The Ha-Ha

by Dave King

  19

  NEXT TIME I TAKE Ryan to school he says, “See you at five,” as he jumps from the truck. He knows I’m not expecting this and beats a hasty retreat. And there’s a way to handle it, I’m sure. I’m not so incapacitated I can’t demand an explanation, but at the moment our easy weekend still lingers in the air, so I watch him go.

  On a shelf in my bedroom closet is a portable speech device Laurel gave me the first Christmas she was here, which I put away before New Year’s and haven’t looked at since. A picture of that little machine comes to me as I’m Weedwacking the Contemplation Garden, and I wonder how a gray box does something so manifestly beyond me: link an arsenal of immobilized words to its hard, flat, digital voice. At the time she gave it to me, Laurel was heading off to Texas for whatever goofy combination of Christmas and Tet her family celebrates, and Nit and Nat were not yet with us; our housemate then was a fiftyish divorced guy who kept to himself. So it was just Laurel and me a few days before Christmas, and she looked excited as she handed me the red-wrapped box. But when I lifted the packing material, all I saw was the consumer version of my gadget-happy pathologist’s office—and I froze at the familiar tyranny. It was too lavish a gift, anyway, for two people who barely knew each other, and in the years since, we’ve kept things simple.

  The gizmo wasn’t mentioned again. I told myself I was a man of action, not words, and I’d never say more than I could communicate easily; as I remember this, I get too close to a hosta and snip off a spray of leaves. I stoop to hide the broken stems and think of what I would say to Ryan if I only could. Jokes and wisecracks and stories of my life at his age and even advice, even tales of combat. I’d gain his goodwill before I made him account for his after-school hours. The same with the phone calls.

  Perhaps goodwill is what’s in the balance. In the morning, when he takes off so quickly, I tell myself I’ve got all day to make myself a bad cop, but when five comes I have no game plan. Then something shifts, and the opportunity’s lost. We’re into the long, lovely evenings of June, and as I wash up the supper dishes, Ryan asks if we have a Frisbee. We go out back, and Ruby charges between us on her stubby black legs. We play in the yard until it’s too late to see, and the next morning the pickup time has entered our regimen. Ryan says, “Five o’clock, yo,” and gives me a rare hug, and nine hours later he’s got a bruise on his shin. When I point to it, he says he fell off the carousel. Why can’t I tell him I don’t believe him?

  Deep down, I’m an optimist. It’s my most depressing characteristic. As a teenager, I knew half a dozen guys who beat the draft by claiming to be crazy or homosexual or by heading north, over the border. The brother of one of Sylvia’s friends chopped a toe off with a cleaver; I remember him at the senior prom, surrounded by girls and leaning on a carved cane. And though I’d have had difficulty with that cleaver, the other options didn’t bother me much, even the gay one, if it came to that. I had Sylvia, so what did I care? But I never believed that what happened would happen, so I let fate take its course. I didn’t think the government would call me up, and then they did; I didn’t think I’d get sent overseas, but I was. I trusted—crazily, maddeningly, despite all warnings, as if picturing safety were any kind of defense—that the large leaves and bright, small flowers of that jungle landscape would shelter me as thoroughly as the dry, limp foliage of my stateside boot camp. They did not. And I sure as hell didn’t plan on getting injured . . .

  I thought I’d be lucky, because at eighteen my life had been good. Why shouldn’t that continue? I thought Sylvia would wait for me; I thought the doctors would make me new. I thought time would pass and I’d adapt; I waited and waited for everything to be all right. And now I look at Ryan, nine years old and coming home scraped up from some activity I know nothing about, and I believe I should dig into this because even optimists stop trusting at some point. Then another day passes, and at five o’clock he’s right where he said he’d be, and he seems fine. By then it’s my time, and I don’t want to spoil it. I’m thinking chicken and mashed potatoes and the long hours before dark, and Ruby’s waiting for us in the house with purple flowers. Maybe Laurel’s there, too, so I opt not to jostle fate. The separate pieces of my existence have been out of joint for a very long time. I want things to be nice.

  In a few surprising ways, they are. Nit and Nat are into their second week of mooching breakfast, and I’m adjusting to that. I had to point out that plates have backs as well as fronts, but after this the dishwashing improved, and I like having the paper read aloud each morning. I haven’t had that since my mom was alive. The morning hubbub reminds me of the best aspects of the army, so I resurrect a few tricks I learned in basic: it’s a hot griddle that sears your pancakes, and a dribble of water will keep fried eggs soft. I notice that Ryan loves Canadian bacon, and Laurel and Nit always gobble up any fruit. Nat eats anything placed in front of him, but he eats a lot; he and I are the big guys here. Remembering the days when I’d scarf two Twinkies on the ride to the convent, I’m amazed at my sudden domesticity. So the boys are coarse and loud and dopey, and each day brings something that gets under my skin. Once breakfast is over, I’m glad they’re gone, but their participation has a unifying effect: Laurel no longer stands by the stove to eat, but comes to the table, and Ryan’s put himself in charge of the coffeemaker. Nat once said this was the best part of his day.

  Another week passes, remarkable for its harmony and for the ease with which we put difficult thoughts aside. Even Laurel seems distracted by the boys’ commotion; she lets up on the phone stuff and only once mentions Sylvia’s family day. As for me, I’m made weightless by June and Frisbee, by Saturday-night bowling and my mom’s coffee cake recipe and the kids’ Sunday matinee at the theater I went to when I was a child. By morning glories and teaching Ruby to sit and by the fact that Nit and Nat’s hooey now bugs me but briefly; by the incomparable strangeness of feeling tired at bedtime. I’m so swept away, in fact, that I almost—unaccountably—lose track of what I’d ordinarily consider paramount: in a few days, I’ll see Sylvia again.

  20

  SYLVIA WAS ONE OF THOSE GIRLS who hung around the art room. Neither of us was a star in high school, but Sylvia found a clique to join among the girls—and a few boys—who stayed after school to make silk-screen prints and fiddle with clay. Because she and I were always together, I was part of that group, too.

  Remembering those days, I see a small, neat blonde with small, neat messes down her work apron. Her face was oval, and she had fine bones and thin, precise fingers, which I thought were exquisite. All her life she’d been growing her hair, and by the time I met her she could sit on it if she arched her neck. In the art room, she’d gather the mass of it into a knot, and as the hours passed, strands would slip out and spread in wisps over her shoulders. It may not have been the prettiest hair—it was very fine—but Sylvia got plenty of attention for it, and of course I adored it. Her hair was like a piece of fabulous jewelry she wore every day, just for me.

  I never did much art myself. Often I’d read while the radio played and the room bustled around me, but there were hours I sat at those big, wooden tables doing no more than cracking jokes. Sometimes Sylvia would draw me into what she was doing; I remember a clay sculpture I made of a man under a palm tree. There were potato-print Christmas cards and a few other projects, too, and no matter what drawing or little object I created, Sylvia gave it serious appraisal, as she did with her own work. For this she reserved a particular expression: narrowed eyes, hard-set mouth. She’d step back to a certain distance and beetle her pale brows, and if it was her work she was considering, she might lean in for a disapproving tweak. I suppose even then I knew this was baloney, but it seemed like the way an artist behaved, and I guess it helped her feel artistic. We were kids, and we took ourselves seriously! Sylvia was hypercritical of her own accomplishments but always very gentle with anything I made.

  So that was our life. I enjoyed chemistry and English and got mostly B’s, and though Syl would
n’t show me her report card, I suspected she got B’s and C’s in everything but art. My hair grew long enough to touch my shoulders, and I broke my arm playing freshman football—but that was long before I met Sylvia. For three years I played clarinet in the marching band; one semester I took an acting class. We weren’t wild, but we weren’t prudes. I smoked pot when it was available at parties, and Sylvia, who was two years younger, sneaked the occasional beer. What else? I was kind of a chunky kid, and the first time we had sex I was afraid she’d be repelled by my thick trunk and hairy legs, and I wished I could keep my clothes on, just stick my penis out my fly. But Sylvia was already removing her clothes. She pulled her sweater over her head and brushed a piece of red cotton yarn from one breast, and I wanted to lose my soul in her loveliness. I couldn’t do that with my school clothes on, so I undressed, too, as fast as I could.

  I was such a horny teenager I’d have liked sex under any circumstances, but I really do believe ours was special. We’d spent a long time doing no more than making out—on the couch of a house where Sylvia babysat or in my father’s Dodge when I took her home or, occasionally, thrillingly, in the art room during basketball games—and I’d discovered a formula for overcoming my modesty. I’d start out tentatively, with the lightest of kisses, then after a while I’d gasp for breath. I’d grip Sylvia tighter and rub her arm—or her tummy or her breast, when she’d let me—and utter a few moans, just to see how that felt. Kissing, touching, gasping, moaning: I’d escalate the elements until it seemed I was practically overcome by passion, and then I would be overcome by my passion, and I’d no longer have to think about what I was doing. My skin would tingle, and my head would swim; my mouth would paint her throat with kisses. The world would narrow to the simplest of prospects, and I’d thrill, in my light-headedness, to the bitter, talcumy scent of an ear. With breaths and nibbles I’d take a turn at her neck, the back flesh of an upper arm, or the taut wedge of belly where she’d allowed her shirt to ride up just a little. Her skin would pebble to goose bumps, and I’d be utterly delighted with what I’d accomplished. Then I’d go back for more.

  Sylvia rarely moaned. She was far too self-conscious a girl for that. Nevertheless, I believed I could sense her, too, growing aroused by my technique, so when it came to sex I tried the same thing. Once our clothes were off, I’d start with a little kissing and caressing, and I was always astonished at how small her body was, compared to mine. When I was ready to get inside her I’d continue my gentleness, propping myself on my elbows to stroke her face and touch her with my lips, and when I got to that point where I’d be overwhelmed by her beauty I’d let my weight down so our bodies merged and my newly solid and hairy adolescence dissolved in the sweet, small miracle of her. At the end, I’d heave and thrash and kiss her neck, and even the taste of that thin, thin hair in my mouth seemed to certify love. We only had intercourse eight or ten times, anyway, before I went off; I waited almost two years before Sylvia was ready! Then thank God for prostitutes—not over there, but here at home, after my return—or I’d never have made it through my twenties. After the war, Sylvia and I had sex only once. There was no longer any question of our being together, but it was one of those things that occasionally happens, or possibly Sylvia felt obliged. By then I had to be quite high even to contemplate an erection, and Sylvia had shed a few of her inhibitions. What resulted was quick and harsh and very, very different from anything we’d shared before. I never had the stomach to try it again.

  What with basic training, my short tour, and the time in hospitals, she was in art college before I got back on my feet. By then she’d had other boyfriends, and she’d cut her hair. In the years I was gone she’d become a painter, and for a long time I told myself this was what separated us, far more than my injury. I longed for the equilibrium of those days in the art room, when we were simply two high schoolers who met by glorious, unimaginable chance. But Sylvia had other allegiances, and it was hard, with my difficulties, for me to keep up. Even that day when she showed me the potato-head self-portraits, I could taste her dust.

  I don’t know why Sylvia never found success as an artist. Maybe the answer’s as simple as not enough talent. Maybe she should have gone to New York, or maybe she did too much coke or not enough. For about ten years she had a studio downtown, where the dark canvases she cranked out were less interesting to me than the sentimental drawings she’d done in high school. But this was a period when we saw less of each other, and she didn’t discuss her aspirations with me. By the time we connected again, she’d given up the painting studio and found a temp job typing for an ad agency. Ryan was still in the future, and I think Sylvia was at the end of some romance. “Howie, are you there?” she asked thinly of my answering machine. “I was thinking I’d really, really love to get high.” She knew I’d have something because in those days I always did. So maybe she’s right, as she suggested the day she left: she wouldn’t be detoxing if it weren’t for me, though she did ask. Or maybe it’s because her painting career didn’t go as she wished. I’m not one to make much of thwarted dreams, but I know there’s something I’d have become if I hadn’t been hurt. An architect or a jet pilot or an accountant; a married guy with beloved kids. All these destinies didn’t happen to me, so maybe Sylvia’s didn’t happen to her, either.

  It’s a bright, moody morning when I arrive at the rehab center. I’ve already done my best with Ryan and failed. At the grammar school I laid a hand on his shoulder, very man to man, and cocked my head at the passing road. Not too late, buddy! Let’s visit your mom. But Ryan only looked at his lap. “What?” he mumbled. “I think we have like a big quiz today.” We sat quietly a moment, Ryan fiddling with his lunch box handle, and at last I set my hand on his. “You said I didn’t have to,” he murmured resentfully. “You said,” he repeated, and he looked so cornered that at last I shrugged. It wasn’t my intention to go back on my word. I tried to appear heedless as I squeezed his hand to wish him a good day, but I knew I wasn’t wearing my amiable face. Ryan climbed down as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing himself, and I thought he might ask me to tell her hello, but he didn’t. I watched him walk to the building, not the playground, then I drove off.

  The place is not what I’m expecting. Years ago, after a summer of hallucinogens, I watched a television feature about a facility near Minneapolis. I remember a spot that was a bit like Sister Amity’s convent, with acres of open land and places to walk among a network of brown buildings. The show was filmed in winter, and the icy lake to which the camera periodically returned made the scenes of people confronting their problems seem all the more cozy. This is the world I’ve been picturing for Sylvia, more spa than penitentiary. Instead, her place is a freestanding brick structure in a developed area on the south side. The building looks like it might house a large dental complex or veterinary clinic, and it sits on a double lot off a major avenue, with tall trees and clapboard bungalows on either side. I’m early. As I wait to go in, I think how much more comfortable I’d feel with Ryan to buffer me.

  A heavyset woman enters the building, accompanied by a girl about Ryan’s age. A few minutes later a man in a suit arrives, and I get out of the truck and follow him to the glass doors. Inside is a table with name tags spread across it, and a woman says, “May I help you?” I look down at the grid of names until I recognize my own, and when I pick up my tag the woman’s eyes flicker over my scar. “Ah, Mr. Kapostash. Sylvia’s told us all about you. And you’ve brought her little boy with you?” As she peers around for Ryan, I step off.

  A big, pale, hulking guy arrives with a little wife and a baby, then there’s a regular stream: singles and couples, not many kids. I’m wondering where Sylvia is when the suited man asks for someone named Mary Ellen, and the woman says some of the clients haven’t arrived yet. But where the hell are they? Don’t they live at the facility?

  I spot Sylvia before she sees me. She’s coming up the walk with a young Hispanic-looking guy, and as they walk along, she fishes in an enorm
ous woven shoulder bag. The Hispanic guy’s smoking, and they pause at the bottom of the steps for him to finish his cigarette. Sylvia finds a piece of gum in her bag and pops it in her mouth.

  I step out and raise my hand. Sylvia’s face is blank for a nanosecond, then a big smile. “You’re here! But I should know you’re always early, Howie.” She drags me toward her friend, saying, “Carlos, Howie, Howie, Carlos.” She’s very animated, though I’m not sure she looks any healthier.

  Carlos shifts his cigarette and shakes my hand. “Good to meet you, man,” he says. He’s young and good-looking, maybe mid twenties. With renunciation beginning so early, how do young people sow their wild oats?

  All around us, people are exchanging hugs and hellos. Sylvia looks at me expectantly. I point to the ground, then put my hands together under my cheek: I’m asking where she and Carlos are arriving from. She stares a moment, then gives a nod. She’s always been good at this. “We don’t sleep here,” she says. “Except for like Betty Ford, detox is an outpatient thing these days, because of insurance. Lucky for me, though, Caroline played the single-mom card and got me in a halfway house, which is supposed to be for hard cases. Like Carlos.” She puts an arm around him, and he grins. “There’s a break later. I’ll take you guys over. So where’s my li’l fella, anyway? Raiding the coffee room?”

  I shake my head. This is the moment I’m dreading, but Ryan’s not here, and that’s all there is to say. Sylvia stares at me, her eyes welling, but I’m not convinced she didn’t see this coming. I look past her, down the tree-lined street to the busy avenue, and wait for the traffic signal to change to green.