Halfway Home

by Paul Monette

  "Tommy, bring over those braces," Brian called out, startling me. He'd given no indication that I was even there. Rattled, I looked about me in confusion, not a clue what I was looking for. The landing was littered with lumber and tools, all of it foreign to me. But Daniel, quick to save my ass, scrambled from the toolbox and reached for a paper sack. He rooted in and drew out a bunch of L-shaped doodads with holes for screws. He handed them off to me, and I hurried over to where the others waited.

  "Here—right here," Brian ordered me, slapping the place where the beams joined. I ducked in next to Gray and reached to press one of the L braces exactly where he said. "You got it upside down," Brian snapped impatiently, poised beside me with screws and driver. I flipped the brace over and held it in place. He started the screws, working with burning intensity. The perfume of the white pine was enough to make you woozy. "For Chrissakes, Tommy," he barked, "hold it steady!"

  Already my fingers were numb from pressing. But I poured all the force I had, lasering in on the brace, making it right for my brother. Simultaneously I winced from his surly tone, furious that I'd got myself caught up in this macho game. I could hear as if through a hole in time my brother sneering as he popped me flies, and me running around like a chicken, terrified the ball would hurt if I caught it, which I never did. Oh, how I didn't wish to be transported back to 1965.

  "Other side," commanded Brian, and I dutifully moved to lay a second brace—right side up—on the opposite face of the join. In doing so I pressed up next to Gray's hip beside me. Meanwhile it felt as if Merle was hammering nails in my ear. When Brian leaned around to secure the brace, his shirt swept over my face, and I smelled the head of sweat in his armpit.

  Instantly I was reeling from the sudden raw explosion of carnality, as if the dogs of my old hunger had been set on a hunt to the death.

  I was twelve again and totally neuter. As Brian worked the screws, his pitcher's arm was six inches from my face, the coarse thatch of red hair thick from wrist to elbow. I felt helpless, held against my will, and worst of all, utterly disconnected from Gray.

  Finally we took a break, all of us disentangling from the corner we had carpentered together. The others murmured with satisfaction, again that wordless Neanderthal tongue—a shared male shorthand, clearly neither gay nor straight, since only Brian among us was unbent. Even I produced a small rumble, like a pup's first growl. Except I was also exhausted and slightly light-headed, not having strained so hard in years.

  Merle was already dragging down some boards with which to underpin the stairs. Gray crouched by the railing, reading the label on the waterproof sealer. Then out of nowhere I felt Brian's hand clap my shoulder. "Thanks," he said, pleasant as could be.

  I blinked at him as he squatted to huddle with Daniel. Did he not remember the sneering words? Was it all just part of the team push, jostling and sniping, no hard feelings? Was that how it felt to him in Chester, torturing one minute, teasing the next? I could hardly trust my own perception, not here, not on any field where Brian ruled. I moved toward him. "How'd it go this morning?" I asked.

  He looked up at me impassively. "Pretty good, I guess," he said with a certain reserve. "They'll do a deal."

  Then he turned again to his son, who was furiously unwrapping a paintbrush. Brian had given him leave to slather the new wood with sealer, and the boy was wild to get started. Gray took the screwdriver to pry off the lid of the can, while he lobbed Daniel a couple of handyman tips on how to work with the stuff. Nobody needed me.

  I happened to turn around as Merle was lighting a cigarette, staring at me as he blew out the match, his eyes glittering with mistrust. I knew he was reacting to the proximity of Gray and me. Eat your heart out, I thought, sick of his jealous silence. And yet I gave him a winning smile, because deep down I knew he was only trying to protect this gentle man who'd touched us both. And I wanted Gray protected.

  But I'd had enough of mixing it up with the guys. When Gray stood up, moving to lead Daniel and his brush over to the job site, I said, "Can I have the pickup? I need to go down to the Chevron."

  He nodded, fishing a hand in the pocket of his baggy jeans. His hair was all mussed. I suppressed an impulse to reach up and smooth it down over his bald spot. Daniel waited impatiently beside him, burning to go to work. Gray held out his ring of keys, twenty or thirty bristling in all directions, like a tenement landlord. "Start it in second and pump it easy," he said.

  "Really? Just like me," I retorted dryly, but he didn't quite get the double entendre, or chose to ignore it. So I let them be and scampered away up the stairs, hovering for a moment at the next landing to give a backward glance. All four were busy again, strutting and flooring the new structure. I felt an unexpected rush of pride, as if I had brought this whole thing off myself, pulling together my two families. They moved below me in harmony, like pioneer neighbors gathered to throw up a barn in a day.

  Still, the uphill climb was a killer after that little stint of construction. Three times I had to stop, panting, hanging over the railing as I kneaded the stitch in my side. By the time I reached the top of the bluff I practically had the dry heaves.

  Happily Susan was nowhere in sight as I staggered upstairs for my wallet. I very distinctly didn't want anyone seeing me weak and frail. This was a notable change for someone who used to shove my symptoms in people's faces, mostly Mona's, like some kind of existential badge. Just who was I trying to spare, I wondered, me or them? But I knew the answer. I'd come to that slippery place, rife with the shoals of denial, where I wanted to be as alive as all of them.

  I splashed water on my face and resisted the urge to curl up for a nap. Coming downstairs, the mass of keys jingling in my hand like a leper's bell, I braced for a second encounter with Susan. But the kitchen was empty. A plate of sandwiches sat on the counter, slicked with plastic wrap. I slipped a hand in under and drew out a half of tuna fish on white. Downing this in two bites—I'd had no breakfast—I moved to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot. Soup smelled fabulous. I grabbed a big spoon and ladled up a mouthful, potato and a hunk of beef. I gobbled it, smacking my lips—then had to decide, with a devilish snoot of irony, whether I'd stick the tainted spoon back in for a second bite. If only Susan had walked in then. But I demurred, replacing the lid and plopping the spoon in the sink, saving countless thousands from certain death.

  I hustled across the yard to the pickup, wondering if I had enough cash on me to gas it up, thus giving Gray a little back. I opened the door and slung myself inside. Nearly crying out in shock to discover Daniel sitting on the passenger's side, quietly waiting. "Can I go with you?" he asked plaintively, accustomed to no as an answer.

  "I thought you were putting the sealer on."

  He shook his head gloomily. "I screwed it up," he said. "And then I spilled some. Dad took the brush away."

  Yanked it away, I imagined. I was flooded with double feelings, wanting to make it all better for Daniel but also to punish my brother. He'd always been a stupid perfectionist, his rigid marine defense of neatness in the house of a slob drunk. By way of reply I cranked the key in the ignition and popped us forward in second, making a neat U-turn. I pumped the gas easy, just as instructed, and rolled not quite to a stop at the end of the drive. No traffic. We sailed out onto the coast road, heading south.

  I was trying to think of something to say to cheer him up, when he suddenly asked, "Is that where Ricky Gun lives?"

  I glanced over. He was gawking out the window at the turret and gated arch of the Norman castle. "No, he lives on the other side," I said, disheartened by his awe of the rock star. I still wanted Daniel to see the beach house the way I did, as a desert island unencumbered by the world's dreck. But here he was, a child of MTV, possessed by ear-splitting superheroes. Who had even told him the sequined Mr. Gun was our next-door neighbor? He certainly didn't miss a trick.

  Then he said, "Gray's your friend, right?"

  "Yes," I replied carefully, my stomach beginning to clench. "Why?" />
  "He's really nice."

  And that seemed to be that, just a moment of piercing sincerity, where the kid had managed to say exactly what he felt. I was the one who was thrown, suddenly riddled with questions. Had his parents said something about Gray and me? And if Daniel knew about Gray, did he also know about AIDS? I could feel my hands gripping the wheel for dear life. I understood in that instant that I had to be as open as this boy, and that nothing real would hurt him.

  "I'm very lucky," I said, "because he lets me live in his house. And he brings me food so I never go hungry. It's a really good deal."

  I turned to flash a grin at him, and suddenly a roar was on my left. I swiveled to look. A Jeep was passing with screaming teens, inches away. Directly ahead, in our lane, a dump truck heaped with gravel lumbered along. There was hardly twenty feet between us and the dumper, but the Jeep wanted in. It gunned and nosed for the gap. As it fishtailed by our front bumper I braked and swerved right, thudding us along the shoulder. Daniel was sprawled on the seat beside me.

  It was over in seconds. We regained the pavement, the Jeep lurching out to pass again and disappearing round the truck, teens howling, bound for a head-on crash before they were out of high school. "You all right?" I whispered at my nephew in a strangled voice.

  "Uh-huh." He picked himself up and sat by the door again, completely unfazed.

  I was a wreck. Creeping with horror, I realized we'd set off without any seat belts. The frigging pickup had no seatbelts, one of its legion of violations. And what if Daniel had been thrown against the dashboard? Then what would I say to his parents—the split lip, the broken teeth? I was shaking. Daniel, bless him, was oblivious, craning around to check out a couple of rubber-suited surfers zipping up. But I had this bone-zero realization that I'd almost failed him, and along with that, an overwhelming sense of what it meant that his life was in my hands.

  I slowed the pickup till we were barely doing thirty-five, which only made more people pass us. The responsibility was almost unendurable. I think I came the closest to comprehending Susan's fear—of me, the virus, everything after the bomb. For how would she ever keep her baby safe now? For a minute I couldn't even bear to look at Daniel, all that trusting innocence.

  At last the Chevron came into view on the left, and I edged into the turn lane, wincing with dread at the oncoming cars, letting fifteen chances go by. I waited and waited, till a car was honking behind and the stretch of road to the south was empty. I coasted in next to the phone booth and stopped, my hands still so tight on the wheel I thought they'd have to be pried loose.

  "You stay here," I declared, which was fine with Daniel. He was happy to peer out the window at the exotic beach types going in and out of the scruffy convenience store beyond the gas pumps. I walked across the gravel and accordioned myself in the booth, but making sure I was facing the pickup. I drew the card from my pocket, dialed the number in Venice.

  "Salva House," a woman's voice answered. I asked for Kathleen Twomey. "She's with a group right now," came the reply. "Why don't I give you her machine?"

  And after two clicks and a beep, my ex-nun's recorded voice spoke. "Hi, it's Kathleen. I'm out of the office. Please leave a name and number where I can get ahold of you. If you have no phone, or you feel you're in danger, then come right down to Salva House. We're always open. Remember, nobody has to live in a battered place." Then a long beep.

  "Hello," I said, suddenly shy, "this is Miss Jesus calling. Remember me? The queen of Judea. Listen, I've got this... uh... problem. I mean I don't want to dump it on you, but maybe you'll have some ideas. See, my brother and his family kind of dropped out of the sky on me. This is the Irish branch—very low communication skills. And if they don't start talking, there's going to be this terrible explosion."

  Really? What did I mean by that, exactly? Perhaps it was just a free-associated image of the bomb that had ripped my brother's house. "Don't worry, it's nothing urgent," I reassured the machine, except I didn't sound very convincing. "I don't have a number, but I'll call you back, okay?"

  As I rang off, startled by the urgency even as I denied it, I saw Daniel lean out the window of the pickup. A fat old dog, three colors of shepherd and retriever, came trotting over from the convenience store, wagging its tail shamelessly. Daniel's whole upper body was out the window as he reached to scratch the dog's ears. I whacked the door open and called in a too-loud voice, "You stay in that truck! And leave that dog alone!"

  In a flash the canine took off, tail between legs. Just as quickly Daniel pulled in and sat down. Because of the glare on the windshield I couldn't tell if he was upset, but I felt like a jerk. What did I think, that the dog had rabies or Daniel would fall on his head? Total overreaction. Guiltily I huddled back into the booth, determined to make it up to him. Then I dialed Mona's number in Westwood, relieved when she answered in person.

  "It's like Ibsen around here," I said by way of hello. "And my Norwegian is very rusty."

  But she was in no mood for drollery. "Are you sure you can't get in trouble?" she demanded rather shrilly. "You're harboring a fugitive, aren't you?"

  "That's not how it works," I retorted with some superiority. "He's making a deal with the prosecutors. After he testifies, they'll get him resettled."

  "You shouldn't be around kids. They're full of germs, and they've always got colds."

  I laughed. "I believe the drift of paranoia goes the other way, doesn't it? I'm the Typhoid Mary around here."

  "I'm serious, honey. You don't need all this stress. Who's taking care of you?"

  "I am," I purred in reply, but of course she had a point. For all I wanted to do right then was get off the phone and go take care of Daniel. "Listen, take this number down." I read off Sister Kathleen's information from the card, asking Mona to keep trying till she connected. "Find out when I can call her. I think we need some facilitating."

  As good as done. Mona lets nothing slip between the cracks. Then she said, "So how's Gray?"

  "Oh, we'll be okay, if we ever get any time alone. We sort of banged heads yesterday—"

  "Yeah, he told me."

  And right there I saw how tricky it all was, the nexus of power lines that strung us all together. Even if I didn't have a phone, Mona and Gray did. I suddenly had this vivid picture of the two of them chatting late into the night, Mona in the role she was born for: lovers' confidante. It was only a couple of weeks ago that they barely gave each other the time of day. And now she was Juliet's nurse.

  "So," I said, drawing out my sharpest needle, "I gather Daphne's been given back her key to your ball and chain."

  "Meaning what, precisely?"

  "Looked to me like you two are wife and wife again."

  "Lies and gossip," Mona drawled. "I only brought her for your sake, in case you had a breakdown. Daphne and I are officially free, white, and over thirty. All that craziness is behind us."

  "Mm. I'd still hide all my clocks if I were you."

  But my heart wasn't in it, impatient as I was to get back to Daniel. Admonishing Mona once more to call my nun, I got off the phone and padded back to the truck. Daniel looked up brightly from reading an old torn newspaper on the floor, seemingly unbruised by my having barked at him. I leaned my arms on the driver's door and poked my head in.

  "You want to go in there and get an ice cream?"

  "Great," he said briskly, scrambling out on the other side.

  Coming around to join him, I noticed how he set his pace to mine as we walked across to the store. I would have done anything for him just then, for he made me feel like I was a fellow to be emulated, as he studied his way to becoming a man. I held the door open, and he walked in wide-eyed, casing the place with instant attention. Myself, I can't find anything in a 7-Eleven; the system eludes me. But Daniel turned immediately down the first aisle and headed for the freezer case in back, as if by radar.

  I followed in his wake. Already he had the glass door open, reaching inside, practically disappearing among the froz
en goods. He pulled out a very upscale concoction on a stick, wrapped in designer paper. "I like these," he said soberly. "What do you like?"

  The same. Graciously he handed me the one in his hand, then reached in for another. As he closed the freezer door and marched toward the front, carefully ripping the wrapper away, I felt the most curious envy of his single-minded concentration. Just then he didn't seem unhappy at all. I wondered if he had some special fortitude I lacked, that let him slough off the rages and confusions of his household. He looked so carefree, scanning the racks of magazines by the counter as I pulled my wallet out to pay. I certainly couldn't recall any single equivalent moment from my own cracked boyhood, or any free ice cream either. So maybe he could survive intact, given a little breathing room and a few side trips to the Chevron.

  "Why don't you get one of those?" I declared, watching him pore over the comic books at the end of the rack.

  He turned, ice cream stick in his mouth, as if amazed I'd even noticed. He shook his head. "No, they don't let me."

  "C'mon—pick one. You can't just live on book reports."

  Listen to me, the resident barbarian, coaxing a seven-year-old away from Robert Louis Stevenson to schlock. His eyes alight with guilty pleasure, Daniel turned to the comics again and instantly plucked one up. Knew exactly what he wanted. Brimming with largesse I smiled at the dullard cashier, waving my wallet to indicate the two sweets and the reading matter. As he gathered my change from a ten-dollar bill, slow as a cow, I glanced at the cover of Daniel's comic.

  All-New Tales from the Crypt, with the twisted bug-eyed face of a man clawing his way out of the grave. Well, I wouldn't have chosen quite that one, but if that was what he wanted. I pocketed my change, and the two of us headed out. Besides, I rationalized, wasn't it psychologically sound for a kid to see his nightmares played out in story form? Bruno Bettelheim and all that.

  We'd almost reached the pickup, Daniel once more gauging his pace to mine, when a voice called out, "Hey, dude." I looked to my right, and there was my Redford surfer, pumping gas into his red van. He pointed up at the smoky sky. "Looks like another doozy, huh?" His teeth flashed white against the cocoa tan of his face.