Did he sense how terribly I’d treated his father? Did he always resent me, and I just never noticed? Maybe I’m an idiot for hoping he’d been too young to remember my cattiness, that he only knew me as an ally. After Becca got sick, I started visiting more often. Marco and I joined forces out of necessity, and I got to know him, then love him, and then I was so ashamed. Eventually, I rented out my house and moved in with them to help while Marco was at work. After Becca died, Marco thanked me for being his friend, which was horrible. I’d been so unkind to him and had called him Rasputin behind his back, and in the end he was a wonderful man who loved my sister more than life itself. So then he was gone, too.
After Marco was buried, Nick became my ward, my world. All of a sudden, a teenage boy was sleeping down the hall. It was very disorienting, but I thought I’d done okay. I didn’t think I’d made things so unbearable that he’d throw himself from a random roof. But I guess I did make things that bad, because now he’s dead and all I have is a craft room and a ton of acquaintances with God on their tongues. The only people who didn’t treat me like an iceberg ready to break apart tonight were that lady in my kitchen and that doctor from the Hamptons. I bet it wouldn’t have scared him if I’d referenced oblivion instead of angels. He’s probably not afraid of the truth, so he probably didn’t need my protection. A person can waste a lot of time and energy trying to protect people from imaginary danger. A person can invent a lot of problems that way.
If I wasn’t so selfish—if I hadn’t been so focused on preparing myself for temporary loneliness, never considering the permanent kind, never considering this Terrible Ache—then this would still be Nick’s room, and it would be filled with priceless artifacts from the Era of Nick. I could’ve curled up in his bed and breathed into his pillow, and the smell of it would have reminded me of him, and I could have had a nice, cathartic cry like they do in the movies. Loud and snotty. That won’t happen, though, because there’s a Singer sewing machine where his bed should be, and here’s the kicker: I still can’t sew for shit.
Glitter, needles, brushes, glue. If I had a sledgehammer handy, I’d bash these knickknacks to bits, but all I have is a cute little jewelry hammer and a mallet for leatherwork, so instead I go to my own bed down the hall and grab a pillow and comforter to drag back to the fucking craft room, where I make a nest on the floor, swaddle myself, and lay my head down. I run my finger along a seam on the hardwood, and I try to remember what Nick smelled like, and I cry for Nick, for my sister, for my brother-in-law, for myself and my parents, who never knew what they were missing, but God, they missed so much—and for all the terrible choices I must have made to leave Nick with no will to live.
And for what?
All that time, trying to do the right thing, and in the end, I did the worst thing. I failed my family. I’d give anything to go back and do it better, to do it right. Barring that, I’d give anything to rewind and undo, or barring that, to disappear.
It makes sense, finally, why some people clock out early. How the fight stops being worth it. How faith and sorry stop being enough, and explanations start being mandatory. I’m sick of hearing about angels, when what I need to hear are answers. Hard to talk of heaven when the last flicker in my life has gone and died, and I don’t know why.
25.
“She’ll be okay,” I assure my wife and son as we load the car in the morning.
Elizabeth says, “No she won’t.”
“Stop being a pessimist,” I tell her. “That lady’s a survivor. It’ll just take time.”
She shakes her head and lets it go. We’re all tired. Bad beds. We don’t wait in line for breakfast at Naomi Miller’s favorite diner. We don’t buy pie to-go. Before antique shops open, without taking in views or fresh air, we’re on the road. Nick’s duffle bag is no longer with us.
My son insists on driving. Says it’ll relax him, and I’m here to support. Believing she’ll get carsick otherwise, Elizabeth takes shotgun, leaving me to play carpooled kid in the back. I ask Jonah about his curriculum, trying and failing to make conversation. He says he’s not in the mood to talk about school. I tell Elizabeth we should return upstate to see the foliage in the fall, and she nods and smiles but hides her teeth. No suggestions for better views, better trips. She reclines her seat and closes her eyes, leaving me to stretch out in the backseat, to consume as much room as possible, rejecting the smallness of my position. Sunlight catches Elizabeth’s stray hairs, igniting a fiber-optic halo around her head, and all of the tension from recent weeks—anxieties snagged on parties and sins, remedies and consequence, task and duty and choices made or lost—all of it dissolves. There is only air between me and the people I love, and it feels uncharged, alpine-thin. There is only space and a shimmering halo.
I break our silence to offer my son quality time. “Why don’t we head to the marina when we get back. Take the boat out for a bit.”
He grunts. “I don’t think I can manage today.”
“Come on. The water will be good for you.”
“Not today.”
“You can drive.” I hear myself bargaining, inching toward begging, and shut my mouth. I know better now, learned the hard way, back when Jonah took my love in concentrated doses only. Every other weekend, Vanessa would drop him off so I could flood him with evidence that I’m the cool guy he’ll want to be when he grows up—or at least a guy he’ll want to hang out with of his own accord, paternity notwithstanding. I stocked lures: Xboxes and season tickets, a bottomless supply of Entenmann’s, all the movie channels, all the privacy and autonomy he could want. I swore openly as passive permission to do the same. I learned to grill steaks to perfection. I taught him the same. But boys don’t respond to coddling, to being smothered, and we can’t expect them to respect fathers so available as to deny their sons agency—an essential character vertebra passed down to me by my own father, who may not have been perfect, but who was brave enough to let me want things so I could grow the spine needed to acquire them.
So I say, “Another time, then,” about the boat ride, but now I’m stuck making good on my bluff. Fine. Whatever. Top-tier problem. I’ll head over to check the fuel and scrub algae while Jonah stays home to—what? To grieve? What does grief as a verb even look like, anyway? Inaction. Inactivity. The absorption of sadness compounded by expectation. Public displays of melancholy. Spontaneous meltdowns. Private countdowns. Heaven forbid we tempt the appearance of peace by coping constructively. Heaven forbid we make an effort to flood our brains with serotonin tapped by sunlight and connection. No, the world might find us vulgar and crass—unfeeling, when all we want is to sanitize ourselves from these relentless feelings—and so we reject our bodies’ medicine and feed the nuisance instead. We actively mope, turning a terrible thing into its own organism so we’ll have something to shape and tame and contain: a creature removed from the Terrible Thing. Grief becomes an adorable, shaggy mutt nipping at our heels in the street. We don’t want it, and still it follows us against our will, endearing us to everyone who sees. Making sure everyone sees.
Jonah fiddles with the stereo occasionally, flipping mostly from NPR to silence and back. We’re home before the rush of weekenders begins arriving from the city.
“What about you?” I ask Elizabeth. “Feel like heading out on the boat?”
“Me? No,” she says. “I need a hot shower. Maybe a bath.”
“Lizzie—” I start, but she interrupts me.
“Could you do something for me, please? Don’t call me that. I know you’re being sweet, but it grates on me. It’s infantilizing. And Lizzie is not my name, anyway.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“How could you have never said this to me before?”
She shrugs. “I’m saying it now.”
“Do you find it infantilizing when people call me Bobby?”
“No. You choose to be called that. That’s fine. It’s not the same thing, anyway.”
“How is it different?” I
ask.
“It’s different,” she says, “because we’re not the same person.” She touches my cheek with one hand and brings her mouth to mine for a quiet kiss. “And I’m glad for that.” Her forehead falls against my chest, so I stroke her hair. I hold her shoulders as she sinks into my sternum and falls silent for some time. “I’m going to take that bath now.”
I say, “Okay,” and pat her back as a sign of release, but she stays pressed against me, so I wrap my arm around her again and wait for a clue to what she needs. Of course, I can’t read her mind, so I do nothing. Finally, after nearly a whole minute lost, she peels herself away, touching my cheek one more time before trudging upstairs to bathe and grieve.
• • •
The marina is busy as usual. Happy families. Happy friends. I’m holding a bucket filled with rags and bottles of cleaning solution when someone slaps me on the back and says, “Robert.” Frank McAlister holds out his hand.
I shake it. “Frank.”
“How you doing, buddy?”
“I’m all right.”
“Are you? Because listen, I heard about what happened at your house. I mean, no one can believe it. That’s just a nightmare. And you’re the one who, you know—found him, right? Because, man, you can’t unsee that, can you? Better you than Jonah or Elizabeth, though, right? You do what you have to do.”
“Yes you do. How’s everything at your house, Frank?”
“I mean, you know, relatively speaking, I can’t complain. Headed to your boat? Great. I’ll walk you. So hey, listen, if you don’t mind me asking, how long had the kid been out there?”
I mind. “Almost three days, they think.”
He winces. “Aw, man. I can’t imagine the smell. That’s just—was it as bad as they say?”
“Too much CSI,” I tell him, but holy hell. Frank is into this, isn’t he? It’s been on his mind. He’s been entertaining visions of vultures pecking cold flesh, maybe the neighbor’s bichon with Nick’s femur in its mouth, screams and sirens, that sort of thing. Fantasies.
He finally takes the hint and starts blabbering about other shit—like how difficult his life’s been ever since his front desk gal quit, so now his front office is a clusterfuck—and I’m itching to shut him up, but when we reach my slip, he says, “I’ll never get over this boat, Robert. She sure is a beauty.”
Well, I’ll be damned. He loves my boat. His relentless criticism of My Lucia all this time has either been for show—or, like the boy on the playground who pulls pigtails for attention, he’s been trying to flatter me. “She sure is.”
“I can appreciate a bit of sentiment in a man, Robert.”
“Hey, now.”
“I mean it,” he says. “This boat is your tell. There’s honor in keeping ties to your past.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know, like how this boat is a statement. Everyone respects that about you. You’re proud of your roots. Everyone thinks that’s great. Don’t get me wrong. No one would hold it against you if you traded ’er in for that speedboat you’ve been eyeing.”
I fake a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Totally. But hey, when you’re ready, I’ll hook you up with a good buyer for this beauty, make sure she stays in good hands. I know a guy who might be looking soon, but like I said, when you’re ready. Just keep it in mind.”
“I will.” Glancing around the marina, from boat to boat, boater to boater, I try to see what Frank and, apparently, everyone sees. Everyone but me.
“Sorry I asked about the smell,” Frank says. “Of the—you know . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, thanks for the food. Tell Bonnie we loved the shepherd’s pie.” At least I think the shepherd’s pie was Bonnie’s contribution to our freezer. “You guys didn’t need to do anything, but we appreciate it.”
“You bet. She wants to do more. Elizabeth should call her, seriously. Bonnie loves it when people lean on her for support, you know? That’s what friends are for.”
I assure him that Elizabeth’ll be fine—that in fact, she hardly knew Nick, because he was Jonah’s friend, not mine, and certainly not Elizabeth’s. So yes, a terrible thing happened on our property, but our hearts ache for Jonah, mostly, and we’ll be okay.
Frank cuts me off. “Hey now, I wasn’t suggesting anything by saying Elizabeth needs support. Everyone knows your old lady is tough as nails. I mean, come on, she lets you keep a boat named after another woman. Bonnie would shit.”
“Lucia was my mom’s name,” I tell him.
“Still.”
“It’s bad luck to rename a boat.”
“Yeah, I know, but still. Bonnie would have painted over it, luck be damned. But hey, so it’s Lu-chee-ah? I always thought it was Loo-sha. Like Saint Lucia in the Caribbean. Huh.”
“That’s French.”
“Sure, sure. Then there’s Lu-see-ah. What’s that?”
“You feel like grabbing a beer?”
Frank looks at me as though he’s just noticed me standing here. “Now?”
I shrug.
He checks his watch. “Quarter to eleven. How about a coffee?”
“That’ll do.”
Frank helps me cover my boat—my dead father’s boat, named after my dead mother—and we head to the clubhouse for a coffee, then a Bloody Mary, then a pitcher of local brew and a basket of steamers. By two o’clock, two sheets to the wind, I cave to Frank’s insistence that the community do something nice for our family—to show support for what we’ve been through, he keeps saying.
“Everyone feels so bad, you know? The wives. Everyone.” He leans toward me. “I’ll let you in on a trade secret. The sooner you let ’em do something, the sooner they’ll drop it.” Well. This makes sense. The casseroles, the condolences. By forcing meatloaf and favors upon us, concerned friends have made themselves part of the story: a tragedy worthy of legend, a rumor that bears repeating. Frank misreads my smile, though, and says, “Am I right? Tell you what: We’ll let the girls put together a memorial—maybe a benefit for suicide hotlines or something—to show support and pay respects. You won’t have to do a thing,” he insists. “Leave it to Bonnie and Elizabeth. They love that stuff.”
“You don’t know Elizabeth,” I say.
“The hell I don’t. I know women.”
The hell he does. “So, listen,” I say. “Just out of curiosity—I’m not selling today or anything—but just for kicks, tell me about that buyer.”
26.
“That’s really weird, Dad,” Jonah tells me back at the house.
“It is so weird,” Elizabeth echoes. “Why do they care? They didn’t know him.”
“No, but they know us,” I explain. “They care about us. I thought you’d be touched.” Truth be told, the party made more sense when Frank sold me on it. “It would be healthy to change up the mood around here. We’ll celebrate Nick’s life.”
“The funeral was yesterday, Dad. You weren’t so thrilled about celebrating him then. Some of us need more than twenty-four hours before we can fake a celebratory mood.”
“Please,” Elizabeth says. “We’re all so tired. Robert, your idea is weird, and I don’t get it, but if you and Jonah want to plan it, I won’t try to stop you.”
Jonah starts to explain why he’s out, but when I tell him about the fundraiser part, and how we could make a big donation in Nick’s name somewhere, he relents.
Elizabeth says, “Just know: I’m not cooking.”
“Me neither,” says Jonah, who has never been expected to cook in his whole life.
I say, “Good. Because the whole point of this thing is to let our friends do something nice for us—because they want to.”
Elizabeth laughs. “In our house?” She shakes her head. “The real centerpiece of this party will be morbid curiosity, mark my word. But whatever. Oh, and I’m not arranging flowers.”
“No flowers,” I say. “Neither of you will have to do a thing. It’ll be fun. Trust me.”
�
� • •
I keep my word for nearly two days, but on Monday morning, as Elizabeth and I are scrambling to leave the house—for early appointments, escape, or both, jury’s out—she hands me a sheet of paper without comment.
I glance at the list in my hands, names and phone numbers, and ask, “What is this?”
“This,” she says sweetly, as she searches the kitchen for an unidentified something, “is the guest list Bonnie just emailed me. Please note the subject line: ‘Backyard Benefit.’ She’s so glad we’re opening our home for a good cause. Apparently, we are hosting a fundraiser for the suicide prevention organization of our choice.”
“Lifeline is good,” I offer.
“I’m not calling all these people, Robert. I don’t have time. We are charging cover for a potluck dinner here in less than a week, apparently, but I’ve got fifteen midterms to grade. Summer intensives, no less. It’s too much.”
“That’s fine.” I scan the names of couples, neighbors, friends of friends, and I read Bonnie’s message. “It’s not a cover charge, Elizabeth. She says, ‘suggested donation.’ ”
“You need to invite Raymond.”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m serious. Invite Ray and Emily. If you want to allow people to satisfy their need to support you, then you have to include him. Period.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“No. You’ll do it. I’m not covering for you anymore, and I’m not filtering their sympathy just because you can’t handle it. Enough is enough.”
“Fine. I’ll invite them.”
“Invite the kids, too.” She spins around, still searching for something.
“It’ll be done by the next time I see you,” I tell her.
“That sounds great. Where on earth is my bag?” She throws her head back. “I can’t breathe in this house.”
I hand her the oversized satchel she’d hung on the doorknob already, a bag teeming with double-spaced essays. For a moment, her anxiety threatens to spill in the form of tears, confessions, or a proper panic attack, but she sucks it back in and says, “Thank you.”
Man of the Year Page 20
