The first thing he notices is a squad car in front of Kev’s house. The next thing is that his driveway and the curb along the road are full of cars. Realtors. There’s a sign in his front yard that reads “Open House.” It has balloons on it that twist on long strings and beat against one another, agitated by the wind.
Flip turns in his seat and shoves the handgun down into his clothes carton. His ass beeps the horn. He sits quickly and waits to see if he got anyone’s attention. No one appears from inside the house, and no one stares out of the windows. He snatches his phone, unbuckles his bouquet, and walks toward his house to give Lynn the flowers and deliver the good news.
He can clearly see what is to come. And once he can visualize an outcome, he knows it’s only a matter of following through to make the vision manifest: It’s fall, and Dylan is riding on Flip’s shoulders. Dyl’s fingers are laced together under Flip’s chin, and he keeps leaning his weight back too far and choking Flip, cranking his neck out of whack and making his shoulders ache.
“Sit up,” Flip says.
Dyl scoots up for a few moments before slumping back into the more painful position. But Flip really doesn’t mind. He’s slimmed down, feels fit and strong. Plus, Dylan isn’t so heavy that Flip can’t endure a little discomfort.
Flip’s wearing his winter boots, newly waterproofed for the season. He listens to the sound of wind in the trees, feet shuffling through fallen leaves, and the tiny, cold creek rushing along to his left. He rounds a bend in the tree-lined path and his wife and daughter come into view ahead.
Lynn’s legs are in wool leggings and a skirt, curled beside her on the checked blanket as she unloads a thermos filled with hot chocolate and a plate of coffeecake. Sara is on a corner of the blanket, legs crossed and her sweater stretched tight across her round pregnant belly. Her hands absently stroke her stomach, as if smoothing her sweater. He hoists Dyl up and over his head, lets him run on ahead. He stands there, bathed in the glory of nature, of his life. It’s been the harshest year of my life. But finally things are back in order.
As he imagines it, he knows it’s a bit of a stretch, maybe too good to be true. But he feels content with that.
He moves between the cars in his driveway, noticing that someone took the time to sweep the shattered glass from his driver’s side window, though he still sees a few pieces.
“Hey,” a voice barks behind him.
“Mr. Mellis, I need you to turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.” Flip thinks he recognizes the voice: Officer Steve of the crooked parking. He turns his head to look, his nose rubs across some baby’s breath in the bouquet cradled in his arms. He can feel his nostrils pucker, his eyes begin to itch and water.
“Slowly,” Officer Steve repeats.
Flip carefully rotates his body. He faces the policeman, can see Steve has a weapon drawn.
“Hey,” Flip says, in his most nonconfrontational voice. He tries to wave the cell phone in a gregarious, if awkward greeting. The instant he tries to speak, though, a huge sneeze rises unbidden, and he pitches forward, spilling water from the arrangement.
“Drop it!” the officer screams.
Flip doesn’t want to drop the flowers; they’re for Lynn. He wants to say so, and draws a breath after the sneeze in order to explain. A gust of wind whips in, twists the balloons on the Open House sign, and two of the balloons burst with a pop pop.
“I said drop it!” Officer Steve yells as he fires at Flip.
Twelve thousand volts of electricity race through Flip’s body at nineteen pulses per second, all his muscles painfully contract at once, his feet shoot out from under him, and he falls on his side, right on his bruised hip. The vase bursts in an explosion of glass, flowers, and water. Flip’s head smacks the cement, and he releases his overfull bladder. It doesn’t seem to make the pain of the electric shock any worse. Now I know.
The policeman hustles up and kicks Flip’s cell phone away. He’s yelling, “Where’s the gun?”
Flip’s body relaxes, and he notices the shoes of a crowd gathering around him. The realtors stand around, holding paper plates of cookies and Styrofoam cups of coffee.
Officer Steve is clearly upset; he cuffs Flip’s wrists behind his back with unnecessary force and yanks him to his feet.
“Aren’t you Doctor somebody?” he asks. “You are Mr. Mellis, aren’t you? I put gas in your car. I know you. You said you were Doctor someone. Right? Was that you? Are you Mr. Mellis?”
“Yes,” Lynn says. “That’s Mr. Mellis.” The officer looks relieved. He must have worried he’d electrocuted the wrong man.
“Where’s the gun?” the officer demands, yelling in Flip’s ear and lifting his bound arms so high on one side that Flip nearly tips over.
“He doesn’t own a gun,” Lynn says.
“I saw it. I saw it in his hand. He was carrying a gun.”
“Cell phone,” Flip says. The crowd of realtors are mumbling and gawking and shoveling down their free food as quick as they can. Coleen is there, shaking her head in clear disapproval, arms crossed over her chest. Lynn stands apart, not coming to his side.
“I brought you flowers,” he says, indicating the mash of petals and greenery around him. Room temperature liquid drips down his legs and soaks into his ankle socks. He’s truly thankful for the spilled flower water. He hopes it camouflages his circumstantial incontinence.
“I got the job,” he says with as much enthusiasm as possible. “At DynaTech. I was coming to tell you. Everything is going to be okay now. Everything is going to work out.” Lynn does not appear convinced.
Officer Steve steers Flip toward his cruiser while yelling at him loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, “Mr. Mellis, you’ve been accused of breaking and entering, assault, possession of a firearm, recklessly discharging a firearm in a public place, and resisting arrest.”
Before being crunched into the back of the police car, Flip sees a prominent gash in the cruiser’s fender. It really looks much worse in broad daylight.
Lynn steps forward, speaks to the officer. The officer nods and she comes to Flip.
“Flip, what the hell’s going on?” She doesn’t sound pleased to see him.
“Don’t worry, baby. Everything will be fine. I got it all under control.”
The officer manhandles him into the hard plastic back seat. Before he can close the door, Flip calls, “I’m not dead yet.” Then the door slams, ending any further conversation. He’d hoped to say more.
Flip’s face is in the glare and he closes his eyes against the pain. Blue eyes are the most sensitive to light. Time passes and his worries drain from his heavy body. He feels lighter than he has in years. He’s too tired to fight anymore. It feels good to stop struggling. He’s visited by the sense of a hard job well done. The sounds of the crowd, the conversations taking place just outside the window seem to drift away, recede into the distance.
Long moments later he feels the sun slide across his face as the squad car backs from the driveway. He moves into shadow as the car glides forward over the slick asphalt. It feels good to let go, to let the car take him where it will. In the comforting embrace of the darkness, in the cool of the back seat, he feels his body passing farther away from his home, and he is perfectly happy to let things follow their natural course.
Acknowledgments
Books are long projects. My writing has as much to do with the shape of my life, and the people I share it with, as it does with putting words on paper. I’ve been fortunate over the years to meet many smart, creative people who encouraged, inspired, and challenged me. If a direct correlation exists between the quality of my writing and the virtues of my friends, this will be a remarkable book indeed.
I’ve had the moral support of a vast community, a few of whom I’ll mention here. Good friends like Chris DiStasio, Kelly Kocevar Baldwin, Travis Feldman, Lesley Garretson, Andrea Rose Jones, and Marty Hergert. Also Jay and Amy Miller, Dana Hoover, Kelly McCants, Eddie Miles, Bryan Batsell, Paige Hall,
Nicholas Dean Beck, Chris Akers, Inky Bob Atkins, Christopher Hoffelt and Julie Wallace, Ian and Laura Wagriech, Jill Wallace and Dave Gorman, Shannon and Tom Quinn, Danielle Morency, and Tracy Bergfeld Cesario.
Artists Joseph Lappie, Tinameri Turner, Luan Barros, Karol Shewmaker, Jean Bevier, Meredith R Winer, Mark Moroney, Matthew Aron, Jeffrey Johnson, and the remarkable Brad Freeman; each set an example as ambitious and talented makers.
Writers Loren Frazier, Wayne Kasper, Rose Marie Kinder, Deron Denton, John Rich, Jason E Hodges, Eric Pietrzak, Sherry Antonini, and many others generously gave me feedback, camaraderie, commiseration, and instilled a passion for the craft.
Thanks to my first readers, Benjamin Chandler and Jamie Arnold Thome. Also, Patricia Sánchez and Karl Sabbagh, without whom this book would be merely a sheaf of pages in my desk. Especially important to the realization of this novel was the artist and novelist Audrey Niffenegger. The instruction and guidance she offered was exactly the right motivation at a moment when I was ready to embrace it.
I value the love and support from the Moser family, especially Lester and Lois, Mike and Faye, Mark, Kristin, and Layton, Katie, Becky, and Kelli; you mean the world to me. My deepest gratitude also goes to the many members of the Allee clan.
My love to my daughter, Eliza, and my son, Declan, for the endless laughter and hugs.
Michelle, you are the source of every good thing. Thank you. You have my heart.
About the Author
Brandon Graham has worked as a commercial pressman, an adjunct professor, and as a gallery director. He studied in Budapest, Hungary, and Dijon, France, with a summer spent as a barman in Chilham, England. In Chicago, he studied visual and written narrative at Columbia College’s Center for Book and Paper Arts.
Brandon's first short story was published in the journal Pleiades in 1990. Since then he has written for performance, artist’s books, zines, book reviews, and web content. His blog, FictionDoldrums, is a firsthand account of his efforts to write, publish, and make art. He has published poems and prose in literary journals, including “Razed,” published in the experimental journal Little Bang. His artist’s books are included in several dozen special collections libraries throughout the United States. Currently he is a regular contributor of articles and book reviews to JAB (the Journal of Artists’ Books). He continues to make art and write outside of Chicago, surrounded by a remarkable gang of friends and neighbors.
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