A few minutes later, Tom walked out into the night, letting the air and the darkness wash over him.
* * *
The dive bar was a hell of a lot rowdier than he’d expected. He had assumed that suburban bars would be like the ones he’d seen on TV and in movies … totally dead, even on a Saturday, with lame music and a handful of vaguely pissed-off locals, all male and a million years old.
But Nick’s Bar & Grill was booming with classic rock and pulsing with adults of all ages. Tom shouldered his way to the bar and tried to catch the eye of one of the two bartenders, who were valiantly attempting to keep up with the frenzied crowd. Eventually, an old dude with a big white beard, long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a leather biker jacket worn without any apparent irony cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Bourbon rocks!” Tom shouted over the din.
The man nodded and turned away to fill the order. The other bartender, a younger woman with short-cropped hair dyed green, gave Tom a surprised look, as if she’d seen a ghost, then quickly turned away.
The old bartender returned and placed a glass with a generous pour in front of Tom. “Passing through?” the man asked, sizing Tom up with his dark eyes.
“No, just moved in. Only been a Jerseyite for about a week or so.”
“My condolences,” the man said, nodding as if they shared a secret. “First one’s on the house. That’s how we get you hooked.”
“Thanks, man,” Tom said, and downed the drink in a single, long gulp, then fished a few dollars from his wallet and threw them down. He’d been a bartender long enough to know that you always tipped, even when the drinks were free. “How’d you know?”
The man walked away and returned with the bottle, filling the glass even higher than he had the first time. Tom noted the generosity of the pour. Here was a man after his own heart. People up and down the bar were trying to get the old dude’s attention, but his gaze was locked on Tom.
“How’d I know what?” the bartender asked. “That you were an FNG? Take a look around.”
Tom did. At first, he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at, but it slowly dawned on him. He turned back to the old man and said, “The hair.”
“And the tats. And the ‘fuck you’ look in your eyes. You just moved into Yuppieville, son. Let the osmosis begin!”
Tom laughed and sipped his drink. “No way. I’ll never look like them.”
* * *
By eleven thirty, Tom was the only one left in the place. The men in business suits quietly getting hammered, the couples enjoying date nights, and the groups of wild, drunken moms had all filed out, the streets quieting before going entirely silent. It was eerie how fast suburbia shut down, and how early it happened.
The old man kept the alcohol coming. Tom switched to beer after the first several glasses of bourbon and the bartender waived the charge for every third or fourth drink. Tom hadn’t gotten much out of the guy except for his name, Malcolm. The female bartender had ignored him entirely.
Tom had been making regular trips outside to smoke, lighting each cigarette with his beloved Zippo. Each time he came back in, his seat was still empty, waiting for him even when the bar was packed. He wondered vaguely if Malcolm had something to do with that.
As Tom entered the empty bar after his latest smoke, he held up his hand as the old bartender poured him a fresh glass of beer. “Oh man, I appreciate it, but I think I’m done. I can’t even see straight.”
“Ahh, you can handle one more. I can tell.”
Tom said, “Fine. Consider my arm twisted,” even as he tried to blink away his dizziness. “But you have to join me. Everyone’s gone and you won’t get fired for having one. I speak from experience.”
“I should hope not,” the man said, “considering I own the place.”
“Oh shit, you do?” Tom asked. “I figured some dude named Nick owned it. Unless you’re lying about your name. Are you lying about your name, ‘Malcolm’?” Tom slurred, making air quotes with his fingers.
The bartender laughed and then shouted over his shoulder. “Hannah! Come here!” The younger bartender stopped wiping down the bar, rolled her eyes, and walked over. “This is Tom,” Malcolm continued. “Tom, this is Hannah.”
She gave him a thin smile, said “Hi,” then made her way through a curtain into the back area of the bar.
“Wow,” Tom said. “Angry much?”
“Ha!” Malcolm barked, and clapped Tom on the shoulder. “That’s what I keep saying! But don’t take it personally. She has a chip on her shoulder, and I think you remind her of her brother.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He died over in the desert a couple years ago. IED. His name was Nick.”
“Wait. Nick? But.…”
“Yeah, my son. Nick. Hannah’s brother. Don’t you feel stupid now, FNG?” Malcolm said with a kind smile on his face.
“I … I’m sorry, man, I didn’t know,” Tom said, swallowing nervously.
“Tom. It’s fine. You’re a good guy, I can tell. Welcome to New Jersey.”
“Thanks, Malcolm. Seriously. I needed this. And … wait … what the hell is an FNG?”
The bartender loosed another peal of laughter. “Fucking new guy, Tom. Fucking new guy.”
* * *
Tom Decker stood in front of the closed basement door. It was pitch black outside, the moon completely hidden behind a wall of clouds, and totally silent inside the house. The taste of alcohol and cigarettes lingered in Tom’s mouth. Tears streamed down his face.
He placed his hand against the closed door and giggled in agony as waves of heat and cold racked his body. He told himself to walk away, but the drunk voice in his head seemed far off, like a hitchhiker glimpsed in the rearview mirror, streaked in fading red light, then gone forever.
He had been fighting this moment and now was losing the battle. He knew it. But there was nothing he could do. His fingers trailed along the chipped wood, almost sensually, until they reached the doorknob, clenching around it the way a drowning man clings to a floating piece of detritus.
Turning his head, Tom roared vomit across the floor, laughing, tears streaming harder, snot and spittle falling from his chin. When he was finished, he looked back at the door, which seemed to be growing.
The instant he opened it, he could hear the breathing noise again. Finally. He stepped forward into a darkness even blacker than the night outside, the most complete void he had ever experienced, and closed the door behind himself.
* * *
Jenny was trapped in a small room, calling for help, when the limbs of dismembered babies started falling on her from nowhere: arms, legs, an occasional head with torn-out eyes. At first terrifying and then simply overwhelming, they piled up on her. She searched desperately for a way out, but there were no doors or windows in the tiny room. The weight grew heavier and heavier, crushing Jenny facedown against the concrete floor. Little dead fingers found their way into her mouth, cracked nails pulled at her lips, rotting hands muffled her screams. She struggled to draw a breath against the suffocating pressure of the still-falling body parts.
She jerked upright on the couch, awake but confused, covered in sweat and gulping deep, panicked breaths.
Someone was sitting in the rocking chair across from the couch, head hung low, hands hanging off the sides and half-curled into fists, the chair moving back and forth ever so slightly.
Jenny immediately stood up, still disoriented but ready to fight.
The person didn’t say anything and Jenny blinked rapidly, the echo of the nightmare still reverberating in her mind. She felt as if she could taste dirty fingers in her mouth and fought not to puke. Her vision cleared.
“Tom?” she whispered, cautiously moving closer. He reeked of booze and cigarettes and God knew what else. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, and his feet were dirty. His T-shirt had a long tear along the chest, and his jeans were filthy, too, as if covered with mud. His eyes were black buttons in the darkness.
He slowly stood up and faced her but seemed to be looking through her, staring at something in the distance, past the gaudy wallpaper behind her.
Jenny grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly, terrified and starting to get pissed off. “Tom!”
He snapped out of it and shook his head, mouth hanging open as if his jaw had come unhinged. “Jenny?” he said, looking dazed.
“What the hell is going on? Are you okay? Are you drunk?”
His whole body sagged as he stumbled forward and sat down unceremoniously on the couch, holding his head in his hands. “Yes … I … I went out to this bar, Malcolm got me wasted. It’s his fault. I … threw up in the kitchen but I cleaned it up. I … shit.”
“You went out? Without me? You left me alone in this giant house? And who the fuck is Malcolm?”
“He offered me a job!” Tom shouted. “He owns the bar, Nick’s. I don’t have to commute into the city anymore!”
Jenny stood in front of him, arms crossed, fighting the white-hot rage she felt building inside her. “Tom. Listen to me. You need to go drink a huge glass of water and pound, like, forty aspirin. I’m going to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re … you know … making sense.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away, breathing as slowly and deliberately as possible. It was pointless to start a fight with him now, as much as she wanted to.
* * *
Tom sat on the couch for several more minutes, or maybe it was hours, the slash of a smile still ripped into his face. He traced lines in the air with trembling fingers, laughing silently, his body in the room but his mind trapped in the basement, boxed in and infinite.
* * *
“I am so sorry.”
Jenny was sitting on the porch swing eating lunch, a sandwich filled with meat, vegetables, and condiments that were individually appetizing but probably shouldn’t have been put together between two slices of bread, when Tom shambled out of the house, his face a pale gray shadow.
She didn’t respond to his apology right away, just took another bite and chewed methodically. It felt good not to be nauseated in the morning for once. Tom sat down on the porch floor, groaning with the effort. Clouds filled the Sunday sky. He played with his Zippo nervously.
“Seriously. Jen. I’m an idiot. It was early and you were conked out, so I figured I’d walk into town and—”
“Wait,” she interrupted, “are you apologizing or are you making excuses?”
“Apologizing,” he said quickly, licking his lips, opening and closing the Zippo. Jenny saw him swallow hard, probably trying not to throw up from the strong smell of her sandwich. “I’m sorry. Really.”
She let that sit between them while she finished her lunch. Tom fidgeted, the metal lighter opening and closing frenetically.
“Can you put that away, please?” she said, and he nodded, slipping the Zippo into his pocket.
“Sorry,” he repeated.
“You said something about a job offer?” Jenny asked, deciding to let the drunkenness of the previous night go for now.
“Yes!” he said, perking up. “Malcolm, this badass old dude who owns that dive bar in town—you’re going to love him. Apparently, I look like his dead son and he needs another bartender. His pissed-off daughter is helping out, but their place is pretty new and it’s doing really well, so he was just about to throw a HELP WANTED sign in the window. It’s perfect. I can quit my job in the city, bartend in town … hell, I can walk to my job again. That’ll give me more time to work on the house, and start really painting.”
“And be a dad.”
“Yeah, of course. Be a dad. I know that.”
“I’m not sure you do, Tom,” Jenny said, measuring her tone carefully. She had been thinking about this conversation all morning, while Tom slept off his bender on the couch. He hadn’t even made it to bed, which she wasn’t happy about. They had a rule about never sleeping apart, even if they were fighting. She inhaled slowly and looked him in the eyes. His extremely bloodshot eyes.
“It’s time for us to grow up,” she continued. “Both of us. I’m not pissed off about you going out and getting wasted … I mean, I was pretty hammered the night we first met, and we’ve been drunk together more times than I can count. But last night? Last night you scared me, and that’s never happened before.
“Look … I get it. I know you’re probably freaking out. We bought this gigantic house. We have a baby on the way. A baby, Tom.
“It’s a huge responsibility. I don’t think I’ve even processed it yet. But we both have to give up certain things—” Tom opened his mouth to say something, but Jenny held up a hand. “Please … let me finish. I need to get this out. I’m not saying you have to give up your identity. You don’t have to give up everything that makes you Tom Decker. I’m just saying that once this kid arrives, and even before that, really … starting pretty much right now … you can’t show up at three in the morning like some kind of zombie.
“What if there’s an emergency? What if you need to drive me to the hospital? And it’s not only you, it’s me, too. I can’t have that occasional social cigarette anymore … can’t drink at all, can’t smoke weed for, like, a year and a half. Which is fine. I’m okay with that. Because it’s time to grow up a little bit, whether we like it or not.”
Tom waited a moment, as if making sure she was finished, then reached over and took her hand, smiled sadly, and said, “I know. I’ll change. Last night was a mistake. The idea of being a dad and the move and everything else going on has been really stressful, and I just lost control a bit. I was trying to cut loose and I took it too far. I recognize that. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Jenny knew he meant every word, and smiled back at him, a weight lifting from her chest. “I love you, Tom. I love you more than anything … except maybe the tiny dot in my stomach. I’m so excited to have a baby with you.”
“I love you, too,” Tom whispered, then leaned over and kissed her knee. “You’re going to be an amazing mom.”
“Damn straight,” Jenny answered, squeezing his hand and letting go. “Speaking of which, there’s a sandwich waiting for you in the kitchen, in some Tupperware on the table … if your hangover can handle it. Don’t worry, it has about ninety percent fewer ingredients than the one I just inhaled.”
Tom laughed and stood up. “Awesome. I’m actually starving.”
“Once you’ve eaten, get your ass back out here. We’ve got a busy week ahead of us. We have our first doctor appointment, we should probably start looking for a used car, and we need to figure out which room is going to be the nursery. This house needs a ton of work. Plus, you apparently have a new job.”
Jenny noticed Tom’s eyes glaze over and she waved a hand at him.
“Hey. It’s okay. Everything is fine. We’re gonna make all of this work. Trust me.”
* * *
“I lost my job, Tom.” Jenny’s voice was weak and distant through Tom’s old cell phone. It sounded like she was crying, or had been and had tried to stop in order to talk to him. He was mowing the lawn, using the gas-powered lawn mower he’d bought at the home-goods store in the strip mall between their town and the next one. They’d bought a used car a few days earlier, the same day they’d gone to the doctor and seen the first sonogram. They both cried, looking at the ghostly image, tears flowing unabated until the doctor handed them each a box of tissues, and then they all laughed. Tom and Jenny couldn’t believe the powerful emotions elicited by looking at a muddy, pixelated blob on a tiny screen.
Dr. Miller—a white-haired and somewhat stooped woman who had probably been through this hundreds, if not thousands, of times before—seemed to be genuinely excited for them. After the appointment, the Deckers sat in their car in the parking lot of the doctor’s office for almost twenty minutes, passing the sonogram printout back and forth, marveling at the image of their unborn child. Talking quietly to each other about the f
uture, they decided they wouldn’t find out the sex of the baby. They wanted to be surprised when he or she came into the world. When they got home, they put the sonogram on the refrigerator.
Tom wasn’t able to bring himself to return to the basement to look for a lawn mower—or for any other reason—and had decided it was probably a good investment to buy a new one anyway, even if their budget was tight. The lawn was big and would require serious work.
Now, listening to his wife fighting tears, Tom shut the machine off immediately, the harsh sound of the motor echoing in his ears.
“What?” he said.
“I got let go,” she sobbed, no longer trying to hold back her misery. “We all did, even fucking Sean. They’re closing the gym. Apparently, the bank is getting sued by a bunch of Holocaust families … something about Nazi gold?… so they’re cutting all ‘extraneous’ costs. I’m extraneous, Tom!”
“It’s okay, Jenny, it’s going to be okay. Remember? You told me everything was going to be fine, and you were right. Where are you? I’ll drive into the city and come get you. Just tell me—”
“No. I’ll be home a little later. Victoria is on her way. I’m at a restaurant near the bank. Fuck! I can’t even have a drink!” She took a deep, wavering breath. He could hear her trying to get control. “Fucking assholes. We’re fucked, Tom. We don’t have a full-time income anymore. And I guess I can get COBRA? But how long does that even last, and how good is the coverage? How are we supposed to pay for everything? How are we supposed to pay for anything?”
“We’ll figure it out, Jenny,” Tom said calmly, though he was feeling sick to his stomach. His mind was racing. He didn’t have a college degree, having dropped out after his first year. He didn’t have any marketable skills, really. Bartending—could they really pay the mortgage and the doctor bills and raise a family on that?
What had he expected was going to happen when he decided to move to New York City to be an artist?
She was right. They were fucked.
The Chrysalis Page 6