In the summer of 1981 or ’82, or it could have been ’80 or ‘83—or each and every one of those years—I traveled, alone, by air, to the western side of our country. Before boarding the plane, a flight attendant would place a large plastic sign around my neck that read UNACCOMPANIED MINOR in big bold letters. Every passenger who walked past my seat on the plane patted me on the head and called me a little dear. I did not care for it at all.
The story below isn’t about that; it’s about a young boy traveling alone to visit his estranged father in the Maritimes (not exactly what I was doing on those flights back then). The story is called “Reunion”, which is the name of a terrific short story by John Cheever—also about a boy visiting his estranged father. The similarities end there. But it is not by mistake that I called my story “Reunion”: it’s a nod to the Cheever story. I wasn’t consciously thinking about it when I wrote my story, but I was thinking about it after I had written it and was searching for a title. I initially misremembered the story, and found my way to a story by Grace Paley called “Wants”. That one is about a reunion of a different sort: this time between a divorced wife and husband. In fact, I conflated the two stories for a while and couldn’t find one or the other on my shelves until I straightened myself out and remembered that they were two separate stories.
The Paley story begins:
I saw my ex-husband in the street. I was sitting on the steps of the new library.
Hello, my life, I said. We had once been married for twenty-seven years, so I felt justified.
He said, What? What life? No life of mine.
Grace Paley gets a lot right in every one of her stories. And this one, in just a few short pages, gets so much right, and says a lot by saying a little: it’s about marriage and activism and aging and art and literature and even libraries—and you know how I feel about libraries. Something I love about the dialogue here, and elsewhere in Paley’s fiction, is what is implied between the lines. So much it turns out—just like real life!
The narrator, near the end of the story says: I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up.
An evergreen promise, sadly. We, as parents, make a lot of promises. Some grander than others, and so many of those promises are out of our control.
Funny, I sat down to write a few words about the Cheever story, but after rereading both, I was reminded just how much I love Grace Paley.
I wanted to share this little story of mine below because I was talking with a friend recently about how I think of my stories as being in conversation with some of the stories I’ve read and loved—whether consciously or not. And that’s a little bit of what’s going on here with my story.
One time after picking up my mom from the Halifax Stanfield International Airport, the wiring to the rear wiper on my old Volvo caught fire and smoked and sizzled all the way into the city. That has nothing to do with any of this; it’s just something I remembered while writing this story. It felt, at the time, completely unsurprising—perhaps even apropos.
Anyway, here’s a story called “Reunion”. I even made a postcard to go with it!
Will felt his cheeks flush as nearly everyone in the airport terminal turned and looked at him as he walked through the sliding glass doors. His father, Dean, was shouting his name and pointing. Dean was wearing a chauffeur’s cap and holding a cardboard sign above his head that had the words WILL REID, ESQUIRE written on it in black marker. Will didn’t know what esquire meant, but he was too shy to ask. He hadn’t seen his father in almost six months, not since his father had moved from Ontario to Nova Scotia. This trip was part of a new custody arrangement that Will had only learned about days earlier.
Good morning, his father called out as Will inched closer. You must be Willy Reid, Esquire! I’ll be your driver today!
Will looked up and smiled shyly as his father removed the “Unaccompanied Minor” lanyard from around his neck. He’d been forced to wear it because he was nine years old and traveling alone. He didn’t like the attention the lanyard had elicited on the plane: almost every person who walked by his seat patted him on the head after noticing it. His cheeks remained hot and prickly for the duration of the flight.
Dean tossed the lanyard and the piece of carboard with Will’s name on it into the nearest trashcan. Will had been hoping to keep both as souvenirs of his trip, but he said nothing to his father, and only smiled up at him.
I have to see a guy about a horse when we get out of here, said his father. But after that, I’m all yours.
This was an expression his father had been using for as long as Will could remember. Dean always had to see someone about something.
Will nodded and looked down at his shoes. One of his laces had come undone and he bent down to re-tie it. When he stood back up, his father was gone.
It took Will a few worried seconds to find Dean. He was on the other side of the luggage carousel helping a young woman with her suitcase. Will watched his own suitcase go past three times before his father said good-bye to the woman and called Will over.
With Will’s suitcase finally in hand, Dean led the way out of the airport and to his car. It was parked in among a long line of taxis. All of the windows were down and the lights were flashing. As they approached the car, a cab driver yelled at Dean for parking in a taxi-only zone.
Dean indicated his cap and pointed at Will.
I’m a chauffeur, he said impatiently. And as you can see, I have a very important client here.
He put his hand on Will’s shoulder and guided him toward the car.
Listen, buddy, I’m just saying you can’t park here, said the cab driver.
Yeah, yeah, said Dean. We’re leaving.
Well, don’t do it again, said the cab driver.
Dean’s expression hardened.
Fuck you, he said.
He pushed Will’s suitcase through the open rear window of his car and walked around to the driver’s side. Will stood outside the car, hesitating. At home, he usually rode in the back seat, but he was not at home now, and he knew the rules were different with his father. He glanced at the cab driver who was watching and shaking his head.
The front passenger door of the car opened from the inside and Dean’s hand waved Will in impatiently.
Get in before we get a ticket, he said, glaring through the windshield at the cab driver.
Dean turned on the radio and pulled away from the curb before Will even finished buckling up his seatbelt. As they passed the cab driver, Dean slowed down long enough to give him the finger before speeding off, tires squealing on the asphalt.
Once they were on the highway, Dean took off his chauffeur’s cap and tossed it onto the back seat. The wind coming in through the open windows blew Will’s hair in front of his eyes and made him feel dizzy. His father said something but Will couldn’t hear him over the sound of the music and the wind.
The Beatles or The Rolling Stones? his father asked again, shouting over the music.
Will shrugged, not quite sure what the question actually was.
Personally, said his father, I prefer The Stones but this Beatles’ tune is one of their best.
He turned the volume up even higher and then mimicked pointing a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Will looked out the window and saw a horse lying in a field. He wondered if it was dead, or just sleeping.