by Dave King
I go down the steps and hit the button, just to hear that voice again, and I’m surprised to find a message from Sister Amity, too, saying she hopes I’m out of my pickle, and I should come by the convent as soon as possible. But I’m so impatient I skip to Ryan. Even while his voice is playing, I start looking for my keys, and I’m circling the downstairs when I see his glove and the old Indians cap in the dining room. I suppose they’ve been there since Robin dropped them off Sunday. I tuck them under my arm, and I’m out the door just as Ryan says, “Thanks for everything,” a second time.
55
THE STREET IS ITS customary row of boxes, the Silly Putty one about halfway along. Sylvia’s ancient pink Buick is parked in the drive, and I pause a moment before pulling in behind it. I’d hoped, I suppose, to find Ryan outside, perhaps hitting the baseball across the two front yards, but for once not even Fartin’ Martin’s on his front steps.
I peer through the screen door and see Sylvia with her back to me. She’s fiddling with an earring. I tap, and she turns, and I think for a moment she’ll scream; but Sylvia never stages a free show without an audience. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she says sullenly, “but I’m running to a job interview. Don’t even come in.” She turns, then looks back and squints through the screen door. “Is that the same shirt?”
I’ve been through this since the old days, and frankly, I prefer it. I’d much rather Sylvia acted as if Saturday never happened than pick up at the terrible spot we left off. So I let her give my appearance a disdainful once-over, and I stare back through the screen. The house looks as it did the last time I was here, when I lay on her bed. Every photo and object is in place on the shelves. The picture window in the living room gives onto the back yard, where the hedges have filled in since my encounter with the neighbor, and the foliage reflects greenly over the unlit room. Sylvia glances toward the bedroom hallway and calls out, “Ryan, honey!” and at the sound of his footsteps I turn expectantly. Sylvia takes a deep breath and adopts a kind of statuesque pose, one foot before the other, as she smoothes her skirt down. “Do I look all right?”
From the hallway comes Ryan’s voice: “Uh-huh.” Sylvia frowns, and the voice adds, “Really pretty.” Then he appears, so familiar in his long shorts and giant basketball shoes, and at the sight of me he does a genuine double take. “Heyyy!” he says, more like Harrison than himself. He opens the screen door for me, and I’m flooded with joy. Every unhappiness seems inconsequential.
“Howie,” says Sylvia as I step into the house, “I cannot have a replay of . . .”
I squat down and open my arms, and Ryan looks uncomfortably from me to his mother. Perhaps he’s aware of having summoned me surreptitiously. At last, he offers one of those formulaic hand greetings, and though this is no substitute for affection, I play along. “You got stitches,” he announces enviously.
I hand over the glove and cap. “My two precious possessions!” he says. He puts them both on, punching the glove with his fist. “You know what? We should play catch. You bring your glove, Howie?” No, but I’ll play bare-handed.
Sylvia lifts the Indians cap from Ryan’s head. Here’s one thing she’d hoped was out of her life, she remarks dryly. Running her fingers through his hair, she says, “Ryan, love, I want you ready to go, okay? There’s no time for baseball, and I can’t be late for this thing.” She glances briefly in my direction and says, “Howie, thanks. We’re thrilled to have the glove returned.” I don’t move, and she says, “I’ll call you sometime.”
Ryan says, “Why can’t I just stay here? Like if Howie stayed with me, maybe we and Fartin’ Martin could—”
“Don’t call him that, please.” She nudges a rubber flip-flop from under a living room chair. “And put your shoes away. Raymond is coming specifically to take you to the barbershop, and I—”
At this, I step forward. Let me do it! I’m perfectly able to get the boy a haircut. Look after him, give him dinner . . . I’m in practice, and I’m here. I point to my chest, but Sylvia blinks impatiently. “I really don’t have time right now, Howie.” Outside, a phone company van is pulling in behind my truck, and she says, “Damnation. Now the circus begins.”
We watch Raymond get out of the van. He’s wearing a phone company shirt and shorts, and all his equipment hangs redundantly from his belt. After a few seconds’ primping in the side mirror, he leans into the van and pulls out a soccer ball, still in its store packaging. He tucks the ball under one arm and strides up the walk, and he’s not even inside before he cries, “Hello, beautiful.” He gives Sylvia a peck and presents Ryan with the soccer ball, calling him muchacho. Then he turns to me. “Harold. Didn’t expect to see you here, man. You all recovered from your . . .” Harold? Bite me.
Ryan says, “Come on, Mom. Please?”
“Ryan, no. Another time, maybe. Ray—” She looks helpless. “I’ve got this interview.”
Raymond holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Not trying to rock your boat. You go on and go. We’re good.” He steps to a chair where Bindi is sleeping and says, “Hey there, girl.” The motherfucker knows the whole cast and crew.
I catch Ryan’s eye and mime the swing of a bat. Snakes on Saturday? I could pick him up. But he glances at his mother, so I touch Sylvia’s arm. I make the swing again, and she says, “Howie, dammit!” and though I’m trying to communicate, she turns away. “Ray, help me out a bit,” she says. When he looks up, she cocks her head at me.
That does it. Does she think I’m blind? Christ, I’m the king of gesture! Turning furiously, I push at the screen door, and my hand goes through the screen. Behind me, Sylvia says, “Oh, very nice!”
I spin around. Raymond’s big chest is inches from my own. “The lady wants you outa here,” he says. I look beyond him at Ryan, and I think we two should make a plan for baseball. I hope he realizes I didn’t mean to damage his mom’s screen, and of course I’ll repair it. I’ve done the repairs here for years. Sylvia’s checking her lipstick in a wall mirror, but when I catch her eye she looks away. And now Raymond’s on automatic: “The lady wants you outa here,” he says again. “And brush your teeth! Whew!”
I get the screen door open, and I want to slam it with a bang, but it’s got a pneumatic closer and shuts quietly on its own. I climb in my truck and pull up to the Buick, and though I ought to back right into that phone van, I swerve onto the grass. Raymond comes out and holds up a hand, and behind him Sylvia’s face appears, then disappears. My wheels make a sputtering chirr as they dig up her lawn, and as I back up, two brown stripes unfurl before me, like ribbons. I step hard on the gas.
A horn blares, and I hit the brake. A station wagon approaches, with a woman in dark glasses at the wheel and four kids as passengers. The woman gives me the finger as they pass. I take a breath and look up at the putty-colored house, and Ryan’s standing on the stoop beside Raymond. I raise a hand, but neither one moves, and after looking both ways, I back carefully off of Sylvia’s lawn. As I head up the street I see Fartin’ Fucking Martin back on his front stoop.
56
I DRIVE HOME GRITTING my teeth. The streets seem bright and strangely crowded, and no matter where I turn I can’t find an open lane. Several times I hit the horn and try to slip around some Sunday driver, but nothing happens; no one hears me. Even on my own street, I find myself behind Dwayne’s maddening wife, poking along in their little family sedan and cooing at baby Samantha in the back seat. I can barely breathe.
Pulling into my driveway, I lurch from the truck and almost throw up. My face is clammy even in the July heat, and when I reach the stoop I grip the railing with a shaking hand. I’m breathless and light-headed, and I could use nothing so much as endless sleep. Looking out at my yard, I find it brutal and jagged, as if the familiar realm of my youth and family life, of whatever recovery I managed since my return home, has turned against me. In this fragile environment all the attributes I take as me—my thoughts, my hands and feet, my moral sense—bob against each other like bal
loons in a cluster. I turn hurriedly toward the house, and even my shadow, cast on the white clapboards, struggles mightily to escape.
The kitchen is still a mess, with crumbs standing out like boulders in the raking light. A white bag of garbage and a blue one of recyclables stand tied by the stove, and as I step in, the recyclables collapse forward, as if fainting. I might anchor myself by tidying up, I think, and I gather some cups; but within minutes I’ve made things worse. There’s jam on a drawer where I reached for a dish towel and dribbles of stickiness across the countertop. Looking down, I see I’ve dragged the towel in a puddle of pancake batter. A gob splats to the floor, and I hurl the towel at the cellar, then fold into a protective crouch, arms covering my head, as we were taught in basic. The close scent of my body makes a kind of personal atmosphere, pungent as a greenhouse, and I think this is what the future holds: a world of me and no one else. But a moment later I force myself to stand, and I step to the doorway. For an instant, the summer evening loses its luridness, and there’s the scent of my childhood. I must get myself clean, I think, then tackle this kitchen mess. Pick out some clothes and toss these in the incinerator; clip my nails, shave carefully, trim my nose hairs, move my bowels. Maybe even get a haircut myself. And teeth! I’m not unmindful of Raymond’s response to my breath.
I’m in the hallway when I hear voices above. On the landing, Laurel’s talking to someone. “I just—” she says. “I’m at the end of my rope. In a matter of days I watch this place going completely to pot, and I can’t be the commandant a hundred percent of the time. I mean, take a look at that kitchen! A damn disaster area!”
A male voice says, “Sorry . . .”
“I mean seriously. Do you guys think that because Ryan’s gone we no longer maintain a civilized front? Was that some two-month performance in which we all, you know, pretended to be a household of manners, pretended to respect each other and pull our own—”
“Hey, I’ll do it.” The voice is Nit’s. “Come on, Laurel. Because Harrison’s having like a . . . He’s like really on edge right now, kinda difficult. But put me to work. We don’t want to make you mad.”
“But why should I even have to say—” Laurel breaks off suddenly, and from my spot below I think good for you! Serves those sloppy boys right. But she says, “Oh, Stevie, it’s not really even that. Frankly, nobody expects much from the two of you, and of course Harrison has his own, you know, burdens. It’s more just—” Her voice rises, and as I strain forward I step on a creaky floorboard. I freeze. Laurel says, “Really, it’s him. I mean, jeez, I got home, and there’s this unbelievable stench. His room was just, in the corner there was—I guess Ruby was sick, plus diarrhea and who knows whatall. Which I can’t imagine she would have done if she’d had anywhere else to be, so what’d he do, shut her in the room? Or just forget to let her out? I can’t even tell, but you know Ruby: housebroken! And the flies, even with the windows open—”
“You want me to go in and pick it up?”
“Oh, please. I did that. I mean immediately, and there was no picking it up, either. No, I mean it’s just so lazy and, and unkind where an animal’s concerned, and dirty, willfully dirty. Weird and out-there, beyond his usual, you know, gruffness. Is this a breakdown?” She starts to sniffle.
I’m so shocked I can’t move, even when a fly alights on my ear. I remember coming in years ago, all fucked up, and catching my parents having this exact conversation in the same spot, outside their bedroom; I stood where I stand now and listened ashamedly. The fly maneuvers to peer inside my head, and as I wave it away Nit says, “Look, I’ll speak to him. I’ll tell him don’t pull that shit with us, grow up, be a man, et cetera.” I redden at the thought of Nit telling mewhere to get off, and maybe he knows how ridiculous he sounds, because he adds, “Or Harrison will. He respects Harrison.”
“And where is he now? Gone off, probably in that same filthy shirt, and who knows if he’s even safe on the road. The bed’s all pulled apart in that room, but it doesn’t look like he’s been near the bathroom. And yesterday when I went up to talk to him, he was just so awful. I think we—” She sniffs again and says, “Oh, Christ,” and then, very quietly, she starts to cry. I put my hand to my face and bite down on my index finger, and Nit offers inarticulate murmurs of comfort. Then Laurel sighs. “It’s just stress, really. I know we all miss having the kid around, but I kind of liked how it brought us togeth—You know, I’ve lived with Howard a long time, and there’s more than just neutral feelings. We—” She breaks off again, and my instinct is to run up and put my arms around her, but in my current state I’m no consolation. Perhaps I’ll sneak back to the kitchen and beat Nit to cleaning the household mess. Then I’ll slip to the bathroom for a shower and shave. And once I’ve chased all the flies from the house and scrubbed my bedroom floor with Mr. Clean and made nice with Ruby and dressed myself in fresh clothes, I’ll be able to face Laurel. Only moments ago I caught a whiff of summer in the evening air; now that same emotion, a little like hope, seesaws in again. I’ll get through this with elbow grease, not discussion.
There’s a movement above, then Laurel says, “Thanks, I’m okay. The thing is, I pulled some strings to get him released. Because I just thought Saturday was . . . well, an unusual situation, and I know he gets frustrated. I didn’t want one slip turned into some big psychiatrical veteran’s thing, just so a couple meathead policemen could score a few points.” She blows her nose. “Anyway. So I call the nun, and I said it was pretty much a gross misunderstanding, that it was nowhere near what the report said. Because on a gut level I understood where Howard was coming from, or I thought I did. So I minimized it, okay? I was confident. And the sister vouches for him, but we kind of agree, the two of us, that he should go back to work, both because he should have some stability and for the money, because he needs to have income. He’s just . . . going through his pension, and with taxes and utilities there’s not a big cushion. And I assumed that being home in this house, with people who, you know, know him and love—or are accustomed to his ways or whatever—was gonna be better than receiving treatment from strangers. But what happens? He comes home, and I’ve done all this nonsense to get him released. But he’s, he’s so weird and hostile, like you sometimes hear those cases can get. He’s all different and off. And the dirty thing, and the dog! He should be checking in at the convent, but yesterday he nearly struck me because I wanted to get that filthy Snakes shirt—Oh, look at these damn flies.” She stamps her feet, and several more appear in the stairwell. Laurel says, “The thing is, Stevie, this is all so different from what I expected. Or what I promised that nun. And I think maybe I have a responsibility for not being more truthful. I mean, I don’t think he’s dangerous, but who knows? He’s so difficult and strange suddenly. And I wonder—I can’t help feeling I did wrong getting him out, so should I attempt to rectify it? Because if this is how he’s gonna be, it maybe would have been better for him to stay where he was, just long enough to get some real treatment. Maybe if I spoke up he still could, you know?”
I don’t listen to any more. I feel nauseous and shamed, and my body’s light and hollow and brittle, like a sculpture made of egg whites. The tethers that anchor me have been suddenly sundered, and this time no hope swings in to uplift. I turn stealthily, like an intruder, and ease my weight off the noisy floorboard. I sneak back through the dirty kitchen to the yard, where the lawn probably could use mowing. Close the door of the truck quietly. Back down the crackling driveway to the street. In the gutters lie plastic bags, McDonald’s cups, even broken toys, and I don’t breathe ’til I reach the boulevard.
57
I DRIVE TO THE Andee Barber School. Ryan and Raymond are long gone, but the place is still open, lending a fluorescent brightness to the sunset sky. Only two barbers are working at this hour, one of them the tall, many-ringed guy who cut Ryan’s hair. A small boy is seated in his chair now, and a large, tired-looking woman leans forward to watch the barber work. I don’t want to make my inquiry
with a child in the shop, so I turn off my headlights and remain in the truck, rubbing my knuckles over my cheek. I listen to the sawlike sound of my whiskers.
The woman comes out, holding the boy’s hand, and the two of them walk off down the sidewalk. I wait until they’re out of sight. My mouth is dry, but everything else feels light and counterfeit, and it’s easy to float toward the glass front of the barbershop. Inside, a singer from my recovery era croons soulfully at high volume, and there’s none of the high-key jangle of my previous visit. For a moment, I wonder if I’m misremembering how it was—if this is not, in fact, a place Sylvia might come to cop. But hair parlors are generally good places to score, and as three faces turn toward me I put my impressions aside.
The tall barber’s working on a good-looking, broad-faced kid of about twenty, while his colleague, older and stockier, sweeps up around the chairs. The colleague turns and says, “About closed.” I moisten my lips.
The tall guy says, “What you want, bro? A shave?” He shows me his wide smile, eyeing my scruffy appearance. “Haircut, too? Want the works?” I do want the works, but I don’t say anything. The guy glances at a wall clock and says, “Aaaight, why not? Take yourself a seat and we’ll do you proud. Won’t be a minute with my friend here.” As the older man starts to protest, he adds, “I got it, Joe. You go ’head home.”
I slip onto a vinyl-covered chair, clutching the armrests to hold myself down. But almost immediately I’m on my feet again. The heavy barber watches me suspiciously, but the tall guy says, “You worrying about those stitches you got on there, I know. Sure, they look nasty, but I can be gentle. Let’s see your head.” I can’t tell if he’s figured out the deal with me or is just very easygoing, but he beckons with a flashy finger. “Hey, I know you,” he says amiably. “Where I know you from?”