The Ha-Ha

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The Ha-Ha Page 15

by Dave King


  Ryan’s far away, at the end of the table. He hasn’t spoken, and I don’t think he’s looked at me since we returned from the convent, though I’ve watched him lick the butter from his asparagus and slip the spears down under his seat. Now, though, he looks up sharply, as if he’s in class. He thinks a moment, then says again that he wants to go to Aqua Splash Down. He looks around hopefully to see who takes the hint. Laurel says, “And you’re doin’ baseball, too, aren’t ya, hon?” He nods. “Little League?”

  “Sort of.”

  Nat drops a chicken bone onto his plate. “Oh, buddy,” he says. “You gonna have some fun. Gonna have a ball, man. You know who used to be a big baseball jock? High school, Little League, all ’at shit. Who you think?”

  Nit says, “Here it comes, gang.” Ryan shakes his head.

  “Guess,” says Nat in the avid-salesman manner he employs with Ryan. He raises an eyebrow, then taps his chest with a finger. “Swear to God, dude. Best pitch: my slider. Not-too-shabby fastball, neither. Only problem, my fielding sucked.” He darts a grin at Ms. Monetti and adds, “Comparatively. But look: I could show you the whole damn catalogue, you know that? You and me put our heads together, boy, I make you a power player. An MVP. One southpaw to another, hey.” He raises his left hand, still holding a fork, and nods broadly. I’m surprised he’s noticed that Ryan’s left-handed.

  Ryan stares back, shrugging. He takes an enormous bite from his drumstick, and we watch him chew. Then Laurel says, “You know, Ry, you don’t hafta do this.” He goes on eating. “There’s absolutely no law says you have to like sports . . .”

  Ryan looks up. He’s got barbecue sauce on his mouth, and he looks like an outraged clown. “Of course I like sports,” he says. “I like sports.” He gives an exasperated look. “I just can’t—”

  Then, like a rush of birds, the flutter of commentary descends. Nat says, “Or like I pitch to you, if you want. Might turn out you’re a slugger, not a pitcher,” while Ms. Monetti says it’s not always the star players that have the most fun. Nat says, “You never know, you know?”

  Laurel says, “Is it baseball, sweetie? Do you think you’re not good enough?” and Nat says they’ll start with easy ones, really soft breaking balls. Nit announces that he never really dug team sports, not even basketball, which might be the only cool one if you think about it, though also hockey blah, blah, blah. Ms. Monetti says she’s the world’s biggest klutz.

  Ryan looks from one to the other, then down at his plate. He’s still got the drumstick with its bitten-out cavity, and he flings it down and scrambles from his seat. Laurel says, “Ran?”

  Blue robe flapping, Ryan darts to the stable, where my morning glories have slowly been climbing the wall. He takes a shoot in his fist, and a spray of dirt rises against the clapboards. He uproots another, then another and another, clawing and tearing at my trellis of strings. We’re on our feet now, picnic benches toppling behind us, and Nit calls out, “Whoa!” Ryan looks up savagely. He kicks at the plantings, then gives a last flail and takes off running. Ruby bobs after, like a balloon tied to his ankle.

  The barbecue grill’s still smoking at the entrance to the stable. Laurel gasps as Ryan charges toward it, but he executes a sudden zig, and if Ruby weren’t on him he’d be just fine. As it is, she gets hold of the robe, and Ryan falls against the table the boys used as a cooking station. Tumbling headlong, he comes down on an ankle and skids forward on his elbows and knees. “Ow!” he says plaintively; then he cries out, “Ruby!” and raises his fist. The little dog sits back, wagging her stump of tail. Ryan glares furiously and gives the table a shove. It topples away from him, the glass pitcher sliding away, and strikes the grill, which hovers on two legs. Ryan puts his hands to his head, but the grill goes down with a rattle of coals. A spray of sparks, like the bright, sudden fan of a peacock, flares at the stable door.

  Laurel is there first. Ryan’s crying now and clutching his ankle, and when he catches his breath he gives a shriek of frustration. Laurel bends over him, and I hear her say, “Ruby, back!” then, “Jesus! Someone grab the damn dog! Broken glass here!” I crouch down next to them, and she says, “Honey, tell me. Where-all does it hurt?”

  Ryan points at his foot, then his bloodied elbow and knee. He flicks some gravel from the knee and wrings his hands. His face is a small fountain of spit, tears, and snot, and I think of when he first came and I expected crying, and of how I finally stopped expecting. Ms. Monetti says, “Maybe we should ice the ankle,” and Laurel nods absently. I know she doubts this is about bruises and scrapes.

  “Shh, shh,” says Laurel, and rocks Ryan against her chest. “S’okay . . .” She hands me the Indians cap. Ryan remains still, but when I wipe some red barbecue sauce from his shin he lets out a wail. At last, though, he starts to subside, and Laurel says, “Howard, can you get him in the house?”

  I slip an arm beneath him, but as I do so he suddenly comes to life. “Nnn-ngg!” he says, and shoves me square in the chest. I fall back on my palms and let out a grunt, and Laurel stares in astonishment.

  And now Nat’s here. He straddles my legs to hitch Ryan by the armpits, and Laurel stands, too. “The child’s upset,” she says. “Little guy’s borne up well these weeks, considering. Good he gets some of this out.” She reaches down to squeeze my shoulder, then follows the others to the house.

  I stay where I am, in the middle of the driveway. I’ve got a headache, and all I can think of is that shove in the chest. I try to remember if Ryan’s ankle looked swollen, and I guess Laurel and the others are doing what’s necessary. I suppose, too, they’re hearing what happened at the convent. I wish I could dissolve right into the ground.

  “Hey! Kapostash!” I look up. My neighbor’s on his back stoop, smoking a cigarette. I think his wife makes him smoke outside since the baby’s come, but we don’t talk much. “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I shrug. I’m not doing anything. I’m sitting on my ass in my driveway wishing everything were less fucked-up. I’m staring into space.

  “Why the hell don’t you put that out?” says my neighbor. He’s in a starched business shirt with the sleeves rolled, and there’s nothing neighborly in the look he gives me. I look behind me and see the briquettes smoking in a heap. Some of the coals have tumbled toward the stable, and the few morning glories Ryan left standing are wilting in the smoke. “You could burn down the whole street,” the neighbor says. I doubt it, but it’s not a bad notion.

  But duty calls. I start to rise and gasp as I lean on something sharp. A curved triangle of glass protrudes like a sail from my palm, and when I pluck it out a red line wells up. With my free hand, I right the wooden table and set the piece of glass on it; then, wrapping a dish towel around my cut, I squat and gather the pieces of the pitcher. I don’t want Ruby or Ryan getting hurt. My neighbor yells, “What the hell are you doing?” and I don’t look up. Let everything burn, I think, right to the ground. Whoosh!

  There was a time, of course, I knew everybody on this block. I took the neighbors with easy sociability, and after I was wounded they showed me respect. Now, though, those families have mostly moved on, and my current neighbors I leave to themselves. So I place my collection of glass shards on the table, then kick gently at the pile of ashes. As red coals roll away from my boot, my neighbor asks, “What are you doing?” A screen door creaks, and his chubby wife joins him, carrying their bald-headed daughter. I hear her whispering and saying his name, Dwayne. “Honey, I don’t give a damn,” Dwayne says. “I’m not gonna let him burn the place down.” I start toward the side of my house, where the garden hose hangs on a rack, and I’m moving slowly just to bust his balls. “Hey, I got a family to protect, man,” the guy calls out. “Two minutes, I’m calling the fire department. Where you going now?” I turn on the water.

  I hear Laurel say, “Howard?” and when I return with the hose she’s standing at our screen door. “Everything okay?”

  “Ms. Kim,” our neighbor calls. “You oughta keep a closer
eye on your boyfriend. He’s starting a fire.” Laurel steps outside and stares at him without a word, and the neighbor holds a whispered conference with his wife. “Or whatever your name is. Sorry. But I mean it. That’s a dangerous situation.”

  Laurel says, “Keep your shirt on.” Then, to the wife, “How’s little Samantha doing?” The wife picks up the infant’s hand and waves it, and Laurel steps toward me. “Ryan’s fine,” she says. “Just being a baby, which I must say is okay by me. He likes the attention, so Logan’s told him to stay off the ankle. I wonder how long that will last.” I aim a squirt at the stable wall, and wilted leaves break from the morning glory stem. Laurel says, “And you won’t believe what all his hoo-ha was about. Seems he lost his old baseball mitt, and his mom won’t buy a new one ’til he learns the value of personal possessions. So he was afraid he’d get ridiculed. But it makes you wonder how some people think!” She shakes her head, and I stare at her, dumbfounded. Is that all?

  I squirt the coals, and a cloud of ash billows up. Laurel and I cough. Dwayne shouts, “About time!”

  “Hey!” cries Laurel. “It’s out now. Just relax.” She coughs again, and under her breath she says, “Asshole.”

  “What?” He stubs his cigarette in an ashtray. “Guy’s sitting on his duff, I don’t know how long. If that thing goes up—” He nods at my stable building. “It’s summertime. I’m in a wooden house here.”

  Laurel says, “Soak the entire driveway, Howard. Just to make sure.”

  “What’s it take to get through to him, anyway?”

  Laurel says, “Hey!” again. The wife is pulling the guy by the sleeve. “Jean, your husband’s out of line. You know that, don’t you?” She pauses a moment, then adds, “This man fought for his country.” And with that I turn the hose on them. The spray doesn’t reach their stoop, but it’s enough to send them scurrying inside, and Laurel’s laughing and tugging me by the waist. “Howard!”

  So Ryan didn’t tell them about our convent ride. Instead, he ragged on Sylvia for not replacing a baseball glove. It’s funny, I think, how things even out. Some glitch in the cosmic machinery scooped up whatever injury he might have suffered at the convent and redeposited it in my yard. There’s never any escape. But if an ugly cut is the sentence for my foolishness, it’s a price I’ll pay.

  We’re heading inside when Laurel says, “He said one strange thing, though, Howard . . . Did you fight with that nun?” I gesture dismissively, and when she spots the bloody dishcloth the subject is dropped. “Howard, you might need stitches! Come on. Let me take you quick quick in my car.”

  But I don’t want stitches. Darkness is falling, and already the family’s reassembling. On the picnic table lie half-empty platters, and Ms. Monetti is gathering glasses. Nit and Nat emerge from the kitchen with Ryan in a fireman’s carry, and I settle the Indians cap on his head. “Hi, Howie,” he whispers. We’re embarrassed, both of us. In the bathroom is a first-aid kit, and as Laurel digs through it I again decline a trip to the ER. There’s a lemon cake waiting downstairs on the counter, and I’ve a sudden feeling that if I step away for even a moment, nothing will be here when I return.

  28

  SYLVIA’S PARENTS HAD SOME WEDDING out of town and took Caroline with them. Sylvia begged off, saying she had a paper to write; I told my folks I’d be catching a Bulls game and staying the night in Chicago. So Sylvia and I had a day and a half at her house, and we cooked and had sex and called each other “dear” in solemn jest. Sylvia really did have a paper due, and she made me stay quiet so she could work all afternoon. I lay on the floor near the little pink desk where she tapped away at a manual typewriter, and whenever the bell rang, I licked her toes; then we pulled each other to the bedroom. All afternoon it snowed, but the house was so cozy that I prowled naked around the upstairs, even entering the master bedroom to gaze lustily in the full-length mirror. The weekend was filled with liberties I’d never take in my own home. I wanted to do it with Sylvia right there, by the mirror, and I called to her, and by the time she appeared I had another hard-on. But Sylvia came bundled in her thick white terry-cloth robe, modest even with me. “Howie!” she said, “come out of there! Put something on!” She opened the robe and wrapped it clumsily around me for the walk to her own room, as if holding me against her tempting legs were somehow less indecent than letting me flop around in the open. I knew we’d have other chances at that mirror, so I let her shuttle me off.

  Sunday I awoke overjoyed. The snow had continued all night, and the falling snowflakes lent an extra blueness to the walls of Sylvia’s bedroom, which were blue already. Sylvia had not permitted me to shovel her parents’ drive for fear a neighbor would see, so we’d stayed in, with no one but ourselves as witnesses, and I woke still flush from our long day together. In the afternoon there’d been sex, and sex again in the evening, after which we’d raided the freezer for her mom’s special hors d’oeuvres. Then I chopped while Sylvia cooked, and we ate in the dining room, with candles. We washed both plates and all the pots and put everything away to leave no evidence, and when we finally turned in, I curled bigly around her in her girl’s-size bed. I reached for her breast, but Sylvia murmured, “Shh, Howie. Go to sleep. Tomorrow!” and I did as she asked. Then it was morning, and I was staggered by my good fortune. Here I was, with still hours to go! For once, I awoke not caring what the day would bring—how long Sylvia would let me stay, or when her parents would return; whether there would be more sex, more romantic meals, more capering like newlyweds. I had my own homework to complete, too, and the timing of my return through the snowstorm to consider, and it was my tendency to worry about such smallish concerns. But for once I was able to put them aside. It was as if I were watching myself from a nearby distance and feeling that all was luck and possibility—though in fact, I was never again blessed by a whole night with Sylvia, or anyone else. That was the only time.

  I don’t know why I wake thinking of that morning. I’m alone in bed, but there’s a lightness to my mood and the same sense of—strange concept for me—luck. Even when I remember I’m angry with Sylvia, I flex my legs and feel great. I’m free, I think. I’ve even overslept. As for Sister Amity, I push her aside. Instead, I contemplate the strange household that held a barbecue, and I wonder why I should go where I’m not appreciated. The convent shackled me, I see now, and Sister Amity can take her week to consider. Render judgment? She can have all fucking year, then kneel and beg me to climb back on that mower. Perhaps I’ll be unemployed for a while and spend time with Ryan. I can be irresponsible, go through my savings. What the hell am I saving for? Again, I feel I’m watching from the outside, and I see myself stretch as I rise from my bed. It’s an uplifting sight. The unemployed man takes a long, long shower, shampooing the smokiness from his sparse cap of hair. He shaves carefully, standing naked at the washbasin, and adjusts the razor to the growth of his whiskers. A red-winged blackbird calls to him through the window, and he realizes his bandage has come loose in the shower. Peeling the sodden pad from his hand, he drops it in the wastebasket, then carefully replaces it using his teeth. He goes down late to the kitchen.

  The others are all there, and someone’s made breakfast. A honeydew I bought has been cut into sections. Toast and juice are on the table. Laurel casts an eye at my gym shorts and asks if I’m playing hooky today, but Nat shouts, “Yo, big man! We saved you some coffee!” I slip past Laurel and sit beside Ryan.

  The boys wipe their faces as they stand from the table. “How’s the bum ankle today, Ry-guy?” Nit snickers. “Might be you oughta lie on the couch and eat bonbons, take all the weight off.” Then they’re banging a ladder up the cellar stairs, arguing about drop cloths, revving the motor on the old white van, and I feel less cocky about my sabbatical. Despite Nit and Nat’s doofusness, there’s a work ethic to this household, and when I notice the unwashed breakfast dishes, I wonder if they’re onto me.

  Laurel’s packing up, too, pouring green soup and red soup into plastic tubs for the cafés. She say
s, “No work, Howard?” and though I don’t want to get into it, I hold up ten fingers. Laurel says, “Ten?”

  I’m damned if I’ll return to that convent, but I’ll break the news gradually. I’ve been Steady Eddie as long as Laurel’s known me, and I’m the same guy now. I give the waggle that means maybe, and Laurel says, “Ten, sort of . . . The thing is, Howard—”

  Ryan looks up from the funnies. “The nun made him go away for like a week or so,” he announces.

  “Oh.” Laurel blinks. “Did something happen?”

  “Not!” I say. Not at all! I give a thumbs-up. All is fine!

  Laurel says, “The thing is, Howard, your disability payments alone—” But at this I pull her to the hallway. I hate that word, and I don’t want him hearing it! My hand shakes as I repeat my message, and though Laurel looks doubtful, she says, “Well, Howard, a little vacation never hurt anyone. I can’t remember the last time you weren’t on call. Maybe it’s a chance for some time with the boy, now he’s out of school.” My thoughts exactly!

  When Laurel’s ready, I carry her tubs to the driveway. It’s amazing how much soup she gets in that little Beetle. “But if you needed something, you’d let me know, right? Because budgetwise, we cut it pretty close.” Biting her lip, she tugs a thread from my sleeve, and for a moment her hand remains on my biceps. “I don’t know, maybe Stevie and Harrison need a helper for a bit.” I pat the air. That won’t be necessary! “Or maybe I could hire you to make deliveries, if—but damn!” She blushes. “I’d have to write out a list.”

 

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