A 'what if' scenario started to play, and Cale imagined a life where Diana never dumped him. He would have done the yard work, the picture hanging, furniture building, and in what would've been a spectacular failure, the electronics setup. He was supposed to be the man of this house.
Each step from the sidewalk to the front door took a little bite out of his confidence. It wasn't enough to cause him to turn back, but it did change his walk from a float to a clomp. He no longer was confident enough to attain the 25,000 miles per hour necessary to escape gravity.
At the front door, he reached for the knob like he always used to at Diana's condo, but stopped halfway there. Reluctantly, he pressed the doorbell, took a deep breath, and waited for an answer.
The door opened, and face to face for the first time in weeks, they both had that heart sinking, 'holy shit!' type of reaction, but only Diana made it known in the form of a gasp.
“Cale!? What are you doing here?”
With remnants of confidence still rattling around inside, Cale did his best to play it cool. “I got your messages and wanted to talk about everything. Sorry about being MIA these past few weeks.”
“Oh, I'm so happy,” Diana said as she studied Cale. He looked terrible, and she knew it was more accurate to say he was a POW rather than MIA.
“Wow, look at you. Your stomach looks ready to burst.”
“I wish it would. No one ever told me how achy the last few months are.”
“What hospital are you going to for the delivery?”
“St. Luke’s. You better be there for it.”
Giving such a direct order made them both feel good. For Cale, it was that intimate level of familiarity with the bossy Diana. For Diana, it was a small recoup of power since the earlier phone call with Andrew left her feeling powerless.
“Of course I'll be there.” Cale said as he thought of something to say to get her back. “So listen, I've been doing some thinking lately, and I want to be in our daughter's life.”
“Really? That makes me so happy, Cale. You should come to my office sometime to work out a custody agreement.”
Custody agreement? Cale's primary goal for coming over was to get Diana back. Talking about custody was definitely not a way to do it. In deflection, he said, “Let's wait until the baby is born, then we can figure all that stuff out.”
“That sounds good to me. Do... do you want to come inside?”
“Sure.”
As Cale stepped inside, Diana asked, “So, how's it going?”
“Oh, you know, not too bad...” From the corner of his eye, Cale saw a pair of shiny, black, men's shoes that looked far more professional and expensive than any he's ever owned. His head started to spin as he managed to spit out, “I still can't think of any new pieces. Brian and Nick are the same as ever. My dad was just in town. He says hi.”
“Just hi? That doesn't sound like your father.”
Cale grinned. “You're right, it was actually closer to this,” He grabbed her hand, kissed it, and said very casanova-esqe. “Hello there, beautiful.”
Diana gave a smile that melted everything in a two mile radius. “That was uncanny. Just add some gray hair and you're him.”
“Thanks, I've been studying him for long enough.”
This led to a silent face-off. The proper term for their expressions during this would be, 'titter'. It's a sort of a closed-mouth laughter, almost in disbelief, but good nonetheless. That was the moment Cale decided would be the best to get her back. Black shoes be damned, he was going to win her over.
Before he could speak though, the front door opened and a voice came through it. “Diana, I'm home. Listen, I'm sorry about earlier, I took the rest of...” Right behind the voice came a tall, dark, and for Cale, a literally soul-crushing form of a man. Suspiciously, he said, “Hello?”
Diana panicked. Andrew and Cale meeting was something she knew would happen eventually, but figured it would happen when she could control it.
“Andrew, this is Cale... my ex.”
“Oh, it's really nice to meet you. I'm Andrew Finnegan.” He said and reached out to shake Cale's no longer bandaged hand. Cale, who only heard about two words since Andrew walked in the door, went against everything that made him, him, and shook Andrew's hand like any typical 15-80 year old man would do. Someone had taken over his body, and he didn't want to regain control.
He never heard Diana describe him as her ex. Like being called her boyfriend, being called her ex was something equally displacing, but also carried with it a feeling of worthlessness.
With his hand still gripped with Andrew's, Cale switched to his best impersonation of an adult, “It's good to meet you, too.”
“So Diana tells me you're some kind of artist?”
“I used to be. Now I help run a coffee shop over in Cap Hill. What about you?”
“I'm a cardiologist.”
Smarter, better looking, fitter, richer, hell, name any category and Andrew would've wiped the floor with Cale. Sure, there were things like drinking and a tolerance for pain that Cale might've won, but who wants to win those things anyway? And how was someone supposed to win drinking?
“So I should probably get going. Um... I guess just let me know when you go in for delivery, and I'll meet you there?”
“Absolutely. Call me if you need anything, okay?” Diana responded. She felt bad for Cale. It was obvious to anyone who spent longer than five minutes with him that he was forcing politeness and a smile because he surely was dying inside.
Forgetting the box of clothes with his name on it, Cale gave several awkward nods in Diana and Andrew's direction followed by a scramble for the door.
He left the house that should've been his that contained the woman who was once his who was pregnant with the baby that was his, and never turned back till he got to the bus stop. He wanted a drink.
The Cale Dawkins' Death Watch
Death Clock: 11:58
Injuries Sustained: A crushed spirit and a broken heart.
Current Substances: Completely dry (regrettably)
Number Of Women In Past Seventy-Two Hours: Zero
BLASPHEMATIC THERAPY
The Diana Young Pregnancy Update
Estimated weeks till delivery: 4
Shape of stomach: A pearly skinned Buddha.
Food Craving: A panini with salami, provolone, and spicy mustard.
Mood: Bored
Knowing full well the procedure by now, a dress-wearing Diana sat in front of Dr. Lincoln ready for the typical questions. That’s why it was such a surprise when Dr. Lincoln threw her a curve.
“So, Cale didn’t come with you?”
Diana took a second to decide how honest to be with the good doctor. She didn’t want to tell her the whole story. It was way too long, way too personal, and all around painted her as a terrible person no matter how hard she spun it, so instead she went with, “Ummm, we split up. He won’t be coming anymore.”
Dr. Lincoln genuinely apologized, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dear.”
“Don't worry about it. We both agreed that we're best on our own.”
With a thrust of a speculum, Dr. Lincoln intimately asked, “Is he still going to be there for the delivery?”
“He better be!” Diana answered with a type of spice that had been all too rare in her life as of late.
“Well, just in case he isn't,” Dr. Lincoln said as she examined inside Diana. “Is there is someone else you would like in the delivery room? I can make a note in your chart to let the hospital know.”
Diana should’ve thought about this longer than she did. “Can you add Jenny Ferri? She’s my assistant.”
Dr. Lincoln nodded, scribbled the update into Diana’s chart, and said, “So have you already started your maternity leave? For most of my patients, it's their favorite part of the process.”
“I'm not taking time off until after the delivery.”
“Really? You're that busy?”
Once again, the fire of Diana
Young was lit. “There's partner meetings, client relations, advertising, continuing education, and hundreds of other things that have nothing to do with practicing law. It takes a lot to be successful, and if I have to give up two weeks of lying on a couch watching talk shows and soap operas, then too damn bad. I'm strong enough that I don't need to leave all my responsibilities for one of the other partners.”
Diana drew a breath and continued. “I know this makes me sound like some sort of hardcore feminist, but I don't want to be treated equally just because I'm a woman. I want to prove my worth, and since my colleagues are all males, that means I have to work that much harder. So no, I won't be taking a maternity leave. My time off will start on the day of the delivery and last until I feel I'm ready to come back.”
Dr. Lincoln nodded and tried her best to empathize with Diana's position as she began the ultrasound. She pressed the sonar stick onto Diana's stomach, but immediately pulled back and squealed, “Oh Diana, look at your stomach!”
Like trying to look over a giant hill, Diana could barely tell what it was Dr. Lincoln wanted her to see. Sticking through the gel-coated skin on her stomach was a tiny little hand. Her daughter was extending a high five for a speech worthy of all hard working women.
The places Cale awoke on the days that followed meeting Andrew
•On the floor curled up in front of his toilet.
•A queen sized air mattress with a brunette whose name he couldn't remember.
•Face down on the smooth concrete floor one foot away from his bed.
•The drunk tank at the Denver Police Station. They picked him up for what was reported as, 'Excessive vigilantism with a traffic cone'.
•The brunette with the air mattress again. He still didn't remember her name, but in his defense, when you're depressed, fucked up, and lonely, a vagina and a bed is all that matters. Names mean squat.
Now that he had time to really think about Diana and Andrew, Cale came to one logical conclusion. To think is to feel, thus, in order not to feel, one must not think. It was a very easy philosophy to follow. All Cale needed was a bar that served martinis.
On this particular night, Brian and Nick were at the bar with Cale, but Nick was merely there in the way someone in a coma is 'there'. His attention was 100% focused on his phone and a cocktail napkin littered with handwritten notes.
As Cale's fourth martini was placed in front of him, a sober Brian asked him, “What do you think about that girl out there smoking?”
On the patio, a skinny, dark redhead in a loose, black and white polka dot dress was staring out toward the empty street. They couldn't see her face, only her back, hair, and the trail of smoke emanating from a cigarette.
It took only one glance for Cale to say, “No.” If she would've had any other color hair, he would've been out there smoking with her in an instant, but dark red was just too familiar.
“Come on, Cale, the only way to get over Diana is by fucking her out of your system.”
Cale took a hero's pull from the cocktail glass and bitterly said, “You're clueless if you think that will make me feel better. Do you really wanna know what will help me? How about a fucking sculpture? Any fucking piece that will make me feel something besides worthless.”
After trying to pin all his current problems on his art, the martinis finally caught up to Cale and he let slip what was really bothering him. “Seriously, Brian, why did I ever come up with that pregnancy pact?”
“I thought you said God came up with it?”
“Well it looks like God has some terrible goddamn plans.”
Nick looked up from his phone and was about to congratulate Cale on a quote well said, but instead returned to reading.
Cale continued, “You know guys, I've always tried to live without any regrets. My dad used to say that everyone should aim for a life where, on your death bed, you can proudly exclaim, 'I apologize for nothing!'” Cale downed the rest of his drink. “Going through with that pact definitely qualifies as regret. I'd do anything to go back and stop myself.”
A smirk came across Brian's face. “Allow me to enlighten you, Cale. I actually thought about this the other night when I was stoned. Don't ask why I thought of your pact, but just listen. I think I came up with something good.”
Nick set his phone down and decided to listen in on whatever words of wisdom were bound to follow.
Clasping his hands together and pointing at Cale, Brian said, “I hate to break this to you, but there was nothing you could do when it came to the pact. An act of that magnitude will always carry with it unavoidable regret. It's one of those damned if you do, blah blah blah type of things.”
Nick asked, “Unavoidable regret?”
“Yep, unavoidable regret. Sooner or later, everyone will come across a decision that will change their life forever. Where to live? What girl to date? Which college to go to? Things like that. No matter what you choose, there will always be a part of you that wishes you chose the other option. I guarantee if you never came up with that pact, you and Diana would be doing your stupid back and forth thing you've always done. We'd be at some bar, and you'd be complaining about the lack of change. You needed that pact, Cale. It was a risk for sure, but you needed to do it. Now stop being a pussy, and go talk to that redhead.”
Brian was right, but in his pickled, cloudy mind, Cale was only able to follow that last sentence. In a storm of swear words to show he was serious, Cale yelled, “I already fucking told you, that red head is shit.” His voice rose as he singled people out at the bar. “That chick in the corner is nothing, and so is that one, and that one, and that one. Fuck them all. You think any girl who is at a place like this at eleven on a Tuesday has any worth as a person? Screw everyone here.”
An overweight, greasy girl flanked on both sides by equally large and greasy friends took offense at Cale's rude dismissal. “Fuck you, asshole! Why don't you fucking leave then?”
Roaring drunk, Cale yelled back, “My pleasure!”
The girl at the bar wouldn't let that be that. “Oh, by the way, I overheard what you said earlier. I'm glad this Diana found someone better, but then again, that's not hard to do.”
Inside his jean pockets, Cale clenched his fists. It was psychology impossible for him to hit a girl thanks to his father's rules, and at that moment, Cale deeply regretted this inability. It was unavoidable regret. Still though, he had words. “Do you know you're the type of girl that guys don't warn they are gonna come while getting blown?”
She lunged at Cale, but Brian, fully alert thanks to a rare drug-free night, was able to step in and hold the massive girl back. He wrapped his arms around her while the bartender jumped over the bar and tackled Cale.
“What the fuck!?” Cale shouted as he felt hands around his torso and neck dragging him out.
“Don't come back!” The bartender shouted, and gave a strong heave as Cale flew away from the hoes and into the street.
Taking off for nowhere, Cale didn't wait for Brian or Nick. He wanted to be alone. Before he started his adventure though, he stopped and asked the redhead for a cigarette. She turned him down.
Back inside the bar, Nick saw Cale walk off and hoped he would be okay for at least another week. According to the notes on his napkin, that's how long it would take to enact his plan to save Cale.
Somewhere around the thousandth failed flick of a lighter, Cale gave up on his newly bought cigarette. Spring nights in Denver were just too misty to create a spark. It was a shame too. A cigarette felt like the logical follow-up to being thrown out of a bar.
From the bar, Cale went straight to one of those late night liquor stores. The kind with steel bars on the windows, the clerk surrounded by bulletproof glass, and the ominous feeling that there were no fewer than two shotguns pointing at you at all times. It was there Cale made one of those small life changes in hope it would lead to a reversal of fortune. He denounced gin.
Gin had been a constant presence in Cale's life ever since his father made him
a drink at an age much younger than what the law would prefer. It was there when he lost his virginity, when he finished his first sculpture, and most recently, when the pregnancy pact was formed. Yessir, Gin was there for all times – good, bad, and wasted.
He bought a bottle of red wine instead. There's no point in making it known whether it was a cab, merlot, pinot, port, etc. because they all led to the same result - Cale staggering through the hazy streets with a hazy mind.
Along the empty sidewalks, he swayed from one yard into the next without any regard for the widely proved notion that a straight line is the quickest way between two points. His eyes felt heavy. The heaviness that comes not from being tired, but from being completely trashed.
He turned the corner onto Brian and Nick's street, finished what remained of his wine, and said out loud, “What's wrong with me, God?”
Up in the sky, there was no response. He asked the question again to no avail. His friend in the sky had no answer to the question.
No matter how hard he tried, Cale wouldn't have been able to develop an answer while he was roaring across the city. It was one of those questions that can only be solved by deep meditation, psychedelics, or both.
Since he wasn't likely to meditate and psychedelics were nowhere to be found, the answer to Cale's question was this. It was a matter of ownership. A feeling that there was something in the world to call your own. At that particular moment in Cale's life, his possessions were as follows:
•A laptop
•A cell phone
•A large sander, many chisels and hammers of various sizes, a power drill, and a precision detailing instrument
•Twenty-five gray shirts, one suit, four jeans, seven shorts, thirteen boxers, twelve socks, and a pair of black Nikes
•An iPod
His studio warehouse apartment was owned by the John's Star Foundation. The same foundation that owned most of his sculptures. The sculptures the foundation didn't own had been bought by wealthy individuals for the sole purpose of putting them in museums48. After all those years of work, Cale had nothing to show for it.
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