Donna Has Left the Building

by Susan Jane Gilman

  I’m-a drop you an epic, by Homer (not Simpson)

  About Odysseus leaving Troy

  (That’s Asia Minor, not Michigan)

  Odysseus was a warrior; he designed the Trojan Horse

  He found himself victorious, but soon shipwrecked into worse.

  “Wait, hang on.” He paused to cross something out on a notepad, then scribbled something else down.

  He landed on an island where he was imprisoned by Calypso

  She had it bad for Mr. O.; this goddess was a psycho

  She kept him as her boy-toy, she was crazy-ass in love

  But luckily for Odysseus he got a shout-out from above.

  He looked at me uncertainly. “Is this totally lame, Mom? Should I stop?”

  “No. No. Please.” I nodded. He glanced down at his paper, cleared his throat, and continued:

  Athena went to bat for him at Zeus’s counsel of the gods

  She said, “We gotta get our O home,” and they gave her all the nod

  She sent Hermes as a messenger (the god, not the scarf)

  He told Calypso to release O, so she sadly saw him off

  Odysseus sailed away, as soon as he had the tide in

  And he might have kicked it back in Ithaca if he hadn’t dissed Poseidon.

  He stopped. “Mom? Mom, why are you crying?”

  I shook my head and snuffled, hugely embarrassed.

  “Is it bad? I mean, we haven’t been working on it that long.”

  “No, no, no.” I shook my head vehemently. “Let me go get my guitar. It’ll be better if you can see what I’m doing. I’ll Skype you back in five.”

  Back in the apartment, I grabbed Aggie. Zack was in the shower, but there was no way I wanted to risk Austin catching sight of him, so I headed back to the lobby and tried to get an okay signal. I propped the phone up on some cushions on the love seat and sat at the far end facing it so that Austin could see my frets. “Do you know the basic six strings?” When he shook his head, I said, “Okay, then repeat after me: Eddie Ate Dynamite. Good Bye Eddie.”

  This was the mnemonic device my own mother had taught me to help me remember E-A-D-G-B-E, the order of the strings. Once he had that, I showed Austin the finger positions for the A, D, and E chords. It was tricky, because I had to hold the positions with one hand while angling the phone with the other, and the visual kept breaking up because of the shitty Wi-Fi. I wondered, suddenly, why Austin hadn’t simply called up a YouTube demo on his computer. Surely there were a zillion beginner tutorials online.

  “Is that enough to start with?” I asked. “You want to practice those first, and then we can do C, G, and E-minor the next time?” As soon as I said this, I regretted it. I didn’t want our session to end. When was the last time I’d had the pleasure of teaching my son anything? I wished I could beam through the phone right now into his bedroom.

  He nodded. “Maybe this weekend?”

  “Sure. Sure. Whenever you want.” I looked at him over the tiny screen. “Are you sleeping okay, A?”

  “Yuh-huh.”

  “What about food? You and your dad eating all right?”

  He shrugged. “It’s mostly, you know, pizza. Though, Dad, he’s not really eating.”

  “At all?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Because of his nose?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Is he sleeping?”

  “Um, I think he’s staying up playing lots of video games?”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah. So, like, tonight, everyone’s over and Uncle Reggie is doing tacos.”

  An SUV pulled into the parking lot of the complex, pulsing with music. It screeched into a parking space directly across from me. The driver kicked open his door and a mutt ran out yelping in frenzied circles and then a woman got out and began shouting at someone still inside the vehicle. Bumperstickers plastered across the back read “Put God Back in Schools” and “Keep Honking. I’m Reloading.”

  “Austin, sweetie. I should probably go,” I said. “I think World War Three is about to break out here. When’s your presentation due?”

  “Uh, next Friday?”

  “Okay, so we’ve got a week.”

  “Yeah, sure. But, hey, uh, Mom?” I watched him glance away, chew on the edge of his thumbnail. “You know when I texted you the other day, and said, like, ‘Don’t come home’ and ‘Go be with the other drunks.’ You know, like, I didn’t mean it, right?”

  “Oh, honey,” I said. “Oh, honey, I know.”

  “So, like, you are coming back, right?”

  I smiled at him sadly. “Oh, sweetie.”

  “You don’t know? Or you’re just not saying?”

  I swallowed, looked away.

  “Really, you’re not going to tell me?” His voice rose. “Or Dad?”

  “Look, I’m taking some time, okay?”

  “Seriously, Mom?”

  As if reacting to my emotions, the screen began to pixelate and blur. “I love you, Austin,” I called out. Though, already, the connection was gone.

  Back at Zack’s, our clothes lay strewn about exactly where we’d left them, like a crime scene. The bathroom door was flung wide open, releasing fumes of humidity from the shower. Wet towels lay clumped on the bedroom floor. The living room was empty though, and the lights were out in the rest of the apartment. “Zack?” I called plaintively.

  I heard a faint, rubbery squeak. In the dining alcove, I found Zack lying naked on the blue mat on the floor in the dark. His right knee had been heaved across his body, and he was pressing it downward with his torso twisted violently in the opposite direction. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a white wire emerging from his ear, falling across his body, disappearing into his phone.

  “Oh, hey.” Uncurling, he made no move to get up, though he yanked out one earbud. “You’re back.” Returning his leg to its cross-body position, he stretched again, counting to eight, concentrating solely on his breath, seeming to ignore me. Only once he finished did he hoist himself up. He felt around for his phone and rolled up his mat indifferently. “So. You sticking around? Or did you get a better offer?”

  “What? I thought we were going out tonight.”

  “Well then, you probably should shower first.” Standing up abruptly, he threw his mat in the corner. “No offense, but you stink of tequila.”

  “Are you—is everything okay?”

  He walked back into the bedroom and began rooting through a duffel bag without looking at me.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?” Pulling out a dark blue button-down, he punched one arm through the sleeve, then the other. With his back turned to me, he began buttoning it jerkily.

  “So,” he said to the wall. “How’s your husband?”

  I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. When was the last time anyone had been the least bit jealous over me? Possibly never.

  “That wasn’t my husband, Zack,” I said gently. “That was my kid.” I plopped down on the edge of the mattress and lay back and gave a little laugh toward the ceiling. “That was my kid—who up until two days ago didn’t even seem to own vocal cords—calling me up for emergency help with his homework.”

  Turning, Zack cleared his throat. He yanked on the hem of his shirt to smooth it out. “Austin’s your son.”

  “Yep. And dig this. Apparently, he’s doing a hip-hop version of The Odyssey.”

  “Wow.” Zack gave a quick, happy little laugh. Noticing that he’d buttoned his shirt cockeyed, he began undoing it. “So he’s musical. Just like his mother. That is so cool. How old is he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Whoa. Just a little older than Lexie. Right. Okay,” he said abruptly. “Here, you still want to shower?” He picked one of the damp towels off his floor. “Sorry. I forgot to do a laundry. It’s not too used.”

  I went into the bathroom. The prospect of getting my hair wet, then drying everything off with a single dirty, soggy towel did not hold much appeal for me. Besides, the way
I reeked of sex and tequila was thrilling—it was like a vapor of lust hovering around me—and as I inhaled deeply, I saw in the mirror that I looked unmistakably ravaged and sated and fucked. Oh, how I’d missed this state! Oh, how I loved it. A dry hand towel looked clean, so I just washed my face, armpits, and crotch in the sink with Zack’s liquid soap and left it at that. I brushed my teeth with my finger and—why not?—sprayed on just a little of his cologne to add to the mix. It didn’t smell quite as good as in the bottle or on me as it did directly on him, but just sniffing it got me mildly aroused again. I picked up his toothbrush—his toothbrush—frayed and still damp from his beautiful, oh-so talented mouth. His black plastic comb, with a strand of his hair that I plucked and held to the light. A cheap vinyl dopp kit held a razor, pill vials (Viagra? Really? Had he needed it with me? It hadn’t seemed like it…plus a prescription I didn’t recognize from 2013, unopened, untouched). Tiny snippets of hair freckled the sink, an electric razor recharging on the back of the toilet. A little tub of Vaseline. Unable to resist, I dabbed some on my mouth, then kissed his mirror several times, leaving lip marks.

  When I came out, Zack was dressed and sitting on the couch, texting. “You know, I love that you’re still a rocker chick, Bella, that you never gave up on that. That is just awesome.”

  I glanced at Aggie, propped in the entryway. Zack had no way of knowing how new it was. Guiltily, I thought of Austin. “Actually,” I said. “Do you mind if I practice for a little while before we head out?”

  “No, no. Please. Be my guest. Do what you gotta do. We’re in ‘Music City,’ baby! I can keep myself entertained for a little while.” Sauntering into the kitchen, he returned with another drink. “I figure, one more now is one less on our bar bill, right?” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “You want one? I’ve got some mix in the fridge. There might even be a lime.”

  “No, no, go ahead.” I swung Aggie up onto my lap without looking at Zack. “I’ll be the designated driver tonight.” As I arranged my fingers on the frets, however, I leaned over and inhaled deeply, trying to get a quick whiff. Just focus on the strings, Donna, I told myself. Eddie Ate Dynamite. Good Bye Eddie. I shifted about uncomfortably on the couch, the guitar like a barricade. I hadn’t played at all since Vegas, and just showing Austin the chords earlier had hurt my fingertips. I didn’t know how I was going to manage to build up all the calluses I needed just to be an okay teacher.

  Zack leaned over, kissed me lightly on the forehead. “You sure? We can Uber it instead if you want. Though it’ll be about a zillion bucks from out here.”

  “No, no worries. I’ll drive.” I glanced at the bottle of Patrón. There didn’t seem to be much left in it.

  His gaze followed mine down to his grip. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you some for later, princess.”

  I stared back down at my guitar. I didn’t even know where to begin, what to start with. So I just closed my eyes and began to strum, hoping beyond hope that a song would come to me and I would still sound halfway decent, that I would sound as though I actually knew what the fuck I was doing.

  After a few minutes, Zack reappeared. He’d switched some lights on, and the apartment looked more inviting in the honeyed light, with the wheat fields and sky dark in the window. He leaned against the doorframe, waggling his drink around in its glass, listening. I tried not to look at him, tried not to focus on anything but the notes rising in the air. Slowly, I started to sing. No words, just a plaintive, mournful vocal.

  “Oh, Bella,” Zack said, shaking his head. And was I imagining it, or was he beginning to tear up? “Look at you.”

  And for that singular moment, with the guitar balanced on my lap and my fingers plucking at the chords and Zack gazing at me, I felt like finally, finally, I might be exactly where I was supposed to have been in my life all along.

  Chapter 13

  And then we were in public, with our hands jammed into each other’s back pockets. When we’d fucked as teenagers, afterward I’d always felt as if pieces of my heart had broken off into his bloodstream. Now, I was surprised to feel this same sensation again, as if I’d fused with him on a molecular level. Giddy, free-floating, no longer rooted in myself.

  Neon guitars and neon cowboys and neon marquees cascaded above us on Lower Broadway. The Tequila Cowboy. Paradise Park Trailer Resort. Layla’s Bluegrass. Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. The bars’ very names like song titles.

  If making music in the twenty-first century had largely become a solo, digital enterprise, well, Nashville never got the memo. As Zack and I sauntered past the storefronts, it was like flipping the dial on the radio; one snippet of live music quickly gave way to another. A bluegrass jam was going full-throttle, followed by a Patsy Cline cover, followed by—was that a half-time country rendition of Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel”? Yep.—followed by a goateed man in a butcher’s apron going to town on an electric fiddle, lacquered in violet light. Cars and SUVs had their sound systems blasting, making the night air vibrate with the heavily synthesized songs my kids listened to: Fetty Wap and Justin Timberlake and Lana Del Rey. Horse-drawn carriages full of tourists clopped by. The warm air glistened with humidity, and as we made our way through the crowds, it smelled of barbecue char, cigarette smoke, and sweet, cloying, hay-ish manure.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” Zack shouted. “Welcome to my stomping grounds.”

  “Kiss me,” I commanded. And he did, right there in the middle of Lower Broadway.

  “Woo-hoo! Get a room! Get a room!” A “Pedal Tavern” jerked to a stop in the street beside us, propelled by a group of giggling young women in matching BRIDE TRIBE T-shirts. One of them had a fountain of white tulle erupting from her head. Holding aloft a red Solo cup, she shouted, “Pay attention, motherfuckers! This bitch is gettin’ hitched! Woohoo!” A friend sitting beside her aimed her drink at Zack and me, her voice slurry. “You folks married? Or just doin’ the nasty?”

  “We’re high school sweethearts!” I hollered.

  “Woohoo!” yelled all the girls in unison. “Woohoo!”

  “So are these two!” one said, motioning to the bride-to-be. “To Cassie and Tyler!”

  “To Cassie and Tyler!” All the girls raised their Solo cups.

  “Hang on, hang on. Do you ladies know that you’re in the presence of like, the world’s greatest Instgrammer here? Allow me.” Whipping out his phone, Zack made them pose, their cups held aloft like lanterns. “You gals are gorgeous. Oh, you’re gonna love this. What’s your Instagram?” he asked the bride. “I’ll totally post these!”

  “Oh my God!” the girls chorused. “You are soooo cute!”

  “Here.” One handed him a Solo Cup to consume on the spot.

  “Chug, chug, chug!” the girls chanted. “Woohoo!”

  As they pedaled off noisily, I squinted after them. “Wow,” I said. “In another lifetime.”

  Zack punched the air. “Boo-yah!”

  We stopped into one place where Zack seemed to know the bartender, then another. At each, he had a beer or a tequila shot. I tried not to keep count. I’d sworn to myself that I was done being the Enforcer, the killjoy, Mo-o-om. I was going to work with this, go with the flow. Everything with me and Zack was going to be the exact opposite of me with Joey. Besides, for the first time in years, for as long as I could remember, “I need; I want; fill me” had been stilled. With Zack, I could feel sated. I actually might not even want to drink.

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, do you have any of that cash on you? I’m running low.” Digging around in my purse for my wallet, I handed him a twenty. “Great. Thanks. Don’t worry, princess. After this, we’ll go to a place that’s a little more your style.”

  Yet when we got back into the car, the traffic was terrible and the street layout didn’t make any sense to me. I felt myself starting to wilt. It had been a very long day already. I’d neglected to bring any Adderall. Zack kept pointing out all the places he’d worked as a rigger—this stadium, th
at auditorium, recounting how he’d once shown Steven Tyler how to use Spotify. How he’d had to hoist LeAnn Rimes up onto a stage himself after a hydraulic lift jammed. How he’d eaten vegan curry backstage with Maroon 5. Had he always been such a talker? I found myself starting to edit him in my head.

  “Zack. Look,” I said finally. “Are we actually going anywhere?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just one more detour, okay? I promise. You’re going to fucking love this.” Per his instructions, I drove through a park. Before us rose a colossal pillared temple straight out of antiquity. Amber lights angled up at it.

  “What the hell?” I said. “That looks like the Parthenon.”

  “Exactly, exactly! It is the fucking Parthenon. Bella, am I good, or what?” Grinning, he held up his palm for me to high-five. “Nashville used to be called ‘the Athens of the South.’ So some guy decided to build an exact copy of it for the World’s Fair or something. There’s even this giant gold Athena inside.”

  “Jesus. Hang on.” I unclicked my seat belt. “Let me get a picture for my son.” You had to love the ancient Greeks. In the end, they decided to name their capital after the goddess of wisdom—not beauty, not hunting. In the end, they picked a female deity with brains to represent them.

  “Here. Let me take it,” Zack said. “One goddess in front of another.”

  “Oh, that’s good. That might be your best line yet.”

  “I know, right? The East German judge gives it a solid nine.”

  A few blocks away, he led me down an alley to a graffitied courtyard. On a bulb-trimmed sign, in plastic marquee letters, were the words PUBIC LICE. At first, I thought “Pubic Lice” was the name of the bar—worst name in all of human history—until I realized: No, “Pubic Lice” was the name of a band.