Free So Much Pretty by Cara Hoffman

for the bathroom before the next set. The group was made up of older folks, men and women in their fifties and sixties who had moved to Haeden as hippies when they were young. And taken the “back to the country” idea seriously enough to start a band in which one of the principle instruments was a washboard. They were a beautiful spectacle, exuberant and especially buoyed by four or five pints as the day cooled down after work. They were like godparents to Gene and Claire, kind and grateful that a young, like-minded family had moved to town. Claire rested her back against Gene’s chest and listened to Harley sing. Shady Grove, my true love, Shady Grove, I say, Shady Grove, my true love, bound to go away .
    And just like it had in the city, the music suppressed her worry—or gave it the right sound track, at least. This was life now, and it was Claire who was grateful to be there with them. She thought of Alice and the things she would learn growing up in Haeden. How much time and quiet she’d have. Claire was glad they weren’t bringing her up in Manhattan.
    In that warm, buzzed, almost drowsy moment, sitting beneath the yellow lights of the cozy bar, Claire dreamed of her daughter’s life of play and study at their little farm, her adventures with Theo on the riverbank. And she knew this was the world that would let Alice see things clearly, that would make her the right kind of woman.

Gene
    NEW YORK, NY, 1992
    G ENE WORE BLACK knee-length shorts covered with paint and plaster, and a thin white T-shirt, the sleeves of his wool sweater pushed up to reveal one forearm tattooed with a band of binary code surrounded by insects. He was tall, quiet, sinewy, strong. His white-blond hair was shaved on the sides, a cowlick at the back of his head. He knelt in front of an eight-by-twelve-foot raised bed of black earth, pulling weeds from around pale green sprouts as thin as thread.
    Behind him, Constant stood at the entrance to the roof, wearing pajama pants, his black hair an unruly mass, two days of growth on his face, heavy eyebrows, full lips. His dark skin was marred by a scar on his left shoulder that looked like a large white bruise; there was another one on his stomach that looked the same, a bruise or a burn.
    “Can you just think about it?” Constant asked. “I want you to think about it.”
    “Well, that’s good, man, it’s good to know what you want.” Gene was trying to ignore him. What he wanted was some help with the seedlings, or some good conversation to pass the time. He knew the news had taken Con and Michelle by surprise, but he wasn’t ready for some brotherly sit-down.
    “Be serious for a fucking second. You’re not going to be able to support a kid with your stilt-walking skills, and the likelihood of you getting another fellowship doesn’t seem too realistic.”
    “There’s always washing dishes. Whatever, man. I’m DIY. We’ll run away and join the circus before I do anything like the shit you’re talking about.”
    Gene thought of Claire’s smile, her elegant, delicate face. Her small straight teeth and big gray eyes. Sweet, smart eyes. He thought about how her shoulders looked as she sat in front of him on their bike, riding fast down the abandoned windswept corridor of Avenue A on the way home from the free clinic, metal grates pulled over doorways. He knew a baby would change things. But not that much. Not like Con was saying.
    “If you take the position, it can afford you guys the time for Claire to finish this next year at the clinic and get things straight, take time off before the baby comes.”
    “Honestly? I can’t believe you’re still talking to me about this. Claire would fucking leave me, not be grateful, if I did it. I’m having enough trouble with you doing this kind of bullshit, so leave me the fuck out of it. Okay? Please?”
    “Gene.”
    “No. No. You want to be a walking cliché? Go for it. Three years of idealism and the Hippocratic oath and then off to