Living Together

Migrating

M I G R A T I N G “We’re out of our minds to drive into Detroit at night.” Liz Grayton was waiting for her husband, Tom, to fasten her bra strap; something her own fingers, stiff and knobby, could no longer do. She was cautious, less trusting than her husband. Her family had been larger than his, and so she had endured more deceptions and deaths; repetition had its impact. “I don’t like being a prisoner in my own home.” His voice was mild, amicable. His appearance was relaxed; age and gravity loosening all that could be eased on his portly frame. This temperate manner combined with an artlessness allowed him to be candid, even blunt, without offending. In the trust department, he had been assigned the difficult accounts—women wanting to invade capital to redecorate their homes, men insisting their portfolios be jazzed up with glamour stocks. He treated them like willful sons and daughters, correcting but not scolding. They sensed his benevolence and responded. “We aren’t prisoners,” Liz said. “We were out all day yesterday.” “So why not tonight?” “That was during the day, and we were with a group.” Their suburb had a wilderness club that arranged for lectures and the occasional trip for its members. A wilderness club in a suburb suggests a paradox, an affectation, something theatrical or bogus. Not 1 0 3 so. Consigned to hundred-foot lots, why wouldn’t the residents of suburbs yearn for lectures and films on something remote and spacious ? Why would they not want to peer into caves and view the world from mountaintops even if it was only on a six-by-six-foot screen? Liz and Tom enjoyed seeing places too far for possibility, but not too far for imagining. When in winter the little redpolls and snow buntings down from the Arctic tundra appeared at the Graytons’ feeder, Liz and Tom welcomed the connection with a far land. Liz had kept her figure and her husband still enjoyed watching her dress. Self-conscious about the wear and tear of age she tried to distract him: “Didn’t you find those butterflies yesterday sad?” She hesitated over her jewelry, wondering what she might risk on a trip into the city. “What was sad about them? They were exhilarating.” A bus had taken them across the river to Canada, to a park on Lake Ontario where monarch butterflies gathered by the thousands before their migration to Mexico. It had been one of those thick autumn days with the sun making a broth of light. The park ended in a spit of sand stretching for a quarter of a mile into the lake. The orangeand -black monarchs were scattered helter-skelter over the sand; pendant on twigs; clinging to blades of grass; perched on stones that appeared strangely soft, sheltered as they were by the wings of the butterflies. The world pulsed. Every few minutes a small progress of the monarchs took flight over the lake, sometimes drifting back with the light wind, sometimes fluttering into the water. A few sailed along until they were out of sight. Liz was surprised at how she was caught up in their successes and failures. She was 1 0 4 from a generation brought up to protect, but the one person she had most wanted to shelter, their son, Jimmy, had escaped her care. From time to time they heard from friends that Jimmy had called them, either for money or just to pass the time of day. He kept in touch with these parents of his childhood friends, who were always happy to hear from him and would report, “He sounds just fine.” Liz rescued one of the monarchs from the water, holding it in her hand until the wings dried and the butterfly was airborne. She followed its flight among the reckless multitude until she saw it flutter down into the water again, well beyond her reach. “It was eerie moving among them,” Liz said. “I thought we ought not to have been there. It seemed a private thing, like a family celebration or an alumni reunion.” “I don’t think we were any more to them than walking trees.” Liz chose a lipstick. “I’m beginning to feel excited. How long has it been since we’ve been downtown at night?” “We were at Bienvenue for the Slaters’ anniversary.” “But there...