The Ha-Ha

by Dave King

  I took my father out rowing next, and he asked if I was frightened. I said I wasn’t. My dad said it was all right to be scared; he’d been scared himself when he went off to the service, even though he remained stationed in England and managed to escape D-day. He looked down at the oarlocks and said there were times he wished he’d gotten himself out of the whole damn experience, and I knew he was giving me permission to find a way out myself—go to Canada or Sweden or declare myself bonkers—but was too shy to say it. Maybe in later years my dad looked back on that conversation and regretted speaking so elliptically. Maybe he wished he’d urged me to flee. But I knew what he was getting at and didn’t need clarification. As I turned the boat toward shore, he took the Masonic ring from his finger and said he’d like me to have it, and I’ve worn it since.

  It must have been one of those long, long days of June, because we stayed for hours. My father waded around at the reservoir’s edge, and about thirty yards down he discovered a spring that ran out of the hillside. When I strolled over to see what he was doing, I found him building a dam across the stream, and I pitched in, helping him wedge a slab of bluestone into an outgrowth of roots. By the time my mother wandered over, my jeans were wet right up to the waist, and Dad had pondweed on his cheek. Behind the dam a pool was forming, and Mom kicked off her sneakers and knelt in the water to shovel clay and silt at the dam’s leaky interstices. Slowly the pines at the distant shore merged into silhouettes, and the sunlight flashing on the water turned gold. Perhaps a buzzard even flew overhead.

  We didn’t speak much as we worked. My father was generally disinclined toward idle chat, and we had other means of communicating. We stayed well into dusk, pointing and lifting and working as a troika, and saying no more about the war or my impending departure. And as I sit now in the hot cab of the truck, gazing across the wildflowers at the faded sign, I want to return to the rowboat and the buzzards and the dam, but I don’t want to return alone. So I back the truck up, turning away one more time, and head back to the city.

  46

  IT’S NOT LONG BEFORE I’m cutting through the subdivision, then the long stone wall is on my left. Alain is just pulling the yellow school bus through the gates; he taps his horn as he passes my truck, as if we saw each other only yesterday.

  Inside the grounds, all is still. The big convent building stands like a high bluff beside the turnaround, and the bright red rhododendrons have given way to hydrangeas. In the parking area, a few vehicles stand empty, Robin’s green van among them, but Robin herself is not around. I turn off the engine and look out toward the Contemplation Garden, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. Then the silence gets to me, and I sit still. It seems eons since I was last here, the years of lawn service and my idiotic rides over the ha-ha blending as foggily in my head as that day of dam-building with my folks. In fact, it’s a mere three weeks.

  I consider strolling toward the little sitting area where I found refuge the day Ryan and I quarreled. Beyond is the shed that was my professional domain. But though I’ve the same rights as any tourist to wander this acreage, I stay where I am. The truth is I have only a partial notion of what I’m doing, and I’m waiting for something to spur me to action. If Robin should appear, for example, I’d hasten to compensate for my grumpy mood Saturday. And if Sister Amity happened to join us, we’d take it from there.

  A few days ago I stopped at a cash machine with Ryan. I know the drill of those stations by heart, of course, and when no cash appeared I simply repeated the sequence. When the machine balked a second time, I began to suspect something, and I leaned over the screen, struggling to make out the pixelated words. Then Ryan said, “You’re out of money, Howie,” and gave me such a shocked look that I felt shamed to the core. Early on, the folks set up a money market account to be used in case of emergency or incapacity, and with a great deal of help from Ryan, I put some twenties in my pocket. But I long ago vowed to leave that money alone, and I’ve never before dipped there, so I was shaken. The next day, Laurel reminded me about the taxes.

  So there may be something I need to do. But it seems like a long time since Sister Amity telephoned me, and I dislike supplication. I gaze at the nodding hydrangeas and wonder how Sylvia and Ryan are doing, and I wonder if Sylvia built a living sculpture. Would that sculpture include me? I picture Ryan learning about the family hero and all the other types of kids, and I wonder if he’s wondering, as I did, which category he falls into. I want more than anything to avoid succumbing to the old life I had before, but it’s clear things would be different if the convent were just a job. If I got up in the morning and my life was full, it wouldn’t matter that my work was routine and my supervisor maddening. I’d complete my duties, then return to where I really lived. With this in mind, I look around for Sister Amity.

  Then something does happen: I hear a sound, no louder at first than the buzz of a fly. But I know it instantly. I tended that motor for years. The noise grows fuller, and the stately green chariot moves out of the long north expanse. A fat slob in a tractor cap is perched on its high seat. In an instant I realize I’ve made the kind of blunder brain-damaged people make, misjudging how mercilessly life moves on. I watch the John Deere putt toward the ha-ha, then carefully turn, holding to level ground. No doubt the guy returns with the push mower, as Sister Amity’s always wanted.

  In a flood, my reasons for coming here are gone. I picture Sister Amity’s canny expression when the grass gets very long, and I feel her slap on my cheek. Squealing through the turnaround, I glance in the rearview mirror and see a black-clad figure stepping from the Contemplation Garden. She starts to wave, and I step on the gas. Behind her, the ha-ha arches its false back against the sky, a lie of the landscape.

  The next few hours I drive around. To punish myself for having no money I don’t eat lunch, but I probably waste the cost of a sandwich on gas. And of course, I’m parked opposite the dry-out joint long before three. By now I’m calm enough to put on a jaunty front, and I lean on the truck with my hands in my pockets. A group emerges, and several families say goodbyes on the lawn before I finally spot my two, Sylvia still chattering at the Carlos brothers, Ryan brooding oddly at her side. He eyes me furtively as they approach but gives no response to my wave. I step forward, and he screams, “Howie!”

  I jump back, and there’s the sound of a horn and a rush of wind on my face. An orange plumbing van slams on its brakes, and from inside the van comes a clatter of shifting cargo. The driver leans over and screams, “Almost lost it that time, shit-for-brains.” Where on earth did the vehicle come from?

  The van peels off, leaving the street empty. I look both ways to be sure, then look again, and at last I cross. I put my arm around Ryan as the musclebound brother says he’s a hero. Sylvia says, “I completely missed that.”

  “Howie,” she says, once the Carloses are gone. “You never told me you lost your job. What will you do?”

  I should have expected this, but I’m caught off guard, and there’s a blank moment while I marshal my reserves. Then I shrug. I’ll get by. And Sylvia picks up my cue. “Of course, Howie, there must be eight million things you can do besides mow lawns, and you’ll find something. A man of your—You know, I’m exactly the same way. I figure I can type anywhere, for God’s sake, and of all things work ought to be the least of our worries.” I wonder in what respect she’s looping us together; then she murmurs, “Of course, you must have a lot of equity in that house,” and I guess she’s just talking. To shift things away from my financial affairs, I wave toward my truck. Maybe we can get a bite before I drop her off.

  Sylvia says, “Oh, you know, Howie, I can’t leave yet. Of course they want us to do this whole big postmortem, and because I’m—oh, but I’m actually getting out Saturday! Can you believe it? I really am!” She pauses to hug herself, rocking with glee, then adds, “And I heard about the big ball game, so I’m going to push them to finish the paperwork, et cetera, just so I can be there. Maybe you’d even like to—well, I tho
ught we might go together, if you were able. If you picked me up?”

  I grin at her, and I can’t stop nodding. Sylvia’s all business now, arranging for me to come at five. Then she says, “Now, Howie, can I give you a little kiss, or are you going to pull away like you did this morning?” When I put my arms around her she says, “Whoa, tiger!”

  On the way home, Ryan says, “Howie?” He hasn’t shed the brooding aspect he brought from the dry-out place, and he’s been quiet for blocks, despite his mom’s happy news. I pat his thigh, and he says, “I’m sorry I told her about your job. I forgot that was classified.”

  I reach over and drag him toward me, stiff and wiry at first, but softening, as always, when I hold him to my chest. I want to laugh, because of course it doesn’t matter now. Things are fine, and Sylvia’s right that I can find any job, doing any number of things. On Saturday she’ll sit with me in the bleachers, and we’ll watch him together, just like . . . I’ll fill that putty-colored house with flowers for the homecoming.

  Ryan settles against me, and after a while, he says, “Howie?” I rub his head. “You think my mom might get married again?” Not the question I’m expecting, bub, but I sure as hell hope so.

  47

  THURSDAY, BASEBALL AS ALWAYS, in the narrow lot behind Mister Luster Kleen. Ed and Juliana inquire after Harrison’s dad, but they’re too polite to worry openly about pitching. Still, everyone has Saturday’s game on the mind, and I see Ibrahim turn at every approach of a car. He’s waiting, I imagine, for that green Saturn. At Burger King, the kid wrangler’s less successful than usual at steering us toward lonely hearts.

  It’s still light when we get home, and we find Laurel in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes are red, and she’s been crying, and I think she knows Ryan will be leaving us soon. When I stare at her, she stubs out the cigarette. “I’m sorry, Howard. You know I don’t smoke. Did y’all eat supper already, or you want some soup?” Ryan runs and puts his arms around her waist, and she rubs his shoulder. “Thanks, darlin’. Silly gal me.” He’ll still be around, I want to say.

  Laurel brushes her hair from her eyes. “I suppose it’s—I was awful young when I lost my own daddy,” she says, and I realize Harrison’s father has passed away. I put my hands in my pockets and sigh.

  Laurel waits until Nit comes home to telephone Harrison, and I sit in the kitchen and listen as they each take the phone. At the end, Laurel says, “Well, dear, we send you our love. Howard, too, who’s right here with me.” When she gets off the phone she says, “Did you loan him a shirt?”

  It’s only five days since I helped Harrison pack, and I’m still surprised at how he collapsed. His knees buckled; his head fell to my shoulder. Now I wonder if he’s as helpless with his family, or if he’s strong and stalwart, or the jokey jock I used to call Nat. But nobody says. There’s no “Well, he’s holding up, under the circumstances” or “Dude’s falling apart, man” from Laurel or Nit, and as I drift toward the television, it strikes me I don’t even know if Harrison was with his dad at the end. I don’t know if his dad went peacefully, and I don’t know about brothers and sisters. Maybe Harrison’s alone with his mom now, as I was with mine; for me, that was an important period. The others know more than I do, I suppose, but they forget to tell me, and it shouldn’t matter: I hardly know Harrison. But I wish I’d taken the receiver and made some sad sound, just to tell him I’m thinking of him, and I decide that for the sake of the Snakes I’ll find out when he’s expected home. I head out to the picnic table, where Laurel and Nit sit sipping beers, but when I start to communicate Laurel says, “I got a big sympathy card I thought we could all sign.”

  Laurel’s card has lilacs on the front. She reads a sweet message she’s added, then Ryan writes his full name in careful script, and I make a crooked H. Ryan announces he’s drawn a picture to send with the card, but when he brings it to the kitchen we can only stare mutely. I think we’d expected something domestic and wholesome—breakfast or pitching or a portrait of the house—but instead he’s drawn a mournful casket with five figures standing around. There’s me, in my overalls and pink scar, and Laurel, with black hair and embarrassingly tilted eyes. The elongated hexagon at the center looks more like a motorboat than a coffin, and Nit’s the first to crack a smile. “Whoa, man. Pretty grievous.” Ryan ogles him dubiously.

  Laurel says, “Isn’t that thoughtful,” and gives Nit a tiny scowl. But once Ryan’s asleep she says, “I guess I should send it, right? I mean, he did it special, and what if he asks Harrison?” She stares at the grim picture a moment, then says, “Nice likeness of you, Howard. I’d just hate to see it misconstrued.” Getting out a one-liter soup container, she fills it with the cookies she and Ryan made Sunday, then packs the drawing and card in a large envelope. “Well,” she says, wrapping the package in brown paper, “I feel better already. In fact, I’m gonna go right down to the FedEx bin and send these on their way.” She picks up the cigarette pack she left on the counter and says, “Oh! I am not starting that again!” and drops the cigarettes in the garbage. To avoid listening to Nit slurp his crab bisque, I head out to the porch.

  I watch Laurel’s taillights disappear down the road, and I watch her headlights return. Then the parlor light clicks off. I hear her open the screen door, and when she says, “You all right, Howard?” I put up a hand. “I guess Stevie’s gone up already,” Laurel says. She steps outside and stretches, filling her lungs, then suddenly runs a hand through my hair. “’S early, but I’m off to bed, too. You lock up, okay?” I don’t budge, and the screen door closes.

  I don’t have anything against Laurel, but sometimes I’ve just had enough of voices. Now peepers pulse from every direction, and I think I hear an owl, too, a rare sound in the city. But the owl I think I hear is drowned out by a cry next door. A light goes on; then the door opens, and Puff the cat dashes out, followed by Dwayne in a bathrobe, carrying baby Samantha. It’s Samantha who’s squalling, in impossibly long wails that rise through the night air. Jean, the wife, leans out to caution Dwayne about disturbing the neighbors, and Dwayne says, “Honey, fuck the neighbors! I can’t pace that hallway another night. I’m gonna give this kid some breathing room.” He carries the baby down the steps.

  They pass slowly in front of my house, Dwayne rocking at each step. I don’t think he sees me, tucked in my own shadows, and I don’t do anything to reveal my presence. Samantha goes on screaming, but after a minute I don’t mind the sound. It’s not late yet—not even eleven—and most of the houses on the street are still lit. I’ve been known to think fuck the neighbors myself. And something in the sheer fullness of Samantha’s voice makes me feel cheerful. Listening to her wails, I realize that this is not true sorrow or grief or any kind of trouble one must take seriously, but simple feeling, unprocessed by words. There’s almost a melody.

  The noise recedes as Dwayne and Samantha continue up the block. Bracing a foot on the porch railing, I rock the glider and think about the weeks to come. Sylvia will need support as she gets back on her feet, I think, and I make a vow to do all I can. I’ll be extra vigilant, extra present, bringing muffins in the morning and flowers at night, and on days she’s subject to temptation I’ll be ready with outings. And who wouldn’t appreciate the homey baseball scene? We’ll resume our picnicking habit, too. We’ll find fields which have not yet become parking lots. We’ll go to the buzzard place and create a dam, we’ll have picnics at home. Making myself indispensable to Sylvia will keep Ryan from slipping away, at the same time reminding her why she loved me at all. Hell, we might even have another child. Why not? We’re not young, but it’s not out of the question. This is a big house, as Sylvia herself suggested. A darling baby girl, to go with our strong boy; a girl to grow up playing dollies with Samantha—or beating the crap out of her if she likes.

  I smile at the world beyond the porch and realize the wailing’s stopped. Dwayne and Samantha are returning down the far side of the street now, and the little melody I heard is only Dwayne sin
ging a lullaby. For a moment, I feel a burst of warmth for the poor, bathrobed schmuck, walking his sleeping bundle to bed.

  I give Dwayne a nod as I back the truck out of my driveway; he glares back as if I’ve threatened his kid. Then Jean beckons them to the light. I turn and drive the half block to the boulevard, and it’s earlier than my other wanderings, so the route is bustling. I park a few doors from the asbestos-shingled group home, where lights still glow in the upper windows, and though I don’t know which light is Sylvia’s, I feel like a troubadour as I cross the lawn. On the top floor a man paces the gold square of his window, appearing and disappearing like a pendulum; below him, a thin woman drags on a cigarette. One room on the second floor is lit by a red bulb, another by a flickering blue TV. For a moment I gaze at the grid of white-shuttered windows, wondering which one is hers. In high school, I never woke Sylvia by tossing pebbles at her window, but I always liked the idea, and we did our share of sneaking around.