The Ha-Ha

by Dave King

  In the end, I’m the one who counts out Harrison’s underwear, giving him four plain T-shirts and three with band logos. I look over his white dress shirts, but they’re in lousy condition, so I go down and get one of my own, tucking it deep in the suitcase, where he’ll find it if he needs the suit. I hope it fits. In the closet, there’s a wire hanger with neckties slung on the crossbar, and I let Ryan choose three bright ties, then I add the most somber one and fold all the ties together. When I look up, Ryan’s by the window, watching a squirrel skitter over the maple tree. I go and place my hands on his shoulders, and the squirrel stares with unblinking eyes. I wonder if it really sees our two faces, watching from behind the glass, or if it only senses our presence in ways that are unimaginable to us. What ideas does a squirrel have? We watch him wring his front paws like a little worrier, then something moves in another part of the tree. It’s only wind, shifting clusters of leaves. The squirrel takes a few short steps and gives us a glance, and Ryan says, “Hi, cutie.” I kneel down and put my arms around him. Everything is so fragile.

  Harrison returns, water beads glistening on his shoulders. “All packed. Thanks, guys!” He pokes a finger at the detritus cluttering his bedside table and whistles a snatch of the cowboy tune, and it’s a minute before I realize he’s shaved off his facial hair.

  Laurel meets us at the foot of the stairs. “I’m bummed not to see old Stevie before I go,” says Harrison. “Tell the sumbitch to give me a call, right? And Ry, tell those pitchers I’ll be back before they know it.” He gives a weak smile. “Hit a bunch out of the park so they miss me. Make ’em work, right?” When he turns to me, I put out my hand, but he pulls me into one of those A-shaped hugs that are the purview of men; only our shoulders touch. “I’ll be fine,” he says heartily, though I haven’t said anything.

  I’m really getting low on cash, but I need diversion, so I take Ryan to the movies and to a Tex-Mex restaurant near the house. When we get home he runs to get ready for bed. Laurel and Nit are in the kitchen, but after two margaritas I’m ready to turn in, myself, and I’m heading for the stairs when I see my answering machine with its red light blinking. I stare at it a moment, then on impulse close the kitchen door. Neither Laurel nor Nit looks up. I hit the button on the machine, and when I hear Sylvia’s voice I lower the volume. “Hi, boys,” she says gaily. “Guess what? Mama’s getting sprung! Can you believe it?” I look around to make sure no one’s listening, then turn the volume down even more. Sylvia says, “I have to be very, very, very good. But I can’t wait to see you, my guy! It was so wonderful getting your call, and I really . . . Things are gonna be better now, baby, a lot, lot better. And it was a good idea coming here. Is Caroline ever wrong? And when I see you I’ll be making lots of amends for the way I’ve, um, disrupted our lives. Okay, my Ry?” She seems to drift a moment, then says, “But anyway. Howie. They’re having another of those family seminars Wednesday, and the staff here thinks it would really help if Ryan participated. You remember how Big John had his wife and daughter? I guess he’s had a rocky time since getting out, one reason I want to be vigilant about . . . But Howie, I do have one—And it’s, uh . . . It’s not that—” She pauses again, then says, “But look. I was hoping, I’d really appreciate it if you could get him to that thing on Wednesday, and I think I’d be more comfortable, frankly, if it was just Ryan and me, if you didn’t accompany him in for the program. We need to—I just want things to be as clean and straightforward as—Remember last time? It got so complicated. So maybe you could wait at that little patio place, or—or go back to work or anywhere, or—well, I’m sure you have places to be, and you know it’s not personal. It’s . . .” She exhales loudly. “Thank you. And I need to thank you, Howie, for so much, when I see you. So that family thing’s Wednesday, same place, same time. About nine in the morning, okay?” She blows a line of smacking x’s before hanging up, and I can’t delete her quickly enough.

  I stand in the stairwell, barely able to breathe. I’m nowhere near sober, and I could sit on the porch for a year or two, thinking about nothing. Then Ryan calls out, dispelling Sylvia’s voice. “Howie?” he says. “Are you gonna say good night?”

  44

  I HEAR A DOOR CREAK, then Ryan’s bare feet descend the stairs. I open my eyes and see daylight, and I imagine him getting the pitcher of grape juice from the fridge. Grape juice was the first food he asked me to buy, and when I see him later he’ll have a cordovan moustache. The screen door slams, and I picture him on the stoop, holding the glass of juice like a highball. The little man surveys his domain.

  I’m glad I got him at this age. If I imagine him in ten years’ time, or fifteen, all I can think of is what happened to me and Sylvia. Maybe it’s not possible to grow up unscathed, but I hope Ryan never has to wake up and ask what came over him. Remembering how my folks’ bedroom light would flicker on, then off, when I’d pull in in the wee hours, I wonder what I’ve already wondered so often: was it purely my injury that made those dark nights happen, or would I have ended up guilty and ashamed no matter what?

  I was out rambling again last night. I woke up after two and parked for an hour by the asbestos house, and though I did no more than sit in my truck, I’m feeling soiled and exhausted. Grabbing my robe, I head to the bathroom, and in the shower I try to shake this depression. I imagine the toast I’ll deliver at Ryan’s wedding: raised glass, hand on my heart. Whatever needs to be said I can say with gestures, as I should have realized when my father died. Standing under the water, I force myself to think optimistically, and by the time I step out I’m feeling a little better. I’d like to get busy before my sanguine mood slips away, but downstairs, life moves at an agonizing pace. Laurel opens the door for Ruby and sniffs the air thoughtfully. “Gray day, birds like it,” she drawls. “Any word from Harrison?” Tightening the belt of her white kimono, she announces she forgot to eat supper last night and wonders about the prospects for a little French toast. I realize I’ve cut the pineapple into five sections, not four.

  When breakfast is over I pull Nit to the cellar and show him my Gothic window frame. I want to try out that home backstop, so I gesture at the window, then at the stairs. I’m sure Nit’s going to start in on his back, but all he says is “Think I could get dressed first?” Of course. I’m no tyrant.

  Nit’s stronger than he acts, but we’re both puffing when we get the thing outside. Ryan mans the doors and skitters around excitedly, and once we clear the stoop, he takes a corner. We lug the frame toward the stable and open the two side sections, then brace it with flat stones and fireplace logs to make it secure. Nit says, “Fuck, Howard, the hell you gonna do with it?” When I don’t answer, he wanders off.

  Ryan and I go out and purchase plastic netting and staples for the staple gun. By the time we get home, the sun’s making marble patches in the cloud banks, and Nit’s sprawled on the stoop with a magazine. I climb a ladder and start with the central arch, stretching and stapling the netting in place, shearing the excess with a matte knife. I get a rhythm going, and even when the sun slithers away and a few soft drops fall, I stay where I am until the job’s complete. By now, Ryan’s drifted inside, but I imagine him at a window, so I get his bat from the stable and back up to the yard’s edge. The shower’s picked up suddenly, but I toss the ball and connect with a metallic pop, much sweeter than that day at Sylvia’s. I picture an infielder missing the catch, and as the bat slips from my fingers I take off running. It’s just me here, in my very own yard, but I’m pumping and pumping with all I’ve got, and as I round the picnic table I see the center fielder skidding in the outfield. He digs in and falls, rolling once, then he’s up. He’s up, he’s got the ball, he’s throwing, and I know the motherfucker’s got a damn good arm, so I pour on the steam. My only chance at second is a headfirst slide, so I dive, arms out, and my chest hits with a surprising smack. Could be my chin hits the ground, too, but I can’t be sure. Maybe I black out. I slide on the wet grass, right over second base, then I collide with the new
backstop, and the gauze rips from that old cut on my palm. But I’ve made it! I’ve beat the throw, and perhaps someone scored or something, though I’m heaving rather hard now and can’t quite focus. In the air, tiny lights are sparkling. The rain increases, and I roll over, panting.

  “Howard! Howard!” Laurel’s calling from the back door, and I raise a hand to let her know I’m okay. “Come on in here.” I get to my knees, then stand a little dizzily, turning away so she won’t see if I retch. “Howard!” High in the plastic netting is a dent where the ball hit, and I wonder how long the material will hold up. But a backstop’s really for behind the batter, not for batting into, and when we donate it to Mister Luster Kleen we’ll use it right.

  “You ninny,” says Laurel, holding the door open. “It’s pouring out there. For heaven’s sake, there’s a time for baseball and a time for . . . other stuff. Wipe your feet.” I’m muddy from my chin to my knees.

  In the kitchen, they’re making cookies. The windows are steamy, the air smells wonderful, and the counter’s spread with tubs of colored sugar and sparkles. Ryan’s not at the window but at the table; he looks at me cheerfully and starts decorating a sailboat. I blink at him, then tromp to the bathroom. Outside, the sky’s grown dark, and from the window I see a branch of bright green leaves sail from the maple tree. As the raindrops make drumrolls on the window-panes, I rinse my cut and wonder what our squirrel is doing. I go back to the bedroom and watch leaves collecting in the netting, and I wish I’d sprung for fishing net, of genuine rope. It never does to economize.

  One of the backstop’s side wings begins to shift. The log that was holding it has blown aside, or perhaps I knocked it when I slid. It flaps like the shutter on a haunted house, and I watch as it tears an arc in the lawn. Then there’s a gust, and the whole thing tilts forward, testing the wind resistance. Down it goes, making a filigree on the green grass.

  My melancholy floods back, and I think of Sylvia’s disinvitation to family day. I’ve just spent hours on a project that went nowhere, and I don’t know whether I made bad decisions or the whole idea was cracked to begin with. In a moment of stark clarity I realize it’s anyone’s guess whether I give that toast at Ryan’s wedding—or even attend. A newspaper blows across the yard, the pages following each other like a flock of lambs. I watch them tangle in the torn-up netting. But already the rain’s lessening, and a curve of light appears on the stable roof. I touch my chin and decide I did indeed bump it sliding, and it’s okay, I guess, that Laurel was curt with me. I am a ninny.

  45

  WEDNESDAY MORNING I get Ryan up early. All week I’ve wondered how to prep him for today’s event—and for his mother’s return. But I shy from addressing Sylvia’s terrible message, so at last the day arrives unexplained. Trustingly he puts on his button-down shirt, which I’ve washed and ironed and laid out with a clean pair of pants, and at breakfast he uses a napkin to keep off the alluvia. Since Harrison’s departure, a vague unease has overtaken the household, making the mornings quieter than they’d been, but today Ryan seems to be toeing some additional line: sitting up straight, finishing his eggs and toast, holding himself in readiness for what the costume might demand. Perhaps he reads the anticipation in my own demeanor, or perhaps he’s noticed I’m also in nice clothes, on the chance I’m invited in, after all.

  A pot of pink geraniums provides a summery garishness, but the brick facade of the rehab place is otherwise austere. A few people are gathered at the entrance, waiting for the thing to begin, and when I peer through the glass doors I see the woman at the folding table spread with name tags, just as before. But we don’t go in to find out whose names are on those tags, and as I turn from the glass I take Ryan’s hand. I look around for someone I recognize, but perhaps most of the previous visit’s clients have departed. At last, I spot a dark-haired man coming up the walk. The man moves with the exaggerated swagger that suggests too much gym time, and though I can’t place him exactly, he looks familiar. I give a nod, and the man nods back shortly, as if he’s not sure about me either.

  Other people are gathering now, some heading right inside, others joining us expectantly on the lawn. The faces are new, but the familiar types are all represented: hopeful wives and tired husbands and tired, hopeful parents and bored, anxious little children waiting for it to end. Then Ryan says, “There she is!” and lets go of my hand. He runs to Sylvia, and they clamber all over each other.

  Sylvia’s laughing: all flushed cheeks and shining teeth. She murmurs, “Hello, Howie,” and leans toward me, but turns abruptly to sing out, “Hi, Raymond!” She sounds like Fartin’ Martin’s little sister, and I recognize the muscleman as Carlos’s brother. Carlos has materialized, too, still with his cigarette and sleepy grin, and Sylvia says, “Okay. Ryan, honey? This is Carlos, who’s one of my new friends, and this is his brother Raymond, who’s a visitor, just like you. Guys, here’s my darling Ryan, and you both know Howie from before.” The two men shake Ryan’s hand, then mine, and Sylvia says, “Wow! When worlds collide, right? I bet some people were wondering if this Ryan even existed at all.” She takes the Indians cap from his head and places it on her own, then says the keepers here disbelieve everything she says anyway, but la-la-la. She’s mugging for the two brothers, and I’ve seen her play for attention in just this way a million times, but I chuckle along with everyone else. Sylvia’s a cute bad girl. She looks great.

  Ryan stretches for his cap, and Sylvia hands it over with one more smacking kiss. “Well!” she says. “I guess we better move our fannies into that auditorium before we’re marked absent!” Carlos and Raymond turn toward the entry, and as Ryan drifts after them I shift my weight like a man who could just as easily stay as go. But Sylvia sets her hands on my shoulders. “Thank you, Howie. We’ll see you later. I can’t tell you how much I appre—and you must, at this point, be incredibly grateful for a few hours on your own, my Lord!” I raise a finger—not grateful at all!—but she breezes on. “Anyway, I guess we’ll be done by half past three, and you can swing by then, though don’t worry if you’re not right on the button. I can certainly accommodate him for longer if—”

  I pull back, remembering my black eye and how the lunch papers blew over the grass. That feeling from a month ago wells right up: I want to get the hell out of here. Sylvia’s now offering the pecky kiss she aborted earlier, but I push her away; she says, “Ow,” very quietly, but without further spin. She knows who’s accommodating.

  Ryan says, “Come on, you guys. They’re all going in.” He’s standing on the steps with his hands on his hips, and clients and family members are stepping around him. Sylvia mouths thank you at me, and for an instant I wish I’d wrung her neck. Then she turns to Ryan, who asks, “Isn’t Howie coming?” Sylvia says I’ve got things to do, and isn’t it nice to be their old twosome for a couple of hours, but I’m hurrying to my truck and can’t gauge his reaction.

  For a while I just drive. I go two or three blocks until I see something familiar, then I turn away and go two or three more. I want to get lost, but I’ve lived in this city my entire life. Down every street is someplace I recognize or someplace that looks like someplace I recognize, and again and again I keep turning away. I turn from an enormous bread factory my second- or third-grade class visited on a field trip, then I turn from an empty lot that once was a car wash. I rode through the scrubbers many times with my mom. I turn from the familiar sight of a church spire in the distance and from a low, bright 7-Eleven store—not the 7-Eleven where I nearly threw up on a hooker, but close enough—then I turn from the boulevard where the Andee Barber School is located a few blocks down. I turn from a brick house where Mom once admired a clematis, and suddenly Hanran’s Men’s Wear is straight ahead, and I turn away. By midmorning I’ve zigzagged myself out of the city, and the fields of corn and flax and wheat all look like each other and all look familiar. When I come to a little nothing of a town, it seems like a town I’ve driven through before. I take a left, pretending I don’t know which way the
lake lies, which way the river; but the sun in the east gives my direction away. I pretend I don’t remember any teenage picnics, or one later outing with an infant Ryan, in country like this, and that I don’t see how many bright fields where we lay kissing and daydreaming are now twenty-year-old residential developments.

  I’m on a small road now, where dry, bleached-looking blossoms and skinny trees line the shoulders. The macadam shimmers in the heat, and I pass under an interstate to see a worn billboard nestling in the undergrowth, the faded image of a cartoon bird on its surface. Suddenly I recall a day not at all like this one, when I did not want to be here but drove out with my parents. The leaves were greener than they are today, the sun was not baking down, and the folks had requested a single afternoon, just the three of us, no one else. It must have been early summer, maybe a week before I reported to boot camp, and I was grumpy in agreeing because I’d been spending every moment with Sylvia. But even in those days I was generally compliant.

  We drove to a state park that was famous for its buzzards. My father always wanted to see the buzzards, and we’d come out other years but never during the migration period when the birds are easy to spot, so we’d never seen them. We didn’t see them that day, either, but it didn’t matter. My mom had packed a lunch, and as we spread an old rose picnic blanket on the bank of the reservoir my father said, “Helen, honey, give him a deviled egg to make him stop sulking.” I did love her deviled eggs. After lunch, my mom and I walked to a boathouse where there were rowboats for rent. We rented one for a few hours and I rowed her across the water.

  I remember I had on a loud-patterned, clingy knit shirt with a long, pointed collar, and my hair was to my shoulders then, like every other high school boy. When I began to perspire, the shirt grew uncomfortable, and I took it off. Immediately, I felt self-conscious. My mother had seen my body before, of course, but always in the context of some activity like swimming. Now she sat just a few feet away, with nothing to look at but my pale, imperfectly developed chest, its small containment of hair at the center and a few zits in awkward spots. How juvenile I must have looked to her then, how unsuited to soldiering! But she only murmured, “Howie, you’ve gotten so strong!” and gazed off toward the shoreline until my father came into view. She had a knack for that, for being intimate and complimentary without causing me embarrassment, and she could remark on my physicality in a way my father, for all his years in haberdashery, never could. I remember the same quality years later, when there were only two of us, and she’d tell me I looked handsome in my pinstriped suit.