by Tim Sandlin
Don Drysdale, ’65, fell on the floor, and when I bent to get him I discovered one table leg was propped up by The Shortstop Kid. I dropped to my knees and pulled it out from under the leg, which caused the table to tip and more cards to fall. The Shortstop Kid had been my first published novel. The day my carton of books arrived, I’d been so proud I took a picture of the mailman.
The cover was a boy in a home uniform, tagging second and making the throw to first. The kid on the cover was right-handed and my kid was left-handed, but even that didn’t spoil the moment. I opened to the title page and read the inscription: For Wanda, My love for you shall never fade nor falter. You are my purpose. Yours, Sam.
“Sam, come here,” Gilia called.
“Just a sec. I found the cards.”
“Now would be better.”
I followed Gilia’s voice down the hall and into a bedroom, where I found Wanda passed out in a bed with two men—kids really. She was in the middle, on her back with her mouth open, naked. Wanda’s breasts were so small she looked like a little girl. Her pubic hair had grown out some since I’d last seen it, and she had a bruise, or a hickie, I don’t know which, on her thigh.
“Are they alive?” I asked.
Gilia stood against the wall. “I think so. They all seem to be breathing.”
The guys had long hair. One wore an ankle bracelet made of leather and the other had a dark blue tattoo on his shoulder that said Hog. Both of them were touching Wanda.
“They’re making a movie,” Gilia said. She nodded toward a Panasonic videocamera on a tripod. It was aimed at the bed. A red light on the side blinked slowly.
I looked from Wanda to the book in my hand, and back to Wanda. Memory was hard to connect to reality.
Gilia stepped toward me and touched my arm. She said, “I can’t picture you married to her.”
“Would you gather up the cards? They’re on the kitchen table.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’d like to stay here and watch her for a while.”
***
Gilia glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at me. “Did you steal the videotape?”
“How did you know I wanted to?”
Her face crinkled into a smile. “I’m starting to see how that misguided mind of yours works.”
Everybody thinks they know how I think but me.
“You look at watching your wife’s porno flick as a duty,” Gilia said, “as if you owe it to the experience of losing her.”
Those weren’t the exact words I’d used, but close enough. Punishment deserved was what I’d thought. The moral person does not avoid punishment deserved. But then at the last moment, in a giant spiritual step either forward or backward, I chose to skip the heartache.
“Besides,” Gilia went on, “that tape in the hands of a lawyer would put an end to Wanda’s hopes of taking your money.”
“I guess I couldn’t do that.”
“Or we could mail the tape to her parents. It might actually help Wanda in the long run.”
“I’m not good at hurting people in the short run to help them in the long run.”
Gilia made a right-hand turn that left rubber on the curb next to my driveway. Her mind seemed to drift, which left her braking foot unattended until almost too late to save my garage. Only by stiff-arming the glove compartment did I avoid seat belt burns.
“You always drive like this?” I asked.
She looked at her hands on the steering wheel. “I was thinking about seeing Jeremy in bed with another woman. They were ignoring me so I got up and sat in a chair at my vanity table and watched him on top of her. She lifted her feet high and sweat ran down her neck. Jeremy’s eyes were open in that foggy look I’d always thought was love. It was like a dream where you want to scream, but can’t.”
“Wanda must have been a low-quality person when I married her. I wonder why I didn’t notice?”
“You see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear.”
“Is that a quote? Sounds like Shakespeare or Woody Allen.”
“It’s me.”
“Oh.” We sat looking at the garage, the yard, and my big old house. I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to sit next to Gilia and feel clean.
“Did you love Jeremy?” I asked.
“A lot. Did you love Wanda?”
I saw Wanda on our wedding day. She’d worn a beige dress and smiled at me. “I thought I could save her.”
“That’s not the same as love.”
I leaned across and kissed Gilia. Her lips didn’t respond. She didn’t flinch or fight, but it was definitely a one-sided kiss.
After about four seconds, she pulled back and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Is it because you might be my sister?”
The eye contact was intense. “The rebound is too hard right now. I trusted a man and he slept with others, and no matter how nice it feels with you, I know it felt just as nice once with Jeremy. I can’t ever go through that again.”
“My wife sleeps with others and I don’t see it as a reflection on the female gender.”
Gilia’s eyelids were so vulnerable they were translucent. “I’m not ready to trust yet.”
Pursuing Gilia went against the choose-women-who-can’t-hurt-you rule. A tramp’s exit had knocked me into emotional chaos; the mind shuddered to think what would happen if I got attached to, then lost, Gilia. A good relationship might be more risk than I was willing to take.
“When do you think you may be ready?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe never.”
“I’ll hang around a while and see what happens.”
“I’d like that.”
Gilia covered my hand with hers. It was more intimate than any sex I’ve had. She said, “Breakfast tomorrow?”
I said, “Cheese blintzes at nine.”
***
Gilia drove away, and as I carried the grocery sack full of baseball cards, Me Maw’s jewelry box, and The Shortstop Kid across the yard, I was forced to face the question of ethics. If you’re planning, or hoping, to have an exclusive involvement with someone in the future, should comfort sex be cut out now? I wanted to pursue the friendship and more with Gilia, but because she had been hurt by an untrue man she was particularly sensitive to adultery, even more so than your average woman. I had as much as told Gilia that unlike her sleazeball husband, she could trust me; therefore it did not seem proper to do what I had been doing with her Aunt Katrina.
On the other hand, it’s not like Gilia and I were going steady. We weren’t even dating yet. There’d been a few conversations over breakfast and one unrequited kiss. At what point does a commitment begin? Normally you’d think the line was clear-cut, but I’ve run into problems during that fringe period at the outset when one person thinks you have an unspoken understanding and the other person is oblivious. Those unspoken understandings can wreak havoc.
Something heavy hit the garage wall from the inside—Thonk. My heart fired off a monumental beat and my legs went limp. Setting the bag on the grass, I moved closer to listen. A low buzz came from the wall itself, or maybe from something pressed against the wall. Thoughts ran to Mike Newberry or Ryan and Sonny, the vengeance boys. Shannon and Eugene could be in there committing a strange new sex ritual. So many ways of being perverse had come along in the last few years that I’d lost track.
A new sound, like a soft hum, filled in under the buzz. As I reached for the door, there was another Thonk. Sudden sounds where sounds aren’t supposed to be means a surprise is coming, and nineteen out of twenty surprises are bad news. I did the Indian stealth walk around to a scrap pile on the back side of the garage and picked out a solid two-by-four. Wouldn’t stop bullets or Ryan Saunders, but it was enough to slow down pretty much anyone else. At the door, I slowly turned the knob in my left hand and raised the two-by-four in my right hand to ear level, then I pushed with my shoulder.
Nothing happened. It was stuck. I leaned back, slammed
into the door with my shoulder, it flew open, and I blew into the garage like a Laurel and Hardy routine—splat onto the floor.
The light blinded me, which was weird because I hadn’t seen any light from outside. A rubber wheel passed within inches of my face. As my eyes adjusted, I realized golf carts were moving about the room. Two carts—Bull Run and Antietam—made tight circles, while Vicksburg, the Wilderness, Shiloh, and Appomattox Courthouse had all hit a wall—causing Thonks—where they buzzed as their tires spun on concrete.
When the Bull Run passed by a second time, I jumped in. A brick had been placed on the accelerator. I turned off the key and coasted to a stop beside the worktable next to the tool rack.
That’s where I found Clark. He was lying on his back on the table, eyes closed and hands cupped on his sternum, like a laid-out corpse.
“Clark.”
“Let me die.”
“Not in my garage.”
He didn’t open his eyes or move his hands. He simply repeated, “Let me die, let me die.”
I climbed out of the Bull Run and walked around the garage, turning off golf carts. He’d sealed both doors with masking tape, which is why the one I came through had been stuck and no light had been visible from outside. After collecting all the bricks, I walked over and sat back down in the Bull Run.
“Clark, you screwed up.”
His eyes flew open. “That’s no way to speak to a suicide. You might push me over the edge.” For some reason, he’d taken off his shoes and socks, which only made the black outfit look sillier than ever.
“You’re already over the edge. Look at this golf cart.”
Clark sat up and studied the Bull Run. “So.”
“Do you see an exhaust pipe?”
His forehead rippled in thought.
“An exhaust pipe, Clark. Even an idiot knows you can’t kill yourself by sucking exhaust off an electric golf cart.”
He blinked several times. “Why not?”
“Jesus.” I spoke slowly and distinctly. “Electric motors have no exhaust. No exhaust, no carbon monoxide; no carbon monoxide, no death.”
His entire body sagged as failure washed over his face. I’ve never seen anyone so disappointed at not being dead.
He said, “Now I’m back to killing you.”
21
I mount the Exercycle 6000, crank up the tension, and ride. Straight into the Charlie Russell print, I pump until sweat pops onto my forehead like water drops on a hot griddle. Intense energy expended for the purpose of going nowhere—my mind is too blank to dwell on the metaphor.
For that is the goal, to blank my mind. To forget those I’m hurting and those I’ve lost. To forget how many people lose loved ones every day. To beat back depression.
Fat chance. Muscles break down before the brain. Three a.m. found me in bed, reading Varieties of Religious Experience by William James.
“It is with no small amount of trepidation that I take my place behind this desk, and face this learned audience.”
Literary Valium. If James didn’t put me out I was doomed.
I was reading his dismissal of medical materialism—which treats pining for spiritual veracity as a symptom of a disordered colon—when the phone rang.
“Mr. Callahan, you’re a father.”
My mouth went metallic. “Well, yes, that’s true.”
“This is Babs.” There was a pause. “Babs Paseneaux.”
“The pregnant Babs?”
“Not anymore.” Giggles bubbled in the background.
“All right. You did it!”
“Three hours ago. The little booger hurt like the dickens.”
“I’m proud of you, Babs. You gave birth.” I was genuinely happy; felt better than I had in a year.
“Guess who’s here?” Babs asked.
“Your husband realized his mistake and came home in time for the baby.”
“Shoot no. I’ll never talk to that low-life again. It’s Lynette. She’s right here.” More giggles broke out as the girls carried on a whispered conference away from the phone.
Babs came back. “Lynette wants to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to Lynette.”
Sounds of scuffling and laughter came from their end. The only other woman I’d been around soon after she gave birth was Maurey, and I don’t recall her being in such a cheery mood. Upbeat, yes, but not cheery.
“Remember me, Mr. Callahan? Lynette.”
“I’m glad you turned around and came back, Lynette. Best friends should never break up over a man.”
“Puh. Rory Paseneaux is no man. He’s a rat. I broke water in the front seat of his precious Chevy and he ditched me. Took off while I was in the Texaco restroom trying to clean up.”
“Sounds like Rory is afraid of responsibility,” I said.
“Rory is afraid of stained upholstery.” Lynette lapsed into a few seconds of silence. Had Rory really abandoned her because she broke water in his car? Southern men are weird about cars, but that was a bit much.
“Babs says you’re paying her hospital bills.”
“I’ll pick up yours too.”
She squealed. “I knew it. I knew you were the nicest man I ever met. Sammi will grow up to be just like you, only a girl.”
“Sammi?”
“Sammi with an i and no e. She’s seven hours older than Sam.”
I had a funny feeling. “Who is Sam?”
“Babs’s baby, of course. We’re going to raise them like twins with different mothers. Sam and Sammi.”
This seemed like good news, but I wasn’t sure. For certain, it was odd. “Are you girls going to tell the kids who their real fathers are?”
“Are you kidding? Here, Babs wants to talk.”
More giggles. More confusion. At least I’d made someone happy. If I have a choice, I’d rather make people happy some way other than giving them money, but I’ll take goodwill however it comes.
“You’re not mad at us, are you, Mr. Callahan?”
“Why would I be mad? I’m honored you named your babies Sam and Sammi.”
“There’s more.”
“Tell him,” Lynette chirped in the background.
“Tell me what?”
“The birth certificate lady said we could write down anyone we wanted as the fathers, so long as he didn’t mind.”
Uh-oh. “Both of you?”
“We hope you don’t mind.”
***
When I walked into Tex and Shirley’s Pancake House an embarrassed scarecrow stood beside the Please wait to be seated sign, clutching a stack of menus to her breasts. Behind the cash register, King Kong made change for a postman who didn’t seem a bit nonplussed to be receiving money from the paw of a gorilla.
I’ve been disoriented often enough that I know it doesn’t pay to draw attention to the fact. Just keep your head down, pretend everything is normal, and hope that with time the chaos will sort itself out.
“Morning, Mr. Callahan,” Judy said as she poured my coffee. Judy wore long whiskers, pointed ears, and a tail. She said, “I’m a cat.”
My chronic disorientation is triggered by a daydream mentality. Throughout the drive to Tex and Shirley’s, I’d been pretending on their sixteenth birthday Sam and Sammi apply for driver’s licenses and spot my name on their birth certificates. They bolt the license bureau and rush to the Manor House, where I embrace my newfound family and give birthday presents.
Maybe the moral thing would be to adopt them, more or less, right now. Take fatherhood seriously, even though it seemed strange to suddenly have two children by teenage girls I hardly knew. Not that I minded, but it was a major commitment to take on without forethought. I’m prone to quick commitments, probably a reaction against Lydia. She’s so afraid of commitment that back when I was young and she smoked cigarettes, she wouldn’t buy the same brand twice in a row.
I felt sweet breath on my cheek, and when I turned to track down the source, Gilia kissed me. Smack. Right on the lips. Her mouth was
supple and soft, yet controlled, with a faint taste of Carmex.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was uptight last night. I have to remind myself there’s a difference between being careful and closing up shop completely.”
With her face close to mine, the situation clicked. “Today is Halloween. That’s why people are in costume,” I said.
“Right.” She slid into her chair. “So what do you say? Can you handle a relationship where you kiss but don’t fuck?”
The suddenness with which Gilia went frank always took me off guard. This wasn’t a woman who wasted time saying “Good morning.” Judy came by with the coffeepot to take our order—cheese blintzes for me and Swedish pancakes for Gilia. I like a woman who eats real food instead of dry toast and skimmed milk.
After Judy left, I said, “Are there kiss limits?”
Gilia pulled her blond hair into a doughnut-shaped bungee cord sort of thing. I forget what they’re called. “Like French?”
“More like necking. Are you talking kiss-hello, kiss-good-bye or a thirty-minute make-out session?”
“I won’t set rules. My only request is I’m not ready to make love, so if we ever do neck to the point where I say okay, you have to ignore me and stop.”
That’s definitely defining parameters. I looked at the hair on her arms and thought of lemon meringue pie. Waking up beside Gilia would be like waking up in a mountain meadow next to a bubbling brook, only without the hay fever.
“I can do that,” I said.
“Great.”
When Judy brought our food Gilia dug right in with butter and syrup, but I only pretended to eat. What I really did was watch her face. Watching Gilia’s face was like watching a time lapse movie of the sky. She registered everything. When I said father, her skin tone darkened. Jack-o’-lantern caused crinkles to dance. After looking at Gilia a few minutes, I didn’t know why I had ever thought Wanda’s face was interesting. Wanda had three basic looks—drunk, sober, and PMS. Gilia had hundreds.