Square One

by Dale Chase

  * * * *

  I announced my departure on the morning of the thirtieth day, Reece behind his Times as usual.

  “I’m moving out,” I said.

  Tracy had yet to show, and I wanted this done before he brought his little cock to the table. When Reece said nothing, I slapped down the paper.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Did you hear me?” I demanded.

  “Yes, something about going somewhere.”

  “Not going, Reece. Leaving. Leaving.”

  He set down the paper and gave me his full attention. “Leaving?”

  “I’m moving up to the Bay Area to live in the family home.”

  “Well, this is certainly a surprise.”

  “Is it? Did you think we’d just keep on as we are? That I’d be content as a spare?”

  “Oh, come on, Noah. Don’t be so dramatic. You know I don’t think of you that way.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you think. I’m going by actions, and Tracy is obviously my replacement. Difficult as it is, I’ve accepted it and am moving on.”

  His acting from this point was masterful. He sat back and called up a heartbroken expression, even put a hand to his chest. He squinted and worked his forehead into a frown in an almost convincing performance. “Is it what you truly want?” he asked, placing a hand over mine.

  “It truly is. You and Tracy don’t need a third wheel.”

  “You’re not a third wheel.”

  “If you say so, but it feels like that and I’m tired of it—exhausted, actually. I want a fresh start somewhere else.”

  The hand drew back as if I’d insulted him in refusing to endure any longer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When will you go?”

  “Soon as I’ve packed. I’ve rented a trailer for my stuff since the car holds little.”

  “You have it all arranged.”

  I enjoyed his surprise at my planning it without his knowledge. “That I do.”

  The good part was, he didn’t question anything I took from the house. In fact, he became quite generous, piling on towels and bedding, insisting I take enough kitchen things to get started. He said I should take the coffee machine and the painting over my bed.

  “Take furniture, if you wish,” he added, but this I refused. “You know I have plenty.”

  I noted the “we” of us had been replaced by the “I” of him.

  On my last day with them, I considered landing Tracy and fucking him raw. Give it to him so rough, he’d bleed. I’d had him before, of course, when he’d first come on the scene as a new playmate. When I saw him holding himself, I considered having one last suck of the morsel, maybe just to annoy Reece, but I knew I dared not, because if I got his dick into my mouth, I’d likely bite it off.

  We were thus spared any drama, and on a sunny June morning, I kissed Reece’s cheek, nodded at Tracy, and set out. Driving down Mullholland the final time felt wonderful. I’d set myself free.

  * * * *

  I hadn’t driven the four-hundred miles between Los Angeles and San Francisco since I’d come down to UCLA for college, but I still knew the route well. Trips home to see the folks were always by plane, just an hour each way, so getting back on the road felt almost new. I followed Highway 101 all the way as it gave the traveler a good mix of ocean and farmland with plenty of places to stop along the way. This time, having no schedule, I wouldn’t hurry. I’d stop when it suited me.

  Leaving was easier than I’d thought. I’d expected to suffer a sense of loss as I passed familiar landmarks, but a sense of freedom and adventure accompanied me, making solitude almost welcome. Eating alone felt odd at first, nobody across the table, no conversation. I’d been a half so long, that being a whole took some adjustment, but I managed by reminding myself it was a good thing to be released from Reece’s powerful orbit.

  The first night in a motel, however, I woke from a dream about him, something scattered, almost nonsensical. It startled me awake, and as I lay in the dark, I thought back to the best of us, that wonderful first year.

  Having had a major crush on him for some time had led me, the aspiring screenwriter, to write a film for him, then stake out The Polo Lounge to try and get it to him. For two days, I’d lingered there, using up money I could scarcely spare, but it had paid off, and I saw him come in for lunch one day with a middle-aged man, probably an agent or producer. When the other guy left for a likely bathroom break, I went over, introduced myself to Reece, and placed the screenplay before him.

  His first reaction was to shoo me away, but then instinct—the kind in his pants—took over. “Sit down,” he said. The two most beautiful words I’d ever heard.

  I knew my looks had done it because they’d gotten me dates, meals, and sex, starting in college. When I pitched the screenplay and how it was written just for him, he bit.

  “I’ll read it and call you,” he said.

  I thanked him too many times and fled. A week later, he invited me to move in.

  Funny, back then, I didn’t expect it to last. I was used to transience, so it came as a surprise when he’d bought me things, taught me how to live the good life, and got the movie made. By the time it premiered, I was happily settled on Mulholland Drive and deeply in love. It was good, so good.

  Now, I drifted back to sleep thinking on us having lunch at the Polo Lounge.

  * * * *

  Next day, the highway took me inland to the agricultural heart of California. I always thought all coastal residents should drive the highway at least once to remind them how Los Angeles and San Francisco weren’t everything. Farmlands were vast, miles and miles of crops that fed countless people, though I now found some miles supplanted with vineyards. Despite the huge population of the coastal cities, California was an agricultural state.

  Once past farmland and a pit stop in San Jose, I drove on to Arroyo, entering town around six p.m. As I circled down the freeway off ramp, I thought how I was back to square one and didn’t particularly like the idea. Where had I been? Square two? Three? Four?

  Four years had passed since returning at my mother’s death, and I saw a few things had changed. My favorite Mexican restaurant was gone and a second Starbucks had replaced a great burger joint. Other changes undoubtedly lurked, but for the most part, the town seemed its old self. I turned up Camino Real, then came to Russell Drive, where my house stood on the corner. I parked and stepped out to see how the place felt.

  Before, on trips to see my parents, I’d been much the visitor. It was their home, not mine, and showing up one day to reclaim it didn’t automatically make it welcoming. It was going to take time. Fortunately, that was one thing I had in abundance.

  As I stood on the front path, I heard my name called and, as it was an elderly female voice, knew without turning that it was Mrs. Springer, who’d lived next door my entire life. “Noah Dahl? Is that you? Can it be?” She toddled up to me with her cane and a small leashed dog.

  “Yes, Mrs. Springer, it’s me. I’m moving in.”

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful. Oh, I’m delighted. Just delighted.”

  The dog, a little honey-colored Pomeranian, danced about, eager for attention.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “This is Bobby. He’s two and quite a handful, but he keeps me moving.”

  “Good for him,” I said as I squatted to pet him.

  Ellen Springer had to be eighty-five, but looked more like seventy. She and Mr. Springer had always lived next door and, as they had no children, they’d doted on me. I’d mowed their lawns, helped with garden chores and household repairs over the years, always paid in cash and brownies.

  “Still making brownies?” I asked as I stood.

  “I’ll make you a batch tomorrow. Welcome home, Noah.” She patted my arm and went up the street to her redwood-sided house, Bobby dancing along. I decided then and there that I’d get a cat. Maybe two.

  I’d grown up with cats and loved them, but Reece woul
dn’t allow pets due to allergies. I hadn’t missed them too much, but now, set free, I could indulge. I loved furry creatures and suddenly longed for a cat’s purr. Once I had the house furnished, I’d visit a shelter and get an adult cat. Kittens, adorable as they are, never slept at night.

  The house looked to be in good shape, pale gold stucco intact, roof appearing to have fared well. It was a three-bedroom rancher built in 1941 when the area was first developed and sat on a quarter acre of now-valuable land. I knew I could sell it for a million dollars, which seemed surreal. Maybe someday. For now, it would be home.

  Robin had left the key in a fake rock lying with the real ones near the porch. Key in hand, I went inside. The absence of furniture gave the place an eerie emptiness. Gone was the hunter green sectional sofa on which I’d stretched to watch TV as a boy. I could count the years by the succession of TV sets as my parents went from hulks to the final flat screen my mother could never understand. Innards that small were beyond her. She’d been fearful of my smart phone.

  I didn’t recognize the drapes, but the kitchen window shade reminded me how often I’d looked out that window while washing dishes as a teen. The stove was a 1941 Wedgewood classic and my parents knew not to replace it.

  Wandering rooms, I reminded myself again that I’d be living here, then saw I had to stop pushing. Home it might once have been, but for now, I was like the renters. I’d become an intruder and must allow time to gain new familiarity. Best way was to get myself moving. The trailer needed unpacking, though it was too late to drop it at the local rental lot. I could get by with just a sleeping bag, so I drove to a sporting goods store and bought one, along with an air mattress. On the way home, I hit the Jack-in-the-Box for take-out dinner.

  Back at the house, I stepped onto the patio just outside the back door. As the weather was mild, I had dinner there and found that food settled me a bit. A squirrel came down from the walnut tree, nut in its mouth, and paused to note my presence before scampering away. I thought back to Mullholland Drive. Had I ever seen a squirrel there? What were Reece and Tracy doing now? Could they stop fucking?

  I stayed on the patio till well after dark, watching a movie on my iPad until I began to nod. I went inside to where I’d made up my bed in the living room and crashed. I didn’t even turn over till late morning.

  * * * *

  Unpacking wasn’t much, just moving everything from trailer to house. Boxes and suitcases remained full since I lacked furniture to hold things. Only kitchen items were put away. I did like that the cleaning had been done for me. There was no fridge, so I didn’t stock up on food. Breakfast was a run to McDonald’s.

  I wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Springer came through the back gate. She’d always enjoyed an open invitation with my parents and that wasn’t about to change. She correctly assumed that with me lacking furniture, I’d likely be on the patio where table and chairs remained. She had a plate of brownies in hand and found me making a list of all I needed to buy.

  “Making a list, I see,” she said.

  “I need everything. It’s a long list.”

  “Well, take a break and have a brownie.”

  She sat opposite me, then asked what brought me home.

  “Funny to call it ‘home’ after all these years,” I said. “I’ll have to get used to that. Home has been Los Angeles for a long time.”

  She said nothing, waiting for the answer I hadn’t given. Since I’d known her all my life, I sighed and jumped in.

  “A long relationship ended,” I began. “I just couldn’t stay there anymore and this is the only place I had.”

  “That’s rather sad.”

  “Very, but it’s for the best. And I’m sure this will soon feel like home again. Most of all, I’m looking for peace and quiet, time to regroup, so to speak.”

  “Once you furnish the place, it will become yours.”

  I munched on a brownie, then fetched us water. Mrs. Springer seemed so comfortable, like she belonged in any setting, and I envied her that. She was so settled, but then she’d lived in her house more than forty years.”

  “So tell me about the street,” I said. “I see the Bensons have new landscaping and the Clydes had siding put on.”

  “Yes, but they’re all gone. The Bensons moved to Georgia—his work, you know, big promotion—and the Clydes, well, he ran off with his secretary, there was a divorce, she got the house—which she sold for a pretty penny—then moved to Arizona. The Benson house now belongs to the Worthingtons and the Clyde place is now the Martin place.”

  Turnover had never been much on Russell Drive. People tended to stay put and enjoy their home’s appreciation in value, so it surprised me that two houses side by side had changed hands. Meanwhile, Mrs. Springer worked her way up the hill, though none of the other houses had changed hands. The street was just a single block, a gentle uphill that dead-ended into woods where deer lived, deer that came down each night to eat everyone’s flowers. My mother had given up growing roses after too many mornings finding her garden a sea of stems. All plants at the house were now deer resistant.

  Mrs. Springer ate a second brownie as she ticked off the status of each home. Many residents were now up in age, some infirm. She mentioned them all, having become, over the years, the street’s roving ambassador. “And the Wagers,” she continued, having worked her way to the topmost house. “That’s a sad story.”

  The name struck me as the others hadn’t because Glenn Wager had once meant something to me. “Why sad?” I asked.

  “You know what heavy smokers they were,” Mrs. Springer said.

  I nodded, recalling how Glenn always smelled smoky, though he didn’t smoke.

  “Well,” she continued, “Herb died of lung cancer eleven years ago, and then Norma got congestive heart failure, COPD, emphysema, you name it. She died two months ago.”

  “How sad.”

  “And poor Glenn…”

  “Why? Did he take the loss hard?”

  “When Norma got too ill to be on her own, he quit his job in Seattle and moved home to take care of her. Two years he did everything for her. He’s still up there, a bit lost, I think. Poor fellow.”

  Glenn Wager, right up the hill, just like when I was a kid. Glenn Wager, the first crush of my life, the biggest crush ever. Glenn Wager, six years older and always so nice to me. He’d mowed our lawns until I was old enough to take over the job, then took time teaching me how to do it right. After that, whenever I mowed the front yard, I’d make sure to do it perfectly because he’d see it as he passed, and that meant something. And when my dad was away on business travel, it was Glenn on whom my mother called when household mishaps overwhelmed her. He could fix anything and I’d always watch. He’d explain to me everything he did, every step he took, and I’d feel special in that.

  “Glenn Wager,” I now said. “I haven’t seen him since he left for college years ago. University of Oregon. I guess he stayed up north.”

  “Yes. That was disappointing,” replied Mrs. Springer.

  After this, I wanted her gone because talk of Glenn Wager had stirred me. I needed to be alone with him, so I purposely let conversation dwindle until she got the idea and toddled off. I thanked her for the brownies as I closed the gate behind her.

  * * * *

  Glenn had always been the older boy up at the end of the street, friendly and always saying “hello” as he went by. When he was fifteen, my parents decided he was old enough to babysit my nine-year-old self. I’d complained about this, everything from anger to pouting, because being babysat by my crush made me just that, a baby. I was mortified when he’d arrived and my parents left.

  First thing he did was turn off the TV. “Let’s do something. TV is such a waste.”

  I had no idea what he intended and felt myself diminished at having no suggestions.

  Seeing my plight, he said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “But it’s nighttime.”

  “All the better.”

  We
put on jackets and walked the half mile to town, every step pure joy for me as I felt so grown up beside him. Everything but restaurants was closed, but it didn’t matter. He seemed to gain joy just from being, and I thought—hoped—my presence was part of it.

  “What do you do with your time?” he asked as we went along. “Sports? Gaming?”

  “Well…” I hesitated. Dare I share my innermost secret?

  “Well?” he said, his gentle nudge easing the way.

  “Okay. Well, I write these stories.” I paused, fearful of saying more.

  But he gave me another gentle nudge. “And?”

  “I made up an in-between world. I call it Tween and only certain people get to know it’s there. It’s part past and part future so there are cowboys and horses along with space travelers, but nobody from the present. Then people in the present find out about it and want to go there, but you know they’d ruin it because it’s the best of us.” Here I trailed off because hearing it out loud made it sound silly.

  “That’s amazing,” said Glenn. “Would you read me some later?”

  I’d never showed my writing to anyone, never told anyone I wrote at all. My parents had no idea and I wouldn’t tell them because I thought they’d laugh. Now here was an older person who might be safe.

  McDonald’s was open, so we went in for shakes and sat in a booth, which was huge for me. A nine-year-old out with a fifteen-year-old and nobody could tell he was my babysitter. Suddenly I felt almost Glenn’s equal and I decided then that I loved him.

  He asked when I’d started writing and I told him how discovering imagination at age four was like finding my own private world where anything was possible. As an only child, I spent alone-time with individuals I created: cowboys, astronauts, superheroes. And when a man I liked came into my life, however briefly, I’d imagine him, too.

  Glenn sipped his shake while focusing on me, and I saw how my parents always only halfway listened and how good it felt to be truly heard.

  Back at the house, I ran to my room, pulled the box of stories from under my dresser, found my favorite, and brought it out to Glenn. He sat on the floor, back to the sofa, legs drawn up, and I loved him for getting down where I liked. I sat beside him, took a deep breath, and began to read my cowboy story that involved none of the usual Indians or outlaws. My cowboy had a horse that spoke and he told the cowboy about things no human knew, about how it felt to have a saddle thrown onto his back and a man climb onto him, how at first he didn’t like it, but grew to accept it because it brought him a friend. The two explored the countryside, happy without anyone else.