Close Encounters

by Jen Michalski

  “Did your father leave you?” She decided to change the subject.

  “Yep. He drank a lot, had another woman on the side, and he used to beat me when he came home at night for next to nothing.” He yawned and looked at her, looking suddenly older, sinister, his cavernous mouth threatening to swallow her. “He was a big, fat liar. And you hated him for it, didn’t you?”

  Elise sat up straight in her chair. She told herself she was dreaming, even as she remembered suddenly the way her father would walk through the house, heavy, unbalanced, ready to pick a fight with whatever or whoever happened to be in his path. Elise married Adam because he wasn’t like her father, who was impressionable and weak and emotional. She picked up her cell phone and hit the redial button.

  Perhaps too unemotional. Adam, she meant. But she would not think these thoughts about Adam tonight, even as she was tired, even as he was next-to-impossible to reach during her three weeks in Tokyo, even when accounting for international time. She often had these thoughts around these times, times when she traveled long distances or worked long hours or felt the press of the week against her, those little thoughts that crept in and mocked, questioned, feared, angered. She turned and, to her disappointment, Shawn was still beside her, a living entity, as much as she tried to will him away.

  “Do you want a candy bar?” she asked him, offering a carefully folded dollar bill. “I saw a newsstand over in baggage claim.”

  “Naw—what if your husband shows up and needs help carrying all these bags?”

  “We’ll be fine. And he won’t come just yet. I can’t even get him to answer the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he’s sleeping.”

  “Maybe. You think I should get a cab?”

  “I don’t know, Elise. You’re the adult. I’m just a little kid.”

  “You’re right, and that’s why I need to find your parents—you can’t be here all by yourself.”

  “I’m with you, Elise.” He shrugged. “I already told you.”

  She sighed. She could rid herself of Shawn if only she didn’t have so much baggage. She could slip away into the ladies room or head to the bar and bide her time, ordering a drink to calm her nerves. She wondered whether he would make a scene, refuse to retreat, wait for her to be alone again, vulnerable, before attaching himself to her. She glanced sideways. He looked at her, unblinkingly, waiting for her to speak.

  She knew she was responsible for him. But until when? She couldn’t just leave him when Adam showed up, could she? His situation needed addressing; it would not go away because Adam showed up, showed up with a damn good excuse as to why he wasn’t at the airport to pick her up or take her phone calls. No, none of it would go away, the late hours, the flowers sent to work, the ones that smelled like guilt, the missed dinners, the folded bits of paper snatched from the night table, crumpled in pants pockets with cryptic numbers and dates. The things that seemed so obvious when they happened to other’s lives but were vague and mysterious when they happened in one’s own life.

  “She was half his age, almost,” Shawn said, running his finger alongside the gleaming edge of her suitcase. “What was he thinking? My mama said men ain’t no good. She said men are liars, jerks. You can’t trust any of them. Is that him?”

  “Who? Adam? Adam is nothing like your father,” Elise said sharply. “He would never have an affair, and certainly not with a younger woman. And I don’t think it’s any of your business. What kind of woman is your mother, talking to you about these kinds of things?”

  “Is that him over there?” Shawn pointed his finger toward a man in his fifties dressed in a cableknit sweater and chinos. “Is what I meant.”

  “No.” She averted her eyes downward. “That’s not him. He’s in a bit better shape—he’s a runner. But your mother, where is she now?”

  “I don’t know; where’s your husband?”

  “It doesn’t matter where my husband is! But it’s not what you’re thinking, I can tell you that. Adam and I have been married for fifteen years, twice your age, probably. He’s been very good to me. Don’t you think I would know if he were cheating on me? And my father was a good man as well. Besides, I can take care of myself. I’m not someone who needs pity. I’m sick to death of having this conversation with you, Shawn, really I am.” She stood up. “Come on. You’re going to help me with my bags because we’re going to the security office and we’re going to find whoever is responsible for you.”

  They walked silently through the terminal. The truth of it was, she hadn’t thought of her father in years. When she married Adam, she had closed the book on everything she had been taught, up to that point, about men and women. Adam was respectful and fair and kept his emotions to himself, and that had been a plus. Or maybe she had demanded it. She could not remember how the situation evolved over the years. These questions always seemed to pop up during these times, these odd hours—the whats and the hows of getting to this point, this situation, and along with it the hurts, the uncertainties, that she had managed to overlook.

  She cast a glance at Shawn, who struggled mightily with her larger carry-on, throwing the full weight of his body forward, even if his expression showed no indication of it. His placid face reminded her of her mother’s when Elise’s father was drunk at their parties, telling a whopper of a story—an outright lie—about some patent he had for carousing nuclear energy for automobiles, how Detroit was trying to steamroll him into dumping the project or selling it to them for a fraction of what it was worth. They’ve ruined my credit! he would insist as Elise’s mother calmly moved the whiskey decanter back to the bar. They’ll beat down an ordinary man so they can charge your hide when the oil stops pumping.

  At the sight of the security office ahead Elise cleared her thoughts.

  “Finally we’re going to resolve this,” she spoke to Shawn. “Please tell the security officers where your family is, OK?”

  “You’re my family,” Shawn protested. “You’re trying to get rid of me. I’ll tell them you said I was bad and that you are going to leave me here.”

  “That is most certainly untrue.” Elise glared at him. For all her help, for stopping to notice him, despite her reluctance, he was going to be difficult. “They can look through my bags and conclude there’s nothing of yours in them.”

  “You tried to leave me with my stuff in Tokyo, but I got on the plane.” Shawn looked up at Elise with tearful eyes and grabbed her hand. “Please don’t leave me here, Mommy. I’ll be good—I swear. I’ll tell them I live at 1028 Jonesbrook Way with you.”

  “And I’ll tell them you—you just read it off my luggage tags. It’s simple enough to do.” Elise moved away. “They’ll know right away you’re a con man.”

  “I’ll tell them your name is Elise, and my father’s name is Adam!” Shawn stamped his feet. “I live at 1028 Jonesbrook Way. I was in Tokyo with you while you were on business. Why are you trying to leave me, Mommy?”

  “Look—I’m finished with these games.” Elise shook her head and tucked her purse and laptop under her arm. “I just flew in from Tokyo; this situation must be rectified because I need to find my husband, and I need to get home.”

  She stopped before a ladies room and pondered going in, leaving Shawn with most of her luggage. If he wanted to rob her, if that was his intention—if that’s what filthy nine-year-old con men did, then she was prepared to let him walk away with her Dolce and Gabbana suits, her perfumes, her jewelry. She saw herself situated in a stall with her laptop and purse, feeling the rush of anger flush her cheeks. She had been robbed of other things, more valuable things. Her childhood taken by her draining, alcoholic father, who was always one patent away from repairing earlier disappointments. Her childbearing years lost as Adam had told her on several occasions that there was a history of schizophrenia in his family and he wanted to pass his genes no further. Her intimacy with other women robbed as her mother’s wall of protection left her imp
ervious to the damage Elise’s father wrought but unavailable to anyone else.

  She did not know what to do, perhaps wait until Adam came and let him straighten the whole mess out. Shawn would be apprehended, his identity laid-bare, and their lives again free of blemish. A mistake, they’d laugh. What a mistake! That had to happen, right? That’s the way it always happened. But what if it did not happen that way this time? What if Adam did not show up? What if she began to think about her father again? What was she going to do then?

  She suddenly understood this was not how the situation was to be handled this time. Shawn was still beside her, as indeed she knew he would be. She would not go to the security office. He was hers, Shawn was. He’d been with her all this time, these years; why deny it? And when Adam came, if Adam came, he would have to understand that Shawn was hers, at least for now, until they had straightened out the situation, yes, between the two of them. Between all of them.

  She looked down at where Shawn leaned against the wall in wait, their luggage protectively around him. He looked at her curiously behind tear-streaked cheeks as she held out her hand and motioned.

  “Come, honey,” she spoke, and he jumped up, eagerly busying himself with their things. “Your father’s not coming. We need to call a cab.”

  COMMENCEMENT SPEECH, WHITNEY HOUSTON, EAST SOUTHERN UNIVERSITY, JUNE 9, 2006

  THANK YA’LL FOR COMING to see me tonight. How are you doing? Let’s get this party stared, yeah! (Assistant whispers to Whitney) Oh, oh right. What college is this? East Southern University. Well hello, ESU. ESU, ESU (dances) Let me start by saying, I believe that children are our future…(hums)…lead the way/show them all the beauty they posses inside…shit it’s hot. (Wipes brow and drops fur coat to ground) Why you having this shit outside anyway? You never heard of air conditioning? Where’s Bobby? You know, I got to tell you a little secret. Just between you and me. (Leans over the podium) The demons are after Bobby. I try to protect him now, ‘cause he’s my man and you ain’t mess with my lair, my family. ‘Cause family is the most important thing in your life. You need to find a man that has your back, that will do anything for you, deal with your shit, literally, your black love. But what can I say (shakes head repeatedly) demons after him…but Bobby, baby, I just want you to know IIIIIIIIIIIIIII will always love yooooooooooouuuuu. (Assistant whispers to Whitney, points to note cards on podium) All right, right now, don’t you be bossing Whitney around. (Rummages through note cards) All right, who got my glasses? Shit. (Tosses cards into air.) No one needs to tell me how to live my life. I am Whitney Houston, baby. I can tell you all you need to know about being a success in life, ‘cause I’m a f*cking diva. You know, they say everybody searching for a hero/people need someone to look up to. Well, let me tell you—I never found anyone to fulfill my needs…so I learned to depend on me. You can’t depend on nobody but yourself. Everybody is out to get you. The tabloids, the demons, the bitch-ass at the Chinese place that always messes up my order. The only person I depend on to get through the day is God and Whitney. And you know what? We have the greatest love of all. Inside of me. If you have that, if I have that, they can’t take away our dignity! And let me tell you something else. You succeed in the world like I have, you don’t do cheap shit, OK Diane Sawyer? Crack is cheap. I make too much for me to ever smoke crack. Let’s get that straight, OK? We don’t do crack. We don’t do that. Crack is whack. Stay in school, I tell you. You got to stay in school. (Assistant whispers to Whitney) Right, right, right. OK, you out of school now. Well, use your education to be a lawyer or banker or teacher or something. I didn’t need no education. God gave me a voice to sing, and when you have that, what other gimmick is there? So find your strength in love, baby. Where’s Bobby? Who’s that in the front row—the demon with the robes on? Bobby, they coming for you! Get my gun out of the Lincoln, baby. (Knocks over podium, reveals pajama pants overtop a bathing suit.) Hold on, baby. God is on his way. He told me to hold on. He’s on his way. Where’s my pistol, god dammit?!?

  STATEMENT RELEASED BY WHITNEY HOUSTON ENTERPRISES, JUNE 10, 2006:

  Because of the hectic demands placed on her by her performance at the 2006 Olympics back in February, Ms. Houston has been suffering from severe exhaustion and regrets that any part of her commencement speech at East Southern University was taken out of context. Ms. Houston believes that education is the greatest priority a young mind should have, and she is proud of the young men and women at ESU who made a commitment to education and achieved it. She wishes all recent graduates much success in the workforce and hopes that her own perseverance and determination will serve as an inspiration to those who are in the midst of achieving their dreams.

  IN THE WAITING LINE

  THE COFFEE BURNS A HOLE right in my stomach, and I’m out of antacids. I know I shouldn’t drink it, but I’m supposed to see Patty at ten o’clock. She’s running behind, as the others have warned me, and there’s not much else to do here but wait and drink coffee. I bend over uncomfortably in my seat, studying the others who are waiting from the perspective of my knees. If they are in need of guidance, they surely don’t show it. In fact, they look bored or slightly inconvenienced by the whole process. The middle-aged woman with a set frown and smudged glasses is staring at the television that is mounted in the corner of the ceiling. She’s wearing a faded sweatshirt of an eagle with “Born Free” written underneath and a pair of teal sweatpants that ride up on her ankles. Every once and awhile, she barks at and smacks a teenage boy who frantically paces the office, picking a scab on his arm. The man by the magazine rack picks up each one and stares at the cover, although he shows no intention of reading them. There are a couple of young black guys in the corner who are having trouble getting reception for their cell phones. There is no reception here, at least not with their fellow brethren—they’ll figure that out soon enough.

  “Smoot.” Patty leans out of her office door. She’s slightly plump but attractive in an impish, pixie way. Her hazel eyes squint when she smiles and her pointed chin dimples. She reminds me of someone I’ve known or known of in my life, but I can’t put my finger on it. She’s wearing an oversized cardigan and a turtleneck and jeans, and I wonder how it is she got stuck here, of all places. She’s too nice, from our conversation on the phone to my view of her this morning, to be punished with the lot of us. I only hope that our meeting will be a pleasant treat for her.

  Smoot, a fiftyish man in the corner, stubs his cigarette and follows Patty into her office. His bare chest reveals a potpourri of tattoos, from dragons to aliens to geisha girls, and his skin hangs off his body, around his pecs and stomach, in large half circles, as if he lost a lot of weight quickly. I assume he’s been on the junk or something. Probably made a mistake or two out of stupidity or desperation. Will he be contrite enough to take the long path to redemption, as I have, or will he listen to Patty half-heartedly, take her advice with a grain of salt, and head back out into the wilderness, convinced there is a faster, easier way?

  It’s a long road to these offices. At least for me it was, anyway. Mostly, I was tired of trying my way. Sometimes it’s not failure, which implies that success is another option, the other side of the coin, but instead the exhaustion kills you. It’s the burning ember in my stomach that reminds me of every decision I’ve made in my life, decisions that, at one time, meant nothing to me but now, when viewed within the prism of contrition, nag at me to right things, to make peace with what was once my life. To make peace with myself.

  Smoot comes out a half hour later, nodding his head and talking with himself as he shuffles through the papers Patty has given him. Good intentions always are tripped up by paperwork, I’ve found. It’s hard enough to kill the actual demon, and then you’ve got to step over the red tape while doing it. I expected this place to be a little different, a little more religious dichotomy than bureaucratic gray scales, but maybe they had a little bit of an existentialist last laugh here, I don’t know.

  “You OK there, man?” I ask Smo
ot as he crosses the waiting room near me.

  “I got all these forms to fill out before they let me in the program,” he answers with exasperation, and I feel the snare already being set. I don’t know why I worry so much about others, particularly when it’s been hard enough to worry about myself, but I’ve seen guys like Smoot in the interspace, drifting back and forth, trying to get back to their lives for some sense of purpose. The most they’re usually able to muster is a ghost, a formless mass that lives on in the space they once occupied, sending a cold chill through the lives of the those who might live in their former apartments, trailers, bars, but not much else. Frankly, they’re not smart enough or deviant enough to pull off possessions or chaos and so they rest, dim stars on the astral plane while they expend just enough energy to know they are unhappy.

  “You don’t want to go back out there, man,” I say. “Come on, let’s take a look at what you have.”

  We sit at a table by the vending machines and look at his forms. One is a standard questionnaire, the kind you’d fill out for a job application, one is a form to take to the jury commissioner confirming that you are applying for People Entering Revelatory Guidance, Perg, as we call it, and that you are exempt from the interspace while participating in the program. One form asks questions about your treatment history, to be filed with the Treatment Department, although I’d suppose they’d know if you’d attempted Perg before. One questionnaire asks, for Census purposes, your preferred religion and how you learned about Perg. Perg, like their sponsor, The Pearly Gates of Enlightened Nirvana, advertise in all markets, but it’s nice to know from time to time which ones bring the highest return.