Man Gone Down

by Michael Thomas

  “Giant tooth?”

  “Yes!”

  “What is he?”

  “He’s a giant shark. He’s like a giant great white shark—as big as a whale.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah.”

  His focus drifts for a moment—Edith.

  “Okay, may I have the phone back, please?”

  “But I’m talking to my dad.”

  “Yes, and you’ve talked to him for a long time.”

  “But I need to tell him something.” His voice starts to bleed into a whine.

  “What do you need to tell him?” she asks. The phone wants more money. I dump a dollar in. Edith tries to talk over the robot voice and X’s protests.

  “Hello, what’s wrong with your phone?”

  “Can he finish?” Edith goes silent but doesn’t do anything. “Can you put my son back on, please?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Of course.” She fumbles, regroups, then holds the phone away, but I can still hear. “Your father wants to say good-bye.”

  “Bitch,” I mouth.

  “Sorry?” She’s still there.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, hold on.”

  “Dad,” he’s calm again. My first thought is to tell him not to yell at his grandmother, that he needs to be polite. Fuck it.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Dad, I’m worried.” My guts crash down into my bowels, explode, reform, and spring back up again, but not in their proper places. I fight off the urge to howl.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m worried about Megalodon.”

  “Why, it sounds like he can take care of himself.”

  “No, Dad—he’s dead. All of them are extinct.” Even his breathing is lispy.

  “What about the others?”

  “They’re extinct, too.” His breathing grows heavier, faster, the pitch rising. He’s about to crack. “Dad,” he whimpers, as though he’s been punched in the gut. He waits, takes a deep breath, exhales. I know Edith’s standing over him, looking down, puzzled, annoyed. Whatever it is, he somehow knows that he can’t break in front of her. “I wish they were back.” He squeaks the last word out, then comes the first breath of a sob. He bites down on it, holds it, refuses to let it go. And I can see him—man-jaw clenched, squaring it even more, every muscle flexed, and those eyes, searching around and around for an answer to this rush of feeling.

  I hate the telephone.

  “I wish they were here, too.”

  He exhales again—I didn’t think he had any more breath in him. “Do you love those guys, too?”

  “Oh yes, of course. Megalodon must have been so big.”

  “Oh yes—he was so big!”

  “You’re so big, too.”

  “Oh yes, and I’m a good swimmer, too.” He chuckles. I can see him, ready to jump again.

  “Okay, kid, I’ll see you soon.”

  “X!”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “I love you, X.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye-eye, Daddy.” He hands the phone to Edith and goes thumping away.

  “Hello?” she’s ready to hang up.

  “Hi. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Well, I sent Cecil to the beach with the Crumwells and their boys—they’re nice boys. And Edith, little Edy, is taking a nap.”

  “The Crumwells?”

  “Yes. You know them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re having fun, I’m sure.”

  “I thought you were away.”

  “Well, I was supposed to be, but I’m not.”

  “When are they bringing him back?”

  “We’re meeting them for supper at the farm.”

  “Really?”

  She ignores that. “Now, I’m supposed to get information from you—your arrival.” For a moment I don’t know what she’s talking about. She takes the opportunity to be condescending with me, too. “Tomorrow night, are you coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  I lie. “Nine.”

  “Nine p.m. sharp?”

  “Nine . . .” I pretend to consult a schedule. “Nine-fourteen.”

  “Oh, nine-fourteen. That doesn’t fit well with bedtime. Is there another?”

  “No.”

  “No more trains?”

  “It’s a bus.”

  “Oh.”

  “Providence. Smithfield Road. Nine-fourteen.”

  “Well, we can arrange something with the kids . . . perhaps . . . Nick Weed’s son is coming for the weekend from Brown . . . Perhaps . . .”

  “Claire can come. She can bring the kids.”

  “It’s late for them.”

  “They can sleep in the car.”

  “Well, fine then,” she breathes coldly. “Nine-fourteen. Friday. The bus. Someone will be there.” She hangs up before I can counter.

  Ben is back in front of the shop, cleaning the door with Windex and paper towels. I almost call out to him from across the street as if he’s an old friend, but I stop myself and watch him work while I wait for the light to change.

  Someone else is watching him, too, waiting at the bus stop leaning against the M15 sign. He’s older, stout, light-skinned. He’s so focused on Ben that he doesn’t see another man, perhaps in his twenties, sneak up behind Ben and grab him. Ben doesn’t seem surprised. He turns to face this new man, drops the towels and the sprayer, presses his palms firmly on his cheeks and kisses him lightly on the lips. The two of them laugh and then take each other by the hips and turn in profile to me. This new man is handsome in a romance-novel-cover sort of way—rugged, olive complexioned, short, straight dark hair. Ben mutters something, but his friend doesn’t seem to notice. He’s focused on the man waiting for the bus who stares at them, his face contorted in an ugly pucker. He coughs up phlegm, loud enough for me to hear, and spits into the gutter. Ben turns, finds the man, and stares back, never moving his hands from his companion’s hips. And for a moment it looks as though he may say something. He doesn’t. Still staring, he pulls the man to him—belly to belly and kisses him again, defiantly this time. The traffic stops, allowing the kiss to continue uninterrupted. And then the M15 runs the light. Someone honks. The bus blocks the scene. When it pulls away, only Ben is left. He sees me. I can tell he’s scrambling in his head for damage control—to explain. I want to tell him it’s okay. I fumble for a sign. All I can offer is a short wave. He waves back, bends quickly to gather his things, and hustles to get inside before I reach him.

  Inside there’s a cold grilled cheese waiting for me, cold coffee, too, but Ben and Joy are gone. I sit down and look at the limp sandwich. The bread looks to have gone soft again and the cheese, hard—condensed vapor on the plate. No more Marley, just some strange, computerized dub playing.

  I want to pay and go, wander downtown until it’s time to go to the other job—the other job. I kind of shudder when I think about it, about her. At first I think I shouldn’t, but then I sit down, lean into the cushion, and dare myself to re-create her—that little faux-English accent, the various hues in hair loops, and those strange brown eyes that didn’t seem to belong to her. In my head, she’s still not whole, only parts, long limbs, a little chuckle I imagine she has. Feeney’s pug nose invades the frame for a moment. I wonder if I broke it.

  Joy materializes beside the table and slips the check onto it. I look up at her, and she frowns.

  “You didn’t even try it,” she squeaks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just got back.”

  “Well, it’s ruined.” She slowly reaches for the plate, but I stop her attempt by softly pinning her hand against the table. It feels like the sandwich would. She pulls it away with a discreet revulsion, as if it was my touch that made her hand go clammy.

  I hide my hand in my lap. “I’m going to start on it right now. I promise.” I try to deliver it with gentle conviction, to her
eyes, but she’s looking out to the gray day, the passersby. Perhaps to the end of her shift—home—where she can hold her pained lip in any way she wants.

  She leaves me without speaking and I look at the bill—two cups of coffee, a scone, and a cold old sandwich—sixteen dollars. I take out my fold and leave a twenty—then twenty-one. What the fuck is Claire doing in Boston? The question, along with the grilled cheese sitting in its sweat, twists my stomach. Then it straightens out again and I wonder why it did so quickly. I feel the pulse of my whole body—my hands atop my thighs, my legs against the seat, my back against the rest. I fight back a yawn, finish the coffee, and wait for my stomach to twist again. Nothing happens—just another yawn.

  I wonder if this is what it feels like, falling out of love: feeling yourself fading out of existence—the gray sky, the coffee shop limbo—everything a way station of sorts. Making promises you know you can’t keep. Making promises—period. People in love shouldn’t have to vow or demand, petition or exhort. Nothing. Not even question. No collisions with your surroundings or yourself—you move gently, unknowing, in time. Wondering if you ever were in love: false compassion; skinny girls with bad teeth; tall men and long kisses in diesel residue; kisses as political acts, which makes me wonder if there really is love. I wonder where Ben has gone and want to apologize to him for what happened outside, then for all the times I’ve said nancyboy without thinking. Why wouldn’t anyone want another to love the one they fall in love with?

  Can you even fall out of love? I remember mocking those who claimed they had. I certainly remember not wanting to love Claire—that little crooked laugh from that long crooked mouth—how it made me feel that I could make that face go rosy, make her forget her loneliness, the loss of her own specific garden; everything good now, flashing back to then. I’d been proud, so proud not to have been bullied or guilted out of it—the stares and snickers, the pure stupidity of people involving themselves in your own affairs, them knowing what’s best. And it burns more, the understanding that I may have been wrong. Wrong to take that stand, mistaking her for the eternal face of the eternal heart I believed was beating somewhere. It burns me, but then it goes, the heat like waves of sleep. Then there’s nothing.

  I wonder if this is what it feels like to fall out of love—mirthless, but too spent to rage or lament its passing; numb to old shames; alone, watching the sun bleed and not having the vision drop you to your knees. My bride across the summer lawn—not even a memory, one thin image—the empty gesture of a desperate man who knows it but won’t feel himself going down.

  13

  There’s a surge of sun at the end of the day, one last push for heat and light. I can sense the moon. It will be low and orange in the east and then gradually rise and fade to yellow—high in the late summer sky. At Edith’s the moon is just over the guery pond, not yet lit but bigger than anything else you can see, dwarfing even the sunset in the opposite sky, making you almost forget that night is coming.

  She’s waiting in the window of the hallway. She sticks her head out. Her hair rolls down. She waves and calls out to me like we’re friends.

  “Hey, you.”

  She hangs her arm out and dangles a ring of keys.

  “Catch.” She swings them, trying to give them a high arc, as though it will slow their descent. I catch them. “It’s the one with the blue.”

  She’s waiting in her doorway, still open just enough to slide her body through along with dim orange light and the murmur of music. She backs away from the door, still holding it, but blocking entry. I wait outside. We study each other. She’s wearing flip-flops, painter’s pants stained and cut off at the knees, a pink tank top, and a violet bra—the straps exposed. She’s tied her hair up—piled it on her crown. A few loose tendrils snake down to her nape. I get caught up in it. It takes a moment to register her broad smile.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, I suppose.”

  She takes it in for a second, cocks her head to the side, and mimics me, “Fine, I suppose.” I nod at her poor imitation. She steps to the side, pulling the door open with her, and waves me in, but I stay where I am and try to get a look in and see what I could possibly be doing in there—if there could be several thousand dollars’ worth of work to be done tonight. She waves again, shrinking her smile, wrinkling her face almost to a pout. I give her the keys, taking care to not let our fingers touch. She gives me a wider berth. I go in.

  I expected something else, but the orange light is only a colored, low-wattage, bare bulb, naked in a plain porcelain socket—mood lighting for a makeshift mudroom.

  “Lucky, huh?” she asks, pointing at the bag. I nod. She points to the floor beside the door where she keeps her footwear and umbrella. “You can drop that stuff there.” She turns her back and disappears around the wall.

  It’s a much smaller space than the other loft—a rectangle about twenty by twenty-five divided into three discrete areas. On the left is a living space—a dark velvet couch, ratty womb chair, and an old rocker surround a large painted wooden crate; dining—a large glass rectangle on sawhorses, no chairs; and the kitchen on the far right against an exposed brick wall. The appliances look old—not vintage, just old, but there’s a new blue kettle on the stove. On the back wall are three closed doors.

  “Yeah,” she says, half turning to me. “It’s totally illegal.” She points up. “I put these in last year.” I look up to see three enormous skylights. “No one would touch that job. I was up there on the roof cutting holes in it—totally messed it up. I had no idea what I was doing. When there were buckets of water pouring in, I made a promise—no more do-it-yourself jobs, no matter how easy.” She goes toward the kitchen, remembers something, stops and answers a question that she believes I should’ve asked. “I had to find these guys, pay them cash—trust that they wouldn’t screw me.”

  She waves me over to the table and points. “Are you hungry?” There’s fruit, cheese, bread, a bottle of sparkling water, a bowl of ice, and some glasses. “I didn’t know what you like, so, I figured everyone likes fruit, right?” She waits a minute, then gestures at the fruit. “Right?”

  She waits for me to take something, but I don’t. I don’t even think I can speak. I hope, somewhere inside of me I’m appalled at my rudeness.

  “Right.”

  “Suit yourself,” she snaps, but then I suppose feels a bit guilty. She lightens. “I can make you some coffee.” She points to the wall-less galley kitchen. “That’s the only thing that gets made in there.” She shakes her head. “My mama didn’t raise me right—no, not at all.” She starts to take a step to me but cranes her neck and squints. “Do you eat, drink, talk—anything?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shuffle in my spot, look over at the kettle. “I’m just a bit tired.”

  “Oh no, don’t be, please. I’m sorry.” She straightens her neck but softens the rest of her body to curve backward into a c. “You must be tired, shit, the double-shift.” She leans forward even more to show interest. It’s convincing. “How was your day?”

  I decide to trust the question. I exhale and feel contradicting tensions I didn’t know were there—caffeine and fatigue—release their grips, and I’m taken by the sudden levity. I hear the music now. I don’t recognize it—a piano solo, no, an upright bass, too. Slow tempo—the high end melancholy and whimsical, the low, brooding. I find myself reaching for a pineapple slice. She follows me with her eyes, then quickly settles on my face. She looks worried.

  “Work wasn’t so good.”

  “Why not?” She looks at my hands as if to check for missing fingers.

  “I was let go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I fought with the GC.”

  “You had an argument?”

  “No.”

  She doesn’t want to, but she gasps. “A fight fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “With that little guy?”

  “No, his partner.”

  She scans my face. “Well
, you look fine.”

  I shrug. She cranes her neck again. “Oh, I see.” She narrows her eyes—almost whispers, “May I ask why?”

  “I think he called me a nigger.”

  She looks over my face again, turns an ear to me as though she missed what I said, then seems to get it from some echo unheard by me. She shakes her head, slowly. “No,” she stutters, “I don’t believe it.” She leans in again. “What do you mean, you think?”

  I look around the room again. Tall white walls, the same height as the other loft’s, making this space seem vault-like. Everything’s so simple, practical—the furniture, the painted plywood floors—there’s nothing that encroaches upon me and nothing for me to encroach upon—a place to let your guard down. I almost close my eyes, but then I remember her—paint stained, disheveled, and beautiful—the faded pink cotton top, the soft loop of hair, and the warm glow of lights; that floor lamp by the sofa, the dying sun above.

  “Are you okay?” She finally takes that step forward, extends her hand. She gestures at my bags with her fingers. “Give me those.” I give her the jeans bag, but she waits for my tools. I shake my head, but she demands it with her whole hand this time and grinds her foot against the floor. I give her the tool bag, holding most of the weight. She won’t lower her arm. She thinks she can suspend it like this, her shoulder in such a vulnerable position. She rolls her eyes at me to let go. I do. The bag yanks her arm down so she has to grab it with the other hand and hop quickly to the side to keep it from crashing into her shin.

  “Jesus, what do you have in here?” She stares at the bag as though she can see through the canvas. “Shit—how do you carry this thing?” She drops it onto the floor; something inside clanks and rattles. “Oops,” she knocks her knees and covers her mouth.

  “It’s okay,” I say. My voice sounds foreign—too deep and reassuring. We both look at the bag; then she does a little shuffle step and leans away, mouthing a strange benediction to it. It forces us both to smile. She is young, at least younger than I’d thought—the only wrinkles she has are at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and in this light there’s no sag to her muscle at all. The duet ends abruptly: the piano on a lone bass note. The bassist slides way up the neck and stays there, high and tremulous, until both tones fade away. We wait for another song but nothing else comes.