Chapter 1 HOW TO WAIT Maybe you're standing in the shadows. Near that old spruce tree, probably. Maybe needles poke the back of your neck, and there's a leash in your hand, and at the other end of the leash is an arthritic dog. She's patient, the old mutt--a little confused, perhaps, about why you've taken to standing in this particular spot at this particular time of night, but not so confused as to make a fuss. She wags her tail a few times, then lowers herself, resigned, into a sit position. Good girl. Maybe it's a Tuesday night, late September, and you're standing on the Ledge. The Ledge isn't a real ledge, not any sort of cliff. It is, instead, a tiny dip near the bottom of Schoolhouse Hill Road. Here, after a steady half-mile downward slope, the pavement rises ever so slightly before dropping, sharp and steep, into its final, vertiginous descent. When drivers hit the Ledge too fast, it can feel like the car is flying off the road altogether. Kids love the sensation: the unexpected weightlessness, the stomach drop, free fall, whoosh, like a roller coaster, almost. But you've never much liked roller coasters, have you? Besides, you're on foot tonight. And as it happens, if you pause here, the Ledge offers the clearest view of downtown Starkfield, Massachusetts, a person will find anywhere. That's where you look now: at three figures standing on the village green. No, actually; that's not quite right. There might be three figures down there, but your eyes are fixed on just one: the girl. Blue hair. Yellow streetlight. The girl brings something to her lips. Inhales. She holds her breath, count of five. When she exhales, wisps of smoke rise toward the sky. Diaphanous, that breath, like a prayer, or a spirit escaping the body. It's unclear where her breath ends and the dark night begins. The girl hands whatever she's smoking (oh, who are you kidding? You know exactly what she's smoking and you wouldn't mind a little yourself, thankyouverymuch) to one of the two guys. Tall drink of water, this kid: clean-shaven, in too-short khakis and an old-man cardigan. Looks pimply, too, with hi-tops that seem too big for his stick legs. Skinny Pimple takes the joint, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine that you're him, that you're curling your lips over the place where Maddy's had just been. You picture lipstick marks on white paper: purple, maybe, or cherry red, the color of a beating heart. Thumping music from the Flats bar, AC/DC. What is it, 10:30? 10:45? Must be damn near last call by now. Somewhere else--in Brooklyn, say, which you called home a lifetime ago--the night is just getting started. In those places, people are leaving apartments. They're stepping into the street, ready to eat, drink, dance, f***. Here in Starkfield, most of the windows have already gone black. Skinny takes a toke, passes the joint to the other guy. This kid, the one you recognize, is more compact, almost stocky, with a beard that's trimmer and darker than yours. Not a speck of gray in his. Perhaps you reach up to feel your salt-and-pepper tangle--more salt than pepper, actually--its length nearly to your sternum. You don't head down the hill, don't even consider approaching those kids. Come on, you're no dummy. You know exactly what people--neighbors, say, or even your wife--would assume if you were to get any closer. They'd think you desperate. Some middle-aged fool. A modern-day Prufrock, pathetic in his longing. But for the record, they'd be wrong: That's not who you are. It's not who you've ever been. This thing that's happening now--the thing that's brought you here tonight, and all the other nights--is something else altogether, something you haven't yet put into words. Whatever it is, it feels important, urgent. The one thing you know for sure is this: it's only on these nights, these walks, that you can finally breathe. My God. It feels good to breathe, doesn't it? A screech owl. A guitar wail. This clear, cool night. The hour is coming--if we're counting hours, we're down to the double digits now, and the clock is ticking fast--when this view won't be so peaceful. Mere days from now, an observer standing exactly where you are will be witness to a different scene entirely. But that all lies in the future. The unknown future, the impossible future. In. Out. Maybe that's when the phone call comes. The phone. Shit. Ethan jams his hand into the pocket of his fleece, flicks his phone to silent. The sudden motion startles Hypatia. The dog rises, collar jingling. Her wagging tail makes a soft swish against the branches. Ethan brings his finger to his lips, as if the animal could possibly understand. Shh, he wills. He lifts his hand, the signal to sit, and she does. Good dog. Did they hear anything, those three down there? Inside the circle of light, the blue-haired girl throws her head back, laughing. Some joke Ethan didn't get to hear. No one looks up. Inside the bar, AC/DC gives way to Guns N' Roses. Not long ago, trees would have blocked this view. When Ethan and Zo moved to town nearly sixteen years ago, a row of massive elms flanked the bottom of Schoolhouse Hill. The trees were nearly two centuries old, miracle beasts that somehow survived the Dutch elm epidemic, only to be drowned, seven years ago, in the floods of Hurricane Irene. The town replaced the elms with blue spruces, but death came for these new trees, too, just as it did for the ornamental pears that followed, and the emerald ash after that. Last year, town officials announced they'd given up on trees altogether--Sorry, folks, the climate's changing too fast, no hope for it, we're in the apocalypse now, might as well enjoy the view. Ethan sees the bearded kid take his toke. Lean in. All greedy-like. He knows this kid's name: Arlo O'Shea. Son of that dot-com millionaire from Corbury, the next town over. Back in the mid-'90s, Arlo's dad launched and sold some mediocre-but-brilliantly-timed medical website. That was back in the days when venture capitalists hurled suitcases full of cash at any idiot with a URL. Rumor has it that Arlo's dad, then still in his twenties, took in a cool $112 million when the company was acquired by AOL. Built himself an eight-bedroom home with killer views over on Mount Corbury and never looked back. Now, apparently, the lucky millionaire's son has decided to slum it in Starkfield. And for the record, he's standing way too f***ing close to Maddy. Also, the sugar maples. They're dying too. Ethan's phone vibrates in his pocket. Two calls in a row. Must be Zo, clearing her own mind of some to-do item by passing it on to him. Did you write that tuition check yet? Or: Faucet leaking again, ugh. Or: Need paper towels! Except: no. That can't be right. Zo's women's group was still at the house when Ethan left, and they didn't look anywhere near ready to leave. When the women are meeting (and let's be honest: even when they're not), Zo's not thinking about Ethan at all. When his phone comes to life a third time, Ethan takes a look: Not Zo. It's Randy. His old Bränd partner. Finally returning his calls. Damn, he really has to take this one. Ethan takes a few steps up the hill, to the far the side of the spruce. Hypatia follows dutifully. When she sits again, her back rounds, head droops, like she's an infrequently watered houseplant just barely hanging on. "Randy," Ethan whispers into his phone. He'll make this quick, keep it friendly, find out why the last couple of checks from Bränd haven't arrived. It's been two whole quarters, half a fricking year, who does Randy think Ethan is, anyway? Randy will be filled with excuses--Sorry, had to fire the finance guy, or Screw-up in the accounting software, you know how it is. Or even--maybe more likely--something that sounds like a scene from a bad movie. Sorry, was on Richard Branson's private island, some things you don't say no to. Randy's been filled with excuses ever since they met at Kenyon, which was--Ethan does a quick calculation--nearly three decades ago. Jesus. Longer than Maddy's been alive. "E!" Randy's voice in Ethan's ear is loud, insistent. "They're coming for me!" Ethan sighs. There are a few things he's come to expect from Randy's calls. First and foremost is theatrics, some kind of urgent, pulsing drama. They're coming for me. Drama: check. Excerpted from The Smash-Up: A Novel by Ali Benjamin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
