If Nothing Else, by Robbie Pieschke

After hosting a robin on the balcony for the first three months of her occupancy, Simone affectionately referred to her apartment as “The Nest,” imagining the apartment to represent a little piece of mother earth among the city’s concrete—sincerity amongst the synthetic—and now, after three years of graduate school, she was—appropriately, though not without resentment—leaving it.

“In my defense,” she started while stripping the walls of their picture frames, her phone tucked tightly between shoulder and cheekbone, which was, as of late, red with acne, “our home town had a newspaper when I started.”

“I know it did,” said Stephanie on the other end in London where she lived with her especially handsome husband. “Mom should’ve made you take more computer classes.”

“I feel homeless.”

“There are worse last resorts than Chet’s house. It’s right on the lake, and he’ll probably buy you alcohol.”

“Yeah, that won’t be weird—getting drunk with Chet. We’ve met him, what, twice?”

“He’s nice enough.”

“He’s the last resort.”

“Well, I’m glad you found a place,” Stephanie said in a descending tone that would bring the conversation to its conclusion.

“Same.”

“I know it’s not what you had in mind, but it’s only three months. Free rent and you’ll get a lot of reading done by the lake. Besides, he is family.”

“He’ll be here bright and early.”

“I’ll call you everyday.”

“You better.”

Simone closed her phone and walked through the apartment she could no longer afford, packing away the collected sentimental pieces of her past and the imagined idealistic pieces of her future into bubble wrap. She savored the deep-cherry hardwood floors, the spacious extra bedroom, the omniscient view of the city from the oversized balcony; they were just perks, she told herself, and the perks never paid their half of the rent. Her last night at The Nest was spent staring out into a city that never came through for her, trying to crystalize the view into what would soon be just a memory. As for The Nest, it sat naked and emptied of life and color and the scent of existence.

Chet was early the next morning—uncomfortably early. Still in underwear and a t-shirt, Simone was taping a box that read “Journals—Not Fragile” when she heard his soft knocking, a knocking that would hurry the cathartic goodbye she imagined. Stretching into a sweatshirt and shorts, she unbolted the door and, after kicking the box marked “Journals—Fragile”, greeted the stepfather she had gone long without.

“Hey, Sims.”

She had previously forgotten: he had wide glasses and a thin face with a puffy mustache. He was slender, a swimmer in college, she remembered. He was sufficiently unassuming, mostly quiet, but hardly familiar enough to use their family’s affectionate nickname. Her mother once complained about Chet being “a teensy bit sexist” and that his humor was, what she called, “purple when he actually spoke up.” She saw something in him in the winter of her life, “it” she called it, but it was lost on Simone. Sims, she repeated in her head and scoffed.

While they maneuvered through her boxes, which were like debris floating in an ocean, books and clothes and dishes, she thanked him again for picking her up, assuring him that he would hardly know she was there.

“It’s the least I could do, Sims,” he said and, with his long and thin forearms tightening, lifted a box of Russian novels, the cardboard flaps framing withered yellow pages of Anna Karenina. “Let’s try and beat the morning traffic.”

The drive through Michigan was pleasant enough. When the keys weren’t taping like wind chimes against the interior of Chet’s CRV, they spoke of summer movies and the weather—neither quite comfortable, nor confident, in discussing weightier issues, not at this moment anyway, the early stages of a summer spent with a stranger.

In the days to come, Simone reported to Stephanie that Chet’s house, a cottage on the lake, was overly extravagant for a widower, but she was content to enjoy its amenities. The artificial stone siding, the lavished drapes, the mighty windows, she reported to Stephanie, were a bit unnecessary, but who was she to judge? She mentioned that her loft was comfortable and the private bathroom accommodating.

It was quiet in that cottage, and Simone spent most of her time in the loft looking out onto the beach and collecting her thoughts in a journal (thoughts both of the fragile and not fragile variety). She told her sister over the phone that Chet was far from intrusive and he often walked into town without even telling her, as if he had forgotten she was there. He smoked his pipe on the beach, and she occasionally joined him, but their conversation never amounted to more than small talk. After several weeks, Simone wondered if they would ever get beyond the formalities of houseguest and host, or if he would remain distant. Perhaps he was still, after three years without his wife, grieving. She could understand that, which, to her, was why distance was all the more disconcerting.

He watched his language around her, she suspected out of respect to her mother, yet there seemed to be a desire for both of them to scale the walls of their relationship, if only to peek over and see what was on the other side.

Finally, on Independence Day, Chet unexpectedly invited Simone into town to watch the fireworks. She hesitated, initially declining, then at the last minute changed her mind and rushed out to meet him, but they walked in silence.

As they neared the harbor, Simone heard the echoes of automobiles crossing the bridge and the murmuring engines of boats slowly ducking under it. The waves whispered to one another and occasionally collided; the crowd seemed to be doing the same. They were drinking and yelling, celebrating, but Simone and Chet carried their lawn chairs without words. Their feet were sore from the long walk, but they seemed afraid to say so.

The first stars started to shine as if emerging from the womb of daylight whilst the sun finally set. There was a brewing excitement, a tension that seemed to spread throughout the crowd. Streetlights lit and boats became like fireflies skimming the lake, and the crowd was thickening, spreading blankets on the manicured lawn above the docks.

Suddenly, a string of light, like electricity, shot up into the atmosphere from just beyond the small sea. It burst into colorful pieces like shattering glass and disappeared in its descent. A subtle soundtrack from speakers nearby sang, “America, America, God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good in brotherhood from sea to shining sea,” undertones to the piercing explosions in the sky.

Several minutes into the ceremony, Simone noticed an elderly man wearing overalls with no undershirt and a bandana with stripes and stars. He sat alone on a grassy patch just before the concrete surrounding the docks. It appeared that Chet had noticed him as well. The man was weeping, his arms resting on bended knees and hands folded in front of his long white beard.

She wanted to make mention of him to Chet, and she sensed that Chet wanted to comment on the man as well. There was a look of reserved concern in Chet’s eyes when they hesitantly met Simone’s, but instead of commenting on the man, he looked back up to the sky and said, “Ouuuuuuu!” as a purple firework blossomed like a flower into the night sky. The next stream of energy rocketed into the darkness and burst away from its nucleus into a shower of bright orange.

Simone joined him this time, “Ahhhhhhh!”

They continued this childlike progression as if chanting and smiled at the fourth of July sky throughout the ceremony and through to the finale. Only a thick haze remained after that final moment, and as it cleared she asked, “We never really figured out how to be a family did we?” The question started with a small quivering We and a more confident family, as if the question itself would solve the problem. The final we burst like a firework.

“I guess we never really had the chance to be one,” he said, intent on folding his chair. Then looking back up at Simone he said, “I’m glad we’re getting a second crack at it.”

She lifted her chair and they began the long, though not entirely rigorous walk back to the cottage. “These fuckin’ shoes hurt,” she said as they exited the harbor.

“Fucking shoes,” he said.

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Next on The Hindsight Bridge: Paul Walter Hauser gives us "Where Have All The Gentlemen Gone?", a romantic comedy about women scouring the streets and Internet to find their male counterpart. When the dating process takes a nosedive, a mysterious romance rears it's head from the unlikely - but what happens when we see behind the curtain? Where have all the gentlemen gone? Were there any to begin with? Be sure to check back on July 11, 2011 for more.