by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 38: BOBBY
I had something to take care of before I left. The obligation tugged the back of my shirt but I didn’t want to turn around. It was too much to contemplate, to feel. Guilt, love, guilt, and more guilt. And now it doesn’t matter. But it seems like it still matters.
I wanted TV more than ever. Big mistake to smash it, but it made sense at the time. Didn’t everything I ever do make sense at the time? Why else did I do it? It’s the future that turns sense into stupidity. If I had the power to see just twenty-four hours into the future, everything would’ve been different, better, perfect, logical. But I didn’t, so it’s wasn’t. Why couldn’t I read life as it happened instead of after it passed?
Adam knew how to organize a life. Spouse, house, job. Where did he learn that trick? Maybe in school. They pulled him aside and told him everything he needed to know. Doubt it. Even if I stayed in school, even if Darryl hadn’t been shot, even if I didn’t have to take flight, I’d still be far from normal. Is it all dad’s fault? He didn’t finish raising me so of course I’m this half formed thing. No. Adam didn’t have a close father either, he said. It doesn’t matter anymore, but I’d still like to know how people like Adam do it and what went wrong with me.
One thing they do, I realized, is take care of their obligations.
I would’ve called mom, but she’s at work. I would've called, but her voice would’ve killed me. I would’ve called, but I couldn’t’ve talked.
I laid on the couch with a pen and paper. Adam was out of view and I could concentrate.
Dear mom, I’m sorry I didn’t stay in school. If I did then I’d have the words to tell you how sorry I am about Darryl. I’m sorry I’m not with you. I wish I can make you believe that I’ll be okay. Someday we’ll all be okay and live a good life. Don’t blame yourself for anything. I’ll blame myself. I did the best I could but it wasn’t enough. But I’m trying to make things better and I will. I’ll call you when I’m safe and sound. Until then, don’t be sad. PS-Wendy and I broke up. Love, Robert.
I found an envelope and a stamp. I threatened Adam and hurried to the lobby. I dropped the envelope in the silver box. The mailbox for the apartment was bulging. I emptied it because I was curious, not because Sampson told me to.
Adam hadn’t moved.
On the couch, I looked through the mail. Dwight Powell. So it was a man. He had bills from L.L. Bean and the cable company (“Open immediately”), two issues of Newsweek, a bunch of coupons and flyers, something from a children’s charity and a card.
I opened the card. On the front, a couple walked on a beach at sunset, holding hands, their backs to camera. Seagulls flew above them. Inside, I read: “Dwight, This card made me think of us and what we could have. It’s not too late. You’re always and forever in my thoughts. Love, Michelle.”
I felt bad for Michelle. Dwight, too, wherever he was.
The couple on the front was a different species than Wendy and me, but I tried to replace us in the snapshot. It didn’t work. I’d never wear khaki shorts or a pink polo shirt. The woman’s dress fluttered in the air and I never saw Wendy in a dress. She and I never really held hands either, at least not when we walked outside. Sometimes when we watched TV I’d touch her hand and she’d let me, but never when we walked down the sidewalk. And the picture was taken in Florida. I could tell. We had never been there and although I was going there, I knew we’d never be there together. But the biggest difference between their world and ours was Michelle’s language, which was made up totally different words than the ones Wendy spoke, at least when she spoke to me.
The pile was from a life I’ll never have. Even if. The life seems so simple too. A girl, some nice clothes, an interest in world affairs, enough cash to share the wealth.
I have no idea what happened to my life. It was always on the verge of starting. But no. I had seventeen years. That was plenty of time to start it myself. Maybe if I had seen the pile earlier, I would’ve had a goal to work towards. Instead, I had to guess what it means to be normal and that task was too overwhelming so I brushed the problem aside for a later time that never came.
I threw the mail in the trash and told myself in Florida I’d build something like Dwight Powell’s life, that tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of my life. I should’ve made that commitment years ago. Instead, I made it today, the one day tomorrow no longer means anything.
