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The Ha-Ha

Page 32

by Dave King


  I never knew why I survived, but I was glad I made it. I didn’t imagine any other way to feel. There’s the period to be proud of, too: years of autonomy, sobriety, and endurance. Why does nothing stand out?

  But I can remember every instant of these last months. Every instant with Ryan, of course, but also moments when he played no part, moments with Robin or the Mesks, with my band of pipsqueak catchers and throwers, with Laurel and Nit and Harrison. For a while I awakened to all that was denied me—me and Timothy and the lieutenant and the rest of us—but now, as I contemplate that drab, fine life I’m so proud of . . . Well, I can’t.

  Time to go. The John Deere is the king of equipment, and as I climb aboard, it’s hard not to think of when Ryan rode with me. That was my last day, too. The roar of the engine is deafening inside the shed, and as I pull out I see the clouds have cleared. Stars twinkle around the convent’s silhouette, and I drive across the lawn, looking up at all the tiny, bright jacks. I’ve always liked stars. When I was a child I used to lie out with my dad and wait for meteor showers, just this time of year. My mother always preferred the moon, and Sylvia preferred sunsets, as far as I know. At least, when we were out together she didn’t care about watching stars. I suppose everyone’s fascinated by some aspect of the heavens, and lying on our backs to stare at the sky is something Ryan and I never did. One for the Buzzard’s View camping trip, I think dreamily; then I catch myself.

  Upstairs in the convent, a light goes on. Better hurry. Driving past the Contemplation Garden, I realize I never finished my prayer, and I say amen. I don’t care about noise now, and I shout as loud as I can over the churning mower: “Unn-mmah!” I do it again, then I feel foolish. I feel queasy, like the wait time before the kick of a drug, and I could use pleasant thoughts to calm my nerves. I try picturing Ryan’s face and come up with the Indians cap; then I run through everyone else in my life, and all the faces are jelled over. Maybe I’m rushing. I swallow hard and take a breath, and I see my dad with his arms outstretched and remember how gray his lips were that day in the snow, and his strange, sick expression, a little like indigestion. But I don’t want to be seeing this. I want the living. I try to remember Dad in the warm mornings of my childhood, setting off to sell suits and neckties at Hanran’s and looking pretty spiffy himself, since that was how you showed off the merchandise. But the picture eludes me in the clarity I want, and instead I see Timothy stretched flat in the road. Frantically, I conjure my parents’ wedding photo, and there’s Mom in a veil that puffed over her thick hair. But that was years before I was born, before my own time with her began.

  Running up the slope, the John Deere purrs smoothly. I can see headlights down in the abyss, and I wonder who those people are. Late-night travelers, drunks heading home, people on strange quests. An ambulance flashes, and I’m ready for the floater feeling. But maybe I’m too ready, because as soon as I’ve got it, it slips away. In the past, I grew expert at hugging the steepest angle of the slope, but my aim was to push it and at the same time stay safe. Now I’m doing what I’ve only practiced for, and I hit the gas. The blade strikes a rock with a ting! and on instinct I let up. False alarm. I press again and ask myself if this is it. Is this it, is this it, for real? It is. I take a breath and look at the stars and think of the tropics, when I was young and the orange air raised me over the forest path, and the dirt sparkled like bits of stardust in the golden air, and the leaves were soft, soft fabric. Here I go!

  I don’t know why I don’t go through with it. I think I’ll always feel it was cowardice, and I’ll wonder forever if my decision was correct. But my hands turn hard at the last moment, and the John Deere stalls with a wheel spinning out in space. And suddenly I’m afraid to move. I sit for a lifetime, my head on the steering wheel, and I could finish what I started, but I know now I will not. Perhaps it was the ambulance, flashing with dire urgency, or perhaps I really want to toast Ryan at his wedding. Maybe I’m a gutless sissy, trying to prove life is purely my own choice—and maybe I choose this life more than I thought. Here’s another question I’ll ponder for the rest of my days.

  Perhaps it’s not even very long that I sit there, because when Sister Amity reaches me she’s out of breath. She grips my arm so hard that she must think I’ll topple over, and when I open my mouth she whispers, “Never mind.” I stare at her without moving and see wire glasses clipped to her nose, a glint of sweat on her lip. She’s not in her wimple or habit, just a nightgown bunched into bright pink sweatpants, and she looks like someone in a fat-lady costume. “Don’t ogle my clothes, Howard,” she says severely. “You know I’m a nun. Can you get down?” She peers at me a little longer, then gently adds, “Come on, dear. You can do it.” Her cropped hair stands stiff on her skull.

  I climb down gingerly from my perch. My joints are stiff, and I feel as though I’ve been cramped in position for a very long time. I can’t help considering how idiotic it would be if I and the mower and the claptrap of all my foolishness were to pitch suddenly down into the roadway, but the John Deere’s ground its wheels into the hillside and doesn’t budge. With Sister Amity’s coaxing, my feet move from pedal to step and finally to the dry, mown grass.

  But as I take my place by the side of the mower, something else remains aloft. I haven’t awakened yet, and Sister Amity hasn’t released my arm. I look down from a spot high in the orange air, and I can see us on the ha-ha, she in her bunched-up clothes, one hand on my elbow, me unsteady on my feet. I can see the dark night—or early morning—of summer in the great North American Midwest, and for a moment the whole world freezes in place. Nothing breathes, nothing moves. And then, as if from some great distance, comes the roar of waves, and one by one each sound is turned on. The cars on the highway resume their oceanic murmuring, and a nearby owl gives a lonesome hoot. There are peepers, too, and the general rustling and pulsing of the summer night, and as all this revs into a song of being I feel myself float down, like a kite Sister Amity slowly reels in. I float to earth and settle in my skin, and I can feel my shoes and my terrible sweaty T-shirt and the fabric of the shorts I put on long ago for baseball practice. I settle into my skin and give a shiver, and Sister Amity says, “Steady.”

  We start across the lawn, walking very slowly. This is all I can manage. Sister Amity says she’s going to make tea and dabs her face with a tissue. I can sleep in a spare room on the first floor, she says. “I’ll stay right outside, in case you need me.” Halfway to the big building she lets go of my elbow, but it’s not clear I won’t float off again once I’m released, and to tell the truth, I want to be held down. All around us, the peepers sing joyfully of life, and the moon casts its lacy beams on the convent grounds. I hear a siren pass through the subdivision where I parked my truck; then it veers off into silence, like the close call it is. There’s a plop from the reflecting pool. Something’s broken the surface. As the stars circle slowly over us, I take Sister Amity’s hand.

  59

  THIS HASN’T BEEN EASY. Years ago, when I first came home injured, I felt conspicuous above all else, and I could see the components of my old life being trundled out like theater scenery to prove that nothing had really changed. I feel that now, too. Every morning, at Laurel’s instigation, I make breakfast for the household, and Harrison and Nit read the paper aloud. Almost always the day is gorgeous, and we take our waffles or eggs Benedict to the picnic table. From up and down the yards come the cries of kids and the roars of early morning mowers, and lately a yellow mastiff has been hanging around Ruby. Sometimes Ms. Monetti is here, too. Then breakfast ends, and the boys, like good citizens, take care of KP. It’s terribly, determinedly, familiar. When work time comes, my housemates carefully tell me goodbye, Laurel brushing a hand down my arm or lately even offering a kiss. Nit and Harrison are more hail-fellow-handshake oriented, but just as sincere; once, unaccountably, Nit hugged me, and I was so startled I hugged him back. Then we climb into our vehicles and go to work. I’m back at the convent, of course, though on reduced hours b
ecause Jim, the heavyset guy I glimpsed once as he mowed the Long Field, is there now, too. Sister Amity prefers I keep clear of the John Deere, anyway, and she’s shown some ingenuity in finding me other chores. “What we need is some good male muscle!” she’ll say exultantly, and send me off to load peat moss for Robin. Or she’ll decide two dozen bentwood chairs in the nuns’ dining room need refurbishing and set me to a week of painting and gluing. I’ve even been enlisted to peel potatoes for Sister Margaret, and the unorthodoxy of giving this task to me instead of a novice only underscores the artificial structure that keeps me occupied. There’s my old friend the underbrush, too, out past the isolation cabins, when I’m angry or uptight; but under Sister Amity’s eye I’m seldom alone.

  I have a second job now, too, because Laurel insists I need income. Nit saw a notice at the gym he and Harrison belong to, and before I knew it I was handing out towels. Three hours a day I’m holed up below street level, and the climate of shower steam and perspiration, cologne, baby powder, and moist flesh, plus the varieties of abashed and strutting and oblivious nudity and my own shadowy presence as a clothed person, all make me appreciate my time outdoors. When three hours are up I rush outside, and though it’s only a parking lot next to the boulevard, I spend several moments just relishing the air. One reason I keep this job is for that sense of emergence, and often in these moments I think of Timothy.

  I go right home after work because Laurel’s waiting for me, at least these first weeks. Usually, she’s shopped for dinner and puts me to work in the kitchen, but sometimes we go bowling or to a movie, just the two of us or with one of the housemates. It’s not clear how much she’s corralled them into monitoring me, just as it’s not clear whether I truly need the second job at the gym or just have to be kept busy. In fact, I don’t look closely at what’s happening. Between Laurel and Sister Amity I’m on a pretty tight lead, and whether their efforts are coordinated or coincidental is another thing I don’t look at. Things happen without my choosing, and I let myself drift.

  Years ago, I accepted the charade of well-being because I believed it myself: I believed I’d get better. This time I see through everything, but I give in anyway. The self-consciousness I felt when I came home from the war has been replaced by shame at how I handled myself recently, and if the likes of Sister Amity and Laurel and even the two dudes who live here feel like kinder souls for watching my ass, I can submit.

  And there’s not much choice. Saturday morning after my incident at the ha-ha, I slipped off early to take Ryan to baseball. I had my doubts, of course, but I went anyway, and from the end of the block I could see him and Raymond in Sylvia’s front yard. Raymond had on a complete soccer getup from Spain or Puerto Rico or somewhere—bright shirt, brief yellow shorts, shin guards, special shoes—and they were kicking that soccer ball back and forth. I watched Ryan take it downfield, over the brown lines my wheels had laid in the grass, and I realized he’d learned to dribble. I’d brought a piece of screen as an afternoon project, but instead of continuing toward the house, I turned in an empty driveway and went back the way I’d come. That afternoon, Ed Mesk called and said he hoped we’d return to the Snakes. “I hope there weren’t, uh, hard feelings after our last game,” he said to the answering machine. “Juliana and I both thought Ryan was a big asset, especially as one of the younger boys. Unfortunately, the Twins pretty much outmatched the Snakes in all categories, as it turned out. But regarding the fighting, I felt the team had to draw the line. Nothing personal, I hope you agree.”

  A week later he calls again to say he learned from Robin that Ryan’s no longer with me, but he hopes I still consider myself a Snake. “As umpire, coach, however you see it. A lot of these kids could use a positive role model.” After this I almost go back, but while I’m dithering Ed calls a third time and says no one realized the official Little League season ended in midsummer, and with no opponents, the Snakes have disbanded. “Juliana wants to have a party for the kids, though, in the fall. You should all come to that.” He says he counts on me for next year, but his voice is wistful, and I wonder if there will be Snakes another year. So July gives way to August, and the mornings remain cool and the afternoons temperate. Night after night we watch marvelous sunsets, and everyone says it’s the most beautiful summer. Miraculous, they call it on television. If the miracle of a few golden evenings proves no match for my own deep blue longing, I’m not expecting much anyway.

  It’s not all bad. Sometimes Sister Margaret and I take our scullery duties to the goldfish pool, and sometimes I work out for an hour at the gym. I have powerful shoulders. I wait for Laurel to let up on her vigilance, but she doesn’t do that, and one night she buys us tickets to the ballet. To my amazement, I enjoy it, and we go again three nights later, my treat this time. There’s a ballerina in blue that everyone’s excited about, and midway through one fiery number, Laurel takes my hand. Her long fingers are soft in my palm, and when the program ends I hang on a moment before applauding. But as Laurel continues night after night at my side, I figure I must be worse off than I realize. Meanwhile, we eat plenty of sweet corn and sit outside in the evenings, and I learn to make scones. The morning glories thrive, and little rocketlike buds appear amid the heart-shaped leaves.

  Occasionally I look in the guest room closet, where the only thing hanging is that blue choir surplice from the elementary school. I don’t sniff it or press it to my cheek because, as Laurel’s pointed out, no one has died. But sometimes I lie on the futon with that choir thing spread out over my chest. The room is cool with the curtains drawn, so it’s a place to relax, and I’ve got no illusions about staying in this spot forever. I even leave the door open. I close my eyes and fold my hands over the blue garment, but it’s okay. I’m just lying here.

  60

  I DON’T HEAR FROM SYLVIA until after Labor Day. I’m upstairs when the phone rings, and I go to the top of the steps and listen. “Hi, Howie, it’s me,” she says. “It’s been a while.” In the pause that follows I hear dogs barking, and I touch my head to the patterned wallpaper of the stairwell. Sylvia says, “Since the middle of summer, I guess, and—Look, this isn’t my idea. That whole scene when I came home was just so chaotic and . . . and damaging at a time when I really only—But Ryan was thinking he’d like to see you, so maybe you’d come over for dinner.” She gives a date and says they’re eating early these days, and I settle on the top step and contemplate not going. But Sylvia says to bring Laurel, so I’m committed. I could never resist, anyway.

  Sylvia’s front windows could use a wash, and as we peer through the screen I see stray toys and a sweater at large in the living room. I wonder if Sylvia needed those binges to keep the place just so. Laurel knocks, and when there’s no response I have an urge to cut out: catch a movie or dinner or drive out into the country, just the two of us. I want to see Ryan, but Sylvia and Raymond may be more than I can handle. Then Sylvia calls cheerily, “Come on in,” and I step in hesitantly, thinking of the last time I was here, and of the time before that, on her bed.

  We find her in the kitchen, dressed in office clothes: pink skirt, nice blouse. She’s letting her hair grow. She gives Laurel an effusive kiss and says, “We’re running a bit late because I’m just in from the old temp racket. What I wouldn’t give for a genuine job! But can I get you a Diet Pepsi? I don’t keep beer or liquor in the house now . . . Hi, Howie.” A peck for me and a small squeeze I’m too stiff to return.

  Ryan shuffles in, looking bigger than I remember. Broad in the shoulders, too; could that be? He puts out a shy hand, and Sylvia says, “Give ’em a hug, ya goofus.” When I put my arms around him, he’s his familiar self, long and lean. A bit rigid ’til he softens against me, but this, too, is familiar. It’s eight weeks now since he left my house, just the time he was there.

  Something strikes me—no Indians cap—and I run my fingers through his curly hair. He looks balefully at his mother. “New rules. Not in the house,” he says.

  Sylvia says if she has to live b
y the law, then everyone has to live by the law. “Though Mama’s on probation, isn’t she, darlin’? And you’re not.”

  Sylvia’s mom was famous for a round, Bisquick-based hors d’oeuvre she called sausage puffs. She’d make up a giant batch and store them in Jiffy bags in the freezer, and though they were reserved for company, whenever Syl and I were alone in the house we’d heat up a dozen or so. Once those were gone, I’d start scheming for more. I suppose it’s been years since I last thought of sausage puffs, but when Sylvia opens the oven I smell them again. “I bet you don’t remember these, Howie. Ryan calls them sausage planets.” Sylvia may not have promoted this get-together, but she’s making the best of it.

  We sit on the patio, drinking our sodas and munching the sausage planets. Fartin’ Martin’s Rottweilers woof at us when we step outside, but Sylvia silences them with a word, and I’m glad the backyard neighbor isn’t around. It’s enough that I’m waiting for Raymond to make an entrance. Play a little soccer, check out the phone line, use one of those tools he’s got hanging from his waist. But either he’s no longer on the scene or Sylvia’s told him to make himself scarce. She doesn’t mention him, though she does all the talking.

  When she goes inside to check the dinner, Ryan and Laurel and I stare at one another. Ryan asks how Steve is, and I nod. Fine. He asks about Harrison, and Laurel says he’s okay, under the circumstances. Losing a parent is a big deal, she says, and Ryan nods sympathetically. Laurel asks him what he’s been up to, and he says, “Not much. You know, playing.” Then she tells him I’m back at the convent, and I nod again. Ryan bites his lip, and I suppose he’s forgotten how I allowed him to steer, or how we cut the borers from the pines. But I bet he recalls his terrified fall and the slap Sister Amity gave me. This must not seem like a job to go back to, but he blinks again. “Sounds good,” he murmurs.

 

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