Vacation by Deb Olin Unferth Read Free Book Online Page A

identical hallways, identical chairs, mirrored metal, the sort of place that inspires panic, requires spellbound acceptance. He had the fact of a suitcase to hold onto, and his other clutter, hat and so on, coats. He maneuvered around the right-angle objects placed in his path—counters, windows, walls. The floor speckled the floor.
    So three years ago Gray and his wife split. Who wanted to leave whom had not been overly clear, and neither of them felt clear about any of it, except they agreed that clearly he needed another place to stay for a few months, until he could secure another place to stay for a few years, until he could secure another place to stay until death, at which time his placement would be another person’s problem—not that he meant to be neglectful on that score, don’t worry, he’d arrange some dark hole to crouch in.
    It turned out there was a friend, her friend, a bachelor, who would rent Gray his extra bedroom in Brooklyn and could even set up a temporary office job for him, a low-level copyediting position at a press that specialized in brochures, alumni magazines, a line of children’s books meant for waiting rooms. Gray was qualified, and since he had been saying for years that he hated his job, hated Syracuse, loved the city, it seemed to make sense. So he went on a “professional leave” from his job and took a bus to New York.
    (He arrived on the day of a February parade. Banners and streamers strung up and floating. The bus rolled under them. Freezing paraders clapped and held up their batons. Gray stared out the window, dazed, handfuls of confetti falling from the sky. He got off the bus and went for a walk.)
    It seemed to make sense, that is, until he arrived and discovered the apartment occupied not only by the bachelor (he had had the image of two surly men keeping to themselves, deactivating the TV before bed) but also by the bachelor’s wife. Or not quite. She was almost a wife. She was nearly, approaching, had promised to be the bachelor’s wife, and she took up a lot of space with her helpful storage tips and her cheery switchboard voice and her drip-drys in the bathroom.
    So that’s how it happened: Gray installed temporarily in a spare room with a temporary office undertaking. Gray upset about one thing (receding child) and the bachelor glad about another (impending wife).
    Myers got on an airplane, an entire structure of steel coated in plastic, artificial air, stalls and slots for jamming belongings or sliding oneself into, all of it cheap and partly broken, tacked down with childproof levers.
    He seated himself on the aisle. Departed along with the rest. They were all strapped down and inventoried. There was something very old in the seat next to him—man, woman, rock, he couldn’t settle on what. He scanned the paper (Coney Island crime, high winds in the South, war). He got ready to arrive in a country he’d barely heard of, to a language he barely spoke (he’d had the college Spanish, yes, but he’d never expected to actually use it), to an unknown climate among other unknowns—because of course he was going to Nicaragua. Did you think he was going to go this far and give up? When he could go much, much farther, throw himself out of the country, embark on some dismal folkloric chase?
    The stewards asked that everyone keep track of all the trash they carried. Not only the pieces in the overhead bins but the ones beneath the seat in front of them. The bottom ones for floatation. The ones upright and locked. The ones in the liftoff and landing.
    Gray,
    Maybe I’ll come see this beautiful Nicaragua! In fact, I’m here. Yes,
I slid down your upstate slope. I arrived in the capital just tonight. Want some company? Tell me where you are. I’m ready for a good time.
    He added: And one more thing.
    I need to ask you a question about my wife.
    Gray hadn’t felt comfortable living with the bachelor and the girlfriend. He tried to keep out of the way as much as possible,