The Tragic Age

by Stephen Metcalfe

  “I wish you’d let Miss Barber handle it,” I finally say. “I really think she knows what she’s doing.”

  It’s what we do. It’s easy, it takes them off the hook, and it’s something they can both agree on without fighting.

  Question.

  Does loving someone give you permission to be furious with them? Or are you furious with them because you’re no longer in love?

  52

  High School Highville South is a beach community of college students and young families, also old surf vagabonds who spend the mornings sitting in front of Denny’s and the afternoons getting stoned or drunk and sleeping on the beach. There are bars and inexpensive restaurants and bike and surf shops and clothing stores. There are a lot of modest houses, condos, and apartment buildings. Miss Barber lives in a nondescript building about a half mile from the ocean. Ephraim has found the address by accessing the school’s private directory.

  It’s a Friday. I’m skipping school.

  When the young guy carrying a surfboard comes out of the apartment building and trots across the lawn, I move out from between the two cars where I’ve been waiting. I get to the security door just before it closes and I grab it. There is a wall of anonymous-looking mailboxes just outside the door, very much like the ones at Mailboxes and More. There’s a panel of call buttons. Anne Barber is in 3B. I press the call button. I know Miss Barber isn’t in, but I want to make sure no one else is. I ring several times. There’s no answer. I go in, shutting the security door behind me.

  I take the stairs. I don’t want to chance getting stuck with anyone on the elevator. When I get to 3B, I take out the EZ Snap Lock Pick Gun, insert the pick and pull the trigger twice. I open the door and I’m in.

  The apartment is nothing special. It’s neat. It’s clean. You get the feeling Miss Barber hasn’t been here long and doesn’t plan on staying forever. There is a kitchen to the right as I enter. There is a toaster, a blender, and a Krups coffeemaker on the counter. There’s sparkling water and nonfat yogurt in the fridge. There’s an adjacent dining area to the left with a sideboard, a small table, and four chairs. On the table are place mats and two inexpensive candlesticks. The candles are burned down. There’s an open bottle of red wine—Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s—on the sideboard. Though he probably couldn’t tell the difference in a blind tasting, Dad would not approve.

  There’s an alcove. It’s the workspace of a teacher. A small desk. An office chair. A PC. Books and papers. Diplomas on the wall. Miss Barber has graduated from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. She’s gotten a graduate degree in education from UC Santa Barbara. There are a couple of sports pennants on the wall. Wisconsin’s school mascot is the badger. A badger is a vicious, short-legged weasel. SCSB’s mascot is the gaucho. A gaucho is an Argentinean cowboy. An Argentinean cowboy has as much to do with the history of California as a kumquat. I have no idea what weasels have to do with the history of Wisconsin.

  The living room has a couch, an apple-crate coffee table, an overstuffed chair and rug. The couch faces a wide-screen TV. There is a Blu-ray player beneath the TV. There are shelves lined with DVDs. Miss Barber is a movie buff. There is an iPod dock that connects to an AV system. The living room opens out onto a tiny deck where Miss Barber keeps a plant and a small barbecue. I pull the curtains.

  In the bedroom, the queen-sized mattress is on a metal frame with a curved headboard. The duvet and pillow covers are pale blue. There’s a patterned quilt at the foot of the bed.

  It beckons to me. When I close my eyes to resist, I grow dizzy. How long has it been since I slept for more than an hour at a time?

  I have no idea where to begin. I have no idea what I’m looking for. I decide to look at memories.

  Miss Barber doesn’t keep actual photographs. The albums I’ve found and studied in most houses are kept by predigital people brought up on twenty-four-shot film that they had to have developed. Their photos are in frames or albums or falling out of boxes in the closet.

  I find Miss Barber’s memories on her computer. I run a slide show of Miss Barber, her family and friends. They are in turn casual, festive, formal. The people in the photos are being silly, are smiling, making faces, are pretty, are dressed up, are wet. I up the speed of the slide show. Miss Barber’s family reminds me of Gretchen’s. Miss Barber has nice-looking parents. The kind they grow in Wisconsin. She has an older sister and a brother. Miss Barber was a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding. It looks like she might have caught the bouquet. I go to Hawaii with Miss Barber and some girlfriends. Tan, smiling, young women in bathing suits hold fruit drinks. They wear flowered leis around their necks. Miss Barber looks good in a bikini top and a grass skirt. Miss Barber and one of her friends go backpacking in what looks like the Yosemite Valley. Miss Barber goes to a Halloween party dressed as a freckled-face baseball player, eye black across her cheeks, her hat tipped sideways. She and her friends are a team. I check the photos to see if Dad is at the party dressed as Abraham Lincoln.

  I’m getting nowhere.

  I abandon the PC and go through dresser drawers and closets. Besides the usual jeans and slacks and shoes and shirts and skirts, I find Lycra shorts, sports bras, and any number of pairs of running shoes. On the dresser is a single framed photo of Miss Barber and the Yosemite friend with racing bibs on. They are smiling with exhaustion and are slick with sweat. Miss Barber is a triathlete.

  Maybe Gretchen will be, too, someday.

  I go through the medicine cabinet. There’s not even ibuprofen. I go through the mail. I go through old bills and bank statements. Miss Barber has no debt on her credit card. She has a little over eighteen thousand dollars in her savings.

  I go through the DVDs. Miss Barber has eclectic tastes. Room With a View. Boys Don’t Cry. Singing in the Rain. Zero Dark Thirty. It’s when I find the Disney movies that I stop, abruptly sickened by what I’m doing. Cinderella. Snow White. Bambi. Robin Hood. Aladdin. The Little Mermaid. Finding Nemo. Toy Story.

  All Dorie’s favorites.

  Dumbo. The little elephant with big ears. The little elephant who flies. Mrs. Jumbo trumpets for her child, only to be imprisoned in a railroad car. Dumbo comes to her in the rain, her trunk snakes out between the prison bars and entwines with his. Dumbo rubs his cheek against it and takes comfort.

  This is all on Miss Barber. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be doing this, looking for an advantage, trying to find a leg up, just in general a pathetic dick.

  I almost hit the ceiling as, like a sudden air raid alert, the phone rings. I stare at it, my heart pounding. It rings again. Another ring. Another. They seem to go on forever. The machine finally takes the call and I hear Miss Barber’s voice.

  “Hi, this is Annie. You know the drill. Have a great day.”

  It’s a woman’s voice. It’s trembling.

  “Annie, it’s Joan. I’d call your cell but…”

  She hesitates and then it comes out in a sudden rush.

  “I’m afraid you’ll answer and I’d have to talk and you’re not there right now, you’re working, and so I…”

  The woman’s voice cracks.

  “Annie, I know I told you I was leaving Paul but…”

  It breaks again.

  “I can’t. I keep trying to tell him. I mean, I think of you and I get to the door … but then … I keep going back.”

  The photos I merely glanced at now fill my head. Vacations with girlfriends. Women in bathing suits and racing bibs. Baseball player costumes. A friend who isn’t just a friend but is now a voice on an answering machine trying not to cry.

  The voice moans.

  “I’m not strong like you, Annie … I want my marriage. I want a baby. I want to be like other people.”

  There are no words for what seems like a long time. Just a human being crying, mumbling, and choking on despair.

  “… please understand. And maybe forgive me,” the voice finally says. “But please … don’t call. I can’t talk to you
anymore. I love you so much and it’s too hard.”

  The voice hesitates as if the person it belongs to has a noose around her neck and is ready to kick the chair over. And then she does.

  “Bye.”

  The voice hangs up. I cross the room to the answering machine. Its light blinks. Evidence of a call. I can leave now. What could I ever do that hasn’t just been done?

  I reach out and I erase the message.

  The following Wednesday afternoon I pass Miss Barber in the hall between classes. She’s been absent since the beginning of the week. Her face is strained. There are shadows under her eyes. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t see anyone.

  The subject of the school-appointed psychologist doesn’t come up again. Miss Barber obviously has a lot on her mind.

  53

  Three.

  Three is the numeric quality of inevitable events. I, you, and we express all the possible relationships of man, while thought, word, and deed define his actions. Jesus and two thieves were crucified together. In the trenches of World War I, the third soldier to light a cigarette from the same match was considered unlucky because a sniper might see the first light, take aim on the second and fire on the third. When drowning swimmers go under for the third time they don’t come up. Three strikes you’re out.

  54

  One.

  It’s a Monday and High School High is letting out for the day. Deliza’s Mercedes is parked at the curb. I haven’t seen much of Twom lately. I’m spending all my time with Gretchen and he’s always with Deliza. But today Deliza has some errand she has to go do with her mother and so Twom and I are planning on hanging out.

  Gretchen and I sit on a low wall, saying good-bye. It’s taking a long time and is very enjoyable.

  Deliza is in the front seat of the Mercedes and Twom is standing in the street, leaning in the driver’s-side window. They murmur to one another, they kiss. It would be embarrassing except Gretchen and I are doing the same stupid thing.

  I first hear and then, looking up, see the car approach down the hill. I immediately know who it is. Kids on the sidewalk jump back as the Boxster abruptly brakes, swerves in close to the Mercedes, and stops just before hitting Twom. The top is down. John Montebello leans on the horn.

  Fact.

  Apprehension is the feeling or anticipation that something bad or evil is going to happen.

  “Hey! Move it, Willard! The street is for cars, not retards,” yells Montebello. There are no cars coming from either direction. He could go around easily but he doesn’t. Twom slowly turns to face him. His eyes are like marbles.

  “Someone must have had brave pills for breakfast,” I hear Twom say.

  I see Montebello raise a pint of vodka. He grins, toasts Twom, and takes a quick hit. He glances over toward me. Gretchen is still beside me. I can feel the sudden tension in her.

  “Hey, pie face, you tapping that cooze? I sure did.”

  I quickly look at Gretchen. I see by her shocked expression that Montebello is telling the truth. I’m on my feet in an instant, across the walk, off the curb, and into the open car. I’m swinging wildly. I’m an insane man. Nose cartilage cracks. I break teeth. I draw blood.

  “Take it back! Take it back!”

  I don’t do anything.

  I sit there, hardly breathing, feeling hollow inside. Billy Kinsey. The Stained Knight. Too meek to protect the meek.

  Twom is not.

  I see him turn away from Deliza. I see him leap up onto the hood of the Boxster convertible. He does it like it’s easy, does it like he’s weightless. He isn’t. The hood of the small car buckles under his heavy boots. Twom stares down through the windshield at John Montebello.

  Kids are gathering on the sidewalk to watch.

  “Say something else,” I hear Twom say. “Go on. Anything. I’ll stick that bottle down your throat.”

  Montebello’s teeth are clenched, his jaw is trembling. “Try it and I’ll sue your ass,” says Montebello.

  “And I will kill you.” Twom actually snarls as he says it. “I will come to your house in the middle of the night and I will murder you in your sleep.” He says it, and the way he says it, makes everyone—everyone—know he will do it and not care about the consequences. Montebello has everything to lose. Twom has nothing.

  “Apologize,” Twom says.

  Montebello looks startled. “What?”

  “I said, apologize to her!”

  Montebello shakes his head, trying to look amused, trying to act as if Twom is some poor shithead who can’t take a joke. He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Hey!” Montebello calls out. “Gretch, I’m sorry! Just fooling around, y’know?”

  Gretchen is staring down at the sidewalk. It’s hard to say if she’s heard him or not. Deliza answers for her.

  “Go fuck a dog, you pale piece of shit.”

  Someone on the sidewalk laughs. Montebello’s head jerks as if he’s been slapped. He turns to see who it is.

  “Now him,” says Twom.

  “What?”

  “Billy too.”

  I don’t want him to. I pray to God he won’t.

  “Do it!” shouts Twom.

  “Kinsey!” calls John Montebello. “Sorry, dude, I’m just messin’ with you. We’re buds, right?”

  Under the cheap actor’s makeup that has fooled me into thinking I’m like other people, the hemangioma feels like a bleeding, black scab.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I really say that.

  “I see you again—” says Twom. He doesn’t finish the sentence. He hawks, leans forward, and spits on the windshield of Montebello’s car.

  Someone on the sidewalk laughs again. Others join in. The sound is of hens cackling. Montebello inhales it like smoke.

  It happens so fast.

  Twom turns on the hood of the car and jumps down. As his feet touch the ground, Montebello pops the clutch and hits the gas. Deliza screams as the front bumper of the car strikes Twom above the knees and sends him sprawling back up onto the hood and headfirst into the windshield. As the car accelerates, Twom rolls off to the side and falls into the street, landing on his head, back, and shoulders. The car stops. Montebello looks back as if stunned at what he’s done. Twom isn’t moving. Deliza is still screaming as she gets out of the Mercedes. As Montebello drives away, she runs down the street to Twom. She kneels at his side, prodding at him, begging him to get up, wailing.

  I can’t seem to move. Like all the other students at High School High I just stand and watch.

  It takes a teacher to call 911.

  55

  I was in a hospital waiting room, waiting to go see Dorie when Dad came out, sat down and quietly told me she was dead. It wasn’t even the leukemia. Dorie died of sepsis.

  Fact.

  Sepsis is when your blood is overwhelmed by bacteria and germs and your body breaks down one organ at a time.

  Sidebar.

  It was the hospital that killed Dorie.

  And now it’s after school the next day and I’m sitting in the same horrible waiting room with Ephraim. The room is still small, the furniture is still uncomfortable, and the magazines are still torn, tattered, and so out of date, the celebrities on the covers are no longer in the public Zeitgeist. High on the adjacent wall, on a flat-screen TV, ESPN sportscasters are arguing about hockey. No one has the energy to find the remote clicker that will turn it off.

  The room still smells of worry and death.

  All night long, in text messages, e-mails, and phone calls, High School Highville has been buzzing with what happened. Truth might be stranger than fiction but it’s not nearly so breathless. It was a gang hit involving drugs, sex, and the Mexican mafia, and for her own protection, Deliza Baraza has been taken to a monastery in Monterey by her father. A third of the student body, approximately four hundred people, was actually there and they are all now in the Federal Witness Protection Program. A number of innocent bystanders, including an infant and a janitor, have been taken into custo
dy for questioning. Cell phone footage of Twom lying in the street has been uploaded to YouTube and the ever infatuated Ophelia is organizing a nationwide candlelight vigil for him a week from Thursday.

  When your life is shaped and influenced by the unreality that is TV and movies, you make life unreal.

  On the real front, Gretchen didn’t come to school today.

  Ephraim sits near me, looking as if someone ran over his pet rabbit. It was Ephraim who showed me the YouTube footage. On his iPhone. Twom, lying in the street, looks dead, and Deliza, crouched over him, looks like a woman whose family was in a mosque and it’s just been bombed.

  I’m nowhere to be seen.

  Ephraim and I both stand up as Twom’s grandmother comes into the waiting room. “So it’s you two,” she says. She looks more annoyed than anything else. It’s as if this whole thing is really a terrible imposition that she shouldn’t have to be dealing with, not when she could be out shopping for cigarettes, discount gin, and dog food. “Go on in if you want,” she says. “He’s awake.” She’s already reaching for her smokes as she hightails it down the hall.

  We find Twom in a room with two other patients. One of them is some unconscious old guy, his eyes closed, his mouth open in a slack-jawed O. It’s hard to tell whether he’s dead or sleeping. The second patient is moaning from behind a drawn curtain.

  “Mother, give me your hand…!”

  Twom is in a bed. He has an air cast on his left wrist. He has tubes in his right forearm. The side of his face looks like it was stuck in a Cuisinart. His eyes are closed.

  “Twom?”

  When Twom opens his eyes you can see that the sclera, the white part surrounding the iris, is stained with the bright red patches of hemorrhaged blood vessels. Twom tries to smile but fails miserably. “Whassup, dudes?” He lisps slightly because his front teeth are broken. I shrug as if him being in a hospital bed with a concussion and a lacerated spleen is no big deal.

  “Not much,” I say. “You?”