“You know what else I think this tree needs?” Paul asked.
“What?”
“Tinsel. Lots of tinsel.”
Happy New Year
To many, mountains are no more than an impediment to progress. They block our will, interfere with our movement and migration. Not far from Donegal, Pennsylvania, in a quiet region of dense spruce forest, lies a little-known three-mile tract of overgrown and cracking highway that has hardly seen a tire since 1968. The road heads toward the face of Laurel Hill and stops short at a stone arch with a rusted overhang, its opening blocked by a white corrugated metal door partially obscured by a massive pile of road salt. There is little sound but the distant rushing of the traffic from the Turnpike that has been routed away from it, stranding the portal in time.
This is the Laurel Hill Tunnel, a remarkable feature of the original Pennsylvania Turnpike, known in its day as the “Dream Highway.” The ambitious interstate, which cut its way through the Allegheny Mountains using a series of tunnels, was originally the vision of a railroad man. The tunnel through Laurel Hill was begun with picks and shovels in the 1800s, but the work stopped short when the railroad project fell through. It would be left to the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission to finish the task fifty-five years later. Eleven men gave their lives to complete the marvel of modern engineering, but it outlived its usefulness after only twenty-four years and was bypassed.
Cars were already lined up along the curb of the neat suburban cul-de-sac several houses down the road from Julie and Jim’s when Paul and Ian arrived. Ian picked up the paper sack from the back seat as they got out of the car and headed down the road. Carrying a paper sack with a bottle in it was a familiar gesture for Ian. This time, though, it contained sparkling grape juice.
“You know,” Ian said, “I think this will be the first new year I’ll start without a hangover.”
“It’s going to be a good year for both of us,” Paul said.
Paul had been starting his years since Sara had been gone with a long hangover of his own—a hangover of grief and loneliness. For the first five years, he kept attending Julie’s annual party. He painted on a smile, stood to one side, and excused himself at around 12:05. Finally, last year, he had decided not to bother with the act. He had watched the ball drop alone on TV. He didn’t want to be social and yet couldn’t quite bring himself to go to bed early. He probably should have. It was anticlimactic and depressing. He could hardly believe that one year ago he hadn’t even known Ian existed. There was actually a time, not long ago, that Ian had not been a fact of his life.
“Where were you a year ago?” Paul asked.
“You don’t really want to know,” Ian said.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.” They had arrived at Julie’s door. Ian quickly rang the bell, putting an end to the subject.
Julie was dressed in a long red gown with a dangling rhinestone necklace and matching earrings.
“Hi! Thanks for coming.” She took the bottle from Ian and led them to the kitchen to set it down.
“It’s grape juice,” he said.
“Good for you,” she said, looking around behind him. “Where’s your date?”
“Paul is my date tonight,” he said.
Paul hoped Julie didn’t notice his cringe. Would it really be so difficult for Ian to be just a little more careful?
Julie thought nothing of it. “Well, maybe you’ll meet someone here tonight,” she said. “There are some nice single women. Oh, and here’s one now!”
A young girl, about ten or eleven years old, ran up to Julie and hugged her around the legs.
“Megan, do you remember Paul and Ian?”
The girl looked up at Ian. “My mom says I can have some champagne at midnight!”
“That’s cool,” Ian said. “I’m not allowed, though.”
“How come?”
He opened his eyes wide and, with a comical expression, said, “The minister won’t let me.”
“Megan! Megan!” Megan’s little brother, Aiden ran up to her.
“Go away!” she said.
“Be nice,” said Julie.