Chapter Thirty
Diagram of infinity symbol, carved into fifteenth-century stone: Pictures of Mars
First known representation of the Ouroboros on a shrine of the sarcophagus of Tutankhamun: Pictures of Mars
Ophiuchus: Pictures of Mars
Diagram of DNA: Pictures of Mars
Hands making infinity symbol, photo by Margaret Vittorio: Pictures of Mars
One thing about a family business: The family and the business sit as close as me and my brothers when we’re all around the dinner table. Or as close as salt and pepper. They go together sometimes, sure. But other times, they’re best kept separate.
The point is, I asked George first, not my father.
“You want more hours?” he asked. “Not less, for school?” Around us, there was the slam and banging of pans, and the whick, whick, whick of chopping knives, and a call of hot, hot, coming through! But Dad was up front, BSing with the customers, doing what he liked best.
“More, for, like, a year?”
“Huh,” George said. “But UW in the fall?”
“Next fall.”
George let out a low whistle. “You haven’t told him yet.” Him, meaning our father, of course.
“I need some time, George. I’m not ready. And the band’s going to be recording into November, at least. Sandrine wants me around to take photos.”
“And that’s what you want to do?” It sounds like a romantic comedy featuring a pizza place, but George seriously had flour on his cheeks.
“That, and study photography next fall. I want to get better before they go on tour after the album releases in a year.”
“Awesome. You and Maurice, you got the creative genes. Me and Arthur got the pizza genes. And, hey. More hours, easy! Do you need some backup when you break the news? Family dinner?”
“Nah. I got it.” He didn’t look too sure, but I wanted to face this myself. “Hey, George? I have a question. Speaking of, you know, the pizza genes? The that’s what you want to do…Is this what you want to do?” I gestured around. Papa Angelo’s, the whole salt and pepper, together always.
He smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe, but yeah.
I always have. Me and Arthur both. It’s in our blood.
Well, it’s in all our blood, but we got some strange passion for it, too, I guess?
Dad, he likes the people. But Arthur and I, we like the pizza.
We like making it. We like making it really, really good. ”
“It’s in your blood and your heart,” I said.
He patted his apron. The triangle of pizza right there on his chest. He grinned, shrugged. “If my clothes didn’t smell like marinara, cold cheese, and charred crust, I wouldn’t recognize myself,” he said.
“God damn it, Margaret! NO!” My father slammed his fork on the table. In terms of objects to slam, it was pretty mild. It made a loud tink.
“It’s just for a year,” I said.
“And then a year becomes another year? What then? What about all you worked for? You’ll skip college over my dead body.”
“I think a year sounds like a great idea—” Mom said, tried to say, before she was interrupted.
“How many pictures does that band need? What the hell is that about? Hanging around them doing this—” He pretends to snap photos with an imaginary phone.
“I’m building a portfolio. And I want to study photography next fall.”
“Study what?”
I practiced this with Addy and Priya, and especially with Winnifred Evans.
Speaking my truth. Staying grounded in it, in his storm, or anyone else’s.
Risking it. Saying the thing, because you didn’t know what was possible when you did.
You could make new friends, or find a new career, or experience a hedgehog-haircut miracle.
“Photography. I love it. I just love it.”
“And you’re really good at it,” Mom said. Oh my God, she meant it. It sounded like she maybe even believed in me.
“If I learn and get good at it, and take some great shots on the Solar Flare tour, who knows what it might lead to.” A dream should be respected.
“Tour? Absolutely not.” My father shook his head. I told myself it looked more like Frank than anything else, that time Sandrine had to put drops in his ears. “A tour is no place for a young girl.”
“A young woman—”
“Sex, drugs, who knows what goes on.” He interrupted Mom again. “You think I’m gonna let you do that?”
Mom’s face was turning red. “First, you don’t get to let—”
“It’s not even safe,” he said. “The creeps around the music scene? All those sleazy guys looking for girls?”
“ANGELO VITTORIO!” Mom slammed both of her palms on the table, hard.
This was no tink of a fork. “Stop interrupting me. And stop interrupting Margaret.” You wouldn’t have believed it, Mars.
She was furious! I’d never seen her like that, her face so red, her eyes blazing.
Jeez. Where had that been? Maybe she’d been afraid of it herself, you know, because man.
It was a little stressful, honestly. I hoped someday she might find a middle ground, you know, between saying nothing and this anger, but it was a start, I thought.
It’s hard to explain, but I could see it starting.
Well, my father could, too, because he went silent.
Whoa, the land in front of me was entirely unknown, but I kept my voice firm, just like I’d practiced with Winnifred Evans. “This is my plan. For my own life.”
“Margaret? You don’t need your father’s, or anyone’s, permission to do what’s right for your own self.” Her voice was firm, too, now. Maybe she’d also been practicing.
The man in question pressed the back of his spoon into his mashed potatoes, making a lake.
I stepped even further into the unknown land. My mom was beside me, so I could. “Dad. You actually take away my power and agency when you do all that big man protecting the purity of the girl shit,” I told him.
“God, I wish I’d said that, Margaret,” Mom said. I felt bad for all the regret in her words, but I was also glad for it.
“I didn’t mean—I, uh, I…mean…” he stammered.
“It is,” I said. “Mean.” And more, so much more. Domineering and controlling, but he had shut up. I didn’t entirely understand what had happened, but I could see one thing. Here it was again: a shift making another shift.
And, wow—yet another one was happening now.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I couldn’t keep up with all the comments and messages.
Love is forever! said finneyl89. RIP Walt Drucker, Voyager Fan Dad, wrote dannydruck89.
Beautiful tribute! wrote Ready21Greta, and on and on…
Five thousand, ten, thirty-five thousand…
Inexplicably, the followers of My Voyager grew and grew over the summer.
Grief groups shared. Solar Flare fans shared.
After Panorama City shared, the numbers jumped to fifty-two thousand.
I didn’t even understand a number like that.
I was afraid of that number, my God. But my love for you—I don’t know.
Somehow it was larger than the fear. I was learning this about anxiety, Mars.
It was a lot like grief. It was persistent.
It came and it went and then it came back again.
It was never gone, and likely never will be.
And it wasn’t some evil outside force to fight against; it was an understandable part of me that I had to work with.
One thing I could do was let the love be louder. Let the belief be louder.
Photo of Dr. Quentin Baleaf’s waiting room
Photo of a photo: dolphins leaping
Photo of grass mat of porch reading elco
Photo of a milkshake straw
Photo of University of Washington Planetarium
Photo of a text: I miss you so much I can’t stand it.
Photo of Pelican
Photo of Tiger Mountain
Photo of a mossy glade surrounded by ferns and huckleberries
Greeting from Adelaide O’Riley, neighbor: Greetings from the folks on the dock to wherever you are, son.
Greeting from Yves Leroux Lo, water taxi driver: Hey, Grom! Hope you’re hanging loose, dude.
Music of Mars: “Frank and Jesse James” by Warren Zevon
Sounds of Mars: The splash of a girl jumping in a lake
Sounds of Mars: Bell tower with recorded chimes
Sounds of Mars: The flap of a sail
And on, and on. Music, sounds. A hundred and sixteen photos, beginning with the one of Janite holding baby you, twenty-seven songs, and fifty-four greetings.
There was one left. It was the middle of September, and it was starting to get dark earlier and earlier.
The leaves were suddenly orange again, and the air smelled like the sun leaving.
I opened my window so I could inhale the night and look at the sky.
Carl, snug in his turtleneck, looked on calmly from his frame.
I put on your blue flannel shirt. I pressed record.
After I got the sound files of all the photos from the company in Vienna, Everett helped me add them to the files of the music, the sounds, and the greetings.
Sandrine and me, we’d made the artwork for the label, a copy of the real Golden Record, with the starburst and the squiggles, and the symbol that would always look like infinity to me.
We sent it off to the place that custom-made the lathe-cut vinyl records.
We waited.
While we did, on a whim, on a chance to connect, to make a small shift or a big haircut miracle, I gathered up all the photos and sounds and sent them to the email address Sandrine had given me.
You never know, I thought. It was important to say the thing, whatever it was. Just, Janite might like to have them, too.