All Adults Here Read online

  ALSO BY EMMA STRAUB

  Modern Lovers

  The Vacationers

  Laura Lamont’s Life in Pictures

  Other People We Married

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Emma Straub

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  “No One’s Easy to Love” written by Sharon Van Etten.

  Excerpt from EVERY TIME THE SUN COMES UP

  Written by Sharon Van Etten © 2014 Big Deal Beats (BMI), Paperweight Music (BMI)

  All rights on behalf of Big Deal Beats and Paperweight Music administered by Words & Music, a division of Big Deal Music Group.

  All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. International Copyright Secured.

  The author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote lyrics from “You Love to Fail” written by Stephin Merritt.

  Published by Gay and Loud Music. Lyrics reprinted with permission of Stephin Merritt.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Straub, Emma, author.

  Title: All adults here / Emma Straub.

  Description: New York : Riverhead Books, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019025433 (print) | LCCN 2019025434 (ebook) | ISBN 9781594634697 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698407985 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3619.T74259 A45 2020 | DDC 813/.6–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025433

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019025434

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For my parents, who did their best, and for my children, for whom I am doing mine

  CONTENTS

  Also by Emma Straub

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: The Quick Death

  Chapter 2: Taxi TV

  Chapter 3: Eau de Goat

  Chapter 4: Unaccompanied Minor

  Chapter 5: Spiro’s Pancake House

  Chapter 6: The Big House

  Chapter 7: August in Purgatory

  Chapter 8: A Funny Story

  Chapter 9: Little Red Riding Hoods

  Chapter 10: NFG

  Chapter 11: Secondhand News

  Chapter 12: Condolences

  Chapter 13: Clap Happy

  Chapter 14: Cecelia’s First Day

  Chapter 15: Strick Brick

  Chapter 16: FOGELMAN

  Chapter 17: Wendy Wakes Up

  Chapter 18: Family Meal

  Chapter 19: Twenty Weeks

  Chapter 20: August Tells the Truth, Part One

  Chapter 21: Dead Birds

  Chapter 22: Lady Date

  Chapter 23: Elizabeth Taylor

  Chapter 24: Hot Time in the City

  Chapter 25: Working Together

  Chapter 26: Join the Parade

  Chapter 27: Wendy Asks for a Hand

  Chapter 28: August Tells the Truth, Part Two

  Chapter 29: Barbara Baker, Rest in Peace

  Chapter 30: Alarm Bells

  Chapter 31: Cecelia Winds Up

  Chapter 32: Friendship Loveship

  Chapter 33: Shear Beauty

  Chapter 34: Verbal Confirmation

  Chapter 35: And Then There Were Three

  Chapter 36: Astrid Is Ready

  Chapter 37: Couples Massage

  Chapter 38: Parents Come Home

  Chapter 39: Team Kids, Part One

  Chapter 40: The Harvest Parade

  Chapter 41: Team Kids, Part Two

  Chapter 42: Barbara Goes Wild

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Every feeling you’re showing

  Is a boomerang you’re throwing

  —ABBA

  No one’s easy to love,

  Don’t look back, my dear, just say you tried

  —Sharon Van Etten

  You love to fail, that’s all you love.

  —The Magnetic Fields

  Chapter 1

  The Quick Death

  Astrid Strick had never liked Barbara Baker, not for a single day of their forty-year acquaintance, but when Barbara was hit and killed by the empty, speeding school bus at the intersection of Main and Morrison streets on the eastern side of the town roundabout, Astrid knew that her life had changed, the shock of which was indistinguishable from relief. It was already a busy day—she’d spent the morning in the garden, she had a haircut appointment at 11:30, and then her granddaughter, Cecelia, was arriving by train with two suitcases and zero parents (no school bus accidents there—just a needed escape hatch), and Astrid was to meet her at the Clapham station to bring her back to the Big House.

  * * *

  —

  The bus hit Barbara just after eleven. Astrid was sitting in her parked car on the inner lane of the roundabout, the verdant circle at the center of town, adjusting her hair in the mirror. It was always the way, wasn’t it, that one’s hair always looked best on the day of a scheduled trim. She didn’t wash her hair at home unless they’d gone to the beach, or she had been swimming in chlorinated water, or some foreign substance (paint, glue) was accidentally lobbed in her direction. No, Birdie Gonzalez washed Astrid’s hair every Monday and had done so for five years, before which it had been washed by Nancy, at the same salon, Shear Beauty, which was located on the southeastern side of the roundabout, in the quarter circle between the Clapham Credit Union and Susan’s Bookshop, kitty-corner from Spiro’s Pancake House, if you peered through the open sides of the white wooden gazebo at the grassy island’s center. The professional hair washing was a relic from her mother’s generation, and an affectation that her own mother had not possessed, and yet, there it was. It was not a pricey indulgence, if weighed against the cost of proper conditioner. On every eighth Monday, Birdie also gave Astrid a trim. Nancy had given slightly better haircuts, but Birdie was better with the shampoo, and Astrid had never been vain, only practical. Anyway, Nancy had retired and Astrid hadn’t missed her. Birdie was from Texas, and her parents were from Mexico, and Astrid thought of her as human sunshine: bright, warm, sometimes harsh, but always good for one’s mood.

  It was the end of the summer, which meant that soon, from Monday to Friday, Clapham would belong to the year-rounders again. Kids would go back to school, and the summer inhabitants would go back to being weekend inhabitants, and life would return to its quieter pace. Astrid inspected her skin for spots. Ticks and skin cancer were the twin fears of anyone who spent time outdoors in the Hudson Valley, certainly for those over the age of t
wenty-five. In the rearview mirror, Astrid watched Clapham go about its morning routines: Women with rolled-up yoga mats plodded slowly out of the municipal hall, well-off summer residents strolled the sidewalks, looking for something to buy that they had somehow missed during the last three months, locals sat drinking coffee at the counter at Spiro’s and at Croissant City, where every sixty-five-year-old man in Clapham could be found with a newspaper at 7:30 A.M., seven days a week. Frank, who owned the hardware store, which sold everything from window fans and fresh eggs to batteries and a small collection of DVDs, was standing beneath his awning as his teenage son pulled up the iron gate. The small shops that sold T-shirts and sweatshirts that read CLAPHAM in large block letters didn’t open until noon. The fanciest clothing store on Main Street, Boutique Etc?, whose name Astrid had always found both grammatically and philosophically irritating, opened at noon, too, which Astrid knew because she begrudgingly bought most of her clothing there.

  Astrid let her eyes wander to the eyesore, the bête noire of every Clapham resident, both year-round and summer interloper—the unwieldy, trapezoidal building that had been empty for a year, the large space inside totally bare except for things abandoned by the most recent tenant: a ladder, two cans of paint, and three overstuffed garbage bags. There was a Sold sign in the window, with a telephone number, but the telephone number had long since been disconnected. The county records, which were available to anyone who cared to look—and Astrid had—said that the building had indeed been sold a year ago, but no one knew to whom, and whoever it was, they’d done nothing but let the dust bunnies proliferate. What went in was important: If it was some big-box store, or a national chain, it would be war. A death knell for the town as the residents knew it. When Rite Aid came in, not even to Clapham proper but to the outskirts of town, which did need a pharmacy, people lost their minds. Astrid still had a KEEP LOCAL, SHOP SMALL sign in the dirt next to her mailbox. She’d spent her own money making the signs and distributing them. And if that had been in the village itself? Astrid couldn’t imagine. If the person who bought the building didn’t know or didn’t care, there would be riots in the street, and Astrid would carry the biggest pitchfork.

  Because the storefront was on the eastern tip of the roundabout, the direction from which most cars entered Clapham, the large empty windows were what welcomed people to town, a very sorry state of affairs. At least Sal’s Pizzeria, directly next door, was charming, with its red-and-white-tiled walls and its boxes printed with a portrait of its mustachioed proprietor.

  Barbara was standing on the sidewalk, just beside the mailbox in front of Shear Beauty. Her car, a green Subaru hatchback with a “My Other Car Is a Cat” bumper sticker, was parked in front of the municipal building, which held the mayor’s office, a co-op preschool, yoga classes, and the winter farmers’ market, among other things. Was she getting back into her car after mailing a letter? Was she looking across the street, squinting at the Sold sign, as if it would offer any new information? Astrid would never know. She watched as Barbara stepped around the front bumper of her car and into the street, and then Astrid continued to watch as the yellow sixty-four-seat Clapham Junior High School bus came barreling down the street, knocking Barbara down as neatly and quietly as her grandsons’ toy soldiers. Astrid snapped the visor closed and leapt out of the car. By the time she’d crossed the street, half a dozen people had already gathered. There was blood, but nothing gorier than a twelve-year-old could see on network television. Astrid had seen death up close before, but not like this, not on the street like a raccoon.

  “It was empty,” Randall said. He owned the gas station, which made him an easy authority on vehicles. “Except for the driver. No kids.”

  “Should I cover her up? I shouldn’t cover her up, should I? Should I?” said Louise, who taught the yoga class, a rather dim, sweet girl who couldn’t remember her lefts and rights.

  “I’ve got the police,” said a nervous-looking man, which was, of course, the right thing to do, even though the police station was two blocks away, and clearly there was nothing for the police to do, at least not for Barbara. “Hello,” he said, into the phone, turning away, as if to shield the other bystanders from what was still on the pavement. “There’s been an accident.”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes,” Birdie said, coming out of her shop. She saw Astrid and pulled her aside. They clutched each other’s elbows and stood there in silence until the police arrived, at which point Astrid offered Barbara’s husband’s phone number and address. She’d always kept an organized address book, and this was why, just in case. The EMTs scooped Barbara’s body up and put her on the stretcher, an unflippable pancake. When the ambulance had gone, Birdie pushed Astrid gently toward the salon’s door.

  * * *

  —

  Shear Beauty had made some improvements over the years, some attempts at modernization. The mirrors were frameless, and the wallpaper was silver with a gray geometric pattern, all of it meant to make the place seem sophisticated, which it wasn’t particularly. Birdie never could let go of the bowls of dusty potpourri in the bathroom or the embroidered pillows on the bench at the entrance. If someone wanted a fancier place, they were welcome to find one.

  “I can’t believe it,” Astrid said. She set her purse down on the bench. The salon was empty, as it always was on Mondays, when Shear Beauty was closed to the public. “I can’t believe it. I’m in shock, I’m definitely in shock. Listen to me! My brain is nonfunctional.” She stopped. “Am I having an aneurysm?”

  “You’re not having an aneurysm. Those people just drop dead.” Birdie gently guided Astrid by the elbow and sat her down at the sink. “Just try to relax.” Birdie also cut hair at Heron Meadows, the assisted living facility on the edge of the Clapham border, and she had a certain sangfroid approach to the mortal coil. Everyone shuffled, in the end. Astrid sat and leaned back until her neck touched the cold porcelain of the sink. She closed her eyes and listened to Birdie turn on the warm water, testing its temperature against her hand.

  If Randall was right and the bus had been empty—that was important. Astrid had three children and three grandchildren, and even if she hadn’t, the loss of a child was the most acute tragedy, followed closely by a young parent, followed by cancer researchers, sitting presidents, movie stars, and everybody else. People their age—Astrid’s and Barbara’s—were too old for it to be outright tragedy, and seeing as Barbara had no children of her own, people were bound to call it a blessing, that is to say, a blessing that the school bus hadn’t run down someone else. But that didn’t seem fair to Barbara. She’d had a husband, and cats. She’d been a crossing guard at the elementary school decades earlier—oh, the irony! At least it wasn’t her corner, Astrid thought, exhaling while Birdie scratched her scalp with her short nails.

  What was Barbara thinking about, when the bus was careering toward her? Why had she parked there and not across the street? What was on her list to do that day? Astrid sat up, her hair dripping on her neck and her blouse.

  “Are you all right?” Birdie asked, moving a towel onto Astrid’s shoulders.

  “No,” Astrid said, “I don’t think so. I didn’t even—you know this—I didn’t even like Barbara. I just feel a little, well, shaken.”

  “Well, in that case,” Birdie said, walking around to the front of the chair, crouching down so that she and Astrid were at eye level, “let’s go into the back.” Birdie’s mouth was a straight line, as steady as a Catholic schoolteacher. She always had a solution.

  Astrid nodded slowly and offered Birdie her hand. They walked around the half wall behind the sink, into the room where an eyebrow-less young woman named Jessica waxed off other people’s body hair three days a week, and lay down next to each other on the twin-size mattress, Astrid on her back and Birdie propped up on an elbow. Astrid closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. As usual, because after so long, there was a certain rhythm and sequence to what would unfold, Birdie start
ed softly kissing Astrid’s cheeks and ears and neck, everything but her mouth, but today was different, and Astrid reached up and pulled Birdie’s mouth straight to her own. There was no time to waste, not in this life. There were always more school buses—how many times did a person have to be reminded? This time, it was clear. She was a sixty-eight-year-old widow. Better late than never.

  Chapter 2

  Taxi TV

  Cecelia sat between her parents in the back seat of a taxi that smelled like body odor soup. Amtrak required unaccompanied riders between the ages of thirteen and fifteen to jump through a series of hoops, one of which was being escorted onto the train by an adult. The arrangement was supposed to be fun, but Cecelia could call a spade a spade. She was thirteen and had access to the internet. It was witness protection, more or less. Her school hadn’t expelled her, not officially. It was more an agreement to take a break, the way people’s parents did on television, right before their inevitable divorce. It was something Cecelia had said almost in passing when she and her parents were talking about what to do, how to solve the problem with her school. It was a joke, really—maybe I should just go move in with Gammy for the year. But the next morning, her parents were sitting at the tiny kitchen table, eyes bloodshot, as if they hadn’t moved since dinner the night before, and they said that they’d written to her school and spoken to Astrid and that, yes, that was the plan. Cecelia was hard-pressed to decide whom she was angriest at—her parents, for yanking her, or at her school, for letting her be yanked. It wasn’t close to fair. In fact, it was the opposite of fair. It was a Sucky Situation, even if it meant moving from a small apartment to a huge house. Any perks were vastly outweighed by the crushing feeling of apocalyptic failure and profound injustice. But Cecelia had tried to explain everything already a thousand times, and this was still where she ended up, so the idea of justice didn’t really matter anymore. It was done.