Onward Toward What We're Going Toward

by Ryan Bartelmay

  Chic picked up the picture lying in his lap. In it, Diane stood in the kitchen and was lifting her shirt to reveal her swollen, pregnant belly. She was laughing. Chic remembered taking the picture. Diane was about eight months pregnant, and across her stomach he had written in black marker: OUR BABY LIVES HERE!

  May 27, 1985

  Chic had no idea his wife’s death would affect him so much. Until she was gone, he hadn’t realized how much he depended on her, and not just for dinner or whatever, but for the little things, like hearing the creak of her footsteps upstairs as he watched television; feeling her weight in the bed next to him; the sound of her setting a knife in the sink after she buttered her Pop-Tarts. All these years, he had thought he was lonely. He wasn’t lonely—she was always in the next room, in the kitchen, in the shower, listening to Dr. Peale on the radio. He had never really been alone.

  At the Blessed Sacrament Church, Chic crept up to his wife’s casket and looked at her dead body. A bouquet of red roses had been laid across her stomach. She wore a pillbox hat with a veil covering her eyes and looked uncomfortable squeezed into a small casket, but her makeup brought out the beauty of her face, a beauty that was still there, despite the years and the weight. He reached in and put his hand on her arm. “Diane,” he whispered. Behind him, the pews were filling up with those who had come to pay their respects. Buddy and his family were sitting in the first row. His brother looked ridiculous in a white dhoti and now, a shaved head. Russ had pretty much healed from his fall, though he still needed to use a single crutch. Holding on to his arm was his girlfriend, Ginger. Erika had her hair in pigtails and wore white socks pulled up to her knees. Lijy had aged. She was not the beautiful woman Chic had lusted after but was now just a woman in her fifties wearing glasses. Chic turned back to his dead wife. He patted her forearm. “I’m sorry this was your destiny.” He faced the congregation. “Now, it’s just me. I’m a family of one,” he announced.

  “What?” Buddy said out loud. “He has us. And what about Russ?” Lijy nudged him, while Russ smiled sheepishly and put his hand on Ginger’s knee.

  Chic cleared his throat. “This is all I have to say.” He then read one of his favorite poems, “I Know a Man” by Robert Creeley:As I sd to my

  friend, because I am

  always talking,—John, I

  sd, which was not his

  name, the darkness sur-

  rounds us, what

  can we do against

  it, or else, shall we &

  why not, buy a goddamn big car,

  drive, he sd, for

  christ’s sake, look

  out where yr going.

  After the funeral, everyone went to the Knights of Columbus Hall. While Buddy and Lijy prepared the food in the Hall’s kitchen, Chic drank two glasses of red wine in quick succession and then slow danced to Bob Dylan’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” with Ginger. It wasn’t really a slow dancing kind of song, but they made do. After the song ended, Chic went to the jukebox and played it a second time. Then Buddy brought out the egg salad sandwiches. There weren’t enough tables, so most people ate standing up. A couple of people patted Chic on the back and told him how sorry they were. Chic thanked them for coming. He hated the attention, though, and mostly stood off to the side, watching everyone eat. Watching people eat reminded him of Diane, so after a few minutes, he slipped out the kitchen door to the parking lot, where he found Russ sitting on the tailgate of his truck, his crutch resting next to him. He had loosened his tie and was smoking something that smelled like burning rope. When he inhaled, his eyes became narrow and his chest puffed out like he’d swallowed too much air.

  “Hey, man, sorry about your loss,” Russ said. “Truly. She seemed like a first-class woman. What I knew of her. Those pictures of her when she was young. Man . . . ” Russ whistled.

  Chic smiled. “Thank you, Russ. That’s very kind.”

  Russ took another pull off the funny-smelling cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. “Hey, man, I got your card. ‘Reach, reach, way up.’ Nice. It’s a haiku, right? That’s cool that you write those.” Russ took another drag from the cigarette.

  “Is that marijuana?”

  “Don’t tell anyone. My old man will give me an earful. He’s so into being one with the moment and all that.”

  “Russ, I think I’m depressed. I haven’t said that out loud to anyone ever. Not that there’s anyone to say it to, but there it is. It’s out there. I said it.”

  “Your wife just died, man. Your life partner. Depression is what you should be feeling. You’re going to be fine. This will pass; it’s a rough patch, man.”

  “It’s a little more . . . I don’t know if... it’s hard to say. It’s hard to admit, actually. I don’t think I was a very good husband, I guess is what I’m trying to say.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Hey, man, you ever look at trees?”

  “Trees?”

  “Yeah, like a tree can’t be perfect. It’s perfect in here, like, you know, right here.” Russ pointed to his head. “When I see a tree out here, in the world, it’s never what’s in my head. Like they don’t match, man. Like the tree in your head and the tree in the world. Two different things. And that produces conflict, you know? That’s where the depression comes from, the unacceptance of the two trees. Like you know what a tree is, but when you encounter one in the world, it’s not the same as your idea of it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I’ll bet that Diane didn’t match the idea you had of a wife, and you probably didn’t match the idea she had of a husband.”

  “She was a good wife.”

  “Did she match the idea you had of a wife in your head? The wife that you wanted to have?”

  “When you put it that way . . . ”

  “And that’s the problem.”

  “What’s your idea of a father—in your head? Does Buddy match that?”

  “I know where you’re going with this. They told me. We had the talk. I was a little kid. I get it. You’re my father.”

  “I’m not your father, Russ.”

  “I get it. You’re being humble,” Russ said. “You don’t want to, you know, creep in on Buddy’s territory. It’s cool. You’re not. I dig it. I’m fine with this arrangement. Seriously. I’m not going to ask anything from you. I don’t want to, you know, make some third act connection or anything. You’re like, you’re biology, and Buddy, man, he’s my dad.”

  “I’m not biology.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. Maybe you’re not my dad, if that’s what you’re saying. If that’s the case, then, whoa . . . that’s . . . I’m gonna need some time to process. I mean—why would they lie to me? I mean . . . Is that what you’re saying? Are you saying you’re not my father? Like, are you saying that this is just one big fiction?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Whew. That’s cool, man. Because . . . man. That would be twisted.”

  “I’m sorry all of this happened like this, Russ.”

  “Don’t be. People make mistakes. The trick is forgiving them. I forgive you, and forgive my mom.”

  “You’ve got a great dad. Buddy, I mean.”

  “I know, man. He’s a good guy. He really is.”

  “I better get back in there.”

  “Good talk, man. I mean Dad. I mean . . . you know what I mean. Thanks for being humble by the way. I totally respect that.”

  Chic walked across the parking lot. Before going back inside the hall, he glanced over his shoulder. Russ was lying down in the bed of the truck. Chic couldn’t see his face, only the sole of his shoe on one foot and his cast with his exposed toes. He exhaled some smoke into the air, and it looked like he was breathing out his cold breath, like he was behind his own barn, alone and surrounded by snow.

  Mary & Green Geneseo

  July 27, 1998

  Mary shook Green awake and told him the van was on its way. What she said didn
’t register at first. He’d been dreaming about Jane sunbathing, about driving his ’77 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, about his co-workers throwing him a retirement party, about Jane using a pocket mirror to apply lipstick. Green tried to roll over. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in bed where it was warm. She could have her affair. He wouldn’t ask questions or accuse her of lying anymore. He’d ignore it and let her do whatever she wanted. He just wanted to go back to his dreams.

  Mary pulled the blankets down to the bottom of the bed, exposing his skinny body and knobby knees. He was wearing boxer shorts and a tank top undershirt.

  “I’m not messing around, Green. Let’s go. Get up.”

  He reached over for his pad of Post-it Notes on the nightstand while Mary opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a handful of boxers and tossed them on the bed. “Where’s your swimming suit?” she asked. Green wrote, I love you, but he wasn’t sure if that was true. He wanted to love her. Or, rather, he wanted to be loved by her. He wanted it to be simple, but it wasn’t simple. It was complicated. He peeled off the note and crumpled it up. He wrote another note and held it out to her. Are you divorcing me?

  “I told you. This is short term. A month, two at the most, then like I said, we’ll move back to Vegas. I need to get some things figured out.” She’d explained all of this last night—stroke, doctors, staff, blah, blah, blah.

  He didn’t believe her. She was going to stick him in We Care and then blow out of town, leaving him to rot away with the zombies.

  From the closet, she pulled out a suit, the maroon one, the one he wore the first time he visited the Brazen Bull, and laid it on the bed. She held up a flashy black cowboy shirt with pearl buttons and roses embroidered on each shoulder. “You wanna pack this?”

  He shook his head yes.

  “Lots of people go to assisted living facilities for a short period of time. The people are nice. Your roommate is deaf. Carol is nice. They have a pool and you like swimming. You can join that morning club Carol talked about—the morning swimmers or whatever it was called.”

  This had to be a big, cosmic joke. This wasn’t happening; it wasn’t real. In a few minutes, he’d open his eyes and be back in Vegas, floating on a raft in the above-ground pool, holding a can of Budweiser, Jane sprawled out in a sun chair wearing ridiculously large sunglasses. He’d be Green Geneseo again, with an entire Saturday afternoon ahead of him, the mountains in the distance, the hideously blue sky above him, maybe some Chinese takeout on the agenda for dinner, the stereo speaker in the Airstream window blaring Billy Squier’s “Lonely Is the Night.”

  “Are you listening to me?” She was holding two suits, each on hangers. “Do you want to take both of these?”

  Yes, he nodded. He was taking everything with him. No guy was going to move into his bungalow and start wearing his suits and start pretending to be him. He, Green, was him, the only Green, the only him, the only guy who could wear his suits.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear this one.” Mary was now holding up a black pinstriped suit. “Sure you want to take it?”

  Yes, he wrote. I want to take it.

  Sixteen

  Chic Waldbeeser

  June–August 1985

  In the weeks and months following her death, Chic settled into his new life without Diane. It wasn’t a good life, not that his life with her had been the good life, but this was worse. He stopped combing his hair. He rarely showered. He didn’t bother matching his socks. He wore threadbare v-neck t-shirts with stains under the armpits. Most nights, he would conk out on the couch while watching The A- Team or Knight Rider or some other action-oriented show he had little interest in, and wake up around midnight and head up to bed, where he would toss and turn, pulling at the sheets, rolling over on his right side, then his left, back to his right, his left, his right, onto his back, onto his stomach, his back again, until he would finally give up and open his eyes and stare at the ceiling, the same ceiling Diane had stared at while listening to The Art of Living. He thought about all the things he’d done wrong, and how he could have been a better husband, a better father, a better everything.

  He rolled out of bed and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the cabinet above the sink were nearly two dozen glasses, way too many for one man. He pulled open the silverware drawer. There were enough knives and forks and spoons for the goddamn Brady Bunch. In the living room, Diane’s old issues of Dr. Peale’s magazine, Guideposts were scattered about, on the coffee table, on the floor next to the couch. He went back upstairs and peeked into the nursery. The nightlight cast eerie shadows across the dolls’ blank faces. They all wore the same expression: eyes wide and unblinking. He needed to get this stuff out of his sight, get it out of the house, get it out of his life.

  He rented a storage space on the edge of town, out by the new soccer fields, and asked Russ and Ginger to come over the following Saturday. They started with the kitchen, wrapping the glasses and dishes in newspaper and carefully placing them in cardboard boxes, leaving behind two plates, two bowls, two glasses, and two settings of silverware. In the living room, they packed up the Airdyne bike, the couch, and the coffee table. In the bedroom, they emptied Diane’s closet and her dresser drawers and pitched all of her makeup, except for the dry skin lotion. Chic told them he wanted to hold onto that. They took the clock radio from her side of the bed, the lamp, too. They loaded all of Dr. Peale books into cardboard boxes; Russ carried the issues of Guideposts to the garbage can outside next to the garage. Chic had made a list, and each time they finished a task, he crossed it off. In the nursery, they placed each doll in its own box, then took down the shelves where the dolls had sat for so many years. They also carried out the furniture—the crib, the changing table, the rocker, even the mobile that hung in the corner. When they were finished, the room was nothing more than an empty square with holes in the walls and indentations in the carpet where furniture had once rested.

  Near the end of the day, Russ and Ginger came into the empty nursery to find Chic sitting on the floor with a green Middleville Junior High School duffel bag. He’d taken a box of keepsakes out of the closet and was rifling through it, stuffing pictures and memorabilia into the duffel bag. He was going to tell Russ about the lie. He’d been thinking about it all day, and he couldn’t go on living it. It wasn’t right.

  “I think we got it all,” Russ said.

  “Unless you want us to take that lamp in the living room,” Ginger added.

  “All I want left in the house is a bed, the television, the dining room table with one chair, and my toothbrush.”

  Ginger looked at Russ. “We can get the lamp on the way out.”

  “You want us to take the duffel bag?” Russ asked.

  “Duffel bag stays with me,” Chic said. “The box, though, can go.”

  Ginger picked up the box. “You want to come with us? Take over the last load?”

  “Actually, Russ, I want to talk to you about something.” Then he noticed Ginger standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. They looked—what was the word?—complete, that was the word, complete. Russ was a good-looking boy. He had darkish skin, like his mother, and dark hair that was shiny and inky, like someone had colored it with Magic Marker. Ginger was a lovely woman, maybe a little tomboyish, but she made eye contact when she talked and seemed understanding and sympathetic. She was the type of person who’d share an umbrella with you in the rain. She wouldn’t hog the covers. She’d be a good mother one day. She’d clip coupons. And Russ, he had good teeth. Chic did not have good ones, especially lately. His dentist wanted to pull a molar on his right side. Russ would do the things that were necessary to avoid bad teeth, like flossing. Russ was smart, too, or at least, he said smart things, like that tree stuff. Russ would prepare himself for a time like this, a time like Chic was experiencing—this loneliness. After he told Russ the truth about his mother, after Russ asked him why he did it, what finally made him do it after all of these years, Chic would tell h
im he was getting whipped by his loneliness. It was a beast, a killer. It had fangs and claws. He didn’t want to be the only one hurting, so he told him, to hurt him. And he was sorry. But why do that? Why make him hurt like he was hurting.?There was no reason. Russ was young. He and Ginger had their lives spreading out in front of them, unfolding like a map. But, and here was the problem, their lives could go in two very different directions. Chic knew this . . . oh, did he know this. A life could bank and turn and end up in a grassy field full of wild flowers, the sun blazing down, the birds chirping overhead. Or a life could wash up on a beach after a storm, the waves crashing on the sand, the boat busted to hell. Maybe he should be like a lighthouse. Maybe that’s why he should tell him. Lay all the hell out for him. Give it to him straight. Warn him. That was the fatherly thing to do. But he wasn’t his father. He and Russ weren’t even related by blood. So, what gave him the right? Telling him the truth would be a big glass of saltwater, and what was it really going to do but make him upset? He didn’t want to see him upset, so he simply stared at him and said nothing, resigned, again, to say nothing, this time forever.