Onward Toward What We're Going Toward

by Ryan Bartelmay

  Chic cleared his throat. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m just taking in the scenery.”

  “I know I said I was sorry about yesterday . . . you know . . . but I was thinking, maybe after lunch, maybe . . . ” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Maybe what?”

  “We could maybe . . . ” He raised his eyebrows again.

  “Go somewhere?”

  “Yeah. Like, maybe, I don’t know, a hotel room or . . . I don’t know. That silo again.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Right, maybe. Okay.” Chic took the green duffel bag off his lap and put it on the table. He unzipped the top. Mary tried to get a peek inside, but all she saw was a mess of papers and what appeared to be Polaroid pictures. Chic took one out, a photo of a woman sitting in a rocking chair holding a doll. “This is my wife. Was my wife. Diane. She had a doll collection.”

  In the photo, Diane was looking down at the doll she was holding as if it were a real baby. Mary noticed she was a large woman, even bigger than she was.

  “Here’s another.” In this picture, Diane and her girth were stuffed into black, lacy lingerie. She was making a Bettie Page pose, squatting flirtatiously, her hands on her knees, her chin on her shoulder. She looked happy. Content with her life. You could have that life, the loud voice said. You could be her.

  Chic dug deep into the duffel bag and pulled out a letter. “My great-great-grandfather wrote this to his parents back in Germany in 18-something. My son translated it.” He smoothed the paper out. There were phrases underlined in red ink, and Mary noticed that one—“onward toward what we’re going toward”—had been circled.

  The waiter appeared, and Chic stuffed the letter back in the duffel bag and placed the bag on the floor.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “A bottle of wine,” Chic said proudly.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Mary said.

  “Red wine, please.”

  “Any particular type of grape?” The waiter picked up the wine list from the table and handed it to him. Chic knew nothing about wine and, in fact, had never ordered wine at a restaurant in his life. “Something French. French wine is supposed to be good.” He looked over at Mary and winked. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that he had brought her to this restaurant to impress her. She looked down at the Polaroid of Diane in her lingerie and slipped it into her purse without Chic noticing.

  Chic ordered the rib eye, and Mary, in the end, decided to ride the afternoon like a parade float and ordered steak, too, the filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Instead of a baked potato, she had pommes frites, which, the waiter told them, were French fries, but she already knew that. Chic then changed his order from a baked potato to pommes frites. As soon as the waiter walked away, Chic sat back in his chair and looked across the table at Mary. He felt his attraction to her starting to take root. Hell, he’d just ordered a fifty-eight-dollar bottle of wine. Hopefully all of this would pay off, and he could get her to Florida. The two of them could stay in a place like the Seashell Inn, maybe one of those motels with the beds that shook and vibrated. They could close the shades and do the things that he and Diane did when they were on their honeymoon. They’d have fancy dinners, and order wine and pommes frites. They’d go to an orange grove and pick oranges. They’d sit in sun chairs and rub sunscreen on each other’s back.

  “I went to Florida on my honeymoon,” Chic said. “That’s why I want to go there. In case you were wondering why I keep asking you to go there.”

  This wasn’t the first time she’d been with a guy who wanted to relive something. What was it with guys wanting to do things they’d already done, like doing it a second time would make it better? The whisper voice sighed and told her she should march out of that restaurant and back to Green and clean off his mouth with a washcloth and push his wheelchair in front of the television and take care of him all afternoon. Mary picked up a roll from the bread basket and tore it in half, then smiled as Chic told her about Buddy’s cookbook, which was really part cookbook and part meditation on life. It was also a memoir. It was also about their father. It wasn’t finished, and it might never be finished. He told her that his father had frozen himself to death behind a barn. He said it was best if he didn’t talk about that anymore or even think about it. The wine arrived. Chic tasted it. He was more of a beer drinker he told her. He told her about his mother. She’d run off to Florida with Tom McNeeley when Chic was nineteen, and he’d never forgiven her. He told her again about taking the blame for Lijy’s infidelity, and about Lomax’s drowning. He told her about taking the blame for Lijy’s infidelity again. Even after the waiter put their plates on the table and wished them bon appétit, Chic continued to talk. He talked with his mouth full. He took gulps of red wine and talked some more. He said that he wished they had barbeque sauce because he preferred his steak with barbeque sauce. He poured himself more wine. He poured her more wine. Mary smiled. She scanned the restaurant. The man in the wheelchair was being pushed out by a younger woman, his daughter perhaps. Chic said something about poetry, that he could have been a great poet but he didn’t have the mental focus. After that, she didn’t hear a word of what he said. She thought about Green, sitting at the window, looking out over the street. The loud voice said, Why are you thinking about Green? Focus. This guy is pouring his heart out to you. You want him to like you. Make him like you. She picked up her wineglass and tuned Chic back in. He was talking with his mouth open, laughing, and saying how much fun he was having. She smiled.

  “I haven’t had this much fun since . . . I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun. You know why I’m having such a good time?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m being honest with you. I’m telling you everything, and you’re listening. You care.”

  “Cheers.” She held her wineglass out for him to clink.

  “And what about you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. He’d finished his steak. He took the napkin that he’d tucked into his collar and crumpled it up. “I don’t feel like I know you at all, but I feel like we’re making a connection. I see you looking at me. I saw the way you looked at me at the Pair-a-Dice before we met. I felt it then. Like you were pulled to me. Like you were, like I was, like both of us were meant to be sitting here in this restaurant right now. I like you. I don’t know if it’s too soon to say that. But I do. I like you, Mary . . . ”

  She smiled. “Geneseo.”

  “Like the town?”

  “What town?”

  “Geneseo, Illinois. Ha. There is a God, and he’s having a great time messing with us.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew he’d fallen for her. She’d seen this before. “Well,” she said. She could open up like he had opened up. She was on the verge. She felt it. If she quit thinking for a second, she could gush like an open fire hydrant. But then she remembered Green. “Can I show you something?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “Not here. Somewhere else.”

  “Oh. Like the silo.”

  “Something like that. A little different, though.”

  Chic spotted the waiter on the other side of the restaurant. He put his hands in the air and did that thing he had seen on television where people write in the air like they’re signing the check.

  Chic Waldbeeser

  July 18, 1972

  So what if some stupid cashier at Stafford’s didn’t understand his poetry! A lot of people didn’t understand poetry, and that was part of its appeal. Lucy Snell would understand it. He had waited a long time to do something he could share with the world. Sure, he had created Lomax, but the world had been unforgiving. Now, finally, round two. Diane walked into the kitchen and saw him holding up the stapled pages. He’d drawn a star in the center of the cover page, and under the star he’d written the title, onward toward what we’re going toward, in all lowercase letters, like the poetry of E.E. Cummings.

/>   “Is that where we’re going—to the stars?” Diane asked.

  Chic hadn’t really considered the correlation. He’d simply drawn the star because the page had looked empty. “Right. Yeah. That’s what it means.”

  “I didn’t know you believed in heaven.”

  “I don’t. Or, I don’t know.” His beret was sitting on the table and he put it on his head and slipped on his corduroy blazer and snatched the keys off the counter. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The library.”

  At the circulation desk, an elderly librarian told him that Lucy would be with him in a moment. She stamped a due date and handed a book to a woman, who kept staring at Chic like she’d never seen a grown man wearing a beret. He couldn’t wait to show Lucy the chapbook. Her boyfriend would probably want to read it, too. She might have friends who would be interested. Then he saw her, across the library, shelving books. He didn’t even bother to tell the elderly librarian he’d found her.

  “Lucy,” he said loudly, “I did it.”

  A couple of people looked up from their books and shushed him.

  “This is a library, sir,” the elderly librarian called after him.

  Chic zigzagged his way among the reading tables. When he reached her, he held out the stapled together pages. “My own chapbook.”

  The elderly librarian came up behind him. “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, Lucybelle. No visitors.”

  “I’m not a visitor,” Chic said. “I’m a poet.”

  “You’re Chic Waldbeeser. I know who you are. Your brother opened that weird store on Main Street. And she, Lucybelle, has a visitor almost every single day.”

  “My boyfriend,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t care who it is. It’s against the rules. No visitors until your break.”

  “I can wait over here.” Chic pointed to an empty table.

  “I don’t care where you wait as long as you don’t talk to her while she’s working.”

  “I go to lunch in half an hour,” Lucy said.

  For the next half hour, Chic sat at a table in the middle of the library and watched Lucy shelve books. He could hardly contain himself. Someone who actually knew poetry was going to read his chapbook. She was going to love the poems. She was his mentor, or was it muse? She was his mentor and his muse. Actually, she wasn’t really his muse, just his mentor. She lit his fire, but that would be something like his muse. None of the poems were about her. But he found her cute. He stole a glance at her. She was cute. He realized it had been several days since he had last masturbated. He looked over at the bathrooms. He looked at his watch. She was going on break in a few minutes.

  Lucy finished shelving and pushed the empty book cart to the circulation desk. He jumped up and followed her. He practically shoved the chapbook into her hands.

  She took it to an empty table, and he followed her again and sat down across from her.

  “Do you like the title?”

  “Yeah. It’s good. It reminds me of a Flannery O’Connor title.” She opened to the first poem. Chic studied her face as she read it, looking for a reaction. He couldn’t tell if she liked it or not. “Did you like that one?”

  She smiled at him, then turned the page and read the next poem. She wiped her nose; she chewed on her thumbnail. She turned to the third poem.

  “How was that one?”

  “It’s probably easier if you don’t ask me if I like every poem.”

  “You want me to move? I can move.”

  “If you don’t mind. That way I can concentrate.”

  Chic moved to an empty table and opposite a teenage girl who was reading a book. He kept trying to watch Lucy but had a hard time seeing around the girl; she was big, and when she read, she rocked back and forth. “She’s reading my poems,” he whispered to the girl. She smiled at him, then went back to reading and rocking.

  When Lucy finished, Chic jumped up and snaked his way back to her table. He sat down across from her.

  “So . . . ?”

  She started to chew on her thumbnail.

  “What’d you think? Did you like them?”

  “I really like the energy. And the title, as I said.”

  “I was going for the way people talk. You know, how when someone just starts to talk and pretty much just runs at the mouth without really thinking about what they’re saying.”

  “I get that. So, why are you trying to evoke that?”

  “Because that’s the way people talk.”

  She nodded her head. “I’m not sure what you’re saying with these poems. There’s some nihilism, some self-hatred, some awe, some confession, some plagiarism. There are all sorts of different things happening. It’s kind of all over the place. Let me ask you something. What’s your relationship to other people?”

  “My relationship is fine with other people.”

  “What’s your relationship like with your wife.”

  He shrugged. “We’ve been married for twenty-two years.”

  “You have this one poem . . . ”

  “I know which one you’re talking about.”

  “It doesn’t portray her very well.”

  “I was afraid of that. I think maybe I should change it.”

  “Is it honest?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you think your wife is overweight?”

  “She eats a lot.”

  “What about your brother and his wife? I get this feeling that you’re infatuated with your brother’s wife.”

  “No, no. I’m not infatuated with her. That’s . . . no. I’m not.”

  “Are you being honest?”

  He thought about the question. “I don’t covet my brother’s wife.”

  “Do you want to have sex with her?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Do you wish you had more sex?”

  “I have sex.”

  “There’s a longing to have sex in almost every single poem.”

  “How did you get that? I don’t ever use the word sex.”

  “Also, it’s unclear what you think about the people in these poems.”

  “I love the people in these poems.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it. Well, actually, Lomax. You love Lomax. That’s clear. And maybe Lijy, but it’s more of a desire than love, per se. But the other people—your brother and your wife, mainly. There’s this disconnect between you and them. It’s like you don’t understand them, and you don’t think they understand you.”

  “Just tell me. Do you like the poems or not? Are they any good?”

  She put her hand on top of Chic’s hand. Chic looked down at it. Her nails were painted red. She had a ring on every finger, including her thumb. He looked up and locked eyes with her. She was making a pass at him. Was she making a pass at him? She was making a pass at him. He smiled slightly. She smiled slightly back at him. She was definitely making a pass. She liked his poems. He could tell. She really liked his poems. He could feel himself being pulled into her eyes. She had the brownest eyes he’d ever seen. He wasn’t really sure if he’d ever been in a moment like this. He could be in this moment forever. He didn’t want it to end. But then it did. She pulled her hand away.

  “Did you feel that?” she said.

  “Yeah, I felt it.”

  “That was a connection. I was making a connection with you. I have a boyfriend, by the way. That was just pretend.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know. Me too. I was pretending too. Practicing. It’s good to practice those things.”

  “You were looking at me like you were about to kiss me.”

  “I wasn’t going to kiss you.”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “You said that.”

  “So, I’m going to get back to work.”

  “Yeah. You should. The librarian . . . she’s probably looking for you.”

  Lucy stood up.

  “Oh, hey.” He held out the chapbook to her. “I want
you to have this. Thank you for reading it. I don’t think anyone really actually read it. I gave it to my wife, but . . . anyway . . . thanks.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Waldbeeser.”

  “Chic. Call me Chic.”

  “Good luck, Chic.”

  Chic Waldbeeser

  July 18, 1972, two hours later

  Chic couldn’t stop thinking about the moment he had shared with Lucy. It had lasted only a few seconds, but during that flickering fraction of time, he had felt so locked into her, so drawn to her, like he was in some sort of trance or something, like her eyes were magnets that were pulling him toward her. He wanted to capture that feeling in a poem. How could he capture that feeling? He needed to find the right words. The telephone rang. He looked at it. He knew Diane wasn’t going to answer it. From upstairs, he could hear the voice of Norman Vincent Peale. He wasn’t going to answer it, either. It was probably Diane’s mother, or worse, someone from the bowling league. The phone continued to ring. Diane yelled for him to answer it. He put down his pencil and went to the phone.

  It was Stan Landry, the owner of Stafford’s. He wanted Chic to pick up his chapbooks. What did Chic think Stafford’s was, a bookstore? Besides, he’d sold only one—to Diane—and also and more importantly, the book hadn’t really been published. It was just a bunch of pages stapled together.

  “Wait. Diane bought one?” Chic said.

  “Two days ago. Another was stolen, I think. There are four left. Didn’t you drop off six?”

  “I gave one to a cashier,” Chic said.

  “Well, then, come pick these four up, please? Or I can throw them away.”