Leaving Allison

by Sedgwick, Grady

  Bob’s Grocery was open, so I stopped in, said hello to Bob and got a Tall Boy before walking down 21st Street past the Alabama bar. At the car wash, pink soap suds in the stalls had the intersection smelling like bubblegum. It was quiet, not much traffic. Standing at the car wash, drinking my beer, a prostitute came over and offered a ten-dollar blow-job. “Twenty-dollar job for ten,” she said.

  She had coarse dark hair, pock-marked skin and rough features. She stank like so many of the whores I’d been with before: heavy body odor, sex and cigarettes. She didn’t smell anything like Allison. If she had, I would have paid the money, closed my eyes and imagined it was Allie going down on me. Instead, I told the woman someone chopped it off.

  Crossing the street, I turned toward downtown and passed the county courthouse where Gilligan, a homeless black man, was rinsing his hands in the water fountain. After giving him a few dollars, I walked past the Martini Theater and tossed my empty beer can in the alley. At Whispers strip club, my friend Leon held the door open as customers stumbled out.

  “Should have come by earlier, Mr. Bookman, we closin’ now. Kandy back from Nashville, you know. Put on a good show, too. Leather chaps and white cowboy boots.”

  “She came back, huh? Tell her she owes me a drink.”

  “Ain’t it the truth, Bookman? We all come back to the Island.”

  I continued east on Mechanic Street, past the Seaman’s Center, Ford’s bar and the car museum. What would Kierkegaard do in this situation? He’d probably come up with something drastic.

  Peering through a broken window into the old Millworks factory, I finally had a clear thought, a plan of action to win her over. Not just an idea—a brilliant idea—and after only two and a half hours. Poor old Kierkegaard would have been pacing all night.

  The plan: POETRY! I’ll become obsessed with writing poetry to the exclusion of everything else. I’ll use metaphor and nuance and then shock her with brutal reality. When my muse is taking cover, I’ll drop a flower in her lap, apologize for being distant, and tell her that I love her. The poem will be a creative work of passion for all Mankind, but mostly, it will be for Allison.

  . . .

  Before getting out of bed in the morning, I thought some more about my plan and decided yes, it has potential. I drove to Houston and spent the afternoon at Empire Café sipping hot tea, reading and studying poetry. On the way back to Galveston, I stopped at her brother’s apartment.

  The complex was worn out and rundown. Someone’s broken Chevrolet was resting on jack-stands in the parking lot. Alex answered the door wearing a clean white t-shirt that was too tight. He had on black slacks and black penny loafers. His apartment was fixed up nice with antiques and oriental rugs. There were Japanese prints on the wall and a collection of petite lamps.

  “They’re decorative,” he told me.

  “What’s decorative?”

  “My lamps. Many of them are not functional.”

  When I recognized the porcelain cherub lamp he bought at the garage sale, I picked it up and remembered Allie in her camo tank top, the straw hat she wore and the way she shifted into third gear. I felt like being honest with Alex, admitting that I wouldn’t be able to make it without his sister. Instead, I put the lamp back on the shelf and told him what happened, told him what she said. “Alex, she called me a wounded freak.”

  We sat on his chesterfield sofa, honey-gold, he called the color. His cheeks were jowly but clean-shaven, his fingernails manicured, his short brown hair slicked down with scented gel.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Here’s a curious bit of information. When Allison was ten, our family moved to a new neighborhood with new neighbors, and shortly after, she began trailing our father around the house.”

  “What do you mean, following him?”

  “All this was before she developed her dispassionate world view.”

  “She followed your father?”

  “Yes, she did exactly that.”

  “It doesn’t sound that unusual to me. I probably did the same thing.”

  “It was certainly a peculiar habit,” he said and paused to lift his belt above a roll of fat drooping over his pants. “For example, she’d hang on to the back of Dad’s robe and shuffle behind him with her head down. My parents discussed the problem, and although inconvenient, they decided Allie would outgrow it, which she did. At the time, seeking the protection of her father seemed like a harmless, cute gesture. Later, I began to puzzle over the motivations behind it.”

  “The truth is, Alex, not being with Allison is difficult.”

  “These are sentiments I understand well.”

  “Are you sure? How could you understand?” I asked.

  “I am not gay, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “No, I’m not saying that, but she’s your sister.”

  “I know,” he said and sank into the sofa, his humpback more pronounced, his shoulders deflated. He let out a sigh, “I know she is beautiful.”

  It was getting late, and Alex seemed unable to add much to our conversation. On the coffee table, there was a silver tray with a crystal decanter of brandy. He leaned forward and filled two snifters, handing one to me before striking a match to light a candle.

  “I could prepare something for us to nibble on?” he said.

  “No thanks. I should go home.”

  “Stay for a while, if you don’t mind, and drink your brandy. I have a selection of pictures to share with you.” Alex went to the hall closet and returned with a photo album. He sat beside me on the sofa, the album resting in his lap, and flipped through the pages while narrating. “This one’s from my high school commencement. She’s wearing my graduation cap. I handed it over willingly after my defenses were crippled by a rather wet and silly kiss on the cheek. She was twelve.”

  He turned the page and pointed. “The Alamo.”

  “Where’s the rest of the family?” I asked.

  “You’ll notice in this picture, and others as well, we were brushed aside by a ten-year-old girl who insisted on being photographed alone. Listen to this frightening story. Later that night, when she and I were in a San Antonio hotel room laughing at a movie and sharing chocolates in bed, she started crying and refused to tell me why. She hid under the blankets and cried like she’d been exposed to the horrors of war. This was not normal crying, Mitch. It was soul moaning, unfamiliar and frightening. I considered waking our parents in the next room, but Allie told me not to. She said she’d be okay in a few minutes, and she was. The moaning tapered off then stopped. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said.”

  “This is too sad, Alex.”

  “Well if you’d rather I didn’t speak of her—”

  “No. That’s not what I said.”

  “Mitch, consider for a moment my limited information, then tell me how I mishandled it?”

  “I’m not saying you mishandled anything, and I’m not saying I know what happened. So turn the page.”

  “Why should I continue? Because I’m not sure that I want to.” Alex paused and sipped his brandy. “There are a number of photographs you haven’t seen.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, keep going.”

  He sighed as if discussing his sister had become a burden. “Here she is pretending to drive Father’s Mustang. Notice how at fourteen, if you only view her face and not her figure, she still resembles a twelve year old tomboy without the slightest hint of femininity. None of this is without design, I assure you. Allison has made a habit of hiding how attractive she is. To this day, she conceals her beauty with odd hats and boys’ clothing. I’ve seen her myself parading around her apartment in boys’ underwear and nothing else. I’m afraid this pattern of shame—”

  “Wait a minute, Alex. What do you mean by shame? Someone who’s ashamed of their body doesn’t walk around nude in front of her brother, or anyone else.”

  Alex considered my comment and said, “Have you observed this, this parading around in boy’s underwear?”
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  “Sure, I’ve seen it. Sometimes she doesn’t wear any underwear, so I don’t think shame fits.”

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s call it . . . oh damn, I don’t know what to call it now. Nevertheless, Allison attempts to obscure. I’m afraid one day this may manifest itself into defacing her skin with indecent tattoos and body piercings.”

  “Wait, flip back a page.” I told him. It was a picture of Allie when she was ten. She wore a white bikini and was stomping around their neighbor’s pool swinging a plastic pirate’s sword, her leg lifted and bent in mid-step. In the background, adults were fanning smoke at a barbecue grill.

  “You should know,” he said. “My sister holds a certain amount of animosity toward men.”

  I stood up to leave and told him flat out that it wasn’t her fault. “Men have let her down, including you!”

  “I’m fully aware of that. We don’t have to raise our voices.”

  “Are you really aware?”

  “Mitch, this is something I’ve agonized over.” He refilled our brandies and asked me to join him. “We are on the same side here.” He closed the photo album and placed it on the coffee table. A roll of fat drooped over the front of his pants again. He noticed it and straightened his spine attempting to suck in his stomach. For now, he was as close to Allison as I could get, so I sat back down.

  “Maybe I failed her?” I said.

  He sipped his brandy. “Whatever the case, we both know her life has a certain amount of sadness.”

  The day was about over, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the lace curtains. Alex placed his hand on the sofa between us, smoothing the honey-gold fabric.

  “Do you know if she reads poetry?” I asked.

  “Most of it, I recall her saying, is not worth her time. However, there was a conspicuous poem thumb-tacked to the wall in her teenage bedroom. She handwrote it on a sheet of lavender paper and illustrated the edges with black roses. ‘Lady Lazarus.’ . . . Whether or not she still identifies with it, I wouldn’t venture to guess.”

  The globe lights in the parking lot flickered on. I reclined against a cushion, gazed through the lace curtains and watched the sun dip behind a row of palm trees. Alex moved closer and put his hand between my legs. Outside the window, a lady stopped to search through her purse. I listened as she unlocked the apartment next door. Alex unbuttoned my pants, lowered my zipper and leaned his head into my lap. On the coffee table, there was a framed picture of a young girl standing alone at the Grand Canyon, her back to the camera. “Allison?” I asked, and closed my eyes.

  . . . . .

  Allie Fisher Fan Club

  Jack is thirty-five. He wants to connect with his daughter but feels awkward around her. They don’t share any common interest, and both are quickly bored with each other’s company. To make up for this, he occasionally surprises her with presents. She collects polished rocks and displays them on a shelf in her bedroom. Lately, though, Tracy is more interested in learning how to drive a car.

  Jack knocks on his daughter’s bedroom door. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

  Tracy thinks this game is silly. She’s too old for it, but nevertheless, is pleased with the attention. Jack opens her door and struggles to pick up a crystal rock the size of a basketball. He inches forward, adjusting his grip so he won’t drop it. “Don’t peek,” he grunts, positioning the crystal above her open hands. “Okay, open your eyes.”

  She takes a half step backwards surprised by the size of the crystal and amazed by its sparkle. “It looks like a giant diamond,” she says and reaches out to touch it. “Oh my gawd, Dad!”

  The next afternoon Jack McAllister is drunk. He’s teaching his daughter how to drive, shouting instructions at her, “Dammit, Tracy. Watch what you’re doing.” Tracy is upset and crying. She pulls into a parking lot wanting to explain but he won’t listen. He makes her switch places. “Driving like that,” he tells her, “you’ll never get a drivers’ license.”

  It’s nine-thirty at night and Tracy is in her parents’ bedroom telling her mom what happened. “If he’s going to be like that, I guess I’ll never drive again.”

  Mitch hears this and goes into the storage room to search for something. When he doesn’t find it, he sneaks out of the house and walks down the alley. At the end of the block, he sits in the grass against a telephone pole to wait.

  Tonight, like most nights, Jack is drinking at his favorite bar.

  Mitch strips a small sliver of wood from the side of the telephone pole and puts it in his mouth. It taste like creosote tar. He spits in the grass and wipes his tongue across his sleeve, smudging brown grease on his shirt.

  Mr. Delaney pull his car to the curb. His wife rolls her window down. “You okay, Mitch? It’s nearly ten o’clock at night.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Mitch tells her.

  “Would you like us to give you a ride home?”

  “No thanks.”

  Jack pays his tab and over-tips Sheryl, the bartender. On his way out, Sheryl offers a smile and tells him not to worry so much. “Be a little easier on yourself,” she says. “Teenage girls are a handful.”

  On his way home, a silver bracelet is what he decides. Tomorrow he’ll go see his jeweler friend, pick out something for Tracy and surprise her with it. After that, he’ll go confront his father, tell him he has to stop drinking. “Listen Dad, this is going too far. You have to dry out.” On Sunday, Jack will drive his father to the hospital in Galveston, Texas.

  “Sure we can’t give you a ride?” Mrs. Delaney asks again.

  “I’m waiting for my father,” Mitch tells her.

  When the Delaney’s drive off, he rolls up his jeans. Using a wood splinter, he scrapes the inside of his leg. The first few scrapes cause him to pause, take a deep breath. He continues though, waiting for the initial pain to change into something different. The first time he cut himself was in Beaumont, Texas. His teacher was standing at the blackboard, and not for any reason he could understand, he started working on his arm with a paperclip. This time it’s his leg, and when the blood leaks out, he smears it away from the wound. It relieves him. It makes him feel lighter, so that if he has to run, he’ll be able to run forever.

  Rolling his jeans down, Mitch rehearses what he’ll say. “Dad, you need listen to me. You need to stop drinking and start coming home early like you used to.”

  Jack drives past his alley without seeing it. Mitch jumps up waving his arms. Jack slams the brakes, reverses his car and leaps out. “What in the hell is going on?”

  Mitch is nervous, talking fast. “I searched the storage room and couldn’t find the tape for the telephone pole. Remember, you asked me to wrap reflector tape around it?”

  Jack grabs his son’s arm and jerks him toward the car. “Don’t you ever leave the house at this time of night again.”

  Mitch is sitting in the front seat, chewing the skin on his knuckles, waiting for courage. A row of red dots flash across his father’s CB radio. “Dad, did you know that on Sunday afternoon, Evel Knievel is going to jump Snake River Canyon? Are you going to be home, because I think you should see it?”

  “I won’t be here on Sunday,” Jack says.

  “Do you think everything will be okay?”

  Jack pulls into the garage, switches off his headlights and lets out a sigh. “I don’t know, Mitch. How could I know something like that?”

  “What I mean is, do you think he’ll make it without crashing?”

  “Probably not,” Jack says.

  . . .

  Dear Allie,

  I wanted to talk about David, but since you asked me to stop calling, I decided to write. We both know, David was in love with you, and although he wasn’t a complainer, he mentioned a few things that might help explain what happened. However, before we get into David, I’ll tell you about the self-help group I started. You may have heard of it. It’s called the ‘Allie Fisher Fan Club.’ I guess the name fits, but Rob (he’s still pissed at you) want
s us to be called ‘Victims of the Fisher Fuck.’

  We meet on Tuesday nights in a conference room at the Galveston Hospital. They provide coffee and expect us to donate a dollar to the jar. There were five of us at the first meeting: me, Chris, Paul, Rob, and David. At our second meeting eleven people showed up. Everyone was stunned. None of us realized there had been so many. Standing near the coffee maker, I watched two more guys enter and got nauseated. When Paul came over to say hello, I stuck my hand out to stop him. ‘Son-of-a-bitch, Paul. She’s making me sick,’ I told him.

  To tell you the truth, I really wasn’t that upset. By-the-way, do you remember Paul? He’s a big guy, twenty-eight or nine, with red hair. He said the two of you met at a concert on the beach and ended up at your apartment. Anyway, this is what I opened the meeting with:

  ‘Hello everyone, I’m Mitch, the founder of the Allie Fisher Fan Club. Most of us are a little shocked and disappointed to see so many people here. But we all know Allie is a free spirit, and she never misled or lied to any of us. (The guys grumbled a bit here.)’

  Do you remember Chris? He almost never leaves his apartment. I’ve been urging him to open up, share his story at one of our meetings, but Chris doesn’t care about recovery. I think the only reason he goes to meetings is to listen to people talk about you. Maybe you should call him, tell him you still care? A phone call at just the right time could make all the difference. Of course, that‘s up to you.

  Chris recently used his computer to print cards for the members. They actually turned out pretty good. There’s a picture of you in the center, and across the top it says ‘Official Member of the Allie Fisher Fan Club.’ On the back, there’s a place to write in the date you left. You dumped Rob and Chris on the same day. Rob in the morning, Chris at night. I wasn’t sure what date to write on mine. There was the night of the final breakup, but you drifted long before that, so I wrote Thanksgiving night, when you didn’t show up.

  About your tattoo, you never told me the story behind it. Actually, you hardly said anything about your past. I know you went to high school in Houston, wore Levi’s 501’s, and had the poem “Lady Lazarus” on the wall in your bedroom. (Your brother told me about the poem.) When you were fifteen, a thirty-year-old cop came on to you at a rave. When you were nineteen, you moved to Galveston Island and worked as a lifeguard for two summers, saving people from drowning. But like you told me on the pier, you’re out of that business.