XXII
Jack took a step back, hitting his leg against a carton. His face burned. He stared at the glove, as though further examination might make it less real, might change the irrefutable fact that it had been wedged behind the filing cabinet, might inhibit the need to consider how and why it got there, had Jack been capable of considering anything at the moment. But all he could do was clutch the glove as though it were a living thing about to escape from him and run wildly through the house, contaminating everything it touched. Contaminating Danny.
There was a sick ache in Jack’s stomach. His mouth was dry. His tongue pulsed against his lips. His heart was beating fast. He needed to pull Danny away from this, separate him from it. There was something he should have been remembering, but what it was he could not recall; something he should have been doing, but what was it? He could only look at the tennis ball and think about Danny playing outside, throwing a ball against the back steps, talking to himself, keeping a running commentary: the winning home run, the spectacular catch, pitching his team to the finals—Jack would look out the window and it was Danny out there, talking to himself, playing a ballgame of the mind. He didn’t know Jack was watching. He played his game unawares. Throwing and catching, over and over again. Danny, standing all alone, looking young and so dependent, Jack couldn’t hold on to all the emotions he was feeling. He wanted to scream out to him or rush down and grab him until Danny understood just how much he loved him, and even then, Danny would never understand. Then Danny saw Jack and smiled, because it was Jack watching him, and Jack would forget all about the hard time Danny had given him at supper and that he hadn’t bothered to make his bed, simply because he recognized Jack’s face and it made him smile.
Jack paced the length of the basement. His legs trembled. He teeth were chattering. There was something he should have been remembering, something he should have been doing, something he should have been thinking. If he only calmed down, he would know exactly what to do, if he stopped pacing, if he just let his head clear for a minute—why the hell did Lamar have to write his name in the goddamned glove?
If Jack had found a baseball glove without a name, it could have belonged to anyone. To no one. He wouldn’t have looked twice at it, just thrown it in with the rest of the junk, or he might have thought it was something Danny had found and he would have held on to it for a moment or two, let his fingers touch the same place Danny’s fingers had touched and saved it with the rest of the old toys. But, no, this kid had to go and write his name on the damn thing.
Jack thought there was something he should have been remembering. Something he should have been doing. But all he could do was stare at the worn leather and ragged laces, look over his shoulder at the filing cabinet, at the piles of old clothes, the boxes brought from the loft on Crosby Street and never opened. His insides quivered, his hands were cold and sweaty. There was something he should have been doing, but he was afraid to move, afraid to leave, afraid to go upstairs, where the night no longer held its charm and all facts were irrefutable but one. It was like waking from a nightmare and lying as still as possible until the bogeyman goes away. Or closing your eyes at the scary part of the movie, ducking under the seat so the monster won’t see you. Then the sun appears, the lights come up, you crawl out from under the covers, you come up from under the seat. You tell yourself it’s only a bad dream. You tell yourself it’s only a movie. Jack told himself there was a reasonable explanation. While his legs trembled and his teeth chattered.
The air carried the odors of old clothes and books and damp cardboard. From one of the corners came the intermittent clicking of the thermostat; from another corner, the subtle gulp of the water pump. Pipes heaved and contracted. There were the dark sighs of plaster behind the walls. The old beams creaked with age and expelled soft moans, the cement foundation still settling after a hundred years; the internal, assuring sounds of shelter, so familiar they’d gone unnoticed forever, the soft murmur of the hot water tank, the hum of the circuit breaker in the corner where Danny had played with his toys, read his books, over by the filing cabinet, where Jack now stood looking into the space where the glove had been, as though the explanation he wanted was stuck back there, and if he gave the cabinet one more push, cleared away some of the resident dust, if he’d just calm down for Christ’s sake, he’d see it.
His hands would not stop trembling.
He felt closed in by the colorless walls, the drab brown boxes, the clutter and damp air. His face was hot and he was sweating. He wanted to leave and yet did not dare to go upstairs. He felt the anticipation brought on by anxiety, the anxiety brought on by anticipation, as though something were about to happen down here that he had to witness, or something else was about to materialize behind the boxes, between the jackets of old record albums, beneath the old baseball uniforms and shoulder pads.
He told himself that this had nothing to do with Danny. Which he might have actually believed, had he not been holding the irrefutable fact in his hand.
He wanted to talk to Marty. He wanted to hear Marty reassure him the way he’d reassured him through the summer. He wanted to hear Marty tell him: “You’re right, Jack, this has nothing to do with Danny.” He wanted Marty to offer the reasonable explanation.
“I found Lamar Coggin’s baseball glove in my basement. I don’t know how it could have gotten there.”
“The baseball glove of the murdered little boy?”
“Wedged behind the filing cabinet. I think Hopewell did it.”
“Sure, Jack. That makes sense, Hopewell planting the one piece of evidence that would seal his case in your basement. Sounds to me like it might have been hidden there. Could it be Danny hid it there?”
“Danny wouldn’t have had any reason to do that. Maybe he found it and put it there for safekeeping.”
“And then committed suicide, Jack?”
“This has nothing to do with Danny.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right, Jack. This has nothing to do with Danny.”
Jack told himself that there was a reasonable explanation and sagged against the wall, wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and sank to the floor.
He wanted Danny back, just for a minute. He wanted to see Danny’s hands rest calmly at his sides, his chest expand with breath. He wanted to hear Danny’s voice, already changing, no longer a child’s voice but not quite a man’s, saying: “It’s like this, Dad…” And it would all make sense. “You didn’t doubt me, did you, Dad?”
He wanted to peel away the layers of time, reduce it to the moment before the moment Danny killed himself, and stop it.
The misery of May, the panic and desolation of June and July, the entire summer of loneliness Danny’s suicide had left in its wake seemed like a dress rehearsal for what Jack felt now. He rolled his head from side to side in frustration for what he did not know, for what he missed, for his regrets and his ignorance. For what he’d lost. For what he never had.
Outside the house there was a world that did not know Danny Owens, nor did it care about his life and death, and that world would turn predictably tonight minute after minute until daylight returned to the horizon. Inside the house, where there was no other world but the world of Danny Owens, Jack sat in the corner of the basement, held on to himself and wondered about all the things he didn’t know about his son: Danny had a secret. Hell, all kids keep secrets. But not like this, because Danny committed suicide…
He thought that maybe he didn’t want to know, that there are things a person shouldn’t know about himself. There are things a person shouldn’t know, period.
But it was too late to believe that or try to convince himself that he did. He’d found the baseball glove of a murdered boy in his basement and he had to find out how it got there.
More than an hour went by but Jack did not get up off the floor. In that hour Mutt barked from somewhere in the house, the phone rang again, and again Jack did not go upstairs to answer it. He sat alone in the basement, amid the clut
ter, and told himself not to try to guess how the glove got there, to just stick with what he knew.
He thought about Danny’s last days, the days when he’d seen him the least.
But you saw him every morning.
He thought about their fifteen minutes at breakfast, the few nights when they ate supper together. What Danny said. How Danny looked.
He looked the way he always looked. Or maybe you didn’t know what you were seeing.
He told himself, Just stick with what you know. Break it down. You’re good at deconstruction, Jack. Deconstruct this.
He was slow to consider what there was to break down, slow to articulate what he expected to come of it and slower still to concede that a murdered boy’s baseball glove might have something to do with Danny, after all, and that whatever explanation there was would be anything but reasonable. It was only a matter of where he wanted to be when he made his concession.
He walked slowly to the foot of the steps, turned his head for another look at the corner by the filing cabinet, let the glove fall out of his hand and walked slowly up the stairs.
There was the bitter smell of gas in the kitchen, the water had boiled over and the flame under the pot had gone out. Mutt was pawing the back door and barking. Just a few of the irrepressible and banal facts of life. Turn off the burner…let Mutt out…He could hear the rush of owls flying over the field and crickets and frogs singing in the grass out by the creek. He pushed the chairs closer to the table, for no reason other than it was something to do with his hands. When the telephone rang, he did not pick it up. A student named Becker was calling with a question. Jack turned off the volume on the answering machine and walked out, past the wall of photographs, through the living room and upstairs to Danny’s room.
He traced his fingertips along a book on the shelf, and the row of CDs. He sat on the edge of Danny’s bed, ran his hand across the quilted bedspread and up along the edge of Danny’s pillow, touching what Danny had touched, as though he could lift remnants of Danny’s existence and absorb them through his flesh.
Jack could see Danny at breakfast, or working on his hamburger at the drive-in out on Route 41. What did it tell him? What was the look in Danny’s eye? What was the expression on his face when Jack asked him about school?
What did you see? What was in his voice?
He saw Danny sitting at the table looking into a bowl of soggy cereal on Saturday morning, not speaking. Yawning. Looking tired.
“You wouldn’t be tired from studying too hard?” Jack said to him.
No answer.
“Too tired to talk?”
“I guess.”
“My working late at the office doesn’t give you license to stay up all night.”
“I know when to go to sleep. I’m fifteen, you know.”
What was in the voice? What did Jack hear?
He sounded annoyed but he’d sounded annoyed plenty of other times.
They were eating supper at the drive-in, Thursday night. Danny inhaled his cheeseburger…They were eating supper at the drive-in four days later. Danny left half his burger on the plate. Jack never monitored Danny’s behavior, he didn’t that night, either. He assumed Danny had eaten late in the day.
A week before that, they were sitting at breakfast, Danny wasn’t yawning. He ate his cereal. They were talking about pitching in the sectionals. Danny said he was nervous. Jack told him, “If you aren’t nervous, you aren’t ready.” Danny offered up a smile and ran to catch the school bus.
What does that tell you, Jack? What do you know?
He knew that Danny had stopped sleeping and lost his appetite.
“…I’m really sorry about Danny. I miss him a lot,” Mary-Sue told him. She said, “I was kind of worried about him…I could tell something was bothering him…just something I saw…when he thought no one was watching…”
Jack leaned back on Danny’s pillow.
When was something bothering him?
“…they would just be talking and acting stupid…Danny wasn’t really into it…they’d cut school a few days before, an end-of-the-term thing…”
Danny wouldn’t lose sleep over cutting school. He wouldn’t lose his appetite.
“Rick got on C.J…. Usually Danny would take C.J.’s part…this time he was just letting Rick…I could just see something was bothering him…”
When was something bothering him?
The three boys were sitting on Jack’s front porch…“Maybe we can help each other understand it a little better.”
Brian said, “That’s what we’ve been trying to do, Dr. Owens. Believe me, we’ve been trying, but we don’t know why.”
“Did he ever talk about being depressed?”
The boys glanced at each other.
Brian: “Nothing…He was the same old Danny…He was just like he always was.”
“Maybe it was something he only talked about once.”
Brian: “Not to any of us.”
“Was he eating?”
Rick: “Yeah. We all ate together…”
Brian: “He ate supper at my house…If there was anything bothering Danny, we would have known about it.”
“Danny didn’t seem unusually upset?”
Brian: “No.”
Rick.: “…he never acted, you know, weird…”
Mary-Sue told him, “Usually Danny would take C.J.’s part…he was just letting Rick get in C.J.’s face…like Danny was in his own thoughts…”
Monday morning. They were in the kitchen. Danny hadn’t said much. He pushed his toast out of the way. It was the third morning in a row that he’d pushed his breakfast aside. Jack said something about it.
Danny said, “I’m eating, I’m eating.” He rubbed his eyes. His face was pale, it always was when he didn’t get enough sleep. He asked, “Which is more important, Dad, honesty or loyalty?”
Jack answered, “That’s a very good question. I’d say it’s something you have to take case by case. Is there anything in particular—”
Was it something that came up in class? Did he read it in a book?
“Which is more important, Dad, honesty or loyalty?”
It was more than just a question. When was something bothering him?
“Which is more important, Dad, honesty or loyalty?”
“That’s a very good question…”
Mutt started barking…the school bus driver honked his horn…Jack said, “Stick around, I’ll drive you to school.”
“Can’t, Dad.” Danny grabbed his books and bolted. Jack was a little surprised, a little hurt that Danny didn’t want to spend another half hour with him. But, as Danny reminded Jack only a few days before, he was “fifteen, you know.”
“Too old to be seen with me?” Jack called after him.
Danny didn’t answer.
Jack worked late Monday night and overslept. He didn’t see Danny Tuesday morning.
The following night, they shared a pizza in town. It was a rush job on Jack’s part. He had two days to finish grading the final projects. He drove Danny home and went back to his office. They didn’t talk much in the restaurant, and neither of them ate much. Jack had the feeling something was bothering Danny.
You asked him. He said no.
“It seems there’s something—”
“Nothing’s bothering me. Okay?”
“If there’s—”
“You worry too much.”
Jack worked all day Saturday.
You made him breakfast, which he didn’t eat, and Saturday night—
He didn’t see Danny Saturday night. He came home early but Danny was out with his friends and went straight to bed when he came in. No more than a few words mumbled as he climbed the stairs.
He seemed angry about something. Angry at you? Angry because of your work? You should have found out. You should have made the time to find out. You should have made the time to be with him…
The morning Danny killed himself—
You didn’t see him
that morning.
But he saw him the night before—
No, you only spoke to him on the phone.
Jack called Danny around six o’clock Wednesday evening. “I’ve got to skip our supper tonight, pardner. I’ve got to work late.” Danny didn’t sound disappointed, not exactly, but something in his voice made Jack say, “You know, once all this work is behind us, we’re going to have a terrific summer.”
“I know.”
When was something bothering him?
Jack leaned on the windowsill. The breeze brushed his face, dried leaves rustled against the porch.
When was something bothering him?
“…I thought he was angry at me…He was like all locked up inside…It was more like a feeling I had about him…”
When was something bothering him?
“…they’d cut school a few days before…Brian was talking to C.J. like he might have told his mom or something…Rick got on C.J., making him look real whipped…”
So they cut school and C.J. has a big mouth. What of it?…
Mary-Sue: “Danny was like in his own thoughts…real intense…”
Marty had said, “You see, Danny was the second boy to commit suicide in the past month. Less than that, really…”
Mary-Sue: “…real intense…all locked up inside…”
Marty: “…less than that…”
You asked Mary-Sue if Danny knew Lamar. She said no…
Marty: “…second boy in the past…”
Lamar was murdered…His baseball glove was in your basement…
Marty: “…about a week before Danny…”
Mary-Sue: “…I could just see that something was bothering…”
When was something bothering him?
“…Rick got on C.J…. …looked real whipped, like he just wanted to run away…”
“From what I hear,” Celeste said, “C.J.’s recovering too slowly…no appetite…severely depressed…”
Arthur said, “Rick had a very hard time of it…can’t stand being here.”
When was something bothering him?
“…It wasn’t like Danny to be so…he got really weird…locked up inside…real intense…something was bothering him…”
Light of Day Page 29