?”
“I hate this game,” Jack said, leaning in and working it free.

Polly smiled.

Okay, Jack thought, time to relax, re-strategize.

The old couple hummed along with a tune. The teenagers whispered things into each other’s ears and giggled every so often, and the family with the little boy and baby girl ate sandwiches. While bad at telling kids’ ages, Jack suspected the boy to be about six, as he was clumsy, ate with his fingers, and spoke with his mouth full. The boy’s right foot wiggled and he frequently kicked his father by accident, though he did say “sorry” when it happened. The action figure now stood tall between the sodas and wadded-up napkins and, when not eating, the boy would work him around the cans and juice boxes. He was laden with armor and the scowl on his face looking menacing, as if nothing in the poor, weather-beaten fighter’s life had ever turned out.

With Polly digging though the picnic basket, Jack scanned the surroundings, discreetly pulled out the box and opened it. He blew hot breath across the diamond and shined it with his sleeve; it sat there, perky, deep amid velvet. The old man saw him and opened his eyes big and wide and winked. Jack slipped the box back into his pocket.

Should I full-name her? Jack thought. Is it too cliché? Isn’t love about clichés, though? Polly Elizabeth West? Maybe just Polly West. Should I genuflect? Not genuflect…get down on knee…genuflecting is a church thing…and I’m already on the ground. The action figure would genuflect, though, swords in hand. He wouldn’t be afraid of the concert; he wouldn’t care about the music or the perfect time. He would stand up and just say something regal and beautiful: “Milady,” he might say, “will thoust give me thy dear hand in matrimony? I, your loving man, promise you a lifetime of serenity and happiness.”

“This song is called ‘Sonny.’ It’s one of our favorites,” the saxophonist bellowed into the mic. “Everybody having fun so far? I can smell lot of good food—are those ribs?” he said, pointing to the front row. “Uh, one-two,” he said. The drummer struck the symbol; the guitarist readjusted his strap and the bassist twirled his instrument. The saxophonist tapped his foot and waited to join in.

No one but the old man who had seen the ring knew what Jack was planning on doing tonight. And many, Jack thought, wouldn’t believe it. He’d told his friends so many times that he’d get married when he was fifty, so that someone could help take care of him as he got older. Sure, he dated, but rarely returned to the same place twice. Whenever he spoke of relationships, he compared them to skiing: everyone thinks I should do it, that I’d be good at it, that it’s so fun and enjoyable, but whenever I get up there, I just don’t understand all the hype. I’m uncomfortable; my feet hurt; my face is numb, and all I want to do it get off the damn mountain. But here he was, facing his almost-fiancée, his almost wife-to-be. These were the last moments of his single days, and he wasn’t sad about it. Never again would he have to pick up a girl at eight, make small talk over Italian food, or pretend to care for traveling or musicals. He’d never have to say: “I’ll call you” or “Had a great time” or “We have to talk” or “I think we just want different things” again.

A summer wind blew through the grassy area, causing napkins and plastic cups to escape their blankets. The boy got up and chased a wrapper through the crowd, and the father got up and chased the boy, and Jack chased the father and boy with his eyes.

Jack took a sip of champagne. “You know,” he said. “I wasn’t even going to talk to you that day at LAX.”

“Really?”

“You aren’t the kind of woman a guy can just talk to, you know, without an ‘in’ or something.”

Polly laughed. Jack loved her laugh. Soft, but sincere enough to make him believe she thought he was funny.

“But then, after the ‘Sports’ page, and the fact that our seats were next to one another… I just felt it was, well, a gift, and you don’t turn down a gift.”

Polly rested her head against Jack’s shoulder. “You’re sweet,” she said, opening her wallet and showing him the boarding pass from that day. She’d been saving it. Fifty years from now, he would ask to see it and it would still be there.

“I know why they call it United Airlines now.” As soon as Jack said it, he desperately wished for a time machine, even a shoddy one where he might end up on front lines of the Confederacy.

Polly smiled, shaking her head.

“I know,” Jack said. “Polly, I’ve been wanting to ask you something all night.”

“Yes.”

Jack’s eyes stared straight into Polly’s. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the black box and angled it towards her. Her mouth opened slightly and she set her champagne down. Jack could feel the gazes of the many eyes burn into his back and face, but he didn’t move from Polly’s big black pupils that sat in the middle of a sea of blue, like nice round islands amid the Pacific. When he went to open the box, he realized that he’d accidentally placed the hinges in the wrong direction, so the box would only open towards him; quickly, he spun the black box around and muttered, “They really should put arrows on these things.” Polly smiled, placing her tongue, like she was always did, between her teeth. It seemed like a professional portrait, Jack thought, where he could only see Polly; everything else was blurred out of focus. “Polly West,” he said, though he hadn’t thought he’d go with her last name, “will you marry me?” Sax and the City played softly, complementing the moment with light chords and rhythm, nothing overpowering, just soft sounds that made Jack feel as though that he was in a romantic comedy. Polly’s eyes brimmed with tears before large drops trailed down her face. “Yes,” she said, “of course I’ll marry you!” People clapped and cheered, and the saxophonist puffed out his cheeks and chest and held onto a note like he’d never be able to play it again. Polly and Jack kissed, and he slid the ring over her aubergine nail, down her smooth knuckle and secured it to the base of her finger. Part of the diamond glinted in the last moments of day. Once again people clapped, and the couple with the young boy and girl smiled at Jack and Polly, the father even offering a remark: “I get it,” he said. “You’ll see… the champagne, the picnics…it’ll all slow down.” The wife smiled. “It did for him, anyhow,” she said, pointing to her husband. The old man and woman looked their way. “So happy for you,” the old woman said. “It’s nice for us to see that young love it still out there.” “And I didn’t say a word,” the old man said, “I knew what you were planning, and I kept my mouth closed and tight,” he smiled. “Congratulations.”

Polly scooted closer to Jack on the plaid blanket. Some of her hair overflowed onto his shoulder, and he picked up on the light papaya scent. She held out her hand and splayed out her fingers. “Can’t wait to tell my mom; she said you were a ‘keeper’ a long time ago.”

The commotion eventually settled and a little while later, the baby girl awakened from her slumber. The father had dark circles under his eyes, but a nice face, a trusting face. The mother took the girl from the baby carrier. The baby blinked as her eyes adjusted to the surroundings.

“Doesn’t she remind you of Lily?” the old man asked his wife.

“Yes, a little,” Marie said.

The teenagers only had one soda left, and Jack watched them both sip from the same can. The old couple split a sugar-free cookie. The little boy tried to whistle. The action figure was soaked with fruit punch, making him look like he’d just slaughtered a lion in the Coliseum.

Polly reached into the picnic basket and pulled out her favorite sushi rolls; she passed the other container to Jack. “You really went all out,” she said, mixing soy sauce into chunks of wasabi.

“One…two…” the mother said. “Put that down, sweetie,” she told the boy. He’d grabbed her wallet from her purse and had tossed it to the air; credit cards and change fell to the grass.

“Oh, dear,” the old woman said. “He reminds me of Lily.”

Jack leaned in gave Polly a sweet kiss on the cheek. He hadn’t noticed, but she was wearing the same pearl earrings from that day at LAX. “You know,” he said in a soft voice, “I used to seen a scene like that and tremble—the idea of being married with kids. But now, with you, I can really—”

“I know what you mean,” Polly said. “It still scares me.”

“What?”

“They change everything…your body, your habits, your finances, your sleep, everything. I just feel like too often people have kids because it’s the next step. The timing feels right—a person goes to college, meets a guy…”

“Sure, some do.”

“Look at Alan and Jessica—Jessica never goes out anymore. And she seems more intense—bossy, even.”

“I guess,” Jack said, “but it’s us.”

“And if you talk to her, it’s just swim lessons, rashes, Mommy and Me.”

“That’s Jessica, though.”

“I would never want to become one of those mothers that can’t do anything but talk about her kids.”

“You’d always be you. You’re not like other women.”

Polly nodded.

Jack studied some soy sauce saturate a few grains of rice in his container of sushi. He looked over at the family of four: the baby girl was sucking on her bottle, her eyes soft and not open more than a slit. The little boy was practicing tying his shoes two different ways: loop-swoop-pull and bunny-ears; he had more success with bunny ears. The mother smiled at Jack. She wore little makeup, but was very pretty. The old woman took out a thermos of coffee and poured two cups, and the teenage boy removed his sweater, gave it to his girlfriend and tucked his arms into his t-shirt.

“I love you,” Polly said.

“I love you, too.”

After they finished their sushi, Polly pulled out two chocolate tarts.

“Can we split one?” Jack said. “I’m not too hungry.”

“Sure.”

They split a chocolate tart—one dessert, two forks—and listened to Sax and the City. Each musician seemed to have an extra hand, and when it came time for the saxophonist’s solo, his fingers flew up and down the keys as though he was tickling his instrument. Jack looked above the band, at the sky, and watched the color shift from gray to black. The wind returned and pushed through the outdoor setting. Jack tightened his eyelids and savored the sounds of the sighing tall oaks. When another breeze came by, the little boy tossed up blades of grass that he’d been ripping up and storing in his little sweaty palms. The wind took some of them, but most ended up on his father’s face and lap. The boy laughed, so did the father, and so did Jack.

Without even talking, the old couple seemed to know so much about one another—before the old woman sneezed, the old man was there with a handkerchief, and when the old man went to his back pocket to remove his pill case, the old woman was there, waiting with a bottle of uncapped water. All the necessities could be taken care of without uttering a single word; conversation was just a bonus. The old man draped a throw blanket over his wife’s legs, one that was most likely made by their grandchildren, as it had names on it and was poorly stitched, and the old woman placed her head against her husband’s shoulder. Her gray hair made sure there were no empty spaces.

Jack no longer thought of the future, but of the present. Polly’s right, he thought…kids would change everything. It was funny as he had rarely thought of kids before, but now they loomed in his mind, seeming to occupy the blanket with him. He ran his hand over Polly’s knee, felt the thick skin under his fingers.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy,” Polly said. “I’m not sure even how to handle it. My mouth is going to be permanently stuck in a smile.”

“Me too,” Jack said.

The teenage boy was reading his girlfriend’s palm. “This one here,” he said, “this long one means you’re going to pass bio…and this here, this fat one, this means you’re going to be cute until you’re 82.”

The girl laughed. “That’s not even a line; it’s a scar.”

The mother rocked her baby girl, and the little boy lay down, resting his head on his father’s leg, eyes searching the night sky. With everyone pretty much finished eating, the conversations and noise died down. Just a smooth sax solo wavered through the warm night. The father played with his boy’s hair, brushing it away from his eyes, then towards his eyes, then against the grain, then with the grain. The boy laughed and Jack listened closely. The father took off his coat and folded it so that it could be used as a pillow and propped it under the boy’s head. “Thanks, Papa,” the boy said. “It’s warm.”

Among the gentle notes of the sax and steady hum of crickets, Jack paid close attention to the father and son.

“Look at all the stars,” the boy said.

“I know,” the father said. “Do you see the Big Dipper? Right there.” The father held out his finger and pointed to the sky.

“No,” the boy said.

Jack looked up.

“It’s a little hard to see because of the branches, but right there. Not far from the moon,” the father said, turning the boy’s head a touch.

“Oh,” the boy said, “the thing that looks like a messy kite.”

“Yes,” the father said, laughing. “And right next to it, right there, is the Little Dipper. They’re really bright tonight.”

Jack lay back on the blanket, felt the blades of grass contour to his body, savored the warm air that whispered over his face, and aligned his gaze with nothing but sky. One by one, he dragged his finger from star to star and connected the milky dots of the Big and Little Dippers, fixated on their messy, kite-like forms, amazed at how clearly they shone, certain he’d never seen them burn so brightly before.


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Mathieu Cailler is a writer living in Los Angeles, California. His stories have appeared in SleetMagazine, Two Hawks Quarterly,and Epiphany. Currently he is studying fiction at Vermont College, where he is hard at work on a collection of short stories.