by Jeffrey Lent
Walter glanced now at the bottle of Jameson on the bench. A slow sweep of his head, a gesture intentional and planned. He said, “My, my. I had no idea I was such a pain in the ass. And sorry, bro, but Jessica’s your deal. I’m just helping her paint her car. No worries. We can move it to my place and do it there. If you recall, I’ve never lingered where I’m not wanted. And I see you’ve got your old buddy back. A much better fit, I’m sure. A load you can hump right along. Although of course it won’t be that long and the load will be humping you but hey, I’m not telling you anything you haven’t forgotten, right? You down with that bro? But what the fuck, why settle for that old shit? You can haul ass over to Rutland or White River and score top quality smack easy as pie now. Yup, all the high school kids are into that shit. So why not? Oh, that’s right. You don’t really want to pull down the veil. You just want heap big pain medicine. Hey, but who knows? Maybe this time’ll be different. Maybe this time you can suck down the booze and let it all out and it’ll be different because you’ll have a full-time audience. Maybe you can work yourself right down into such a sad needy pathetic little mess of a man that Jessica will get her own power back. Taking care of you. It’s what you need. Isn’t it? Somebody to take care of you. While you and John Jameson there waltz around the room, falling over furniture and giving yourself psychic black eyes. Or how bout this? Maybe seeing you do all that shit will give her the boost—roust her right out of here. I mean, listen man—you never saw yourself sucked down into the bottle but I have and I can tell you it’s ugly. And you can bet she’s seen it too. Yup, I’d bet a dime she’ll watch you maybe a week and decide there’s sunny skies somewhere, hell most anywhere but right here. No, no, I’m going. But tell me one thing man? I’m just curious. Just one thing.”
Hewitt was blazing, silent.
Walter leaned close without moving his feet. “How does it taste, man? As lovely as you remembered? Or better?”
Hewitt still had the tapered hammer in his hand although he’d forgotten it. But then it was there and he wanted to step forward and plant it in Walter’s forehead. At the last moment he backhanded it against the far wall and heard the thud even as he stepped hard and fast toward Walter who was still rocking back and forth. Hewitt drew back his fist and never even saw the mean uppercut that dropped him to the floor.
WHEN HE WOKE it was near dusk and the rain had quit. Outside his bedroom window was a patchy sky where light bled through so faint gold and blue colored the clouds, almost a winter sunset. His jaw a thumping lump and his whole head hurt. But there was no confusion except for having no idea how he got to the bed. He was in pain and humiliated, not for what had occurred but why. There was a bad moment when he turned his bruised face into the pillow wanting it all just to go away. But the weight of his head against the pillow was a red streak of pain and he rolled away, on to his back.
Goddamn, he thought. Walter clocked me.
He was some time getting upright from the bed. Still dressed, thank those who had no desire or inclination to remove his clothes. He held on to a bedpost with one hand as he sought balance against the swimming of his head. As if his brain had come undone and was sloshing side to side within his cranium. And then saw the tall glass of water on the bedside table and three aspirin in a neat row. Enough to make a better man weep but for this man at the moment just what he needed. He went to the bathroom to, as old ladies liked to say, freshen up.
Out in the hall it was very quiet. There was no inkling of anyone else in the house. Perhaps he was alone. A prospect both earned and dreaded but yet, if it came to that, so be it. He’d lived alone a long time. As he inched his way down the stairs he thought Phantoms come and phantoms go.
Jessica lay on the couch. On her back, eyes closed. In long loose shorts that just covered her kneecaps, the shorts with military-style pockets on the front and sides. Above the shorts she was layered. He walked quietly close and saw a white T-shirt under a drooping V-neck sweatshirt with an unbuttoned flannel shirt over that. She was barefoot but other than her dirty soles she was as hidden as a person could be and still walk around. And he knew she’d worn this all day, perhaps the day before as well.
It was a strange moment. He leaned close enough so he could feel her breath against his cheek. He knew these were probably her preferred clothes, put on as soon as he left; what Walter saw. And standing over her his pain ebbed. It was illumination—this woman trusted him. For the moment he wasn’t interested in any Whys. It was enough to know she did. And she slept. He straightened and looked at his reflection in the window above the couch. Somebody there wavered and pitched about in the glass.
In the kitchen he removed the jack from the phone. The number of new messages disappeared like a magic trick. He filled a quart jar with fresh water and went back to the living room. He sat in the old wingback chair across from the couch and slowly drank the water. The house was quiet enough so he heard the in and out of Jessica breathing as she slept. Twice the cistern pump in the basement kicked on and ran.
The dark was gaining and he went quietly through the house and turned on a few lights. Back in the living room the small lamp of the sort used to illuminate paintings he’d installed over the stereo rack and wall of shelved music—the perfect light to attend to an evening of music while the room itself spread soft from the slight overflow. He considered a drink but decided against it. He was feeling toxic and oddly at peace. Still he felt strange sitting in the barely lit room with Jessica sleeping on the couch—he didn’t want her to wake and see him just sitting there. He was comforted by her presence and had a vivid fear of being mistakenly viewed as predatory, or any lesser degree of how she might consider his silent watching. The only thing for it was music but even the selection held enormous weight. Most simply not to wake her. He went down on his knees and quickly found his father’s old vinyl recording of Borodin’s String Quartet no. 2 in D major. Then went through the ritual of cleaning the turntable and cleaning both sides of the album, turning the volume low and placing the heavy disc on the table and slowly settling the needle down. There was only the faintest hiss and then the old near forgotten slow beautiful music tempered the room and softened it even further.
Hewitt thought it was the first good choice he’d made in a couple of days.
When it ended Hewitt rose and lifted the arm and placed it back in its cradle. He paused then, considering what came next.
Jessica spoke, just loud enough for him to hear. “That was nice. How you doing, Hewitt?”
He hesitated and flipped the album over and set the needle down in the outer groove. Still Borodin. String Quartet no. 1 in A major. Only when the music began did he turn.
She’d come up so she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her arms loose, hands hidden in the fold of clothes in her lap. He didn’t bother answering her, guessing she knew as much as she needed.
After a bit Jessica said, “Walter feels awful bad about slugging you.”
“I know he does.”
“He said it’s the first time he hurt anybody in years and years.”
“I believe that too.”
They were quiet again. The flowing counterpoint of violins, violas, cellos and bass around them, as if emanating from the room itself, the walls and floor and ceiling.
Again Jessica broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said.
And in her tone Hewitt knew she meant everything.
So he said, “Thanks.” Then, not for pity but to clarify, he said, “I made a damn fool of myself.”
She smiled, “I sorta figured that out. There’s worse things a person can do.”
“I guess. I’m not feeling so good about it right now.”
She said, “All of feeble life recedes until there is but dust and air and the song of the morning bird.”
“What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know. Something I learned in school. Some old poet or something. But it’s true.”
“I guess. It’s nice to think so.” Then
because he couldn’t bear to go further this evening he said, “So you and Walter got along?”
She shrugged. “He’s strange but nice. He hasn’t hit on me.”
Hewitt noted this and then realized it was none of his business. He said, “What’s the deal with the Bug? You get tired of the old paint job?”
She was matter of fact. “He convinced me it was foolish driving a car that screams Look at me, especially the way I live. And when I balked, I mean nobody but nobody can say shit like that to me and not get flipped off, he went into this smooth little bit about the car itself and pointing out to me all the things about it that made it different from newer Beetles and man he had it down, he knew his shit and the next thing he was down on his back with a penknife and scraped away just enough paint so he could stand up and tell me things I didn’t know. The car originally had been this creamy mint green but it was a rare color only used for a few years and then he went off about how there wasn’t a speck of rust on the whole thing and we should repaint it that old color and he’d even go out and find the whitewall tires that would match it. He said he didn’t want or expect anything in return except the chance to turn that car back into what it deserved to be. Hewitt, I got thinking about my grandmother and how she’d feel about the car, both how it looks right now and how it’d be when we were done and that was pretty much that. Truth is I thought we’d have it done by the time you got back.”
Hewitt had to grin. Which hurt. So he said, “Well, I’m gonna have to threaten to shoot him next time he shows up, just for my pride. And he’ll probably take my side-by-side out of my hands and crack me over the head. No, it won’t bother me. You two go on and paint your car. I’ve got plenty of work to keep myself busy anyway. When he’s done you won’t believe your eyes. It’ll look like the day your grandmother bought it off the lot. And now I’m going to bed because I couldn’t even tell you what day of the week it is which is usually fine but I’m run over and used up and have offended more people than I care to think about. Including myself. So I’m going to bed.”
And he stood and looked at her a long moment and she looked back at him and he dearly wanted to step to the couch and hug her but his reasons were selfish—he wanted to know that someone in this world cared for him. So he wavered a bit side to side and said, “I expect I’ll be up early.”
She pulled her shoulders a little tighter together, gathering herself. “Hewitt? You and Walter, you going to be okay?”
“I expect so. We go back a ways. He was just pissed because I’d done something stupid and compounded it by doing something else just as stupid.”
She nodded, very serious. “It’s not my business what you do. You do what you have to, you hear?”
“You know, Jessica? Sometimes you have to crawl back where you once were and get inside it all over again to make sure it’s no place you want to be.”
“I seen that myself.”
“Walter’s a good shit. He didn’t change my mind so much as sharpen my focus. That’s all.”
“You read any of that book he’s writing?”
Hewitt blinked and said, “Which book is that?”
She didn’t miss the blink. “I thought you knew. Well, he didn’t let me read any of it, either. But it’s boxes and boxes of paper. He says it’s every strange thing he knows about, every strange story he’s ever heard. All the way back to some history that doesn’t exist. Or maybe does, I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You think he’s going to try and get it published?”
“He says that’d be the last thing he wants.”
Hewitt nodded. “Sounds right. All right, girl, I’m off to catch up on two three days of sleep.”
“Good night, Hewitt.”
“Good night, Jessica.” He turned away toward the hall and the stairs. She called after him. “Sleep tight.”
He glanced back, still walking, mere degrees from a stumbling shuffle of exhaustion. And said, “You too, sweetie. You too.”
UP EARLY, THE sun streaming over the hills into a sky near startling for its clarity. Sometimes, he thought, a good clout to the jaw lets you be surprised by the world. While the coffee was making he walked out to the forge and pumped up the fire and took stock. The third egg was ready for its final hammerwork. Then the fourth and after that the finish work and, for this job, for the delicacy of touch he wanted and also the strength needed, the final spot-weld with the oxyacetylene torch. Hewitt preferred the challenge of forge welding but the size of the gates along with his determination that the eggs appear to be simply resting atop the gate ends, made the torch inevitable. Then what remained was gentle warming of the gates, section by section and applying coats of linseed oil. This would take days. Most smiths were content with three coats, perhaps for a fixture like this that would be outside, four. Hewitt worked with a minimum of six and these gates would likely get eight. The initial difference in appearance between three coats and eight would not be apparent to near anyone. But Hewitt knew however much he insisted on the importance of yearly tending with steel wool and on a hot summer day a new coat of the oil, the owner would almost certainly neglect this. Until the iron had lost the accretion of the oil and slowly began to gain the mottled patina of rust. Hewitt knew his clientele and so one day, four or five years down the road they would come to a stop and notice their extraordinarily expensive ironwork was rusted and like as not spend an afternoon with a half-dozen cans of flat black spray paint, or, if the work was lucky, they might instruct their caretaker to wire-brush it before painting it. The linseed oil would not be a distant memory but something forgotten altogether.
The fire was up enough in the forge so he could leave it while he had his coffee. Maybe a small breakfast of toast and juice. Last minute he grabbed up the bottle of whisky and carried it with him. Up the stairs back into the day. Glorious day. A day for symphonies.
Back in the silent house he poured a cup of coffee. He was starting to think about bacon and eggs. He felt hollow, as if he’d not eaten in days and started bacon over low heat and worked at his coffee, then without pause poured the rest of the whisky down the sink drain and tossed the bottle into the trash. As he moved back toward the stove he noticed the phone unplugged from the night before and smiled without humor. He crawled under the table to retrieve the dropped cord and plugged it into the back of the answering machine which lit up with a solemn blinking zero.
He went back to the stove and poured another cup of coffee, fussed with the bacon with a fork but the heat was so low the meat wasn’t ready to turn. That was fine. He drank his coffee. He was feeling pretty good. Even the lump in his jaw was almost gone. He thought he’d have to tell Walter it wasn’t much of a punch. And smiled, thinking this.
The phone rang. As far as Hewitt was concerned the day was well advanced. The coffee was working and he had a solid plan for the next few days and the sizzle of bacon starting to rise in the room. So he stepped over and picked up the phone. “Good morning,” his voice rolling and thoughtless. His mind was on eggs. Fried or scrambled.
“You went home.”
He drew a breath.
She said, “You showed up at my door without even the decency of a warning. And I told you everything. It wasn’t a conscious choice. I couldn’t stand holding it in anymore. And for the shortest of moments you felt safe. But you weren’t safe, not at all. You bastard.”
“Emily—”
“A stronger man could’ve allowed me that opening. And understood it. If I was religious I could’ve gone to the Lutheran minister but I’m not. My only other option is to travel to Rochester and see a therapist but to pull that off long enough to do any good would involve more lies. And I’m sick of lies right now. Then there you were and you felt safe. Are you listening, Hewitt? You felt safe. And I unloaded, the nasty story hidden behind the destruction of my life. And what did you do? Were you a stand-up guy? Did you realize I didn’t want advice or somebody who knows nothing about children telling me how to deal with them?
Did it occur to you I simply needed to get the words out from poisoning my brain? Not for an answer but just to get them out. Because maybe, just maybe, by doing that I could begin to begin to work forward through this?”
“Emily, I—”
“Can you even begin to imagine what it was like standing there in my house which feels one minute like it’s smothering me and the next like it’s the only place I can hide although every time I turn around an entire life that was vibrant and full and everything a life should be is gone and will never be again? Not just my life Hewitt. But the life of the man I expected to grow old with, watching our children grow up and go out and make their own lives and have them come home married with children of their own. Can you understand that? And then you, goddamn it, you stood in my kitchen and confessed your own sad little dreamworld. Your undying love for me? Who the fuck do you think you are? You bastard. And then, and then,” she was gulping air, “on your way out you were nasty to my son who came in as soon as you left and found me sitting on the goddamn floor weeping. Do you know why I was crying, Hewitt? Do you really want to know?”
Now she was quiet. Waiting. Because he knew she was not done and she was exacting this from him. There was no choice.
Simply he said, “Yes.”
“Because, because,” and she was crying now. “Because until you showed up I was all fucked-up, my life pulled inside out, but I was either tromping onward or doing my best imitation of it. But then there you were. Spitting and sputtering about your life and I stood there and thought This is too fucking much, the universe or God are truly ganged up to break me. And I broke. I just collapsed. And there’s my poor little boy kneeling beside me and stroking my back and telling me over and over that it would be okay. You bastard. What business did you have? What in the world made you think you had the right to come to me? And spill out your shit on top of me? We’re all grown up now, Hewitt. Aren’t we?”