Everybody’s Out There

by Robert M. Marchese

  “Sure. I’ve got them.”

  This isn’t true. Rollie has them. He’s had them since the day they were mailed to me. And besides Eileen Russo, he’s never shown them to a soul. Not to the cops, not to Mr. and Mrs. D’Ambrosio, not even to Nussbaum. Nick follows me into my place and watches me rummage through my desk drawers as I pretend to look for them. I tell him they’re sealed in an envelope for safe keeping.

  “How are you?” I ask as I begin emptying the contents of the drawers.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look well.”

  I mean this. His hair has been cut, which I can now see since he’s stepped into the light of my room, and his eyes appear as though they’ve softened since his ordeal. It’s the closest to handsome I’ve seen him. Suddenly, as I’m looking at him, I can detect Eileen. They share the same low cheekbones and narrow forehead. Not to mention their noses, which are sharp and slightly longer than usual. As though reading my thoughts, Nick tells me he heard I met his mother. I stop looking for the pictures almost immediately.

  “That’s true. I met her briefly.”

  He makes a sarcastic comment on how lucky I am.

  “She was worried about you.”

  Rolling his eyes, Nick says how Rollie gets paid absurd amounts of money so his mother no longer has to worry over him. I tell him I don’t think parenting works that way.

  “How do you know? You’re not a parent.”

  “I’m not a politician, either, but I can still vouch for their sleaziness.”

  He drops the matter. I can’t help but wonder what Eileen told her son about our encounter. It’s tempting to ask, but I don’t dare. I decide to bring up something else, something I frame casually enough so he might think nothing of it and let down his guard.

  “Where did you disappear to?”

  “How can you stand living here?” he asks, stepping further into the room and ignoring my question.

  “How do you stand it?”

  “I don’t have a choice,” he says.

  “I’m not sure I do, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’ve all got a story. All of us.”

  “No shit.”

  Feigning an epiphany, I tell him I just remembered that my father has his photos locked away in a safe place. We didn’t want them left in the dorm, I tell him.

  “I’m not embarrassed by those pictures.”

  “Okay.”

  “You guys probably think I’m some fucking pervert, but I’m not.”

  “Okay.”

  Before I can ask anything about the photos, he changes the topic to my injuries, then to Dan Hart. We end up talking for close to half an hour. I never would’ve guessed that Nick Russo and I would have much to say to one another. I listen to him complain about his roommates in the Homer House and how the Mets aren’t realizing their potential this season. He listens to me talk about my collarbone and my classes, which I tell him I think I miss teaching. I manage to sneak in a question - Why did you run away? - but it goes unanswered like the last one. He changes the topic back to his mother, who he mentions will be picking him up a few days before the upcoming vacation. Before I can fully envision once again being face-to-face with Eileen Russo, Ryan leans in the doorway for a moment and says it’s time for lights out. Nick starts to leave when I decide to try my luck one final time:

  “Why me? Why send me that letter? And those pictures? To be honest, I was surprised.”

  He starts to say something. His lips move in several directions before he purses them. Then they open wide and turn inside his mouth and into a nervous smile. I find myself feeling sorry for him. To get him off the hook, I wish him goodnight. And even though he returned a few days ago, straggling onto campus like some burnt-out tramp, I welcome him back to the Hundred Acre School. It immediately strikes me as a cruel gesture of irony since I know he won’t be back in the fall. The look he gives me, one of almost philosophical grandeur, belies his youth. Like his face is an ancient burial ground and behind it is the spirit of true revelation. He’s speechless once again. But just for a moment.

  “Welcome back to you, too,” he says.

  Then we both laugh quietly at what we’ve discovered is common ground.

  . . .

  The following day, I return to teaching. It’s better than staring at the walls or reorganizing my silverware drawer again. Besides, there are only a few days left before vacation. The Old Man tells me it was getting difficult to find coverage for my classes, and that he actually taught a few himself, which the kids got a kick out of. I also rejoin the writers group, which has been meeting in my absence. They have a gift to welcome me back - it’s a collection of short stories by Richard Russo. One story in particular, “The Whore’s Child,” might be of interest, they tell me, since it’s about a writers group.

  The kids are anxious to share their new ideas. Jess has been working steadily on his bank robber novel and reads us a recent chapter excerpt where his blind protagonist ingratiates himself to the unsuspecting bank manager at a cancer survivor support group. Meredith has just completed a poem entitled “A New Font in Which to Write.” My favorite line is “The knots in her worry once anchored a cruise ship in St. Croix.” Dorian announces he’s purchased a book on TV writing and is outlining a script idea for a show I’ve never heard of. Kay and Marilyn tell me that Matt and Adam, who are not in attendance, have not been writing lately. Thanks to Rollie, the Winnebago has been their top priority. He’s even allowing them a ridiculous ribbon cutting ceremony after dinner. There they will unveil the vehicle in its new splendor.

  There’s of course talk of my injuries and Dan Hart and Nick Russo. The kids admit they don’t know how to feel about Nick’s return. He may be finally talking, they acknowledge, but he’s revealing nothing.

  “I don’t think he killed that girl,” says Booth. “There’s no way he’d return if he did it. He’d be in Canada or California by now.”

  “Ever hear of returning to the scene of the crime?” says Jess.

  “I don’t think he did it, either,” says Meredith.

  “I heard he’s getting expelled,” says Jess.

  Kay and Marilyn announce that they are undecided over Nick’s innocence. Dorian asks me if it’s unsettling to share a roof with Nick.

  “Because there is a possibility that he’s a murderer,” the boy adds.

  I’m tempted to share with them my talk with Nick the previous night. And about the photos he sent me. And about Austin Roarick and what Matt and Adam found in that notebook. But even I don’t know what it all adds up to. So I just tell them that Nick, like the rest of us, has some things to sort out. Meredith focuses on my use of the pronoun us.

  “What do you have to sort out, Grayson Loveland?” she asks.

  Before I can answer, she fires out another question, one she’s been asking since I met her at the beginning of the summer:

  “And for God’s sake, when can we read some of your stuff?”

  “Maybe after vacation,” I said, wondering if this is a lie on a few different levels.

  There’s a ribbon cutting ceremony that night. Under a cloudless summer sky, dozens of attendees – staff and students – gather to watch Matt and Adam start the Winnebago and rev its newly rebuilt engine. Then Rollie climbs behind the wheel and drives it around campus, chauffeuring anyone who wants a ride. From my front porch, I see the boys’ work has been successful, as my father circles the school countless times over the next hour. He sounds the horn whenever he passes the Homer House. Finally, when dusk begins to break and there’s no sign of the motorhome, I head back inside and shower and shave a
nd settle down with the Richard Russo story collection.

  The evening is quiet. I barely hear the Homer House boys through my walls. Every so often Ryan’s voice comes across, or Cliff’s guitar, or the barely audible sounds of the TV. I reach the fourth page break in the story I’m reading when I hear a vehicle approach the dorm. Its engine sounds steady and strong. Before looking out my window, I can tell it’s the Old Man. He beeps the horn a couple of times and I assume it’s me he’s summoning. Heading outside, I take a guess as to the purpose of his visit. With his refurbished house on wheels, he’s no doubt nostalgic and wanting to relive those nascent years with my mother. Or maybe ask me my plans after the upcoming August break. Yet when I see his face through the windshield, I know it’s more than this. He has a stern look about him, like he’s some military messenger sent to deliver brutally bad news.

  He barely waits for me to sit in the passenger seat before putting the vehicle in gear and pulling away from the dorm. Some of the boys are looking out at us from their window; a few others have stepped outside to watch. The Old Man wastes no time before explaining himself. He’s just been downtown at the police station to deposit Nicole’s cherished Tiffany’s ring. Having already been apprised of some recent developments - Matt and Adam’s dumpster discovery, my visit with Austin - the police and Rollie have been in regular contact.

  “They had some interesting news for me,” he says.

  Steering the vehicle off campus and onto Wildwood Road, Rollie reminds me of Quinton Sandrey, the Old Brookview teenager who recently overdosed and died in his sleep. Then he tells me that Quinton’s younger brother just came forward to the police, revealing how Quinton and his friends bought prescription drugs from Austin Roarick.

  “Sounds like Austin and Nick had themselves a little enterprise downtown,” he says. “I don’t know how the hell they hooked up - or where exactly their paths crossed - but what a partnership. Jesus Christ.”

  “Did this kid mention Nick?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  The Old Man emits mock laughter. We’ve been driving on Route 1, which is the main drag that runs through the shoreline. He’s been handling the vehicle well. Pulling into a ramshackle package store called Teddy’s Liquors, which has been there since I can remember, he parks as far away from the building as he can.

  “I feel like a kid again, driving this thing after all these years. Those boys did one hell of a job. You should hear them explain exactly what they did; it’ll hurt your goddamn head.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Trust me, this is the perfect place to be. I’ve been saving the best part of what I have to tell you for last, and God knows you’re going to need a drink before hearing this. I’m buying.”

  Leaving me in the vehicle for a few moments, he returns with a twelve-pack of fancy imported bottled beer with a rustic brown label that shows a bear playing a banjo. He mentions it’s what a lot of his staff drink and he’s come to enjoy it. Opening two of the bottles, he hands me one and tells me he feels like getting drunk this evening.

  “I haven’t been drunk in an awfully long time,” he says, clinking our beers together, “so what the hell?”

  He takes a long swig from the bottle and sets it down between his legs. I look around outside before taking a sip. Two overweight younger women exit Teddy’s, each carrying a box of booze. They load them into their pickup truck, which is parked in the only handicap spot, and drive away.

  “What do you think?” he asks, pointing to the beer.

  “I think this is the goddamn strangest father/son bonding we’ve ever done.”

  Half grinning, he grumbles to himself and finishes off the bottle. Then he wipes his mouth and tells me that according to the police, Austin Roarick has vanished. The expression on his face when he tells me this comes off as prideful, as though he’s just announced his firm decision to run for public office. He opens another beer and starts to drink.

  “We’re going to need something to eat to go with the beer,” he says. “Any requests?”

  There appears to be nothing more to say about Austin. When I ask for details, the Old Man merely repeats himself:

  “The police paid him a visit this evening and his place was wiped out. No sign of him anywhere. Neighbors know nothing. Hell, even J.R. III, according to the cops, knows nothing. Or so he says.”

  Images flash in my mind of Austin’s father relocating his son. Perhaps he made arrangements for Austin to be privately flown down to Mexico or to Nassau to live with his mother. I picture J.R. III dictating the terms. He’d tell his son to keep his mouth shut and do what he’s told, which would be to pack his bags, get his passport, and meet him in an hour. He’d lecture his son in their final moments together. He might even strike him some. Then maybe he’d make an awkward showing of affection, wanting to ask his son what the hell he did and why and how it came to that. He’d want to know what he did wrong as a parent, and did he, his son, know how goddamn difficult it was to be a parent. Austin wouldn’t respond; his stunned brain would be deluged on private thoughts on how it’s just as difficult being a son.

  Rollie goes back into Teddy’s and comes out with two bags of potato chips. We stay in the parking lot and drink beer and eat chips. The package store closes and a paunchy man in a tank top and jeans turns off the lights and locks the front door. Rolling down the window, the Old Man calls out to him that we’ll be leaving shortly. The man waves before giving us the thumbs-up sign. We stay there for over two hours, talking about music and literature and my recent injuries. There are no mentions of Chicago or my mother or the Hundred Acre School or any of its students or recent scandals or whether I’ll be staying on after the August break.

  My father is drunk during much of our talk. He seems at ease, and quite taken with the effects of the alcohol. The bathroom in the Winnebago is functional, so we each use it a couple of times. At a little past midnight, he suggests we head back to campus. All the beer is gone. He’s had a few more than me and needs me to drive. After a slurred tutorial on how to handle the vehicle, he switches seats with me and tells me to stick to the speed limit. Getting stopped by the cops, he says, would be a disaster for obvious reasons.

  The dark roads are deserted. And even though I’m buzzed, driving the thing proves easier than I imagined. When I look towards my father, I can see that he’s asleep, or passed out. His head is slumped forward into his chest and his breathing is loud enough to be heard above the din of the engine. He doesn’t stir when I shake his shoulder or raise my voice for him to wake up. So I continue driving, keeping the Winnebago straight and slow.

  It’s either the alcohol in my blood or being behind the wheel of what feels like a tank that gives me the idea to take a detour. Either way, before I know it, I’m parked directly in front of Austin Roarick’s condo unit. With the engine running, and Rollie snoring beside me, I sit for a few moments and watch the newly abandoned place. There’s a sense of relief now that Austin is gone. Yet as I think about our recent visit, and of our conversation as I stood in his home, I can’t help but feel a little spooked.

  By the time I pull the motorhome in front of my father’s house, it’s closing in on 1:00 a.m. He’s still asleep, his head now leaning against the passenger window. I go into his house where I find a white cotton blanket in the linen closet. After I cover him with it, I decline his seat and remove his sneakers. For a moment, I consider heading back to the Homer House to sleep in my own bed. But leaving him alone seems irresponsible. Besides, the blanket seems big enough for the two of us. So I stretch it across the driver’s seat and close my eyes. It’s the first time my father and I have slept under the same roof in years.

  . . .

  I’m still hungover after teaching my classes the next day when Dan Hart finds me in the
center of campus. He’s wearing aviator glasses and a black Carolina Hurricanes hat; there’s a limp in his step and his right hand is bandaged. Walking with him are his parents. His father has a thick head of light hair with grayish streaks running throughout, an athletic build, and the quiet confidence of an F.B.I. agent. His mother, the obvious source of her son’s looks, wears her blonde hair pulled back tightly, has golden skin, and the delicate, feminine body of a dance instructor. They’re both smiling those faint smiles that have an almost airbrushed quality to them, as though they’re last minute additions to their faces. Despite their reticence, no one would ever be able to tell that these are people whose daughter killed herself, and whose son has one failed attempt on record.

  Dan introduces me as his teacher as well as the overseer of the writers group. I shake hands with his parents, who ask me to call them T.J. and Lily. They wanted to meet me, Lily says, before heading back to North Carolina.

  “Danny tells us you’re from Chicago,” says Mr. Hart.

  “I moved back east at the beginning of the summer.”

  “Lucky for us you did,” says Mrs. Hart.

  Dan’s father, advancing on his wife’s sentimentality, tells me that his college roommate was from Chicago and he would visit him every so often in his younger years. He mentions streets and restaurants he recalls and asks whether I’m familiar with them. We discuss the city a little, its sports teams and blues clubs. Mrs. Hart asks about my injuries.

  “Nothing a few good prescriptions can’t fix.”

  “It was important for us to meet you, Gray,” she says. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning with Danny, and we wanted to put a face to your name.”

  Dan has been standing between his parents and shifting his weight back and forth while lifting his sunglasses up and down on his face.

  “So it looks like you’ll be missing my last two classes,” I point out.