Everyday People

by Stewart O'Nan

  All week he’d thought about it at work, mulled it over as the rows of crackers vibrated by, the noise of the conveyor just a pinprick of sound inside his earphones, the steady buzzing of a gnat. Why was it all or nothing? After such intimacy, how could Dre be so cold? It seemed unforgiving to him, rigid. It reminded Harold of his mother, the way she expected his father to take care of everything that went wrong with the Mercury and then blamed him when, twenty years old, it finally died on the turnpike. And his father, resigned to his life, patiently bearing her insults in front of the trooper as if they were casual, not really caring. That wasn’t love, it was a form of punishment.

  He watched the curtains, hoping to catch a shadow crossing the room, then took a last puff of his cigar, knelt down to the sidewalk and gently stubbed the hot ash off. He unzipped his jacket and fished in his shirt for the pack of gum he’d bought special from the machine at work, thinking of just this moment. Friday used to be the worst day, the long weekend apart stretching in front of him. The night air slipped in with his hand, chilling him. Nearly autumn, the Hawk almost on them. Winter it would be harder to get out of the house; there would be fewer excuses.

  Walking across Allegheny he chewed the juice out of his gum and spit it in the gutter. The moon doubled the bars on the windows. Sister Payne’s little dog yapped as he climbed the porch stairs and then up to the second floor, the steps creaking under his feet, giving him away. The landing smelled of moldy carpet and plaster dust; a muddy pair of Converse sat beside the door on a crinkly sheet of the Courier. He knocked and stood on the bristly mat, waiting.

  No answer.

  Outside a bus ground by, and a panic came over him. Friday night was their time. Was he out at some club? All he could see was Dre laughing in some other man’s arms, lighting his cigarette from the vanilla candle he kept by his bed.

  He rapped harder and stood back.

  Nothing, just the wind. He really wasn’t home.

  What a waste. It had been a risk, stealing the time—and for what? The whole week had been a waste. It was clear now: Dre had never loved him, had always thought he was pathetic, a flabby old chickenhawk. For a moment, standing there in the cold, musty hall, Harold agreed. He should be stronger, he thought. He didn’t belong here. It wasn’t love, only vanity, a last shot at some ideal of romance. He was too old, too meek, too married.

  He thought he should leave a note but didn’t have a pen on him. He looked around the landing, then took the Converse and set them on the mat in front of the door, leaning the toes of the two shoes up against each other like praying hands, trusting Dre would figure out who it was.

  And what would he think, standing there with the guy he’d picked up, the one he’d invited to stay the night, something Harold had never been able to do?

  There was a gray boy, a flight attendant he’d been seeing off and on named Michel. Thin, educated, hip. They could talk about all the books Harold had never read, the places he’d never been.

  He bent down and picked up the Converse and set them back on the newspaper. Fuck him, play me that way, the little shit.

  He trudged down the stairs, out of energy now, the dog barking away. He didn’t bother to peek outside to see if anyone was coming, just pushed through the door and headed across the street. Dre’s car was gone; he should have realized it earlier. It seemed colder out now, too cold for September, and he stopped to light his cigar, dipping his head to the cupped match. It filled his lungs and he looked back at the house, at Dre’s lit windows, and couldn’t stop himself from picturing the two of them together, how just months ago he would have given up everything for him. How did that change? Had it, really? Because here he was, standing on the sidewalk in the wind. He looked up at the moon—still there, huge and inscrutable. The dog wouldn’t stop barking.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Goddamn little rat.”

  He walked down Allegheny toward Moreland, the moon over his shoulder, smoke curling up. The trees rustled above him. Crazy how fast the weather changed this time of year. He dug his hands in his pockets for warmth, squinted into the wind.

  He didn’t want to go home, and he didn’t want to go to the Liberty. He thought of Chris in his room, watching his little TV, his chair sitting there empty beside the bed, the way he covered his legs with the blankets. He wanted to say something to him, to let him know they all knew what he was going through, that they would all do whatever they could. But didn’t Chris know that already? Hadn’t Jackie already said that a million times until Chris was so sick of it Harold told her to stop? It was something they argued about with the door closed. She had to understand, he didn’t need pity. It wasn’t enough to acknowledge what he’d lost. Okay, Jackie said, then what were they supposed to do?

  And Eugene at his meeting, thumping his Bible like a drum, spouting slogans like old Reverend Skinner. Attitude of gratitude. He didn’t know his boys anymore. All those years he was working, putting money in the bank, they’d gotten away from him, gone off to school, fallen in with the wrong friends—the same thing he’d done as a boy. Nothing they’d done was that bad, and look at the price they paid. It was the way things were set up, always had been. If Eugene could have gotten a decent job after he graduated, none of this would have happened. Same with Chris and Bean. There was nothing for them to do but get in trouble.

  The house at the corner of Allegheny and Moreland had burned down Memorial Day weekend. It was still sitting there, plywood filling its windows, sooty streaks licking the melted vinyl siding. Catty-corner, some youngbloods wearing camouflaged army jackets over their hooded sweatshirts were hanging, one riding a bike far too small for him in tight circles. Harold recognized him as one of Eugene’s old hoodlum friends. Lopsided old-school ’fro. Twenty-five and nothing better to do on a night like this. Seen him out here twenty years and couldn’t remember his name to save his life. Punks. He made sure they all saw him before he turned the corner.

  Was he looking for a fight, was that it? He was ready for Dre now, and where was he?

  He supposed he should go home and be with Chris, wait for everyone else to get back. There was no point now, with Dre out. Maybe it was a sign; maybe this was the way things were meant to be. He would just have to live with that. It made sense anyway. Dre didn’t really need him. It was just trouble all the way around.

  Moreland was deserted, trash piled by the curb even though the next pickup wasn’t till Monday. A rusty baby buggy, a legless table. On both sides of the street, people were watching TV, the same station in different windows. One family was just sitting down to dinner, but he couldn’t smell anything. Ahead, a streetlight bathed the corner of Taine in a weird orange glow. He tapped the ash off his cigar and laughed. All these months he’d been telling them he was taking a walk around the block. Now he really was.

  How did it come to this—being surprised by the truth?

  He was a fool, that much was plain, and only a fool would claim the rest of it was just bad luck. He would end it with Dre. It would be easy; it was over already. All he had to do was keep himself from going over there. He would do it for Chris and for Eugene, for all of them, even Jackie. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, only that he didn’t love her enough. And that could change, he thought. He could work on that.

  Across Taine the Liberty Grill was doing a booming business, the neon blazing away. Bass thumped from the door, the staticky rhythm of cymbals, and he could see the Christmas lights inside, blinking in the mirror over the bar. A few people stood on the sidewalk, smoking and leaning against the parked cars. It was where he and Dre had met, a night like this, an aimless conversation over a double of Imperial. Dre thought he was straight, didn’t think he’d catch the way Dre moved his glass closer to his. He was shocked when Harold laid a hand on his shoulder as they were playing darts. Later, his legs over Harold’s shoulders, he was still amazed, laughing at his good luck, this unexpected gift. He joked about leaving bite marks for his wife to find.

  That was at the beginni
ng, so long ago that Harold could only bring it back like a fondly remembered dream. It was over, and to think like this wouldn’t do him any good. A drink wouldn’t help either, and besides, he had a bottle of Johnny Walker at home. He hit his cigar hard and kept moving, trying to feel righteous about not giving in to the Liberty.

  By the corner of Spofford he’d convinced himself it was true, that he would be a better man. It wasn’t like he had much choice. Dre had been right all along; he’d never leave Jackie, he wouldn’t do that to his boys. It seemed simple now, his love for Dre wishful, unreal, just lust. Why deny it, now that it was over?

  He checked his watch, pressing the button so the face lit up. He’d been gone long enough to pretend he’d had a draft at the Grill.

  Why lie? He didn’t have to this time.

  He was climbing the steps of their building, proud of himself, when he heard a car coming down Spofford. It didn’t sound like Dre’s Eclipse, but he turned anyway. It took him a minute to find the car because its lights were off and it was going slow—inching along, as if searching for a parking spot. There were tons of them. The car glided like a shark, its windows open.

  He realized what it meant and ducked into the vestibule, already fishing for his keys.

  A dark Pontiac, it crept down the block and past Miss Fisk’s. By the stop sign at Allegheny its taillights flared an instant before crossing, and in the glow of the streetlight he could see the backseat was full.

  “Fucking punks,” he said, and let himself in. He took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, thinking they might double back. If Jesus kept Eugene out of that mess then it was fine with him.

  Chris was still in bed, watching Millennium and drawing something on his sketchpad, dipping into a box of colored pencils. Harold stopped at the door, in back of the imaginary line. The room smelled like sleep and stale dope smoke. Jackie had been on him to talk with Chris about it, and now he thought he really would have to soon. Chris was getting heavy in the face. Since the weather turned, all he did was sit in his room and watch TV all day, maybe play Nintendo with Eugene after dinner. He ate raw Pop-Tarts for lunch; the garbage was full of silver wrappers, white rings of milk dried at the bottom of the glasses he left in the sink. He was the one they thought would go to college; the money was sitting in the bank, every month the hospital taking another chunk. He’d always been their funny one, they used to call him Smiley. Now he came back from therapy on the van and sat in his room with the light off, playing the same tape over and over.

  Chris glanced up at him, as if surprised he was still there. “That was fast.”

  “Too cold out. Hawk’s coming on.”

  Chris didn’t stop drawing. The TV was on just for company, he supposed. He hadn’t seen Chris cry or swear or shout about what had happened, just this dull calm, this silence. He’d always been a nice kid, not like Eugene, who’d gone wrong somewhere, turned crazy on them, pulling that gangster bullshit. For a few years he wasn’t their son anymore. Suddenly he was back, born again and working steady, and then this happened to Chris.

  I’m sorry, Harold wanted to say. He already had, crying by his bedside, watching the IVs drip, angry with the hospital for not calling in a better specialist. He’d said it so much that he was afraid Chris resented it, was hurt by it, but this time he wanted to take his son in his arms and finally mean it with a pure heart. It would be different. Somehow it would change everything.

  From outside came a blast that shivered the window, a cannon answered by the rattle of another gun—smaller. Shotgun, must have been. Sure as hell wasn’t a backfire. For a second nothing, then a third opened up, finally silenced by a blast that echoed over the rooftops.

  It had only been a few seconds but it seemed the noise held him there in the doorway, released him only when it stopped altogether. Tires bit with a screech, and a car roared up Moreland, the engine rabbiting. He rushed to Chris’s window. Nothing but the dark backyards and garages, the few slices of street empty, just parked cars, hedges. A porch light went on. People were coming out of their houses, standing in their driveways.

  “Wanna bet it was B-Mo’s crew,” Chris said. He’d pushed himself to the edge and shifted his butt into his chair.

  “Who’s that?” Harold asked.

  Chris told him as he rolled over to the window. A crazy dude from Brushton and his clique. It was the same when he was a kid—turf.

  They waited at the window for a siren but nothing came.

  “I think they might have been gunning for some of your brother’s old homies. I saw them hanging out down Allegheny.”

  “Was Nene with them?”

  That was his name. Harold even knew his real one—Nehemiah Sykes. He’d known his mother, years ago, used to drive him and Eugene to their Little League games. “I think so.”

  “Word is B-Mo’s been looking for him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Chris shrugged. “Stuff, you know.”

  “Stuff,” Harold said, but Chris didn’t have to elaborate. They all knew what went down out there, even the police. He couldn’t remember how long it had been like this. His entire life, it seemed. “You’re not into all that mess.”

  “No.”

  “I know you smoke a little reefer but you’re not dumb enough to do that other stuff.”

  “That’s right,” Chris said, but hard, as if he’d insulted him, called him an idiot. He was rolling away, the conversation was over.

  Outside, a siren wound up, approaching, growing louder, and then a red light strobed over the houses. Chris was getting back in bed. He dragged the blanket across his legs and started on the sketch again, the light from the TV shading his face. A show about ritual killings. Chris switched pencils, bit his lip. Harold wanted to say something to him, but what? He thought of his own father coming home exhausted from another day at the mill, his hands and face swollen from the heat, as if he’d been beaten. What had he ever said to the boy he’d been? He honestly could not recall. And yet his father had loved him. It was obvious in the way he shared the evening paper with him, trading the front page for the sports, in the way he taught him to read the sky like a hunter. “That’s Roy Eldridge blowing that horn,” he’d let mention. “Never eat eggs twice in the same day.” It was not one great proclamation but a quiet abiding, years of coming home from work and saying grace at dinner, asking what he’d done that day. It seemed simple, and he prayed it was not too late for him to do the same. Chris needed him way more than Dre.

  “What are you drawing?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Let’s see.”

  “It’s not ready yet.”

  “Come on.”

  Chris sat up and turned it to him, and Harold saw why he hadn’t wanted him to see it.

  It was a picture of Bean and Chris—a cartoon of the two of them spraypainting a wall with graffiti. They were dressed like commandos, in Rambo headbands. Their muscles bulged, bandoliers of aerosol cans across their chests. Above them the letters MDP shone like gold.

  “What’s that?”

  “Our tag. Million Dollar Posse.”

  “Great name.”

  “It was.”

  Chris took the pad back and started sketching again, filling in a section with red, pretending to concentrate hard, and Harold knew he was supposed to leave.

  He wanted to ask if Chris was okay, if he wanted to talk, but that chance was gone, lost. It was all his fault.

  I’m here, he’d say. Everything’s going to be fine.

  He went into the living room and turned on the TV—the same thing Chris was watching—then lay down on the couch. He could talk with Dre for hours, waste whole days slinging it, but with his own son he came up empty. Again, he thought of his father’s silence, his patience with his mother that could sometimes seem like suffering, or, worse, in a child’s eyes, cowardice.

  What was there to be afraid of now?

  The truth. How could he explain Dre to him, or Mason, all the other
men he’d wanted and then given himself to. And why?

  On TV there was a serial killer loose, like every Friday, a new set of clues to figure out. A white guy usually, into religion. There were only twenty minutes left in the show. He lay there not watching it, picturing Dre stepping out of the shower, the water caught like diamonds in his hair. Choir practice ended at ten, so did Eugene’s meeting. The van would drop them off at a quarter after.

  So it was over.

  Good. One less thing to worry about.

  Outside, another siren joined the chorus. He thought of Nene—if it really was him—and what kind of love Chris felt for Bean, how long it would take him to get over it. He thought of his father and the cop pushing the Mercury to the berm, his mother steering, himself strapped in the backseat like a precious package. Maybe never. But that was all right. Was there another choice?

  He could do it. He would have to.

  The killer walked the dark neighborhood, keeping to the shadows, peeking in at his unsuspecting victims. He had to choose the most innocent one, pretty, her back to him. The wind sent leaves tumbling across the lawn. The music turned strange, the beat slowed and speeded up, and then there was just his breathing, faster and faster, as if he was going to come. No, Harold thought, they’d gotten it all wrong. That was not at all what it felt like.

  GHOSTBUSTING

  THEY HELD THE funeral Tuesday morning, not at Spinks Bros. but out in East Hills because they were afraid B-Mo’s crew might try to bum-rush it, flip Nene’s casket over and trash the place. Eugene knew Fats and the other old heads were strapping, ready for some of that getback. Leon and Smooth were there too, all of them G’d up, the last of the Spofford Rolling Treys. Legally Eugene wasn’t supposed to be seeing any of his old associates, but naturally they came together on the sidewalk, a solid wall of security. It was cold, the sky gritty. Rush-hour traffic bombed past. Eugene felt defenseless in just his suit and his good shoes, his shirt too thin to stop anything.