The Book of Joe

by Jonathan Tropper

  “And how exactly does fucking Sheila Girardi contribute to your son's well-being?” It's a low blow, but I'm all out of high ones.

  Brad stands up on the stairs, and for one scary moment I think he's poised to hit me. “Go home, Joe,” he says, his expression one of acute misery. “You don't belong here.”

  I'm a few blocks away when I hear the light tread of fast footsteps behind me. “Go home, Jared,” I say as he comes alongside me, matching my gait.

  “Hey.”

  “I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore,” I say.

  “I tried to warn you,” he says apologetically.

  “I know. It's okay.”

  “I listened to the whole conversation,” Jared says. “He was really harsh with you.”

  “He made some good points.”

  “So, what, you're going to listen to him?”

  I stop walking and turn to face my nephew. “Listen, Jared. I came over tonight because I had this idea that I could begin to mend fences with your folks, to become somewhat more connected with my family. But you know what I learned? That it's never going to happen, because you're all so disconnected from each other that there's really no family for me to reconnect with.”

  “So you're just giving up?”

  “I'm rethinking my approach. Your father said that I don't know anything about selflessness, and he's right. I've been hanging out with you, talking about girls and music, smoking a joint, and you know who benefits from all that? Me. Because I get to feel like I have a family. But it does no good for you. You need a parent now, not a friend. And if there's one thing I am qualified to talk about, it's fucking things up with my father, so I'm going to give you the only advice I can: lose the attitude and let your father in. I know it won't be easy, but I can promise you that if you don't, you'll regret it.”

  Jared looks at me for a minute, then nods. “Okay. I'll think about it.”

  “Good. Now what's with the birdcage?” He's carrying a large white birdcage in which an agitated Shnookums is being jostled mercilessly from side to side as we walk.

  “Much like yourself, Shnookums needs to keep a low profile for a little while where the folks are concerned. I had a meeting with my sisters, and we elected you temporary custodian.” He smiles and hands me the birdcage.

  “When do I feed it?”

  “I'll come by and feed it.”

  “You're not supposed to hang out with me.”

  “Pay attention, man. I never do what I'm supposed to do.”

  “You want a bird?” I ask Carly when she opens the door.

  She studies me on her doorstep with a whimsical smile. She's wearing Bush Falls High sweatpants and a tank top and chewing comically on a large raw carrot. “Who's that?” she asks.

  “This is Shnookums. She's a cockatoo.”

  “Oh, my god, Joe. She's bleeding!”

  “That's marinara sauce.”

  “Oh. Well, that's okay, then.”

  “I've had an interesting night.”

  “I don't doubt it,” she says, smiling as she munches on her carrot. “And now you've made mine more interesting.”

  “I was on my way home from Brad's and I was passing by, so I thought I'd stop in for a minute.”

  “My house isn't on the way home from Brad's.”

  “Don't be so literal.”

  “Okay,” Carly says. “I was just doing a little work. Would you like to come in? The bird can come too, of course.”

  “I want to, but I won't,” I say. “I've got some work of my own I need to get back to.”

  “You're writing?”

  “I am. Finally.”

  She nods. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping that maybe I could kiss you again.”

  Her smile is the sun on my face. “I was hoping you could too.” She steps down to join me on her front stairs, and we're face-to-face. “I've got carrot breath,” she says.

  “I love carrots.”

  She grabs two small fistfuls of my shirt. “Whatever floats your boat, Romeo.”

  thirty-four

  It will take Owen another few days to pull together everything we need for Wayne, and Wayne tells me that's perfect, because he'd like to spend another day or two in his childhood bedroom, looking through his drawers and shelves, revisiting his youth one last time. I suspect he's actually trying to give his mother a little more time in the hopes that she'll emerge from her religious stupor long enough for a genuine good-bye, and while I understand this desire, I'm not optimistic on his behalf.

  I don't bother shaving or showering or even brushing my teeth when I wake up the next morning, but simply roll out of bed and head straight downstairs in my boxers to get to work on my manuscript. As I lay falling asleep the night before, Carly's kisses still lingering on my lips, I was awash in ideas for the novel: plot points, character quirks, expressions, and even whole paragraphs composed in my mind that I want to get down before I forget about them. Writing without grooming somehow feels better, more conducive to the whole enterprise, as if by neglecting all superficial considerations I will channel all my energies into the internal processes of creation. And so I sit, my breath stale, my hair a greasy mess, my skin stubbly and unwashed, and I feel, more than ever, like a writer. I imagine that Hemingway didn't mess around with aftershave and toothbrushes when in the throes of writing.

  It's in this soiled state that I answer the doorbell to find Lucy Haber standing on my porch, clutching a copy of Bush Falls to her chest. She's applied her makeup with a heavy hand, and I find myself thinking for the first time that there's an element of desperation in her appearance, something that tries too hard for a woman her age, and then I feel ashamed for the uncharitable thought. My face on the back cover, looking up at me from her bosom, seems like an indictment. “Did I wake you?” she asks, taking in my grimy appearance.

  “No. It's okay.” I find myself wishing that I'd at least thrown on a T-shirt.

  “I thought maybe you'd come visit me,” she says, looking highly uncomfortable. “Not that I blame you for not coming.”

  “I'm sorry. I just . . . didn't.”

  Lucy waves away my awkwardness. “It's okay. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. That's why I left so early that morning.”

  “I'm sorry,” I say again. I seem incapable of saying anything else.

  “I just thought you'd have left by now, and when I drove by and saw your car yesterday, I thought I would come by and say a proper good-bye.”

  “I appreciate that. Would you like to come in?”

  Lucy smiles. “No thanks.”

  “I wasn't trying— I didn't mean anything by that.”

  “No. I know.” She hands me the book and a silver Cross pen. “Will you sign this for me?”

  “Sure,” I say, taking the proffered book. “It's been a while since anyone's asked.” I open up to the inscription page and write Dear Lucy: then pause for a few moments to compose my inscription. You were my muse and my fantasy, and now I'm happy to call you my friend. Best wishes, Joseph Goffman. She reads the inscription and smiles. “Give me a hug.”

  I hug her, the buttons of her blouse digging into my naked torso. There are no sexual intentions, but I think some people are capable of hugging only a certain way, and there's still an inadvertent erotic energy to our embrace, her hands on my bare back, her lower belly against my crotch. She pulls her head back and presses her forehead to mine. “I hope I haven't ruined the fantasy,” she says, and in her eyes I can see this is a genuine concern.

  “No way,” I say. “You validated it beyond my wildest dreams.”

  “That's sweet of you to say.” She leans forward and gives me a soft kiss on the lips. “Don't be a stranger, Joe.”

  “I won't.”

  She straightens up and I see that her eyes are threatening to tear. She smiles again, and I watch her go down the stairs to her car. Only after she's driven away do I notice Carly parked in her car across the street, observing the whole scene
with a singularly perturbed expression. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I wave to her. She waves back but makes no move to get out of the car, and her expression doesn't change. I am forced to walk down the stairs and across the street in nothing but boxers, shivering in the cool morning air, bouncing awkwardly when my feet encounter any sharp detritus on the street. “I know that didn't look very good,” I say.

  Carly nods. “Did you fuck her?” Her tone is one of neutral curiosity, as if the answer is of no particular concern to her one way or another.

  “She just showed up now.”

  “I know when she showed up,” Carly says. “Prior to that, did you fuck her?”

  I sigh. “It was before anything happened with you and me.” It's not that I necessarily buy into the notion that honesty is the best policy, but it is sometimes the most viable strategy, particularly when you don't have the time to come up with a credible alternative.

  Carly's already nodding before I finish my sentence, the corners of her mouth straining against invisible weights that are pulling them downward. “Listen, Carly,” I say.

  “You don't have to explain anything to me,” she says, her voice exaggeratedly rational. “There's no commitment between us. I'm happy for you. I mean, you've wanted her for, what is it now, twenty years? It's been well documented.”

  “Just give me a chance here.”

  “Congratulations. You finally bagged her, man.”

  “Can you please stop that?”

  “No problem,” Carly says. She violently yanks the gear shift and, with tires squealing, drives away, leaving me to cross the street gingerly in my bare feet, feeling a nakedness that extends far beyond my missing clothes. I am once again thoroughly amazed at how poor judgment and bad timing constantly manage to coalesce on my behalf, and always just as my life is starting to show some promise.

  The writing is no longer happening, as can be expected, so I go upstairs to shower and get dressed. I am determined to not let things with Carly get derailed over this. The timing might be questionable, but I did not betray her. Chronology is clearly in my favor here, and I'm hoping that once Carly calms down, she can be made to see that. Surprisingly, she takes my call in her office a half hour later. “Hi, Joe,” she says easily enough.

  “Please don't be mad about this.”

  “I'm not mad,” she says pleasantly.

  “What?” This is an old trick of Carly's and one I've never fully understood. When she gets mad, she punishes the offending person by not allowing them the privilege of even witnessing her anger, for that would be the first step toward absolution. I was forced to navigate through the minefield of her hurt a number of times, both in high school and in our years together in Manhattan, and I now recall with clarity that when it comes to hurt and anger, Carly is like a Rubik's Cube.

  “It's fine,” Carly says. “It had nothing to do with me.”

  “So what are you saying, that we're okay?”

  “We're as good as we ever were.”

  “Ah. Calculated word choice. Veiled references. Now we're getting somewhere.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  I take a deep breath. “I just want you to know that what happened with Lucy happened when I first got here, when there was nothing at all happening between us.”

  “Joe?”

  “Yes.”

  “The minute you got here, there was something happening between us. You know it and I know it, so do me a favor and cut the bullshit. At least give me that.”

  “Okay,” I say. I wonder if I should be encouraged that we've gotten past the feigned lack of concern much faster than I thought we would. “But what happened with Lucy happened once, and it would have been a mistake even if nothing happened between you and me, and it wasn't going to happen again regardless.”

  “That's too bad,” Carly says dryly. “Now you'll have no one to kiss.”

  “You know I was completely yours the moment you kissed me.”

  “If you're expecting me to say ‘You had me at hello,' you're in for a huge disappointment.”

  These frustrating conversations continue at odd intervals for the rest of that day and the next. Carly resolutely takes all of my calls while patently refusing my entreaties to meet in person. I have myself convinced that this will be a battle of attrition, but underneath it all I am terribly worried that she's working toward shutting me out permanently behind a wall of casual indifference. In between these seemingly futile calls, I struggle to shut out all distractions and maintain the momentum of my novel. The time has come for Matt Burns to visit the scene of his father's supposedly accidental death, at the foot of the waterfalls in the woods behind Norton's Textile Mill, where he'd diligently kept the books for the Norton family for so many years. I don't know when I made the decision to transplant the Bush River Falls into Matt's fictional upstate New York hometown, but now that they've become central to the story, I find myself at somewhat of a loss to come up with the exact mix of events, both romantic and sinister, that make the falls loom as the totemic centerpiece of the novel. I decide it might behoove me to take a drive out to the falls, to sit at the base of their deafening trajectory, become enveloped in the frigid shroud of their mist, and be inspired. If nothing else, at least it will get me out of the house for a little while.

  It's a brisk, frowning October day, clear and cloudless, the Mercedes' leather cold enough to chill me through my pants in the two minutes or so before the seat warmer kicks in. I drive out to the falls, pulling off the road onto one of the plethora of dirt lanes that lead into the woods at the point where the falls descend into the Bush River. I leave my car in what I consider to be the approximate spot where once upon a time Carly and I engaged in the mutual surrender of our virginity, perhaps in the subconscious hope that I'll somehow stir the ghosts of our former selves to intervene with the fates on my behalf. Making my way through the underbrush toward the Bush River, I recall the slow, awkward nature of our lovemaking that night, and think that what is so often considered to be the loss of innocence is actually the height of it. I step out of the woods at the base of the falls and sit down at the edge of the large, thrashing pool into which both waterfalls noisily descend. Scattered along the banks of the water, as expected, are empty beer bottles, crushed cans, torn, faded condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and cracked plastic lighters, all the discarded equipment and residue of the ritualistic march of teens into sexual maturity. After a few minutes sitting in the cold, stinging spray of the falls, I decide it's time to move to higher ground for a more encompassing perspective.

  I drive a little farther up the main road, past the Porter's campus, and turn onto the well-worn dirt lane that leads through the woods to the top of the waterfalls, a single path barely one car width, whose alliterative nomenclature has included such assignations as Randy Road, Skank Street, Titty Turnpike, Poontang Parkway, and no doubt a slew of others ascribed in more recent years. When I can drive no farther, I leave my car and walk the last twenty yards or so to the rusted guardrail that overlooks the waterfalls. Beyond this rail is a rounded outcropping of large rocks upon which the more reckless teens would often sit, drinking their illegally purchased beer and tossing their empties directly into the cascading waterfalls descending a scant ten feet in front of them. It is from this place as well that the legendary few who have gone over the falls did so. I climb over the guardrail and cautiously inch my way out onto the rock, scraping along on my ass as I go, until I've reached a relatively flat section, where I stand up with exaggerated care as in front of me the water rages furiously in its descent to the river below. This is spitting distance, as close to the falls as one can humanly get without being in them, and the combination of their deafening noise and residual spray, instantly covering me with a layer of cold moisture, is disorienting, making me feel unbalanced even as I steady myself. It's both frightening and exhilarating to stand in such proximity to this powerful force of nature, and it's also surprisingly soothing to be perch
ed on this high promontory, in solitary communion with the falls.

  “Hey, Goffman.” The voice alone, so unexpected, is enough to cause me to lose my balance, and for the briefest instant I feel my center of gravity slide precariously forward before I right myself by jerking back slightly while lightly flailing with my arms for counterbalance. “Hey, Sean,” I say. “What brings you here?”

  He's leaning casually against the guardrail, dressed in his leather coat and black jeans, finishing off a cigarette. His presence here is startling, to say the least, and for the briefest instant I find myself entertaining the unlikely notion of a coincidence. “I was driving by and I saw your car turn off the main road.”

  “You saw me turn off,” I repeat skeptically.

  “Looked like you were coming to relive old times, so I figured, who better to relive them with than me?”

  “Have you been following me, Sean?”

  “Maybe.” He takes a last drag on his cigarette butt and flicks it expertly past me, where it vanishes instantly against the backdrop of the falls. He moves off the railing and steps out onto the rock, grinning and shaking his head incredulously. “You're some piece of work, Goffman. I tell you to get out of town, and the next thing I know, you're on TV, hanging from the roof of the high school. For a guy who's supposed to be gone, you sure have some funny ideas about how to keep a low profile.”

  “And believe it or not, I've been trying to do just that,” I say, uneasily watching his approach, torn between my desire to play it cool and my instinct to bolt for the safety of the rail before he gets too far away from it. I take an uneasy step or two in his direction, but he's moving faster and more comfortably along the rock's pitched, craggy surface, and within seconds he's reached me, looking over my shoulders at the waterfalls. “Look at that,” he says. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  I half turn to look out over the falls with him, thinking it probably pays to humor him with conversation, and choose my moment to make a run for the guardrail. I just need one step on him, two at the most, and I'll be home free. “This is where your friend Sammy bought it, huh?” Sean says over the din of the falls. I remain steadfastly silent, looking into the thrashing water, unable to see the bottom from my vantage point. “Your mother too, if I'm not mistaken. What is it about you that makes so many folks in your life choose death by drowning?” He stares at me, waiting to see if I can be baited. “You might want to think about that.”