Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  I found myself focusing more and more on the photos as the meeting progressed. I was hoping Laura would notice them as well. A few times I even came close to commenting on them. My mouth opened and I jerked forward a bit, but no words would come. “What lovely children,” I would’ve said. Or “Beautiful family - so healthy looking.”

  I began staring long and hard on purpose. My hope was that Laura would notice my staring and begin staring herself. Then she would understand. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. I felt like I wanted to pull those photos off the wall and force them upon Laura. I wanted to leave her alone in that office, just her and those goddamn beautiful photos. I’d come back in an hour and ask if she understood. But I knew she never would.

  When our meeting ended, Dr. Rose told us she was required to ask us something. She waited a moment. Looking more in Laura’s direction than in mine, she asked if we wanted to know the sex of the baby. I turned to my wife, who said nothing, but began nodding. The question was asked again, this time directed only at Laura, who continued moving her head up and down.

  “A girl,” the doctor said.

  Laura stopped nodding. She began clawing at her purse with her fingernails. Studying her profile for a bit, I found that she had instantly morphed into a complete stranger. I imagine I appeared the same to her. Dr. Rose opened a drawer and produced a couple of business cards. She handed one to each of us, advising us to call the number and make an appointment. This was a delicate matter, she said, and the woman whose name was on the card would prove useful.

  The next afternoon, which marked three days before our visit to the hospital, Luke showed up unannounced at my office. He asked if we could talk. We found a quiet stairwell. He paced the small landing for a few moments. Aside from his breathing, which was fast and steady, he seemed to make no sound at all. Then he looked up from his pacing and smiled a generic and forlorn smile. He explained that no one in the family knew where he was. He had taken it upon himself, he said, and no one was responsible for the visit but him. He added that we would be keeping the visit between the two of us.

  “We’ve always gotten on well, haven’t we?” Luke said. “From the start, I mean. I’d say as far as son-in-laws go, you’re a fine one. And you lucked out with the likes of me, if I do say so myself. Are we in agreement?”

  I told him I agreed. Then I started to embellish upon what he had said, but he was quick to cut me off. He was focused and serious like I had never seen him before.

  “I don’t appreciate smoke being blown up my ass,” he said, “and I imagine you feel the same way. So I’m going to get down to it. You’re too smart for me to condescend to you, and that’s not my style anyway. But there’s one thing I know a hell of a lot about, and that’s being a parent. I’ve been doing it for decades - for four different kids I might add - and doing a goddamn good job of it.”

  Luke paused long enough for me to agree that he was a good father. Even though his present intentions were mostly clear to me, I still felt the need to encourage him by being agreeable. He went on, telling me that he and Abby felt privileged to be parents. He said they knew people who took parenting for granted. This, he said, was a shame. He added that men far more articulate than him have put down in words the beauty and immensity of being a parent.

  “Hell, I’m talking to a writer. And a good man. You are, Gray. You’re a good man. You’ve been good for Laura and I know you’ve made her happy.”

  He paused and took a deep breath. Then he poked at his temple with his index finger before continuing. He brought up religion, saying how his family was not a religious one. He talked about faith and virtue and how these things, as far as he was concerned, were only useful when they applied to people, not deities.

  “Faith in people and faith in self,” he said.

  Then he told me a story about Rick, Laura’s oldest brother, who had a serious heart murmur when he was a baby. He was operated on when he was just seven months old. Luke explained that after the natural reaction to this - fear, dread, anger - he changed. And the change, he said, came about like it was meant just for him at just that moment in his life. And it was profound and everlasting. Raising his voice a bit, Luke asked if I could guess what he changed into. I shook my head.

  “A superhero,” he said. “Don’t laugh, because it’s true. A superhero. Because that’s what kids do: They turn us into superheroes. We’ll do anything for them - and we do. So I found that I had this power. And the more I thought about it, the more intense this power became.”

  That power, Luke admitted, was simply hope. But it was as potent as anything a superhero can wield. And it encompassed his sick child, who eventually recovered.

  “Forgive me. I’m rambling. Parenthood, religion, my children. And I probably broke my promise that I wouldn’t condescend and that I’d get right down to what I had to say. We both know why I’m here. Because I’m a parent and I want you to feel what I feel. And because I’m a parent and I don’t want to see my daughter devastated. I want to help you from making what will lead to the biggest regret of your life.”

  My heart began beating quicker. My mouth, suddenly parched, seemed heavy and dumb and without the coordination to speak. I grunted a little before he went on.

  “That’s what it is. I want to help you. And Abby and I are prepared to do anything to help you. We love you, Gray, and we love our grandchild. This is our family.”

  He said that a few times: This is our family. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a folded white envelope, telling me again that this visit was between the two of us. And as he handed me the envelope, he told me that its contents were also between the two of us. I took it from him.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m a parent, and because I’m a parent I happen to know the difficulties of such a responsibility. This is to help you and Laura with those difficulties. It’s just for starters.”

  I tried to see through the white paper, but it was one of those security envelopes. Luke told me to open it. I tore off one side and pulled out its contents. It was a personal check for $20,000.

  When I looked up at him, he turned away and faced the cold, gray wall. My mouth still couldn’t formulate a response. We stood in that stairwell for a few moments, neither of us speaking. The only sound was our breathing, which I couldn’t tell apart. Finally, Luke broke the silence:

  “This is all very complicated. I realize that. Abby and I both realize that. I don’t know if my being here today makes it more so, but it’s only my intention to make things easier. This should be an easier time, don’t you think?”

  He wasn’t looking in my direction when he spoke. His gaze was settled on the wall behind me. My voice suddenly worked. I told Luke I had many thoughts about the situation between me and Laura, and that most of them had already been voiced to Laura. I told him I wasn’t a religious man, either - something he certainly knew about me - and how my instincts were informed by trust. And this trust was something I felt very deeply. Like my love for his daughter, I said, which came above everything. If he could ramble, so could I.

  “Laura and I need to focus on each other right now. And nothing else. And that’s why I cannot accept this.”

  Luke stared at the check I handed back to him. Then he looked up at me. It was with hard and penetrating clarity. He knew. Certainly he knew. He knew my bit about Laura was bullshit. She wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing. And he knew this. When he wouldn’t reclaim the check, I laid it at his feet. He continued to burden me with his lucid, all-knowing gaze. It was making my skin itch to be there with him in such close quarters. Promising that I would keep our visit between the two of us, I turned from him and descended the stairs. I had no destination. When I reached the next landing, I could hear Luke above me, shredding the check and mumbling to himself.
By the time I was three floors beneath him, he shouted down to me a question I had considered on occasion, but was too exhausted to begin answering:

  “What does your father think about what you’re doing? Does he realize what a selfish prick he has for a son?”

  . . .

  Throughout Laura’s pregnancy, the Old Man received minimal updates. He understood that I would never share anything beyond the superficial. Never before had I offered him any true depth in the way of personal anecdotes, so why would this stage of my life be any different? He likely expected me to be terse on the topic. When we spoke, which was infrequent, I would hardly address the baby. And my responses to his questions would be little more than matter-of-fact. Laura told me I was punishing him for not living close by. We both knew it went beyond that.

  She encouraged me to send him sonograms and to call more frequently. Of course I never did either. So Laura took it upon herself to text him the occasional photo, always accompanied by a quick message that she was feeling well and his grandchild looked forward to soon meeting their grandpa. None of that mattered. I planned to sever whatever enthusiasm he might’ve felt over our unborn child with a simple two word phrase. It was a phrase I had worked out shortly after learning what Dr. Rose had told Laura on that brutally hot Thursday. The phrase would be used a lot over the course of a few weeks. Anyone who knew we were having a child would hear this phrase with genuine solemnity. Unexpected complications. This was true on so many levels. But I would never be called on to explain it. No one would ask for specifics. Unexpected complications had the perfect mix of ambiguity and pathos to it. After the condolences, the matter, god willing, would be dropped.

  I understood that my father wouldn’t be satisfied with this. It’s not that he would badger me for the story, or demand that I get into the minutiae. That wasn’t his style. He was conditioned to provide the necessary space and distance. Allowing me to feel whatever I would feel: This would be his focus. He would let me have my time. But that time would be limited. His job, after all, has always been to get to the bottom of pain.

  The truth is that besides Ben there was really no one to talk to. I believe I was feeling the appropriate emotion over this. It wasn’t shame. And it wasn’t regret. It was tricky - sort of in between relief and malaise. I was thankful for Ben, though. Writers listen like no one else. They understand what expression or gesture or response of theirs might coax more of those private ruminations to the surface. And their truest and harshest judgments, which one should understand are as acute as any, are often set aside for their work. So I accepted that I could someday become manifest in a story Ben would write. His anti-hero might be confused, lonely, misunderstood, reviled. And Ben, perhaps struggling to capture this man’s true plight, would recall his good friend, Grayson Loveland.

  Our lunches together, ostensibly for unwinding - they were actually full-fledged bitch sessions about my marriage - suddenly changed. Ben, being the professional he was, took on an MFA intern from Columbia College. No longer could I discuss with my friend and colleague my family’s woes. Or seek his counsel on how I handled a delicate situation.

  The intern’s name was Andrea and she joined us for lunch each day. She had a quick wit and was a natural conversationalist. What had been a male dominated jaunt, full of frightful honesty and shots at wisdom, had turned into a mélange of coyness and innuendo. It was harmless flirting, but evident to any onlooker. We were mentors, me and Ben, and this girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than twenty-four, was in awe of us. We were, after all, doing what she wanted to be doing. From her flattery to her looks - she had long, straight black hair, a killer smile, and skin as fair and perfect as white honeysuckle - Andrea proved a timely distraction for me. It helped, too, that Ben told her nothing of my situation. As far as she knew, I was unburdened and not at all the son-of-a-bitch my family took me for. I was grateful for the levity - especially since things were only worsening at home.

  . . .

  A few days before the procedure, Laura found me in the bathroom and said she had been thinking long and hard on something she wanted to share with me. I was about to shave and had just lathered my face. Studying my razor for a moment, I noticed it had begun to rust a little. With my fingernail, I tried to scrape the rust out, but it wasn’t the flaky kind. It was permanent. Laura watched me do this for a few seconds before she spoke:

  “I want to go to the hospital alone.”

  She conveyed this in a quiet, casual tone, like she had just discovered her independence and it was a triumph she hadn’t fully grasped.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not interested in having a conversation about this, or certainly an argument.”

  As I studied her, I could see she was concentrating on her breathing. Like a singer ready to release a wordy or difficult verse. She appeared to have nothing left to say. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to hold her head in my hands, put my face to hers, and remind her that we were in love. I wondered if I had any strength left to offer her, or perhaps words about fate or family. Something prevented me from doing any of this. There was a palpable force driving us from one another. I felt it every time we were near. It was cold and relentless and I knew she felt it, too; it was probably all we had in common at that point.

  I didn’t press the matter. I only asked who would be going in my place. She didn’t respond. Then I added a pathetic attempt at sensitivity when I said I didn’t want her to be alone. Again, no response. She wheeled around and left me there alone, the shaving cream now thinly transparent and dripping from my chin. Rinsing the blade in the sink bowl, I brought the razor to my face. On my first downstroke, I cut my right cheek. The blood ran through the white foam on my face, crisscrossing slowly, carving out some obscure symbol on my cheek before finally clotting into a thick puff of red-stained cream.

  . . .

  Ben’s mother was having hip replacement surgery and he wanted to be there. There happened to be Salt Lake City, so he flew out with Justine and their two girls. Before he left, he wished me the best with everything, demanding I call him if I needed to talk.

  “Give Laura our best,” he said.

  He added that he knew I’d be a comfort to her during the procedure, that I would hold her hand and ease her mind and say all the wonderful things she needed to hear. Nodding my head, I forced myself to keep silent, my shame stabbing at me with steel prongs.

  “Just take care of your mother. We’ll be fine.”

  “At least I know you’ll be in good hands during lunch,” he said, his smile glib and slight.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, moving in closer to me and lowering his voice. “If hormones were people, that girl would be China.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t see how she looks at you.”

  I rolled my eyes at this and told Ben he was delusional. Sure, I said, Andrea might’ve been a little flirty, but it was only because we were newspapermen, something she envied.

  “Besides, you’re the one she’s in awe of,” I said, not entirely sure whether that was true.

  “To her, I’m an old man, like a hip uncle. But you, you’re like the cousin.”

  I pointed out that it wasn’t possible to be hip if one used the word hip, and that if I was the cousin, well, wouldn’t that be incestuous?

  “Just behave yourself. The last thing you need right now is just about everything that girl has to offer.”

  Any other time, Ben’s remarks would’ve been taken lightly. Innocuous banter. Guy talk. But I found myself considering the possible truth of what he was saying. Part of me wanted it to be true. I needed to feel worthy of someone’s affection, even if that someone was a
stranger.

  That stranger sidled up to my desk the first day Ben was gone and asked me out for lunch. The next afternoon would mark Laura’s visit to the hospital. Focus was difficult to achieve that day. My mind felt like it had come unhinged and was affixed only by some sinuous fiber. So when Andrea invited me to accompany her, I didn’t answer; I just stood from my desk and said “after you.”

  On our way out of the building, she said she had a new place in mind. She said I must’ve been sick of the deli Ben and I frequented. Her presumptuousness was remarkable to me. Here was this young, attractive grad student, still paying her dues, and she was eager to test my malleability. It appeared to be deliberate. She might’ve been asking herself how willful I was. Or maybe she was a young woman who easily grew tired of certain foods. Part of me was hoping it was more complex than that. She took me to Heaven on Seven, the city’s famed Cajun cuisine joint. Though I had never been before, I lied when she asked if I had.

  “Ever drink during your lunches with Ben?”

  “Occasionally,” I lied again.

  The first thing she told our waitress to bring us was a carafe of white wine. I noticed she was looking at me as she placed the order. Probably to see if I balked. I didn’t. She told me she loved Cajun cooking, that her family was from Louisiana and she had a taste for hot spice in her blood.