by Dave King
Ryan says, “Me too, yeah. A lot, a lot.” Then, to my astonishment, he adds, “Howie wants to talk to you.”
I take the receiver, and Sylvia says, “Hello, dear.” She’s a little crisp today, less effervescent, and if I could speak, I’d counter with charm. Instead, I bark a syllable. “Well, what a relief to finally hear from him,” Sylvia says, “I tell you. I wonder if I’ll ever really know what that was about . . .” She pauses a moment so I can contemplate this, then executes one of her lightning shifts. “But he sounds great, Howie. You’ve all done a marvelous job, and I’m . . . You know, my biggest worry through all this was for Ryan at his age, and I think we’ve, everybody’s truly managed to minimize—or at least make certain things—as painless as possible. Will you thank the others for me?”
I say, “Putt.” I’m the one to thank. Holding the phone to my ear, I rub my chest and imagine her in yellow, in a swimsuit, stretched out by the pool. I want to say it’s all been a pleasure, and I wish I could tell her how delightful it was running into her, how wonderful she looked, and what a surprise. It made my day. If her child weren’t standing next to me, I might even describe my reverie in her empty house. I’d tell her we could have that, we could start right away. But I can only say, “Putt,” again, and I turn as I say it so Ryan won’t see me feeling so naked.
Sylvia says, “I’m really thinking about the future, Howie. Just really reevaluating how I’ve been living. I’ve been speaking with Caroline, too, and of course she—well, it’s too soon to say anything definite, but I’ve made wonderful friendships here, one in particular. I think it’s important for Ryan to be—” In the background there’s a thunderclap, and Sylvia gasps. “Did you hear that, Howie? Right overhead. I wonder if we—look, it sounds like it could be quite a storm, and we should get off the phone. But I—Oh, God, I wasn’t going to say anything, and I probab—but I must tell someone! I’m nearing the end of my time here, thank heaven, thank heaven. I’m so incredibly ready, and we’re thinking as soon as Saturday, not this one but next. That would be eight weeks, can you believe it? So it’s what I’m visualizing, but—” She pauses to breathe. “Without expectations, with patience and serenity. God, I can’t wait to get back to my life!”
I tell Sylvia, “Mmm,” but I sound like a bug. Nothing is less suited to my abilities than a telephone. If I could place myself before her I’d let her know that I, too, am thinking of the future. I’m longing to look after her.
Sylvia says, “I don’t have to tell you I didn’t mention my release to him. Ostensibly it’s the client’s, or at least a mutual, decision, but there’s all sorts of pressure before we—These people never, ever tip their hand. So I can’t be definite, which is maddening, crazy, crazy maddening. But in the meantime, don’t take any long vacations.” She laughs shortly as thunder booms again overhead, and when I pass the phone back to Ryan I’m reeling with unsaid thoughts.
I make spaghetti for supper, which he loves, and we eat in the kitchen with the windows and doors open. Regarding the call to his mother, I limit my commentary to a pat on the back. I’m suppressing plenty already, from a panicky yearning for Sylvia to come home to the fear I’m not ready: that more could be in place first, that the trio of Ryan and me and her is not inevitable, that in ten days he’ll simply leave. Around the house the world darkens and pales as the thunder passes with nary a drop.
In the stable are the boards I bought to build a new porch planter, and it’s a relief, after the tumult of that phone call, to turn to something material. A transparent moon rises over the catalpa, and as I step out the back door, Puff the cat saunters by for a scratch. By the time Ryan joins me I’ve got the five pieces cut, and while I rummage in a cupboard for clamps, he arranges a rectangle on the concrete. I show him how to apply the glue and set the clamps so the corners stay perpendicular. Then I let him tap the nails in himself.
Through it all, he’s waiting for Harrison. Each time a car passes he looks toward the street, and when at last the battered van pulls into the driveway he throws down the hammer. But it’s only Nit, flying solo. Ryan says, “Where’s Harrison?”
Nit looks at him a moment, then says, “Well, hello to you, too, man. How the hell should I know?” Because you guys are joined at the hip, I think—though in the short time Logan Monetti’s been on the scene Nat’s been around less. Nit digs a bag of Doritos out of the van and offers it to Ryan, then kicks the gravel. “Listen, Howard. Think I could stash my crap in the garage, just for the night? My back’s killing me, and those cellar stairs . . .” This one’s always got some kind of hard luck, but it’s no skin off my ass, so he and Ryan stack the drop cloths in the stable, and I follow behind with two five-gallon drums of paint. Hell, the man’s got back troubles. Nit says, “Thanks, amigos. Fucking Harrison was supposed to help me with this junk. But.” It gets dark, and we go in and turn on the TV, and I bet those Doritos were Nit’s only supper, so I snap my fingers and gesture that there’s food on the stove. Ten minutes later I wander in for a beer, and he’s eating the cold sauce right from the pan. Poor hapless individual! I rattle the spaghetti box at him and set a pot to boil.
Laurel bustles in, smelling like a brewery. She’s in a Vietnamese language group that meets at a tavern, and she always comes home cheerful from their meetings. Sniffing the pan, she says, “Mmm-mama. Anything but soup,” and when Nit tells her I made the sauce, she picks a fleck of plaster from his hair. “Duh, Steve. I didn’t think you cooked.” I add pasta to the water so there’ll be plenty for both, and when I look again, Laurel’s pouring kibble for Ruby, and Nit’s staring at her ass. I let him know I caught him looking, but I’m feeling companionable, and Laurel does have a cute ass. When she straightens up, I gesture little guy, phone. She says, “No way, José! Talk about the unlikeliest thang.”
“Is Harrison here?”
We all turn, and Ryan’s in the doorway, looking serious and sleepy. Laurel says, “Darlin’, are you still up?” and as I gather him in my arms, he accepts the fiction that he’s a rather small boy. “I heard you called your mom,” she says, and he yawns, letting his eyelids flutter. “Okay, hon-bun. Nighty-night.”
Nit’s slumped against the countertop. He smiles foolishly and says, “So long, man,” dipping his face to Ryan’s eye level. I give him a moment to register how lucky we are, and at last Nit plants a hurried kiss on Ryan’s cheek. He stands up, pulling the hair from his face, and when I turn to go he slaps my butt, the sheepish nitwit.
I’m halfway upstairs when Ryan decides to wake up. He raises his head and says, “My note!” then repeats himself as I turn back downstairs. “Mynotemynote!” On the coffee table by the TV is a sheet of blue-lined notebook paper with a message:
DEAR HARRISEN,
WILL YOU PLEASE COACH PITCHING FOR THE SNAKES BASEBALL TEAM?
LOVE, YOUR FRIEND, RYAN MOHR
In the kitchen, Laurel’s straining the pasta. Nit does a double take and says, “Morning already?” I bend to let Ryan place his note on the table, setting the sugar bowl on it as a paperweight. “Good luck,” says Nit. We troop upstairs again, and I straighten the sheets on the futon. When I’m finished, he’s got a shoe off. I slip off the other, and I’m helping him with his shorts when he calls for his cap. But when I come back with it he’s fast asleep.
I don’t exactly wait up for Harrison, but I don’t go to bed, either. I’m thinking of Sylvia on the telephone, and more than ever I want the happiness to cohere. I won’t permit Harrison to slough off Ryan’s request. In the meantime, I’m in the cellar, contemplating that Gothic window frame the nuns gave me long ago. I move some milk crates, and the frame makes a scraping noise as I pull it from the wall. The middle arch stands more than seven feet tall, and the side wings could catch foul tips. With some netting attached, it would make a nifty backstop.
I’m sponging the wooden mullions when a car door slams. Ms. Monetti’s green Saturn is parked at the curb, and as she and Harrison pass my window she says, “I mean it. Just a nightcap.
” I creep to the top of the stairs.
The screen door opens. Ms. Monetti’s giggling, and I remember that she lets her hair way, way down in summer. Harrison says, “Wanna tuck me in? I could tuck you in, too.” A body leans on the cellar door, just inches from where I stand.
Harrison says something I can’t hear, and Ms. Monetti replies, “Because. It’s not ethical. I have a student here.” Harrison says Ryan’s not her student anymore. “That’s not the point.”
“Just stay in my room, Logan. No one even has to know. I’ll bring you breakfast.” There’s a longish pause, and I imagine them kissing. “Howard’s waffles,” he says. “I’ll keep you in my pumpkin shell. Come on . . .”
I hold my breath, wishing I’d gone to bed. I never imagined him not coming home alone, but I’m stuck now, and as the kissing continues I despair at how easy romance is for some people, how hard for me. I ease my butt down onto a step, and my shirt snags a nail and tears with a deafening zip. Harrison and Ms. Monetti hear nothing.
Ms. Monetti says this is ridiculous; she has to go home. She sounds like a grammar school teacher. Harrison says, “Shh, shh, shh, okay! But how about a little schnapps? Or crème de menthe?” At last, they step the few feet to the kitchen. Glasses tinkle.
Ms. Monetti says, “Okay, look. As just about the perfect example why I can’t stay here.” She’s spotted Ryan’s note; I put my ear to the wall.
Harrison says, “Huh. That’s Saturday mornings. Man, you should see him. How keyed up he gets.”
“Maybe some other weekend.”
“Well, we try not to work Saturdays. But like . . .” He breaks off.
There’s a silence, then Ms. Monetti says, “Aren’t we going to Chicago?”
“Oh, sure. But I don’t know if—I might even have offered. Lemme think a minute.”
“Babe, look. Not to sound like a bitch, but some people really can’t say no to children. It’s not a job.”
“Would ya hang on?”
Harrison sighs and clicks his tongue; Ms. Monetti says, “I should go.”
“No, come on. Come on, now, Logan. I mean, I know it’s not a job, but like for you, you get your fill, I guess, for a whole year. And it’s not that I can’t say no to Ryan, but maybe, like if it was like only the morning? I did that shit myself as a kid. I—What’s a couple hours?”
“Oh.” A glass clicks to the table “If it’s what you want. I mean, I thought we had plans. Can I be disappointed?”
“No, sure,” says Harrison. “We do. We totally have plans, and I’m not trying to disappoint you. But I mean like . . .” His voice warms. “What’s my incentive?”
This is the last I hear. A silence follows, and I lean my head on the wall and smell the dampness in the plaster and the dust motes seeping down from the cupola. Last night’s ramble has suddenly caught up with me, and my next thought is that I’ve missed Ms. Monetti’s departure. I seem to have been dreaming that it’s not Harrison but that fucked-up Timothy who has something to teach Ryan, and with a jerk I catch myself from tumbling downstairs. I listen a minute, then open the door.
The hinges creak, and Ms. Monetti screams. I step from the dark staircase and blink at the kitchen, and they’re in the corner between the sink and the stove. Ms. Monetti’s chestnut hair is fluffed out around her, and though she stops screaming when she recognizes me, she goes on cowering against Harrison. Sliding a hand in the pocket of his tented-up shorts, Harrison says, “Howard. Jesus Christ,” and I don’t know if I should cross the kitchen or back out through the dining room and take the long way upstairs. “What are you doing?”
I brush off a cobweb. I’d say I dozed off washing the Gothic window, but it’s a moot point. Then Laurel’s standing opposite, her white kimono bright as a plinth. “Guys?” she says sleepily, and smiles at Ms. Monetti. “Hi there, Logan.” Hah there.
Harrison looks from Laurel to me. “What is this?” he says. “A posse? Sheesh.” He glances at Ryan’s note, and I think he’s trying not to laugh in our faces. “Fine, you two. I’ll do it. You don’t have to gang up on me.”
Laurel says, “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not ganging up. I heard a cry.” A crah. She glances at Ms. Monetti, now fussing with her blouse, though as far as I can see she’s all buttoned up. Ms. Monetti shoots me an aggrieved look.
Laurel yawns, gathering her kimono at the throat. “Come on, Howard,” she says. “Good night, y’all.” Mission accomplished, I tag along. Laurel calls out, “That’s real sweet of you, Harrison. He’ll be pleased,” but at the top of the stairs she starts to snicker. “What’d you do?” she whispers. “Walk right in on them? Oh, my lord!” She picks up Ruby, who’s sitting expectantly on the carpet. “That poor girl must think she’s in a zoo.”
I give old Ruby a scritch of the ears. Downstairs, a latch clicks, then a motor starts up, and in the kitchen the water runs briefly. Laurel asks, “What were you doing?” I shrug. Checking my Gothic window.
Harrison takes the steps two at a time. He sees us standing between our rooms and rubs his goatee. “Mom? Dad? It’s time for you guys to let go a little. I know that’s gonna be hard for you, but us fledglings gotta leave the nest, okay?”
“Gawd. We are just so ashamed of ourselves,” Laurel says. “Aren’t we, Howard?”
41
I LIE ON THE SHEETS and stare at the ceiling. Despite the slumberers in the rooms around me, the house feels like an engine that’s continued idling after the ignition’s been cut, and despite my exhaustion and the sleeplessness of the last twenty-four hours, I’m vibrating, too. In rapid succession I see disordered pictures from the recent past: Laurel bursting into the kitchen in high spirits; Ms. Monetti, with her hair and buttons. Pretty young mamas at the pool, Sylvia in yellow, Laurel with her cheeks flushed after the ballet, kicking off her shoes. Sylvia promising visits, saying I’m a mystery man, praising the baseball glove. Sylvia in yellow, under a light. The blonde girl by the streetlight and Shawn’s mom and Sylvia talking and Ms. Monetti clutching at Harrison in the corner of the kitchen. Harrison clutching Ms. Monetti, too. Nit, as he checks out Laurel’s behind. Then me, having a small second supper of spaghetti and trading nothings with the people who live here. Ryan living with his friends. The man in the house opposite, taking the babysitter home, and everything around me that’s so much like a dream. Sylvia in manicure posture, the big brown baseball glove on display. That girl by the traffic circle and the light on the pool, Sylvia on her way home, Sylvia telling me she’s coming soon, Sylvia in good health in the crook of my arm, filled with excitement and the same potential for disaster as always, but the same promise, too. And it’s not Ryan this time who’s got me so riled; in fact, he’s barely present in my thoughts. Instead, it’s something bigger, more worldly, that’s out there waiting. Something other people take as a matter of course, and I might, too. The way I felt in that putty-colored box, gazing at tea roses in the bedroom wallpaper and tearing dream buttons from a dream yellow dress; the feel of the bedspread just before I came. The soft quilting against my ass, the mirror in her parents’ house, the floor of the kitchen, and me and Sylvia doing things we never tried as teenagers, things I’ve never experienced, even with prostitutes, everything I’ve yearned to do and be and have . . .
I twist in my sheets and can’t even dream of sleep, so I get up and pull on shorts and a shirt. Easing the truck into gear, I don’t know what I seek, whether it’s the girl under the streetlight or another of Timothy’s demonstrations of abasement or just a reminder of the streets of my old love; but as I picture the descent to that blue house where Sylvia was always waiting, I’m reminded of the John Deere putt-putt-putting toward the ha-ha and the soaring bodilessness all those years ago. This night is younger than when I came here on foot, and driving down the boulevard I have the company of other cars. I turn toward the traffic circle and watch myself round it slowly several times, but I spot neither Timothy nor the girl. Turning south, I wend my way through several neighborhoods until I come to the a
sbestos house where Sylvia’s staying. And when the lights are off in those cheaply shuttered windows I don’t sit watching for very long, but drive home and fall into dreamless sleep.
42
HOW QUICKLY IT’S BECOME FAMILIAR: the dusty ball fields, the old bleachers under the oaks, the faces of Jeremy, Sammy Sosa, Elizabeth. I spot Ed Mesk humping a load of bats, but I don’t rush to pitch in. Right now I’m avoiding Ed.
Harrison didn’t appear for breakfast, and when Ryan went to wake him, his room was empty. I can’t tell how Ryan’s taking this; he pulled his blank act over breakfast, though now he’s dashing across the green, waving his glove and calling out, “Throw it here, man!” But watching him tear away from me, I’ve a blind, sudden fury at Harrison. Since Sylvia’s announcement, I’ve been on edge, wrestling with what I may have always suspected: that when this short dream ends it could go quickly, the whole contraption collapsing at once.
Ed catches my eye, and I busy myself with snacks. The day after Ryan left his note, I cornered Harrison and showed him the Snakes’ practice schedule. I ran my finger down the line of dates and pointed to Ed’s phone number at the top, but he only glanced at the paper. “How about if I just show up Saturday? Like kept it loose,” he said; then he yawned, stretched way back, and let out a roar. “Aaaaaah! Sorry, Howard. No, I just mean, say I call this stranger and tell him I’m like all coming in, say I’m Ryan and Howard’s big pitching machine? Isn’t that awful rude and pushy?” But I didn’t think so. The kids need a pitching coach, so who would resent us for bringing one in? I pointed to Ed’s number again, jabbing it with my finger—do as I say!—but Harrison went off singing, “Here I come to save the day!” and that’s the last I saw of him.