Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  The doctor sets Flip’s chair back up. “Mr. Mellis. Please. Return to your chair. Let her finish. It’s her turn. You will have your say in a moment.” He tries to steer Flip by his shoulders. Flip ignores the doctor, shrugs him off, pushes his head into Lynn’s lap and starts to cry. Lynn cradles his head for a moment, as if she were holding an infant, reconsiders, and shoves him away, his whiskered jowls catching on the soft material of her skirt. He sits back on his ass, and they sob separately.

  “No. No. No. No. No,” he says, his face ticks back and forth.

  The doctor looks at his watch. “Maybe we should continue this later, Mr. Mellis.”

  Forced Exodus

  “No way, man,” Kev says. He shakes his head with a genuine sense of deeply felt disbelief, his hair swaying around his lean, smooth face.

  Flip still looks like he’s dressed for a luau. His backyard is stifling with late-summer heat. He kicks off his shoes to cool down. His feet sink into the grass, but it’s brittle and gives him no comfort. Looking over the fence at Kev, Flip has to admit Lynn is right; Kev really does look stoned.

  Flip is having trouble catching his breath: hay fever. He takes a deep, wheezing breath, coughs up something salty and spits it in the grass. Kev is standing on the other side of the fence next to a lawn mower in a black T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off. Bonerama is printed across the shirt. Flip knows it’s Kev’s favorite band.

  “So Mr. Mellis. What’re you going to do? Are you guys getting a divorce? Or what? I mean, I’m sorry. Don’t feel like you have to answer that.” Kev rakes his fingers back through his dirty-blond, shoulder-length hair and pulls his left foot in and out of his flip-flop. His tan skin gives him a healthy, fit look. “I mean, if me and Aubrey broke up, I mean, I know it isn’t exactly the same, but it would kill me. You know?”

  “I know. I do. I know what you mean, Kev. It wasn’t all that long ago that Lynn and I were young and dating. And crazy in love.” Flip scratches at his still-tender wrist.

  “Right on,” Kev says earnestly. Flip hadn’t expected Kev to understand. And honestly, how could he really? But Kev looks sincere enough, not skeptical at all. That’s one thing Flip really likes about the kid. He doesn’t seem to have a malicious bone in his body. He’s uncomplicated, even if his eyes are bloodshot and he smells like he’s been dipped in patchouli oil.

  “So listen, Kev, I know I haven’t paid you for mowing in a long time.” A rivulet of sweat runs down the small of Flip’s back. When he moves he can feel his shirt sticking to his shoulder blades and love handles, his thick chest, his swollen gut, and the backs of his fat arms. His body feels more bloated than usual. His skin itches and tingles, especially along the puckering scrape on his side. He winces, embarrassed at the memory.

  He isn’t used to sweating, and it has irritated his pores. Or maybe he has that disease where the epidermis peels off like a snake shedding its skin. That would make sense, considering how much bigger his body has got. Human skin can only take so much before it splits wide open. He imagines himself crawling out of an old, dried husk of skin, standing there naked and slick and red, like a newborn baby.

  “It’s cool, man,” Kev says. “I mean, I have to mow my yard anyway. Gotta pitch in or the ’rents get edgy. I’ll just keep going. It’s no big deal. You know what I mean?” Kev walks a little closer, leans his hands against the top of the fence and squeezes his face against the sun.

  Kev is in his mid-twenties and not at all apologetic about living in his parents’ basement. Flip has never spoken to the adult neighbors. All he knows is: they wear dark suits, carry briefcases, and drive matching BMWs. They carry themselves like attorneys.

  “Yes, Kev. I know what you mean. But I made you a promise. And I don’t want to just bail out. I want you to know, even though I’m going to be leaving for a while, and even though the house is for sale, I’m going to try and get a job right away, make things right, get the mortgage caught up. You know? Get everything back in order for my family. That’s my top priority.”

  “Right on, Mr. Mellis,” Kev says, “right . . . ,” he makes a fist and Flip returns the gesture. They knock their knuckles together. “. . . on, Mr. Mellis. You can do it.”

  “Thanks. To be honest, I’m not sure. But I have to try.” Flip’s skin is drawing tight across the back of his neck. He should have worn a hat. Or sunscreen. Or both.

  Unbidden, a visceral memory flashes through his mind: the medicinal slurry of half-digested sleeping pills, Pepto, stomach acid, ice cream, and booze—plus whatever they forced into his gullet to make him regurgitate. He almost yaks again and his anus puckers.

  “Right on,” Kev says empathetically.

  “Hey, Kev?” Flip is looking at Kev’s feet over the fence.

  “Yeah, Mr. M?”

  “You really should wear shoes with closed toes if you’re going to mow. I had a coworker once who cut off one of his toes mowing in sandals. After that he couldn’t run anymore. He would lose his balance. You really should wear shoes. This guy used to be a marathoner. Ran every day for years. Real good shape. Had to give it up. Got real fat and miserable. I hate to be parental. But it’s hardwired in my brain. Some things are like that. I’m just looking out for you.”

  Kev and Flip squint into one another’s faces for a moment. Then Kev nods affirmatively. “Right the fuck on, Mr. M. Right the fuck on.” They bump fists again. “Oh. Sorry about the language.”

  “I’ve heard it before. Don’t worry,” Flip says. “So I want to give you something to hang on to for me.” Flip takes an object from his khaki shorts. “This belonged to my father. When I was little, my dad packed a few things and left us. I mean, left the family forever. My mom says all he said before he left was ‘raising a family is not for me.’ I guess that was true. Anyway, after he left, this was one of the things still in his dresser drawer. He also left a coffee can full of wheat pennies and an all-metal Craftsman drill. Anyway, I’ve had it ever since. I don’t know if it’s worth much. But it means a lot to me. And I promise I’ll come buy it from you. For whatever I owe you for mowing, plus a little extra for your trouble. You just keep track. Okay?” He passes an old wristwatch to Kev over the fence. It makes a gentle, mechanical, wrenching noise when he puts it in Kev’s hand.

  “Right on,” Kev says, clearly moved. “That’s cool. It looks expensive. It’s kind of got a rattle. Is it busted up inside?” He rocks the watch back and forth. It makes the wrenching sound every time he tips it.

  “No,” Flip takes the watch back. “That’s an early self-winder. See?” He tips the watch. It makes the sound. “It’s kinetic. When you swing your arm or move your wrist, counterweights inside spin around and wind the watch. When I was a kid, I pretended it made me bionic.” He hands the watch back.

  “Right on,” Kev says seriously. He doesn’t talk for a while; just holds the watch and dips it up and down in the sun, the bulbous crystal face winking at him. Then he says, “So I’m like a pawn shop. I mow your yard for the watch. You come pay me to get the watch back. Or not. Right? And I just keep it?” Kev grins a little at Flip.

  “You got it exactly.”

  “But, I mean, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Keep track of it and everything. I know it must be sentimental and everything. You know what I mean? I mean you can count on me because I’m trustworthy.”

  “I do. I know what you mean, Kev. And I trust you. If there’s one thing I am, it’s a good judge of character. It’s a personal point of pride.” Flip leans his hip against the fence, feels the whole thing tilt toward Kev. “The truth is, though, Kev, the watch is important to me, but not because I give a shit about my dad. I did for a long time. But I just don’t have the energy for it. I haven’t spoken to him at all in twelve years. He has never sent me a birthday card. He didn’t come to my high school graduation, college graduation, or my wedding. He has never shown any interest in seeing Dylan. He only saw Sara because we ran into him at a gas station.”

  They stand s
ilently after that, cooking in the heat. Flip’s ankles feel like they’re broiling. There’s the sensation of something crawling down his calf. Maybe it’s just perspiration, maybe a wasp or an ant. It could definitely be a tick. He could easily get Lyme disease. He slaps the back of his calf and scratches at the spot. You can never be too safe. Behind Kev the air shimmers above an asphalt driveway.

  “Well,” Flip says. “If you’re cool with the arrangement, and you can keep the grass mowed for my family, then I think we’re done here. I’ll let you get back to it.” Flip nods his head at the lawn mower. He reaches over and shakes Kev’s hand.

  “Yeah, Mr. Mellis. It’s cool. I’ll keep the yard mowed.”

  “You going to get to it today?” Flip flicks his head, indicating the lawn mower again.

  “That’s the plan. Soon as I change my shoes.”

  “Great.” Flip turns in his bare feet, clumsily scoops up his shoes, and starts to walk away. It’s still hard to breathe. His whole body is damp, as if he’s been standing in a sauna. He could literally wring his clothes out.

  “I was thinking,” Kev says, still looking the watch over.

  “Yes?” Flip turns halfway around. It makes his lower back hurt.

  “I was thinking that I’m a lucky guy to have a pretty good dad. And I was thinking so are your kids.” He looks up, cocks his arm over his brow to shade his eyes, stares directly at Flip. “I know you didn’t say. I mean, I noticed you didn’t say about a divorce. And that’s cool. But I wanted you to know, a lot of guys have lost their jobs. It doesn’t mean you aren’t good. You’re still good. I think you’re a good man.” Flip walks back to the fence. Hearing someone, anyone, say anything the least bit kind threatens to overwhelm him. In that moment he wants to hug Kev, or adopt him.

  “I didn’t say anything specific, Kev. Because I don’t know what’s happening. I would tell you straight if I knew.”

  “Right on,” Kev says soberly. “When do you think you will sort it out?”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. But instead of sitting in an air-conditioned kitchen with my wife, I’m standing in the heat, about to have a stroke, sweating my balls off, and chatting with you. Know why? ’Cause that little woman scares the shit out of me.” He laughs a humorless laugh. Then he says, “I’m scared to go in there. But here I go anyway.” He turns, inhales a lungful of hot air, and walks away.

  To demonstrate his solidarity, Kev says, “Right on, Mr. M. Right the fuck on,” just loud enough for Flip to hear.

  Flip stands in the mud room with his body in the shape of an X so as to better air himself out. The AC is luxurious. He needs water and feels he might faint if he doesn’t hydrate. Though the pose is giving him a neck ache, he just stands there, letting the cool air bathe his armpits and crotch. He feels the moisture drying on his face and forearms, tiny hairs all over his body pop up like daisies.

  “Flip. What the hell are you doing back there?” Lynn asks loudly from the kitchen. “You know I’m waiting for you.”

  Flip lets his arms drop. “Sorry,” he says. He walks into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen is spotless, with fresh flowers in a vase on the table, a cinnamon candle burning on the window over the sink, and something chocolatey baking in the oven. The evidence of his misadventure has been scrubbed and purged. There’s a new tablecloth, with matching cushions for the chairs. Lynn sits on the far side of the table, her laptop open, the cordless phone within arm’s reach, and a sheaf of papers spread out around her. She taps the lidded end of a Bic pen against a scrap of paper scrawled with blue notes.

  Sara sits at the head of the table, eating cereal. She glances at Flip as he enters the room, lets the spoon clatter in her bowl, and shoves back from the table. There they are: the two most important women in his life. The nine months Lynn had spent pregnant with Sara had been some of the happiest of his life. He couldn’t wait to meet his new baby daughter, to hold her in his arms.

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to get up,” he says.

  “No no,” Sara replies. She dumps the remaining cereal down the disposal but doesn’t run it, rinses the bowl, and deposits it and the spoon in the dishwasher. “You and Mom have things to discuss.” Then she leaves the kitchen without looking at him.

  He watches her move down the hall and turn up the steps. She’s angry with him. That short, defensive verbal reply was the first thing she’d said to him in a while. Though, to be fair, she did hug him when he got back from Dr. Hawkins’. When she was little, they used to be close. She spent most of her third year sitting on his foot and riding around the house, cackling like a fiend. But she had turned surly over the past year and downright hateful over the past month or so. Maybe there was something wrong, perhaps he was to blame, or maybe that was just how teenage girls are. He just doesn’t know.

  Flip walks over and runs water down the disposal. He switches on the motor and lets it run for a dozen seconds. He turns it off and says, “She never runs the disposal.” Then he sits in the chair Sara vacated.

  “So,” he says.

  Lynn stops tapping her pen and looks at him. In the office someone turns on a vacuum cleaner. Flip doesn’t know when or how Lynn has managed to get so much done. But the house looks transformed. She must not have slept a wink while he was in the hospital.

  “It certainly seems like you have things in order here. The house looks great,” he says. “It will be ready right on time. And one week until the open house, right? Plenty of time. Someone will put in an offer right away, I bet.” He considers smiling his most encouraging smile and continuing his stream of compliments. But he reads the set of her jaw and knows it wouldn’t be well received. So he keeps his mouth shut. Part of his brain notes his small exertion of self-control and feels a feeble pride for himself.

  “Sort of,” she says. “It will be as good as possible. And next week is a realtor open house. Not for the public.”

  Upstairs he can hear activity, several people walking around, furniture being dragged, doors being closed. “We got us a regular hub of activity here,” he says, looking up at the ceiling as if he can see through solid objects.

  “Well, I had to call in the troops and spend money we don’t have so we could get the house ready in time. It was the only way after . . .” She pauses for a few beats as if searching for the right phrase. “. . . everything that happened in the office and the kitchen. Have you packed yet?”

  “No. No, I haven’t packed yet. I thought maybe we could talk about this a little more.”

  “So talk.” She gathers her pages, straightens them in stacks. She closes her computer, places the phone on her pile of pages, sets her pen down, and smooths the tablecloth. Finally she settles back with her arms folded. That’s his signal to speak. He notices, not for the first time, how much Lynn has grown to resemble her mother, especially when she’s sad. Though he knows enough not to share his observation.

  “I would like you to please reconsider the idea of me moving out. I know you need the space. By ‘space,’ I mean you need the time apart. I know . . .” He doesn’t know what to say next.

  She holds up her hand. “Let me stop you there, please,” she says.

  “Let me finish, please.”

  She refolds her arms and waits.

  He gathers his thoughts and plunges ahead. “I have been a burden, not a help. We used to be a great team. We used to get shit done, pull together, we were on the same page. And I . . . I just quit. I gave up on us. I gave up on me. I know that now.” He reaches a hand across the table toward her.

  She doesn’t take his hand and says, “You’re mussing the tablecloth.”

  “Sorry.” He pulls his hand back and tries to fix the wrinkles. When he’s satisfied, he stops and looks to Lynn for approval. She frowns a little deeper and tugs on the cloth. He wants to weep. But she is clearly tired of Needy Flip. He must be Strong Flip.

  “I hate seeing you so sad,” he says. Her frown softens slightly. “It was hor
rible to see you in so much pain, like today at the doctor’s office. But it was good to hold you. Even for a moment. I felt like I was doing something for you. And it felt right. I miss that.” He watches her eyes. They are glazed and staring in the middle distance. “Did you feel it? When I was holding you? Did you feel that we were close? Like we used to be? Did you feel that I was caring for you?”

  Her eyes meet his for a moment. “No,” she says, very sad. Then she looks away again.

  “I see,” he says. “Well, I felt it. At least, in that moment I remembered how it should be between us. How it used to be. How I used to be. And I want to get back to that.” He picks up the cordless phone and turns it over and over in his hands. “Do you think it would be good to get back to that?”

  “No,” she says.

  “I see.” He puts the phone back down. He can feel the blood leave his face.

  “I mean,” she says very quietly. “I don’t know if I want that. I don’t know if it’s possible. Honestly, if you asked me right now, I don’t think it’s possible. I love what we once had. I know that. But I don’t think I love you anymore. Sometimes things get broken so bad they can’t be fixed.”

  Flip picks the phone up again. He squeezes his hand around it until his knuckles crack. He squeezes harder, watches his hands choking the chunk of plastic. They’re the only part of him that look nearly the same as a year ago. The same, except his fingers are puffy, like sausages. He tries to tighten down on the phone, twist it like an ice tray, crack it. He wants to throw it against the wall. Watch it bust and send shrapnel around the kitchen. Or even hurl it right at Lynn. Why is she hurting me like this? Can’t she see I’m trying? I’m doing my best. She’s supposed to love me for better and for worse. She isn’t always a picnic, but I still love her.

  He looks up at her, wonders if she can feel his pain and rage through proximity and osmosis, sees her staring at something not there and the rage ebbs as if washed out to sea. He sets the phone down carefully, and breathes deeply to calm himself. There’s a faint rattling when he exhales. Most likely late-onset asthma.