If I'd Known You Were Coming

The Whole World

2 1 The Whole World They were in a grid of identical beige houses, against a sun-browned hillside, a muted blue sky, cloudless, still. They were stopped at a four-way stop, Bill sorting out the next turn, trying to go from memory. There was a kid’s bike discarded on a weedy lawn. A dog sniffing at an overturned trash can. The air was hot and dry and smelled of horse manure, though there wasn’t a horse in sight. Roxanne shifted in her seat then pushed a button that locked the doors, then another button that rolled up her window. Bill had put the top down despite her protests. “This place is a firetrap,” Roxanne said, more to the window than to Bill. They’d been out the night before and Roxanne had stayed over 2 2 T h e W h o l e W o r l d at his condo in the marina. He wasn’t sure why he invited her to this party—a kid’s party—but he had, and now here she was in his car, in the same short black skirt and sleeveless purple top of the night before, her perfume turned tart. It had been years since Bill had done this drive. Usually Marty came to him. Bill pulled a map from the glove box, ignoring the show Roxanne made of moving her knees out of the way, spreading her legs apart. He wanted to keep Roxanne from asking after Marty’s wife, Lorrie, so he went ahead and told her how Lorrie had taken off when their daughter was seven. “I’ve no interest in children, either,” Roxanne said, as if this were a perfectly appropriate response. When Lorrie left, Marty—always lacking in imagination— was stunned. Bill had needed to stop himself from saying, “Good for her!” He asked, instead, if there was a note. No, no note, but she’d taken the car and had already been gone two days and three hundred dollars was withdrawn from their account at a branch in Utah. Utah! She really was gone. Gone and with no intention of coming to Bill. The party was for their daughter, Lorrie and Marty’s daughter: Caroline. It was her sixteenth birthday. “You really don’t have to come,” Bill said again, though they were nearly there. “Oh, no,” Roxanne said, slipping her hand under the map, groping him. “I want to meet your friends.” The party was in the backyard and the kids, Caroline’s friends, were standing around the kidney-shaped pool, wet and shiny, their parents perched on the edge of lawn chairs, a few mingling in the shade of a browning magnolia tree. It had to be 100 degrees. Except for the pool, the house looked more run-down than ever; the stucco was cracked open near the back door, the back porch leaned away from the house, and the pool was a touch more green than blue. Marty and Lorrie had lived in this house together. Marty refused to move after she left. The rent was too good, he said, and Caroline loved the pool. T h e W h o l e W o r l d 23 Bill pulled his jacket off—linen, but he didn’t want it getting musty. They stood at the edge of the driveway until Marty spotted them and came over, his hands full with two plates: one of raw burger patties and the other draped with wilted lettuce. “Bill! Of course,” Marty said. “An hour late is only fashionable .” “That’s me.” Bill took the plate of lettuce. “This is Roxanne.” He motioned to her bare arm, realizing now, in this suburban context, just how low-cut her shirt was. Marty went to offer his empty hand, but Roxanne leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. This was Roxanne. They followed Marty over to the grill, which was smoking heavily, the air thick with hickory. Roxanne slipped off her heels and moved barefoot over the grass. Bill had tried to fix Marty up, but he always refused. He was still the more handsome of the two of them: his features stronger, his shoulders broader, but he was graying more rapidly and his boyish shyness that women had once read as charming now suggested weakness. Bill was short and soft in the wrong places, but he’d learned to wear his money well. Bill was happy just to hang around...