I am feeling apprehensive about the painting. The ten-day forecast looked good, so I am reasonably confident that I can get the mocha chino applied and even the bronze green before Billings gets a blast of snow or rain. I don’t know this for a fact, of course. That’s the problem with forecasts. They are notoriously off base.
So it’s not the painting, per se, that makes me hesitant. I don’t quite know what it is. I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t dumb of me to buy three kinds of paint, all of which I will have to see on the garage before I am satisfied. I know this about myself, and I’m now regretful that I couldn’t have chosen just one color and been done with it. Even though I want to blame the unhelpful paint man, I cannot. It’s my fault for being so compulsive.
But what’s done is done. I cannot reverse it now.
I wonder if Joy will think I’m weird for painting the garage three times. Maybe I can wait before telling her. Maybe I’ll put it off to sometime between our first meeting and our discussion about the kids.
– • –
I am in nearly the same spot on the garage and at nearly the same time as before when Kyle shows up. I prefer to be more precise than “nearly,” but I did not write down the time of Kyle’s last visit, as I did not expect that it would be the sort of regular occurrence that would require data keeping on my part. Here, again, is the problem with assumptions. They are sometimes wrong. I prefer facts.
This time, I don’t almost hit my head on the eave when he speaks, because I hear him coming. I also expected that he might show up, and I am right. Sometimes, expectations aren’t so problematic.
“Can I help?” he asks.
Again, I back down the ladder and face him.
“Yes. I have paintbrushes for you.”
Kyle goes over to the lined-up brushes, chooses one, dips it into the mixing pan, and starts sloshing the Behr mochachino on the garage door.
“You should use a steady stroke in the same direction.”
“Like this?” He is holding the paintbrush rigidly and moving it up and down quickly.
“Relax your wrist and slow down a little bit, and paint in one direction.”
“Like this?” He has done as I asked.
“That’s better.”
“Why are you painting the garage again?” he asks.
“It’s part of my plan.”
“Like a secret plan?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And I’m like your partner.”
“Yes. On this garage plan, you are my partner.”
Kyle giggles.
I let him paint.
“Hey, Edward.”
“Yes?”
“I’m nine years old and two hundred and fifty-one days today.”
“Yes.”
– • –
Boys who are nine years old and 251 days talk…a lot. I am leaning against the hood of my 1997 Toyota Camry, drinking a can of Diet Dr Pepper while I watch Kyle paint. His Diet Dr Pepper is sitting in the driveway, unopened.
Kyle talks about his school. He doesn’t like his teacher. He likes math. And he likes a girl. I ask him if she knows that he likes her. He says no. I ask if he’s going to tell her, and he giggles again.
Kyle talks about his house, the one he and his mother moved into on September 12. He has a PlayStation 2 but wishes he had a Wii, because those “totally rule.” He asks if I want to come over sometime and play PlayStation 2, and I pretend that I didn’t hear him, and he goes back to painting.
He talks about his mother. She is a nurse at Billings Clinic, and she works Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays in the emergency room. She is thirty-four years old, he offers. She has lived with many men—I count a Donald and a Troy and a Mike in his anecdotes. He tells me that the reason they moved into this house is that Mike hit her, and she filed a restraining order against him. I ask him if he saw Mike hit his mother, and Kyle says softly, “Yeah.”
“Where do you go on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays when your mother is working?”
“I stay with my grandma in Laurel.”
“Your mother’s mother or your father’s mother?”
“My mom’s mom. I don’t know my dad.”
“I know my father.”
“What’s he like?”
“He is a Yellowstone County commissioner.”
“What’s that?”
“He runs stuff around here.”
“Oh.”
“He’s not very nice sometimes,” I offer. “Maybe it’s better that you don’t know your father.”
“I don’t think so.”
– • –
A little before 5:00 p.m., while Kyle and I are washing out the paintbrushes, his mother walks across the street.
“Kyle, it’s about time to go.”
“I know.”
“OK, run home and grab your overnight bag for Grandma’s house.”
“See ya, Edward,” Kyle says, and he lights out.
She smiles at me.
“Hi, Edward.”
“Hello.”
“Kyle wasn’t any trouble, was he?”
“No. He’s a very good painter now.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I taught him how to do it.”
“That’s great.”
I nod.
“Listen,” she says, “I want to thank you for being nice to him. He doesn’t get much of a chance to do these kinds of things.”
“OK.”
“I’m sorry if I was accusatory the other day.”
“OK.”
“You don’t have a lot to say, do you?”
I stare at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That didn’t come out very nice.”
“OK. I have to go now.”
“OK, Edward.”
I gather up the brushes and head to the front door, then stop and turn around.
“Donna?”
She’s halfway across the street.
“Yes?”
“What’s your last name?”
“Middleton. What’s yours?”
“Stanton. I told you that the other day.”
“Right. Sorry. I forgot.”
We’re looking at each other.
“Good-bye, Ms. Middleton.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Stanton.”
– • –
First, dinner. I will have the DiGiorno pizza.
It’s good, but it doesn’t taste like delivery, no matter what the TV commercial says. I don’t think delivery has a taste. It’s nonsensical. Delivered pizza has a taste, but that’s not what the commercial says. Imprecision frustrates me.
– • –
Second, I will write back to Joy. I haven’t given my reply as much thought as I’d hoped, what with spending the day with Kyle and, for a few minutes, his mother. But I can’t put it off much longer, for I fear that Joy will think I am rude.
I decide to wing it. I don’t like winging it. I like plans.
Joy:
I hope this note finds you well.
Thank you for responding to my profile. I enjoyed reading yours. It has given me much to think about. It’s hard to know what to think of this online dating. I wish a kind face (yours) were a reliable barometer. But it seems that one has to be willing to take a chance. I don’t like chance. I prefer reliability and facts.
Here are some things about me:
* I am thirty-nine. I was born on January 9, 1969, and so I am really thirty-nine years and 282 days old, if you’re counting. I always count.
* I like to track the weather and keep track of other things.
* I am six foot four and a bit heavy. You said heightweight proportional but also that a spark was most important. I will take you at your word.
* I am a nonsmoker.
* I have never married.
* I have no children. You spoke a lot about children in your profile. I would like to wait to have those discussions.
* I live in Billings. You live in Broadview. That’s thirty-one
miles. I would be willing to travel for the right person. How do you feel about this?
I hope to hear from you.
With regards,
Edward
I hit send. Holy shit!
– • –
Third, at 10:00 p.m. sharp, I will watch tonight’s episode of Dragnet.
This one, the twenty-third episode of the fourth and final season, is called “I.A.D.: The Receipt,” and it is one of my favorites. It originally aired on March 26, 1970. In this episode, a woman accuses two detectives of stealing $800 from a dead man, and Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are called in to investigate. They eventually prove that the detectives did not steal the money, because they follow clues relentlessly until the truth emerges.
You may be wondering why, in 2008, my favorite television show is one that was made largely before I was born. I will tell you.
Sergeant Joe Friday, played by Jack Webb, is no-nonsense. He wants only the facts, which he repeatedly tells anyone with whom he is talking. The facts lead Sergeant Joe Friday to the truth, and that allows him to put the bad guys away and make Los Angeles a little bit safer. There are not many TV shows like that anymore. The ones today are full of moral equivalencies, and there seems to be little celebration of the truth. I do like shows like Law and Order, which is made by Dick Wolf, who is a big fan of Jack Webb. But even shows like that end up mired in the ambiguity that Sergeant Joe Friday disdained.
Also, some of today’s shows have a totally unrealistic view of the world. On that show everybody seems to love, 24, Jack Bauer can get from one side of Los Angeles to the other in five minutes. This is simply not possible. I went to Los Angeles on a vacation two years ago—my father was apoplectic when he saw the cost. (I love the word “apoplectic.”) I can tell you from experience that you cannot get from Hollywood and Vine to the Sunset Strip in five minutes, and those places are very close together, in Los Angeles terms. Jack Bauer is fooling his audience, but he doesn’t fool me.
– • –
My letter of complaint tonight requires yet another new green office folder. This letter is overdue.
Unhelpful paint man at Home Depot:
As I have had other things attracting my attention, I have been slow to register my complaint about your poor performance on October 14, when I purchased paint in your store. I would be remiss, however, if I did not cover this ground with you.
I have now applied two colors to the garage, and because of your inability to help me zero in on a single color, I will still have to apply another. This wastes my valuable time and could conceivably cause me to run up against the erratic October weather for which Billings is known.
Still, I also must acknowledge my own role in this failure. I could not control my impulse to buy three colors of paint, and that is not your fault. I had merely hoped that you could help me negotiate the many choices at your store. I will continue to work on my problem. Perhaps you could work on yours.
Respectfully,
Edward Stanton
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18
I am standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down. I don’t know if I’ve been here before. There is a rimrock that surrounds Billings; it is the signature geographic formation of the area. I know it well. I see it every day. I don’t know if this is it, as I can’t see the whole rock or a town below. I see my feet and the brown, dusty, weather-beaten sandstone below them, and below that only the murky darkness.
Then I feel myself fall down. Only, it’s not me.
It’s him. Kyle. I can see his face as he falls away, and I know his little body is going to crash to the rocks that I assume are below, although I don’t like to assume. I can feel the black terror inside of me.
And suddenly, a hand reaches out and catches Kyle’s wrist. It’s my hand, and I feel the snap of my shoulder as his fall is arrested.
“Help me, Edward!” he says.
“I have you,” I say through my teeth, straining to keep my grip on his wrist. I’m lying flat on my stomach, my chin hanging over the edge of the cliff, my feet scratching at the rock behind me as I try to find purchase.
“I’m slipping!”
“I have you!”
And then I don’t have him. Gravity pulls him from my grip and hurtles him to certain death, and…
– • –
I am awake.
And I am up.
And I am out of here.
I don’t know what time it is.
My data is not complete.
– • –
Once I am sitting in the driver’s seat of my 1997 Toyota Camry, I notice three things. First, it’s 7:40 a.m. Second, the Behr mochachino looks horrid on the garage in front of me. Third, I am wearing my 1999 R.E.M. Up tour T-shirt and blue-and-red pajama bottoms. I sleep in these. I am wearing no shoes.
I don’t care.
– • –
From the house that my father bought, the route to Billings Clinic is easy: right turn on Clark Avenue to Sixth Avenue W., left turn on Sixth to Lewis Avenue, right turn on Lewis to Broadway, left turn on Broadway to Billings Clinic. I can be there in five minutes. My stomach is churning, and not from the left turns.
– • –
At Billings Clinic, I find a parking spot in the lot behind the emergency department. Before I step out of the car, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and lick my right palm, then paw at my head. My hair is puffed up and bent every which way from sleep. I look crazy. I feel crazy. I guess I am crazy.
I’m running for the door.
– • –
“I have to see Donna Middleton.”
“And you are?” The security guard at the emergency department’s front desk is looking at me with suspicion, and I cannot blame him, but I also cannot care.
“Edward Stanton. You have to get her.”
“Does she know you’re coming?”
“No. Get her.”
“Sir, you need to calm down.”
“Please get her.”
“Sir.”
“Please.”
“Sir, why are you here?”
“Please. Just tell her it’s Edward Stanton. Please.”
He looks me over slowly. I try to stand up a little straighter, as if it would make me look any less ridiculous.
He picks up the phone.
– • –
In two minutes that seem to take forever—it’s funny how time can be both fact and illusion—Donna Middleton emerges from the double doors separating the lobby from the emergency department.
“Edward, what’s going on?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“OK. Edward, I’m at work.”
“I know. I have to talk to you.”
“OK.”
“I need you to call Kyle.”
“Why?”
“I need you to make sure he’s OK.”
Her face, until now perplexed, changes in an instant. It flushes with color, her eyes bore in on me, and there is a snap in her tone.
“What happened? Did something happen to my son? Why are you here?”
“Please, just call him.”
“What do you know about my son?” She is yelling at me.
The security guard, having watched us warily from behind the desk, is advancing on me now. Donna Middleton’s hands are fists.
“I…I…”
“What about my son?” She is quaking.
I start talking fast. “I don’t know. I had a dream. I’ve dreamed the past two nights. I dreamed that something happened. I couldn’t save him. I tried. I really, really tried. You have to call him. Just make sure he’s OK. Please. Call him.”
Donna Middleton wheels away from me and sprints back through the double doors. The security guard, a very strong young man, grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back. I slump to the floor.
– • –
I am not surprised when my father comes through the automatic doors and into the emergency department lobby. The securi
ty guard called the police, and the police called my father. It has happened before, although never here at Billings Clinic.
My father is wearing a tan golf shirt under a windbreaker. Given the unseasonably warm weather—I haven’t compiled my data yet, but I would guess that it will get into the sixties today, although I don’t like guessing—I have probably interrupted my father’s golf game. He looks at me and shakes his head slightly, and then he walks over to the front desk. He talks with the security guard, but quietly. I’m sitting in a chair along the wall, my hands shackled behind the back of it. I can hear my father identify himself, and I see the guard nod, but I’m having trouble hearing more.
After a few minutes of discussion with my father, the security guard nods again, and now they’re both walking over to me. The security guard reaches behind me and unlocks the handcuffs, puts them back on his belt, and goes back to the front desk.
My father sits down next to me.
“What happened, Edward?”
“I had a bad dream. I was scared.”
“About this woman’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Edward, what’s your relationship with this boy?”
“Relationship?”
“Yes. Why are you so interested in this woman’s son?”
“I am not interested in him, Father.”
“Considering the circumstance you’re in here, Edward, that’s difficult to believe.”
“He has helped me with painting the garage. He came over one day. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. He has helped me paint. His mother knows about it. She hasn’t complained.”
“She’s complaining now.”
“Yes.”
My father sighs. He leans forward in the chair, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you understand how this looks? You’re in your pajamas, you don’t have any shoes, and you’re in a hospital emergency room talking about a woman’s son being hurt. Do you understand how that might be viewed as unacceptable?”
“Yes. I was scared.”
“OK, Edward. But now you’ve scared someone else.”
– • –
After talking with me, my father talks with Donna Middleton, who has come out to meet him. They talk a few feet away from me, and it’s as if I’m not here.
“Mr. Stanton, I’ve never been so scared.”
600 Hours of Edward Page 5