It’s the cornball joke of best-man toasts and widower’s eulogies, but McCormick seems compelled to marry up.
Watch the Christmas concert. Winter leans forward, red in her cheeks, the soloist bringing good cheer, while McCormick, who can’t find the tenor entrance note, silently mouths ding dong, ding dong.
In spring she gets 5s on three AP tests. He quits trying halfway through History. Just fills bubbles that make an X across his sheet.
And when they argue, Winter stands tall, car keys in hand, while McCormick enacts the death that would be losing her by crumpling to his bedroom floor.
Winter drove a Ford Falcon. Her forearms bowed with tension on the turns. It was a muscle car.
Her father kept it tuned at his shop but refused to purchase a power steering kit, explaining to McCormick “a beauty like that should be kept original.” Whether the NRA sticker on the bumper had been applied by Winter, Mr. Matheson, or a previous owner was a mystery.
The Falcon took them on their best date, up Middle Cottonwood. In the canyon Winter eased, spread the blanket she’d brought, opened her arms, laughed her alto laugh. The sun was hot all day.
Falling in love. Deciding to be in love. What’s the difference?
“Long May You Run” is playing. McCormick remembers the “chrome heart shining in the sun.” Winter Matheson driving away.
He’d chosen her at chorus practice from a row of altos, written her number on his palm like he imagined people did.
Neil Young songs charted the whole thing. She was a “Cinnamon Girl,” hungry mouth offering lifetimes. Until the day she couldn’t stand him, after which McCormick lived on his knees and always replaced the needle.
“Nestled in your wings my little one…tomorrow see the things that never come…”