by J. Warren
“Yeah, I know,” I said, rolling back underneath. Sarah got up and walked inside. I watched the heavy shoes come around the car and stop near my head with a neat little scrape-scrape-thunkthunk. The wind through the hollow spaces was the only sound for a bit.
“See in the paper that they got those bones back here, now. The remains, I mean,” my father said. He leaned against the car, and I waited to hear the springs groan. Whenever the guys back at the garage would lean against the cars, there’s be a groan. I smiled, remembering how I thought that same groan came from their own mouths as they’d attempt to sit down or tie a shoe. I thought about all the times I’d gotten called ‘scarecrow’. I was surprised when the car didn’t protest my father’s weight. I tried to remember if he’d seemed thinner. “Jim Clarke is working on them, now. Good man, Jim Clarke. Good Christian man.”
Before I could stop myself, I asked “doesn’t he go to your church?”
“He does,” my father said, and his boots moved a little; the car shifted some. I thought about how in-tune you get with a machine when you’re underneath, and could be crushed at any moment. The oil was already sputtering, coming in two long, thin rivers. It wouldn’t be long now. “Mikey,” he said, and I could tell from the sound of his voice he was staring down the end of the road. “Your mother attends that church every Thanksgiving. She insists I go along. I don’t mind so much, except having to wear a tie. Thing is this; every year she asks Sarah to go. But your sister,” dad said, and somehow, I knew immediately where this was going, “she’s got her own ideas about things, Mikey. She’s into all this bra burning crap,” he said, and I thought that if this were a movie, he’d have a plug of tobacco, and he’d spit just then. He didn’t, though. “Your mother would like it if you went, since you’re here. She’d really like to have Sarah there, as well.” When he finished, his boots moved again: scrape-thunk-thunk.
I crab-rolled until my eyes peeked out from under the car. I set the wrench I’d been using down, picked up a larger socket for it, and took the smaller one off. I didn’t need them anymore, really. The next step in the job was to put new oil in once I got the cap back on. I was buying myself time.
“You want me to ask her to come along this year?” I asked.
He crossed his arms again, leaning back on the car. I felt the car move a fraction of an inch above me. He looked back down to the end of the road, again. “Your mother would like to ask you to discuss it with her. She knows that you two are close. Maybe you can make her see it in a way that your mother can’t.” As he talked, I rolled back under. I slipped the cap back on. I didn’t want to be under the car, anymore. I rolled all the way out, and stood up. The old overalls I’d found out in the garage had fit nearly perfectly. I’d assumed they were dad’s. I hadn’t gotten much grease on them at all. I walked to the small towel where the tools were resting. I picked the whole towel up and moved it over to the top of the huge tool chest on wheels my father kept out here. I wanted to ask him what he intended to do with it, since he didn’t work on anything, anymore. I put away the ones that hadn’t gotten used, and started cleaning the ones that had.
Dad walked from the car to the garage, and stood next to the toolbox. I felt his eyes on each tool I wiped down. It made me think of this scene from a movie Susan and I watched one time about King Arthur. The king watched his knights get suited up for battle in one part. I’d gotten goose bumps watching this look he gave one of them, especially as the guy sharpened and oiled his sword. It was almost like jealousy.
“So, will you? Talk to her, I mean. Maybe make her see some sense?” dad asked.
“I’ll see, dad. I’ll see what I can do,” I agreed without looking up.
He nodded, and walked back inside the house.
Coming back in the door, mom appeared out of thin air. “Mikey, dear, could you maybe go into town and get a few more things for dinner?”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing there was a reason to say no, “do you have a list written down?”
“Yes,” she said, and handed it to me. My eyebrows came together, then crept slowly apart. “Are you done with the car?”
“Yeah. Good as new again,” I said and expected—I don’t know what I expected, really. A thank you, some interest in what I’d done; I don’t know. Susan had always at least come and acted interested as I did things on the car for her. Mom nodded and went back to the kitchen. The smell of the turkey beginning to cook was powerful. I wanted to follow it, but then I thought that if I was alone with mom, she might ask me to talk to Sarah. I squirmed a bit, thinking about how hard it would be to not make some sort of commitment to her if she asked. I walked to the living room, instead.
Dad was parked in front of a pre-football game show. I checked the clock on the wall; I didn’t know they started this early. The ex-quarterbacks all looked clean and scrubbed raw in dark suits and matching ties.
“Did your mother give you her list?” When I’d nodded, he’d gone back to watching the television. I stood there for a few minutes, then left. I didn’t say it, but I thought, what didn’t I get last night?
Mom’s car ran a lot better. I felt a small surge of—I don’t know: something. I had correctly identified the problem and then corrected it, as Dr. Bledsoe would say. I wanted to call him and tell him. For some reason, though, thinking that made me mad.
It was the same anytime I’d have dinner with Susan. We’d both work on something; her the mashed potatoes and me the pork chops, or whatever we were having that day. I’d worry over ‘is there too much garlic?’ or ‘is the heat too high?’ When we actually had it on the table, she’d always say something like “These are great, Mikey,” then immediately, “I think the potatoes really set them off well.” I wouldn’t tell her, but it felt like she was saying something more than maybe what she was. Like I wasn’t anything without her. I’d never asked Dr. Bledsoe about it. I knew he’d tell me I was being silly and over-sensitive.
The streets were deserted. Every house I drove past, though, was cluttered with cars. It looked like a used car lot all through the neighborhoods. I drove to the end of the street, turned onto the main road, and made it to the store very fast. Inside, I looked for Alvin, but he wasn’t there. The store was empty of all the usual things for a thanksgiving. It looked like those pictures they show just before a natural disaster: empty shelves, empty aisles. It felt spooky, like a horror movie. I kept expecting someone to jump out from behind something and get me. I went to the customer service desk and asked to use the phone. After six rings, the phone picked up and it was Sarah.
“Jesus, am I the only one who has a set of ears around here?” she asked, “hello?”
“Sarah,” I said.
“Michael,” she responded.
“Umm, mom sent me to the store for some stuff, and they’re out of it. I have to ask her—,” I started.
“Yeah, hold on,” she said. I heard a hand muffle the phone and mumbling in the background. I watched an old woman buy groceries; she brought out one coupon at a time, each coming out of the purse in the exact order the thing was on the conveyor belt.
“Michael?” Susan asked, “she says to ask Miriam to get the things from behind the counter.”
“What?” I asked, trying to get my eyes away from the scene. The old woman looked so sad.
“She says she has a standing order for Thanksgiving day. They know to set the stuff aside for her. It’s with Miriam behind the service counter.”
It sounded so odd. “Hang on,” I said. The girl behind the counter was busy pulling packs of cigarettes from the cartons and putting them up on the shelves. “Excuse me,” I said and she turned around. Her name tag said ‘Miriam’. “Is there an order here for Kendall?”
She brightened, “Are you Miss Susannah’s boy?” the girl asked. I nodded, and she smiled. She opened a cupboard and brought out a bag of groceries. “These are already on her account, sweetie.”
I blinked and shook my head, “Okay. I got the stuff. I’ll be home in a mi
nute,” I said, and hung up.
“Normally, we deliver these for her, but Jerry’s sick today, so we’re not making deliveries,” Miriam said, “happy Thanksgiving.” With that, she walked away. I shook my head again. I thought, if this was a movie, what would the point of this scene be?
On the way we passed the McPherson house. I hadn’t thought about it since I’d returned, but there it was on my left. Without thinking much about it, I slowed the car down to get a look. The grass had gotten very high before starting to die off this fall; it looked like some jungle from a science fiction movie. The car, an old station wagon, the same one she’d picked Randy up in so long ago, sat at the top of the driveway, missing three tires. Mr. McPherson had built a small roof over the side porch the year before Randy disappeared. I remembered walking Randy home all that summer, waiting at the bottom of the driveway to make sure his key worked. He’d unlock the door, walk in, then turn around and wave to me.
To this day I couldn’t tell you why I stopped the car just then, put it in reverse, and pulled into that driveway. I hadn’t been to visit Pete McPherson in the last few visits. I found myself trying to remember how long it’d been since the last time I’d been to see him and it hit me—not since Randy had disappeared. I hadn’t visited in close to a decade. I have no idea what made me go up the path to the door, or knock. Mr. McPherson answered the door, though. Too fast, I thought, things are happening too fast.
He seemed drunk. The smell of smoke came off of him, and behind him, the television was too loud. His face seemed sunken, withered. His eyes were dull brown.
“Hello?” he asked, squinting.
“Pete?” I asked, even though I knew who he was. I looked toward the car, then back at him.
“Yeah?”
“Hi. It’s me, Mikey Kendall,” I said.
His head moved back on his shoulders some, but his eyes re-appeared. He seemed like he was about to call me a liar. Then he smiled, and looked down at my shoes. His gaze came all the way up to meet my eyes again.
“Mikey?” he asked. I nodded. His smile got bigger. “How are you?” he asked, coming forward with his arms out. He hugged me. I don’t know how to describe what that felt like; I hadn’t been hugged by anyone except Susan in a long time. I hadn’t been hugged by another man since I was twelve. In fact, thinking back on it, I think it was Pete at the funeral. My mind started to drift back to that funeral, but I stopped it. Pete let go of the hug, and with one arm still on my shoulders, said “Come in, come in.” He and I walked into the house.
The gloom settled in as soon as I closed the door behind me. It smelled musty, almost wild. The windows hadn’t been opened in weeks, I guessed. It was odd to think about, but I had never been in the house before: outside it, near it, but never in it. Mr. McPherson led me into the living room. It was darker back here; no windows. The only light was the television itself. “I was just watching the game,” he said, taking books off the couch. He set them on the floor and gestured. I sat down. He lowered himself into the recliner near the wall. “Want something to drink? I got scotch around here somewhere—,” he asked.
“No, thank you. I have to get back soon,” I said, and ignored how his face seemed to fall even further. “I was passing by coming back from the store. I thought I’d—I’d stop in.”
“Last minute things for dinner, huh?” he asked.
I smiled, “You know mom,” I said. It wasn’t until after I’d said it that I remembered he didn’t. He nodded anyway. On the screen, a man in a red jersey and white tights ran with the ball until a man in black jersey and gold tights knocked him down.
“Who’s winning?” I asked, even though the score was on the screen.
“Huh? Oh, umm—no idea, really. Mostly just have it on for the noise, you know,” he said. I moved to get more comfortable, and my foot knocked over the stack of things he’d moved so I could sit.
“Sorry,” I said, bending over to straighten the stack. I kept on moving things even though he repeated “Don’t worry about that stuff,” four or five times. I didn’t mean to read the letterhead at the top of the stack, but couldn’t help it. Delany Hospital it said in bold black letters, and just underneath, Mr. Peter McPherson. When I tried not to read that, as I shuffled books back into the stack, I read the bottom line: Dr. Emmet Baker, Dir. Psychiatric Evaluation and Services unit.
“So, umm, where—uh, where is Mrs. McPherson?” I asked, sitting up. His eyes had gone back to the television. His stare was blank, and eerie. He didn’t blink.
He turned his head to me, and though his eyes stayed that way, his lips moved into a smile. “Hmmm?” he asked.
“Mrs. McPherson?” I asked, looking back down the hallway. It seemed as though no lights were on anywhere in the house.
“Oh. Well. Hmmm,” he said, shifting in the chair, “It seems that Gwen needed some rest from—things. She, umm, she needed to go away for a little while.” He turned back to the television and the smile disappeared.
I didn’t know what to say. “How long has she, umm, how long has she been gone?” I asked.
Without turning from the screen, he said “About three years now, Mikey. Three years.”
I didn’t move. I wanted to know why no one had told me. I wanted to know where she was. I calmed down, though, slowly realizing that I didn’t know who would have known in order to tell me. I was the one who hadn’t been home in four years. I was the one who hadn’t even visited Pete the last time I was home, or the year before that. I looked back down at the stack with the letter on top. I hadn’t seen him, except in passing, since the day of the funeral.
The phone rang. I jumped. Pete didn’t move. It rang again. Pete didn’t move. “Umm, Pete?” I asked. He turned to look at me. The next ring made him jump. It was as if I’d woken him up. He got up and walked out of the room. The next ring sounded, then I heard his “Hello?” On the screen, a man in black jersey sprinted down the field, and almost made the end zone before someone from the other team dove at his feet, knocking him down just short of the line. The crowd went wild.
“Yes, I’ve been keeping up with the news about that. Have you—?” Pete said in the other room, then there was a pause, “I see,” he said. After a moment, “Are they sure? I mean, they’re definitely a boy’s?” he asked. “Certainly. Well, I appreciate your calling. Please let me know. Thank you,” he said. The voice sounded hollow. There was a thunk in the other room. I got up and walked that way. I came around the corner just as Pete did, and we almost ran into one another.
“Is everything, ummm, is everything okay?” I asked. He looked up from the floor, and maybe some writer guy somewhere would say it better, but his eyes looked like glass windows into an empty room.
“Yes. Everything is just fine,” again, the hollow voice, “thanks for stopping by, Mikey. I’m sure you’ve got to get home.” He walked me to the door.
“Okay. Well, Happy Thanksgiving, Pete,” I said as he opened the front door. He was still looking at the floor.
“Same to you, Mikey. My best to your parents,” he replied, and I was barely through the door before he closed it.
ELEVEN
I had just put the grocery bags on the counter when Sarah found me. She blew into the kitchen and put her hand under my elbow. That meant we were going to have a discussion.
The first time she did that I was maybe nine. We’d been playing with her dolls out back, and she’d started taking off the doll’s pants. She told me to take the ones off the doll I was playing with, too. I didn’t really care; they weren’t my toys. When I did, she put the two dolls face to face and started making kissing noises.
I got really upset about it. To this day, she and I don’t talk about that. I sat in shock for a moment or two, then dropped the doll and ran inside. I think I cried. Of course, my mother found me. When she asked what was wrong, I told her. I didn’t know enough to not tell her. I didn’t even know what we had done, to be honest. All I knew was that it made me very sad and lonely inside.
>
Mom went downstairs, and outside. I curled up and went to sleep. When I woke up and went downstairs, later, Sarah was sitting on the couch. She stood up and I knew: she’d been waiting for me. She walked over, took my elbow, and without saying anything walked me outside. Even though she was younger, she was always able to move me around wherever she wanted me. When we got outside, she whispered-yelled “We was just playin’ undress-up. You better stop being such a baby.” What is almost funny to me is that over the years, this never changed. No matter how many new words she learned, whatever new book she used to back up what she was saying, it was pretty much always “stop being such a baby.”
She walked me out of the kitchen and onto the front porch. She closed the door and whisper-yelled, still holding my elbow “What is this shit about you making me go to church, Michael?” Just like every time before, I had no answer, so I looked at my shoes. They looked so big and awkward when compared with hers. “Dad comes to me and says ‘your mother would like you to speak to Mikey.’ He says, ‘he’s going to ask you to come to church with us this evening.’
I shrug, saying “when he came out earlier, he sort of cornered me into asking you. He used mom as an excuse.” She looked down, shook her head, nodded, then looked back up. I knew a whole conversation had just taken place.
“Fuck,” she said, and finally let go of me. She crossed her arms, and looked at her car out by the curb. Then she looked back at me. For a split second, there was something else in her eyes; something I’d never seen before or since. Then she looked down, and said “Fuck,” this time a little softer.
“You could, I dunno, go,” I said. In my head, there had been more there, and different words, but somehow they just didn’t make it out. She looked up, and her face back to the one I’d always known.
“Michael, do you understand at all what I am going through? No, scratch that. You wouldn’t. You can’t,” she said, rapid fire, “I am gay, Michael. Do you know what that means? That means I have a history of oppression that goes back just as far as—you know what? I’m not even going to have this discussion with you. I’m not going to that—that—church,” the way she said it reminded me of the way most people say the word cockroach. “Since you let them get you involved, then you can be the one to go tell them.”