A Good Man

by Ani Katz

  All right.

  I have to make a board game. And write an essay.

  Okay.

  And they’re due on Monday.

  Okay.

  And I haven’t started yet.

  My wife sighed and threw up her hands in exasperation as my daughter cowered against me.

  Oh come on, I said. You’re not helping.

  How is it possible that the project is due on Monday and she hasn’t even started?

  My wife and daughter began to bicker, but I couldn’t follow what they were saying. Couldn’t hear them. The relief I had felt at the change of subject had given way to a debilitating sense of impotence. Of deafness. There was that buzzing in my ear again, canceling out all other sound. It was as if I were far away, watching the girls from a high window, my hands pressed against the thick glass that silenced the world below. My life would go on without me.

  Stop it, I said finally. Just stop.

  The girls lapsed into bitter silence.

  We’ll get it done, I added, even though I had no idea how we would. We have all weekend to work on it.

  What about movie night?

  Movie night?

  At Grandma’s house. With Deedee and Kit. I’m supposed to go tomorrow night.

  Forget about it, my wife spat. You’re not going.

  Mommy.

  You have to learn to take responsibility for yourself.

  She can still go, I said. Since when are you so hard on her?

  Since when do you spoil her?

  A timer went off. My wife took the chicken out of the oven and set it on the counter before me with more force than she needed to.

  We can eat now, she said. Everything is ready.

  Wonderful, I said, trying to restore the sense of tenderness that had marked my arrival. It looks delicious.

  I don’t want any chicken, my daughter whined.

  I don’t care, my wife retorted. It’s what we’re having.

  I won’t eat it.

  Then you can starve to death.

  I wish I would.

  That night I lay awake for what felt like hours, heartsick and afraid. My wife lay beside me, sleeping soundly—though her face was turned away from mine, each of her subtle stirrings snapped me further into wakefulness. I stared up at the blank of the ceiling, turned to see the red glow of the digital alarm clock bleeding onto the wall.

  Giving up on sleep, I crept out of bed and left the house, sighing with relief once I had returned to the safe and sterile capsule of my car. Without thinking, I drove the familiar route to the mall, ready to circle the parking lot until I lost all sense of myself.

  But tonight there was another car parked in my arena: a decade-old beige Honda Accord, its rear bumper plastered with simpering slogans of corporate liberalism: Coexist. Hope Anchors the Soul. Take Back the Night. It sat there on the edge of the lot, almost beyond the streetlight’s glow.

  What was it doing there? Perhaps housing a high school tryst, or a lone weed smoker. Someone else who wanted to be alone.

  No matter. I began to make my circles, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until the sky spun around me. I had no intention of disturbing the sanctimonious Honda or its occupant—I wasn’t crazy or disturbed. It just happened to be in my path.

  As I roared past the car for the third time, nearly clipping its side view mirror, someone rolled down the window and cried out after me.

  Slow the fuck down! I’m calling the police!

  I should have left then. I should have driven away. I should have gone home, where I could still pretend I belonged. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did next.

  But I did it.

  I stomped on the brakes and sent my car into shrieking reverse, barreling backward until I was face-to-face with this idiot—this girl, as it turned out. In a brief moment I took in her blond bangs, her bloated face, her NYU sweatshirt.

  It was as if the specter of Abigail had come to taunt me—my own fat, whorish Ghost of Christmas Past.

  Not long past. My past.

  I’m calling the police, the girl repeated, her voice and hand trembling as she held up her phone, as if to prove to me that she was indeed serious.

  Go ahead, I snarled.

  Dialing, she didn’t notice me unbuckle my seatbelt, didn’t notice me get out of my car. Too late, she looked up and realized I was beside her, my body pressed against her door.

  Then my head and torso had breached the boundary of her open window, and in one smooth gesture I had snatched the phone out of her hand, hurling it like a discus into the vast and empty lot.

  Then I began to scream.

  In all honesty I have no memory of what I said, or if I said anything at all. Maybe I was just howling and grunting, making animal noises. All I can remember is the girl’s expression as she pressed herself to the opposite window, as far away from me as she could get. I remember her abject fear, her paralysis—as if she saw a version of me that no one else could see.

  I suppose I just wanted to scare her. I kept her captive for a while, banging on her roof with my fists, thrusting my pelvis against her door, listening as her whimpers turned into sobs. It was as if I had forgotten who I was.

  Finally I leaned in even closer—close enough to kiss her—and spit in her face. Then I got back in my car and peeled out of the lot.

  When I finally returned to my dark and silent house I sat in the driveway for a long time before going inside. I climbed the stairs and watched the sleeping forms of the girls in their beds—first my daughter, then my wife. They were just shapes under their blankets, breathing.

  They could have been anyone.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  You’re probably wondering what my plan was. When I would confess. I knew I couldn’t keep it up forever, this hiding and lying.

  But the truth is I had no plan. All I knew was that the weekend seemed like a safe time to talk. My wife and I would wake up late, for once, and lie together as long as we could, before the demands of daughter and dog forced us to get out of bed. We always treasured those rare moments that we had to ourselves: the toes of her left foot tucked between my ankles, the warm weight of my hand on hers, so familiar that it was almost imperceptible, a breeze through the half-open window, sun mottling the wall behind our heads. I wouldn’t have to jam my explanations into the margins of routine; there would be no daily stresses to infringe upon what needed to be said.

  It was supposed to be a gorgeous day, finally—the first really warm day of the long-awaited spring. My wife and I would sit together on our front porch and talk about the future, figure things out. I could help her understand. I could soothe her, make my words right, promise her that everything would turn out fine for us in the end.

  I just hadn’t counted on the school project.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Let’s see us again, that day.

  I remember the three of us working together in the dining room.

  I remember sun streaming through the venetian blinds onto the table, slices of light cutting over ill-formed papier-mâché mountains.

  I remember the vase of orange tulips, four days in water, opening their petals to reveal the black dust within.

  I remember Beau poking around at our ankles, looking for edible morsels as always. He must have eaten something bad the night before, because early that morning he had vomited a thin yellow gruel onto my daughter’s bed. Now her duvet cover was in the wash, the rhythmic bump of the dryer balls like the beat of a frightened heart as the laundry tumbled over and over.

  I remember my wife, sun on her dark hair as she bent over her work. I remember pausing behind her to knead her shoulders, my palms absorbing the warmth of her skin under her sheer cotton shirt. I remember her moving around the room humming, watercolor brush like
a conductor’s baton in her hand, a lightness and looseness in her gestures that I had not seen in a long time.

  I remember a repairman was supposed to stop by that afternoon to take a look at the dishwasher, which had been leaking since Monday. The lawn needed mowing. The neighbor’s Callery pear trees had bloomed, saturating the block with the noxious smell of semen. There was a leak behind the fireplace that had developed sometime in February during a late-season snowstorm, and the area over the mantel had puckered, tea-colored stains spreading outward from the seam below the ceiling. White dust from the rotted drywall had seeped out, blooming over the bricks of the fireplace. That entire wall would have to be torn down and rebuilt.

  I remember Tannhäuser throwing himself at Elisabeth’s feet and refusing to tell her where he’s been, no matter how much she begs. And I remember the way the joyful song of their reunion was lost to the roar of static.

  * * *

  —

  Late in the afternoon, I tried to help my daughter with the unwritten essay.

  Okay, I said, opening a new document on my laptop. Let’s get this done so you can go see your aunts and your grandmother. They’re all expecting you.

  My girl slumped in the chair beside me.

  This shouldn’t be too hard to write, I said. You just have to write about what you think the call of the wild is.

  I don’t know what it is, my daughter said, pouting. I don’t know what we’re supposed to say.

  There’s nothing that you’re supposed to say. There’s no one right answer. It can be whatever you think it is.

  Well, I don’t know.

  Come on, you can do this. Just think about it.

  My daughter stared into space, silent. I rapped the table with my palm.

  What?

  Sit up.

  Fine.

  Could it be nature? Or instinct?

  Maybe. I don’t know.

  You read the book, didn’t you?

  Yes.

  Okay. Let’s try the other essay question instead. In what way is the novel fervently American?

  I can’t answer that one either.

  Why not?

  Because I don’t know what that means!

  You just need to come up with a thesis, I said. You know how to do that, right?

  No.

  No?

  They never taught us how.

  That’s impossible.

  They always say to just write down the theme. And connect it to the main idea.

  What does that even mean?

  I don’t know.

  If you don’t understand something they’re teaching you, you need to ask more questions.

  Okay.

  Look, your thesis is essentially an argument. So what’s your argument?

  My daughter sighed loudly, dramatically. This is the most boring book I’ve ever read, she said. That’s my argument.

  That’s not helpful.

  She looked away and let her eyes settle on the chaos of the table and the unfinished game. Who had taught her to wait until the last minute like this? Certainly I hadn’t.

  Sweetheart, I began. How long have you known about this project?

  No response.

  Weeks? I pressed. Months?

  She wouldn’t speak. My Princess Turandot. She was freezing me out now, as if she couldn’t hear me, or didn’t care to. As if I weren’t there at all.

  Look, it’s not so hard, I said. We decide what the call of the wild is, and then we say why we think that. So what do you think it could be?

  I don’t know. Nature or something. What was the other thing you said before?

  Instinct.

  Or instinct, I guess. Whatever you think it is.

  Come on, you can do better than that. I know you’re capable of doing brilliant things.

  But Daddy, I don’t know!

  She was breathing hard now, whimpering between each exhaled gasp, her hands clenched into fists. I watched her for a while, waiting for her to collect herself, but she didn’t.

  Calm down. Just breathe.

  I can’t!

  All right, all right, I said. Just relax. I’ll help you write it.

  She went slack then, her face as still and pale as a doll’s.

  Trust me, I told her. It’s going to be great. You’re going to be great.

  My wife had left the room at some point—to do what, I didn’t know. She seemed relaxed. I was surprised to see her so apparently unbothered by the looming deadline we were facing. Perhaps she was just trying to keep us calm. She’d always been the one who maintained order and smoothed the course, no matter what problems might befall us.

  Beau, on the other hand, seemed jumpier than usual. He kept bristling at hints of sound. He stared at the squirrels that stood still on the lawn, growled low when they darted away.

  We were still a real family that day, doing the exact kinds of things that real families do. The project would get done—the thesis would be generated, the essay would be written, the verdant paint on the mountains would dry, the clay wolves would find their homes among them—and we would all be relieved. My daughter would have her movie night in the haven of my mother’s house, and my wife and I would have a Saturday evening to ourselves. It would all be fine.

  All I had ever wanted was to do everything the right way. All I had wanted was the love and stability that had never been mine all through my miserable childhood. I had wanted to build a shell around my girls, so that they would never have to suffer as I had.

  I had once truly believed that I could have a better life—I thought I had seen only the bright colors of happiness arrayed before me like a great garden of my own making. But I had been wrong. The good times had already come and gone, and the garden had given up its blooms before I knew to harvest them. I had destroyed our lives, just like my father had destroyed the lives of his own wife and children. This house I’d built with my own hands was decaying now, falling to pieces, and no amount of light or air could save it.

  Unless.

  Wasn’t I still the hero of this story? Who was I if I couldn’t shepherd us safely through a crisis? I had to make things right, for their sake. They were everything to me—they would always be everything.

  I knew that we desperately needed an evening alone, my wife and I. As soon as we finished enough work on the project we could get our daughter out of there, pack her off to her grandmother and aunts. Then my wife and I would sit down together and I would finally tell her what had happened. I would open a bottle of wine and wait until she’d taken her first smiling, ruddy-tongued sips before saying anything.

  Then I would lean toward her, brush the hair out of her face with the gentle blade of my hand, kiss the soft corner of her mouth, encase her in my arms so that she couldn’t move, so that I could feel the sympathetic flutter of her sighs.

  It’s all a misunderstanding, I would say, her head warm and silent against my chest. You know me, my love. You know I would never do those things. Could never.

  With time I could make her see that our situation was just like that of poor Tannhäuser. He lost control of himself and sang to the assembled crowd a forbidden song of profane, ecstatic love. He was condemned to die, and certainly would have if not for Elisabeth. She pleads for mercy on his behalf, promising that the sinner she loves will achieve salvation through atonement. And she vows that if he fails, she will plead his case to God herself.

  Her love for that poor sinner, that poor bastard—that was the kind of love my wife had for me. More powerful than any disaster. Insoluble. Indelible. I would beg for forgiveness, and my wife would forgive me. Because she loved me.

  I held on to those thoughts, nursing them like a puncture wound in my chest as my girls and I continued our work, hymns of forgiveness assaulting us from the stereo.

  * * *
>
  ■ ■ ■

  The dishwasher repairman never came. It was after five now, and we were moving into the next stage of the evening. The dryer had completed its cycle and the duvet cover was a warm and pristine cloud of white once more. Beau snuffed and paced around the back door as he waited for his dinner. The little clay wolves had been glued into place among the snowcapped mountains of the board game, and we had composed a sufficiently robust outline unpacking the conflict between instinct and civilization in the novel, complete with key quotes for evidence. The essay would write itself in the morning.

  The opera had ended, the pilgrims overwhelming us with their last breathtaking chorus, our speakers crackling with the final ferocious tremolo of the violins as I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I always cried when I listened to that final scene. My wife stretched out on the sofa and watched my daughter and me as we made our preparations to leave.

  Don’t forget your coat, darling.

  It’s so warm out, Mommy. I don’t need one.

  It will get cold later. You’ll be cold.

  No I won’t.

  My wife sighed, but she was smiling.

  Come here then.

  My daughter trotted over to the sofa, then bent and kissed my wife on her forehead with theatrical care and affection, as if she were the mother putting her little child to bed.

  Au revoir, mon chéri.

  À bientôt.

  I didn’t know it then, of course—none of us knew—but it was the last time my girls would ever see each other.

  We were out of the house by six. The drive was uneventful, just the usual traverse down the sunbaked spine of the island—traffic slowing near the exit for the mall, then speeding up again as we approached the South Shore. The breeze became cooler, more forceful, and full of sea, gusts beating their way into the car through our half-open windows. My daughter crossed her thin goose-fleshed arms, but still wouldn’t admit that she was cold, shaking her head when I asked.

  I had made this journey south so many times, more times than I could possibly count. But though it was all so familiar, today I found myself noticing and appreciating each detail of the drive, especially as we drew closer to our destination: the old town with its diners and car dealerships, each landmark as decrepit and enduring as a Roman ruin; the winding lane flanked by high hedges, the shadowy passage under the canopy of trees that hid our crumbling Victorian dollhouse from the street.