by J. Warren
Then the phone rang and I answered it. Susan asked, “Mike?”
I said, “Yeah.”
“Hi. Listen, I’m sorry I was on the other line. I see where you called a few times. How are you today?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, wondering why she hated me.
“Okay. You don’t sound fine, though. You sound hurt.”
“No,” I say.
“Okay. I know you’re not telling me what’s going on right now, but I can’t make you, so I’ll just let it go until you want to talk. Did you take your medication today?” she asked, and I closed my eyes. I knew I had forgotten something.
“I can tell from you not saying anything that you didn’t. How about you go take that now?”
“It’ll screw up the schedule because it’s late,” I said.
“Mike, remember what Dr. Bledsoe said. Better it be late, and in you, then not in you at all.”
I stood up and walked to the cabinet. I took down the bottle of pills. In my head, for some reason, the third movement of Carmina kept playing. It felt like something important was about to happen, although I couldn’t tell you what. I still couldn’t, if you asked me to. I shook the bottle, listening to the warning rattle of the pills inside. I set the bottle down on the counter.
“I need to go visit my parents,” I said, then waited. I heard her exhale loudly. I could almost picture her resting her forehead in her palm, her eyes closed.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Nothing, really. I just—I just have to go see them.”
“Did your mother call?”
I felt like yelling ‘you never listen’ because if she had, she’d have known about my mom. About how she never calls anyone on the phone. I turned my back to the bottle of pills and crossed my arm over my chest.
“No. I just have to go see them.”
“But you promised me,” she said. I didn’t say anything in return. After a little while, I noticed that my heartbeat was very fast, my breathing very quiet. “When will you be back?” she asked.
“I guess—I guess maybe Sunday.”
“You guess?”
“I haven’t gotten the plane ticket yet.”
“Well, then how do you know that you can even go?” she asked, and I have to admit, in hindsight, that she was right.
“I dunno.”
I heard her exhale. I pictured her shaking her head side to side and then looking up at the ceiling.
“Have a nice flight, then, I guess,” she said.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, “Okay. Thank you.”
I heard her mutter something savage under her breath. I didn’t know what she wanted, though. Looking back, I guess what she most wanted was for me to acknowledge how upset she was at the sudden change in plans.
“Just—just call me when you get back,” she said. I’ve heard parents use the same tone of voice with their kids when they’re exhausted from correcting them all day. I wondered why she felt like that about me.
“Okay. I will,” I said, and she hung up. I knew she was mad, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why. I hung up my phone and turned around, seeing the bottle of pills on the counter. I felt confused. I wondered why I’d gotten them out. Did I remember to take one? I couldn’t think if I had or hadn’t. They’re down, though, aren’t they? That must mean you just took one, I thought. I nodded to myself and put the pills back in the cupboard. The next thing was to finish packing and get to the airport.
The entire time I kept thinking about bones: about how dry and brittle bones must feel, about how surprisingly heavy they must be.
Packing went exactly as slow as I figured it would. Even with the music playing in the background, it was still confusing and slow. Halfway through I couldn’t remember if I’d packed enough underwear. I sat down on the bed and cried. The whole time I told myself to stop being such a baby, to stop sniveling like a little girl. I screamed at myself inside to get up off the bed and figure out how many days I’d be there, then pack that many pairs of boxers. It seemed so simple, but I couldn’t do it. I ended up crying for ten minutes. When I was done, I stood up and walked to the kitchen. Dr. Bledsoe said that on days like this, it was maybe okay to take two pills. I took down the pills and shook one out into my hand. I almost threw it into my mouth, then cupped my hand under the faucet. I got some water, then gulped it down. I felt the pill the whole way, and almost immediately felt better.
I wrote down in the little book that I’d had to take two that day. He always wanted to know. It made me feel like a failure to have to write it. “I wish I could just be normal” I whispered to myself. The album was over, so the house was completely quiet, and I felt like the neighbors had heard. I felt like maybe they’d been waiting, ears pressed against the wall, for just such a proclamation. I felt like they all had just gotten huge smirking grins over their faces and, looking at each other with sly eyes, were nodding. They knew I was cracking up.
My head cooled down. I went back to packing. It took another hour or so, but eventually I felt confident enough that I could zip the suitcase closed. Then I looked back to the kitchen and snapped my fingers. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence. I’d forgotten to pack my medicine. I got it and put it in the suitcase
I picked up the phone again, and set it on top of the suitcase. Then I got the phone book and dialed the toll free number to one of the two companies that came into the local airport. The lady who answered was polite, but I felt like I was annoying her. I told her about how I needed to get home for Thanksgiving. She said that sounded nice. She said there was something leaving this afternoon that connected to another plane; I could be home by tonight. I asked her how much, inhaled through my teeth, did the math, then said “okay.” I gave her my credit card number and she asked me if I was excited about going home for the holiday. I said “I don’t know” and she gave me my confirmation number.
The ride to the airport was long. Sometimes I come out of the fog just long enough to really be able to judge distances and things. I never really noticed just how large this city really is. It sprawled all over the place like a kid stretched out in a chair before bed. My eyes kept changing focus from the bed to my face reflected in the window the entire ride.
Rain from earlier in the day was still puddle on the concrete in most places. I watched the buildings reflect like tiny porthole windows into other worlds. I used to think that a lot when I was a kid. I always wanted to know why when I stepped into the puddle, I didn’t fall into that other world I could see so clearly.
One time when I was watching Randy after a swimming lesson, I couldn’t tell you why, but I asked him if he ever thought that. He’d grinned his tiny lopsided grin and said he had. We’d taken off our shoes and walked into a larger puddle in the parking lot. We sunk into it to our ankles. We looked at ourselves in the reflection of the muddy water, our heads cocked to the side a bit.
Mrs. McPherson drove up and he waved to her. She saw us standing in the water and yelled out his name. She had stopped the car, and she got out, leaving it running. She came over to us and grabbed him by his wrist, yanking him along behind her. I remember her mumbling something angry about ringworm and broken glass. She snatched up his shoes and almost threw him in the car. She was still mumbling as the station wagon shot out of the parking lot. I waved after it and said goodbye out loud, the water slowly calming down under my feet. I watched myself a while in the water, then picked up my shoes and walked to the bench at the bus stop.
The interstate was full of cars as the cab merged from the off ramp. Like always, I made a game out of guessing the model year of each one. I’d gotten pretty good at this over the years. Not as good as Terry, one of the guys I worked with at the tire shop, though. A customer came in one time and parked the car. As the guy got out, Terry came up to me, throwing his cigarette down on the asphalt. He said to me “Eighty-nine Chevy pickup,” he said, “Dimes to doughnuts that man right there is about to ask for
an alignment. When he does, he’s gonna’ tell Vargas that he’s heard a funny noise whenever he puts on brakes, too.” Sure enough, the work order came back for a rotate and alignment, and the ‘extra comments’ section said “check for odd noise in brakes.” Every car that came in, Terry knew the year and make, and was almost always right about what they’d ask for.
I always wanted to be that good. Not just at cars, but at anything. Cars, I guess, were just the first thing that I found I had any kind of talent at. Terry helped me get better. He was always pouring over manuals in the break room. I’d ask “Where’d you get that one?” every time a new owner’s manual would show up. He told me one time, without looking up, “My cousin out at Fairfield has a junk yard. Turns out most people don’t bother to take the owner’s manual out of the glove box when they throw away a car.” He’d tell me things he’d learned from his cousin about why most cars went bad. Brake lines couldn’t handle the amount of pressure for that year’s make and model, brake discs couldn’t hold up to the heat they said they did, etc. After working in a place with a guy like Terry, it makes you not want to buy a car ever again. This is why I don’t own one anymore.
From the sounds the taxi made, it had maybe a few hundred miles left on it before something major went wrong. I thought about maybe telling the guy, but decided not to. We exited the freeway and the airport stood out from everything else. The tower was the tallest building in town at that time. Since then, they moved in a bank from somewhere overseas, and the new building is bigger. Seven stories, that new bank building, all glass and shiny. The tower was rust colored, though, and mostly concrete. The blinking lights were the only remarkable feature besides its squat ugliness.
I always envisioned going to a bigger city, with a bigger airport. Pulling up in a cab and having the person ask “What terminal, fella?” There were only two here: one for people using the little puddle jumpers to get somewhere nearby, and those using the only-slightly-bigger puddle jumpers to get to a major city so they could take a real plane.
The cab pulled up to the curb and I paid him. He popped the trunk and I got my stuff out. He pulled away as soon as I closed the trunk. Inside, they took all the parts of my ticket that they needed and then handed it back to me. I never pay attention to stuff like that, really. I guess I should. The lady behind the counter was pretty at one time, but so many hours under fluorescent lights had left her faded out. She was talking to me and I was nodding and answering, but not really interested. I put my suitcase up on the conveyor belt and then walked to the gate to sit down. I watched a small plane come in from over the old wheat fields. The shimmer off the tarmac made it look like it was hovering before it touched down and began to roll forward. “That’s mine,” I said out loud for no reason.
FIVE
The first time Susan and I had sex, I felt like I was falling down. I felt it the whole time. There had been a few other girls after that first time, but never anything all that special. I saw a movie once where this crazy guy asked this FBI agent if she’d enjoyed the sticky fumblings in back seats and I thought, that’s exactly what it’s like. Up to that night with Susan, it had been for me.
It almost was with her, too, but she didn’t want it to be like that. I’d made plays for her, sure. What guy wouldn’t have? After a while, she hadn’t stopped calling, so I guessed she really did like me.
That night had been pretty special. Our fifth date, and we went to this place in Turmerville. We went to this little restaurant that serves all the food on metal plates and stuff. They make it like you’re at a mining camp, and all the waiters and waitresses dress like pioneers or something. The food was okay, but I always went because I liked to watch the people who went there. It was a place that everyone went to from our town. For some reason, no one ate at places back home. They all came here. The mayor, the town council, Ed who owned the supermarket and both gas stations. You could see anyone there.
Susan wasn’t all that impressed, I could tell. After a while I got to feeling pretty bad about it. “Stupid, stupid,” I kept saying to myself. I should have thought of some place nicer. Some place up in Eukiah, maybe. About halfway through the meal, I looked up at her, my heart thudding away in my chest, and said “I’m sorry this isn’t all that great.”
She looked at me and asked, “What do you mean?”
“We can leave, if you want to.”
“Mike, stop. This is an okay place.”
“You’re not having a good time.” I said.
“Really? And how exactly can you tell that?” she asked in return, setting her fork down on her plate.
“Your face,” I said.
“Oh.” She then went quiet. I didn’t say anything either. The next time the waiter came by, I asked for the check. She kept insisting that she wanted to pay, but I wouldn’t let her. My dad would have killed me if I did.
On the ride back in to town, she asked me to pull over near this cornfield. When I did she got out and I thought, This is it. She’s about to say that she can walk from here and I’ll never see her again. She walked around the car and I rolled down my window, bracing. She leaned in and said, “Turn the car off”. I almost started into the ‘It’s okay for you to not like me’ speech I’d been preparing since she and I met. Then I realized what she’d said and I turned off the lights, and shut the car down.
“Get out,” she said and stepped away from the door.
I rolled the window back up, and went to put the keys in my pocket. She grabbed my hand and took the keys, putting them in her own pocket. She giggled, took my hand again, and walked toward the corn.
“What are we doing?” I asked, and she shushed me. My mind raced and I felt that feeling begin. The one I described before, like falling down. It crept from under my ribcage and spread upward like a fire. My feet started to feel numb. The corn rustled and swayed in the wind: it sounded like some huge thing breathing in sleep.
We got to a place where most of the corn had been taken, already. She let go my hand and sat down, relaxing back on her elbows. I stood there staring at her until she patted the ground next to her. I sat down Indian style and she giggled.
“I scare you, don’t I?” she asked. I didn’t know what to say, but before I could, she said, “Do you want to have sex with me?” I couldn’t breathe. Parts of me jumped to life but other parts went numb, dead. I started to shake.
She reached up and took my hands, then put them on her body. I didn’t dare move them, though my mind was screaming for me to. She leaned back and I could see her close her eyes. I couldn’t tell you what broke the stalemate inside me, but I moved her shirt up and began to touch her stomach. She started to sort of wiggle and breathe ragged.
Thinking back, I guess it couldn’t have been that good for her, really. At the time, though, it was all I could do to think, let alone about making it any better for her. She undressed me, then told me to undress her. She had on the softest panties I’d ever felt. To this day, that’s what I remember the most; just how soft her panties were. It went on for what seemed like hours, but I somehow doubt it did.
I was on top of her and her legs were wrapped around my hips. I could feel her feet against the backs of my thighs. I could feel my heartbeat, taste the corn and dust on the air. I heard the long rows moving against each other like a huge chorus from one of the operas. I listened to her breathing and became lost in it. I heard her heart, and felt it against me.
I boarded. We taxied, accelerated and took off with no problems. The plane was so small the four other passengers and myself could all have conversed with the anyone in the cockpit without leaving our seats. It was an hour to Mount Pilot.
The whole way the plane bumped and slid, the wings creaked and groaned. They shook, too. “Wings are supposed to do that,” my father once told me on our first airplane flight. I’d been so nervous, and that’s when I think he first got the idea I wasn’t going to be the superman he wanted. Every time there was a sound, it seemed too loud or located too close. Every mov
ement of the plane seemed like the pilot’s last desperate attempt to keep control before we went into a tailspin. I panicked and knew that I couldn’t show it, or else my father would be embarrassed. That somehow made it worse. I sat the whole time shaking, my eyes darting around, but didn’t say anything. No matter how I tried to hide it from him, though, he knew. My mother was oblivious, but my father knew.
After that plane ride, I started to sort of, I don’t know, crack up, I guess. Things seemed too intense all the time. Every time the car bumped or moved sideways an inch, I was convinced we were all going to die. I was about ten or so, and nervous. The doctor they took me to didn’t know much about kids, really. He told my dad to get me involved in boxing.
That’s how I wound up a swim instructor at the Y. My father signed me up for boxing. I went three times. Once to watch, with him. Once on my own. The third time I walked in, and there was Kevin O’Mally. He’d been out with the flu both the other times. When I walked in that third time, and he was standing in the ring, I froze. I don’t know if he saw me or not, or how long I was there, but he didn’t say anything. I walked out. On the way down the hall, I saw Mr. Douglas, the instructor coming toward class. I told him my mother had freaked out, that she didn’t want me doing anything as dangerous as boxing. I put extra emphasis on the word, so he’d think that it wasn’t my way of thinking. He put his hand on my shoulder, said he understood. I said that I liked it at the Y, though, and asked him if there was anything else that I could do. I didn’t realize it then, but Dr. Bledsoe told me that I was equivocating. He said that I was trying to make up for the lie by offering to do work as penance. It all happened pretty fast, really. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know if he bought the lie, either, but he walked me over to the front counter and stood there with me until the lady came out of the office.