The Vacationers

“Let’s go,” she said, without waiting for him to speak. “Car’s here.”

“Your mother is taking her time,” Jim said. “We’ll be out in five.”

Sylvia clicked the phone off and scooched her way across the backseat of the taxi.

“They’re on their way,” she said. Sylvia leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling some of her hair catch on a piece of duct tape that was holding the seat together. It seemed like a genuine possibility that only one of her parents would come out of the house, and that would be it, the whole thing wrapped up like a shitty soap opera, with no satisfying resolution.

The meter ticked away, and they sat in silence, Sylvia and the taxi driver, for ten whole minutes. When Fra

“On y va!” Fra

“That’s French,” Sylvia said. “We’re going to Spain.”

“Andale!” Fra

The taxi pulled forward.

“No, no, no,” Fra

Sylvia always liked driving to the airport, because it meant traveling through a whole different part of the city, as separate from the corner she knew as Hawaii from the rest of the United States. There were detached houses and chain-link fences and abandoned lots, and kids riding their bikes in the street. It seemed like the kind of place people drove their cars to, which thrilled Sylvia to no end. Having a car sounded like something out of the movies. Her parents had had a car when she was little, but it grew creaky and expensive in the garage, and they’d finally sold it when she was still too young to appreciate what a luxury it was. Now whenever Fra

Jim did his exercise walk around Terminal 7. He walked, or ran, for an hour every morning, and he didn’t see why today should be any exception. It was something he and his son had in common, the need to move their bodies, to feel strong. Fra

Jim had previously been to Spain on three occasions: in 1970, when he graduated from high school and spent the summer bumming around Europe with his best friend; in 1977, when he and Fra

It would be all of them in Mallorca: he and Fra

Two weeks was enough time, a good solid chunk. It had been a month since Jim’s last day at Gallant, and the days had passed so slowly, dripping in molasses, sticking to every possible surface, unwilling to let go. Two weeks away would make Jim feel like he had made a change and chosen this new, free life, like so many people his age did. He was still slim at sixty, pale blond hair still mostly intact, if a bit thin. It had always been thin, though, as Fra