Tumbledown

by Robert Boswell

  “Mr. Billy Atlas,” Alonso said.

  “Mick flipped out, happens to everybody.”

  “Who is Jimmy?” Rhine persisted.

  “Jimmy Candler is Mick’s guy,” Billy said. “His counselor.”

  “Mr. James Candler,” Alonso said.

  “What happened in there?” Maura demanded, but Karly was examining a spider box in that way she had and didn’t seem to hear. Maura whisked past Billy and yanked Karly by the arm. “What happened to Mick?” she demanded and everybody but Vex stopped folding boxes.

  “Let’s not start jerking people’s arms,” Billy said.

  “Mick’s my friend,” Karly said.

  “What did you do to him?”

  “We met with Mr. James Candler,” she said. “I did a test and Mick did a test in the office. It made him cry. It’s sad to see people cry.”

  “There was a misunderstanding,” Billy said. “We need to all get back to work.”

  “They’re not getting married!” Maura said. “Karly, Karly, Karly!” Karly looked up, startled.

  “Did you tell them you’re not getting married? That you and Mick are not getting married?”

  Karly smiled. “Everybody knows that,” she said. “If anybody asks, I’m not married at all, right, Billy?”

  “Let’s just get back to work,” he said.

  Maura plowed through ninety-three boxes in the final hour of the day, the fastest she had ever worked. Mick and Karly were kaput, she told herself, her fingers like tiny, independent creatures that knew just what to do with the cardboard, as if they were making nests, saving up pantyhose for the winter.

  Rhine must have understood the same thing, must have seen that Karly was now open season, not that the dickface had a ghost of a chance. Maybe she, Maura, didn’t have a chance with Mick, either. Maybe she was as flaky and hopeless as Rhine, both of them pining after people who were out of their league. She didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to be happy with the news. Inexplicably, the report had the opposite effect on Rhine. He became frustrated with the boxes, tearing two of them, which earned him a demerit: tear two boxes and you had to forfeit one that you’d packed. Rhine’s face turned the red of ripe tomatoes, and he said, “Something is really bothering me.”

  “Let’s say I tore that one,” Billy Atlas put in. “No point in losing any credit, right? Power to the people. Support the workingman.”

  When it was time to leave, Rhine tried to pull Maura aside. “I have to tell you what I’m feeling, Maura. Maura, I have to share something, Maura.”

  Maura leaned down to him. He smelled bad. She had never noticed that about him before. He stank like milk that had turned. The guy gave her the creeps. She was not like him. Nothing like him. “I already know what you’re feeling,” she said, “and here’s my broadcast for the day: we’re not the same, me and you. Hear me? I’m not like you.”

  “I have to share something, Maura,” he went on, but she turned from him and zipped out to the parking lot where she boarded the van.

  Rhine followed her. He rode his scooter to the workshop and was not permitted in the van, but he tapped on her window. He had to reach up to do it, and when Maura gazed down at him there was something about the part of his hair, the perfect part, the joint of flesh visible beneath it, that almost made her relent, but her desire to separate herself from the diminutive burp was greater. She moved to the other side of the van. When he raced around to that side, she returned to her original seat. He did not give up, and she continued switching places until the van pulled away, leaving Rhine sweating in the parking lot gravel.

  During dinner, she spotted him again, circling the cafeteria, plastering his face to the glass. She lowered her head, ate her soup and celery and carrot sticks, pleased to witness his distress from a safe distance. He waited at the door for her, which was why she took a pen and pad of stationery from her purse, and she remained in the cafeteria to write her big sister.

  This guy wants to think we’re in the same boat, that we’re bound together by some shared experience, but we’re not in even the tiniest way alike, and yet he’s been pursuing me all day and night, wanting to talk, to commiserate.

  She was exaggerating, but why not? She might as well make it interesting. She wanted to call him a buttface sheepherder, that was the term that sprang to her profane mind, but Barnstone forbade nasty language in the letters.

  This guy, of all the witless creepy people at this home for the witless and creepy, bugs me the most, and the idea that we have something in common is repulsive to me, sort of like when you went to the prom and there was another girl wearing the identical dress, which was bad enough, but it had to be that Darlene girl you hated? That’s how this guy wanting to share his stinking thoughts makes me feel.

  She wanted to tell her sister something else, something she couldn’t write, something she might not be able to put into words. It had taken her a month to admit it: leaving the dorm—sneaking out to Alonso’s—had been a mistake. Could she explain how this simple statement, which must be obvious to everyone else, shocked her? Sneaking out had shown bad judgment, had taught her that she was still a dumb-fuck. You have to be honest with yourself, Barnstone had said. Not hypercritical and not rationalizing, but genuinely honest. Otherwise, you’re playing yourself for a chump. She couldn’t tell her sister this without acknowledging her illicit acts, and such an admission would make its way back to the Center—her fucking mother would see to it—and dump her back in Cagin Dorm with its crazy precautions and no chance of continuing at the sheltered workshop, of seeing Mick. She couldn’t tell anyone but herself. Okay, okay: maybe there were reasons for the rules. She took a deep breath and shook her head, as if in amazement.

  When she was sure the coast was clear, she went to her dorm, setting a fast pace, making it safely. No sign of the nitwit. She dropped off the letter at the front desk, where the Sinatra guy smiled and noted it in some file. “Consider it mailed,” he said. Such a friendly man. His name tag read Castro. No first name. Castro whose daughter sang “Summer Wind,” Castro who listened to the same crap song a thousand times so he and his daughter could harmonize. “Thanks,” she said to him, showing all her teeth and patting his hand on the desk.

  She went to her room and did her exercises. She showered and put on the pajamas her mother had sent her. They were white with tiny blue flowers, but what Maura liked about them was their size: they were far too big. Her mother had no idea, thought she was still piggly-wiggly. She didn’t have Mick’s home number or she might have called him. It was probably better to wait out the weekend, though, give him time to get through the worst of it. Instead, she called Billy Atlas. He had given out his cell number to everyone.

  “Hey, Maura,” he said, almost as if he was expecting her call. “Zup?”

  She told him she wanted to know more about Mick.

  “People in my position can’t talk about clients.”

  “He’s my friend. Be human.” She wheedled another thirty or so seconds, ending with: “I thought you were cool. Don’t be like this.”

  “You keep a secret?” He confirmed that Mick was under the impression that Karly was going to marry him. Karly had misunderstood.

  “Bullshit,” Maura said. “A blind dog could have seen how Mick felt about her. She dumped him for somebody.”

  “Well,” Billy said. “It could be that she’s living with someone. She needs living help.”

  “Girls like her always have guys hanging around.”

  “Girls like her are usually living with or married to some architect or rugby player,” Billy said, “or going out with some lawyer in New York or some guy whose old man owns Hawaii or something. But Karly—”

  “Fuck a duck,” Maura replied. “He’s better off without her.”

  Billy Atlas started telling her the story about having a vision while on peyote, but she cut him off and told him about dating Skinn
er and how one time they took acid and rode around town all night in a city bus. “We were convinced that we’d got on the wrong bus and it had taken us to some city we didn’t know. Nothing looked familiar.”

  “Cool,” Billy Atlas said, and then he said, “Someone’s at the door. Gotta go.”

  Maura sat on her bed, wondering what to do next. She thought about going downstairs to watch television or talk to some of the girls, but she’d have to get dressed and pretend to care about their lives. She decided to read instead, but the words kept moving around on the page. Mick was not marrying Karly, and even the printed words on anonymous sheets of paper could not be held in check.

  This time when he parked on Lantana Avenue, he did not hide. He had not caused an accident on the way over. Though he stumbled on the curb, he went directly to Karly’s door.

  Billy Atlas answered the door in a white T-shirt, boxer shorts, and white socks, his cell phone in his hand. He opened the door only an inch until he recognized Candler, and then he threw it open. “Jimmy!” He displayed all of his too-big teeth. “Come on in.”

  “What are you doing here?” Candler asked. He eyed the boxers. “What have you done?”

  Billy lifted his hand to display a gold band. “I’ve gotten married.” Candler could not speak.

  Billy turned his head to call out, “Darlin’? You dressed?”

  Candler backed carefully to the edge of the porch.

  “Don’t be upset,” Billy said. “We wanted you at the wedding, but it was a spur of the moment thing. I almost told you about it at lunch, but you’ve got too much on your plate right now, and until last night Karly and I hadn’t even told our parents. We were on the phone till eleven. I think we’ll have a big party or something in the fall.”

  Candler said nothing.

  Karly appeared in jeans and a bra. “It’s Mr. James Candler,” she said. “Hi, Mr. James Candler.” She looked down at her bare feet. “I should put on more clothes.”

  Billy agreed and she laughed as she trotted down the hallway. He turned back, smiling. “We were just getting cleaned up to go out to eat. Want to join us? Karly makes me shower after work. She has a charming way of suggesting it. She says, ‘Billy Atlas, you smell funny.’ ” He laughed. “I don’t wear the ring at work. Don’t worry. We’re keeping it all on the down low.”

  “She’s mentally impaired,” Candler said, “and you’re her workshop supervisor.”

  Billy nodded seriously. “That’s why it’s gotta be hush-hush. I figure by the fall, Karly will be on at the factory, and we can tell everyone.”

  “She has an impairment.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.” Billy shrugged happily. “I mean, it’s not like she’s completely out of it, just slow on the uptake. And she’s beautiful, you know? I mean, god.”

  “She loves you? You love her?” His fists clenched. He wanted to punch Billy. He wanted to punch his best friend in the face.

  “My first wife didn’t even pretend to love me, but I didn’t want her to leave. I mean, you only live once and all that. I’m not exactly a spring chicken, and if I waited for the perfect girl, I might be alone for the rest of my life.”

  “Goddamn it, Billy, she’s mentally retarded.”

  “But she’s a U.S. citizen.” He shrugged again. “Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

  “I got you that job. Doesn’t that mean anything? You’re here fucking one of my clients.”

  Billy winced. “Well, not yet. I mean, we’ve only been married since Monday, and I didn’t want to rush it.”

  “You’re married but not sleeping with her?”

  “I’ve been sleeping on the carpet, beside the bed. It’s what I thought she needed.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Does to me. Not that I’m not planning—we’re planning—to have sex, kids, the whole bit, but we’re both hesitant to . . . It’s just, what’s the rush? We have our whole lives to do it.”

  Candler dropped his head. He had not shined his shoes this morning. He recalled the trucker stashing the toothpick in his hair and then retrieving it, sticking it back in his mouth.

  “It’s love,” Billy said. “It is—all I know of love, anyway. I don’t know what you and Lolly have. Or you and Lise. Whichever turns out to be the real thing. I only know this. It’s what I’ve got. And I’m happy. Can’t you be happy for me?”

  “No,” he said. “If this gets out, you’ll be fired.”

  “Who’s gonna tell?”

  “And if I’m the director? And I know . . . Do you see the position you put me in?”

  “I didn’t mean to. Stuff happens, Jimmy.” Billy was still smiling. He scratched under his arm, waggling his head. “We’re happy.”

  “I should turn you in.”

  “We’re going next month to L.A. so I can meet her family.” Candler turned and walked to his car.

  “My mom cried when I told her,” Billy said. “She and Dad can’t wait to visit.”

  Candler just shook his head.

  “It’s love,” Billy insisted. He left the porch, running in his socks and boxers to the car. “Karly said she loves me ’cause I’m always nice to her. All these years of being nice to girls, and finally I find one who likes it.”

  Candler paused at the car. The shiny red roof of the Porsche separated them. He was close to screaming something.

  Billy kept talking. “I came over the first time just to help her out, you know? Wash her clothes, vacuum. Put in deadbolts. The place was such a mess, and the guy who used to help her had just up and left. And what the hell, Jimmy, if you need to turn us in, I don’t mind. I love the job and all, but I know you’ve got responsibilities. I mean, I knew you’d be pissed, but I hoped you might be happy for me even if you were pissed, but what the hey? Fire me. I’ll go back to pizzas or there’s a Buy-N-Go in town that could use a good man. Just don’t ask me to leave her.”

  Candler only stared.

  “I can talk to her,” Billy said. “We talk. We listen. I tell her things. She tells me things. It’s good. And this house is paid for. I can take care of her. And she . . . she’s . . .”

  “Just because she’s good-looking,” Candler said, “doesn’t mean—”

  “She’s kind,” Billy said. “Her first impulse is always kindness.” Candler opened the car door. He counted his breaths to calm himself.

  “Good-bye, Mr. James Candler.” Karly had on a shirt now but she was still barefoot, and she stepped into the yard, crossing it to join Billy. “You look so good in that car,” she called.

  Billy put his arm around her. He kissed the top of her head.

  The drive to the Center passed unnoticed. He must have steered, must have stopped at signs and watched for pedestrians, but somehow he did not notice the drive. The parking lot was almost empty. He stumbled getting out of the car, falling to one knee. If I’m on my knees, I must be praying. Fucking Billy. That fucking idiot. Candler used his key to enter the building. From his office window, he spotted the tractor. It had not moved, but somehow it could only be seen from above. He sat on his desk and looked up the number for the chairman of the board. He got an answering machine.

  “It’s James Candler calling. I know you’re making the decision today or tomorrow. I’m withdrawing my application for director. Clay Hao is more experienced and better qualified. He’s a better person for the job.”

  Afraid to say anything else, he hung up.

  The knock on the door caused Maura to look at the clock. It was probably one of the girls on this floor, locked out of her own room, or maybe it was Castro, coming with news. Maura imagined what info he might have to give her at this time of the night—an ill parent, sibling hit by a car. It couldn’t be good news. The tapping was rapid but not hard. She opened the door only a crack. She liked wearing the oversized pajamas, but she didn’t like people to see her in them.

  No one was th
ere. Yet she heard a voice whispering her name.

  On his hands and knees, just outside her door, was Bellamy Rhine, and he didn’t look good, his narrow face sweating and red, an awful contortion straining his features.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m very worried,” he whispered.

  “Of all people, you, breaking the rules, going to get us both in trouble. I would’ve guessed a thousand names of who might be at my door at midnight before I guessed you.”

  “I’m very worried and I need to talk to you.” He was still whispering, still on his knees. “It’s eleven thirty-seven,” he added.

  “I would’ve guessed Bush and Schwarzenegger and Amy Wine-house before I guessed you. Don’t you understand I don’t want to talk to you? I am nothing like you. I don’t give a flying fuck about you and Karly. Why aren’t you slobbering and sweating at her doorstep?”

  “I’m here to get your help,” he said and he wiped tears from his face. Real ones. “I’m very worried about Mick.”

  “Mick?” She opened the door, and Rhine poured himself through. “How did you get up here? Is Mick downstairs?”

  “This is a very nice apartment, Maura,” he said, getting to his feet. “Very nicely appointed.” He nodded his tiny head in rhythm with his speech. “I’m afraid Mick is in a hurtful state because Karly has chosen me over him, and when I was afraid Karly had chosen him over me, I was in a very hurtful state, and I think we need to see that Mick is all right.”

  “Karly’s living with a dude, is what I hear.”

  Rhine started making her bed. He was shaking his head so hard sweat was flying. “Karly and I are going to be married, and we have to worry about Mick. I do not, cannot believe it’s possible that there is, living in Karly’s house, any . . .” He shook his head harder while he searched for a word.

  “Dude,” Maura offered.

  “. . . dude living with her.” He fiercely tucked the bed corners, and Maura realized he was going to lose his shit. That he had long ago lost it.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Just teasing. You know me. Sorry.”