by Dave King
I feel myself blushing. I can’t explain my life, and what, in any case, does a child know of compromise? Ryan takes another planet and asks how Ruby’s doing, but I’ve already lost patience. I’d rather stare at the flagstones. Once, I think, our conversation was useful. We shared ball games and mountain views, and we planned activities. We accomplished plenty by gesture. But nothing important was ever built out of social chatter, and as we all sit nicely on Sylvia’s wrought-iron furniture a gulf is evident, and what we had grows increasingly small. Inquiring after Ms. Monetti, Ryan’s only doing what well-behaved kids do to talk to adults, and it feels like that first morning, when I drove him away from here.
Laurel keeps glancing at me, and I suppose I seem sulky. At last she announces she’s going to offer Sylvia a hand, and we let her go. The Rottweilers whimper as she steps toward the house, and in the silence that follows I watch some small ants sneak from the grass to the slate. Ryan says, “What about Shawn? He still got his blue hair?” I shrug. “Hey!” he says. “And the Snakes! How was their season?”
I raise my hands. I have no idea. Ryan looks quizzical, then says, “You didn’t keep going?” Of course not, I want to say, and I’m amazed he doesn’t realize this. But he doesn’t, and as he sorts through it his dreary manners evaporate. “You oughta go, man,” he says with a touch of outrage. “You’re on the team. Who you think’s umping first?” He cogitates a minute longer, then asks, “Is Harrison still pitching coach? Harrison doesn’t go either?” Nope.
Ryan gawps at me, then smiles sneakily. “You guys are pussies,” he says. It’s a forbidden word, and his eyes dart toward the house.
But I don’t care. Hell, maybe we are pussies. I think of Ed’s phone calls, of Harrison withdrawing to that colorful sheet. “Neep!” I say, but Ryan just shrugs. A handful of planets remain on the plate, and I pick one up and toss it at him. It bounces off his front teeth.
“Pussies, man,” he murmurs mischievously. He picks the planet from the ground and eats it, then waggles his fingers at me. “Come on, tough guy. Your best shot.” I toss another, and this time he catches it. “Mom’s best, yum, yum. Okay, now you, Howie. Are you ready?” I catch it easily, nothing but mouth.
I’m not sure who gets the point in each round, but according to Ryan it’s 3-2 when Laurel appears at the sliding door. She tells us to wash our hands, and as I step past her into the house, she murmurs, “Is she always this weird?”
And with dinner, the tyranny of talk resumes. Sylvia tells us how hard it is temping and wonders if she should repaint the house. “Or—oh, I don’t know,” she says brightly. “Sometimes I think we should just pack up and move. Really start fresh, doesn’t that sound exciting? If we went to Chicago? My sister Caroline would lend a hand, and though my sponsor’s here, honestly, I am just so weary of doing everything on my own. But I go back and forth. There are good things for me here, but some bad associations, too, which I’ve been warned about. More than warned. Though I don’t say it to sound resentful. All lessons learned.” She pokes a fork at her rice pilaf and adds, “Of course, Ryan wants to stay here. Friends, school, other things. Isn’t that so, baby?” He nods.
While Sylvia speaks, Laurel and I sit quietly, eating our dinner. I’m accustomed to sitting quietly—it’s what I do—and I’m used to Sylvia damming every lull with words. But Laurel can speak, so I’d expected customary dialogue. It’s strange to see Sylvia rumble past her as she does me.
Laurel asks if she sees a lot of her sister, and Sylvia says, “From time to time. We’re very different.”
“I never had a sister,” says Laurel. “Always thought it would be nice. And my brother’s much older.” She grins at Ryan. “Kind of grew up a singleton, like you.”
“One thing I learned in my time away is the value of a support system,” Sylvia announces. “Which I never, ever, ever had. I mean, there were people. There are always people, and in some way people provide a framework. But in the most basic sense I was alone, ever since childhood. I was alone, and coke was my support.” I glance at Ryan, but he looks bored as shit; perhaps he’s heard this before. Suddenly it strikes me that Sylvia’s not speaking to him, or even to Laurel and me. She’s speaking to herself, and with great determination. The frank talk, the mulling things over aloud, the maintenance of a chipper attitude: all these are for her. Of course, she’s recently out of rehab and perhaps attitude is on her punch list, but still, this is me here, not some support group. Does she think I’m a stranger?
I eat my salmon, which is delicious, and wonder if she was always this way. Certainly in the old art-room days Sylvia was no conversationalist. She kept busy with projects, and there were other people and a radio, and the potter’s wheels would be whirring. I was the one who kept up a running commentary. Sylvia had rare, sweet bursts of effervescence but didn’t depend on talk.
When I first came home injured, Sylvia was in school. I didn’t see her often, but occasionally she’d show me her paintings, and we’d look at them for a long time without speaking. She’d wait for me to respond. At last, I might gesture at a blue area, for example, and then, hesitantly, she’d talk about the blue. I remember her tentative and sincere at this time. Only later did her talkativeness manifest, and it was the coke that did it. I guess her cruel side emerged then, too; why didn’t this bother me? Because she was always Sylvia? Remembering the shy B student I loved in high school, I realize how overjoyed she must have been to assert herself. It’s always wonderful to be able to speak. If coke fueled her gregariousness, that must have been one thing she loved about it, and perhaps she vowed not to return inward as she dried out. Or perhaps now she can’t help herself.
Laurel looks thoughtfully at a dark painting on the dining room wall. “Is that yours? Ryan told us how his mom was an artist.”
Sylvia sniffs. “Oh, that whole—I don’t know. Yes, I do, and yes, it’s one of mine. But the whole ‘being a painter’ was such a dodge of responsibility. It was a fairy tale, a way out of reality, a fantasy about myself and my, I don’t know, vision. What a waste of time, of decades! I’m so invested now in putting my energy into other things. In being a success, for example—I should say for a change! Just getting my act together, making some contribution! I think Howie knows what I mean, don’t you, Howie? You’ve dealt with recovery.” She looks at me, and I scratch my head. I know lost time, but creativity was Sylvia’s strength.
Nevertheless, this is still Sylvia, looking healthy and attractive in pink officewear. Isn’t it? Having us in for a perfect dinner, feeding us optimistic chat. The things she’s saying may mean a great deal to her—health and prosperity and a better life for her and Ryan—and I don’t begrudge that. I want her to be happy! But it sounds so conventional, and I’ve lived in a box for a long time, myself. There must be a margin for divergence, I think. For invention, for surprise. Just as there must be Snakes as well as Twins. I wish Sylvia were kidding—I wish this were a wicked imitation of Paula or Big John or some other rehab character—and though it may be perverse of me, I really don’t care if she’s a productive member. Success? I don’t know what that means. I liked the Sylvia who didn’t police herself, who knew she liked painting and her kid and, often enough, me. Is there any of that Sylvia still in evidence? To think I loved sad-addict Sylvia better than this sleek, improved model! Or that after all these years—these decades!—I’m less besotted. Could that be?
I’d like to go now. I’m still shaky from my own travails, and I can’t sit any longer, peeling the layers from the motivational onion. I stand up and pat my stomach, and Sylvia says, “Thank you, Howie. We’re eating lighter these days,” then returns to her meditations. “Of course, there’s so much to starting fresh. I wouldn’t know anything about selling this house, for example. Caroline could get me an apartment in her building, and maybe a job. She really wants us living nearer.” I look to see if she’s gauging my reaction, but she’s not; she’s just talking. I wonder if I mind if she goes away. No more than she minds leaving me
. But I don’t dare look at Ryan. Sylvia says, “I think moving can be fun! New home, new school, new friends.” She strokes Ryan’s cheek, and he asks to be excused. It’s the first thing he’s said since we sat down.
I have a gift for Ryan: a photograph Ann took of us in our Snakes shirts that last day. He’s on the bleachers, with an arm over my shoulders, and he’s waving his cap against the blue, blue sky. Tearing the paper from the package, he says, “Whoa! Thank you, Howie!” Then he’s silent a moment, running a finger over our two shirts. “I’m-a put this by my bed.”
We troop down the bedroom hall, and Sylvia says, “Of course, part of reordering priorities means giving up pointless obsessions. Don’t look at this mess of a room!”
Ryan sweeps a cluster of action figures into a drawer and sets the photograph on the bedside table. “Looks good,” he says, and I agree. I have this photo by my bed, too. Sylvia gives him a look, and he says, “I said thank you,” and Laurel masks a snicker by stooping to scratch Bindi’s neck. Ryan watches with bemused dignity, then leans against me, resting his head on my stomach. I squeeze his shoulder. “Even if we do move away,” he says, “I wanna visit you guys.”
“Well, heck, cowboy, why wait? You can come anytime,” says Laurel. “We hope you come soon.” He says he will.
We’re all quiet. The room is in shadow, and a beam of light rakes in from the window. I can see Sylvia in the mirror, and for a moment her profile seems cast in gold. Then she turns, takes a stack of folded laundry from atop the desk, and slides it in a dresser drawer. Suddenly, this is no one I’m acquainted with. Bindi flops down on the carpet, and I hear her purring as Laurel scratches her ears. Ryan goes on leaning against me; then he turns, pressing his face to my belly. I pull him toward me, and he puts his arms around my waist. He steps away, picking up the Indians cap.
He asks if he can go play. Sylvia says, “Say a nice goodbye.” We watch him head down the street, and she says, “You’ll never guess. The kids play kickball at the empty lot. There’s a construction light that shines all night long, and it’s a big, big deal to go there around dusk. That’s why he wants to eat early these days. But can you imagine? Kickball!” She asks if we’d like coffee, but when Laurel runs a hand down my spine I know she’s ready, too. Truly, I wish Sylvia the best, but outside, the air is fresh.
I drive down Sylvia’s street and hang a right. A small jog, and there’s the big light, with all the little figures arranged in formation. The bases are squares of junk cardboard and other detritus, and it’s only kids, dozens of them, just like that go-cart run. Kids who aren’t playing are spread out across the lot, some involved in other games, skipping rope, even dancing. Not a parent in sight.
I park under a tree, where we won’t be noticed. No rushing in to officiate this time! Daylight is fading from the sky, and the cab is cozy. I have the radio on low, but the windows are open and we can hear shouts from the game and the croakings of evening creatures, and even a jet plane somewhere high in the clouds. Laurel slides over and leans against me.
It’s getting dark quickly now, and the boys’ and girls’ shadows merge with the scrub at the edge of the field and with the unfinished houses beyond. A stray fluff of Laurel’s hair tickles my cheek, and I smell the shampoo she uses and remember that she showered before we drove over here. Her body is soft and comfortable against my own, and I sit quietly, not daring to budge. Under the harsh, bright construction light, the kids dart around their makeshift playing field, almost all of them in baseball caps, so our guy could be anyone. One parent strolls by, then another, to take the younger ones home, but nobody pays Laurel and me any heed. I think of the neighborhood games of my own childhood, and I remember just this time of day, when the sky was slowly turning black and the trees were blackened silhouettes against it. We older kids stayed into the darkness as a skeleton team, and I thought I was growing up. How happy I was!
Laurel asks, “Are you asleep?” I lift a hand to show her I’m not. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. I put my arm around her, and she snuggles against me, nice and warm. I can feel the ribbing of the cotton sweater she’s wearing. At my fingertips, her smooth forearm.
In the center of the diamond, someone stoops and rolls a red rubber ball, and a kid in a cap kicks and runs. A catch, a tag, a close play at first. A few voices raised, and it takes a minute to settle the dispute. Then they return to their places. The runner remains on, and the ball goes to the pitcher. In the outfield, a girl sings a snatch of a popular song.
Laurel says, “You know, if you think about it, we’ve been kind of—Oh, wait!” She breaks off, and as she sits up, her hand falls on my thigh. “Is that . . . Oh, wait, Howard, there he is! I didn’t see him before!” Turning, she smiles suddenly at me. Ryan steps to the plate and does a funny little warm-up leg swivel, very showboaty. When he’s ready he signals, and the pitcher rolls the ball. Ryan takes two steps and sends it flying through the infield. He’s always had power. A moment later he’s jumping up and down at first, his arms raised and his T-shirt flapping. We can hear him cheering.
A new runner steps up to kick the ball, and I suppose Laurel’s forgotten what she started to say. It doesn’t matter. She murmurs, “Good feller,” and snuggles against me again, and I feel very conscious of her hand on my thigh. In fact, I can barely breathe. Ryan makes his way around, one base at a time, and when he reaches home he celebrates again, then looks up and spots my truck. He strolls over, a big grin on his face, and he doesn’t seem surprised to find us curled up together.
“See me kick?”
Laurel says, “You’re the man, babe.”
Ryan looks satisfied. Casually scratching his neck, he asks again if he can visit. Laurel says of course. “Like when?” he says.
“This weekend, if you like, comrade. I’ll call your ma, and we’ll dream up an outing. You know, I’ve had a yen lately to go hiking.”
“But a sleepover,” he says. “I wanna stay in my room.” We both nod. Sure thing. I give the bill of the old cap a tug, and he looks up, showing those bright, square teeth. I tickle his earlobe with one finger.
Ryan runs back to his game, and the autumn night grows a tiny notch darker. It looks like the kids will soon be calling it quits, and I suppose we should be moving along, too. I’m not sure what I’m doing with my arm around Laurel, and I’d be willing to bet Laurel’s not sure either. But how long has it been since I took a chance? Come to think of it, not long. Still, I can’t risk getting set in my ways. The world has shifted, and one more something has switched open within me. I recognize the feeling because switches have been opening inside me for decades. Meanwhile, under the darkening trees, a world is blossoming, and what once seemed beyond my grasp feels suddenly possible. Hesitantly I run my fingers through Laurel’s smooth, soft hair, and she inclines her head to my touch. “Seriously, Howard,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear. “If you think about it, we’re pretty lucky.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Because this is my first published book, I’d like to thank several people who contributed to my development as a writer, if not overtly to The Ha-Ha: Melvin Jules Bukiet, Patty Dann, Amy Hempel, Catherine Hiller, Marie Ponsot, and Nahid Rachlin; also the late Jed Mattes and Fred Morris of Jed Mattes, Inc. Thanks to the Ragdale Foundation for the time to write, and to Jack Doren, Muriel Manuelian, Dana Aliger, Ben Michaelis, Judith Rosenberger, and Roy Shapiro for help and guidance. Thanks to my family and friends and to my partner, Frank Tartaglione: in fact, it’s heaven that is other people.
I thank my professors at Columbia University’s School of the Arts: April Bernard, Magda Bogin, Lucie Brock-Broido, Nicholas Christopher, Alfred Corn, Michael Cunningham, Richard Howard, Fenton Johnson, Stephen Koch, Jaime Manrique, Richard Peña, David Plante, and Alice Quinn; and my thesis readers, Marina Budhos and Mark Slouka;
the members of my thesis workshop at Columbia: Marika Alzadon, Kevin Chong, Scott Conklin, Darren Hayward, Alec Michod, and Eric Zelko;
my writ
ing group, several of whose members read multiple drafts, and whose input and encouragement have been immeasurable: Mark Alpert, Jennifer Cohen, Johanna Fiedler, Steve Goldstone, Melissa Knox, Eva Mekler, Cheryl Morrison, and Emily Platt; and three final readers, Nalini Jones, Alec Michod, and Laura Miller, who provided crucial close commentary on the penultimate manuscript.
I thank Izaak and Saskia Bunschoten-Binet, Joshua, Jason, and Elizabeth Clark, Peter Matchette, Marlena Paulson, Morgan Rose, Kate Thompson, Desi Tomaselli, and Eric Wagner for inspiration.
I thank my agent, Kim Goldstein, whose intelligence, ingenuity, and friendship have taught me so much; my editor, Michael Mezzo, whose commitment to this novel made everything happen; and the extraordinary Michael Pietsch and a remarkable team at Little, Brown for bringing dedication, resourcefulness, and heart to the process. Publishing this book has been a joy and an education. Thank you all.