Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  With three days notice, I quit my job at the paper. There were no parties or pep talks from any of my colleagues. Just a few handshakes and formalities and I was out the door. The loss felt good in an odd way. Even freeing. Maybe since I was the one in control of it.

  My phone rang one night when I was playing chess with one of Ben’s girls. It was Glenn. He asked if I had a minute.

  “I feel like we never really got a chance to talk,” he said. “And part of me thinks that’s probably for the best, but the other part knows that’s not really my style.”

  “And what exactly is your style, Glenn?” I said, excusing myself from the game.

  “To confront things. Always. Like a man. Head on.”

  “Would that make you feel better? Is that what this is about? I have to be interrupted on a - whatever night this is - so you can feel better about yourself? Well, in that case, let’s confront things. Go ahead, Glenn. Confront away.”

  “It’s not all about me. I do know that much.”

  “Mighty humble of you. Who’s it about then? Laura?”

  “Absolutely. It’s absolutely about Laura.”

  I didn’t care for the way he said this. It sounded to me like it had come from a man who was so sure he knew more than I ever would about those erratic, precious places in the human heart. I fired back.

  “Let me guess,” I said, locking myself in the bathroom, “you’re going to take wonderful care of her. And you’re sorry for how it all turned out, but you want me to know how you feel about Laura: You love her and respect her and you just want me to know that she’s in good hands and will be given all that she deserves. It’s her happiness, after all, that’s the most important thing here. And if she’s happy now, well then, it hasn’t all been for naught.”

  He barely hesitated before responding. It came out of him so naturally, so automatically, that for a moment I imagined him reading it from a giant cue card held by some fawning, moronic understudy:

  “I can’t say what’ll happen. I really have no idea. No one does. It’s impossible to know. Just like you didn’t know any of this would happen, did you?”

  It took a moment for what he said to register. When it finally did, I found myself speechless. So I hung up on him and turned off my phone. His words buzzed at me, leaving me with a strange sense of comfort and then anarchy. He was either a genius or an asshole; it was difficult to tell. There I was, sitting on the bathroom floor in a friend’s house - my only friend in the world - on whatever night of the week it happened to be, the cold clean tile chilling my bones, making me wish for a warm bed, contemplating the possible wisdom of Glenn Kilburn. Thoughts of his former speeches came rushing back at me; there had been one about what it meant to be a man; and there was one on getting through life and averting disaster at all costs. It felt like every exchange I ever had with Glenn left me in a state of exhaustion as I secretly considered the validity of what this stranger had to tell me.

  Sitting there on the floor in Ben’s bathroom, the bright lights beating down on me, the crisp, sugary scent of unlit candles in the air, I got the idea to call my father. He’d no doubt be there. Possibly even awaiting my call. But I wasn’t in the mood. I’d call the following day. Or perhaps the day after that. It hardly mattered. I knew we’d be seeing one another soon enough.

  Chapter 19

  I found out that my onlookers were more concerned with the strange, alliterative phrase I had been mumbling than they were with my three broken ribs, my broken collarbone, and my concussion. I was in and out of consciousness for several hours and spoke these vile, startling words when I finally came back to life. Rollie told me that the words started out as a labored whisper, then evolved more clearly into something worthy of shocking the hospital staff. Everyone waited for me to elaborate, but I simply continued to repeat the phrase. So in between dry gasps and weak coughs, all they heard from me were Austin’s six words that Adam had dug out of the trash. Six words that belonged in the trash. Six words that would arrest anyone’s attention.

  The doctors recommended that I stay the night for some tests and general observation. The Old Man signed the papers and then hovered over me for most of the day, joined occasionally by a few of my colleagues who were able to steal away from the school for an hour or two.

  “You’re scaring the hell out of everyone here,” my father said when I began to come around.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You made one hell of a running catch.”

  A moment passes before I get his meaning. Dan Hart. It all comes back to me.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s a little banged up - mostly his feet and hands - but he’s doing okay.”

  “And how am I?”

  “You? Well, you’re a scary bastard, but other than that, you’re fine.”

  I ask to see a mirror. A sling is pulled securely around my collarbone and there’s a bandage around the top of my head. The Old Man laughs a little, explaining how my scaring people has nothing to do with appearance.

  “It’s what you kept repeating.”

  Leaning towards me so that the nurse, a young, pretty thing named Cecilia, wouldn’t hear, he tells me that I had said, repeatedly, Kill a cunt, frame a freak. It takes a moment for me to register the source of these words before telling my father everything I know. Which is not much. The dumpster diving and the red notebook and my meeting with Austin and how I raced back to campus the previous evening only to find Dan Hart causing one hell of a scene from the roof of the dining hall. My shortness of breath as I speak makes me whisper the words.

  He already knows all of this, he tells me. The boys, Matt and Adam, just hours before, had begged Nussbaum to bring them to the hospital with him. There, outside my room, they told Rollie what they knew. He’s asked them to keep this confidential for the time being.

  “What now?”

  “Just rest. That’s all you need to worry about.”

  “What about Austin?”

  “We’ll look into it. But I wouldn’t expect a confession, for Christ’s sake. The proof we’re talking about is not exactly of the ironclad variety.”

  Cecilia leaves the room. A heart monitor makes a sudden beeping sound. I ask the Old Man for a drink and he reaches for the styrofoam cup of ice water on the tray in front of me.

  “I’ve got some good news amid all this goddamn grief,” he tells me, planting the straw between my lips.

  After taking a long and almost delirious sip of the water, I straighten myself up as best I can.

  “It’s something I’ve been waiting on for a while,” he says.

  “I’m all ears.”

  The deal between him and J.R. III will be finalized this afternoon, he tells me. The necessary papers are being signed and delivered as we speak. He’s certainly tired and unshaven, but he looks more pleased than I can recall ever seeing him.

  “Congratulations.”

  My tone must sound sincere because he thanks me. We sit in silence for some time, absorbed in all the hospital smells and sounds that suddenly seem to be closing in on me. Then, as if being a prick will open up the walls, give me back the breath I feel I’ve been robbed of, I quash the good cheer:

  “At least one of us is getting what he wants out of this life.”

  My father leaves my side at around dinnertime. Doctors and nurses come and go from my room. They speak to me about my condition, which they call stable and improving. Cecilia has become my favorite among them. She does her job well, yet still finds the time to flirt and make me feel like a man. She doesn’t call me Gray when she speaks to me; she calls me Hero. It’s Hero this and Hero that.

  “What’s thi
s Hero business?” I finally ask while she readies some morphine.

  “Isn’t that like a true hero?” she says, “as modest as can be.”

  The idea of how she found out what brought me here excites me. A conversation clearly occurred. Either with Rollie or with one of my visitors. So I leave the moment alone. But as the drug takes effect, I find myself slipping into a dreamy place where I begin wondering about what I’ve done for Dan Hart. After reliving the details in my head, I think about why I did it. All I can come up with is because he’s just a kid. There’s nothing more to it. He’s a kid. And because of that, he’s deserving of something I’m not certain he’s aware even exists.

  I find myself wishing for Laura. I even say her name aloud a few times. It could be the morphine, or it could be that I long for her to know what I’ve done. When I close my eyes, I picture myself in a well-lit room with her at my side. She’s close to me and I’m telling her about what happened with Dan Hart. After I tell her about his rooftop concert, his sacrificial guitar bomb, his attempt on his own life, she looks at me and says I’m a good man. She continues telling me this - that I’m a good man. I like hearing it, so I sit and listen to her tell me over and over again. When I open my eyes, though, no one’s there to tell me anything about myself - nothing about what I’ve done or who I am or how things might be from here on out. Cecilia has dimmed the lights and left the room. The overhanging TV is on low, turned to a game show, which I mindlessly watch as I think about the following day and what might become of me.

  . . .

  Rollie urges me to take off as much time as I need. After my convalescence, he tells me, I can come back to work. I suspect he feels that once I recover I’ll be turning in my Homer House keys and packing up my Jeep.

  “I want you to recuperate at my place,” he tells me. “It’s not the Four Seasons, but at least you can get away from the kids for a while.”

  “I’ll be fine where I am. The kids won’t bother me.”

  But we both agree that some time off is vital. Breaking up petty squabbles and confiscating cigarettes will not be part of my rehabilitation. Aside from looking ridiculous in my sling and bandages, my movements are slow and labored; I can hardly be effective anywhere. So Ryan pulls double duty in the dorm and the Old Man finds coverage for my classes. My plan is to read and think and maybe even write a little.

  Within a full day of my return to the HAS, it becomes clear that this plan will not come to pass. My place has become a social haven. Visitors come and go, checking on me at all hours. Colleagues and students and therapists. Sandra brings me scallion pancakes she’s made. We eat together while she tells me about her family who live in Hainan and own a fishery. Amber brings me some of her favorite short story collections by John Cheever and Willa Cather. She stays for a while and we discuss literature. Some girls I don’t teach or even know particularly well come by with peanut butter cookies. Nussbaum checks in on me, bringing me a bougainvillea bonsai plant he says will spruce up my place. He tells me the plant’s origins and care instructions, tells me to call if I need anything, and leaves. Others come by as well. Tennille and Scotty visit and we play cards. Matt and Adam stop by and tell me they’re putting the finishing touches on the Winnebago and how they’re certain it’ll soon be drivable. Then we talk about The Beatles. Then about whether Austin Roarick is a murderer. Everyone must have Dan Hart on their minds, but no one mentions him to me. They just keep me company for a while before wishing me their best.

  The Old Man also drops by. Mostly to see if I need anything and if the kids in the dorm are giving me my space. On my third day back from the hospital, he comes by after dinner. He has a single sheet of white paper in his hand, which he hands to me when I greet him at the door. It’s the Hundred Acre School letterhead. It’s new. It now has the Old Man’s name, Rollie Loveland, as proprietor and CEO of the place.

  “What do you think?”

  “Your name is spelled right. What else do you want?”

  “I promise I won’t go overboard, but I want you to know that your mother would be thrilled with this - absolutely thrilled. Beyond belief. I guess that gives me a thrill. But it also makes me pretty goddamn sad at the same time.”

  “Aren’t those manic traits?”

  “I think they are,” he says, laughing a little.

  “Well, I guess you’re in the right place then.”

  He follows me into the TV room where I take a seat on the couch.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Good. You’re looking better.”

  “I’m feeling okay.”

  He looks out the window before pacing the room and sitting down beside me.

  “Nick’s back in the dorm,” he tells me, “on borrowed time, of course, but he’s back. He’s actually talking a little, which is a good sign. He’s not telling us shit, but at least he’s verbal. We’ve asked him point blank everything you can imagine - about Nicole and the ring and the drugs. He’s a stubborn little fucker. The police are being patient. They’re on our side. I just wanted you to know.”

  “How’re the other boys dealing with him?”

  “They’re okay. They seem to be leaving him alone.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “There’s something else. I spoke with Roarick about Austin. I told him what you and I talked about - about what Matt and Adam found at his place. I felt obligated to approach him before anyone else. Call me sentimental, but I’ve known the man for a hell of a long time, and it is his son we’re talking about.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “He didn’t defend him. He said he’d look into it.”

  “So I guess we’ll see.”

  “I guess we will.”

  Dan Hart, the Old Man tells me, is doing well. He’s still in the hospital, where he’ll stay for another few days. And his parents have flown in from North Carolina to be at their son’s side.

  “They’ll be bringing him back with them. With the summer vacation coming up, it seems to make the most sense. No immediate plans as to when, or if, he’ll return.”

  “What’ll his entourage do without him?”

  “He needs to be somewhere else right now.”

  The Old Man tells me about a program in a hospital not far from Stokes County, which is where Dan is from.

  “This upcoming break couldn’t be coming at a better time,” I point out.

  “Am I a thoughtless prick to wanna know what your plans are when it’s over? God knows you’ve got enough to contend with right now without being forced to make that decision.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Still, it’s been on my mind.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  “And—”

  “And it’s been on my mind, too.”

  The Homer House boys can be heard through my walls. One of them - it sounds like Cliff - is singing a tune so out of key that it has to be intentional. Rollie and I sit for a while without speaking to one another. After some time, when the singing stops, he stands up and tells me he’ll check in on me tomorrow. What he really means is that he hopes I’ll arrive at a decision by then.

  That night I grow restless. Too restless to read or watch TV or certainly sleep. So I pop a few painkillers before cleaning my bathroom and fridge and making up my futon with fresh sheets. All the while I can hear the Homer House boys through the walls. They’re laughing every few seconds. When I open the door and peer my head into the hallway, I can hear the TV playing. I listen for a moment, trying to identify what they’re watching. Then I close my door and reorganize some of my kitchen cabinets. After a while, I venture out of the apart
ment and make my way down the hall. All the boys, including Ryan, are gathered together in the common room. The lights are off and they’re watching Friday with Ice Cube. When I enter, a few of them turn and notice me. Cliff, offering me his seat, moves to the floor next to Albert. My injuries are still sore enough for me to accept.

  It’s only a few idiotic scenes into the film until I notice Nick, sitting quietly by himself on the hearth. He has an awkward view of the TV, which is almost parallel to him. He seems unbothered by this since he appears to be in his own world. When the light of the TV illuminates his face, I can see his expression, which is one I don’t recall seeing on him before. He seems content. Like finding his way back to the HAS was a wise move. Yet it was one over which he’d never express his relief; he’d rather sit at the periphery of his friends and find strange solace in their boorish laughter.

  When I turn to Ryan, it’s obvious he’s observed me eyeing Nick. He nods, which tells me I’ve been away for a few days and things are different: Nick is back in the dorm, among his Homer House boys, who are no doubt regarding him with trepidation. They’re at a loss as to how to process his disappearing act, his return, the fate of his former girlfriend.

  When the movie ends, the evening begins to wind down. Teeth are brushed, acne cream is applied, shirts are stripped. Ryan and I sit in the near dark of the common room and talk while the boys check off their nighttime rituals. Ryan asks how I’m spending my free time and how I’m feeling and what my plans are during the upcoming summer break. In between answering him, I study Nick, who moves through the dorm like the air around him is piled high with a tower of champagne glasses.

  “Do you have my pictures?” he asks when he finally approaches me.

  He makes eye contact when he says this, but his voice is muted and little boyish. It sounds like nothing I remember. It takes a moment for me to realize what he’s talking about.