Audio (read by Charlotte Gray):
1.
The Camemberts’ kitchen isn’t exactly messy. It’s close, but not quite. Its floors are clean, dishes rarely left out for very long. Whenever it starts to veer towards messy, in steps Julie Camembert, who spends a disproportionate amount of her time doing dishes, cleaning surfaces, and picking up after her 4 nearly grown kids, all of whom, for the most part, still live at home. Julie doesn’t take pride in her kitchen; it’s too unwieldy and dynamic to ever fall entirely under her control. But she definitely takes offense, when she hears it described as “messy.”
A better word for it, one that comes across as less judgmental yet still captures the overwhelming sense one gets from stepping foot in the kitchen, is “cluttered.” The Camemberts’ kitchen is certainly cluttered.
The primary reason for this, if any exists, is that the Camemberts themselves have certain clutter-forming habits. For instance: the kids’ collective propensity for tugging around various items and leaving them all over the place, Julie’s continued commitment to culinary miscellany, her husband, Brett’s lack of commitment to nearly anything, including and especially the practice of tidying up. Even in a normal kitchen, these habits would cause problems. But, on top of their behavior, they’re cursed with a house layout that seems to funnel all things and people to one expansive marble island (or, as they call it, “the bar”) in the center of their kitchen, which is in the center of their house. Three staircases reach their terminals at the kitchen, as well as two rooms, which don’t so much border the kitchen as flow into it, open-floor concept style.
Thus, it is only natural that the bar serves as an unloading zone for things carried in the front door or down a staircase or brought into the kitchen as a stopover before being brought out. At any given time, all manner of clutter might be stationed on the bar: mail brought in but not yet sorted; keys or spare keys to one of the six-person family’s five cars; wallets, phones, headphones, pocket artifacts; wrapped gifts specifically placed so as not to be forgotten on the way out the door; cutting boards and knives with carrot tops, onion skin, apple cores, etc; the compost canister overfilled and the next-up compostable trash bag partially filled; spare change and loose scraps of paper; fly swatters (technically not supposed to be on the bar for hygienic reasons); rotting flowers and homemade apple-cider vinegar fly traps, both probably past any reasonable expiration date; jackets and other garments placed on the back of the bar-stool height chairs; and half empty cups of water and beverages of other sorts.
At meal time, dishes are spread out on the bar like a buffet. Everyone comes through the line and fills their plate, then comes back halfway and impatiently inserts themselves back in line to grab a fork from the silverware drawer, which is, inconveniently, built into the same side of the bar that the food is always served on. Chopping is done at the bar, but all actual cooking takes place on the counter tops lining the two walls of the kitchen (only two walls, that is, because the room’s other sides bleed into those open-air living rooms and staircases). The countertops, much more organized but no less cluttered than the bar, retain knife racks and utensil holders, a 6-burner gas-burning stove, minor appliances such as a toaster, microwave, food-processor, popcorn-popper, label-maker, knife-sharpener, and vacuum-sealer, the inlaid sink, drying rack with spillover abounding, spice racks and condiment shelves, cleaning supplies, and the almighty espresso machine, which costs more than the two cheapest of the Camembert cars, and rightfully so.
The breakfast nook, of all places, might be the most consistently uncluttered area in the vicinity. To be sure, a few usual suspects feature prominently here. Coffee cups and newspapers, to name the two hallmarks of Julie and Brett’s morning routine. Plus board games, piled high on the ledge between the nook and living room. Cranford Camembert can also be found, pretty often, in this corner of the extended kitchen, as, now, he is, browsing the newspapers for incomplete crosswords and waiting for some sort of action to take place. Shortly, of course, his wish comes true.
2.
Julie walks in the door, says, “I’m home!”, and drops her purse onto the bar. Cranford pokes his head out from the breakfast nook, to show her he’s there. She never really has much to say to her second-born, so she slips into the bathroom instead of allowing a moment of awkward silence to commence. Like a dog at a bell, Willa comes bounding down the stairs and hollers, “Julia!” Playfully, but with a demanding undertone.
Julie, in the bathroom hiding from social interaction, wonders whether the impartial observer would a) take pity on her for not being home long enough to use the restroom before being bombarded or b) judge her harshly for the lengths she takes to avoid the company of her children. Not that she doesn’t enjoy them as people or love them as fruit of her womb. But a woman can only take so much.
“Juli-UH!” Willa persists, practically hollering under the crack in the bathroom door, it seems to Julie.
“Okay, okay! Jeez Louise, Will-ow,” she says as she snaps on her mom-face and abandons her hideout.
“Not funny,” says her daughter. This is one of many child-parent double standards that exist in this family. Willa is able to call her mom whatever name she thinks might get under her skin, but the moment Julie tries to do the same, it’s rude. “There’s a couple things I need to talk to you about, one being suing this Korean Barbecue place.”
The garage door mechanism begins its whir and distractible Julie heads for the dirty dishes in the sink.
“Hello! Mother?”
“Sorry Willa. Ok fine, what are the other things?”
“Well I mean, besides that, honestly the biggest one is what you said to Miss Mason about me.”
“Wait what?” Julie, suddenly interested, turns from the still running sink. She has said a lot of things to Miss Mason, about a lot of different people.
Moses, the oldest, comes in from the garage carrying just as many grocery bags as are humanly possible to carry, full of unauthorized groceries.
“Were you the one who had the Tesla?” Willa asks him, in no pleased tone of voice.
“Yeah, Brett said I could take it.”
“Willa, sweetie, what do you mean what I said to Miss Mason about you?” Julie, trying to betray a healthy dose of ‘I-would-never.’
“Where’d you get groceries, Mo?” Cranford chimes in from the peanut gallery.
“Have you guys been to that new place by iDive? So much dank shit. Their baked good section alone is, like, bigger than the whole Whole Foods on 280.”
“Willa, seriously, what are you referring to?”
“Chill out, mom. I said that like 10 minutes ago. Why are you getting so defensive?”
“Defensive? You were the one who just had to talk to me while I was peeing!”
“What could a Korean Barbecue place possibly have done to deserve getting sued by an eighteen year old girl?” Cranford ponders out-loud from his special place.
“Cranford, this literally has nothing to do with you. Will you shut the fuck up? For one moment? Please?”
“Oh my god Willa, that is not ok,” her mother says, and she has a point.
From upstairs, Brett, husband or father to those gathered below, can be heard telling someone on the phone, “Business ideas are a dime a dozen. It’s all about execution.”
“No but seriously guys, check out how dank this stuff is,” Moses says as he debags dairy milk alternatives and microwavable Tikka Masalas.
“You didn’t use my credit card to buy all that junk did you, Moses?” his mother asks, disappointed in how sure she already is of the answer.
Moses slo-mo turns with a mock sheepish grin to his brother and mouths, “Oops…”
“Aren’t they so disrespectful, Julia?” Willa says, sashaying over to the sink to deposit a dish into the pile Julie’s working through.
From upstairs: “Hey, will you guys keep it down for like fifteen minutes? I’m on a phone call.”
“Probably with the president,” Cranford quips, as a little aside.
Somewhere nearby, someone rolls two trash bins down a long, bumpy driveway.
Maddie comes down the stairs and says, “I’m walking out the door and don’t have time to engage with this, but you’re literally all sociopaths.”
“Literally?”
“Does she mean sociopath or psychopath?”
“What did I do?” says Cranford, wounded.
“Oh you do not get to act like Mr. Innocent over there, Cranford,” Willa declares, punctuating her sister’s argument; Maddie being out the garage door now with no way to back up her blanket accusation.
“Has she been up there listening this whole time or does she just mean in general?” raises Moses.
“I bet she’s going to hang out with Jeremy,” Julie speculates, perhaps unwisely.
“Fuck. You. Mom!” Maddie, popping in the front door to get a couple more words in. “I told you you’re not allowed to talk about him. How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel, hearing my own mother gossip about me like that?” And she slams the door behind her so hard it bounces back open.
A general feeling of “yikes” hangs in the air of the Camembert’s kitchen for a moment.
“I mean,” Willa finally cuts in, “you honestly should’ve known she was still listening.”
“Why do you let her bully you?” asks Cranford the Innocent.
“I just don’t know where you children pick up this language,” says Julie, scandalized.
“Oh I don’t know,” wonders Willa, emotively, “maybe from you? And your now infamous quote about me to Miss Mason?”
“How can it be infamous if you won’t even tell us what she supposedly said?” asks one of the boys.
“Maybe Miss Mason’s planting false quotes to sow discord in this family and destroy us from within,” postulates the other.
“Seems to be working so far…” Julie observes.
3.
Two blocks away and already rounding sidewalk-less neighborhood curves at nearly 50, Maddie’s got the Subaru humming along in peak form. It’s striking how much better she feels now: away from those people, away from that house, and, most importantly, behind the wheel of a capable vehicle. Backing quickly out of the garage and peeling out of sight, she imagines her whole family running to the front window to watch her maneuver the car impressively out and away. But no, of course they could care less to see her out. The moment she exits stage left, to them it’s as if she, as a character in their lives, ceases to carry on. What do they know about her and Jeremy? What evidence do they have to assume that how she acts in that toxic family machine is anything like the woman she is on her own and surrounded by anyone but them? Why are they so addicted to spending time with each other if all they do is bicker? Could those simple, ungrateful fools appreciate the sensation of crisp acceleration on shaded residential streets?
In fact, she hasn’t been planning on going to Jeremy’s. Actually, she doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind. She just needs a drive, and to get out. So she takes the route with the fewest stop signs, enters the highway southbound towards downtown, and cuts far left.
No one knows directions in this town like she does. It’s only been six years since she got her license, but prior to her time behind the wheel, she was always an observant passenger. Most people drive to get from one place to another. Not Maddie. She’s made friends with the city. Driving through it is their way of spending time together. Other people who consider themselves good with directions usually take pride in knowing their way around a number of different cities, or being able to read new streets they come upon. But for Maddie, it’s only here. She’s never had any mental maps of other cities to confuse her sense of place; her expertise is specific and precise.
Over the past decade, traffic in her city has gotten considerably worse. Maddie regards all these new drivers as the ultimate scourge of her streets. When she feels especially clear-headed, she’s able to see traffic as something like a more challenging game mode. New streets and shortcuts have been unlocked by the necessity of avoiding these idiots who hardly even know how to drive. Sometimes, by accident, she finds roads that end up working their way into her primary repertoire. Old Highway 84 is one, and she notices herself subconsciously angling towards it now.
4.
Back at home, a debate has flared up regarding who is closest, emotionally speaking, with Charlie, the catchall name for the squirrel(s) who eat(s) from the bird-feeder in the backyard. Cranford is a notorious miszoothrope (Moses’s word), so he has removed his name from the running and returned to a silent irrelevancy. Julie has no interest in the proceedings, and she realizes, eventually, that Willa has no intention of maintaining the conversation she began, so she goes upstairs.
On the second floor, she heads towards her office, but pauses a moment at the door, backs up, and pushes her way into her husband’s instead, without knocking. The blackout curtains are closed, so stepping in provokes a strong reaction in her retinas to the blunt change of scenery.
Brett is leaning forward on the edge of his seat with his hands clasped in front of his knees and his nose about one inch from the computer screen on his desk, reading an article about developments in the culinary arts discovered in the nineteenth century but only beginning to be implemented today.
“Honey,” Julie begins, as if she’s still deciding if she really has anything to say.
Brett executes an impressive maneuver in which, after a start, he slowly swivels his body nearly 180 degrees towards his speaking wife behind him, all while keeping his head aimed at the computer and eyes fixed on the captivating article.
“Honey.” Julie repeats, more firmly.
Brett slowly, almost subconsciously, raises his index finger as if to say, “I will be with you in one...” He could really use a secretary.
“Brett!” Julie says, literally putting her foot down as she does. This, it seems, is enough to snap him out of it. The final parts of his body catch up with his pre-swiveled legs and lower torso and, at last, he is fully at her service.
“How can I help you?”
Spoken by anyone else in this context, those words might have come across as patronizing or sarcastic. But Brett means them for what they are: he’d like to be helpful. If Julie was being honest, he’d probably be able to help her most by walking down those stairs and yelling at their kids until they all grew up and moved out. Or, at least, holding her while she cries.
Instead, she says, “Why are you sitting in this dark room?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I guess I didn’t realize-”
Too slow. She interrupts.
“Who were you speaking to a moment ago that was so important?”
Brett is pretty caught off guard.
“Did you just come in here to nag me?” he asks.
Uh-oh.
“Nag you?” She asks, increasing her pitch about half an octave over the course of the word “nag” to show incredulity. “Seriously Brett? What are you gonna say next, that I’m bitching at you?”
“Can we keep it down a bit?”
“Wow.”
He tries to recalibrate his expectations for the conversation. There isn’t much to say, so he keeps quiet.
“That’s all I can say,” Julie says. “Wow.”
His use of “we” in this context is an obvious (and despicable) ploy to come across as generous, while, in actuality, singling her out. He wasn’t being loud at all, so by we he means she and she’d rather he just say that than pretend to be some saint. Just a minute ago, he was her one comfort; such a kind, helpful guy. She wanted to talk to him about everything going on with the kids, especially Maddie, how there’s no getting through to her. He tends to sensationalize less than she does. She had expected him to talk her down.
They used to be able to have calm conversations about the psychology of their kids for hours. Not that they were always spot on in their analysis, but just talking made them both feel the family was in good, thoughtful hands: theirs.
That doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. For whatever reason, each time she tries to access the dynamic they used to have, it ends up all wrong. She knows she came in too hot, asking questions that had nothing to do with what she really wanted to talk about. If he had just been paying attention, she thinks, he’d know why she was there. He might have even started the conversation himself, if he hadn’t been absorbed in his phone calls and useless articles, self-isolating in his gloomy lair.
Julie is not quite crying, but it’s all a bit much. She feels afraid for some of her children, annoyed at others, and, now, pissed at her husband.
She walks over to the window, yanks the curtains apart, and walks out. She does not slam the door behind her, but her footsteps (stomps, rather) are pretty loud. Loud enough, at least, to alert the children that something is up.
“Are you two having a row up there?”
5.
There is no thrill in driving 30 in a 30 mile per hour zone. This much isn’t up for debate. Not that Maddie would argue all driving must be thrilling; no, sometimes there’s merit in sustaining a mellow cruise. But those times are the exception. No one’s ever written a song called “Slow Car.” If you google that phrase the top results are all something along the lines of “how to drive your slow car fast.” Maddie doesn’t, but many folks like to watch car races. No one tunes in to watch cars simply putter along (parades notwithstanding; there’s enough auxiliary excitement to distract from the stagnation). Most of the time, even if they’ve got no place to be, drivers want to go.
Once she narrowly escapes the backlog and misery of the freeways and mainstreets, Maddie kicks it up a notch, out of relief. Old 84 has been her primary getaway for a couple months now. Like a favorite song, though, it’s possible to overplay a street. For the most part, Maddie’s made an effort to ration her access to this one, so as not to wear it out too soon. But still, she’s over the hump in the bell curve charting how much pleasure she’s able to derive out of this drive. To get to those levels now that she’s driven it 30, 40 times, she’s gotta take it pretty quick. So she guns it into the first turn of the wooded road and emerges into the straightaway with a slight skid.
Plus, her family’s been pissing her off. Her parents were way too sheltered growing up. As far as they know, trying molly once makes you an addict. Or, if they’re being generous (which is usually worse than when they’re being judgmental), they’ll tell themselves it means you’re “calling out for help” or “using drugs as a coping mechanism.” Do they think she’s the only one doing it, out there partying by herself? As a means of masking some sort of deep depression? If Julie and Brett are right about her, all her friends at school should be locked up in rehab too.
Cranford’s an idiot. If she really was struggling, he’d be the last to know it. And if he somehow did find out, he’d probably keep plodding through life completely unaffected. Moses is way more of a problem child than she is, but somehow her parents don’t realize it. Unconscious sexism? Probably just good old irrational favoritism conceived of years ago and clung to stubbornly. And then Willa, who thinks she’s such a huge ally, kisses her (Maddie’s) ass too much to ever be taken seriously by anyone else in the family. In any case, the three of them are self-absorbed brats, so who needs their support?
Honestly, to hell with all five of them, as a collective and in their own right. Maddie’s out here specifically to get away from that noise.
So she kicks it up another notch.
6.
In the kitchen, Willa gets a text.
“Julie! Uhhhhh… do you know where your daughter is?”
Julie is in her bathroom, hiding her face from the world.
“Julie! Seriously.”
Goddamn, why does she care?
“Why do you care, Willa?” Cranford asks, downstairs.
“Thank you,” Julie mouths, one floor up.
“Jason says he saw her driving like 90 on Old 84. That’s why, Cranford.”
“There’s no way. She’d be in a ditch by now,” says Moses, without paying much mind to anything but the contents of the cupboards.
Willa starts to tremble. It’s unclear whether out of fear or fury.
“Oh my god, he’s typing.”
“Is he sure it was her?”
“He says she was driving the Subaru like a maniac. ‘She was crying and swerving and she almost ran into me head-on. I got tf out of there but maybe y’all should check on her.’”
“She did leave here pretty pissed off...” Cranford says, looking up from the newspaper he’s been diverting himself with.
“Yeah, Cranford,” Moses says, milking all possible sarcasm out of each syllable. “I guess she did, huh?”
Julie summons some strength. Either her daughter is dead or her other three kids are about to start a full on brawl. Or both. Either way, it is no time to sulk.
“Mom, really! I’m scared for her.”
“I’m coming,” Julie says, “I’m coming.”
7.
Three hours later, no sign of Maddie and no answer to any texts or calls. She’s not showing up on Find My Friends or Life360, so either she’s turned her location off or her phone is dead (e.g. broken due to a catastrophic car crash). But then again, she rarely shares her location with her siblings and never with her parents, so this could mean anything.
Willa and Brett are dispatched together to scout Old 84. Thankfully, no sign of her or the car in any of the roadside ditches. Moses and Julie are out in two separate cars, browsing what they believe are her regular haunts: Jeremy’s parents’ house, her friend Kelsey’s apartment, the AMC on Lakeway. No luck. But then, it is a big city.
Everyone has been out and back a couple of times. They keep grouping up and making new gameplans, in increasingly dire frames of mind and tones of voice. Julie is feeling at a loss. Brett is giving it until a certain time before he gets the police involved. Moses seems humbled. Willa’s texting away; no more intel from Jason. If only he’d followed her instead of avoiding conflict like a coward!
The going thought process is that it’s unlike Maddie to not check her phone for three hours at a time, even while she’s driving. And there’s a charger in the car so her phone couldn’t have run out of charge. So, either she’s blatantly ignoring them or… it’s bad. And from the types of things they’ve all been texting her and the number of times they’ve called (it goes to voicemail after 2 rings), she probably isn’t ignoring them.
If she’s not alone, there are roughly two types of people she could be with: her high school friends, who all claim not to know where she is, or the “druggy crowd” as her parents might call them, who no one in the family has the contact info for. And if she’s with them, lord knows what could have happened to her. At this point in the search process, nothing is off the table.
Then, she pulls the Subaru into the driveway and walks in the door. Willa and Moses are out on the hunt when it happens, and their parents are in the backyard having a bit of a moment. So Cranford comprises a one-man welcome committee.
“Maddie,” he observes.
He sounds, not surprised, just glad to see her. Like it’s been years since the two of them have talked. And maybe it has.
“Hey, Cranford,” she says. There’s something kind of nice about the way he noticed her arrival; something that suggests: maybe there’s one person in this family who isn’t all that bad. Or maybe she’s just gone soft from her long, cathartic drive.
“Have you eaten?” he asks. “Let’s cook something.”
“I’m down.”
“Moses just got a bunch of groceries. Everyone else should be home pretty soon.”
Gah! I’m going to go play around with dialogue now in hopes of getting it even a bit as right as this.
Wow so good