by Jim Kokoris
“Thanks for being a good guy today.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Right.”
I stood and stretched my back before unpacking my laptop and ever-present bottle of Jim Beam. I poured myself a small snort, pulled out my brand-new, old-school Rand McNally road atlas, and sat down to review our route.
Rather than proceed straight south through Illinois, I had decided to head due east and spend the next night in Indianapolis before turning south toward Louisville. I was looking forward to that particular stop. Kyle Baker, a neighbor of ours, played college basketball there, and Ethan (and secretly I) worshipped him. Other than possibly the wedding, seeing him and Kyle together again was going to be the highlight of the trip.
I pondered the route awhile longer, worried that Indianapolis wasn’t far enough, but decided to proceed anyway. We had time. I next went online to confirm our reservations at the Marriotts in Indianapolis and Louisville, then poured myself a second drink.
My planned late-night driving strategy was certainly going to put a crimp in my two-drinks-a-day bourbon prescription. Life with Ethan had made alcohol a necessity, a medication I carefully rationed. Two drinks, I coped; three drinks, I was drunk. And I didn’t want to become a drunk.
I sipped on number two slowly, and found my way to the girls’ Facebook pages, stopping at Karen’s first. There was not much new there. Just a comment about being seven days away from the Big Day. No new photos, no new comments from her. This wasn’t entirely surprising, considering she was getting married in a week and things were no doubt, hectic. I studied a photo of her and Roger taken last year somewhere in Spain or Austria or Greece, someplace that offered the perfect photo op. Both thin, athletic, smiling, confident. Karen, her blond hair pulled back, looked especially happy, her pretty face fully revealed to the camera. Like her mother, she was a quiet and guarded person, but in this photo at least, she seemed to be stepping out from behind something. I had had my doubts about Roger—I feared him a phony—but if she was happy, then I supposed I was happy.
I next checked out Mindy’s page, always a source of entertainment. Sure enough, it did not disappoint. There were new photos of her in various costumes, and a link to a video from the last show of the season. She had once again performed a parody commercial for an adult diaper for busy executives who didn’t have time to go to the bathroom. The product, Power Pads, would inflate in the middle of a meeting. Though I’d seen this bit before, I never tired of watching it.
The scene opened with Mindy in a dark, conservative, business suit, arguing a case before a packed courtroom. When the judge, guest star Will Ferrell, suggested taking a recess, Mindy waved his request away.
“I don’t need a recess, Your Honor! I’m ready to go!” Then she closed her eyes, and her pants inflated to a ridiculous size while a voice-over said, Time is money, so don’t piss it away! Power Pads, for the on-the-go who-have-to-go—but have no time. The sketch closed with Will Ferrell’s pants ballooning as he yelled, “Let’s all go!” to the camera.
I watched the sketch one more time, laughed quietly, then clicked on another link: Extreme Makeover: Home (Crystal Meth Lab) Edition. This bit featured Mindy as a hyperactive, type-A guru making over a home-based crystal meth lab. “Working from home is always a challenge!” Mindy, hands on hips, explained to a fat trailer trash couple and an ominous-looking Hispanic man with dark sunglasses, “This is more than a meth lab; this is your home! And we’re going to make it your castle!”
I swallowed another laugh and shook my head. There she was, Mindy, our little pixie, who didn’t actually speak until she was almost four years old, who didn’t actually have any nonimaginary friends other than Karen until she was six—on the Internet, on TV every Saturday night, in magazines, on websites, closer to famous than almost famous. How this all happened, how she went from math club president to this and how I felt about it, I wasn’t sure, but there she was, my little buddy.
I stared at my daughter’s face for a moment, remembered how she would make me howl with impersonations of her teachers, her mother, me, even Ethan, then turned off my laptop, and reluctantly returned to the road atlas. I had some more work to do.
Driving two, maybe three hours a day seemed about the best we could manage. In addition to Indianapolis and Louisville, our schedule included stops in Knoxville, and then Asheville, North Carolina. Once I reached Asheville, I planned to make a final and frantic Sherman-esque march to the sea and Charleston. Factoring weather delays, traffic, Ethan meltdowns, my increasingly active bladder, and possibly, hopefully, stops at local attractions, I figured on arriving in Charleston by Thursday—Friday, at the absolute latest.
The second half of the trip, the drive up north, wasn’t nearly as well planned out. I studied the map, traced a route, and then put the atlas away. I couldn’t bring myself to think that far ahead. Just take the next step.
I brushed my teeth and gave myself a long-overdue once-over in the bathroom mirror. Still tall, still thin. My blue eyes, I noted, were now a dull, indiscriminate rainy-day color. Was my nose always this big? And my hair, the gray was spreading like a contagion. I was, at fifty-seven, an old man getting older. A line from some required reading book (Gatsby? Fitzgerald?) came to mind: How did you go bankrupt? Two ways: gradually, then suddenly. The same could be said about growing old. I stared at myself, took serious stock: John Nichols, ex-basketball player, ex-author, ex-philanderer, ex-husband, ex-high-school English teacher.
“A. Lot. Of. Exes,” I said, and shut the light off.
Returning to the room, I found an appropriate space at the foot of the bed and lined my feet up for my free throws. I did this sometimes. Sometimes this helped. (Note: in my prime, high school, when I could run a five-minute mile, party half the night and still make it through a three-hour practice, then come home and play two hours more in the driveway, I was an excellent free-throw shooter. I couldn’t play defense much, couldn’t jump, had trouble fighting through picks, but I could shoot, as my teammates used to say, and as my still high-school record of forty-three straight free throws could attest, “like a motherfucker.” I attributed this less to form and ability—though both were pretty good—than to an otherworldly focus that allowed me to shut out the noise, my thoughts, my past, present, and future, the universe, when I stood at that line. My coach at Marist High, Coach Leahy, amazed and confused by my one-trick-pony act, once asked what I thought about when I shot, and I gave him a pure and truthful answer: nothing.)
So I squared my shoulders, aligned my feet, bounced the imaginary ball exactly three times, stared at the imaginary basket hanging over the door of the bathroom, and waited for my mind to empty, the nothingness to come. I then shot, and when I did, I saw the arc of the ball, saw it rotate, saw it sail through the air, saw the bottom of the net sweetly flick as if an angel had just breathed on it.
I made ten straight, and while this helped muffle the drumbeats in my head, I was still too wired for sleep, so I searched for other diversions. Other than my bourbon, I had brought only two with me: a CD—Exile on Main St., by the Rolling Stones—and a book, a dog-eared paperback, Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon. I couldn’t envision a circumstance that would allow me to play the CD, since Ethan hated all music except for Christmas carols, which we listened to the brink of madness year-round, but the book, I thought, would be a good companion. I pulled it out and slid into bed next to my man.
Blue Highways is a memoir of a middle-aged man’s solitary and somewhat desperate trip through the back roads of America. Over the course of his journey, he stops in offbeat towns and meets offbeat people while searching for internal change after a failed marriage. I had read it a number of times, and it fueled a desire in me to do the same thing: to travel, to see, to listen, to write, to rebuild.
For more than nineteen years, my life with Ethan had kept me from taking such a trip, but now here I was, making the most of things and my Marriott points. I opened the book and, for a while, disappear
ed into faraway back roads.
* * *
I had one of my Ethan-is-talking-normal dreams that night. I had had these dreams often when he was younger, but over time they had grown rare. Occasionally, however, they still came upon me during times of inner turbulence, so it was no surprise that I would have one now.
Once again we were back at our home in Wilton, sitting on the deck, having breakfast. As always it was warm and sunny, but off in the distance I heard the first faint peals of thunder. When Ethan heard the thunder, he looked up from his bowl of cereal and spoke in the clear, sweet voice that existed only when I slept: “Where are we going, Dad? Where are we going?”
I woke immediately after hearing his voice, those words, that question, and lay still, pretending I was okay, convincing myself I was fine. But when I heard the sound of the Doubt and Guilt rounding the bend, picking up steam, I got up, made my way over to the foot of the bed, and searched for the free-throw line.
2
I was awake at seven, but still in bed, bloodshot eyes closed, jaw locked, mind doing wind sprints: the trip, the wedding, the relatives, my family, Mary’s family, Ocean View. Over the years, I had become quite good at compartmentalizing, at dealing with first-things-first, and I forced myself to do just that now.
Today’s lead story: Karen’s wedding, ostensibly, the reason for this trip. I was the father of the bride and was paying, per an easily negotiated agreement, only one-third of the costs. This was fair, I thought, considering that Karen made gobs of money at the ripe old age of twenty-nine trading bonds in New York and was marrying Roger Nelson, a rich man from a blue-blooded family. The Nelsons had money, lots of it, along with summer, winter, and fall homes, all of which, according to Mindy, looked just like Downton Abbey, “except bigger.”
I knew I would have to give a father-of-the-bride speech, something funny, warm, wise; part Atticus Finch; part Steve Martin. I had asked Mindy to help me with this, but the subsequent toast she had produced required that I wear an asbestos suit. Not thinking that practical (note: I look terrible in asbestos suits), I tossed it.
I had been putting the speech off for weeks, so consumed was I with my Overall Plan, but time was running short. Attention must be paid.
I considered starting off with some funny stories about Karen as a little girl, but at that early hour, I couldn’t think of any. I suspect I couldn’t think of any such stories at any hour because, truth be told, Karen wasn’t funny. Mindy got all the funny in our family and then some. I would have no problem telling stories about Mindy, but she wasn’t the one getting married, and I suspected my little buddy never would.
I could tease Karen, tell everyone how, at eleven, she had shook my hand and said, “You must be very proud,” after I learned my first and, as it would turn out, only novel was being published. But that wouldn’t be entirely fair nor true since after a hesitation, she did offer up a quick hug. I didn’t think she would appreciate that story. Karen didn’t like to be teased.
Karen was Karen. Beautiful, serious, ambitious, an over-achiever; a Republican’s republican. Great shape. Scores of 5K runs; three marathons completed. A runner’s runner. Cool, distant, almost never cried, a hard-nosed head cheerleader, a not-very-benevolent queen bee. Probably, a bitch’s bitch. But she was my oldest child, voted most likely to make me a grandfather, and, views on health-care reform notwithstanding, I loved her dearly.
Despite my efforts to compartmentalize, to focus on Karen, my thoughts invariably shifted to Ethan, still asleep next to me. I worried how he would behave at the wedding. He was capable of anything. Visions of a meltdown, complete with screaming and food throwing, appeared. I had to be prepared for a worst-case scenario, make sure contingency plans were in place, hope that the 9-1-1 in Charleston had quick response times. Karen had been lukewarm to the idea of his coming to the reception. I knew I was taking a risk.
I lay there for a moment longer, overwhelmed, my mind spinning, my life pinning me down. I then performed my morning ritual for the past nineteen years: I cursed God, then prayed to Him and pushed myself out of bed.
* * *
After Ethan woke up and after I got him ready for the day (bath, brush teeth, deodorant); and after I got him dressed (orange Illini T-shirt, navy-blue sweat pants, white socks, black running shoes); and after we ate at a Waffle House across from the hotel (three pickles, orange juice, four sausage links, and half a pancake for Ethan, several pots of black coffee for me); and after I managed to mention to the waitress that I had played basketball at Illinois (“I was just a walk-on, no biggie, but I played some”); and after we walked around the student quad, and after I realized there was really nothing to see in the student quad; and after an increasingly restless Ethan asked, “Do. Now?” exactly 104,000 times and I questioned the sanity of my late-night driving plan with always-restless Ethan exactly 104,000 times; and after I ignored Mary’s phone call, presumably asking where I was, we found ourselves back in the king-size bed at the Courtyard. It was all of ten o’ clock.
“Do. Now?” Ethan asked.
“I don’t know, maybe go swimming? They have a pool here.”
“No! Do. Now?”
“I don’t know, maybe watch TV? SportsCenter? Top Ten is on in the morning.”
“Do. Now?”
“I don’t know, maybe tie some sheets together, make a noose, hang myself?”
“Do. Now?”
I knew where this was going. All roads eventually led there. I took a deep breath, considered increasing my daily Beam ration, and said, “I don’t know, Ethan. What do you want to do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Stinky Bear.”
* * *
Stinky Bear was a sassy, horny little teddy bear, full of insightful and often (depending on the size of my Jim Beam ration) outrageous comments about life, love, and the state of civilization. He spoke in a high and mildly irritating falsetto voice, his breathless enthusiasm inspired, in part, by Dick Vitale, the excitable college basketball commentator, and Austin Powers, the excitable international man of mystery. I had created his character years ago to help wile away the hopeless weekend hours when Ethan wasn’t in school and respite care was not available. Stinky Bear amused Ethan and me for years and was regarded, along with his mother, Red Bear (a relatively soft-spoken, alcoholic teddy bear with a British accent), and Grandpa Bear (a no-nonsense African American teddy bear who sounded, I was told, or at least liked to believe, like Morgan Freeman) as members of the family.
“What. Do. Stinky Bear?” Ethan asked.
I was lying down on the hotel bed, surrounded by all three bears, Ethan sitting crossed-legged next to me, rocking back and forth. I could tell a tense mood was rapidly coming on, the new surroundings taking a toll. He needed a good dose of the Bears to set him right.
I picked up Stinky and bounced him on my stomach. He was the smallest of the bears and wore a sleeveless red jersey with the number 1 on the front, and matching red shorts. While the other bears all played major roles in the long-running series, Stinky Bear was the unequivocal star of the show.
“A little of this, a little of that!” I answered Ethan in Stinky Bear’s trademark high-pitched voice.
This general answer would not do. “What. Do. Today?” Ethan asked again. When it came to Stinky Bear’s life, Ethan wanted the nitty-gritty, the who, what, where.
“Well, I got up and brushed my teeth, then I went and had some breakfast. I ate three pancakes and some not-so-crispy bacon at the Waffle House. I saw you eating there with your dad. What a handsome and distinguished gentleman! You’re so lucky to have him as a father! So very lucky! Did you know he played basketball here at Illinois? The waitress now knows, and she seemed very unimpressed.”
“What. Next?”
“Well, after I ate, I passed some pretty big gas!” I made a loud fart noise with my mouth.
Ethan smiled, his teeth slipping over this bottom lip. “What. Say?”
“I say, excuse me! That was really stinky! Oh man!
That one was out of the park!”
“Home. Run!” Ethan said, laughing.
I picked up Grandpa Bear. He was the largest and rattiest-looking. One of his eyes was missing, and an ear was crooked. He had been Mindy’s, which had to make him close to twenty-seven.
“Passing gas like that! You a disgusting excuse for a human being,” Grandpa Bear said in his Morgan Freeman voice.
“Hey, Gramps, I’m not a human being, in case you haven’t noticed! I’m a stinky, farty teddy bear. I’m not apologizing. I say what I think. I’m brash. I’m crass. I’m Stinky Bear, baby!”
“What kind of grandson are you? You embarrass me, and embarrass the family.”
“Sing!” Ethan demanded.
“No, I don’t think I’m in the mood.…”
“Sing!”
“I don’t think I can muster the strength.”
“Sing!”
Ethan, I knew, would not be deterred, so Grandpa Bear dutifully cleared this throat and launched into the politically incorrect “Old Black Joe.”
I’m comin’
I’m comin’
For my head is bending low.
I hear the gentle voices callin’,
“Old Black Joe.”
Before Ethan could demand a second verse, I picked up Red Bear. She had been a gift from one of his speech therapists some ten years before, and he was still wary of her. I suspected it had something to do with the tone of her British accent, which could be intimidating and condescending, even though she was pretty much a tramp.
“Oh please, not that insufferable song.” She sighed.
“Oh, what’s the matter with you now, another one of your mysterious headaches?” Grandpa Bear asked. He made quote marks with his paws when he said the word headaches.
“A touch of the flu, I believe.” Red Bear coughed.