Calf

by Andrea Kleine

  Jeffrey thought this was an excellent story.

  “I just don’t understand why you need to come all the way back here for that,” his mother said. Jeffrey knew she was standing very still in her sunny Texas kitchen. She was speaking very softly because she hadn’t yet decided whether to involve Jeffrey’s father. “I can easily mail it to you.”

  “I don’t want to take a chance on it getting lost in the mail.”

  “I’ll send it to you special delivery. Or certified. You have to sign for certified.”

  “Mom, I’m sure even special delivery stuff gets lost once in a while.”

  There were some muffled words exchanged on the other end of the line and somewhere in it he heard his mother say, “He needs his immunization records for Columbia and he says it’s very dangerous to mail them.”

  Jeffrey’s father got on the phone.

  “We’re not wiring you money for a plane ticket. You’re not coming back here. We’ll find your papers and send them to you, but you’re not flying all the way back here to get them.”

  Jeffrey stared at his muddy reflection in the silver pay phone casing.

  “You need to learn how to stand on your own two feet, be your own man, prove yourself to the world.” Jeffrey could tell his father was angry because he was recycling his worst clichés.

  “If you don’t take a stand, Jeffrey, you’re going to die and the world will never know who you are. You’ve had the same opportunities as your brother and sister. You don’t need much to make it out in the world, just hard work and a good attitude. Quitting is not a good attitude. All you’ve shown your mother and I by calling us like this is that you’re a quitter. Is that what you want us to think? That you’re a quitter?”

  Jeffrey was silent.

  “I know it’s hard out there,” his father said, softening his tone. Perhaps Jeffrey’s mother had left the room and he no longer needed to make a show of manly, fatherly power. “You’ve got to have faith, Jeffrey. Faith that something is planned for you, something is right out there for you to take if you have the balls to step up and take it.” His father sighed, or maybe he was softening a belch by puffing his cheeks and then exhaling. “You want to know why I love Jesus? It’s not because of some moralistic crap. And it’s not because of anything historic or something that’s in the Bible. Hell, I would love Jesus even if there wasn’t a Bible. It’s because he can help people have better lives. Do unto others. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or an MBA to figure that out. And if the roles were reversed, if you were the father and I were the son, I would want you to treat me the same way I’m treating you now. I’m sincere about that, Jeffrey. You can do it, Jeffrey, you know why?”

  Jeffrey looked out across the ticket area. A man was pulling a suitcase on wheels, but it was too big or too full and he couldn’t pull it in a straight line without it twisting to one side and pitching over.

  “Because I love you and Jesus loves you. Now you just got to show us how much you love us back.”

  JEFFREY TOOK A cab to the bus station. It was his last bit of luxury.

  He spent the next three days on busses. He wasn’t going anywhere, he just needed time. He would’ve preferred to go back to his parents and be sick for about three days. If he couldn’t do that, then he wanted to be nowhere. He needed a retreat to build up strength.

  He took a roundabout route in case anyone was following him. It was for Amber’s protection as well as his. If anyone asked he would say he was going to visit his grandma in Florida, or he was just coming from visiting his grandma in Florida, depending on which way the bus was headed. Every bus station looked the same: the same orange, yellow, or teal plastic seats stuck together in the waiting area, the same pay-a-quarter-to-watch-TV chairs, the same bleached menthol smell trying to mask the odor of stale Cheetos and the great unwashed. The drivers all went through the same routine of teasing people into thinking it was finally time to board the bus. The driver gets on first, then shuts the door and spends a good twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing. Sure, he’s adjusting the seat and the rearview mirror and checking over some list. He’s also probably taking one last swig for the road. Then finally he opens the door and punches your ticket.

  Jeffrey discovered that the best way to get two seats to himself was to sit up front near the driver. People will always pass you by looking for something better. By the time they get to the back of the bus, they’re too tired to back up and the aisle is too crowded. They missed their chance.

  Jeffrey sent Amber a postcard from every town where the bus pulled in for a rest stop. He wrote her notes and poems and sent them care of her DC hotel. He thought it was romantic and it showed he was thinking about her all the time. Wish you were here, he wrote. Forget about the phone calls. You’ve been working so hard on this film, and your second film really is more important than your first. You need to prove to people that you’re not just a flash in the pan, and you will. Don’t worry. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Thinking of you.

  He felt closer to her this way. He wasn’t very good on the phone. He was a writer, he felt more comfortable pen to paper. With the postcards, he wasn’t interrupting her; she could enjoy him at her leisure. He would be a little voice waiting for her when she got home, reminding her of how much he loved her.

  In South Carolina, he found what he was looking for. He saw it from his window seat as the bus wound its way into a station for a one-hour break. Jeffrey got off the bus and headed toward the dusty supermarket across the street. The windows were completely covered in signs advertising pork and beans for pennies a pound in big, cheap red letters.

  Jeffrey passed through the narrow opening between the supermarket and a liquor store and emerged at the back of the building where trucks loaded in battered produce and broken shopping carts were put out to pasture. There were a few shops and offices back here, dingy ones that didn’t care about storefronts and good parking. He walked over to the white, lit-up Coca-Cola sign flickering on its way to extinction. The neon sign next to it crackled a high-pitched hum and said, Guns and Antiques Dealer.

  It was run by an unshaven, malnourished old-timer with Vaseline-slicked hair and cough-drop breath, the kind of guy most people wouldn’t think still existed. Most people thought his types were all living in shacks out in the middle of nowhere waiting to die. But this guy was alive and well and called him son.

  Jeffrey gave him his story. A stranger had started following his girlfriend home. He had gotten her number somehow and would call all the time, only to hang up when she answered. The guy wouldn’t take no for an answer, thought he was her boyfriend. Jeffrey had told his girlfriend to start wearing her grandmother’s engagement ring as a ploy to get rid of him. The old-timer thought that was a good idea. Yeah, Jeffrey said, but the guy still wouldn’t let up. Broke into her house and went through her, you know, unmentionables drawer. Her slips, stockings, and things. Her private things. His girlfriend was scared. Jeffrey was staying over there all the time now, even though his mother didn’t like it. She’s old-fashioned. Anyway, Jeffrey wrapped it up, he thought this would be a good idea. He wasn’t going to shoot anyone. He’s not the type who could take somebody’s life. It’s just something to scare the guy off or keep him there while we call the police, get him locked up. Even if he stops and leaves her alone, who’s to say he won’t start up on some new girl?

  “A lot of sick people in the world,” the old-timer said.

  Jeffrey thought this fellow had heard it all. A guns-and-antiques dealer was the type of guy people poured out their troubles to.

  The old-timer gave him a good deal on a .22 blue-steel revolver. Smart-looking thing, not too small. It’ll do the trick, the old-timer said, you’re gonna want the sucker to see it.

  Jeffrey tacked on a box of ammunition and paid in cash. The geezer was in a good mood and threw in a used shoulder holster, no extra charge, and showed him how to load the gun. Jeffrey walked out into the bright setting sun glaring down on the
brick back lot. He emerged in front of the supermarket, his guitar case in one hand, brown paper bag in the other, and walked back across the street and reboarded the bus. No one had spotted him and he had erased all of his tracks.

  In North Carolina, he missed a connection and was stuck in a dead-end town for twelve hours until four o’clock the next morning. Jeffrey wandered out along the two-lane highway and made his way to a run-down strip mall with a motel at the far end. Maybe that’s what he needed: a shower in nowheresville.

  The strip mall contained a bridal shop, a donut shop, and a pawnshop. That was it. Honeymoon at the motel.

  Jeffrey walked into the pawnshop, just to look around. The place was full of TVs, some jewelry, mostly junk. Here he got his knife. It was a nice hunting knife in its own little sheath. He liked it that way. He didn’t want to be bothered with having to flick something open, and a Swiss Army knife was too much trouble. A knife was a one-shot deal, Jeffrey thought. You need something hard and quick. Jump, stab, and make your getaway.

  On his way out, he spotted a Radio Shack tape recorder under the glass cabinet. He paid another ten bucks for it. It was more than he wanted to spend, but it would be like a date. Even though Amber wasn’t with him, he could still take her out.

  After a donut and a shower, Jeffrey sat down on the scratchy polyester bedspread and picked up his guitar. He popped a cassette into the recorder, pressed down PLAY and RECORD together, and said, “Hello, testing, one, two, three.” He played the tape back and his tinny voice trickled out of the speaker. He was now in his own private recording studio. Pretty cool.

  He rewound and pressed PLAY and RECORD again. He whispered, “Two, three, four,” to himself and then began to play his guitar. He sang “If I Fell” by the Beatles and almost made it through the first verse without screwing up. He was going to stop and start over, but he kept going. He made it through the rest of the song with only a few messed-up chord changes. When he finished, he was about to press the STOP button, but instead he leaned into the machine and put his mouth close to the special little dots of the mic square.

  “Hi, Amber, it’s me, Jeff. Or J. Whatever you want to call me. Either is fine. That was me just now, singing. And playing. I told you I was a writer and a songwriter. Although I didn’t write that song, that was the Beatles. But you knew that. You’re not even here and you’re making me giddy. I’m all alone right now. I’m on the road. I’m staying in a hotel. Just took a shower. That’s where I got the idea to make you a tape. People get all kinds of crazy ideas in the shower. Anyway, I thought it might be different. And I wanted to hear your voice so much so . . . I feel like I can hear your voice right now. You’re right here with me. And we’re just talking. I have a donut, do you want some? We could live here, you and I, in this little town. It’s kind of a run-down town, but they have a donut shop and it’s clean. There are woods nearby. It’d be away from all the dirty scum of Hollywood. Lots of actresses leave Hollywood and buy a ranch somewhere to get away from it all. That’s what this place could be like. We could buy the motel and sleep in a different room every night. And we’d have a maid and room service. That’d be fun. I love you so much. You know that, right? I know someone was probably with you when you were talking to me on the phone so you had to say those things. I know you feel differently. That’s why I keep writing, just to let you know I don’t take it personally. I still love you. There’s nothing you can do to make me stop loving you. I’ll always love you. So here’s another tune for you. I don’t know, I guess I’m in A Hard Day’s Night mood even though I like the John and Yoko stuff too. So here we go. I kinda feel like a deejay.”

  Jeffrey gave another, “Two, three, four,” and plucked the four strings of George Harrison’s intro to “And I Love Her.” He was warmed up now. He was smooth. He was in the moment. He let the last chord ring out until all was quiet in the room again.

  “That one’s a lot easier to play. The first one I did was really hard. So many chords. Kinda complicated. I hope I didn’t ruin it for you. I haven’t played in about a week. I’m probably a little rusty. I probably need to tune it better too . . . Amber, Amber, Amber . . . I love you so much. Don’t go back to California. It’s so phony there. Nobody is real, they’re all put on. You’re not like that. You’re real. Don’t go back there. Please. They’ll eat you up and spit you out and make you do nude scenes. They’re just using you. They’re all full of shit. Did you know the CIA uses movies to communicate with agents overseas? They send messages through the dialogue. It’s not the kind of thing you read in the paper, but it happens. You just have to know the right people and they’ll tell you it’s true. Just look at Reagan. He knows. A Hollywood actor is president. Can you believe it? The world is ending. It is. Do you believe in Nostradamus? He predicted the end of the world. Listen to me, I want you to come here. I want you to live in this motel with me. Just come here and we’ll be safe. If the world ends we’ll be together. Or we can commit double suicide. That’s what people who are really in love do. But don’t worry, if I die before you, I won’t cheat on you in Heaven. I’ll wait for you.”

  A large drop of sweat fell onto the tape recorder.

  “Hold on, technical difficulties,” he said and pressed STOP.

  Jeffrey stood up to get a towel. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and saw that his hair was pasted to his forehead with sweat. He looked pale. The white towel around his waist disappeared and became part of his body.

  He heard someone outside his door and ran for his gun. He pulled it out of his jacket, cocked it, and aimed it at the door. The footsteps walked away and a car drove off. Jeffrey’s hands were shaking.

  He went back to the bed and pressed PLAY and RECORD.

  “Okay, false alarm. But don’t worry. I’m prepared in case of emergency.”

  Jeffrey curled up in a fetal position with the recorder cradled in the crook of his right arm.

  “I wonder if I can shoot with my left hand. I’m right handed. Well, most people are. I have a gun. I might kill myself here. I might kill myself while this tape is going. That would mean something, wouldn’t it? You’d know I loved you and I’d be waiting for you in Heaven. Then you could kill yourself too as soon as possible. But don’t shoot yourself. Don’t ruin your pretty face. Do something painless like the car in the garage. Or pills. Lots of sleeping pills and then it’s just like you’re falling asleep. I tried to kill myself that way once. I did it in the bathtub, hoping I’d drown. But I was stupid and left the tap running. The whole thing overflowed and it was a big mess and my mother found me. It’s kind of a funny story now. Anyway, now I have a gun. Guns are messy, but hey, they work.”

  Jeffrey angled his left elbow up to the ceiling and pointed the gun down against his damp temple.

  “I’m aiming the gun at my head. This could be it. Unless you say you love me. Unless you really don’t want me to. ‘Oh no! One more song! One more song, Jeffrey!’ Oh, okay.”

  Jeffrey picked up his guitar and launched into “I’ll Be Back.” He sang louder than he usually did. His sweaty skin stuck to the back of the guitar. He shook the damp strands of hair out of his face. He belted out the bridge. On the record the song fades out, but Jeffrey didn’t fade out. He extended the vamp and ended with a cadenza on the major chord, strumming as hard and as fast as he could. He went for it.

  “That’s the end of the album, Amber. I’ll see you soon. And you’ll see me. Don’t worry.”

  PART THREE

  THE NATIONAL

  The Washington bus station was in a bad neighborhood. Jeffrey noticed Washington was like that. He could go from polished white government buildings to a sea of black faces in a few short blocks. It was no different from anywhere else in the country; bus stations were always on the wrong side of the tracks. Jeffrey never thought about taking the train. He didn’t like trains. His brother went through a phase where he built an entire little town in the basement and laid down model train tracks. He even painted a sign that said, “Welcome to H
ackneyville, a happy place to be.” Jeffrey could hear the train motor from his bedroom. It seemed to him that train cars derailed a little too often, and he wouldn’t want to be on a real train that derailed and be the sole survivor stranded in the middle of a cornfield.

  The bus station’s fluorescent lights made it seem like morning even though it was the middle of the night. The McDonald’s attached to the station was closed, as was the ticket counter. Passengers were confined to a few benches while they waited for daybreak.

  The sun came up around six a.m. McDonald’s opened for breakfast at six thirty. By seven, Jeffrey was on his way. He walked a few blocks until he spotted the Capitol dome in the distance and headed toward it.

  Jeffrey made his way to the National Hotel. It took him a while to find it since all he had was an address copied out of the phone book at the bus station and it didn’t list the cross street. When he finally made it, he was disappointed. The owners of the National Hotel were letting the historic landmark go to pot. This was, after all, the hotel where John Wilkes Booth stayed the night before he shot Lincoln. Jeffrey thought history buffs would want to keep it in shape.