“That’s what we’ve been looking for?” Chic asked.
After she and Green had sex that afternoon, they lay together on the floor of the minivan, her head on Green’s chest, the carpet scratchy against her naked skin. The radio was playing country music. Lying next to Green, their clothes scattered around the minivan, the radio on, she felt forty years younger, like she’d never aged, like the years had melted away, and she was simply a girl with a boy on the floor of a minivan.
She cut the engine and an orchestra of cicadas and corn bugs filled in the silence. She began unbuttoning her blouse. Chic swallowed hard. He remembered Diane, the weight she had gained after Lomax died, the two of them in the messy bedroom, Peale’s voice on the radio, Diane so far removed from him that she could have been in another country. Mary put her hand on his leg and drew close. She closed her eyes. She wanted to kiss. He noticed she was wearing a men’s watch. She opened her eyes. He was leaning away from her.
“Aren’t you married?” Chic asked.
“How about we don’t talk about my husband?”
“You bring me out in the middle of nowhere and you unbutton your shirt and you don’t want to talk about your husband?”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“But you’re married.”
“Do you want to do this or not?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Me, too.” She touched his cheek with her meaty hand.
“I can’t stop thinking that you’re married.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be here.” She climbed in the back between the seats. “Come on.” She unbuckled her jeans and shimmied them off.
“I don’t know about this.”
“Will you please shut up and take off your pants.” She was down to her bra and underwear. She was a big woman, rolls here, there, and everywhere. She took off her bra, and her breasts spilled out.
Chic unbuttoned his shirt. Underneath, he wore a white tank top, which he left on. He took off his pants.
“Come here.” She was on her back reaching up to him, and he crawled onto her.
“My wife and I, for a while, tried to have another kid, but I don’t know. It was . . . it just didn’t . . . I wanted to, but . . . ”
“You’re kinda ruining the mood here.”
“I told you it’s been a long time.”
She grabbed his penis through his boxers. “You’re not hard.”
“It’s just that my brother’s wife, Lijy, she . . . ”
“Can we please quit talking like this?”
“Sorry.”
She fondled him until he was erect. “Here we go.”
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“No.”
“I want to go to Florida with you.”
She sighed. “Can we talk about this later?”
“Do you think you’ve aged gracefully?”
“Take off your boxers.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked embarrassed.
“What?”
“I think it was 1965, that was the year when I knew something wasn’t right with me and Diane.”
Mary sat up on her elbows. “Can we please not talk about you and your wife’s marriage?”
“I’m sorry.”
She reached for her bra. “You’ve ruined the moment.”
He was about to say something. He opened his mouth to talk.
“Chic, please . . . no more talking,” she interrupted.
Eleven
Buddy & Lijy Waldbeeser
1970
Middleville was growing up. The town had doubled in size since 1950, and in what had once been the surrounding corn and pumpkin fields, subdivisions with names like Whisper Creek and Shady Grove had sprung up. A new high school was being built on the east side of town under the water tower, and traffic lights had been installed at both ends of Main Street. Buddy thought the timing was finally right for a health food store, which was what Lijy had always wanted, always dreamed of. Besides, if he was going to be a real father, he couldn’t spend his days staring out the window like his father had. He wasn’t going to be his father. He had a son, or at least, or rather, he was a father, which meant that he had a son, a son, which meant he was a father, a father, a man with a kid, heavy stuff not to be taken lightly.
He and Lijy leased a store on Main Street between Ray’s Hairport and Witmer Insurance. Across the street from the store was Middleville Community Bank and Witzig’s department store, which showcased a modest selection of conservative fashions. (Those who wanted colorful polyester jumpsuits or bell-bottom Levi’s had to make the drive to Bergner’s in Peoria.) The plan was to split the store in two: in the main area, they’d stock healthy fare like blackstrap molasses, brewer’s yeast, nuts, honey, vitamins, herbal teas, and steel-cut oatmeal; while in the bac room, Lijy would give massages. Buddy sanded down the wood floors and snapped together the aisle shelving. Along one wall, a small commercial refrigeration unit was installed for yogurt, eggs, and milk. Lijy hung a beaded curtain in the doorway behind the counter and made sure the towels were stacked on the shelf by the massage table. For a final touch, Buddy propped a copy of Gayelord Hauser’s book next to the cash register; for ninety-nine cents, a customer could walk out with a paperback copy of Look Younger, Live Longer.
On May 1, 1970, Buddy and Lijy hung balloons on either side of the front door and a grand opening banner in the front window. To make the place look familyfriendly, Russ, who was now ten, put on his Little League uniform and stood on the sidewalk with free cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice. By noon, however, not a single customer had stopped into the store. Lijy was still holding a tray of yogurt samples, while Buddy, wearing a dhoti and flip-flops, kept looking at his watch. At one o’clock, Mrs. Witmer came out of Witmer Insurance and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the store. She gave the place a long look before getting into her station wagon and driving away. At three o’clock, Lijy set the yogurt samples on the counter and went into the massage parlor to lie down. She took one of the massage towels from the shelf and put it over her head. Russ came inside the store. Out front, a Chevy Impala parked next to the curb, and a man Buddy recognized as the high school football coach, Coach Reiser, hopped out. He wore sunglasses and a flat-top haircut. “I think we might have our first customer,” Buddy yelled. Lijy burst through the beaded curtain and picked up the tray of yogurt samples. Coach Reiser stood out front, rubbing his chin. He looked up at the hand-painted sign that read GENERAL HEALTH FOOD AND MASSAGE STORE. Buddy waved him in. “Come on in, Coach.” Instead of being the first customer, Coach Reiser turned around, got back into his Impala, and drove away.
For the next few months, the residents of Middleville walked past the store, scratching their heads, not sure what to make of it. A few did venture inside to have a look around; they would pick up the odd items, like the herbal teas, eye them suspiciously for a few moments, then put them back on the shelf and leave. (A few brave customers did buy some stuff, mainly jars of honey or pints of yogurt.) Coach Reiser came back one day and wanted to know if they sold creatine or any other weightlifting supplements. They did not, but Buddy did offer him a complimentary package of licorice tea, which the coach declined.
One afternoon, Buddy saw Chic walk by, heading south toward Ray’s Hairport. Buddy thought maybe he was in the neighborhood to get a haircut. A few minutes later, Chic passed going the opposite way. A couple of minutes after that, he passed by again. This back-and-forth went on for another few minutes, until Buddy went outside. Chic’s car was parked out front, and Diane was in the front seat of the car, wearing Jackie O. sunglasses and holding a doll. When Chic saw Buddy, he slowly walked toward the car.
“Maybe you two can come in for some yogurt,” Buddy said. “I bet Lijy would like to see you both.”
Chic stared at his brother. “Do you really think that’s the best idea?”
Then, it d
awned on Buddy—he’d been so focused on the store, he’d forgotten about the affair. Actually, that wasn’t true. He hadn’t forgotten about it, but the years had dulled the sharpness, the pain, the agony, the betrayal. Occasionally, though, it would all come pouring back for a moment. This faraway look would appear on Buddy’s face, and he’d get very quiet. He’d have to sit down, close his eyes, and rub his temples.
Chic got in his car, and Buddy watched him drive away. Diane hung her head out the window and looked back at him. They weren’t okay. They weren’t even close to okay. Buddy had heard from a few people in town that Chic hadn’t mowed his lawn all summer, and that he was going into Stafford’s and buying two dozen frozen TV dinners at a time.
By September 1970, after being open four months, the health food store had netted ninety-seven dollars. Lijy suggested they cut their losses and sell all the inventory at half price. They could call the whole adventure a “learning experience.” In retrospect, the idea seemed so half-cocked, misguided, and selfish. How could she have been so stupid? A health food store in a small town in the middle of Illinois. Buddy wasn’t ready to cut his losses, though. He told Lijy to have some patience. People needed time to get used to change. He reminded her of when she first moved to Middleville, how everyone used to stare at her. Did she not remember that first week—the goons on the lawn cackling and threatening to make their life miserable? How they tossed eggs at the porch and toilet-papered the trees and yipped like excited dogs until Buddy got his BB gun from the closet, cracked the living room window, and shot one in the leg, knocking him to his knees. All of them then jumped in their cars and sped off. It was the last time they gave them any problems. Of course, that didn’t mean that people stopped looking sidelong at her, but at least they did their staring in silence. So, no, he didn’t want to sell off the store’s stock at half price. Quite the opposite: he was going to print up some flyers and stuff them in people’s mailboxes. He was going to get a PA speaker, affix it to the roof of his car, and drive up and down Main Street. (Those things kept him busy for a little while, although they didn’t really help. It would be another three years before the store got a foothold, when, in the summer of 1973, a fitness craze swept through Middleville. A health club featuring a weight room and stationary bikes opened on Main Street, and in the early mornings, small groups of men and women dressed in tracksuits and headbands would jog through town, dodging lawn sprinklers and barking dogs and stopping in the store to eat yogurt and wheat berries and vitamins and purchase copies of Gayelord Hauser’s book.)
One afternoon in October, Buddy was standing at the cash register talking to Russ, who was sitting on the counter, when the bell above the store’s door rang, announcing a customer. Buddy looked up to see a man wearing aviator sunglasses, a beige raincoat, and a jet-black Halloween wig.
“Can I help you?” Buddy asked.
The man waved him off and picked up a shopping basket and darted down an aisle. In front of the cereals, he spent several minutes studying the ingredients on a box of granola. Buddy could tell that he wasn’t actually reading the ingredients but looking over the box at him and Russ.
“Daddy, why’s he looking at us like that?” Russ whispered.
The man put down the granola and disappeared down another aisle.
“Can I help you find something?” Buddy asked.
The man crept around the aisle. “I’d like to schedule a massage.”
Buddy noticed the man was strangely puffy, as if, under his raincoat, he was wearing a few sweatshirts to make himself appear larger than he actually was. The man pushed his sunglasses up on his nose.
Buddy was suspicious. “Have you ever had a massage before?” “No. I mean yes. Once. A long time ago.”
“My wife practices Ayurveda massage.”
“I know. I mean, okay.”
Russ reached out to touch the wig, but the man took a giant step backward. “The boy. Your son? He has a . . . how do I say it . . . an aura.”
“Aura?”
“I’d like to come in on Friday. The last appointment of the day. What would that be—five o’clock?”
Buddy ran his finger down the page of the schedule book. He glanced up at the man and forced a smile. “I don’t know about Friday. Let me check with my wife.” He gave Russ a glance, and motioned with his head toward the beaded curtain. He grabbed Russ’s hand, and they both went into the back. The man pushed his sunglasses up on his nose.
Lijy sat on the massage table, a magazine open on her lap.
Buddy lowered his voice. “There’s a guy out here. I think it’s . . . it might be Chic.”
“Chic?”
“He’s in disguise.”
“Why would Chic be in disguise?”
It was a good question. He hadn’t considered this. “Well, it’s probably not Chic, but it’s someone . . . someone odd. He wants a massage.”
“I’ll take care of this.” She handed Buddy the magazine.
“Wait a second. Before you go out there.” Buddy leaned in to whisper. “He said Russ has an aura.”
“Aura?”
Buddy nodded.
Lijy knew then that it was Ellis. She wasn’t going to stand for this. She had finally gotten things moving in the right direction. She had her health food store; Buddy was coming around; she wasn’t waking up and finding his side of the bed cold and empty; and just that afternoon, she had eavesdropped on Buddy and Russ having a father-and-son conversation about the benefits of a daily multivitamin. She needed to give Ellis the narrow eye and shoo him back to his life. But when she pushed through the curtain, he was nowhere to be found. On the counter, he’d left an empty shopping basket, and next to the basket was a small, rectangular box, the kind with a pad of jewelry foam and a necklace inside. She picked it up. She shook it. She looked over her shoulder. Behind the beaded curtain, Buddy was telling Russ that the world was full of strange people. She could see that he was kneeling down in front of him.
She opened the box, and inside was a wallet-size photograph of Ellis McMillion wearing a softball uniform. In cursive letters across the front of his jersey was the town name, LEXINGTON. He wore a mustache and had a wooden bat over his shoulder. On the back of the picture, he’d written, Phase one is almost over.
Mary & Green Geneseo
June 23, 1998
Green remained sprawled on the floor, his head turned so that he could stare at the front door. He waited to hear her key in the lock, watch her walk in the door. When she did, he was going to let her have it. Lay into her. He might even cuss. He was going to get loud, which meant he’d write in capital letters. He was fuming. She was going to regret that she set him off. She was messing with fire. He was going to rise up. Rise up! And he was going to rage. Rage! She wouldn’t ever—EVER!—leave him on the floor again. Ever!
He’d been on the floor all afternoon. Outside, he heard a lawn mower. He listened to the hum of the motor for a half hour or so, before it stopped. He heard cars, occasionally, pass the house. He kept thinking one of them was going to be Mary, but none were. The shadows grew longer and the sun took on that late afternoon, soft, hazy glow. At six o’clock, the driveway was still empty. Green practiced what he was going to say when she came in the door. And where the hell have you been. Where? Who have you been with? He then realized that what he was rehearsing in his head was pointless, since he couldn’t talk. How was he going to get mad at her by writing notes? Jesus Christ. He couldn’t even get angry anymore. He began to feel sorry for himself. What if she came home with the guy, some dealer from the Pair-a-Dice or whatever, some guy making her promises about how he was going to make everything better? Ha. She had just about as perfect a guy she was going to get with him. Didn’t she see that? What if she and the guy opened the front door and found him on the floor? “My husband can’t feel the left side of his body.” Hardy-har-har. “He can’t talk.” Hardy-har-har. She was mistaken if she thought some dealer or whatever from the Pair-a-Dice was going to whisk her away
and make everything better. Nothing was going to be better. Better only lasts a short time—like two months, in this case, in his case, with her. He could not believe that she had left him on the living room floor. Just left him. Where the hell was she? He crawled over to his suit jacket and fished the Post-it Note pad out of the inside breast pocket. He wasn’t going to stand for this. He wasn’t going to let himself be treated this way. He wasn’t going to be made a fool. HE WAS NOT GOING TO BE MADE TO LOOK LIKE A FOOL. The living room was starting to get dark. He heard laughter—Mary and her new man. Quit laughing at me. He looked around. It was quiet.
He was still on the floor when the minivan pulled into the driveway. He was ready. He’d prepared various notes anticipating an argument. He heard her key in the lock. She burst through the door.
“Oh, Jesus, Green. What are you doing? You’re still on the floor.”
He reached out to her and shook the note in his hand.
She took it. Read it. The note said, Quit laughing at me.
“No one is laughing at you.”
He held out another note. What’s his name?
“There’s no one else, Green.”
He still had five or six notes, but he pointed to the one she was holding.
“There’s no one else. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
He pointed, and emphasizing his anger, grunted.
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Wuh hiz aim?”
“Green Geneseo.”
You’re lying.
“Let me help you back into your chair.”
He slapped her hand away.
“Green, you have to get back in your chair.”
He shook his head no.
“Don’t be this way.”
He turned toward his wheelchair; it was across the room, about six or seven feet away, just out of arm’s length. Despite the distance, he reached for it; he had visions of wheeling himself away from her, going into the other room, leaving her behind like she left him behind. He wanted her to know that he didn’t need her. He wiggled his fingers, reaching, reaching, but of course, he couldn’t reach the chair and collapsed on the floor.
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