Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  As the gas pumps out of the hose, I try calling my mother once more, to alert her of our imminent arrival, but she doesn’t answer. Gibson’s window is down and she notices my wince after I put my phone away.

  “She still won’t answer?” asks Gibson, a trace of worry in her otherwise flat monotone.

  “No. I don’t know what’s going on. We were talking like every five minutes and now nothing. Try your dad.”

  Gibson rolls her eyes. “Graves, you do it. I hate calling him.”

  But he punts, too. “I don’t want to call him.”

  The tank full, I reset the nozzle and take my receipt. Then I get back in and try again to get some help. “Somebody please call him, okay? I want to know what’s going on and why my mother isn’t answering the phone.” The young these days! So petty about the small stuff.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” Gibson huffs, yanking out her phone. “Anything to shut you up.”

  Some gratitude! She has zero appreciation for all I’ve done on her behalf. I reach over and grab the phone from her. “I’ll do it myself, thank you.”

  “Give me my phone, asshole!”

  She begins clawing at me and I quickly relent before she gouges my eyes out with her nail-polished talons. Maybe Marx was right about the bourgeois family—it’s just a collection of strangers configured to consume as many goods and services as possible. I’d ask Graves whether he agrees but I don’t really want to hear his exegesis on Marx or anything else, and so I start the engine and fall into a brooding silence.

  “He didn’t answer,” Gibson mumbles, gazing down at her phone.

  I say nothing. In a few minutes we’ll be home and all that is unknown will drop away and bare, cold reality will be revealed. My mother deserves far, far better. Assuming it’ll take place, should I even bother going to the wedding tomorrow? Do I want to see these people again? Another life beckons…once I find Lola, we can talk about our plans. Starting over seems like the best route to take, especially for a pair of newlyweds. Writing instruction is a miserable job and colleges are always seeking failures to fill the slots no sane person wants. We could basically select any city and move there. As a faculty spouse Lola can resume her studies tuition-free…just as she is now at Notting College as a faculty child. How many make that transition within the span of an academic year? Few, I’ll bet.

  A big dollop of water lands on my windshield, followed by another. We’re crossing the Huguenot Bridge, and I wonder if somehow the river hasn’t splashed up from below, which seems highly unlikely.

  “It’s raining?” Gibson asks excitedly.

  “Is it? It’s not supposed to.” I gaze up at the sky. It does seem suddenly more overcast.

  “Weather forecasting is pure guesswork,” Graves chimes in from the backseat, as a few more drops fall down.

  “It’s been like a month!” Gibson gushes, putting her hand on a window. “I wish I could run around in it.”

  Now that would be a spectacle, Gibson soaking wet! I almost stop the car to indulge her, and me. But I can’t betray Lola, and so I drive on. A torrent then batters us for around forty seconds, and I really can’t see the road. Our spirits lift, however, because the rain is an omen, despite the fact that it ends as mysteriously as it began. Just a passing shower, a stray bit of moisture in an otherwise parched land, proving that we can’t know the future. At least I hope that’s true, because I’ll need more than a weird weather pattern to alter my present trajectory.

  23

  Both cars, Corvette and Acura, are in the driveway like normal, and the garage door is shut tight as a drum. Standing outside my house, I don’t notice even a leaf out of place. Still, until I know my mother is safe and sound, I won’t rest, which is why I have the gun stuck in my pants again, just in case. Gibson and Graves push on ahead of me toward the front door, but I linger back, inspecting the lawn, making sure there aren’t midget rebels behind the trees. Maybe the worst has passed and Avery has relented in his pursuit of Graves, but I doubt it. He really shouldn’t stay here tonight, unless Avery has been arrested. Otherwise Graves is putting us all at risk. Perhaps he knows this and is making plans to evacuate…I could take him with me to the Chicory Motel, maybe get him his own room. But then he’ll become my responsibility. No thanks.

  When I get inside, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. One belongs to Mead, the other to Graves, and I decide to duck down to the basement and avoid what could be a confrontation. I loop around to the stairs by taking the main hallway, and then dart for the door, hoping no one will notice me.

  Too late.

  “Eddie?” Mead calls out. I have a hand on the knob and I’m just a few feet from my sanctuary. “You got a second?”

  “Sure thing.” I step back, nervous about the gun, Mead’s prized possession, that’s poking me in the backside. I make sure that I face Mead at all times, which shouldn’t be hard since he’s sitting down at the kitchen table, with Graves perched next to him. A bottle of scotch stands at his elbows, along with an empty tumbler.

  “Everything okay?” he asks innocently.

  “Yeah. As far as I know. Is my mom asleep? She wasn’t answering the phone.”

  “Yes, she went to bed. Tonight was a bit much for her. Hopefully tomorrow goes better. Pour you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’m a little worn-out myself.”

  “She’s worried sick about you. I just want you to know that if you need my help—I know a lot of people in city government, and the state, too—but if you ever need something, just ask me.”

  “What did he do?” Graves asks, amused by my plight. It is ironic, Mead offering me assistance while his subversive son has plotted an overthrow of the same government in which he boasts having many important contacts. Just another reason I long to join Lola at the Chicory.

  “Nothing,” Mead replies, glancing at me with a soulful expression. “Right, Eddie? You don’t need my help with anything?”

  “Do you need mine?” I coyly turn the tables. He chuckles and pours a drink.

  “Probably. Definitely, you and Graves both. First thing in the morning, we’re getting those boxes out of here. Luckily the wedding is in the afternoon and we’ll have time to get it done.”

  “The Russian bailed?” Graves asks.

  “I guess so. He’s a strange fellow, he really is. He wants the collection, but he doesn’t want to pay the freight charge to Central America. He thinks the seller should, which is nuts.”

  “Are you scared of him?” I inquire, earning a smirk of rebuke from Mead.

  “I’m not scared of anybody, especially him. He thinks that because he’s got money, he can just walk all over people. Usually he can. But money has never impressed me much.”

  It takes all my strength not to laugh in this man’s face, because I can tell by the way his lips are pressed smugly together that he actually believes his own lies. He then shoots me a self-satisfied wink, and that’s enough to send me running. Enough! Basta!

  “Well, good night,” I offer with a dauntless wave. But Mead ushers me back by leaping out of his chair.

  “Hold on, Eddie. Wait up.”

  I stop. Mead pats Graves on the shoulder. “Can you give Eddie and me a minute alone? Thanks, buddy. You should turn in anyway. It’s getting to be that time.”

  Wordlessly Graves leaves, eyes fixed on the floor. Mead and I are both standing. His smile vanishes, and his arms fold across his broad chest. His eyes narrow the way a hawk might scan the ground below for a scurrying squirrel.

  “Why did you take the gun?” he slowly says, emphasizing each word, the separate syllables of which prick me like jabs of a needle. I blink a few times to gather myself. My inability to lie once again waylays me, and all I can conjure is the truth.

  “I needed it, but I don’t anymore. Here, take it.”

  I reach around to grab the pistol, but Mead raises his arms in the air like I’m robbing him. “Whoa, whoa! I don’t want it! It’s yours now. My gift.”

  “That�
��s utterly absurd. Take your gun. I was wrong. I apologize. Honestly, take the gun.” I hold it out toward him by gripping the thick barrel, but he refuses it.

  “Why did you need it? That’s the real issue. Why? What’s going on? Why did the cops come here? Your mother cried herself to sleep on the eve of our wedding, and I think we both deserve an explanation.”

  I feel my face growing flush with shame. At least, it should be shame. In a perfect world I’d be aghast. But there’s more anger than shame. Much more. “Stop trying to prove a point and just take the gun.”

  “Why are you mad at me, Eddie? Shouldn’t I be the one who’s mad?”

  “You are mad, and that’s why you’re humiliating me.”

  “Is somebody after you?”

  “No, but given your nefarious dealings and those of your children, I thought I needed protection.”

  “The cops didn’t come here to question me or my kids. They came for you.”

  “And I took care of it. Now, I’m sorry I took this without asking first—that was wrong. Sometimes I do things without thinking. But I’m returning it to you, safe and sound. Just like I did your children.”

  I place the gun on the table and it makes a dull thud when it lands. Mead nods in sorrow and meets my gaze, which causes me to avert my eyes. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me. What’s the Wardell family have to do with this? Are they after you? Because if they are, you have to understand that they play for keeps.”

  “I told you, it’s all been taken care of.”

  “Let’s hope so, for your sake. They own the cops in this city. They could make trouble for all of us.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I know you don’t approve of me, and that’s fine. I’m not stupid. You think I’m out for your mother’s money, the half-million dollars. Eddie, I don’t need it. So you can stop making assumptions about me. But I do want you to consider your mother’s feelings in all of this.”

  “I don’t need a lecture from you on filial piety. My mother’s happiness is really my only concern.”

  “So you’re taking the Wardells on by yourself? That’s your plan?”

  O ye of little faith—I already slayed the dragon solo, with my hands tied behind my back. But I won’t boast of my exploits. “No, my plan is to go downstairs and get some sleep.”

  Mead lifts the gun up and proffers it to me. “You can have the gun. It doesn’t fire, you know.”

  “I don’t want the gun.”

  “If you need protection, the Glocks all work. I think there are fifteen of them in various boxes. Not sure about the ammo. I’m sure I can dig some up.”

  “It’s fine, thank you. I don’t need a gun. We should just forget this ever happened, okay? I’m sorry about taking the gun and being a bit standoffish toward you. This entire experience has been overwhelming.” I hold out my hand and we shake, letting bygones be bygones. I debate whether I should tell Mead about Graves’s possible involvement or noninvolvement with the Bastard Sons, and decide to say nothing. If Graves is guilty of anything, he’ll be found out. If he’s not, all the better. At this point, given that Graves is unwilling to disclose what he knows, there’s not much anyone can do about his legal status. And anyway, Graves is an adult and presumably capable of handling his own affairs. I got the children home; my job is complete.

  After one last nicety with Mead, I finally get to retreat to the basement and recover a measure of peace. The dark cool entrances me and instantly calms my frayed nerves. All quickly becomes clear to me. I must go to Lola tonight, right now. I call her but I know she won’t answer because she’s pissed at me, having run out of patience as I crisscrossed the city on various important missions that kept us apart. But no more. I leave her a message, telling her I’m on the way, and then gather my things, which doesn’t take long because I never really unpacked. It’s funny to think that it took a trip to Richmond for me to appreciate what I have with Lola back in Ithaca. Distance provides perspective, a corrective for when the tree is directly in front of our face and the forest eludes us. The world seems small when your life consists of about ten square blocks. Even when Lola and I hiked to Buttermilk Falls two weeks ago, just that excursion alone taught me much about her and us. Tomorrow, before the wedding, I’ll show her all of Richmond—Poe, Patrick Henry, the Confederate generals (minus one)—and my personal favorite, Maymont Park, whose sloping hills and serpentine paths ease the pain and heartache and regret—and we can eat lunch in Carytown, and I’ll take her to Plan 9 Records…and she won’t dismiss this city like Bev did. No way. Lola loves life too much. And me.

  At least I hope she still does.

  I let myself out through the basement, meaning one last time I need to scoot through the boxes of Vietnam, the rifles, machine guns, uniforms, helmets, and yes, rocket-propelled grenades of America’s dumbest war. Before I leave, I take in the tableau so that the details sink in. The slight odor of gunpowder, the Cyrillic lettering, and the wooden box where Giap’s pistol should go, still sitting open where I’d left it. Perverseness at work again: the motivation of human behavior Poe explored with grace and confidence, his narrators mostly explaining what really has no logic, trying to make the irrational and the impulsive comprehensible. For example, just beyond the boxes of weapons, on the bare concrete-block wall, if you look closely enough, you will see the very faint outline of some old graffiti, consisting of a single word, “FUCK,” I’d scrawled with a crayon when I was twelve. What had possessed me to do it? Some dark urge, yes, but I was also sure that I could erase my handiwork, and yet the harder I rubbed against the crayon marks, the more lasting the letters became. Straight out of Poe, I tell you! And it remains there to this day, a monument to the struggles of the soul divided against itself. Because I confessed. I told my mother when she got home from work and I wanted to be punished. She laughed it off and promised me that in time the word would fade to oblivion, but she was wrong. It’s still there, barely, hardly at all, but alive. My sickness.

  I rush out, hauling my luggage like a harried footman, and jump into the Honda, my trusted steed, my Traveller. The engine sounds even more strained, exhausted from the long drive from New York and the endless trips to and fro across the river today, but this will be it. We’ll reach our final resting place, the Chicory Motel, and there we’ll both retire. The end brings such sweet melancholy and time to reflect. Lola won’t believe the stories I have to tell her, but will she treat me as Penelope did Odysseus, with initial contempt from the years of neglect, the mistrust of his very identity? Lola knows who I am. I won’t have to show her any battle scars, since she put many of them there herself. Each of her lovers has left a mark on me, diminished me in some way…we’ll have to figure out what to do because I don’t want to share her anymore. Will she agree to that arrangement? Because here’s the truth, which I hate to admit. The fact is, Lola and I have made love. And we didn’t need any dick pics or dirty stories because our souls interlocked and my performance issues vanished. It was during our last hike to the falls, where we found ourselves sunning on a rocky outcrop surrounded with clumps of chicory—it just happened. For once I took control of the situation and we truly in every sense of the word became lovers.

  I drive fast and furiously, AM radio blasting…still no arrests, no suspects…witnesses describe seeing a green truck (the color of Avery’s vehicle) near the intersection of Allen and Monument…the black neighborhoods remain quiet…the white neighborhoods also remain quiet…is that a joke? Do the white neighborhoods of Richmond even make a noise? A slight clearing of the throat, the sound of ice cubes clinking into highballs…I reach the Boulevard and then head north. Not long now.

  Robin Hood Road. The Chicory Motel.

  I pull into the parking lot and reclaim the same spot I’d parked in earlier. The same cars look to be in the same spaces. Has anything changed? Time can stand still in Richmond if you’re not careful and years can pass before you realize it’s too late. Like Leigh Rose. Happene
d to her.

  Lola’s car isn’t evident to the naked eye, which doesn’t mean she isn’t here. Or isn’t coming back. I must pay for my crimes and she’ll exact a toll by making me wait. I hop out and look hopefully around at everything. The air seems freer, less burdened. I don’t know her room number and so I’ll have to get one of my own because I can’t just sit in my car. It’ll attract unwanted attention.

  My phone rings. It’s her! It’s Lola! I want her like I’ve never wanted another woman in my life. I’ll show her that my problems are solved and she’s the reason I can love her like a normal man.

  Day Two – July 2

  I wake up alone at 7:14 a.m. I can smell Lola, a faint hint of lavender, and in bed next to me is her favorite scarf, of regal purple silk. I reach for her but her side of the bed is empty. I sit up, shivering from the ancient air conditioner that has no thermostat—it continues to crank out frigid air as if cooling down a morgue. My eyes survey the room, a small square consisting of particleboard desk, brass lamp, and wobbly dresser. The TV is circa 1983 and must weigh a ton. On a wall hangs a garish print of a watercolor featuring the bearded visage of Stonewall Jackson. Another is of a male cardinal, the state bird of Virginia, which is for lovers, according to a highly successful ad campaign from the 1970s that was surprisingly titillating.

  I bolt out of bed, throw open the door, and step out onto the balustrade that overlooks the parking lot. Where has Lola gone? There’s no sign of her car. Has she left again without saying a word to me? Without leaving a note? The morning sun glares at me as it shines bright in a cloudless sky. It’s going to be another scorcher because it’s already stifling hot for early morning. But I don’t mind the heat, which allows me to warm up for a second before heading back into the arctic freeze in room 212. The rays are so strong that my innermost recesses might actually feel the solar burn, but I doubt it. With Lola gone again, nothing can melt the desolate ice in the center of my heart. We promised each other never to become the kind of couple who lapses into estrangement and silences.