The Leisure Seeker: A Novel by Michael Zadoorian Read Free Book Online Page A

entertainment.”

    “It is?” says John, rolling a toothpick in his mouth.
    John didn’t know that I packed the projector and a big box of slides. At home, in our basement, there’s a cabinet stacked with trays of slides—vacations, family reunions, weekend outings, birthday parties, weddings, new babies, everything that’s ever happened to us. At one time, John was quite the shutterbug. He was our official family photographer.
    It’s a balmy night, and I like the idea of watching slides outdoors like at a drive-in. A floodlight has just ticked on nearby, so it’s not so dangerously dark. I leave the lights on in the van, which spreads a warm glow over our campsite yet is still dim enough to use the projector that I have John lug to the picnic table.
    “How you doing out there, John?” I yell out to him.
    “Where’s the screen?”
    “Uh-oh. I forgot to bring one. I’ll get a sheet.”
    I rummage around in our little cardboard storage chest and find a bunch of them, orphans left over from sets that wore out long ago. I’m not prepared for how they make me feel. Seeing these old sheets right now, rubbed so smooth, washed hundreds of times over the years, I can’t help but think of my life, or at least my married life, in terms of linens: the spotted stiff white wedding gift linens of our first hungry years together; those same sheets yellow with urine from Cindy climbing into bed with us; the pastel sheets I picked out after eighteen or nineteen years of marriage (that time where early components of a union need replacing—mattresses, radios, towels, all falling apart at the same time—reminding you of just how longit’s been); those same replacement sheets following us into middle age; then newer striped cotton-blend linens from the outlet malls we would encounter on the road (the luxury of three or four sets to choose from), taking us into deep middle age, then agedness, these last linens now softened to silk by constant scrubbing, lately soiled by John’s gradual lack of hygiene, the smell of an unwashed body preparing itself for a long slumber.
    I think of my closet full of linens at home being sold at an estate sale. When I used to go to the sales, I never even considered buying anyone’s linens. Old sheets are just too personal, too full of dreams.
    I pull out an old white sheet, almost worn through, that will suit our purposes nicely. I step outside to find John at the picnic table, quietly weeping.
    “John, what’s wrong?”
    He looks up at me, eyes red and wet, brimming with frustration. “Ella, Goddamn it. I can’t get this thing started.”
    It disturbs me to see him cry. “Sweetie, it’s all right. Let me see.” I look around and find that he has plugged the extension cord to the outside outlet, but has not connected the projector cord to the extension cord. “It’s okay. You just forgot to plug this in.”
    John lifts his glasses, uses the heels of his hands to wipe his eyes, pressing hard into the sockets. “ Goddamn this memory of mine.”
    I kiss my husband’s cheek and hand him a Kleenex from my sleeve. “Come on. Let’s watch some slides.”

     
    It’s a long sunset over Lake St. Clair. Our daughter, Cindy, is lounging on a dock in her middle teens. We can see only her silhouette, her then-new young woman’s body set against the sky, which is fiery orange and gold with streaks of periwinkle. The colors seem artificial now, sharpened red with time, hyper-real like the colors of my dreams, on those occasions when they are in color. (As old as I feel, I’m sometimes surprised that my dreams are talkies.) It was a cottage where we spent many summer weekends, one that we shared with my brother and sisters and their families.
    “Who’s that, John?” I ask, testing him. “Do you know who that is?”
    “Of course I do. It’s Cynthia.”
    “That’s right.” I’m holding the remote button. I click to the next slide. There is a shot of the four of us all together, a lovely