Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  “Fair enough.”

  “Anyway, it’s that first hour that always wigs me out. The bishop invites members to come up and testify in front of the congregation. Kids my age come up, but sometimes there are even nine and ten year-olds who do it. They start talking about their love for the Lord, all this holy roller shit, and they are bawling their eyes out. We’re talking full rapture mode.”

  “Sounds like you’re a few venomous snakes and a mason jar of strychnine away from a genuine End Times party.”

  “I know, right?”

  I point at my face, trying to be stoic. “See this, Jack?”

  “What?”

  “This is me not looking surprised.”

  “Well played,” Jack says. He approaches the garage. “So, we done for now?”

  “Done?” I slide open a small panel to the left of the garage door, type in the security code. The door begins to shut as I walk back out onto the driveway. “We’re just getting started.”

  “Why am I not liking the sound of that?”

  “If the lies are going to end, then let’s end them all.” I walk to the passenger-side door of the Beast. “But you’re driving.”

  Jack walks around to his side of the Oldsmobile, opening his door. He looks over the roof at me. “And to where exactly am I driving?”

  We slide into the car, shut our doors. Like most cars back then, the ’68 Olds 442 Coupe came equipped with only lap belts, so neither of us buckles our restraints. Plus, I think we’ve established that no matter what we do to actively or passively protect ourselves, automobiles are nothing but randomly dangerous motherfuckers.

  “You sure you don’t just want to be surprised when we get there?” I ask.

  Jack starts the car. “I think I’ve reached my quota on surprises.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “We’re going to go visit your grandma.”

  “Debbie?”

  “No, Tammy. Laura’s mother.”

  Chapter ninety-three

  Tammy has company, and it’s the worst kind of company. A white Suburban with Pennsylvania plates sits in her driveway.

  “Stay in the car,” I say to Jack.

  “But why?”

  “Laura is here.”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m just afraid things might get ugly, and I’d rather keep you out of the line of fire.”

  “Roger that,” Jack says.

  I knock on the front door. Three little mounds of curls, each of varying heights, peek out the picture window to the left of the door. They look at me, stick out their tongues, and then scurry away giggling wildly to one another. I knock on the door again.

  Someone fiddles with the lock as the doorknob starts to rotate. The door swings open.

  “May I help you?” the man says.

  He’s a little taller than me and a whole lot heavier—not morbidly obese, more your typical middle-aged thickness around the face and torso, like Kevin James in The King of Queens. Much like Doug Heffernan did with the sassy-hot (cue Saved by the Bell reference) Stacey Carosi, this guy outkicked his coverage by landing Laura Elliot. He’s what we used to call in high school and college “OC,” as in “over-cheeving.”

  I offer him my hand. “I’m guessing you’re Ian Powell.”

  To Ian’s credit, he accepts my gesture. His large flesh mitt swallows my childlike hand. “I don’t have to guess who you are, Hank.”

  “Look, if we came at a bad time—”

  “You most certainly did.”

  “Ian, behave!”

  Her voice is like an emollient, instantly diluting the testosterone in the room. She comes around the corner, steps around Ian’s left side, and gives me a hug.

  “Hi, Hank.”

  Laura’s curly hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, so her bare cheek brushes upside mine as she pulls me in. I put my chin on her right shoulder. I could swear her sweater smells like movie theater popcorn. As inappropriate as it might be for me to respond with one of those long, swaying, eyes-closed hugs in which both people exhale audibly as if they’ve been holding their breath waiting for this one embrace, I do it anyway. I can’t help but notice Ian is still staring me down. This pisses me off. In retribution, I decide to cop a little bit of a feel. With my right hand hidden from Ian’s view, I give a quick squeeze just above Laura’s waistline—partly to make sure she’s done her best to keep off the back fat but mostly so I can reach down and sneak my pinky finger just inside the rim of her jeans. As I pull away, with Ian still staring me down with his oblivious, bloated face, I brush my index and middle fingers subtly underneath the curve of Laura’s left breast.

  “Hello, Laura. What are you doing here?”

  “Ian and I just got back from seeing Robots with the girls. Good movie.”

  This at least explains the popcorn smell. “That’s not what I mean. What are you doing here, in Empire Ridge.”

  “Wait,” Laura says. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what? It’s not like you and I are pen pals.”

  Laura’s voice cracks. “It’s my mother, Hank. She died last night.”

  “B-but how?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Not leukemia?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought she beat the disease way back when you were a kid.”

  “You remember that?”

  “You told me she went into remission when you were like twelve years old.”

  “That’s right. But it came back. It was too fast this time, too strong. She just couldn’t fight it. We didn’t even get here in time to see her conscious. She was on a ventilator, and my brother is stuck in China on a jobsite.”

  “Oh God, Laura. I’m so sorry.”

  “I was the one who took her off life support. I was the one who had to pull the…”

  Laura buries her face in her hands, sobbing. My instinct is to comfort her, but I step back, conceding her personal space to Ian. He nods in vague appreciation of my gesture, wrapping his arm around her. Laura turns her face away from me.

  “Maybe come back later, Hank?” Ian says.

  I nod. “Uh, yeah. That’s probably best.”

  Ian shuts the door behind me. I see Jack in the car. He looks at me, shrugging his shoulders with a typical teenage what-the-fuck expression.

  The front door opens. “Hank, please, wait!”

  I turn to her. “Now is not the time for this, Laura.”

  “For what?” she says, grabbing my arm. “You came here to see my mom. Why?”

  “It can wait.”

  “Until when? She rises from the dead?”

  “I didn’t really come here for Tammy’s benefit. I came here for—”

  “Jack!”

  “What?”

  “Is that my…” Laura’s left hand is on her mouth, her right hand pointing at the sixteen-year-old boy now standing behind me in front of the car. “Are you, Jack?”

  I lean in toward Laura, my chin tilted. “He knows,” I whisper.

  Laura shoves me out of the way, practically bounding toward Jack. But then she stops suddenly. They stand there, face-to-face, both afraid to speak. This moment is exactly as awkward as I imagined it would be.

  I step between them. “Jack, this is Laura. Laura, this is Jack.”

  Jack reaches out with his right hand. Laura grabs it with both of her hands. She looks at Jack’s hand, rotating it like an archaeologist carefully studying a lost artifact. She continues looking at his hand, then his face, then his hand again.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you…Jack.”

  “Uh, uhhh…” he mutters. “Same here, Mrs. Powell.”

  “Can you at least call me Laura?” she says, wiping away her tears.

  “Depends,” Jack says.

  “On what?
”

  “Can you give me my hand back?”

  Laura laughs. She releases his hand. “You came at a difficult time, Jack. My mother, your, uh…”

  “My grandmother?”

  “Yes. It’s just that…well, we lost her yesterday. It’s been a rough twenty-four hours on us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You and Hank want to come inside for a little bit?”

  “Oh no,” Jacks says, shaking his head. “I don’t…I-I don’t want to impose.”

  Laura looks at me, then back at Jack. “Jack, I think you’ve earned the right to be an imposition for a very long time. Besides, I want you to meet a few people.”

  Jack steps back cautiously, his hands in the air like someone is holding a gun to his back. “Look, Laura, this is all happening a little too fast for me. Like you said, it’s been a rough twenty-four hours. I don’t think I’m ready to jump right in and chat up your relatives just yet.”

  “I totally understand and respect that,” Laura says. “All I’m looking for is a guy who’ll wear a dress and drink some tea.”

  “Excuse me?” Jack says.

  Laura nods toward the front door. “You got three half-sisters in that house who are going to love you.”

  Chapter ninety-four

  “This is the worst idea in the history of ideas.”

  “Oh shut up and paddle,” Beth says to me.

  Jack was the one who suggested the canoe trip the day after Tammy Eliot’s funeral, and of course nobody was in a position to tell him, “No way in hell!” or “Are you fucking insane?” A seven-mile combined Fitzpatrick and Powell family float down the Sycamore River. Two husbands who can barely stand to be in the same zip code. Two wives who’ve hated one another for going on two decades. What could possibly go wrong?

  The twins and Laura’s two youngest daughters were deemed too young for the trip, so we left them with Mom and Gillman. Our flotilla comprises four canoes. Beth and I lead the way, followed by Laura and Ian, Jeanine and Sasha, and then Jack and his half-sister Cassie. Cassie is the same age as Sasha. With their sandy-blond hair and gymnast builds, they could pass for cousins if not sisters. Jeanine and Jack have paddled a good half hour ahead of us by now; probably already out of their canoes and raiding the picnic baskets.

  “Hey, Hank, when you taking your skirt off?”

  We’ve covered about five of the seven miles. Ian has been harassing me since about mile two. He started the trip with a twelve-pack of Yuengling and just cracked open his eleventh lager.

  “You got me, Ian. I’m obviously a woman.”

  “Seriously,” Ian says. “Who goes canoeing without drinking beer? That’s like cookies without milk, or a Philly steak and cheese without cheese.”

  “Or Pennsylvania without assholes,” I say under my breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘I think I see some tadpoles.’”

  “Hey now,” Beth says, splashing me with her paddle. Some of the water runs down the small of her back. Although it’s spring and there’s still a chill in the air, she’s wearing denim shorts and a bikini top. The goose bumps on her skin are incredibly distracting. “You need to behave.”

  “If you only knew,” I say, grinning more than smiling.

  We round the bend just northeast of the canoe livery. Thirty feet up, the rusted iron-truss bridge casts a stern, judgmental shadow over the rippling echoes of my past sins. I feel like it’s even mocking me a little.

  Then again, that might just be Ian’s drunk ass.

  “This bridge is sweet!” he says. “Anybody ever jump off it?”

  “It’s illegal,” I say.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Plenty of stupid kids have jumped off the thing.”

  “You ever see it?”

  “I’ve done it.”

  “No way. Your scrawny little ass has jumped off those train tracks?”

  “Not the train tracks.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I jumped off the very top of the bridge.”

  “Stop it, Hank,” Laura says. She’s also wearing denim shorts but with a one-piece bathing suit minus the distracting goose bumps, thank God.

  “Stop what?” I say.

  “Encouraging him.”

  “Who’s encouraging him? I do believe I explicitly said that jumping off this bridge is stupid.”

  A giant splash interrupts our argument as Ian swims for shore.

  “Ian, no!” Laura shouts.

  “Do something,” Beth says to me.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go after him.”

  “I’m not jumping in there. It’s April. South Bend was still having snow flurries last week. If Ian wants to get hypothermia, that’s his business.”

  Beth points up at the bridge. “Hypothermia is the least of his problems.”

  Ian stands on the bridge, already at the level of the train tracks.

  “Just jump from there, buddy,” I shout.

  “You’d like to see me do that, wouldn’t you? That way you can always say that you were the one who made the real jump while I pussied out.”

  “You think this is a contest? Really?”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  “Step into my world, Ian. My life has sucked—a lot. It’s getting better now, and I’m not wasting my time getting in a pissing contest with you or anyone else. I’m fine with the cookie-cutter house in the suburbs and the minivan. I’ll fucking hit from the green tees all day long and not give a shit. Hell, come down here, let’s drop our pants and just whip it out. You probably have a bigger dick than me. You don’t need to prove anything.”

  “You don’t get it,” Ian says.

  “Then tell me—what am I missing?”

  Ian stands on the edge of the tracks, looking down at the water thirty feet below. “I don’t need to prove anything, huh? Step into my world, Hank. For sixteen years my wife has had a son by another man. Up until a month ago, I thought she had given the baby up for adoption, not shipped him off to her high school sweetheart’s mother for safekeeping.”

  I turn to the other canoe. “What is he talking about, Laura?”

  She ignores me. “Please, honey, just come down from there!”

  “You didn’t tell him who Jack’s father was until last month?”

  “Surprise!” Ian shouts. He moves quickly up the ironworks. The rivets and joints give secure footing all the way up. He reaches the top. “But that’s not all. Hey, Roddy, tell our contestant what he’s won. Well, Bob, in addition to Ian’s wife never telling him about her little bastard, she’s also still carrying a torch for the birth father.”

  Holy shit.

  Laura looks mortified. Beth looks like she wants to rip Laura’s mortified face off. And here I am, my hands cupped around my mouth, still trying to talk down this sauced idiot.

  “Ian!” I shout. “How about you just shut the fuck up?”

  “What did you say to me?”

  I sneak a glance at my audience. Laura has her face in her hands, hiding from the world. Beth is still staring daggers into the back of Laura’s head. Looks like I’m on my own.

  “I said, shut the fuck up. First off, if you ever call Jack a bastard again, I’ll drive my fist so far down your throat you’ll be shitting my fingernails. Secondly, you have a wife who loves you, and three beautiful daughters. Is it worth throwing all that away doing some drunken stunt just because you got your feelings hurt?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said, Hank? She still loves—”

  “I heard what you said. So fucking what? Newsflash—she’s got no shot with me. But there are three girls out there who love their mommy and daddy, who love their family. Answer me this, Ian—do you love your wife?”

 
“With all my heart.”

  “Then get down here and tell Laura to get over herself.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It’s not that hard either.”

  Ian stands in silence atop the bridge.

  “How long has he been up there?” Laura says. I look at my watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “I can’t just sit here. I need to do something.”

  “I think you’ve done plenty,” Beth says.

  “Stay out of this,” Laura says.

  “Make me, you stupid—”

  “Ladies, please,” I interrupt. “Not that I haven’t dreamed about you two getting in another half-naked catfight, but now is not the time.” I cast my eyes upward, nodding. “Besides, look.”

  Ian has backed away from the edge.

  “Hey, Hank,” he says.

  “Yeah, Ian?”

  “I’m sorry. Jack is a great kid.”

  “Apology accepted, and I know he is.”

  “I’m also sorry this got so out of hand.”

  “It happens.”

  “I think I’m coming down now,” Ian says.

  “Good to hear.” I take off my hat and run my hands through my hair. Closing my eyes, I let out an exhausted sigh.

  “Hey you,” Beth says.

  I open my eyes. She stands above me, having somehow traversed the length of our canoe undetected. I bury my face in her cleavage, wrapping my arms around her waist and clasping my hands behind her. She kisses the top of my head.

  “Hey there, fellas,” I say into my wife’s breasts.

  “I think your dick is probably bigger,” she whispers.

  Chapter ninety-five

  “I mean, really, who stays married for ten years?”

  “Apparently we do.”

  I dip Beth on the dance floor. After surprising her at St. Benjamin with a vow renewal ceremony—highlighted by Father Fish, our entire wedding party, and Joan and Stan being nice to one another—I rented a limo and took everyone up to Indianapolis for the night.

  We’re partying at the Rathskeller, a pseudo-German biergarten tucked on the backside of the Athenaeum Building, which was designed and built in the nineteenth century by Kurt Vonnegut’s grandfather. We’ve had a lot of beer to drink and even more food, the latter of which has adhered to the four main Bavarian food groups: breaded meat, sausage, potatoes, and gravy. Tonight’s band is Polka Boy, a bunch of middle-aged white dudes armed with accordions, trumpets, keyboards, guitars, bass players, and drums that do a polka twist on just about every conceivable music genre. At this moment, fulfilling my request, they’re muddling through a bizarre rendition of Hootie and the Blowfish’s “Hold My Hand.”