“You haven’t heard from her?” I know Linda and I haven’t been as close since she got married to that dickbag, but when we were teenagers, we were practically best friends. We had a lot of the same classes in school, we ate lunch together, we ran with the same crowd. She always talked to me when something was on her mind. So it’s weird that she didn’t call me when she left her husband, or when she got back into town. She knows I’m here. She has to know.
“I don’t keep tabs on her,” my father says.
“If you see her before I do, tell her she can come stay with me.”
My dad takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. “You only got one bedroom.”
“I’ll make room.”
Steve looks up from the pool table. “She’s over at Ernest’s. Even had a toothbrush in his bathroom. I was there for a clogged drain this afternoon.”
“Ernest?” I say.
“He always did like them young,” Steve says.
“Can it,” my dad says. Steve puts his hands up.
“Ernest DeWitt?” I say again. “The old guy?”
“He’s not that old,” my dad says.
“He’s too old for Linda,” I say, struggling now to keep my voice from shaking. This is what I was afraid of. I have, of course, seen her around town with Ernest, but I didn’t know it was serious. I need to talk to her, to sort out what’s really going on.
Steve is waving to Bobby-Jo for another beer, but she’s purposefully ignoring him. He’s so busy trying to get her attention, he misses his shot. “Loser plays Derek,” he says, as if he just thought it up.
“We should go over to Ernest’s and get her,” I say, maybe too eagerly, because Steve squints at me like he’s trying to put something together.
My dad lines up his shot carefully, but misses anyway. “She’s a big girl. She can make her own decisions. Even if they are dumb.”
“You going to drink that beer?” Steve says.
I’d all but forgotten it. I take a drink. “We should just let her know her options.”
“Why would she want to live with her brother?”
“Stepbrother,” I say.
Steve shoots another ball in. “Hey, Bobby-Jo.”
“And why would she want to room with a stranger?” I say.
“I think it’s romantic,” Bobby-Jo says.
“What’s romantic?” I say.
“Bring a pitcher.”
“Starting over like that,” Bobby-Jo says. “And now a baby.”
“A baby?” my dad says.
“A pitcher,” Steve says again, chalking his pool stick.
“Jared, hon,” Bobby-Jo says. “We love your business and all, but maybe you should spend more time at home. How do you not know this?”
“Whose baby?” I say.
Bobby-Jo just stares at us like, Duh.
Steve laughs. “Ernest’s going to be a father again?”
“Christ,” my dad says, pulling on his beard; he must be really upset.
“How about that pitcher?”
Bobby-Jo runs a hand along my shoulder. “Anything for you, hon?”
“I’m good.” I take another sip of my beer. Bobby-Jo leaves to get Steve’s pitcher.
“No daughter of mine’s going to have Ernest DeWitt’s bastard child.”
“Stepdaughter.” She can’t be with Ernest. I mean, when I saw her in town with him, she hugged me so tight, right in front of him. She said she’d visit, but then she never did. To think of Linda with him, to think of them—no, this has to be a mistake. Ernest was maybe the kind of guy who was good for a rebound. But to stay with him? To have his baby? For the love of God, his daughter Eliza is older than Linda! No doubt he’ll dump Linda when he finds out she’s pregnant.
But what if he doesn’t? What if they stay together? Ernest would be about eighty at the kid’s graduation, with Linda sitting next to him. I imagine him in a wheelchair, a blanket in his lap, FDR-style, as the kid walks across the stage to get his diploma. The fuck is Linda still doing with him? He doesn’t help her raise his son, who’s kind of a handful, sneaking out of the house to carouse with his buddies. A month before graduation, he even wrecks the self-driving car Linda worked so hard to scrape together enough money to buy him. He was drunk while not-driving it, joy-riding, I dunno, and probably banging some girl who was also drunk. Their tangled legs knocked into the control panel and hit the manual override. And now Linda’s got to testify in court as to the character of her son; the girl’s parents are suing for damages to cover the hospital bill. Linda already works three jobs in order to save for Jr.’s college, and to pay for Ernest Sr.’s Lipitor. And seriously, Linda? You should treat yourself better.
What kind of stepbrother, what kind of friend, would I be if I didn’t at least try to prevent this?
“That’s game,” Steve says.
My dad scowls at the pool table.
Bobby-Jo brings Steve a pitcher of beer. She should have brought it to him with a straw. He’s already pouring himself some as he asks me, “You ready to lose?”
* * *
• • •
I lose three games of pool. The first game, against Steve, my dad tries to coach me.
“You got decent aim, but you need to hold the pool cue like this,” he says, his hand low on his cue, his pinkie looped around the end. Even with his tips, I keep scratching, so that Steve loses interest after the second game. He takes to downing pitchers and chatting up the barflies.
My dad plays me, reluctantly, savagely. He roundly wallops me in a few shots, then wanders away, up to the bar. I’ve taken the fun out of pool for him.
“Slick, get my son a beer.”
Slick places in front of me a beer that’s all foam.
“I said get my son a beer, not a pint of air.”
The second beer is better. Even though it’s light, it hunches in my stomach like a cold hunk of fur, a yeti of a beer.
“You don’t look so good,” Bobby-Jo says. She sidles up to me and rubs my shoulders. She’s skinny, but she has a strong grip. I’m not tall, but I’m not a small guy, either. I’ve put on a few pounds since starting work at the hospital. I don’t have the energy to hit the gym on days off. Plus I drink way too much pop. I need the caffeine most days. Bobby-Jo manages to dig through my extra padding and work my sore muscles like it’s nothing.
“You’re wasting your time, Bobby,” Slick says. “Derek wouldn’t even know what to do with a girl like you.”
“Why don’t we settle up?” my dad says.
“No, stay,” Steve says. “Give us a round of Jack. Neat. On me.”
“I’m good,” I say. I really don’t want to be here. I didn’t want to play pool, I didn’t want this beer, and I really don’t want a shot of Jack. What’s the saying? Beer to liquor, throw up quicker?
“You got Mondays off. Stay and have a drink with your uncle.”
“Yeah, stay awhile,” Bobby-Jo says, giving my shoulders one last squeeze before dropping off a check at one of the tables. I’ve known Bobby-Jo since high school, back when she was a plump girl with thick black hair. Now she has a gaunt face and bleached hair down to her waist. Not really my type, but her jeans are so tight—something about the thinness of the fabric, pale blue, and the way it pulls taut over her crotch—
“You know, she broke up with her boyfriend last week,” Steve says. “You should get in there while the getting’s good.”
And I have to admit, Bobby-Jo has a certain appeal. But she’s so tiny. I’m pretty sure a big guy like me would break her. It’d be like riding a bicycle with no seat. At the very least, she’d have to be on top.
An hour later, the bar is starting to clear out. Steve has queued up the jukebox with every Rush song ever. Bobby-Jo keeps making eyes at me like she’s going to have to carry me out of here, and like she won
’t mind it at all. My dad has disappeared.
Steve bought me three rounds of Jack. He’s probably spent half his paycheck tonight. Aunt Deb’s going to let him have it when he gets home, so he’s in no hurry to leave.
“Dance with me,” Bobby-Jo says, and for some reason my body’s working faster than my brain. I find myself holding her in my sweaty palms and swaying to “Time Stand Still.”
“I love this song,” she says.
“Really?” I say. “I hate that guy’s voice.”
“What? Geddy Lee rocks.”
“Who?”
She’s so close, her breath on my cheek. She smells like cigarettes and fruity perfume. I let my hand slip down—I want to know if any of her is still plump—but when I stoop enough to feel her ass, the room tilts.
“Easy there,” Bobby-Jo says, pushing me back on my feet. Her voice has changed. She sounds unsure, guarded. She takes a step back from me, and I try to regain the lost ground. She looks better than I had thought she did. What’s the saying? A hand in the bird—no, wait. A hand in the bush is worth flipping the bird? Her hair looks somehow softer. Her eye makeup is soft. The hard angles of her face are soft. Too soft. She’s doesn’t seem solid to me.
“Why don’t I call you an Uber?”
“S’all right. I walked here.”
“You sure?”
But I’m already on my way to the barstool. I just need to sit down for a second and get my bearings.
“Should’ve known you couldn’t handle your liquor,” Slick says as I try to get up on the wobbly stool.
“Not as good as you can,” I say.
“Why don’t you get out of here?” Slick says. Which I had been meaning to do, but now I don’t want to leave.
“Maybe I want another drink,” I say, leaning over the counter to better look at the bottles.
Slick smirks like I’m joking, but I stare him down until he pours me another shot. And I realize, as Slick pours, that he keeps sneaking looks at Bobby-Jo.
“Oh shit,” I say. “You want to hit that.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nurse O’Doul.”
“Slick wants to hit it,” I say, doing a little barstool dance, all crossed-wrists and bouncing shoulders. Slick leans across the counter and pulls me toward him by my shirt.
“Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once,” he says.
“Oh, big man.”
“Shut. The fuck. Up.”
“Sorry? Didn’t catch that.”
“Slick, let him go,” Bobby-Jo says. I’m drowning in his cologne. He must have hooked the bottle up to his showerhead this morning.
“Let him go,” she says again, placing her hand on his. He releases me so fast, I have to hold on to the bar to keep from falling backward.
“Really,” she says, and stomps back into the kitchen.
“Get the fuck out of my bar,” Slick says.
“Anything you say, Barbie.” I hop to, because he looks like he’s going to come over here and fight me. As I leave, he calls after me, “And learn how to treat a woman.”
Out on the sidewalk, I try to button my coat against the wind, but then I remember it’s only September and I’m not wearing one. I’ve gone a block and a half before I realize where I’m going. Of course I am. The only logical way to crown a night like this is by paying Linda a visit. At Ernest’s. Where she keeps a toothbrush. Fuck.
It takes a while to ring the doorbell, because the damn button keeps sliding around the doorframe. When Linda answers, she’s wearing a bathrobe. Her hair’s uncombed like she’s been sleeping fitfully. She can’t have been asleep, though, because all the lights are on in the house, and when she opens the door, the TV is blaring in the other room.
“Derek? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Lin. Nice place you got here.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Are you?”
She grabs my hand and pulls me into the house. Her hand is so warm. Soft. When I get inside, it occurs to me how homey the place is. It smells like pot roast. It smells lived-in in a way that my house never has.
“What are you doing here? Is everyone okay?”
“Oh, Linda,” I say, and nearly fall on her as I go to hug her. The floor in this house feels uneven. Shifty. It’s like being in a fun house, if your idea of fun is trying to walk on a floor that won’t stay put.
I lean against the wall. “Why are you here, Lin? This house is all woogity.”
“Who’s at the door, babe?” Ernest appears at the top of the open staircase.
“‘Babe’?” I say. “That’s a pig’s name.”
“It’s just my brother.”
“Stepbrother.”
“Hey, Derek,” Ernest says. He comes down the stairs gingerly, picking his way like he’s off balance. Of course he is—the stairs are all sliding from side to side.
“You okay?” Linda asks. And why is she worried about him, when I’m the one who’s wrecked? He’s wearing pajama pants and no shirt. Dude has the soft remnants of a six-pack and well-defined pectorals. He’s probably sixty and in better shape than I’ve ever been, all muscle and tan skin, big hands that he gets to put on Linda. His cock’s probably bigger than mine, too. I bet he’s uncircumcised.
“Everything okay?” he asks. The drawstring of his pajama pants is untied.
“Everything’s great,” I say. “My stepsister finally leaves her jerk husband, but now she’s pregnant with Ernest DeWitt’s baby.” I watch him, waiting for him to get angry, to show that this is news.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he says. “Have some water.”
Which is really very kind of him, considering the next thing I do is puke on his shifty-assed floor. Even nicer, he lets me lean on his muscly arm and helps me navigate those floors on my way to the living room. It’s hot in their living room, and there are too many Ernests in there. There are like four or five Ernests, and all of them are taller than me as they help me to the couch. They’re all leaning over me, moving me onto my side in case I puke again, laying a trash bag under my head. Their faces are too close to my face, and they’re smiling, a lopsided smile—only the right side of the mouth, only the right eye, as if the left side is grimacing. Something inside me reacts to this with warning bells, but I can’t put it together. Instead, I close my eyes to block out all the Ernests. I don’t want him here. I will him gone, and then it’s just me and Linda in the house. She hands me a glass of water, and I take her hand without opening my eyes. Her hand’s so big and rough. I try to fit it into the pocket I make with my hands, but it’s too big to contain. She pulls away, leaves the room, slow footfalls too heavy for the weight of her. When she comes back to wipe my face with a warm washcloth, she sounds like she’s composed herself. She treads lightly. She wipes my face with all the tenderness of a mother.
* * *
• • •
In the morning, I wake up on Ernest DeWitt’s couch. I’m hoping I’m up early enough to slip out before they wake. I find my shoes by the front door. Someone’s already cleaned up my puke in the hallway. I barely remember being guided to the couch, Linda wiping my face with a washcloth.
Before I get both shoes on, Linda appears in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Stay for breakfast? Ernest’s making waffles.”
And what can I do? I mutter an apology when he puts a plate of bacon on the table, and again when Linda brings me coffee. I eat the man’s waffles, soaked in warm, real maple syrup that he’s melted butter in. I eat like it’s going out of style. I train my eyes on my plate to keep from looking at Linda. I’m eating not only to soak up the poisons my body is making as it processes the booze, but also as a way of taking what little Linda can offer me.
Ernest doesn’t eat with us. He says he needs to do some work on Linda’s car, and takes his plate and his coffee into the garage with h
im.
Linda and I eat in silence for a while. It’s kind of nice, just Linda and me, until I wreck it by saying again that I’m so, so sorry.
“Oh, Derek. I told you last night, you don’t have to be sorry.”
“We talked last night?” As if I don’t remember. Of course I remember.
“Why Ernest DeWitt?” I’d asked her, while lying on his couch.
“Don’t do this,” she’d said.
“Why not? I never do this. That’s the problem. Maybe if I’d done this sooner, you wouldn’t have married Nathan. Maybe you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I like here,” she said.
“I like you.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“I love you.”
“I know,” she said.
* * *
• • •
It’s a full week before I see her again. I stop by Grandma’s farm on Sunday, all casual, holding a huge bowl of mashed potatoes like I’m there for supper and not for Linda. Grandma isn’t in the kitchen when I get there. Instead, Linda is pulling cornbread from the oven.
“It’s one of the few things I can manage to keep down these days,” she says, cutting us each a wedge from the cast-iron skillet. She puts them on tea saucers, a little pat of butter on each.
“Where’s Grandma?” I ask. I can’t believe my luck, to find Linda here alone.
“Probably out in the fields. Because why not?”
“I should have brought ham,” I say, scooping mashed potatoes onto my plate next to the cornbread.
The windows in the kitchen are all open, letting the cool air breeze in. The day has turned rainy and cold, the September sky the color of fireplace ashes. In Michigan, they say if you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes.
The farm is quiet, the bulk of the chickens having been sold recently, and the only sound is a distant whinnying from the fields, a goat’s bleat, the tractor’s engine, the wind pushing the smell of damp leaves and fresh-cut hay across the hills. From the picture window, I watch a truck pull up in the drive, blocking my car in. Paula is inside, just sitting there, both hands on the wheel. I’d forgotten how tiny she is. She looks like a child sitting in her daddy’s truck. The look on Linda’s face says she’s not surprised to see her mother. This must be why Grandma’s not in the house. She never misses Sunday supper.
The House of Deep Water Page 8