Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  “Well, if they would end the suspense and find out already,” Luke said. “The guessing games might cease. But until then, I’m planning on a boy.”

  He turned towards me when he finished saying this. Reaching for my wine glass, I half closed my eyes and took a hearty swig.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Gray?” he said. “What are your thoughts? Boy or girl?”

  If the circumstances were normal, I would’ve said that I didn’t think about it one way or another. That I had no preference or premonition. I would’ve said that we just want a healthy baby. But at this point, this would’ve been a foolish thing to say.

  “My thoughts?” I said, looking around the table.

  It occurred to me just then, at that very moment, that I was beneath them all. I was. Here we were, a family, a real family, who was doing its best to bond, to break bread together, to warm some corner of the world with outstretched arms to an unborn child - my unborn child - who we all knew would be unlike any child we had ever known, and I was the only one who wanted no part of it.

  These are educated people, I thought. They know what we’re dealing with. They know this is a tornado that will suck away our old life and spit out a new one, and that new one will do its best to bewilder us. They must’ve known this - and were absolutely okay with it.

  “What about names?” Luke said, tiring of me and my long pause. “Any names being thrown around?”

  Laura said we had discussed names, but we wanted to keep them a surprise. Then she looked at me and asked if we should share them with her parents. When I didn’t respond, she changed her question to could we share them with her parents. I still didn’t respond. My gaze was fixed right through her, still, steady, full of hot, wiry anger that I thought must’ve changed my looks and my voice and my molecules forever.

  “This isn’t right,” I finally brought myself to say.

  The sound of my words, which were sharp and breathy, spoken as though their destination was some lifelong catharsis, surprised everyone at the table. Abby stopped cutting a second piece of cake for herself and looked up. Luke folded his hands under his chin and drew a perplexed expression. Laura, who I could tell had been massaging her belly, suddenly stopped and waited for me to continue.

  “This isn’t right,” I said again. “This futile attempt at subterfuge. Cheesecake and ex-boyfriends.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Luke asked, looking at his daughter.

  Laura exhaled. It seemed like her first full breath of the evening. And at that moment, her body appeared to let up a little, restoring her to her former self, which is to say she abandoned the sanctimony she had so enjoyed throughout the evening.

  Excusing myself from the table, I made my way into the living room, where I suddenly felt the effects of the alcohol I’d been drinking. My head felt crowded, filled with taut, warm stars and simple confusion. I could hear the others mumbling as they said their goodbyes. After some time, Luke and Abby strode past me, bidding me a somewhat forced goodnight. I reached for a book on the coffee table and pretended to flip through it. It was a biography of Arthur Miller. Without looking up, I said goodnight. Laura appeared in the doorway from the kitchen and waved to her parents as they left.

  “This all feels like someone else’s life,” I told her.

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m being dramatic? What about your little fucking coup d’etat with Mommy and Daddy? That seemed pretty dramatic to me.”

  “Don’t mock my family.”

  “So now they’re your family?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I started to say something, but Laura cut me off. Things change, she told me. So you alter your expectations to accompany that.

  “This is too big a change,” I said. “I know myself. I know what I can handle.”

  She told me we could handle it, especially with the help of her family. There would be challenges, yes, but we had support. I pointed out that it was not just what I could handle, but what I wanted to handle. I reminded her that we did have a choice in the matter.

  “Not me,” she said.

  I told her to spare me the self-righteousness and that we did have a choice.

  “I don’t,” she said again.

  “But you do,” I said, raising my voice a little. “You do have a choice. And it’s simple: Destroy us and all we’ve become together over the years or we try this again in the future.”

  As the gravity of that statement took hold, I added that it was low to have involved her parents in the matter. I said I didn’t care if she enlisted the entire state of Illinois to her side, that it was still between the two of us.

  “Can’t you see how this baby is already loved by so many?” she said, her tone foreign and dogmatic. “This will be a great family.”

  I told her it wouldn’t be. That it couldn’t be. That it was all fucking wrong. I said I had seen families like the one we would have. Growing up, I had seen them and heard about them from my father. They were beleaguered. Absolutely beleaguered.

  She shook her head as if to say I had made a foolish comparison. So I started with the statistics. The average lifespan for a person with Down Syndrome is mid-fifties. Common health risks are thyroid problems, heart disease, hearing and sight problems. Leukemia. Poor immune systems, bone muscles, nerves, joints. You name it, I told her. The list goes on. I could tell she was taken aback by my stats, however vague they might’ve been. Either she was shaken by a new possible reality or floored that I’d obviously been looking into the matter. She sat down on the other sofa and threw her head back.

  “Have you taken the time to do any research? Are you even bothering to educate yourself on what we’d be getting into? Or are you too proud to concern yourself with facts right now?”

  She didn’t answer. Staring up at the ceiling, she said in a wistful murmur that we would be wonderful parents. I told her I agreed, but only at another time. It had to be at another time.

  This is when the conversation became desperate for Laura. A levee burst and she began to sob. Then she started repeating all of her previous arguments in succession. Her litany became a frantic burst of mournful pleas. Imploring me to think about it some more, she asked that I let her have her way, that she would never ask anything of me ever again. I told her she was not seeing my motivation. I loved her, I said. Plain and true. And I loved our life together. And all that love would be compromised if these excruciating burdens were placed upon it. I told her it was inevitable. Then I said something she didn’t like:

  “Trust me.”

  With this, she sat upright and looked at me. Then she let me have it. She called me arrogant. I was being selfish and short-sighted, she said. She asked how I would be able to look at myself again. And how would we be able to look at each other? What would we tell our parents and friends and colleagues? Was I that callous, she wanted to know? Could I really ask her so flippantly to do this thing? Through her tears, she said I would regret this decision forever.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  The moment I asked this, I knew I had marked myself as a primordial, conscienceless slob. There was no turning back. She stopped crying at once. It was as though I had snatched away her sadness and swapped it out for shock. Hoarsely mumbling to herself in tired disbelief, Laura stood up and walked towards the staircase. Moving slowly, she held her head in her hands and said something about a prediction her parents had made coming to fruition. Then she turned to me, her eyes puffy and red and full of defeat.

  “If you make me do this, I’ll never be the same again. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  With that, she headed upstairs for the night. Left
alone, I wandered around the house, cleaning up after our guests, replaying the events of the evening over in my head. Laura’s final words resonated. Nothing will ever be the same again. I knew her intention behind these words. I sensed what she was envisioning for herself if, in her words, I made her do this thing. And I sensed what she was envisioning for me as well. These thoughts made me shudder.

  When I passed through the living room again, I noticed the picture Luke had given to Laura earlier in the evening. It was still face down on the coffee table. I picked it up and turned it over. It was a 5x7 frame with a circular photo on the left and an empty spot on the right for an identically sized picture. The matte in the frame was oatmeal-colored and nicely matched the background of the picture, which showed Laura as a little girl - she was probably two years old - dancing with her father. And though I had never seen the picture before, I knew its significance. She had told me how she and Luke used to dance often to one of his all time favorite songs, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s version of “You are My Flower.” This was a father/daughter tradition they did for years, and one they even resurrected at our wedding. In the photo, Luke, who wore a moustache and thick sideburns, held Laura securely to his chest and elevated her just a few inches above him. Her eyes were wide with delight; her mouth was agape, showing off two uneven rows of perfectly tiny teeth. It took a few moments of staring at the picture, inspecting not only the people in the foreground, but the dated furniture and wallpaper and stereo in the background, to see what Luke must’ve had inscribed at the bottom. Centered perfectly in a fancy font were the words Hold forever tightly to your beautiful flower. I read the inscription several times as though its meaning might suddenly change. Then, as though the gift was part of a crime scene I had just disturbed, I carefully placed it back in its exact position on the coffee table before I turned in for the night.

  . . .

  Two days later, on a rainy Sunday morning, Laura delivered a speech that appeared extemporized, but I knew must’ve been steeped in hours of contemplation. I was reading the paper at the kitchen table when she appeared before me. She wore a look of concern that flashed at me like some wayward warning. When she spoke, her voice had a vacant quality like it had lost whatever parts it needed to sound lifelike.

  “I’m strong. I know I am.”

  Thus began what would be a humbling journey down a path she thought she’d never travel - to a grotesque wilderness, barely trodden, blinding in its overgrowth, and miles away from what she saw as a place of logic and compassion.

  “I’ve never been one of those sad cases who’s always needed a man around. I can stand on my own - and have, many times. I know what I think and feel, and I know how to express them both. My sense of purpose and priorities are rock solid. I know where I’ve been and who I am.”

  I didn’t interrupt as she went on. Setting the newspaper down, I folded my hands across my stomach and listened to my wife’s detailed character profile. What she revealed was all true. She spoke of her virtues as though they were up for an award and her own endorsement might sway the judgment. With a voice that seemed like it could at any moment burst into a dirge, Laura moved from her strength as a woman to her rootedness and loyalty to her family.

  After a pause, she turned her head from me, took a step back, and leaned against the wall. What she said next must’ve sounded surreal to her own ears. The words had to have cut into her, dragged around her insides, and left her feeling eviscerated:

  “I know my limitations. And I know how it would be raising this baby by myself. It would be very difficult.”

  She went on, mentioning how it would be hard even with her family’s support. She declared how she was profoundly tuned in to the needs of such a child, adding that she had begun her research the day Dr. Rose had called with the news. As she continued her campaign against single-motherhood, I found myself losing focus on her arguments; I was dwelling instead on what they signified: Laura had made up her mind to finally see things my way. Not only this, but she had actually considered leaving me to have and raise the baby herself.

  Her face was flushed and taut as she finished with one final point:

  “We came first, you and I. So I’ll honor that. But I do this knowing that you are not honoring me - my principles, my values. So after we do this, all that we will have together is absolute uncertainty.”

  Neither of us spoke. My heart was skittish inside my chest, and I felt it anchor down under the weight of this silence. Laura was examining me in a thoughtful manner, her eyes wider than usual, her lips parted ever so slightly. A decision had finally been reached. And I believe she was considering whether I understood the gravity of what our fate might be. For a moment, I was overcome with a strange feeling that I needed to somehow talk her out of it. I couldn’t believe it: A decision had finally been reached.

  Chapter 11

  My father laughs a short, stuttering kind of laugh when I announce to him that it should be me who calls Eileen Russo.

  “I wouldn’t put you through that,” he tells me, cupping my shoulder. “First off, the woman’s not all there. Trust me.”

  “This happened on my watch. Nick was in my dorm and I was probably the last to see him.”

  “I recognize that, but it’s times like this where I’m the expected messenger. Let’s call it the shittiest part of the job.”

  I understand what he means. I know the circumstances whereby he’s had to deliver dreadful news to parents about their troubled child. Over the years, there have been other runaways. Not to mention the occasional overdose. Probably the worst calls were the couple of suicide attempts and pregnancies.

  “Let me give you a glimpse of the apple not falling far from the tree,” he says.

  Ushering me into his office, the Old Man dials the woman’s number and puts it on speaker phone. Then he props his phone against a Newton’s cradle he’s had at the edge of his desk for as long as I can remember. Eileen picks up after only a couple of rings. The Old Man, his arms crossed tightly around his midsection, reveals his purpose in calling with modest, breathy reserve.

  “What am I paying you for, Rollie? Isn’t it to keep Nicky safe? I thought that was the whole point of your place. Shit, it turns out you can’t even keep him, period.”

  “For whatever it’s worth, I have faith in Nick’s abilities to take care of himself and make sound decisions until he returns. Safely.”

  “The reason Nicky’s at your fucking school is because of his poor decision making.”

  “I understand that. But Nick has made some progress. A lot, in fact.”

  At this, Eileen launches into a tirade about the boy’s father. She says Nick is just like his father: selfish, impulsive, hard-headed. She tells Rollie that her ex-husband is now living on a houseboat somewhere off the coast of New Brunswick. Following this is the sound of broken glass. Probably dishes. Through this, she curses her son, her ex-husband, the Old Man, and the Hundred Acre School. The sound of shattering glass distorts her words as she speaks. Rollie, staring blankly at me, lowers the volume on the phone before telling the boy’s mother he has additional news.

  “Regarding the recent tragedy that happened here on campus, well, it seems that Nick knew the victim. Personally. I’m sure you have questions, Eileen. We all do. But for now we have to put those aside and wait for Nick’s return. I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”

  “So am I.”

  “One more thing,” the Old Man says, “when he comes back - or if he comes back - I think it’s safe to say that the police will have a few questions for him. There’s no doubt there.”

  “Well,” the woman says, laughing recklessly into the phone, “I think it’s only fair to tell you that Nicky, like his father, fucking hates cops.”

 
She hangs up before any response is offered. With a weary grin, the Old Man bellows out a discordant trumpet sound while pretending to pull out his hair.

  “I told you I would’ve made the call,” I said.

  “You did. But trust me when I tell you we have not heard the last from Eileen Russo. In fact, my bet is that the next time we hear from her it’ll be in person. I’ll gladly turn the reins over to you at that point.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Laughing over my nonchalance, Rollie says that Eileen Russo over the phone is one experience, but in person is another altogether.

  Staff members begin calling informal meetings out of their dorms to vent their worries. The Old Man finds out and calls a meeting of his own.

  “I can’t control everything that goes on here,” he opens with, “but we sure as hell don’t need anymore off-the-grid get-togethers. Dimitri had a few of those for himself, and it stands to reason that Nick Russo did as well.”

  The staff listens as he speaks. He pauses on occasion to clear his throat. His voice, measured and conciliatory, has a hostage negotiator quality to it. But his appearance tells the real story of how he’s holding up. His hair is barely brushed, his clothes are wrinkled, and his beard needs trimming.

  “We’re all dealing with a lot right now. But we’ll deal with it together. No secret alliances or factions. Please.”

  The meeting is short. No one asks questions or makes suggestions. The Old Man ends on a typical note:

  “Aristotle defined tragedy as a representation of an action that is whole and complete and of a certain magnitude. A whole is what has a beginning and middle and end.”

  This draws perplexed gazes. Pausing for a moment, he rubs at the back of his neck before continuing:

  “I think we’re now somewhere in the middle. I’d love to be nearing the end, but we’re not. We will be, though. In time, we will be.”