Y Is for Fidelity

by Logan Ryan Smith

  “Forgetting you only have one leg.”

  “And I kept falling over. I don’t know how long I was in there doing that and then, finally, I tried to find my goddamned leg. My goddamned leg, Ian!”

  “It’s gone.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “It’s been gone a long time, little brother.”

  “Don’t… oh my god, Ian. Don’t even… I can’t believe you’d…”

  “I’m sorry, Noel. I didn’t mean it like that. Tell me what happened.”

  “Annie’s dead! My poor little baby girl…”

  “I’m so sorry, Noel. Oh my lord. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry…”

  “I searched around for too long… trying to find my leg. Just trying to find my leg. By the time I was ready to give up and… and hop my way out of there to get Annie and get downstairs… the fire… oh god, the fire… it blocked my way out! There was nothing I could do!”

  “I don’t know what to say, little brother. I’m… I’m heartbroken. How’d you get out?”

  I feel dizzy and all the swelling and bruising on my face and head and body pulses harder and harder. Cupping the phone to my chest I sprint to the kitchen and vomit into the sink. When I get the phone back to my ear I hear Noel explaining that he basically had to throw himself out his second-story bedroom window. He’s fine, just a dislocated shoulder. The fire department and police were there mere minutes after his leap. He didn’t know where Ashley or Annie were until he was at the hospital and found out that Ashley had gotten out, but Annie didn’t. They found Ashley unconscious in the hallway and only managed to haul her out before flames engulfed the whole house and the roof beams collapsed. The firefighters didn’t have a chance to inspect all the rooms. Annie’s door was locked even though mom and dad, Noel tells me, have told her so many times never to lock the door. She also liked to sleep with her noise-cancelling headphones on and they think she probably slept through all the commotion and was simply caught unawares. But she was a very intelligent and private kid… and independent. So independent. That kid did what she liked, not necessarily as she was told.

  “I think that’s one reason why she liked her Uncle Ian so much,” he finishes.

  “What?” I ask, bile burning the back of my throat, tears coursing from my already swollen eyes.

  “Nothing.”

  “How’s… how’s mom and dad?” I ask, my voice quavering.

  “They’re… they’re devastated. They’re devastated.”

  “How’s… how’s their house?”

  “Ian… I can’t believe you’re asking about their house at a time like this!”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “You’ll be very pleased to know that mom and dad have to rewrite their will now that Annie’s… Annie’s…”

  “No, that’s not what I meant, I—”

  “The house is fine, goddammit! Even if mom and dad still leave it to me, don’t worry, you can have it. You can have it! I don’t want it now. That house… that house was supposed to be Annie’s!”

  “Their house… it… it didn’t burn?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Listen, how did the fire even start? I mean… that’s crazy!”

  “It was arson. The fire department and the cops said there were broken bottles all over. Some idiot kids, probably. Or just some random maniac. Someone even tried to torch the state capitol in St. Paul.”

  “The capitol?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You mean that big white house with the… with the dome?”

  “Yeah, Ian. God, what else would I mean? Anyway, some idiot tried to burn that down, too, not too long, they say, after my house burned down. They’re checking into a few fires around the Twin Cities to see… to see if they’re… oh, god, I can’t… I can’t… I can’t talk anymore. I have to go. I have to go.”

  “Why wasn’t Annie on her camping trip, Noel?”

  “She was leaving for that the next day… the next day! God, I wish…. I have to go. Ian, I have to go.”

  “I understand, little brother. I’m so sorry. Again, I’m so sorry. I’m… I’m just…. Please, let me know when the funeral is.”

  “I… I will. Or mom will call you. Dad is taking this pretty bad. He hasn’t gotten out of bed since we got the news.”

  “OK. Just… call when you can.”

  “OK.”

  Silence.

  “I love you, little brother,” I finally say.

  Silence.

  “Goodbye, Ian.”

  CHAPTER 28.

  Devastated. Heartbroken. Annie. That poor, poor kid. That poor little kid. She was such a good kid. I’m inconsolable. The last one in our little family that would willingly talk to me, and gladly. And she was such a great little conversationalist.

  I don’t know.

  I just don’t know.

  I’m having a hard time, now. I’m having a hard time forgiving my little brother.

  If that over-indulgent little gimp hadn’t become addicted to prescription sleep medicine, his little Annie—our little Annie—would still be alive and well today. If he hadn’t spent so much time trying to come out of his drug-induced coma and then spent so much time trying to find that damned plastic leg, he could have helped his wife beat down that door and carry that precious little angel to safety. But, no! No, he had to go and be just like mom and put his children second! Well, at least one of them. And all Ashley and Noel had was one! So the kid had no chance!

  No chance!

  Oh, god, poor little Annie!

  I’ve putzed around the apartment the last few days, just being a regular Gloomy Gus. I called out to work, told them I needed the whole week off. I explained that my niece just died and my boss’s secretary actually scoffed. I asked him to explain himself and he coughed and said, “I’m just so sorry that you’ve lost your little niece so soon after losing your… um… brother.”

  He must have been chatting with that Doctor Who-looking bartender in the building because I never actually used that excuse to get out of work. He was the only one I said that to! I thought the bartender-customer conversation was sacred! Like psychiatrist (or therapist) and patient!

  We’ll see if I ever spill my guts to any barman ever again.

  You just can’t trust people anymore. Not bartenders, not mental health professionals, not coworkers, and least of all, not family.

  Friends. Friends are all that you can count on. When I think of the ways Ben has helped me come out of my shell—I used to be a shell of a man before he came along! I used to curl up like a potato bug whenever anyone looked at me the wrong way or demanded something of me. Such a limp-wristed, invertebrate I used to be. Might as well have called me Squid-Boy. Because. Because that’s what I was before Ben came along! Squid-Boy!

  And what a wet blanket I used to be! Never leaving the apartment, always staying in. Never venturing out or risking adventure. Now look at me! I’ve gone to bars and clubs and ballgames and movies—Ben and I even squeezed in a couple comic book and video game conventions. Not to mention my trips to Fisters.

  But I don’t want to think about Fisters right now.

  All I’m saying is, friends… they’re your real family. You can have one, you can have many, but whoever they are, that’s your family—your friends. The blood ties you have, well, I suppose if they’re friends, real friends, then that’s something different. But it isn’t the blood. It’s the friendship.

  So, I’m at Fisters and they’re not letting me in. It’s five in the morning and the sun’s bleeding into the sky as it cuts open the eastern horizon beyond Lake Michigan and I keep knocking and knocking and knocking to no avail. Finally some hulk of a man covered in tattoos bursts through the door, shoves a finger in my chest and tells me to “Knock it off, man!”

  “You’re not Mickey!” I retort as he slams the urine-slickened door. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

  But I do knock it off and I go to that pancake house next to th
e Riviera music palace hoping to find Ben with his face in a plate full of meat, but he’s not there so I just grab a booth and drink coffee and wait for him to show but he doesn’t before I’m kicked out for only ordering coffee. The waitress also said I was sobbing and had to go, although I really don’t recall shedding a single tear. But, with a life like mine, who could blame me?

  I didn’t argue the point. I just did as I was told, which scares me as I fear with the absence of Ben I may be regressing into the person I used to be. And I like who I am now.

  It’s the next day and I’m at the Harold Washington Library on State Street, downtown. First I walk through the rows of tables on the first floor where mostly homeless and poor college kids take advantage of the computers with free internet.

  He hangs out here, I know that already, so I figured during his time of self-imposed virtual homelessness he’d surely be here. I mean, there’s loads of free entertainment between the internet, quilting classes, and Harry Potter books, so why wouldn’t he be here? Surely if he’s spending all his money on hookers and fleabag motel rooms he’s not spending money to get into the Art Institute, Field Museum or the Museum of Contemporary Art.

  Before leaving, I inspect every restroom on all nine floors of the library but only find homeless men masturbating or bathing in the sink. And, yes, I peeked into the ladies’ rooms just to be sure, and witnessed the disturbing sight of women spitting, twitching, scratching themselves, and smearing their own feces all over the walls.

  There’s lots of ways to entertain yourself at the library, I guess.

  Last night I popped into Joe’s and asked if they’d seen Ben and they asked me who I meant and I said the guy I’m always there with and the bartender said he didn’t know me from Adam and couldn’t help me. That really stung. I’m having zero luck with barkeepers these days. So, I asked around some of the regulars and they just shook their heads at me, appearing less than interested in my questions about Ben. It occurred to me that since these people weren’t his friends like I am that he may go by Benoit when wetting his whistle here, but the drinkers still shooed me away when I asked if they’d seen Benoit lately.

  And here I thought he was such a big hit around there. I guess Ben and I have a lot more in common than I thought!

  I also went to Flypaper, that strip club on Clark. I was kicked out as soon as the bouncer recognized me, but Ben wasn’t there, either.

  I have to have someone to talk to about my fiery trip up north! It’s killing me. Not to mention the shoulder I need to cry on because of poor little Annie’s untimely demise. That no-good cripple! What kind of a man is he that he can’t save his only child just because of a few sleeping pills, a few flames, and a missing leg? Seriously. A weak, weak man, that’s what kind. I should have made sure he lost both legs when we were kids! Maybe that would have solidified his backbone.

  Gosh, I’m just so angry about this whole thing!

  Right now I’m trying to cool off and calm down. I’m strolling Millennium Park, sneering at all the happy-go-lucky tourists and their happy-go-lucky families. Fakers, all of them. I watch them make faces at their distorted reflections in the big metal bean. I watch them splash around the water beneath those video faces spitting real water. I watch them picnic in the grass that stretches out before the metal shell of the Jay Pritzker Pavilion.

  They all look so happy. So pleasant. So… good. But I know they’re all rotten inside. Rotten to the core! Then I spot the bench near that 3D statue of a woman’s giant head where Katharine and I had shared lunch for the first time. My heart drops four rungs on the ladder.

  After my stroll in the park I make my way to that fountain made famous by Married with Children. (Did I mention that Kelly Bundy and I were quite the item when I was twelve? It’s true.)

  Anyway, couples are walking hand in hand, kids are devouring ice cream cones, cyclists zip by, and rollerbladers whirl past.

  Ben’s nowhere among them.

  I make a quick jaunt to the lake, but he’s not there, either. The water’s a gunmetal grey and lots of people are wading in or lounging on the grass or sand.

  Puffy grey summer clouds are closing in, threatening yet another late afternoon shower. I take that as my cue to head back, so I leave the lake and make my way to The Loop so I can hop the Red Line home.

  Before I do, I take a detour up Michigan Avenue to walk in the shadows of its historic buildings that make up the eastern front of Chicago’s famous skyline. I’m lost in thought and terrible sadness, but just as I’m turning right onto Balbo I spot a familiar shaved head a block up Michigan, so I turn back and follow not far behind, unsure if it’s Ben.

  The man with the shaved head leaves the sidewalk and walks out into traffic, oblivious to the horns honking and tires screeching.

  BOOM! CRACK! CRACKLE…

  A hard, warm rain comes down in bucket-loads just as the man safely reaches the other side of the street where there’s a garden with pruned hedges and dwarfed trees. It’s across the way from the old, regal, brick structure of the Hilton where every president since Coolidge has rested his weary head. More importantly, it’s also been featured in tons of movies, including the wonderful My Best Friend’s Wedding.

  At this moment, the man I’m following is not concerned with the thunderstorm or that he, like myself, is already soaked from head to toe. Everyone else on the sidewalk either calmly opens their umbrellas or sprints for cover. I stand on the sidewalk and watch the man, his back to me, take a seat on a bench next to a silver man. I of course realize the silver man is a statue. The garden is populated with them—silver men staring at each other, silver men standing alone off the dirt path, silver men seated on the grass or on benches.

  Crossing the street as soon I spot a window in traffic, I walk in front of Ben, seated, his hands flat against his knees, rainwater battering his bare scalp, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  I take a seat on the bench, the silver man between us, and try to figure out what it is that Ben’s staring at in this downpour. The rain pitter-patters and SMACKS the street behind us.

  We sit there like that in the rain, surrounded by silver men and manicured bushes, for more than a few minutes. We sit there long enough, in fact, that the storm has passed, as these afternoon summer showers are wont to do. They come along to shake our houses, rattle our windows, and electrify our lives, but usually in short, dramatic bursts.

  There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

  Ben hasn’t moved, so I finally say, “Ben, what’s going on?”

  Not a word.

  “Look, I know you said you needed space, but… you know… what about my needs?”

  Perfect silence. He doesn’t even twitch his little nose.

  The clouds tear apart like dough and let the hot late August sun shine through. Raindrops on the silver men act as prisms and play tricks on the eye. I keep seeing the silver men fidget and shuffle out of the corner of my eye, only to stand perfectly still when I turn my head toward them.

  “OK. Fine. Forget my needs, just—”

  “Jesus Christ. You’re stalking me? Again?”

  “What? Stalking? No!”

  “Every time I’m away for a few days, you come running after me like some sick puppy.”

  This hurts a little bit but I don’t show it.

  “You really need to just… you know, get a life. Get a life that doesn’t involve me every waking goddammit minute of your own existence.”

  “Hey!” I protest.

  He stares at me across the silver man separating us. He just stares at me for a full minute, rendering me mute.

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” he finally spits out, his grey eyes staring straight ahead again.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t kill my wife and kids.” Ben turns toward me and his dripping face glows with relief. He offers a slight smile—one so kind and genuine I hardly recognize the man. For a moment, his eyes sparkle blue then go overcast again.

  “Look, Ben, o
f course you killed your wife and kids—”

  “No, Ian. Listen to me—”

  “and it’s fine. I don’t care and nobody has to—”

  “I DIDN’T KILL MY WIFE AND KIDS, GODDAMMIT!”

  I flinch at his raised voice and peer around, grateful the sudden thunderstorm has left this garden vacant but for us.

  “OK. OK, geez,” I say, wiping water from my face.

  “I didn’t kill my wife and kids.”

  “Well, look, even if you did—”

  “Jesus! You really aren’t listening to me, are you?”

  “I’m just saying… with the amnesia and all… who’s to say. Besides, if you did murder your wife and children, who could even verify it?”

  “I could.”

  “Ah, but that whole memory loss, thing, Ben. I mean—”

  “My name’s not Ben.”

  “What?”

  “My name’s Sean. Sean McGovern.”

  “What? No. No! Your name’s Ben. It’s Ben.”

  “It’s Sean.”

  “It’s Ben!”

  “Ian…” Ben sighs, leans forward and places his head in his hands.

  “Look, Ben, you’re having some kind of… episode. Perhaps we should set you up with another visit to—”

  “It’s not an episode, goddammit. I’m…. I have my memory back.”

  “You do? For reals? I mean, you really do?”

  “Yeah. Well, mostly. I know my name. I know where I’m from. And I know that I didn’t kill my wife and kids.”

  “Well… I don’t know, Ben—”

  “Sean.”

  “you might just be having one of those fugue states or something right now because you’re feeling especially guilty about what you’ve done.”

  “Why is it so important for you to believe that I could murder, in cold blood, my own wife, let alone my own kids? Let alone anyone’s kids?” he asks, exasperated, smiling like a madman, that silver man between us stifling a laugh.