Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  “I know,” he’d say. “I was there. Remember?”

  He was there. And I was not, having nearly no memories of her at all.

  A couple of high school kids appear on skateboards. They kick their boards into the air with a frenzied deftness that somehow just misses being poetic. After loitering by the diner for a few moments, perfecting their routine, they move on down the sidewalk. I head the opposite way, towards the fire station. As I walk past Isla’s, a ladies boutique, I hear my name being called. The voice, a male’s, says my last name, too. I turn around to face a husky young man with a military crew cut and sunglasses atop his blocky head; he’s walking towards me. Though he looks familiar, I can’t place him.

  “Thought that was you,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of me.

  He’s chewing on the last piece of a bagel and panting at the same time. Smiling, he brushes some crumbs off his shirt. Probably in his early to mid-twenties, he looks like a powerhouse. Like he may have boxed or played rugby in college. He tells me about a wonderful coffee and bagel shop just around the corner. Reasonably priced, he says. For Old Brookview, he adds. Then he cringes a little and says how he momentarily forgot I probably know the town better than he does. It’s clear from the way he’s talking, and how he’s settled into the conversation, that he will not introduce himself. The face, more than the voice or mannerisms, is what I seem to remember.

  “I haven’t lived here in a long time,” I tell him.

  He nods. After a few moments, he pulls his sunglasses from his head and slides them over his eyes. A mother and her teenage daughter pass us, each of them swinging a bundle of shopping bags.

  “What a shame about that poor girl they found, huh?” he said, lifting the sunglasses back to the top of his head. “Unbelievable. I have a sister a year older than she was.”

  I agree that it’s a shame. He tells me the boys in the Alan House have all been sleeping with their lights on ever since the murder was discovered. He snickers a little, mentioning how the Alan House boys aren’t the bravest to begin with. So he works for the Old Man. One of my colleagues, too, I suppose.

  “It’s a hell of a thing, you helping Rollie out the way you are. I know it means a lot to him.”

  Taking a step towards me, he lowers his voice and says how he never fully trusted Dimitri Ames. That he sensed something was wrong with him and that he never really fit in at the HAS.

  “Clearly the guy has some problems.”

  “Anyway, it’s good to have you as his replacement.”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  Pausing for a bit, he nods.

  “I’ve been working for your father for just over two years.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty.”

  “It’s been a godsend.”

  “Yeah?”

  He doesn’t offer anything further. Slapping his belly with both hands and exhaling, the young man, my fellow colleague, must sense that I’m ready for our conversation to end. Taking a step backwards, he says how it was good talking to me. He adds that it’s nice to know we both have the same weekends off and if I ever want to have a beer or shoot pool, to let him know.

  “Actually,” he adds, “I’m not sure what your plans are later, but we’re all getting together at around 10:00 tonight.”

  Pretending to think about it for a bit, I tell him that tonight might not work. He says it’s no problem and that he understands. He adds that the poker games are a weekly event and that I can always come during my next weekend off.

  “Poker?”

  “Rollie’s got a regular Robstown in his basement.”

  When I don’t respond, he says that Robstown is a small Texas town that claims to be the birthplace of Texas Hold’em.

  “Some of us are a bit fanatical,” he tells me, laughing. “Scotty - I don’t know if you know Scotty; he lives in the Miles House - he bought a book on strategies, for Christ’s sake.”

  It’s remarkable to think how I’ve just been extended a last minute proposal to socialize in my childhood home where my own father still lives. I paw in silence at my scratchy, unshaven face. The young man begins telling me a story about one of the last games where Scotty won nine hands in a row. Interrupting him, I tell him I can shift some things around in my schedule and that I’ll see him later tonight. Then I walk past him and make my way to Page Turners. Nevermind a book on strategies: I need to see if they carry one for novices.

  . . .

  My father doesn’t embarrass himself by exploiting the role of host to his staff, all of whom must be only a few years out of college. For this, I’m thankful. A few absurd scenarios did cross my mind, one of which being the Old Man in a half-buttoned silk shirt, sitting at the head of the card table, chomping on a cigar and holding court with his philosophical rants and fancy shuffling technique. Not that he’s known for imposing himself socially on people. There just seems to be a type of guru-esque persona bestowed by his loyal staff. I’ve seen it in the dining hall in the way they listen to his morning monologues. Or during meetings when he makes some intentional Freudian slip at the expense of one of the students. They eat it up. All of it.

  Instead, he unfolds the card table, fires up the jukebox, and fills a cooler with ice cubes and bottles of assorted beer. Then he disappears upstairs, leaving his seven employees to their evening. Before he goes, he offers some words of wisdom, said in a half-smirk, as though self-conscious of his pedantry:

  “Make certain that money is all that gets lost here tonight,” he says. “Everything else is indispensable.”

  Enticements are made to keep Rollie in the basement to play a few hands. They sound like well-rehearsed lines that have been spoken before. He declines. Making his way upstairs, he looks over his shoulder and tells everyone to take it easy on me, his long lost son from Chicago. When he closes the door at the top of the stairs, I’m told by a young lady that my father is the Hundred Acre School’s answer to Jay Gatsby.

  “No obscure references tonight,” someone says.

  I recognize him as Pierre, a friend of Ryan’s, my counterpart in the Homer House. Pierre has a diamond stud in each of his lobes, a cleanly shaved head, and a warm, toothy grin. The girl rolls her eyes at him, telling him the reference is from a classic book. Then she introduces herself to me as Amber, who lives in the Missouri House and teaches English. She’s a petite, pleasant looking black girl with grayish eyes and a pile of blonde dreads that sits atop her head like bucked barley.

  “He likes to play the host, your father,” she said. “But he never stays. He just goes upstairs and drinks cognac and smokes cigars with Nuss.”

  To my left is Sandra, who mentions to no one in particular that Nuss refers to Dr. Nussbaum.

  “He knows who Nuss is,” Pierre said. “He grew up here. We’re in his house.”

  Then, as though my silence has made him doubt his allegiance, he asks me if I do in fact know Dr. Nussbaum.

  “Very well,” I tell him.

  A few of them ask how it was growing up at the Hundred Acre School. I respond with the first thing that comes to mind:

  “Like growing up in a moving car. And the scenery, which is the people, I guess, is always changing around you.”

  They absorb this for a moment. Then Pierre asks about Chicago. What did I do? Where did I live? Why did I leave? Who did I root for: Cubs or White Sox? I answer all but why I left. The jukebox is playing Stevie Wonder’s “Boogie On Reggae Woman.” Drinks are being drunk. The first hand is dealt.

  “My brother went to DePaul,” said Tennille. “He loved it.”

  Tennille is a tall, buxom Midwesterner with a quick wit and natural talent for flirting. I rec
all seeing her around campus. She seems to mostly keep the company of the male staff.

  “It’s a good school,” I said.

  The finished room we’re in is bright and attractive. Formerly the basement of my childhood home, it’s now a warm and inviting living space. Oak floors. A sheetrock ceiling with recessed lights. Two leather chairs. A flat-screen TV. A minibar in the corner. A small jukebox. And a card table. Looking around the room, I try to picture it when it was filled with dusty boxes and mouse traps. The young man to my right notices my curiosity. I recognize him from the dining hall, where his dorm’s table is adjacent to mine. Fair complexioned with reddish hair and freckles, he has an affable manner about him. His name is either Tim or Tom.

  “Diego did practically the whole thing,” he said. “Talented dude.”

  Sandra turns to me and mentions that Diego is the head of the maintenance department.

  “Let’s not forget my contributions; I installed the bar and the TV.”

  This comes from the source of my evening’s invitation from earlier in the day. He sits across from me, two beers in front of him on the card table.

  “You’re a real fucking MVP, Dave,” says the slouching, dough-faced joker to his left. “Mr. P.E. We couldn’t get along without you, babe. Now don’t forget, you’re big blind, bitch.”

  This must be Scotty, who feigns impatience over all the small talk. He pretends to admonish Dave as he reminds him of the rules. Then he looks at me and rolls his eyes, telling me it’s become a tradition for him to constantly explain the game’s rules to Dave.

  After a few hands, all of which I lose, the conversation turns in another direction. Sandra, throwing her cards on the table, asks if any of us have heard the latest news about the dead girl. The song on the jukebox suddenly ends. After a moment, a new one plays. “Jesus is Just Alright” by The Doobie Brothers. Down to my last five chips, I play it safe and toss my cards onto the table.

  “I heard Rollie talking to Annie about her autopsy results.”

  Between Rollie and Nussbaum, they have quite a few contacts downtown. They always have, as long as I can remember. This would allow them such privileged information. Sandra turns to me and mentions that Annie is the school nurse.

  “And?” Tennille said.

  “And, the girl had a ton of amitriptyline in her system,” Sandra said. “That’s what Rollie said.”

  The hand is between Scotty and Tim/Tom. Neither of them say a word. They just toss a few more chips on the pile until Scotty lays out his cards. Tim/Tom slaps his cards face down on the table while Scotty collects his winnings.

  “Do you guys know how many of our kids take meds with that in it?” said Sandra. “It must be dozens. That’s what Rollie said. This thing is not going away.”

  “What did you expect?” said Dave. “The body of a local kid has just been found on our campus. Of course it’s not going away.”

  For the next several hands, I bet conservatively. One chip at a time. The conversation veers all over the place. The dead girl and its effect on the school. Students who are especially disturbed by it. The Molotov cocktail from the other day. Kids who were recently caught smoking, screwing, swapping meds. I listen, but don’t engage. Tennille is coaxed by Tim/Tom to tell the story of the late-night threesome she discovered in her dorm just this past spring.

  “Ah, girls will be girls,” said Scotty. “Do tell.”

  She has a way with a story, understanding the benefits of pauses and inflections and details. And just as she’s getting to the part where she walked in on the young ladies, the door at the top of the stairs bursts open and the Old Man hurries halfway down to the middle step. His face looks long and wired, like he’s just been the victim of some dreadful accusation.

  “Louise just called me. The police found a car on the highway, along the edge of the campus about a hundred yards before the onramp. And not ten minutes later, she finds guess who lurking around the school? Dimitri Ames. Louise and a few others managed to subdue him, but they had a hell of a time. According to her, he was going bullshit. And still is. I could hear him in the background when she called. I’m going to need some help.”

  Dave stands up and finishes off one of his beers. Rollie begins to head back up the stairs, asking the rest of us to please stay behind. Before I even know what I’m saying, I tell Dave to sit down. I’ll go, I tell him, standing up. The Old Man turns to look at me. I announce to no one in particular that I’m nearly broke - not to mention stone sober. Dave looks at Rollie.

  “You two figure it out. But we need to move. And quickly.”

  Tossing my last few chips onto the table, I make my way towards the staircase. Dr. Nussbaum yells down for us to hurry. My father takes a moment to study me. Then he turns and hustles up the stairs. I follow him, wondering what life is like for other fathers and sons our age. Before I can begin to imagine, and when I’m literally on his heels, I hear Sandra say something - it’s something I’ve also considered when Rollie delivered his news moments earlier:

  “A hundred yards before the onramp? That’s where they found Dimitri’s car? Interesting. Isn’t that pretty close - if you cut right through the woods there - to where they found the body?”

  Another voice - I believe it’s Dave’s - says how Dimitri Ames is a predator and he never trusted him from the moment he met him. The Old Man wheels around to look at me.

  “I’m right behind you,” I tell him.

  Chapter 8

  Ben Reed was my only coworker in whom I ever confided. Mild-mannered and quick-witted, Ben is about ten years older than I am. Over the years, we played squash on the occasional weekend, bitched about the same colleagues, and had lunch together a few days a week at a deli around the corner from our office. He’s always been an easy confidant. I told him when I was planning to propose to Laura. I told him about Grove Garden Estates. About Laura’s pregnancy. And, during our meal one afternoon, about the fetal ultrasound.

  “They go through hell. I admit it. With the tests and checkups, and not to mention the actual pregnancy. It’s a nightmare. We could never do it. I know all this.”

  “Of course you do,” Ben said, biting into his sandwich. “We all know it, Gray.”

  “So what’s one more test? Especially after the news we’ve gotten. It just seems irresponsible not to go through with it.”

  “Justine wanted no part of any of those tests,” Ben said, smiling at an attractive young woman taking the table adjacent to ours. “She was adamant. You know Justine.”

  I had met her only a few times, but I nodded anyway.

  “Women see it differently than we do, Gray. They don’t need to know what we need to know. Because there’s only one option for them: have the baby.”

  I asked if he was ever worried during Justine’s pregnancy. He smiled and told me that his wife’s composure was infectious.

  “You know Justine,” he said again, sipping his iced tea.

  I sat back in my chair and wiped some mustard from the corner of my mouth.

  “Listen,” he said, “there’s some kind of bond between the mother and what’s growing inside of her. We can appreciate it, but let’s not bullshit ourselves that we can ever understand it. I once read about a pregnant woman - she was in her third trimester - who defended herself against a Rottweiler. She was pretty beat up, but she survived. She was interviewed, and was asked how she was able to summon the strength to fight. It was her baby, she said. She just kept picturing herself holding that baby of hers in a few weeks. I remember she said that there was nothing, let alone a fucking dog, that would ever deprive her of that right.”

  Finishing off the rest of his sandwich, Ben told me it would all work out. It was simple, he said. I
f I wanted peace of mind, I was going to have to pay for it.

  “They have a lot of cards to play when they want something,” he said. “We have one. We have to lay out cash, my friend.”

  He explained. Take Laura on a trip. Book a romantic weekend at a bed and breakfast. Hilton Head or Savannah or the Outer Banks.

  “Don’t use it as leverage. Book it first. Then, tell her you booked it and that it will be the perfect spot to go after the stress settles from this ultrasound thing. She’ll be so taken with the idea of the vacation, plus your initiative, that she’ll see her way to appeasing your stubborn ass.”

  I thought about this for a moment. It seemed logical. And, knowing Laura, it had the potential to work. She always complained that we never traveled as often as she would have liked.

  “Not to mention this trip might be your last for a while. Look at it as your last hurrah before the baby comes. Another good selling feature.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair. He sighed before taking a long sip of his drink. Then he looked at me. Probably he noticed the apprehension in my face.

  “It’s going to be fine. She’ll take the damn test. You’ll get the results. They’ll be negative. You’ll go away for a few days, forget all about it, come back, have a baby, and live happily ever fucking after. Trust me.”

  My sense of wonder was piqued. Ben’s idea, as well as his take on women, was reasonable. But I must’ve still looked unsure when he said what he said next, which piqued an entirely different sense of wonder:

  “Ask your neighbor about these tests. He’s a doctor, isn’t he? I’ll bet you anything he’ll relieve some of Laura’s stress. That’ll help your cause, too. Right? After all, what are neighbors for?”

  . . .

  One of Laura’s cravings during her pregnancy was lasagna. She couldn’t get enough of it. What really appealed to her was the cheap, frozen kind. Stouffer’s was her favorite brand. And she had to have orange soda with it. Lasagna and orange soda. So this is what I prepared for her the Friday evening I made my proposal. Like the meal, my rhetoric was simple.