I descend the sycamore using the two-by-four ladder Carl nailed into the trunk, crooked now with the passage of time but still functional, then march through the leaves, wondering why Thomas hasn’t bagged or burned them. I am confused and tired and still don’t know what I hope to accomplish, but I step up on the porch and approach the door like some broken-down traveler in need of help. I thumb the doorbell, and I wait.
After a minute a light ignites inside, and I hear muffled footfalls. A yellow bulb snaps on over my head, and then the door swings back. Sheila stands in sweatpants and an oversized Penn State T-shirt, one that looks like it belongs to a man. She squints through her glasses, studying me for a second, then says, “Christ Jesus. Who the hell dresses you these days?”
“I know it’s late,” I tell her.
“Just tell me you’re not here to cancel the plans for Sunday,” she says. “That’s taken some major negotiation.”
“Everything looks great for Sunday. I just ... I need to talk.”
We stare at each other for a moment, then she quietly steps out of the way. I accept the invitation and cross the threshold. She closes the door behind me, and after another second of strained silence, she leads us to the kitchen. I take a seat at the round table, and Sheila yanks the pot from the coffeemaker. At the faucet she turns to me. “Is this a half-pot crisis or a full-pot crisis?”
“I’m not sure it’s a crisis. More of a situation.”
She fills the pot. “Don’t quibble with my word choice, Vince. You’re in my home. That by itself qualifies this as a crisis. Nathan and Deborah all right?”
“Sure, sure,” I say. “Nobody’s hurt or anything.”
The coffeemaker starts gurgling, and she settles across from me, covers her mouth to hide a yawn. On the fridge behind her I see photos of her nieces and nephews, who were once my nieces and nephews. I want to ask when Katie got braces, how her brother’s band is doing, how Carl’s rehab is coming along after the stroke. But all this pertains to the life I left. On Earth 1.4, we lived happily ever after. Really. Me and Sheila went the distance, had two daughters after Thomas, ended up running a garden center from this very farmhouse. In the reality I occupy, she listens to the coffeemaker and says, “So you going to tell me why you’re here, or should we do this multiple choice?”
“I’m sorry. I just feel kind of strange being here.”
“That’s because you being here is kind of strange.”
I want to tell her she looks good. I want to tell her that I know about the choices she made a dozen years ago, but I don’t know why she made them. I want to ask her if she knows how exactly I failed her as a husband. I want her to tell me how to get my old life back, or at least how to stall the disintegration of my new one. Instead of all these things, I ask, “So isn’t it about time you went up for tenure?”
She cocks one eyebrow. “Vince.”
I look away from her and see my fingers folded together on the table. “They’re trying to force me out of the game.”
“All-Star?” she says.
I nod. “Debbie too. She thinks it would be better for me.”
“She’s thinking like a mother, putting her family first.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s the thing. She wants to expand.”
“Come again?”
“Another kid. Deb wants to have another baby.”
“She should do it while she’s still young, if she’s going to,” she says. “I take it you’re not on board with the plan.”
“Face it, my track record’s not the greatest.”
I wait for her to tell me that my problems with Thomas aren’t that serious, that he’s just going through a phase, that I’m a fine and capable father. But she shifts, awkwardly, in silence. The oil heater kicks on, and the basement furnace rumbles beneath my feet. A moment later, warm, dry air descends from the ceiling vents. “I am glad to see you,” she says. “I’ve been worried.”
Sheila holds eye contact like a reporter conducting a hostile interview and waits for a response. I say, “I take it you know about Biloxi.”
“Just rumors. Hal’s still at the network and heard a few things.”
While I’m tempted to finesse the facts, Sheila’s pretty good at detecting my lies. “The first responders were a coast guard unit out of New Orleans. They found me pinned between a warehouse and a casino barge.”
Sheila shakes her head. “Jesus, Vince. It was a Category 5. What were you trying to prove?”
I stand up so quickly I almost upset my chair. For the second time in an hour, someone close to me has asked this question. I try to think of an answer, but what comes instead is an intense flash of memory—Sheila and I on the balcony of our quarters in the HALO, baby Thomas asleep inside, both of us whispering so he didn’t hear. I know you’re trying, Sheila said, and she was holding my hand. I know you’re doing your very best with all this. But it isn’t enough.
Sitting down would seem stupid, so I go to the cabinets, open one, and find plates and bowls. Sheila tells me the next one over, and I get down two mugs. I pour us both coffee and shake some sugar into mine. Sheila takes hers black. That night on the balcony, when it seemed clear our marriage—our family—was hanging in the balance, I thought for sure she would come clean and tell me what I’d already known for almost a year. I thought my wife would confess. But when she didn’t, I knew she never would. And rather than tell her I knew all about Sparkplug and put one more thing between us, I decided I’d swallow one more secret. It would be silly and cruel to tell her now, here in her kitchen at midnight, that I know she was unfaithful. Plus, I’d have to explain how I know, and that one even I still have trouble believing.
The day after the balcony, I came home from night patrol and found empty cardboard boxes stacked in the living room. Boxes and packing tape.
Sheila leans back into the countertop and sips at her coffee. I linger by the fridge, looking at the photos. “How’s Carl?” I ask.
She looks at the floor, shakes her head. “We moved him to assisted living, a place over in Altoona.”
“Shit,” I say. “You should have told me.”
“Why?” she asks. But before I can react, she says, “That was mean. He does ask about you.”
I wonder what my ex-wife tells my ex-father-in-law. I used to go fishing with the old man to humor him. He smoked a pipe and told stories about growing up in the Depression, using a flour bag stuffed with rags for a football, that kind of thing. After the divorce, I realized how much I missed his company. I’m still studying the picture—Carl bent forward, braced up by a walker, next to Thomas in a bright baseball uniform. I say, “I don’t know what I’d do if I quit. I can’t imagine what my life would be like.”
“Just because you can’t imagine it doesn’t mean that it couldn’t be good.” Sheila moves behind me and puts one hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Vince.” She squeezes, and my knees go weak.
“Maybe I’m just not ready to be done. I know I’ve got more to give. I don’t think I’ve ever really shown just how good I can be.”
Now Sheila pats my shoulder, the same way she’d console Thomas when he had a nightmare or broke a toy. My ex-wife, who knows me better than any other human being, makes me wonder if perhaps Clyde and Debbie are right. My best days are surely behind me. I’m past my prime. It just wasn’t as good as I’d hoped it would be, and that makes it hard to walk away.
When the phone rings, we both jump. She crosses the kitchen in two strides, yanks it from the wall, and says, “Tommy?”
But the concern melts from her face. “Oh. Sorry. No, no, it’s not too late. I was awake. Yeah, I knew that.” Now she’s looking at me. “Yeah, he’s actually right here. We’re having coffee and talking.” She listens, smiles, suppresses a laugh. “Really everything’s just fine. It was sweet of you to call.” She nods, listens, nods again. “Sounds like a plan.” She hangs up.
“Ecklar?” I say.
She turns back to me. “Guess I shouldn’
t be surprised he found my unlisted number.”
“He’s an alien super genius, remember?”
Her smile looks wonderful. “So how much of this is a birthday thing?”
I consider her question, then ask, “Remember how we used to celebrate my birthday?”
She folds her arms, hugs her own elbows, swivels her hips a bit. “I haven’t forgotten much of anything Vince. It’s not for lack of trying, though.”
“Youch,” I say. “Medic!”
She laughs, a sound that gives me chills and makes me cocky. “Any chance I could maybe just crash on the couch? I’d be gone first thing.” She stops laughing. The furnace quits, and the house feels suddenly still. I say, “My ass is beat, that’s all, and the air over those mountains was freezing. I wouldn’t—”
She holds a hand up. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just not a good idea.”
“Sure,” I say. “You’re right.” I dump my coffee in the sink, rinse out the cup while she tells me not to worry about it.
She walks me to the door. I decide to make it a quick exit. “Thanks for the coffee,” I tell her. “I’m looking forward to Sunday, I really am.”
She pecks me on the cheek. “Be safe, Vinnie.”
I want her to say more, but she pulls back the door, and together we step through the threshold into the cooler air outside. The sound of a rattling engine draws our attention to headlights bobbling down the rutted dirt road. Sheila settles a hand on my arm. “You should go,” she says. “You’ll see him soon enough.”
I step away from her, onto the porch, and I watch my son pull up and park his truck. When he gets out, I’m struck by how big he’s grown in the few months since I’ve seen him. He barely pauses when he sees me, and he mounts the stairs quickly, as if I’m not between him and the front door. Face to face, but with him looking down, I say the obvious. “You’re taller than me.”
“Aren’t you like two days early?” he asks.
I nod and tell him, “I was just saying good-bye.” But I stand exactly where I am. “Sunday we’ll have some fun.”
My son still hasn’t made eye contact. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets. “It’ll be good to see Nate.”
To ease the awkwardness, Sheila asks how the game was. Thomas looks her way and answers. “McCarthy dropped a pass in the end zone. We lost 35-32.”
“That’s rough,” I say. “Did you get in any good hits at least?”
Thomas shakes his head, and Sheila steps to his side, one hand finding his shoulder. She fixes me with a pained expression and says, “Thomas decided to focus on advanced calculus and physics this semester. He may do baseball in the spring.”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s a good idea to make choices based on your priorities.”
My line from Father Knows Best falls flat, and I consider simply flying away from all this. But even in the tension I find it feels good to be here, the three of us beneath this yellow light in the cool air. The paint along the porch rail is flaking, and I imagine Thomas and me in ratty sweatshirts, speckled jeans, sanding and dabbing paintbrushes along the spindle works. I remember being on this porch that last day with Thomas, before I left the family, looking away from his face, focusing on the sleek curve of these wooden spokes. Back then, they didn’t need painting.
Sheila lifts her chin at Thomas. “How about that other thing?”
Thomas does not blush, but he glances at me then away again before answering. “Not great. But it could’ve been a whole lot worse. What you said was right.”
“Of course it was. I’m your mother.”
They smile at each other, and I smile too, though of course I have no idea what they’re talking about. Feeling left out, I take a stab with, “So what’s her name?”
My son cocks his head, and his eyes find mine. “As if you care.”
“Thomas,” Sheila says.
“What?” he snaps. His chin is raised, his jaw set. I recognize this as an aggressive posture, a possible prelude to violence.
“Go inside,” she tells him.
“What? I’m supposed to pretend?” Here he looks at me again, and his eyes are hard. “Gee whiz, Dad, you’re the best. I’m always so glad when you help me solve my life’s problems.”
I hold up a hand. “Hang on now. I’ve always been there for you.”
“Yeah right, when some freakin’ plant monster wasn’t attacking.”
“Give me a break,” I say. “Every job has certain demands. With great power comes great re—”
“Stop!” he shouts. “If I have to hear that stupid saying one more time, I swear I’ll throw up.”
Sheila says, “Listen, guys.”
But I go on. “That stupid saying is part of a code of dignity and honor, something that gives a life meaning.”
“So that saying is the thing that gives your life meaning? Classic. A cheesy motto and a cape, and poof! You’re fulfilled. You really do live in a fantasy world.” He doesn’t slam the door behind him, but I hear his feet banging up the stairs.
“It’s a rough age for boys,” my ex tells me. “Raging hormones.”
I think of the magazines in the tree house.
“He’ll come around,” she says. “It’s just your turn right now.” For a couple years after the divorce, Thomas blamed Sheila. They fought all the time, and he begged constantly to come live in the HALO. Almost every weekend he slept over, hanging out with me and Ecklar. Then once, when I was out here dropping him off, we lingered together on the porch. He told me he’d figured out what the problem was between me and his mom, that he’d found a way to get everything back to the way it was before. Stop being a hero, he said, just that simply. Be with us instead. I guess on Earth 1.4, I did as he asked. But in this world, I stood stone silent for five minutes, while he looked into my face and tears gathered on the rims of his eyes. Then I shook my head and walked back to the hovercar. Thomas canceled our weekly visits. Later, when Deb became my wife, he refused to attend the wedding.
“Well,” I say to Sheila. “Maybe we’ll straighten a few things out on Sunday.”
When I turn away, she takes my hand and stills me. “Tomorrow Thomas’ll sleep in till nine or ten,” she says. “If you promise to be gone before he comes down, you could take the couch. It’s late.”
I picture Sheila sneaking down the stairs in the dead of night, climbing on top of me. I shake the image from my head. “Nah. It’s better I get back.”
“If that’s what you think.” She’s still holding my hand, but there’s no romance in the touch. We’re old friends now who share a fractured history and a child. Nothing more. Still, I do not want this scene to end. I remember her phone call. “Ecklar gave you a message for me?”
She thinks, and it comes to her. “He offered to come get us Sunday morning. Wanted a chance to visit with Tommy.”
“Sure,” I say. “Good old Uncle Ecklar.” I look into the starlit sky, trying to pick a destination.
“Be safe,” she tells me again. She squeezes my hand twice, a sign of reassurance or encouragement, then lets my fingers slip from hers.
I can’t think of anything good to say, so after a time I step away from her, push off from the porch, and let the air take me upward. I float straight up, over the house and into the cold starry night. When I’m sure I’m out of sight, I hover and watch the house. She’s already back inside, but I do see the lights go out downstairs, leaving only the white rectangle of Thomas’s bedroom. I imagine her knocking gently on his door before going in, the two of them talking, she trying to explain to my son that I really do love him, that life is more complicated than he can realize at sixteen.
What I do now sickens me really, but I’m so damn tired, and it feels so wrong to leave this place. It’s like walking away from a fire when you’re cold. I relax my mind, and my body slides back down till I set down near the chimney. It’s a few feet over to the dormer window, and I ease my ear up against the wall. Eavesdropping on my former family with what’s left of my
ultrahearing, I’m not sure what I hope to learn. Perhaps specifics about the girl Thomas is pursuing, perhaps some hidden tender feelings about his father. But the first thing that comes through the brick is my son saying, “He’s just such a loser.”
“Your father’s not a loser,” Sheila says, a knee-jerk response I’m not sure she believes.
“Why was he even here?”
“That’s between us. He and I, we’re still friends, you know.”
“If you say so. Everybody makes choices.”
“Don’t be ugly, Tom. I know you’re angry at him.”
“I’m not angry. I’m just tired of pretending to care. It’s not fair—you got to divorce him, make him not your husband. But me, he’s my father no matter what. I wish he’d just go away and stay gone.”
“You don’t mean that.”
There’s a silence, and I picture my ex-wife giving our son a look. But rather than backing down, he pushes forward. “Why did you marry him in the first place?”
I press my head into the brick so hard I nearly crack it. Sheila’s words are soft, slow. “He was a different man then,” she tells him. “People change, Tom. That’s something you’ll have to learn. As you grow, you’ll change too.”
“Sure thing,” he says. “Just so long as I don’t turn into him.”
“OK,” she says. “Tell me more about halftime.”
They keep talking, but I pull my head back. My son’s words have weakened me, sucked out any vestige of hope for salvaging this night. I lift away from the house, away from this family that is clearly mine no more.
Surrounded by clouds, hidden, I fly in the general direction of Kingdom Town. My elder son, I have to concede, is lost to me. I could no more be the father he needs than I could be the husband Sheila once wanted. But I still have Nate. I can still try to do better with my second child. I decide that I will go home and bring him to his bed. I will sleep on his floor to be there when his nightmares return. Tomorrow I will skip Clyde’s stupid war game drills and instead spend the day watching cartoons with Nate. We’ll play with Legos, build a castle and spaceport. I’ll read to him and have him read to me. Maybe I’ll just quit the team to devote myself to him entirely.
The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction) Page 5