Each of the famous artists represented a break with previous conventions, were rebels with a cause, Picasso being the most obvious. I could relate to rebels.
I’d visited often enough to have developed favorites: Whistler’s Nocturne, Wood’s American Gothic, Georgia O’Keefe’s The Black Place. I wished I had someone I could share them with.
Eventually, I found myself standing in front of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, marveling—again—at how perfectly Albright captured the idea behind the story. If an artist harnesses aspects of his own soul in his work, what did the picture say about Albright? And what did my preferences say about my soul?
Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks held me the longest, embodying the loneliness I’d felt of late, the isolation.
I left wondering if Rhiann Fahey appreciated art, if I dared ask her to join me here some afternoon.
Jimmy
I spent Saturday with the Wildings—with my grandmother, really—Grandpa Wilding wasn’t ever all there even when he was in the room.
He was white-haired and thin as a skeleton. He was always in a suit, with a tie, but I bet he hadn’t dressed himself. He mostly stood like a lost sheep, or sat and stared straight ahead. When he talked, he didn’t make much sense; sometimes he seemed to be talking to ghosts. Later I found out that he had to have someone take care of him all the time, and usually that was Rosa.
Mrs. Wilding mostly talked about Billy. She called him “your dad.” I figured I didn’t need to tell her Mickey Fahey was my dad.
She had a big black Lincoln, old, but cherry. When I admired it, she handed me the key. “You may drive.”
Yikes!
We went around to the post office, a stationery store, and the Stop & Save, where she didn’t buy anything but she did give the manager a check. She introduced me to people by saying, “This is my grandson, James Wilding.”
I felt like telling her my name is Jimmy, but I didn’t. Something told me nobody ever told her she was wrong. And anyway, I figured I could use James Wilding as an alias if I ever had to take it on the lam.
Sunday morning, I woke early and lay in bed listening for sounds that somebody else was up. The house was quiet as a graveyard. Pretty soon, I got bored. I got up and dressed for church even though—judging by last Sunday—the Wildings wouldn’t be going to church until almost noon.
I could smell the coffee before I even got into the kitchen. Rosa must be working already.
I was really surprised to find Steve at the stove with an apron over his Sunday suit. “Where’s Rosa?”
“Sunday’s her day off.”
“Who—?”
“If I’m free, I come over and give your grandmother a hand. Otherwise your aunt Rachel or Liz comes over.
“Who’s Liz?”
“Bobby’s oldest kid.”
“What’s she like?”
“Oh, mean as a mongoose and ugly as sin.”
Just then, the oatmeal started boiling—all over the stove. Steve said, “Shit!” and forgot whatever else he was gonna say about my cousin Liz.
He turned out to be a pretty good cook. We ate in the kitchen—griddle cakes and eggs and bacon and juice and coffee. When we were done, Steve handed me the keys to Mrs. Wilding’s car. “After you wash the dishes, you can bring the car around front.”
“Who usually drives?”
“Me.”
“I thought you lost your license.”
“I got a special hardship license for Sundays.”
“Yeah, right.”
He held up his right hand. “Swear to God.” Then he picked up the tray he’d fixed for the Wildings and took it upstairs.
After the service, Mrs. Wilding showed me Billy’s grave and said, “I’ll leave you to visit. Your grandfather can’t be alone.”
I wondered how long I was supposed to stay there, with a dead guy I’d never met. I didn’t point out that my grandfather was with Steve.
The headstone was big:
WILLIAM O. WILDING 1952–1970
LOVING SON
BELOVED BROTHER
It didn’t say anything about husband or father. I’d have to ask Ma about that.
I was thinking I should go back and find the Wildings when I heard a stagey voice call out, “Jimmy. Jimmy Fahey.” Like a kid trying to sound like a grown-up.
I whirled around, half thinking it was a ghost. But whose? Would Billy Wilding know I went by Fahey?
Nah.
So odds were it wasn’t a ghost but a practical joker. Same problem. Who in Greenville would know me?
Then it said, “Jimmy,” again, and I located the source—a big hole at the bottom of a hollow tree. The tree was alive, a maple with lots of big old leaves, so you couldn’t see the upper branches.
I walked over to it and looked up.
And saw Beth! Very much alive, dressed for church. She was sitting on a branch next to the hole at the top of the hollow trunk, swinging her bare feet.
“You are one weird chick,” I told her, wondering if I’d get to see up her skirt.
In the deep shade, I couldn’t see her face, but her answer was clear enough. “Thanks a lot!”
“And if you’re not careful, that branch is gonna let go, and you’ll end up down here with the rest of the stiffs.”
She wrapped her skirt tight around her legs and stuck out her tongue.
“I was at the library Friday night,” I added. “You never showed.”
“My dad wouldn’t let me go out.”
“You were grounded?”
“My life is one long grounded.”
“What are you doing here anyway?”
“Taking a break from my family. How ’bout you?”
“Ditto.” It seemed like a weird thing for me to say, standing next to Billy’s grave, but it didn’t feel like he was family. And I didn’t feel like explaining Billy to Beth. Instead I said, “You come here every Sunday?”
She suddenly dropped down to hang upside down from the tree branch. Her skirt flew over her head, and her arms dangled. She had the kind of outfit under—now over—her skirt that the girls wear in gym class. And she had really nice legs.
She reached up and grabbed the branch with her hands, then swung down, landing on her feet.
“Gymnastics?” I asked.
“Yes.” She dusted off her hands. “And no. I don’t come here every Sunday, just when I’m not working.” She seemed kind of excited, like someone with good news or a neat secret.
It made me feel like I was in on something cool. “Where do you work?” I asked.
“At the Greenville Animal Hospital.”
“What do you do?”
“Help the doctor. Feed the animals and clean their cages. Let the dogs out for exercise and brush them. And like that. You work?”
“Yeah. At a car repair place.”
She nodded as if that figured. And I s’pose it did. I was a guy.
She started walking toward the church. I followed. She stopped in front of a really big statue of an angel marking one of the graves.
Except for its wings and long, old-timey skirt, the angel looked like a housewife. She was sitting on an overturned bucket with a broom across her lap and a garbage can lid leaning against her leg. On her lap, there was a real purse and a real pair of dressy shoes.
Beth picked them up and patted the statue’s knee.
“Someone you know?” I asked.
“Just some lady who died before I was born. But her angel doesn’t mind watching my stuff.”
I stared at the statue. “It doesn’t look that old.”
“The statue’s not. It’s only been here five or six years. Her family must’ve won the lottery or finally saved up enough for a really good marker.” She patted the angel’s knee again. “I mean, this isn’t some off-the-shelf stone from the local undertaker. It was carved by a famous artist.”
“You think?” I stepped closer. I didn’t really care about the statue but it seemed like a good excuse to get near Bet
h. She smelled great.
“I looked him up at the library.”
She suddenly looked around as if she’d heard someone coming. I did the same—no one but us in the whole graveyard. She relaxed a little, but said, “I’ve got to get back before they miss me.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“No. Thanks, but my dad’d kill me. And anyway, I’ve got to rinse my feet off before I put my shoes back on. Pick me up at work Friday, at six.”
She gave me a wicked smile. Then she disappeared through a little door in the back wall of the church.
Rhiann
Jimmy and I were having dinner together Monday night. He’d filled me in on his weekend—sort of—and school. I’d gone on too long about my office. As he helped himself to the last scrap of pot roast, he grinned and said, “Ma, you ever eat at the Eat Well diner?”
“I used to work there.”
“No shit! Doing what?”
“Waitressing.”
“You? A waitress?”
“What’s so incredible about that?”
“I’d think you woulda decked some rude dude and got fired.”
I laughed. “I was younger and less confident then. More forgiving. I met your dad at the diner.”
“Steve didn’t tell me that.”
“He probably didn’t know.”
“He talks like he knows everything about you.”
“Nobody knows everything about anyone.”
“Dad did.” He stopped suddenly, and shivered as if someone had stepped on his grave. Or as if he’d realized, again, that his father was gone forever. He backed away from the table and took his dishes to the sink. There was a loud silence as he rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher. Then he said, “I’m meeting Finn at the library.”
I gave him an is-that-so look.
“Really. He’s gonna explain the mysteries of geometry. I’m gonna show him how to change his girlfriend’s oil.”
“At the library?”
“At his house. After.” He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, reminding me again of how he was growing up.
“Be home by ten-thirty.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shook his head as he opened the door. “A waitress, huh?”
I sat there, recalling the first time I met Mickey.
February 1971. It was snowing and I was supposed to be home. Ma had jury duty and couldn’t watch Jimmy, so I’d called in sick.
“I don’t care if you’re dyin’,” Henry told me. Get in here.”
“I don’t have anyone to watch my kid.”
“So bring him with you. Doris fell and broke something. She’s at the hospital getting it looked at. Sara didn’t show an’ she’s not answerin’ her phone. Mary’s coughin’ up a lung. So I’m here all by myself.”
“Where’s Mike?”
“In Florida by now.”
“Shit!”
“Yeah. Get in here.”
I’d warmed up the car while I folded Jimmy’s playpen and stowed it in the trunk. Then I bundled Jimmy into the car seat.
At the Eat Well, I took Jimmy inside and shoved him at Henry so I could go back out for the playpen and diaper bag.
“Hey,” Henry yelled, startling Jimmy awake. “What’m I supposed to do…”
I was out the door; I didn’t hear the rest.
When I struggled back in with the baby gear, Henry was out of sight and Jimmy was screaming and kicking in the arms of a stranger who resembled a grizzly bear. He had a full beard and mustache, and unruly brown hair escaped from beneath his Elmer Fudd hat. He was six feet tall and looked as big as a linebacker in his winter coat and boots.
The man spotted me and was clearly relieved. “Let’s trade,” he said before I could comment on the situation.
I dropped the diaper bag and leaned the playpen against the nearest table. I couldn’t get my infant away from him fast enough, and my thanks wasn’t especially gracious. Jimmy stopped crying immediately. I started toward the back, where, presumably, Henry was hiding out.
“Ma’am,” the stranger called out.
I stopped, turned, looked him in the eye for the first time.
He seemed confused, concerned. He pointed at the playpen. “Where’d you want that set up?”
For a moment, I was speechless, the moment it took me to realize what he was asking and why. I looked around, decided on a quiet corner out of the traffic pattern, and pointed. “Over there.”
He mirrored my nod and started to cross the room.
“Wait,” I said.
He waited.
All I could think to say was “Thank you.” This time I meant it.
He responded with an amazing smile that I couldn’t help returning before I charged out of the room to tackle Henry.
John
I was coming home from Overlook one afternoon, passing the Catholic cemetery, when I noticed a raccoon curled like a fur-covered basketball—an ax-knot of pain—on the left margin of the road. There’re no ambulances for wildlife; no one picks up their tabs. Even the task of putting one out of its misery is problematic. You can’t shoot it at five P.M. on a residential street, and without a firearm, raccoons are not easy to kill. I thought about turning the Jeep around and finishing what the bastard had started who’d hit it. But I knew that wouldn’t work.
I’d tried, once, to finish off a squirrel left thrashing in agony on the road. I’d aimed my left front wheel at it. But even though I was dead-on when it came to flattening discarded cans, I couldn’t manage to touch the squirrel. I ended up stopping to end its misery with my tire iron.
I wasn’t going to try that with a raccoon—they were too much like dogs. I couldn’t beat a dog to death. So this time, I kept going. I called the police when I got home. I couldn’t think of anything else; I don’t own a gun. I doubted that the cops’d do anything, but I felt marginally better for having called. I got a beer from the fridge and went to drink it on the front porch.
I’m not sure what perverse impulse made me park my butt where I could see—through a break in the cemetery trees—the stretch of road where the raccoon lay breathing its last. Whatever it was let me see the sad denouement.
A familiar sheriff’s police car pulled onto the shoulder and Deputy Sinter got out. He looked around—presumably for witnesses—then pulled his service revolver and emptied it into a spot on the parkway below my field of vision.
Then he stood there, looking down at whatever he’d shot while he reloaded his gun.
Rhiann
“I’m sorry.” John had caught me crying again.
It was overcast and humid all day, with rain a possibility. I was sitting on my porch steps, wallowing in melancholy, when he pulled up after work. Getting out of his Jeep, he paused to say hello. He stood next to his car as if not sure what else to do.
“Not your fault,” I assured him.
He nodded and took his lunch box and a paper grocery bag from the vehicle. “You okay?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I felt I would never be okay again but—
“Stupid question,” he said. “Sorry.”
I shook my head. “I need to think of something else.”
“Not always possible, especially so soon.”
I gave him a little smile and changed the subject. “How’re you and Jimmy getting along?”
He put his lunch box on the Jeep’s hood. “He’s a great kid. Not afraid to work.”
Music to a mother’s ears.
John was still holding the paper bag. He shoved it at me. “Would you like a beer?”
I had to think about that. Not good. Time for some normalcy. “Sure.”
He took a six-pack of Leinenkugel bottles from the bag and opened one for me, opened another for himself. The bottles clouded with condensation. “Cheers.”
I held my bottle up and smiled. “Thank you.”
He didn’t ask for what. We sat taking in the cold beer and the warm evening. A red-winged blackbird sang. Bees buzzed among the peoni
es.
I felt a twinge of déjà vu. I used to sit just so with Mickey after work. I felt tears brimming.
John said, “You were married a long time?” Was he psychic?
I wiped my eyes with my palm. “Fifteen years.”
He nodded and took another sip. He didn’t offer platitudes, just quiet company—the way Mickey had sometimes.
When our bottles were empty, he said, “Another?”
“No. Thanks.”
He put the empties in the holder and put it back in the bag. He picked up his lunch box. His “good evening” sounded sad, I thought. He walked slowly to his house, like a much older man.
Another wave of déjà vu jolted me as I remembered…
“Who’s the new guy?” Doris tried to wipe the sweat from her forehead, hit it with the cast on her wrist, and muttered, “Damn it!”
I looked towards where she was facing, at the new customer in the back booth. The man who’d set up Jimmy’s playpen the day before. “I don’t know his name, but he’s nice.”
Doris shook her head. “He’s got the thousand-yard stare.”
“What?”
“The look they come back with, from Vietnam. My dad used to call it ‘combat fatigue.’”
“You think he’s a Vietnam vet?”
She shrugged. “My uncle served in Korea. He had that look.” Doris was twenty-five and felt she had to fill me in on things. Her kid was ten and sometimes her advice was helpful. Now she said, “Some of those guys are baby-killers.”
“I’ll wait on him.”
“I’m not saying he’s one.”
“My husband’s in Vietnam.”
“And look where that’s got you.”
I picked up the coffeepot and stalked away.
The newcomer looked up as I got near.
M.I.A. Page 7