Man of the Year

by Caroline Louise Walker

  While I may have missed the intended point of my father’s lesson in the limo, his lesson wasn’t futile, because I wasn’t clueless. My mother did arm me with at least one valuable tool before leaving. She taught me how to recognize, understand, and appreciate beauty. On the day my father let strangers crank Mom’s coffin into a giant hole, he confirmed as much by saying, Oh, she was beautiful all right, and I’d been glad to know we were in agreement. My mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. This was a fact.

  I really didn’t give much thought to the full extent of my father’s theory until midway through medical school—which was, not coincidentally, when I first gave any serious thought to marriage at all. Vanessa wasn’t beautiful. She was normal. She was loyal. That’s your choice, my old man had foretold. I guess I never forgot that, even long before I got it.

  A choice is a responsibility. Some things are pressed upon us: our names, for example, or our birthdays. We don’t choose our innate talents. We don’t get to pick out our demons. They are every bit as much our birthright as names and birthdays or genetic conditions. For the things we can choose, then, we have a responsibility to pick the option that will best serve us and cause the least suffering. Sometimes the best option still causes suffering, but that doesn’t make it the wrong choice. What I’m saying is, I’m no victim. I married one hell of a beautiful woman.

  For the first time in my life, I understand my father’s bitterness and why he asked to be buried in Memorial Cemetery north of here. She’d destroyed him, hadn’t she? She’d broken his heart, then she’d pulverized it by dying on us—and all I ever saw was the man who never loved me as much as she did. Too little, too late. Isn’t that always the way? I start the engine and check the time. Ray will be getting off work soon, and so I go. I drive up Belmont and weave over to Bar None, where Ray has already grabbed stools and two bottles of PBR.

  8.

  “There he is,” Ray says.

  I untie my tie, undo my top buttons, take off my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. I should have left my suit coat in the car. My cuff links cost more than Ray makes in a month. I slide them into my pocket and take a swig of beer.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” he asks, “or do I have to wait until you’ve had a few first?”

  I raise my bottle in reply.

  “Well then. Bottom’s up, buddy.”

  We guzzle mediocre cold beer.

  “How’s Emily?” I ask.

  “She’s fine. Kids are good. Bianca is looking at schools. Leon just got a raise.”

  “And work is good?” I recognize my habit of posing declarations as questions, but tonight I need Ray to be stable and sound, so I stand by the prompt.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it good,” he answers, “but it’s not bad. Living the lineman dream, I guess.”

  This is Ray’s running joke—thirty years running—because he was a lineman on the high school football team and now he’s a lineman for the power company. He thinks it’s pure comedy. We shoot the shit a while longer. We talk about the economy and the weather and our kids. When the next pause rolls around, Ray says, “Listen, Bianca’s thing starts soon. I’m going to have to roll out of here before too long, so do you want to get to the point, or are you gonna keep pussyfooting around?”

  “It’s pretty fucking stupid,” I tell him.

  “I don’t doubt that, Bobby.”

  “It feels crazy now, like I’m paranoid or something.”

  “Feels crazy to me already. Spit it out.”

  “I have a weird feeling about a friend of Jonah’s, some kid who’s staying with us.”

  “Tall guy from the party?”

  “Yeah. His name’s Nick.”

  “Grifter?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “Predator? He might be trying to seduce Elizabeth.”

  Raymond asks, “Trying how?”

  “Crossing lines. He’s got this subverted alpha game going on, like sensitive but sneaky, but I’m the only one who sees it. So then Elizabeth invited him to stay all summer—”

  “Why?”

  “To be nice. He—”

  Ray cuts me off. “You gotta shut that shit down, Bobby.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Kick him out?”

  “I don’t care.” He shakes his head. “Do what you’ve got to do, man. Mark Wycott beat the shit out of Steve Dunn’s car just because Steve winked at Shelly. Some guy I work with went over to another dude’s house with a Louisville Slugger. Said, ‘I’m going to ask you nicely once: never touch my wife again. Next time, I bash your brains in.’ ”

  “Okay, well that’s one approach.”

  “Two, actually, but you’re not a fighter. Besides, that kid could kick your ass.”

  “He’s skinny.”

  “He’s young.”

  “We’re young.”

  Raymond throws his head back and laughs.

  “Look,” I say, “it’s just a feeling. Nothing’s happened.”

  “Lucky you. Would you rather wait until things happen? You want to collect evidence that’ll haunt you the rest of your life? You’ve got your instincts. That’s all the proof you need. I say shut it down now.”

  “How?”

  “Beats me. All I know is that you cannot let this kid destroy your family.”

  “It’s not like Elizabeth would ever do anything.”

  “Oh, it’s not?” He twists his neck, his entire body. His stare is intense and invasive, making me sorry I ever brought it up.

  “Shut up, Ray.”

  “No way, man.”

  “You’re out of line.”

  “No,” he says, “I’m not. Don’t kid yourself, Bobby. Elizabeth did it before, and it worked out in your favor that time. As far as you know, she hasn’t since—though, to be fair, that’s just as far as you know.”

  “Nothing has happened, Raymond,” I say, but my mind is under assault. All I can see is Elizabeth walking through the grass half-naked. Of course, I keep the image to myself. Maybe I want to save face, or maybe I just can’t bear to put it into words, but maybe tough love is overrated in the first place. The trouble is, I can’t kick this bad feeling in my bones.

  “Excellent. You have an opportunity to take precautions so nothing does happen.”

  I start to speak but Ray holds up a hand to shush me, and since I came all the way down here for his advice, I might as well take it.

  Ray softens. “That shit that went down with Vanessa? You two almost destroyed your kid. You realize that, right? You fucked him up. It’s taken Jonah years to get back on his feet, but he looked happy the other night. I haven’t seen him that happy since his ninth birthday, man. Granted, I don’t see him much, no thanks to you, but the effect of that trauma wasn’t exactly subtle. He idolized you, Bobby. He worshipped you, and you broke his mother’s heart and made them move into a shitty apartment so you could share your house with a woman who turned out to be a much better match for you than Vanessa ever was—I’ll give you that—but do you think any of that mattered to Jonah when he was coming up and needed you? You weren’t there.”

  “I—”

  “I know. You wanted to be there. You got the shit end of the custody stick. That’s the pitfall of a speedy divorce. Doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t there. Whatever. But he’s finally come around. He’s finally learned to like Elizabeth, maybe even love her. She’s family to him now. You cannot let this family fall apart too.”

  I drop my head into my hands and massage my scalp, trying to offset pain with pleasure. Ray puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder too hard.

  “I’m saying this because you’re like my brother, and I love you, and I love that fucking kid of yours too.”

  “I know.” I shake my head into my arms. My words are muffled by shirtsleeves and Fleetwood Mac.

  “Listen. You’ve been married, what? Ten years? It’s a hiccup. At ten years, most people would hate
each other if they didn’t have children to distract them and love them back, right?” He laughs. “You’ve lucked out with how good it’s been. Now you’ve got to get through this shit together. You’ve got to address it before someone else does.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Ray’s voice is balm to my open wound when he repeats, “Shut it down, Bobby.”

  I nod.

  His insistence makes the whole thing real. If he weren’t so adamant, I probably could’ve talked away my hunch—and it’s still just a hunch. I could’ve tricked myself into believing I’m unreasonable or insecure, but the gravity of Raymond’s tone crushes all illusions. I’m Jonah’s father. Protecting him is my job, even if he can’t see the big picture—especially if the big picture means rescuing his closest friendship and his family from a collision course. Ray is right: there’s too much at stake. Kids don’t always recognize the motives driving their parents’ interventions, but when kids become grown-ups, they look back with wisdom and respect, knowing we did it all for them. Someday, Jonah will thank me.

  Besides, my son’s serenity isn’t the only peace at stake. People assume that the divorce was easy on me just because I was already in love with someone new. Vanessa got everyone’s sympathy. So did Elizabeth’s ex. No one knew how our partners had changed. Vanessa offered so much in the beginning, then flipped the script and began expecting too much. Her betrayal was passive and ghostly, the kind of trick that makes a man think he’s lost his heart or soul. The thing I did, my betrayal toward Vanessa, it was out in the open. It happened publicly, and it happened quickly, and everyone dropped the gavel and called it bad. They didn’t know the dark corners of our marriage. They didn’t see that I’d done us both a favor by tearing the soiled Band-Aid off a gaping wound she inflicted in the first place.

  “Bobby,” Ray says, “I hate to do this, man, but I need to get moving.”

  “Of course. Thanks for—” I’m at a loss. Thanks for what? Thanks for meeting me, for straight shooting, for not making this weird, for not changing? Thanks for not giving a shit about Man of the Year and not hating me because I do? I care about seeing my picture in the paper. God, that picture in the paper. I feel queasy again, as for the first time it occurs to me to wonder if whatever happened this morning was already happening when Elizabeth wrapped her hand around Nick’s shoulder. Does she have it in her to flaunt such a thing in front of my face? And—

  Oh, Jesus. Was she thinking of him? When she closed her eyes and opened her legs, was she thinking of him when she came? Like a goddamn meteor shower, the what-ifs come crashing down. What if this isn’t new? What if he loves her? What if she loves him? Who started it? Where are they this very minute? And—

  “Bobby?”

  I look up at my friend. Van Halen oozes from the jukebox like a corny soundtrack to our bromance moment. “Thanks for everything,” I say.

  He slaps me on the back, leaves me with the tab, and heads home to Emily and spaghetti pie. I nearly order another drink. I nearly throw a round of darts. Instead, I make the mistake of looking around this tired bar. These people come here every night to drink and play pool and bask in neon light, don’t they? They tell the same stale jokes. They eat leftover spaghetti pie and salads that come out of bags. I don’t belong here. I never did. I throw thirty bucks on the bar and leave. A herd of dudes bursts into laughter just before the door closes. I can’t help but cringe. I can’t help but hate them all.

  Emily

  By the time Raymond shimmies down the bleachers—all, Excuse me, pardon me, slapping other kids’ dads on the back—Bianca’s side is up two points. It’s just a clinic, not even a proper game for a proper league, but some of these parents are in it to win it, no joke.

  “What did I miss?” Ray asks, kissing my cheek.

  “Shirts and skins. White jerseys are skins. Gabby scored for shirts. Sarah, Leona, and Mikaela each scored for skins. Bianca’s still on the bench. She’s a skin.”

  Ray cups his hands around his mouth and screams, “Give ’em hell, B!” Our daughter glares at Raymond, then hangs her head and puts her hands over her ears. The lady in front of us spins around to judge Ray. He grins and says, “Hi,” to her.

  “So?” I ask. “How was it?”

  Raymond closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  “That bad.”

  An exasperated, pfft. “He’s a mess, Em. Started crying at the bar, swear to God.”

  “Oh God. What’s going on?”

  “He thinks some friend of Jonah’s wants to fuck Elizabeth.” He says fuck Elizabeth right as the cheers fall off to silence.

  “Jesus,” I whisper. The lady in front of us twists to see who said Jesus, or maybe fuck. I whisper to Raymond, “So is he paranoid, or what?”

  “I don’t know. Boys that age are capable of some pretty deviant shit. I told him to shut it down regardless. Told him about how Mark Wycott bashed Steve Dunn’s headlights in just for sweet-talking Shelly that one time.”

  The shirts score and the skins’ parents boo. I tell Raymond, “Mark didn’t do that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bash in Steve’s headlights. That’s not what happened. Mark didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah he did,” Ray tells me, then snaps to attention. “Wait, he didn’t?”

  “No. Steve cracked his headlight pulling into his garage after Mark’s Fourth of July party last year.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Oh,” Ray says. “Well, I told Bobby that Mark fired a warning shot and it worked.”

  “You’d better hope he doesn’t try to impress you by one-upping Mark.”

  “Yeah, right,” says Ray. “Like Bobby’s got a violent bone in his body.”

  “Maybe not violent,” I concede, “but desperate.”

  “Fair enough.”

  At least Raymond can see it. He’s so good at overlooking his friends’ flaws, but I guess that’s the upside of devotion. My husband’s loyalty is both the sexiest and most annoying thing about him, just as Bobby’s reliance upon my husband is both his most endearing and most insufferable quality. I love Bobby like family—but more in the vein of brother-in-law than brother. My love for Bobby exists through Raymond. And anyway, his reaction is not our responsibility. Bobby may be impressionable, but he’s a grown man, for crying out loud.

  It’s too easy to see him, still, as that kid we met when our paths merged in middle school. In that first week of the sixth grade, the three of us found ourselves aligned, our last names stacked alphabetically back-to-back, quickly triangulating our awkwardness into something remarkably strong. If my maiden name had been Smith instead of Hawthorne, there’s a pretty good chance I’d have never given Bobby a second thought. Of course, I’d like to think I would’ve still married Raymond, even if he wasn’t a Harrison—that I wouldn’t have ended up with a Smerda twin instead. I shudder to think it.

  Bobby was a bit like Mowgli back then: scrawny, scrappy, out of place but not really aware of it. I guess he found his personal Bagheera in Ray. What would that have made me? Baloo? Fuck it. I’ll be Baloo. We were a solid threesome, and later, a solid two-plus-one. Ray went out of his way to be sure Bobby never felt left out after we coupled up—sometimes to the point of overcompensation, in my opinion, but I couldn’t be mad about that. Bobby was my date to every football game so we could act the fools as Raymond’s personal fan club; and if one of us was sick, Bobby would get our assignments and help us finish them so we could rest. It was never a hassle to include him. It was always just love.

  Such a decent kid. So fucking smart. So clueless, too. So powerless against his dad’s obsession with pedigree. Bobby inherited it, like a disease. Mowgli deserved better.

  The first time I saw it was junior year, when Bobby spun the fuck out over that stupid American History final, like his entire future depended upon acing one exam—which was, I imagine, his father’s prophecy. Bobby said if his GPA dropped, he’d never stand a chance of getting into his t
arget schools. That was the first I’d heard of an Ivy League plan.

  So he came up with that elaborate scheme to break into the classroom, steal the tests from the top drawer in Mr. Clifford’s desk, then photocopy and distribute them to everyone else. This way he’d get an A while also ingratiating himself to the rest of the class. It was weird. I think the only reason Raymond agreed to help was because he hated seeing Bobby miserable. I stayed out of it, but Raymond loaned him the skeleton key that had been in the football team’s possession for generations, and he drove and stood guard while Bobby snuck inside like it was Watergate or something. It was the end of the year, and Mr. Clifford was fed up with our shit, I guess, because when he realized what had happened, he went berserk. Refused to let us out of class until we each wrote the name of our top suspect on a piece of paper, folded it in quarters, and handed it in, anonymously. I wrote, I DON’T KNOW. Raymond wrote something similar, and Bobby claims he did too, but I couldn’t help but wonder who else would have written Miles Dawson’s name down, if not the guilty party.

  Sweet, boring Miles Dawson. His seat was empty the next morning. He probably spent the day hating himself for being the perfect patsy, while Mr. Clifford bragged about catching and suspending a thief. Case closed. Mr. Clifford actually thanked the anonymous tipper who’d snitched. At lunch, Ray and I insisted Bobby come clean, but Bobby refused. He blamed Mr. Clifford for failing to investigate properly and said we shouldn’t jeopardize our futures on account of other people’s incompetence. That was the first time I thought, Like father, like son.

  Cut to Ray telling Mr. Clifford that he would not be able to give any more information, but that he knew for a fact it hadn’t been Miles. He wouldn’t say how he knew, but he did swear it wasn’t him, either. Technically, Ray was an accomplice, not a thief, so technically it wasn’t a lie. I think Mr. Clifford was so spent at that point—and rightfully on edge about having suspended the wrong person once already—that he just lectured Raymond and sent him away. Miles returned to class and everything went back to normal, and that’s how I learned that cheating is way more stressful than buckling down and doing the work.