Some Great Thing

by Colin McAdam

“Her ex.”

  “Yes?”

  “But still, you can’t judge people for what they do when they’re drunk. Is that the fish coming? That is such good timing.”

  WHEN THEY DEPARTED, they to a party, Simon to himself, he kissed Kwyet on either cheek and the corners of their lips touched. It was a confidence, a tactile contract, a formal recognition that when their lips met fully their animal skin would thrum.

  With smiles, grimaces, melancholy, and the aid of his tongue he spread her corner kisses over most of his face and neck. That was his primary occupation since arriving at his room. And when he kissed his fingers, her kisses could go anywhere.

  He had had too much cognac. Her friend had given him another hug, tight, and Kwyet had kissed his lips.

  Hotels are such honeycombs of frustration. Memories of happy couples, eyelashes palpating this pillow, a thousand elusive sounds, no one here for Simon. Kiss me wherever you like, Kwyet.

  If he presses his ear against this wall, he hears the elevator shaft, twang twang, but beyond it he hears whispers, a woman’s cough, a tap on, off. A hundred pseudo-private holidays in boxes. You are dull at home but when you pack yourselves into this public space you abandon your restraint. Why not let me see? I can hear you. I can hear your television moans. Why not let me see? Here, on the other side of this wall someone is having a bath. Hear that? Plish, plish, plish, plish, plish, plish, plish. I know that rhythm. Are you alone in there? I never got the name of Kwyet’s friend. Are you thinking of the same sporty swimmer, sir? Plish, plish, plish, plish, plish, plish, plish.

  Kiss me here, Kwyet.

  PROMISES OF PRIVATE PARTIES, see you in a month, my friend will be away, my friend really likes you, come and meet my friends, come whenever you like, I have lots of friends, we always have parties (they might not be your scene), sorry we couldn’t spend much time together, I can’t actually do coffee tomorrow, but please come again, again, again.

  He was having trouble with his shoes. Again. Try a shoe horn. Again.

  No need to despair. Plenty to do at home.

  SIMON FORMALLY APPROVED the application. The memo was submitted, one of Simon’s greatest: cogent, irresistible, successful. Leonard had to affix his approval.

  “There is money to be had from this, Leonard. There are military uses. The aerospace industry—just think how much money they can bring to you, to your neighborhood.”

  “One more veiled little threat from you, Struthers . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any idea what people think of you?”

  “Yes.”

  And the future was under way. He did it. Have you had a safe flight? Does your car run smoothly? Train on time? Windows intact? Are you comfortable in that office? It looks like the roof on your tiny little house withstands every storm.

  And can you see the man responsible?

  Look up up up.

  A FEW THINGS plagued him when he returned from Montreal, possibly thanks to the excess cognac. The old feelings about policy. Would he appear responsible when it was all built? Did Simon make that? Years away, when scientists, engineers were at work, would they be grateful to him? He was growing envious of some of the scientists. They would be working on the models, they would go into space, they would see how the city would age. Simon would be outside, as usual. He lost his breath when he let that thought cross his mind. Perhaps he could get some sort of a pass from Paul, carte blanche to watch the research once everything was under way.

  The idea, however, withstood his doubts, remained glorious. He imagined the wind roaring through the city. If age and its cure were only functions of wind, how silent, how pure, how balanced life would be.

  SHE KISSED HIM THERE, and there, the corners of his lips. “Come again,” she said.

  At home he waited for his glory to build.

  He waited for Kwyet to call.

  He waited six months. The old routines were starting again. Perhaps he was not as popular as he thought.

  My God, he thought of those kisses.

  He wandered, waited.

  5

  I DROVE TO Montreal to visit Kwyet. I asked if I could see her about my son. She was sweet. Said she hadn’t seen him. She had heard from him. Dirty postcards. Not dirty like you think—just funny postcards he had found and sent, smudged with dirty fingers like he had been living on the street. She let me read them.

  Dear Kwyet,

  I’m writing this near the airport. There’s a corner of the feild here you can lay on your back and the bellies of the planes blow your cheeks.

  I don’t understand the picture on this card.

  Love,

  Jerry McGuinty

  Dear Kwyet,

  Staying with a buddy. See the guy on the front? I got a tattoo, too.

  You don’t like tattoos, do you?

  Here’s an address if you want to write.

  Love,

  Jerry

  (The address was Cooper’s.)

  She said she wrote, told him he could visit her, asked him if he was all right, told him I’d be worried, his father would be worried.

  But he never visited. She was going to call me, she would have if he visited, but she didn’t want to interfere if he didn’t. How is your wife, she said, and I’m sorry, I will do anything I can.

  I wouldn’t want to lose my heart to beauty that complete, my friend.

  “I know you are his friend, but will you send my son to me?”

  “Yes, I told him you would be worried.”

  CHECK THIS OUT.

  I’m driving around my developments, and I veer off, absentminded, heading to the edge of the green belt. I’m driving along near the land I wanted, I see an airplane taking off and I think Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry. I coast by, shaking my head, and there to the left, I know I saw them, are dump trucks and men at work on what was supposed to be the fairway of a seventh hole. I see them but I coast on by, looking at the belly of the airplane, blowing out my cheeks.

  I believe with the deepest conviction that my son turned me into a moron.

  GOING TO WORK was about stakeouts, hunting, figuring things out, having a coffee, talking to street kids, policemen, eating at McDonald’s. My other work was nothing. I got served with a lawsuit or two over incomplete jobs. I got some subcontractors to finish things, and I lost a fortune. I dropped some plums, yes sir. But I had a fortune, my friend: rich. If you look closely at me now, here, under my eyes, my skin is lined with velvet, see. I could, and can, buy anything.

  So Jerry was my career for more than a year.

  I was closing in. I had my contacts, my agents, my ears on the ground. There was a new guy working at the Y who liked me. He said he knew Jerry and he would call me if he came in. He said Jerry was going around with a few different names these days: Tim, Johnny, Kevin. (I laughed at that last one: Kevin. Ha ha ha. I don’t know why.) If any of those Jerries came in, he would call me right away.

  The name-changing was a good sign, I learned. When kids, young guys, do that it usually means they’ve got some fake IDs lined up, that they’re growing into the smarter sort of cheat. I admire the smarter sort of cheat. Legitimate purposes, you see—that’s what he was cheating for. He was trying to get work. I found this young guy who did fake IDs for a lot of kids. Most of them are just trying to get into bars, but there are some, he said, who get IDs to get jobs, who don’t want their families to track them down through work or social insurance.

  I wasn’t exactly certain about all this. The ID kid was a little crook and he wasn’t telling me whether he knew Jerry or not. “I might know a Kevin, I might not.” But Edgar made me certain.

  Edgar was coming around every now and then, checking up on me, telling me who wanted me, who wanted to sue me, who had resigned and was now working for him. He was being kind: “Just giving you a heads-up, Jer.” I don’t know whether inside he thought he was a bit smart or superior, having escaped Kathleen and not having a son, but poor old Edg
ar was certainly not growing smarter.

  He comes around with a case of beer and news of some new lawsuit against me and we’re talking away, and he says:

  “Oh yeah, shit, Jer, I meant to tell you. I was down at Mickey D’s on Baseline the other day, you know, grabbing a Big Mac, and I get served by this young fella looks exactly like your Jerry. I’m like, you know, take . . . double take . . . doing a double take. What’s the fuckin expression?”

  “Was it him or not, Edgar? Christ.”

  “Well, no, he didn’t . . . I looked at him, but he . . . This kid was a Kevin. You know, across here: Kevin. Some of these young guys look alike.”

  “Yeah, well, that was my son, you fuckin heel.”

  “Your son’s named Jerry, Jerry, don’t start with your grumpy fuckin craziness again.”

  I got the exact address of the McDonald’s and went straight away. I knew I had him. When I was in the restaurant I looked carefully at everyone in uniform. I still didn’t know how he looked. He wasn’t emptying the trash, he wasn’t mopping. I looked at the people serving, one by one. I tried to see the guys making burgers in the back but I couldn’t see them properly.

  This one kid was mopping the floors. I went up to him and said, “Kevin working today?”

  “Kev? No.”

  “When does Kev come in?”

  “I don’t know. The manager does the schedules.”

  “Who’s the manager?”

  “Guy in the blue shirt.”

  I told the guy in the blue shirt, I said, “I’m looking for Kev. Is he in today?”

  “Kevin McClinty?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’s in tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s good news, my friend. I’m his buddy Johnny Cooper. Don’t tell him I’m looking for him. I want to surprise him.”

  I WAS HUMMING that night, I tell you with a tingle. Couldn’t sleep a wink. I was proud of him for having a job and I walked around my bedroom thinking Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, what a funny little kook. I was setting him up for a real surprise— he’d be expecting Cooper, if the manager spilled the beans, and then I, his father, would swing into view. That is a clever and sweet little surprise, my friend.

  So I go back to the McDonald’s at six thirty the next morning, but I’m too nervous to go in right away. I drive to another McDonald’s and sit on the can there for a bit. Then back I go to the other one, courage, bravery, through the door, and I see a young guy behind the counter who looks pretty familiar.

  Courage, my friend.

  Up I go to the counter slowly. He’s serving some people in front of me. There’s another little server guy saying, “Can I help you? Can I help you, sir?” but I pretend to be deaf or stupid and I stay in Kevin’s line.

  And then there’s nothing between me and my son but a low counter and a little beeping register.

  “Hi, Kev,” I said.

  I realized quick enough that the surprise wasn’t all that sweet for him.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” I said.

  JERRY WAS MY height now, taller in his McDonald’s hat, taller because I was leaning toward him. I was scaring him. I just wanted to touch him, hold him still.

  He didn’t say anything. He backed up, spun around, and ran.

  I jumped up on the counter and shouted after him. I tried to run but first I slipped on someone’s fuckin hash brown on the counter, and then when I landed the manager in the blue shirt shouted, “Hold it, Johnny!” and tried to get in my way. He was a stocky little guy, but, you know, look at these arms.

  I ran through the back where Jerry went, past all the buns.

  “Jerry! Jerry! How dare you run! How dare you run!”

  I ran through the garbage room, which he left all dark, and then BANG! through the door and I was out in the parking lot. There he was, running away.

  I found a shout from the earth beneath that parking lot, I tell you, a shout from the hole in the middle of everything.

  “JERRY MCGUINTY! JERRY MCGUINTY!”

  And he stopped.

  “Don’t you fuckin run from me!”

  “Don’t you fuckin come closer!”

  “Just fuckin wait!”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

  “Fuck you, what am I doing here! Why are you running?”

  “I don’t fuckin need you!”

  “Yes you fuckin do!”

  “No, I fuckin don’t!”

  We were about twenty feet apart. His hat fell near my feet.

  “Just wait!”

  “I’m waiting!”

  “I’ve been looking for you, Jerry. Fuck me, I’ve been looking for you!”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I don’t need you to ask me to.”

  “I don’t need you for anything.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t, fuck. I don’t need you. I’ve got a job.”

  “But your name’s Kevin!”

  “So?”

  “It’s depressing. I named you Jerry.”

  “I’m not you.”

  “But you’re not Kevin. Every Kevin I know has . . . has hair parted on the side!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Just take it easy for a minute, Jerry. Jesus, I’ve been running. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Stay there!”

  “If you stay there, I’ll stay here, Jerry. Just take it easy.”

  “It was that Edgar loser, wasn’t it? I knew he recognized me.”

  “Edgar’s an idiot.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I am an idiot. But that doesn’t mean, I mean, Jesus, Jerry, why do you run from me? I haven’t seen you in . . . I’ve been fuckin looking for you for more than a year!”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Shut your hole, little man. I’ve given up my life for you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You were a kid. You had a little chest like this, for fuck’s sake. How was I supposed to know you could survive like this, get a job, look after yourself? Every fuckin day I was just guessing you were alive, you little shit.”

  “Don’t call me a little shit, you FUCKIN ASSHOLE!”

  “Just take it easy.”

  “No! You don’t have a fuckin clue!”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I know I have no clue. No clue why you ran. I know you had a reason, but why are you still running? What’s your reason now?”

  “You want me to explain?”

  “Yes!”

  “No! It’s too late. It’s all too late. I don’t want to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But why? I just want to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everything’s . . . because your room’s empty.”

  “What?”

  “And I want to try to make toast for you, Jerry. I want to talk to you. You know. You can come over and I’ll make some toast for you. I can . . . Just take it easy. I could wake you up sometimes, or you could wake me up—I don’t know, kick my bed in the morning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I want you to tell me things. Can’t we just grab a coffee?”

  “No.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing!”

  “It’s . . . you know, it’s sad for me if you don’t like me. Because, look at you. How did you do it? You’re all tall. You look, you know, you look like one of the good guys, one of the popular guys. It’s sad for me if you don’t like me.”

  “Take it easy, Dad.”

  “I’m your dad.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s gone, Jerry.”

  “So?”

  “I thought you should know. I haven’t heard from her. You saw her fall or something, didn’t you? She was sick. She was a drunk, Jerry.”r />
  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “But she’s gone, buddy. And I . . . I haven’t been looking for her. I promise I haven’t been looking for her.”

  “So?”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “Who cares? No.”

  “If you come home, if you visit or whatever, it will just be me there.”

  “I’m not coming home.”

  “I’m not letting you go.”

  “I’m faster than you.”

  “I’m stronger than you and I know your name’s Kevin. I know you crash at the Y sometimes. I know your name’s Johnny and Tim, and I’ll catch you, Jerry, and I’ll sew you into my side. You’re not getting away from me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Can I see your tattoo?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to get a coffee?”

  “I’ve lost my job now, because of you.”

  “You haven’t lost your job.”

  “How can I work there now that you know I work there? You’re not catching me. You think you can catch me, but I’ve escaped from you and that fuckin house for a long time. I’m grown up. You think I can’t escape again? You have no right over me. You can’t sew me anywhere. You’re a fuckin weirdo. You’re a total stranger. I don’t live in your world. I won’t live in your house. I don’t want to see you. I have my own life. I was a kid, you fuckin idiot. I was scared all the time. Now I’m not. I don’t need to be scared like that any more. I don’t need to live in that fuckin house.”

  “But she’s gone.”

  “Well, so am I.”

  “Oh, don’t run, Jerry, goddamn it! You don’t have to be so dramatic. Don’t run! Don’t! ‘So am I’! Listen to yourself ! Come back and listen to yourself! Fuck, Jerry! Stop! I’ve got your hat! I’ve got your hat! You can’t get anywhere without your hat!”

  WELL, HERE’S HIS HAT.

  It wasn’t quite an anchor or a magnet. That clever trick of mine (“you can’t get anywhere without your hat”)—he didn’t quite fall for that. So here’s his hat as a funny memory of his days as Kevin.

  I’ll just grab a beer.

  I can’t tell you what a relief it was to see what he looked like. Everything was possible again. His voice was deep, yes, shoulders big, but he still had a bit of the puppy in him. When he said he wasn’t scared, his voice broke.