House of Heroes

by Mary LaChapelle

  “Just her?”

  “Well, them.” Tim felt a pressure in his bladder and was surprised, since they had already used the facilities at the ranger station on the way in, but he ignored it and continued the story.

  “She found a spigot outside, and even though it was still drizzling, she turned it on and let it run cold.”

  He didn’t know how to tell Mary about his shirt, even if it was the part he always remembered most about that day. Because he was sweating, he was sure that she could smell the alcohol he was burning off. Yet she seemed to look at him so kindly. “Just rinse off,” she had said. “You’d feel better.” It made sense that he should take his shirt off. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about his body; he had a good body. In fact he had wanted to. He remembered this overwhelming belief that if he just removed his shirt, she would look at him and know him. It could be that simple. Sometimes he fantasized about the first time he would remove his shirt with a certain woman. It became, in his mind, such a momentous thing to do.

  “I couldn’t take off my shirt,” Tim said.

  “What?” Mary asked.

  “You know, to wash up.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “I couldn’t be sure of anything.”

  “Sure of what?” Mary put her fingers around his thumb. She couldn’t picture what he was saying.

  “It seemed I could lose her right there if it wasn’t the right time. It always seems like I have to wait for the right time to do something like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked blankly at her, when she had expected this was a meaningful question.

  “No, it had to be another time. I knew that much.” Tim’s bladder situation felt suddenly more insistent. “So I got my shirt all wet rinsing under the spigot, and my friend came out, pissed off, and asked me for my share of the bill right away. He wasn’t very attractive about the whole thing.”

  “Well, you can be grateful for that, because eventually you were the one that took her out.”

  “Yeah. I called her, and we went out to dinner a couple of times. There was something almost prim about our conversations that I enjoyed. Only because I looked forward to breaking it down—to getting through to her.”

  “The river, Tim, can we please get to the river?”

  But Tim was looking distracted. He got to his feet. “I have to find a bush or something.”

  He left so abruptly. Not that she doubted his reason, really. But for someone who valued outings like this so much, it was strange how suddenly he needed to eject himself from the middle of them, as though he couldn’t stand living through what he had earlier so much looked forward to. He did this sometimes in restaurants, before they had even finished their meal. He’d say, “Let’s go out for ice cream now or catch the 7:30 show.”

  She watched him walk over the park grass, which was mottled by splotches of shade from the many trees. He walked in and out of the pieces of shade until he eventually disappeared into a stand of bushes.

  The river had taken on the flat glare of afternoon light. There was a long black log floating down the middle. It had found the main current, and she imagined it could have been riding that current for some time. It looked oblivious to time she decided there was no point telling him it was tepid. It didn’t matter; there was nothing he could do about it.

  “So we went to breakfast after the hike,” he continued, “at a restaurant on the highway. We both sat across from her in the booth. My friend was feeling a little better by then, and it hadn’t occurred to me that he might be actually interested in her himself.”

  “Good, Tim.”

  “Right. But while he was feeling a little better, I was feeling a little worse. I was cooking off some of the alcohol, and I felt really hot. He was keeping the coffee cups filled, like he intended to stay. But I was so hot, I could feel the flush, and I was sweating. I finally told her.”

  “Just her?”

  “Well, them.” Tim felt a pressure in his bladder and was surprised, since they had already used the facilities at the ranger station on the way in, but he ignored it and continued the story.

  “She found a spigot outside, and even though it was still drizzling, she turned it on and let it run cold.”

  He didn’t know how to tell Mary about his shirt, even if it was the part he always remembered most about that day. Because he was sweating, he was sure that she could smell the alcohol he was burning off. Yet she seemed to look at him so kindly. “Just rinse off,” she had said. “You’d feel better.” It made sense that he should take his shirt off. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about his body; he had a good body. In fact he had wanted to. He remembered this overwhelming belief that if he just removed his shirt, she would look at him and know him. It could be that simple. Sometimes he fantasized about the first time he would remove his shirt with a certain woman. It became, in his mind, such a momentous thing to do.

  “I couldn’t take off my shirt,” Tim said.

  “What?” Mary asked.

  “You know, to wash up.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “I couldn’t be sure of anything.”

  “Sure of what?” Mary put her fingers around his thumb. She couldn’t picture what he was saying.

  “It seemed I could lose her right there if it wasn’t the right time. It always seems like I have to wait for the right time to do something like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked blankly at her, when she had expected this was a meaningful question.

  “No, it had to be another time. I knew that much.” Tim’s bladder situation felt suddenly more insistent. “So I got my shirt all wet rinsing under the spigot, and my friend came, out, pissed off, and asked me for my share of the bill right away. He wasn’t very attractive about the whole thing.”

  “Well, you can be grateful for that, because eventually you were the one that took her out.”

  “Yeah. I called her, and we went out to dinner a couple of times. There was something almost prim about our conversations that I enjoyed. Only because I looked forward to breaking it down—to getting through to her.”

  “The river, Tim, can we please get to the river?”

  But Tim was looking distracted. He got to his feet. “I have to find a bush or something.”

  He left so abruptly. Not that she doubted his reason, really. But for someone who valued outings like this so much, it was strange how suddenly he needed to eject himself from the middle of them, as though he couldn’t stand living through what he had earlier so much looked forward to. He did this sometimes in restaurants, before they had even finished their meal. He’d say, “Let’s go out for ice cream now or catch the 7:30 show.”

  She watched him walk over the park grass, which was mottled by splotches of shade from the many trees. He walked in and out of the pieces of shade until he eventually disappeared into a stand of bushes.

  The river had taken on the flat glare of afternoon light. There was a long black log floating down the middle. It had found the main current, and she imagined it could have been riding that current for some time. It looked oblivious to time or change or the damage it had suffered. It made its slow progress through a patch of lily pads, their delicate edges ruffling against the coarseness of its bark, and then on it drifted into the distance, beneath the orange clay bluffs hunching over the river like great shoulders.

  She thought of the log as a she. Automatically. Just the way one attaches gender to all sorts of things: dogs are he’s; cats are she’s; trees can be both. But this one was a she. She’ll go on, Mary thought, out into the Mississippi, and then on some more, not feeling a thing.

  Tim had found a small cove where the grass was growing tall around it. It was a place where no one on the shore or on the river could see him. He walked into the grass. It tickled his bare arms and legs. I’m sober, he thought—a statement he had made to himself in many other situations this past year. This time it was because he could feel
the grass so sharply against his calves. And because it seemed very odd to be peeing out here when he wasn’t drinking. It was strange because this was often the time when he would have been telling himself, I’m drunk. There had always been that benign first trip to the bushes, when he’d be standing there, listening to himself, trickling down on the leaves or the stones, or whatever was beneath him. And he’d realize that he was both inside and outside his body. The man outside his body would be sober and almost fatherly in his concern, his affection, his disappointment, standing just to the side with his hands on his hips, saying, Here you are again, you son of a bitch. And the inside part of himself would just be there, wherever he was. If it was a field, he would be buzzing a little like the bees and be sticky like the pollen and fuzzy like the grass. The first trip to the bushes was invariably happy. Then there would be a small period of orientation: yes, he was peeing; yes, he was doing it properly. Some accounting: yes, he’d had three beers and part of the bottle of whiskey; who was it that was waiting for him to finish; how much had they drunk; and were they waiting in anticipation for him to come back?

  But now it was different. Now he was in possession of himself. Strictly one person. And he and the grass were separate things. This was the St. Croix, a cool breeze was coming from somewhere. And he was impatient. Telling Mary this story, he wanted to get to the end of it. Sometimes you started a story, and then, hardly into it, you lost confidence. He was only continuing out of sheer willpower. He was already so very disappointed with the day. Why, he didn’t know.

  “Geez!” he murmured to himself. His shirttail was caught in the zipper of his fly. He’d heard a large fish plopping in the water nearby. “That figures.” He thought of Mary looking into her fishless part of the river.

  They’d been together over a year. He didn’t know if they would ever be in love, the way people were supposed to be. He walked through the rough grass. And yet, there were these almost accidental times with her when she would make some awkward gesture, or laugh abruptly at him or herself, when he believed that she, more than anyone he had ever been with, knew the unspeakable things that get into people’s hearts, that were in his heart.

  Once he had answered the phone at her apartment. It was a man, a voice slightly tinny through a long-distance connection, but underneath that his voice was svelte, assured. “What do you want?” she had said before anything else. “No,” she had said. “No.” And then she had hung up. She was sitting on the carpet with the phone in her lap. She looked immovable, like a stone. Then he saw that her hand was clenched so hard around the receiver that it had turned white. He knelt down and pried it away, letting her grip his own hand. She began to lose the stony look and continued to squeeze his hand.

  “That’s okay,” he had said, meaning she could squeeze even harder if she needed.

  And then she looked up and said, “I’m never going to be the way I used to be.”

  “How?” he wanted to know.

  “Hot and desirous and stupid and ugly.” She’d turned away from him and spat the words into the room.

  “Let’s talk about it,” he said.

  And she’d snorted at him as if to say the suggestion was banal. She made him feel foolish. “What sense do we make of the dramatic details?” she said. “I’m tired of them,” she said. “We both have our own groups. We can go on and on ad nauseam there. Can’t we just be good to each other, without swamping ourselves in the details?”

  “The river.” Tim gazed over the water and remembered. “It couldn’t have been more beautiful.”

  Mary looked around, thinking most anyone would find this place perfectly lovely now.

  “It was a different kind of day from today,” Tim said, “not just sunny. It was already late in the afternoon when we arrived. The clouds were moving, so the sun would come and go.”

  Tim had been rubbing Mary’s hand absentmindedly with his thumb. It became irritating to her, she she slipped it out and rested it on his knee instead.

  “I’d brought a picnic: good wine, bread, artichokes, tomatoes,…”

  “All your favorite things,” she said, “except the Wild Turkey.”

  “That comes later,” Tim said. “But I have to tell you, the day was very different—it was like the river would look completely golden, and then it wouldn’t and then it would because of the clouds. For a while the sun was below the clouds. Have you ever seen that?”

  “No.” But, almost immediately, she remembered that she did in fact see it like that once after a thunderstorm. She’d left a lot of people back at a party. It had gone into the morning. Those that were left had passed out. If it hadn’t been for the thunderstorm, she would have continued sleeping. But she’d found herself in her Dodge Dart, hating her life, driving down the road. The farmers called it a “spent” thunderstorm—when the big, gray clouds are left without the rain. The sun rose underneath the clouds that morning so that all the houses she drove past were a deep orange and the sky above them a deep gray. She had almost made a U-turn back to the house so she could tell someone. But she decided that the phenomena would change before she even reached them, or whoever came to see wouldn’t see what she saw.

  “It’s like the clouds are pushing the light down. That’s when we went into the water. Mary”—Tim put his hand around her waist—“the water was so soft!”

  “What did you do?” She let herself settle ever so lightly against his arm. And she realized there was a longing within her—she wanted to be in that water; but at the same time she felt repulsed, afraid that this was just the kind of wanting that tricked you.

  “Water ballet,” he laughed. “It was one of the things her mother had gotten her involved with in high school. She looked silly doing these pointy-toed things upside down in the water. It was as if she was sharing the more absurd side of being a princess. And I liked her even better for it.

  “Afterward, we changed into dry clothes under a blanket. We were sitting on the top of a picnic table. She was already dressed, and I was leaning over, futzing with my shoes. The blanket fell off my shoulders, and my shirt was off. She put her hand very gently on my back and held it there like she was trying to sense something.

  That’s when I pulled out the Wild Turkey. It wasn’t like it bothered her. She took a little in her glass. And for the next few hours, we watched the trees get dark against the sky, and we drank. We talked about everything, about my dad, and the time I was hit by a car running after my brother’s school bus, and the time that Hank fell out of the chestnut tree in our backyard.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mary said.

  “Yes, nothing happened to him. He bounced. You know what she said? I remember, she said, ‘You have a very physical family.’ She told me things I hadn’t thought of before. She told me about herself, too. As we got into it, the air was getting cool, like September, but we just wrapped in the blanket, and everything was changing as it should. The moon came out. We were trading secrets, back and forth. I wanted to make love with her and I almost…”

  “What, Tim?” Mary had been stroking his hand.

  “Well, you know how it is when you’re talking to someone, and you know they can tell you’re getting drunk. But you keep drinking, and you keep watching to see if it makes a difference to them?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mary said.

  Tim uncrossed his ankles and brought his knees up to his chest. “Well, it made a difference. I could see it, like a cloud passing in front of her face.”

  Mary looked down at his gray sneakers, and the thought crossed her mind that he might have still had them as long ago as that day with the other woman. She looked at him. “You can’t forever be ashamed about that, Tim,” she said. And as soon as the words were out, she knew they were too simple, a phrase she would have given to any member of her AA group, something easy, and which she felt nothing about.

  His face flooded with anger. “That’s not the only thing!” he shouted. And instantaneously he imagined the park sign at the entra
nce to the road vibrating from the sound of the shout. And it became clear to him why he always had the impulse to return here: he was still looking for that perfect day. If only he could make a perfect day and still drink and drink perfectly with someone else, and they could drink too and drink perfectly. And if there wasn’t that, what could he do? What could he want instead?

  We’re both still so sick, she thought. She didn’t know what to do. She got up and waded over to where their bobbers had floated into the shore and began to untangle them, pulling her hair behind her ear as it fell forward and got in her eyes. It was all awkward. She hated anything as frustrating as these tangles almost as much as he did. That’s why he had tried to prevent them from drifting in the first place. Still, he had let them, just like she had. And now the line was wet, and there were pieces of weeds clinging to the mess.

  He was bending over her on the shore, his hands on his knees. He was sorry he had shouted. He wanted to explain. “Mary,” he said gently. “Don’t you ever miss it?”

  “What?” she said, coldly, not looking at him while she pretended to be working the little knots apart. But she knew he meant drinking. She still didn’t know if she could talk about that. If she could say yes to that and still survive.

  “Mary?” he said.

  And when she looked up, behind the strands of hair that had stuck to her mouth, she was sobbing. He looked at her small shoulders, so bare and quaking they were like the two parts of a heart. And he knew even before he had done it that the next moment he would be in the water with her. That it would be cold: a cold shock and then a starting over again.

  THE UNDERSTANDING

  I’m a poodle.”

  That’s what he would like to tell someone. Not that they didn’t know that already. But he would like to tell them so they would know that he knew. Just once as the mailman came up the walk, instead of yelping and running from window to door to window again, he would like to wait patiently, even serenely, until the man had come to the first step. He would stand on his hind legs then, push the screen door ajar to show his face, and say, “Boo. I’m a poodle.”