When we got back to the house, Katie was bustling in the kitchen, making us scrambled eggs, toast, and more tea. I felt extraordinarily light. Small things, like the black and white photograph of a cat in a swing, made me laugh out loud. I devoured Katie’s food like an animal and eagerly pushed my plate forward when offered more.
As Katie cleared the dishes, I offered my help. She refused.
“It’s two hours ahead in Chicago,” said Joey. “Go call your wife.”
“What?”
“Go call your wife. It’s Christmas Eve. Go call your wife and kids.”
He pointed out an old rotary phone sitting in the kitchen. I dialed the number, heard the first few words of my father-in-law’s answering machine, and hung up right away.
“What’s wrong?” asked Joey.
“They’re not there.”
“Well, don’t they have an answering machine?”
“Yes.” I stared at the wall, in a state of catatonia. “But it’s my father-in-law’s.”
“Call them back. Leave a message and leave this number.”
I wanted to argue. He gave me that look again. A fixed expressionless gaze, like the face of a lion. I did as I was told. My father-in-law’s message was just as abrupt and in-your-face as his attitude about everything.
“We’re not here. If you want your call returned, leave a message.”
I swallowed, hard. I knew Becca’s dad would not be happy to hear my voice on his machine.
“Uhhh, this is a message for Becca. I wanted to call and say, ‘Merry Christmas’ to you and the kids. It’s Christmas Eve; here’s my number.” I read the number off Joey’s phone. I had to force the words out of my throat and chest, like glue out of a tube after forgetting to replace the cap.
“Good. Now, ready for some work?” asked Joey.
Without waiting for an answer, he led me outside to a pile of cut wood.
“Ever split logs before?”
“A couple of times,” I exaggerated.
“Good! Then this will keep you busy.”
CHAPTER 16
JUST LIKE ME
By midmorning, the pile of logs awaiting execution was half the size it had been. Despite the crisp cold of the day, my body was sticky with sweat, and there was a roar in my belly that would take flak from no one. Fragments of wood lay spread all over the small cobbled area outside the back door. My father-in-law had been brutally and mercilessly massacred dozens of times, surrendering his position only briefly to make way for Bruce Pushar from the station, Dave Harmer with his infamous SolarBike, every telemarketer who ever called during dinner, and various representatives of banks and other creditors who had contributed to my demise. The sun was shining, it was midmorning on day five, and I was dangerous.
Water finally led me back into the kitchen, both the taking in of it and the letting out. Were it not for these biological urges, I could have cut the entire forest into neat burnable chunks. The door banged loudly against the washing machine as I threw it open. And there, sitting at the kitchen table, spine straight and disapproval perched on her nose, was Cheryl. My first impulse was to go back and get the axe.
“Matt, dear, this is Cheryl, an old friend of ours,” Katie said hurriedly, before there was time for violence. I grunted. My feet made loud noises as I crossed the kitchen to get water. Cheryl fidgeted, like a librarian faced with a customer whose very demeanor threatens to throw books around and to hell with the consequences.
“Will you be here for Christmas?” asked Cheryl, pursing her lips.
“What the fuck has that to do with you, you sex-starved, mean-spirited, wart-infested witch?” I might well have replied to her, had Katie not stepped in between us. She could feel the force her axe had unleashed in me, and was now intent on assuaging bloodshed.
“Yes, Cheryl, Joey brought Matt up yesterday. We are so happy to have him here.”
“Lovely,” said Cheryl, forcing a smile, as if a deranged rapist had a stiletto blade pressed against her ribs, and was whispering, ‘Act nice, and you won’t get hurt too bad.’ “And have you been enjoying the farm, Matt? What have you been doing here?”
“I’ve been chopping wood.” I looked her right in the eye, sinking my axe right into the heart of her disapproval, and with it every judgment I had ever suffered from anyone.
Joey’s whistle saved the day. He stepped into the kitchen, took a look at us gathered there, and grinned. “Aha,” he said. “Looks like those logs did you a world of good, Matt. Now come with me, we’ve work to do. Ladies, excuse us.”
With that he turned his back and was out the front door. I followed, my sigh of relief mixed with disappointment. I felt like a dog yanked forcibly by the leash from a cat I was about to dismember. My chest was exploding with a need for revenge against all the mean people I had ever known.
“Where are we going?” I asked Joey, slamming the screen door behind me. “Whoops.” For the first time I noticed how much smaller Joey was than me. An old man, frail even. I could carry him under one arm while fending off a couple of dragons with the other hand.
“Don’t matter to me, I had to get you outta there before you killed somebody. Let’s go take a look at the horses, not seen ’em yet.” We walked back out on the driveway, the silence only interrupted by the sound of our feet on the gravel. I kicked stones off the pathway, and spat from time to time. Joey hardly seemed to notice. I felt awkward with so much energy in my body, like I was wearing pants with large red checks, and had to explain or change my clothes or both.
“I love you, Joey,” I tried on for size. “You are the wisest and most innocent person I’ve ever known. You are beautiful.”
Joey looked at me from the corner of his eye, and scowled a little. “Tobacco?” he offered, as he stuffed a wad into his mouth.
“No, thanks.”
“You seem a little feisty.” Joey raised one eyebrow.
“Well,” I grinned broadly, “give a man an axe and some wood and there’s no telling what will happen.”
“Ah,” said Joey. “Yes, that must be it.”
I took a long steamy piss against a tree, and had to run to catch up with him. “And,” I went on, “that woman drives me crazy.”
“Katie bothering you?” asked Joey quizzically, knowing perfectly well that was not what I meant.
“No!” I said, not meaning to shout. “That … ” I wanted to not remember her name, just as a statement of disgust, but it came anyway. “That Cheryl.”
“Cheryl?” asked Joey, acting surprised. “Innocent as a lamb. What’s bothering you about Cheryl?”
We were getting near the horses now. I was distracted for a moment by their beauty. They were perfect creatures, poised like statues. Joey followed my eyes.
“They were a gift,” he said, ruefully. “Many years ago. I helped a man out starting a computer company, and when it got big, he bought me four Arabian stallions.”
“I only see three.”
“No one had computers back then,” he said, “except the government and enormous companies. Just the word computer to the average person would conjure up images of rows and rows of huge machines with tapes flying backward and forward. You needed all that just to do simple arithmetic. But this guy was into something small, zany, with pictures to represent things.” Joey paused. “Well, I guess that was my touch. And then he had this little gizmo you could hold in your hand to choose things on the screen. He called it a floating icon selector,” Joey went on. “I took one look at the thing first day I walked in the garage, and I said to him, ‘Looks like your computer’s being nibbled on by a mouse.’ He laughed like crazy and the word stuck. He figured later on that calling it a mouse was a big part of what made the thing catch on. So that’s how I got the horses.” By now we were close to the picket fence surrounding Joey’s three stallions. I plucked a blade of grass and chewed on it.
“So,” said Joey. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. What’s the problem with Cheryl then?”
“Well
, she’s cold. She’s … ” I was at a loss for words. “She’s kind of bitter, you know? Like the world’s done her wrong and she bears everyone a grudge. Yeah, that’s it. She’s got a chip on her shoulder. She’s got an attitude.”
“Ah, yes,” said Joey. “And what else?”
“She just takes. You know, nothing to give.”
“Yes,” said Joey, thoughtfully. “I see.” It sounded as if these revelations about Cheryl were completely new and he’d never considered them before.
“Well, what else?”
“Well, she’s unfriendly. And pushy,” I said.
“Ah,” said Joey. “Yes, that will never do.”
“And she needs to relax; she needs to let people be. She only finds fault.”
We stood there leaning against the picket fence, Joey gazing into the distance. I was restless; in trying to get some mud off my boot I kicked the fence post just a little too hard and stubbed my toe. I pulled another blade of grass from the ground by the post and chewed on it.
“So what do you see here?” asked Joey after a moment.
I looked. The horses had turned toward us now. They were absolutely still. The eyes of one burned into me. Slowly it began to walk toward us. Joey reached into the deep pocket of his duffle coat, and produced an apple, with a flourish, like a magician. Behind the horses was a red barn with white trim. The paint was peeling. A huge bush, an ivy of some sort, cascaded over the roof and down toward us.
“Tell me what you see,” said Joey, so softly it was almost intimate.
“I see the horses walking.” They were almost up to us now. “I can smell the horses. I can see the barn and the ivy.”
“Wisteria,” said Joey. “But, never mind. Go on.”
“I see the color of the sky, the orange behind the trees as the sun is setting.”
“Keep going.”
“I can see the way the grass is overgrown toward the back of the pasture, but chewed down the middle.”
“Good,” said Joey. “But what’s wrong with this scene? What makes it less than perfect?”
My mind was blank; I struggled for something to say. “Well, maybe the grass needs cutting.”
“Are you sure?” asked Joey.
“No, I guess not.”
“Certainly not,” said Joey. “The horses will eat it as the winter wears on. What else is wrong with this picture?”
“The barn needs painting.”
“Aaaah,” said Joey. “Are you sure that’s true?”
“No, I guess not.”
“What else is wrong? Tell me what makes this scene less than perfect.”
This time there was a longer silence. I had run out of things to say.
“I’ll tell you what I see when I look here,” said Joey. “I see only three horses. My favorite, Morning Star, died two years ago. Every time I come here to this pasture that’s what I see … no Morning Star. I love the other horses, too, mind you.” He was feeding one an apple now from the flat of his palm and gave me an apple to feed to another.
“When I look at this pasture I see a lack, a lack of my favorite horse. But you don’t see that, do you?” he asked, his blue eyes piercing into mine.
“No,” I said. “I never knew your horse.”
“Right. So the lack of perfection I feel here is not real, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the only way to create something less than perfect is to compare it in your mind with something else. It only exists as my mental process.”
I was lost.
“You see, if I let go of the idea of Morning Star, there’s nothing wrong with this picture. If you let go of the idea of a freshly painted barn, there’s nothing wrong with this picture. If you let go of the idea that the grass should be even, there’s nothing wrong with this picture. If you abandon the idea of how someone should be, there’s nothing wrong with them. The difference between heaven and hell is comparing.” He turned back toward the horses. He seemed to enter into a silent dialogue with each one.
“Now, that’s just the beginning. That’s just the very first step, to see, to know that anything less than heaven is just a creation of your own mind.”
I wanted to ask him about starving babies, mass genocide, and the globalization of the economy, but he interrupted me before I had a chance.
“Now,” he said. “What about Cheryl? You say she’s not giving; she’s got a chip on her shoulder; she’s mean-spirited; she needs to relax and let people be as they are, but do you know for sure those things are objectively true?”
“Sure!” I said. “It’s obvious.”
“Well, she doesn’t bother everyone the same, does she?”
“You mean you actually like that woman?”
“Sure,” said Joey. “I’ve known Cheryl for years, love her to pieces. The important thing to see is why do you feel the need to change her? What is it about how she is that disturbs you? Try saying it again. Try saying, ‘She’s a victim.’”
“She’s a victim,” I said.
“Say it again. Really say it with venom.”
This wasn’t hard. “She’s a victim!” I said, grabbing hold of the fence post. “She’s a victim! She’s a victim.”
I was almost retching on the word now.
“Good,” said Joey. “Now just let go of the idea of Cheryl and say that word a few more times. Victim! Victim!”
I did as he said. I was attacking the fence post now with such ferocity that I was surprised it survived. “Victim! Victim!” I screamed at the innocent piece of wood, eyes glaring.
“Good,” said Joey. “Now you see, you’ve still got the charge on the word, even with Cheryl gone. So where’s the victim now?”
Everything did a flip again. I looked into his eyes. It all stopped. When the word came, it was involuntary. I heard it more than said it.
“Me?” I felt totally busted.
Joey’s eyes laughed while his mouth stayed perfectly still. “Right,” he said. “Right. Now try saying the whole thing. ‘Cheryl’s a victim, just like me.’”
I repeated his words. “Cheryl’s a victim, just like me.”
I burst out laughing; a mad, deranged laugh. My body was rippling with energy. It felt loose.
“Just like me, just like me,” Joey sang under his breath, to a melody from Verdi’s Rigaletto. “Now try the other ones.”
“What do you mean, what other ones?”
Try saying “She’s a taker, not a giver, just like me.”
I did as he said, and laughed again. A tight knot was unraveling somewhere in my body.
“She’s mean-spirited. She’s mean-spirited, just like me. She’s cold, just like me.”
Joey prompted me under his breath, without expression. “Needs to relax.”
“She needs to relax, just like me.” He prompted again. “She needs to let people be, just like me.” The absurd and obvious truth of the last two statements sank in. The horse near me became frisky suddenly, and did a small dance, from back feet to front.
“Simple, eh?” said Joey.
I had no idea what he was even talking about anymore. The air smelled good, the horses were enjoying the end of their apples as they did their polka, and it really felt like Christmas Eve.
Joey turned away from the fence, and I walked alongside him. I was a little weak in the knees. I wanted to sit down, muddy as it was, and play in the dirt for a while.
“That’s pretty much the ticket for whatever you have to say about anybody,” said Joey. “Whether it’s praise or blame. Add the words just like me and you’ll find out what your work is.”
“Work?” I asked, quickening my step to keep up with him.
“All that keeps you from the sweetness of this moment are the ghosts you will not own,” said Joey. “The victim, the mean-spiritedness, the taking, is all good, it’s all God, except when you say ‘no’ to it. When you deny that in yourself, you’ll find a way to make someone else wrong, too. It’s just the same with your
beauty. So what was that you were saying to me when we were walking over here, what was that smoochy stuff?”
“That I love you.”
“Then what did you say?”
“I said you were sweet and wise,” I guessed.
“Good,” said Joey. “Can you own that, too, that I’m sweet and wise just like you?” He grinned at me like a shy teenage girl. I obeyed. I laughed and put my arm around him. This time he laughed too and put his arm around my waist.
“Just like me … just like me … ,” he sang, this time to his own tune, as he danced in a circle around me. “Can you feel this has taken residence in your body now?” he whispered conspiratorially, wrapping his tongue around the word body as he poked me painfully in the ribs.
“Yes,” I winced. I was at that moment entranced by a rabbit hopping between the trees.
Turning a corner, we saw two people walking toward us from the house. One waved an arm in the air. It was Katie, with Cheryl. They were both wrapped up in scarves and hats and holding each other’s gloved hand. They looked like schoolgirls.
“Been to see the horses, darlin’?” asked Katie as we got closer.
“Hmmmm,” he said. “Come here.” He pulled her toward him, as if they were married just yesterday. I looked into Cheryl’s eyes. I waited for the reaction to come in my belly. I waited again, our eyes still engaged. Someone had stolen my feeling of repulsion, and I was quite lost without it, like a warrior suddenly stripped of all his weapons. Undefended, unprepared. Cheryl cocked her head to one side, frowned, then burst out laughing.
“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” said Katie. Unable to contain her pleasure, she wriggled her body. I felt a sudden wave of panic. Gifts! I didn’t have any gifts. They were being so kind and generous, but I hadn’t even known I was coming here. Christmas means gifts, and I didn’t have any.
“Now, Matt,” said Katie, taking me by the arm as we walked back to the house. “Sam told me you were interested in the pottery. Well, you’re in luck. We fired up the kiln a few hours ago, since our master potter is back in town.”
The Last Laugh Page 16