Assimilation

by James Stryker

  Robert had chosen that particular urn for Michael because the angel reminded him of how he’d seen Natalie look so tenderly at the baby. But he was unsure if Natalie knew it was an urn. He’d never ordered a plaque for the front as he wanted her to decide what to engrave on it. A poem or couplet? There was a variety of symbol selections – doves, hearts, footprints. But she ignored it.

  Do you know he’s there? he’d wondered many, many times.

  “It’s probably painful for her, Robert, but here’s another opportunity to use Shelly to your advantage. Ask her to talk to Natalie about it. She might be willing to open up with her friend and start exploring her grief.”

  “I don’t want to put Michael away, but maybe I should.”

  “She eventually needs to move on and nudges to start working through the loss will help her get there.”

  Robert briefly hesitated. He chewed the corner of his lower lip before meeting Dr. Zuniga’s kind eyes.

  “I’ve often thought that another baby would help. Natalie was happy after Simon and Michael. And she likes the art and other stuff, but she seemed to get more fulfillment from being a mother than anything else.”

  “And that could be what she needs, sure. But you’ll want to be cautious in your approach. She’s still hurting, remember.”

  “So am I. She was dead for sixteen months, and I hurt that entire time,” Robert said. “I’ve hurt longer than she has.”

  “That’s true. Think of it this way – you’re more experienced with the pain and therefore more equipped to help her through it. It goes back to the same solution. The hair, the clothes, the lack of expressing her grief: You know what’s best and you need to use your strength in supporting and guiding your family forward.” Zuniga stood behind her desk. His phone was still at the corner and she handed it to him with a smile. “You have your goals and a path to achieve them.”

  No matter how upset he came in, Robert always left Zuniga’s sessions feeling better about himself. As usual, the CryoLife staff were beyond wonderful, and she was right.

  He had his path:

  I’ll try to remain neutral and patient. I’ll keep reinforcing the desirable behaviors. I’ll reach out to Shelly and get her working with me.

  His goals:

  I want Natalie acting how she used to – caring for me and our children as a wife should. We’re her main priority and she ought to have an enthusiastic objective to grow and nurture our family. I want my family back.

  If part of that accomplishment included a Natalie with short hair, he supposed he could tolerate it.

  Chapter 32

  The vacuum existence with Robert and Simon had nearly driven Andrew insane, and it puzzled him as to why Natalie would’ve wanted to stay home. He supposed that was all right for people like Shelly. It just wasn’t for him – he wanted new experiences. However, having been fortunate enough to find this outlet in spending time with Oz, he was struck by the realization of being in another routine.

  He’d seen Oz every day for the past two weeks, and usually Santino and Tinks as well. When Robert left for the office, he’d first rush through the meaningless house chores. After that, he’d walk to the pharmacy.

  If Oz didn’t need to work, they’d cruise around. Oz was interested in museums, music, and theater – what Robert saw as a waste. He continued to introduce Andrew to things and offbeat places he wouldn’t have considered. The “underground” tattoo parlor he’d spoken of, bizarre flea markets, bars with secret backrooms. And every door always seemed open to him.

  Someday maybe they’ll open for me too.

  Frequently they also made the drive to Pooler and the gun range. Since Red had been told about Andrew’s identity, he’d stopped leering and become almost loveable in a sleazy, foul-smelling way. It was great having one more person acknowledge him, so Andrew had shifted to sharing Oz’s opinion. Red was nice.

  But should Oz happen to be working, Andrew would remain at the pharmacy. He’d pull over a crate in the back room, or the other chair in the office to watch Oz work, which was amusing. And when Oz could break away from what he was doing, they’d talk. Unlike Robert, who was only open to discussing a limited number of topics, Oz could talk about pretty much anything, including art. So while Andrew still wasn’t sure if he could reciprocate Oz’s feelings, being around him was a refreshing change from home.

  “So, did you talk to Shelly about her, Clark, and the kids coming over for dinner?” Robert had asked him last night.

  He’d been hounding Andrew about this idea for the past two weeks. Suddenly, Robert wanted everyone to get together. It made Andrew’s skin crawl – he hadn’t seen Shelly since their initial meeting, though he periodically texted her trivial shit. As his alibi, she was worth investing a text every now and then.

  “This apartment is too small to entertain anyone.”

  “I told you, I’m fine if they’d prefer their house, or we could meet somewhere else. We could take the kids to that pizza place with the ball pit.”

  Let’s see – intelligent conversations with a man who doesn’t treat me like a subordinate, or shrieking children in a pool of plastic balls. Decisions, decisions.

  “I don’t think it will work, Robert.”

  “Why not?”

  “Shelly’s uncomfortable.”

  “With what? With me? I’ve known her for—”

  “No.” Andrew shook his head. “She’s super pregnant. She’s ready to crap out her kid any day—”

  “Crap out her kid?” Robert’s brow furrowed.

  “Well, that’s what it is.”

  “Is that how you view having Simon? Having Michael? Crapping them out?”

  He shrugged. Shitting them out? Backwards vomiting them out? Flushing—

  “It’s concerning to me that you feel that way,” Robert said. “What does Shelly say when you talk about her ‘crapping out’ her child?”

  “We don’t talk about that. Robert, try to be understanding.”

  “I am more than understanding.”

  “No, you’re not. Shelly can’t even sit comfortably. She feels ugly, and she’s cranky. She doesn’t want to drag her screaming kids to a pizza place to shoot the shit with you for two hours. She’s not feeling well.”

  “She’s well enough to go out with you alone. Every day.” He folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his bicep. “For more than two hour stretches.”

  “It’s not as bad in the afternoon or early evening.”

  “So you can schedule something during those times then.”

  If Robert kept pressing, Andrew knew he’d have to alter his current schedule with Oz. This thought made him aware that he’d jumped from the pretending-to-be-Natalie routine to a new one. Unlike the last time though, he felt driven to keep what he had, as well as further resentment toward Robert for trying to take it away.

  “Robert, Shelly is my friend. You have your own friends.”

  “You don’t think Clark is my friend?”

  “Then go have a beer with him alone. Why do you need me with you?”

  “I don’t need you with me, I want you with me.”

  “And I don’t want to put my friend in an uncomfortable situation, so will you stop?” Andrew walked toward the hallway.

  “Simon would probably like to go, Nat. He likes Shelly’s boys. He—”

  “We’re not pulling him out of baseball camp for pizza and a ball pit.”

  And I’m not giving up my escape because you have a jones for Shelly. Andrew grabbed his keys from the basket by the door. Why you’d have one I have no idea. She’s a fucking cow.

  “I’m going out. Not sure when I’ll be back,” he called.

  “Okay. I love—”

  Andrew shut the front door.

  *

  “You should be more careful.” Santino’s eyes watched him across the billiard table.

  Part two of the new schedule was a visit to the bar after the pharmacy closed. Santino and Tinks were often there, and they wer
e teaching him to play snooker. Andrew loved feeling like “one of the guys.” He liked being with Oz, although the feeling of uncertainty still shadowed their time alone together. But acceptance among a group of other men? This was the recognition he’d dreamed about while spying on the frat house.

  Andrew changed the position of his cue to target a different red ball. He looked over at Santino. “This one?”

  “Careful in the game you’re playing with Robert, not snooker. What are you going to do when he finds out?”

  “He’s not going to. His head’s too far up his own ass.” Andrew struck the cue ball. As expected, it lightly grazed a red ball, hit the side, and aligned multiple promising shots for Tinks. “Goddamn it.”

  “No worries.” Oz switched his cue to the opposite hand and took a cigarette from his pocket. “He needs all the help he can get, don’t you?”

  Tinks tucked a cue chalk in his pocket and approached the table. “Keep telling yourself that.” He squeezed his eyes tight shut before opening them and shaking his head. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

  “So you pop off with something stupid like, ‘Go have a beer with Clark alone.’ What would you do if Robert walked through these doors right now?” Santino asked. “Nothing is stopping him.”

  “He doesn’t drink.”

  “And neither do you. And neither did Natalie. So why would Natalie say ‘Go have a beer with Clark.’ You don’t think that’s suspicious?” He took a drink from his glass and replaced it on a nearby table. “You’re letting Oz get too much into your head, which is dangerous. Notice how much alcohol is required for me to tolerate his presence.”

  “There’s an idea. Let’s get Robert drunk. Or high.” Oz appeared to place zero concentration into his next shot. He braced his fingertips on the side of the pool table and stretched his hand. “We’ll make him a special White Widow pie. That’d be fun. And put some Strawberry Diesel in the kid’s smoothies. He’ll be taking a piss in a litter box.”

  Andrew still hadn’t accepted the offer of alcohol or drugs, though he’d thought about it. But his abstinence was proof of how cautious he really was being, despite what Santino thought.

  “You could easily be taking a lot less risks.” Santino moved the spider rest in front of a red ball to reach the cue ball. “For example, you could cover your ass by giving him his pizza party.”

  “You don’t understand. That’d be unbearable.”

  “If man can climb Annapurna and live to tell the tale, I’m confident you can leave Fat Bandit’s Pizza Shack with your limbs intact. Most of them anyway.” He seemed to put as little focus into the shot as Oz did, yet he potted a pink followed by another red. “And then Robert will back off for a while.”

  “Maybe we should give you the weed instead.” Oz smiled. “Chill you out so you can deal with them.”

  Andrew fucked up another shot. Why was he even trying? “No. I can’t do it.”

  “You could at least spend some time with Shelly. What if Robert calls her and starts asking questions? He finds out you haven’t seen her in weeks, and there goes your alibi. What then? How do you explain where you’ve been going?”

  “Petting ducklings at the park? Those puny bitches won’t rat me out if they know what’s good for them.”

  “Yes, you think you’re both hilarious, but you aren’t this stupid.” Santino came around the table and leaned in closer to Andrew, lowering his voice. “Do you understand what a conservatorship means? You don’t have more than the most basic rights. If you push him too much, he’ll pack you up and leave. He’ll take you to CryoLife. He could make you disappear. And no amount of humor can save you.”

  It was a sobering thought, and Andrew knew Santino was right. Robert could burst through the doors of the bar, drag him out, and lock him up. He had full control. As much as Andrew didn’t want to relinquish the peace he had being with Oz and the others, flexibility was probably wise.

  “Fine, I’ll tone it down. December twenty-eighth. Then he can go fuck himself in the pizza shack’s ball pit, which I’ll personally tell him.”

  “No, you need to chill until he grants you the identity.”

  “At the end of the six months.”

  “Reread the terms of your servitude. Your conservator may grant it to you in six months. May. He doesn’t have to. Nothing compels him except for your good behavior. So you’re not fully released until Robert says you are. Ergo, for your own good, stop being a dick.” Santino glanced to Tinks. “Are you all right?”

  Tinks had paused over the table. He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking.”

  “Why waste excess brain power when he’s going to clear the table anyway?” Oz shrugged. “I never do when I’m on his team. Throw the cue ball out the window. That fucker will still win.”

  “What happens if he won’t grant the Natalie identity to me in six months?”

  “What do you think? You go back to CryoLife.”

  “And then what?”

  “I have no idea. None of us do. Even Chuckles the Pot Dealer has never met a single person who’s been transferred to CryoLife.” He nodded toward Oz. “Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?”

  So Santino also considered this lack of evidence as proof to CryoLife’s ulterior motives. As a means to an end, perhaps a little give was a good idea.

  If believing in Santa Claus could potentially kill me, I guess it’s safer to not believe.

  He should at least keep his excuses intact by calling Shelly and going to lunch with her.

  “Okay, I’ll be more careful. Tomorrow I’ll—”

  “Oh, God! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  Andrew took a quick step away from the billiard table to see Tinks on the ground. He held his head and rocked on his knees, bellowing the phrases between howls. Every muscle in his body was in spasm, and Andrew wondered if someone could explode from their own skin. But he could do no more than wonder. He felt immobilized with his hand clenched around the pool cue. Everyone else had the same reaction as the bar was silent except for the screaming.

  And whatever is playing inside your head. He couldn’t stop his stare.

  “Move!” Oz had been cautious regarding physical contact with Andrew, but now he pushed him aside to get to Tinks. “Someone call an ambulance.”

  Ambulance? What was an ambulance? Nothing registered beyond Tinks’s cries. The sound shattered each of Andrew’s thoughts as they neared completion.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Tinks smashed his head against the concrete floor.

  Santino slid to his knees and took Tinks’s head into his lap to prevent him from beating it in. Tinks struggled violently to free himself, clawing at Santino’s hands and trying to push away. Santino held firm, though he quickly discontinued the verbal comfort he’d attempted as everything was drowned out.

  On the ground Oz searched through the pockets of Tinks’s jacket and pants. “Where’s your pen, brother? Do you have it with you?”

  Tinks’s response was to vomit over Santino’s lap. The sour smell of the bile and acid turned Andrew’s own stomach. He covered his mouth with his palm.

  “Make it stop!” Tinks wailed, his face covered in vomit and blood. “God, make it stop!”

  “Find the fucking pen, Oz!” The goo in Santino’s lap made it more difficult to keep Tinks secure. Santino held one side of his neck and his other hand gripped Tinks’s hair, vomit oozing between his fingers. “Find the fucking—”

  “I’ve got it!”

  Oz had pulled Tinks’s wallet from his pocket. He unfolded it and slipped out a foil package the size of a toothpick. After he broke the foil’s seal, he removed an autoinjector pen.

  “Hold on, just hold on.” Oz put the pen to Tinks’s thigh, trying to steady him with one hand as he clicked the button at its end to activate the needle. He held the pen in place and shared a horrified look with Santino until finally Tinks’s muscles released.

  Andrew didn’t feel like he took another breath until they heard the
sirens. He knew he should do something, anything besides standing there paralyzed. But he didn’t know how to handle an emergency situation. Santino and Oz looked like they knew exactly what to do.

  As Tinks relaxed into what appeared to be semi-conscious whimpering, Santino moved his head onto a folded jacket. They both uncurled his body, leaving him on his side. Tinks’s mouth opened as he moaned, and Andrew could see that the blood was coming from both his nose and broken teeth. Through the film of vomit his skin was beginning to bruise. But while the image served to heighten Andrew’s nausea, the other two men stayed near their friend.

  Oz sat in the mess, slime saturating the knees of his pants and flecked across his forearms. His hand pressed Tinks’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. They’re almost here.”

  As a constant showman, in everything Oz did there was a sense of the action being completed with the awareness of someone watching. Even when he’d revealed the emotional story behind his death, the way in which he conducted himself was cognizant of an audience. Andrew struggled and failed to remember an instance at which he’d seen the “unobserved Oz.” It was like turning at the right instant to see the sun sparkle on the water. Without the distortion of his focus being on the world, the sight of simply unguarded Oz felt similar to hearing his name spoken for the first time.

  Hearing my name is seeing June Celebration in a centerfold – the visibility and appreciation of the entire piece, corner to corner. But in all actuality, that painting is seven feet high. And seeing you this way is how it’d be to look at it from that true perspective.

  Andrew felt very small. Not because he hadn’t done anything to help Tinks, but for the first time since he’d emerged into this existence, the lens through which he viewed the world had inverted. Something was more important than himself and his individual set of problems. And amid the CryoLife/Robert bullshit, there really was honest, unadulterated compassion in the world.