Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  “Can I order for us?”

  I told her that would be fine. She ordered the Cajun fried oyster salad, which she said we would split, as well as two Louisiana Catfish Po’ Boy Sandwiches. When the waitress took our menus, Andrea added that she would like to keep the wine coming, that we were celebrating.

  “What exactly are we celebrating?” I asked.

  “There’s always something to celebrate,” she said, raising her glass.

  “You’re not one of those hedonists, are you?”

  “Hey, everyone needs something to believe in.”

  The wine was sweet and cool. After two full glasses, I realized I was getting drunk. Drinking in the afternoon was something I wasn’t used to.

  We discussed books and movies. She told me some of her favorite authors were Raymond Carver and T.C. Boyle. I told her I approved of her choices. Film was a different story, though. I could identify only one of them that she mentioned.

  “Well, you’re an old man. What are you, like thirty?”

  I hesitated for a moment before telling her I was thirty-three.

  “So old,” she said, finishing off her wine.

  When she put her empty glass on the table, she began studying my face. Then she reached out her hand and touched my right cheek with the tips of her fingers. She smelled of sweet vanilla.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then I remembered my shaving mishap.

  “Poor baby,” she said when I told her. “You need to be more careful.”

  After a few moments, she told me I looked wonderful for an old man. That I would no doubt age into one of those attractive, silver-haired men young women threw themselves at.

  “And you’ll love every minute of it,” she added.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

  “And what is this?”

  “This is our celebration.”

  The waitress brought our salad and an extra plate. As Andrea divided it up, I told her it was important that she understand something.

  “What? That?” she asked, pointing to my wedding band.

  She looked unfazed by it. In fact, her smile suddenly became wicked. I was about to say something when she broke in, her voice low and breathy:

  “The old man has some experience under him. That’s all. Nothing wrong with that. Besides, find me one who doesn’t.”

  . . .

  The next morning, Laura snuck out while I was asleep. I knew it would be at least a couple of days before I’d see her again. I could feel a transformation underway. We were in store for a different life together. Laura would have to spend some time living inside her new body. She would be asking herself if she could still love me after the procedure. The emptiness of the house revealed these things to me. There was something about the quiet that struck me. As I walked around and slept and ate and tried to read, I could only focus on the miserable quiet. It carved out a place in my mind and resuscitated realities I had tried to destroy. Picking up my phone, I almost called Luke and Abby; I knew they were with her. It would’ve been an impossible call to make. The day wore on. As evening approached, I figured the procedure was over with. Relief and dread were staging a vicious duel in my heart.

  Laura was probably resting now. Or sedated. If she could dream, God only knows what her mind would produce. Freud contends that dreams are gifts we give to ourselves. Their purpose, he claims, is to allow the psyche to act upon dormant impulses we attempt to stray from in our daily lives. If this is the case, then Laura must’ve dreamt about doing away with her husband, the selfish prick, the man she thought she knew and loved, the cause of her life’s most violent heartbreak.

  Two or three times I grabbed the keys to the car and made my way towards the front door. One time I even stepped outside. Dusk was approaching. The heavy August air, full of a sticky kind of silence, made me sleepy. When I thought I heard my phone ring, I ran back inside. No one was calling. And I knew they wouldn’t. I was of no concern anymore. I didn’t deserve an update. I wasn’t allowed to support my wife through the ordeal, or say my goodbyes to my child. Yet I had support to give and goodbyes to offer.

  Anger began to take hold. It lasted long enough for me to smash a bowl and two glasses in the sink. The feeling then turned to regret. Suddenly, as though the broken glass radiated some type of conscious-altering spell, I began to wonder if I had made a terrible mistake. I picked up my phone and called Stevie. She and Laura were as close as sisters could be, and I knew they were together. The line rang once and went to voicemail. When I called back, same thing. I slammed the phone down so hard that I cracked the screen.

  I found a liter of rum in the cupboard, which I began drinking straight from the bottle. It tasted terrible. Hard liquor on its own never appealed to me, but there I was, storming around my empty house, cursing, slamming into walls and furniture, slugging mouthfuls of fiery piss in a bottle. The effects of the alcohol seemed to take hold instantly. The inside of my head felt like a hot jacuzzi jet had been turned on. By the time I was drunk, I found myself lurking outside the baby’s room, walking back and forth past the doorway, which was ajar by a few inches.

  When I entered, it dawned on me that I hadn’t been in the room in quite some time. Probably weeks. It was a small room. But pleasant to look at and stand in. As I ran my hand across Laura’s stenciled clouds and stars and Man in the Moon, I recalled the single afternoon she produced this effect, turning common walls into something beautiful, and doing so with such ease. That’s how Laura did everything related to being pregnant and preparing for the baby. Like she was born to do it, or had done it before. And that’s the kind of mother I knew she would be. A natural. Like it was a simple and logical extension of who she was.

  As though I was seeing it for the first time, I examined the furniture in the room. The crib the Old Man paid for was sturdy and attractive. The other pieces, a small nightstand, a bureau and changing table, the antique rocking chair Luke refinished, were all well crafted and equally impressive, their dark honey-colored wood flawless and clean. I flipped through the closet full of clothes. Each season was covered. There were white and yellow pajamas with hedgehogs and bears on them; tiny t-shirts embossed with the words Cutie or Babyface; overalls and sweaters and even a rain parka. The clothes smelled freshly laundered and were organized according to season and size.

  As I drank the last bit of rum from the bottle, I noticed the picture frame Luke had given Laura. It was placed on the windowsill across the room, its sides fitting perfectly within the perimeter of one of the window’s rectangular panes. Dusk had set in and the inside of the house was darkening. But I could still make out the picture of father and daughter; I could still see the empty space slotted for our own photo; and I could see the words Luke had had inscribed at the bottom of the frame.

  I did all I could to convince myself into believing that I belonged in that space, among all that newness and potential, but I felt like nothing more than an intruder. I suddenly found myself wondering what would happen to the room. Would it change? Would it remain untouched? Would a child ever occupy it? Would Laura ever live out her motherly ambitions in all its perfect warmth and whimsy?

  Without another thought, I wound up and threw the empty rum bottle towards the picture of Luke and Laura. My aim was off. The bottle missed the picture and hit directly above, smashing the window, which exploded all over the room. The picture, unscathed, rocked a little, but remained in its exact position on the windowsill. The gesture, which was pathetic to begin with, was made even more so when, without missing a beat, I began cleaning, picking up handfuls of glass and dropping them into the tiny wooden trash can that had blue
and silver stars hand-painted by one of Laura’s coworkers.

  The doorbell suddenly rang, startling me, causing me to gash my left hand on a piece of glass. The blood spilled out onto the hardwood floor, making an ominous Rorschach pattern. Covering the wound with my mouth, I ran downstairs, taking three steps at a time, ricocheting off the walls, bleeding all over myself. Luke or Abby, I thought. It had to be. They were here to tell me that Laura was okay and that she loved me and needed to see me. Everything was going to be fine; they would assure me of this on the way to the hospital. We were a family. And families run into these types of situations from time to time.

  When I opened the door, I was face to face with Glenn, who wore an expression that had little more to it than the pretense of concern. Pulling at his beard a little, he began sniffing the air in front of him. The alcohol on my breath must’ve been strong.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he said, a trace of mockery in his voice, “everything okay?”

  “Fine,” I said, trying not to pant.

  “I was in my garage when I heard glass shatter.”

  “A little mishap. That’s all.”

  Motioning to my hand, which by now had bled all over my clothes and bare arms, Glenn said I had a pretty deep cut. Then he stepped inside the house, pushing past me, and asked where the first aid supplies were. I let him help me. After he bandaged my hand, I washed up and put on clean clothes.

  “I’m obliged to offer you a drink,” I said.

  “Obliged? What is this, the wild west? Just being neighborly, that’s all.”

  I told him I insisted.

  “Well, you’re out of whiskey, unless Laura recently picked up some more.”

  Annoyed that he knew the contents of my liquor cabinet, and anxious to continue drinking, I filled two glasses with gin, passed one to Glenn, clinked my glass against his, and collapsed on the couch. As he drank, Glenn moved around the room, examining a painting or a lamp or piece of furniture, and making idle conversation about the weather and the booze. After a few moments, he refilled his glass and raised it in the air before downing the entire thing. Then he looked at me and remarked that he preferred whiskey, but gin would suffice.

  “How is it being in that house all by yourself?” I asked.

  A wild smile lit up across his face. He sniffed at his empty glass before refilling it.

  “Were you embarrassed to tell people what happened with your marriage?”

  Glenn said he made well into the six figures so he wouldn’t have to feel embarrassment. As arrogant of a statement as this was, it somehow sounded almost charming coming from this man.

  “Do you enjoy being a doctor?”

  “Get a few drinks in this guy and his inhibitions go AWOL.”

  I apologized if I was making him uncomfortable. Glenn said it was no problem, that he thought it was about time we got to know one another.

  “Let’s put it this way,” he said, “I’m pretty eager to see all the ways I can disprove Fitzgerald’s claim that there are no second acts in American lives. And I plan on having a whole lot of fucking fun doing just that.”

  Then he laughed and said how I must appreciate the reference since I’m a writer. He added, somewhat soberly, that he did some writing in college. Short stories, he told me. He even had one published in his school’s literary magazine. Setting his glass down on the roll top desk, he ran both hands through his hair, trying to recall its plotline.

  “It was called ‘Daybreak Diner.’ It was very noir-ish. Had a lot of dark humor and clever dialogue and everyone carried a gun and smoked cigarettes.”

  I recalled Ben’s philosophy on writers. It was simple. He explained it to me one afternoon after a colleague, according to Ben, unjustly received the Studs Terkel award. He said there were three kinds of writers: creators, critics, and klutzes. The creators, Ben contended, had an original voice and could always make something out of nothing. The critics, though, excelled only at academic writing and nothing else; they could write, but never anything with blood and bone and soul to it. As for the klutzes - according to Ben, these pervade the journalism profession - they couldn’t translate a coherent or original thought to paper if their lives were at stake.

  Glenn, with his perfect beard and his brashness, struck me as a klutz. The idea of him writing was absurd. His inspiration, after all, seemed to be his sports car and his salary and his name tag that said Doctor on it. I couldn’t imagine there being a time in his life when truer muses existed for the man.

  He filled his glass again. Then he turned to me with a solemn expression and said his divorce would be final within the month. With his eyes averted towards his liquor, Glenn told me he was glad for one thing:

  “No kids. That makes it all pretty bearable, even entertaining at times.”

  He smiled at this last part, but his smile faded as though whiplashed by the seriousness of the mood he just created. Eyeing me with thoughtful intent, he asked what I was doing home. If I had considered his question for even a moment - as well as the brightness in his eyes when he said it - then I would’ve realized he knew what today meant for my family. But I didn’t consider it, so I lied.

  “Laura’s staying with her parents. They just bought a new dog - a boxer - and she’s helping them train it.”

  The spontaneity of the lie was not enough to rescue uneasiness from setting in. I began to think about what he might’ve known, what Laura had told him, what pep talks he might’ve given her in my absence. Glenn was our only neighbor, so he would naturally find out. In his own way, he played along with my story.

  “I’m not sure how manly of a drink this is,” he said, holding up his glass. “Gin. It’s not bad, don’t get me wrong. And I sure as hell appreciate anyone who opens their liquor cabinet and rings the come-and-get-it bell. But it just doesn’t have that same effect as, say, whiskey. Whiskey turns you into either a poet or a brawler. It makes everything throb - your hands and head and heart. You want to break another man’s neck, paint your own Sistine Chapel, and bed every broad who enters your path. I’ve been drinking it for years and I swear the size of my balls have grown because of it. And we’re not talking dead weight, either. We’re talking muscle mass. Gravitas. I think about this type of stuff. I think it’s important. It’s a conversation that should be had more often. Who’s a man and who’s not, you know? And what makes him a man. It’s not just about who drinks whiskey and who doesn’t; I know that much. It’s a hell of a lot more than that. I think all the real men are the ones holding their breath as all the others walk by - that’s why a real man’s chest is always puffed out. And he’s mocked for it. Which he accepts. You know why they’re holding their breath? Because their bodies have imbibed all the burdens that no one else will take on, and they’re holding onto them. With pride. They’ll never let them go. The burdens have become part of them. They take on the burdens for all men. They have to.”

  For the briefest moment, I considered laughing. It would’ve been forced since I found nothing he said the least bit amusing. I found it sententious. Not to mention strangely out of character. Was this man really a doctor? Talking about bedding broads and the size of his balls. He sounded like a suburban Neanderthal. I was glad I stifled the laugh when I saw his expression after delivering his dissertation. He was working his lips into a tight circle and bobbing his head ever so slightly while he stared through the glass of gin. Either he was waiting for me to respond, or he had to allow his words to safely launch into the atmosphere before he resumed common activity. Either way, he seemed inspired, moved by his own philosophies, inebriated by the high-flown sound of their cadences.

  “So who are the real men, Glenn?” I asked, feeding into his bold gray rhetoric like a damn fool. “How do I spot them? Will their faces be turning re
d from holding their breath for so long?”

  This brought him back down. He laughed. Then he finished off the liquor in his glass and set it on the desk.

  “Change that dressing before you turn in for the night,” he said, pointing to my bandaged hand. “Keep it clean.”

  Walking him to the door, I decided to press a little further. So I asked him again how the real men could be spotted. I don’t know if I was taunting him or seeking some subterranean insight he might’ve possessed. Clearing his throat, he looked me in the eyes. Then he inhaled deeply and seemed to hold it for a long time.

  “It’s not easy,” he said, turning his back on me and walking outside. “But know that they’re everywhere. And they’re not just your cops and your firemen. The problem becomes spotting one if you’re not one; you don’t always know what to look for.”

  He thanked me for the gin, putting emphasis on the word gin, and walked across my lawn, back towards his house, which may have been larger than mine, and certainly was as empty, yet hardly seemed so. My stomach began to churn and I felt like I could’ve been sick just then.

  “Oh Laura,” I said aloud. “Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura.”

  I took a breath and then said her name some more, rolling over its first syllable towards the second one with a kind of caution in my voice that bespoke the detachment I truly felt from my wife. She had grown more fond of Glenn after talking to him and spending time with him. This gave me such a crushing sense of loneliness that I thought for a moment I might actually throw up.

  My hand then began to ache, which reminded me of the broken glass in the nursery. I was startled when I entered the room again. There was my blood, dark and glossy, spilled out onto the floor in an ugly coagulated mess. There was a lot of it, too - a hell of a lot more than I remember there being.

  Chapter 13

  My father assists me and Ryan in giving the Homer House boys a pep talk. I’m glad he does. It can’t be denied that I’ve made progress communicating with them. I’ve finally won the right to urge them out of bed or to unclog the toilet or to cease with the pig-pile before someone gets hurt. But I have to imagine that any serious talk will feel too forced. Ryan, who comes off like the mellow uncle no one ever thinks to disobey, has accomplished this feat now by rote. I’ve been at the school for a little over a month, and I believe the Homer House boys and I have struck a tacit agreement: They show civility towards me, heeding what’s reasonable, and I don’t dare put on the pretense that I’ve somehow earned the right to be there with them, living under the same roof, deflecting conflicts, observing the coursing tumult of their own personal hells. Never do I fool myself into thinking I’ve made any headway with them, but the arrangement we have, however tenuous in anyone’s mind, has become functional.