Shotgun Lovesongs: A Novel

by Butler, Nickolas

  She left yesterday, moved into a motel between here and Eau Claire. I told her she should have gone all the way into Eau Claire, should have gone to a nice place, a proper hotel. Even Minneapolis or St. Paul. But the wedding is on Saturday and she wanted to put her best foot forward, wanted to be there for Lucy and Ronny, stringing streamers and whatnot. Passing out wedding cake. Ushering in guests. I don’t know, helpful things, thoughtful things.

  “I hope,” she told me, “that you can change your mind. Because I love you. I just can’t keep waiting. We’re not getting younger.”

  “You should go,” I said. “Go, before you lose any more time. I’m sorry.”

  We’d dated for seven years. She wanted to get married right away, and I wouldn’t. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted the money, the house, the job—everything lined up just right. Our life arranged like a vase of flowers. Beautiful and controlled. She didn’t care about any of that, she said she wanted to have kids right away, but, I don’t know—I guess I just never took it seriously. Never took her seriously. When we first fell in love, sleeping in my apartment on the sixtieth floor of the John Hancock building, feeling the sway of that building against the constant winds off Lake Michigan, she told me, “I want three kids before I’m thirty. I know that much. I want a house full of kids. I want a loud house.”

  I loved her, so I kissed her head, listened to her dreams. But to me, that life she was describing seemed like living in a riot. The mess and noise and crumbs and the diapers and spilled milk and crying. What about our lives? What about traveling? What about nice clothing and nice hotels, what about collecting art and building up a good wine cellar?

  With children, with babies, you can wait too long. My dad used to say, He who hesitates is lost. With men, it doesn’t matter. You can be king of the land at eighty years old, drooling on your throne, barely able to keep a crown on your head and still, you can make a baby with a beautiful young woman. But with women, it’s different. All that business about clocks—it’s true. Think about it. Once a month an egg drifts down from above, as if a little parachute, and lands in a valley of good blood. But you have to know when the egg is there, you have to hope that conditions are perfect, that, in fact, the egg has dropped, that there are eggs. And that the parachute opened at precisely the right time. All of that sounds very much like clockwork to me, like the machinations of a very complex, delicate system. And nights lying in bed beside Felicia, I could hear that tick-tick-tocking, too, and it scared the shit out of me.

  So. She’s gone.

  And I have no idea what’s next. The mill is finally finished. We’re—no, I’m—buried in debt. The only thing holding us afloat before was Felicia’s job. So if I now find myself up shit creek, I can hardly blame her. The only reason she agreed to move here, to Little Wing, was that she loved me. And more to the point, that she agreed it would be a good place to raise children. After that, time just got away from me. I kept thinking we had time, more time.

  * * *

  I’d jump. I’ve thought about it. In my line of work, in commodities and stocks, jumping is our seppuku—I know some guys who think it’s the only honorable thing to do. If not jumping, then a nickel-plated Colt. I’ve come up on three different occasions, actually, with the intention of ending it. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. And I can’t tonight. Saturday is Ronny’s wedding. Hardly the week to make a mess on the sidewalk, as it were. Saturday is also the grand reopening of this mill, and the whole town is invited to tour the building. Saturday, I’m going to put on a nice suit (no tie, though) and I’m going to give a short speech, hand out free plastic glasses of beer, and lead a bunch of tours. Then, that evening, in one of the unrented spaces, a space with great natural sunlight, with in-floor heating, and nice, ample bathroom facilities, Ronny is going to marry Lucy. I didn’t charge them a dime. The whole town is invited. Guests are encouraged to bring a gift and a nonperishable food item. I figure, if you’re going to go bankrupt, you may as well throw a party to mark the occasion.

  As I told you, I’m trying.

  * * *

  Lucy is six months pregnant, but you’d never guess. She looks great. Felicia threw her a baby shower a few weeks ago out at our place. It was nice. Henry and Beth came. The Girouxs—sans dates. Eddy Moffitt and his wife, their kids. Lee was there, though obviously no Chloe. The town really doesn’t know what to think. In the tabloids for sale down at the IGA, Chloe is shown in low-quality, grainy photographs with rappers, guitar gods, bonzo drummers. And they’re not even divorced yet, apparently.

  The women formed a circle in our living room, the stack of presents in front of Lucy four feet high. We’d hired a caterer, and the kitchen was full of cold cuts, fresh fruit, pasta salads, wine, beer. It was cold out, but the guys huddled outside around a campfire, away from the frou-frou wrapping paper, ribbons, subdued manners, and finger sandwiches. It was oddly quiet around the fire. I don’t think Lee and Henry exchanged a single word. Normally those two are thick as thieves. We formed teams and threw horseshoes, broke out the bocce balls and smoked cigars.

  “What’s the deal with Lee?” I asked Eddy. “He seems pretty sullen.”

  “If my wife was banging the Billboard Top Forty, I’d be pretty friggin’ sullen too.”

  So, I let it go. I’m trying to just let things go.

  After everyone left, after the caterers took their wares away, the house was quiet. Felicia crawled into bed early that night and I found her in there, a little later on, crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Go away,” she said. “All right? Just leave me alone.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the windows at our big dark lawn and the fields beyond, the stars winking down on them, a set of headlights crawling over the countryside. I sighed.

  “They’re pregnant and we’re not,” I said.

  “Ronny Taylor is going to be a dad, and you’re not! Does that sound right to you? Ronny and a stripper are having a baby and you won’t do the same for me. Goddamn it, Kip. It’s like that board game I used to play as a little girl. You know? The one with the little cars and the colored pegs and you go around the track and you either go to school or not. You become a doctor or not. You fill your car with kids.”

  “Life,” I said. “The game of Life.”

  “I always wanted a full car, Kip, and I was always pretty fucking clear about that. So fuck you, all right? Fuck you. But you have to decide, buddy. You need to decide if you want to be a man or not, here. You need to grow up. Because right now, I come home, I crawl into bed. All I see is a coward. Some guy with a bat-shit crazy fantasy for an old mill in the middle of fucking nowhere. So let me be perfectly clear, in case you weren’t listening before: Either we make a baby together, or I’m out of here.”

  Weeks passed. Nothing changed. When we made love, I wore a rubber. Her pills in the bathroom cupboard beside a box of tampons. Good nights and good mornings. Dozens of meals together sprinkled with polite conversation. Occasionally a bottle of wine, but not with enough frequency to necessitate a cellar.

  So, she finally left. I came back from the mill one night, and she was sitting slumped over the granite countertop in the kitchen, her head resting on her arms. She looked up at me and her eyes were more tired than sad. The keys already in her hand. She stood up, walked over to me, kissed me on the lips, hard, and said, “I’m checking into a motel. I’ll come back on Friday to get ready for the wedding.”

  * * *

  One day, in my office in Chicago, my secretary knocked on the door, came in with a puzzled look on her face. She was a nice woman, Denise, reminded me of my aunt Carol. Denise still calls me once a month or so, actually checks up on me. Asks me whether or not I might want to reconsider and come back to Chicago.

  “There’s a man on the telephone,” she said that day. “Says he knows you. Says it isn’t business-related, but that you’ll remember him. Harvey Bunyan?” She held up her hands in mystery.

&nbs
p; Initially, the name did not resonate. “Harvey? Bunyan? And he’s not a client?”

  Denise shook her head. “I already told him he had the wrong number, but he called right back. Claims he’s looking right at your business card. That he and his wife were in town for a wedding and that he thought he’d give you a call because, you invited him here?”

  “Look,” I said sharply, “Denise, I really can’t be…” Harvey Bunyan. The farmer. Jesus, how long ago was that.… “I’ll take the call,” I said firmly. “Thanks, Denise.”

  I collected myself, picked up the telephone.

  “Hello,” I said. “Mr. Bunyan? What can I do for you, sir?” My intention was to brush him off. To file through my imaginary date book, claiming any and all manner of appointment. Everyone ranging from Warren Buffett to the secretary of the Department of Agriculture. The Jolly Green Giant. Tony the Tiger. Juan Valdez. A man I’d met one time? At a gas station? In a town I couldn’t even remember the name of? I could hear the sound of wind from his end of the connection; a woman’s voice, very faint, politely urging something.

  “Yeah,” he said at last, the sound of gruff relief in his voice. “Harvey Bunyan. Uh. We met about a year or two ago. Talked over at the Kum & Go, and you had that fancy car. That red Mustang.”

  “Absolutely. How can I help you, Mr. Bunyan?” I tried to remain formal, busy-sounding. I shuffled papers loudly, typed nonsense on my keyboard.

  “Well, the thing is. Edith and I are in town for a niece’s wedding up to Evanston and I told her about you and, you know, I’ve had your business card in my wallet. Well.” He paused, coughed. “We were downtown, and I just wondered if maybe you had time for lunch.”

  I looked out the window. The view was forever.

  “Mr. Bunyan,” I began. “I—”

  I could hear the receiver rubbing against dry hands, or maybe clothing, then murmuring, polite arguing.

  “Mr. Bunyan?”

  “Hello,” a voice suddenly said. “This is Edith Bunyan. Is this Mr. Cunningham?”

  “Ah, yes. Hello there, Mrs. Bunyan. How can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Well, it might be imprudent of me, but I’m just going to lay Harv’s cards out on the table, because you must be a little confused, and I think I can save you some time. So here goes. Harvey swears you look just like our boy, Thomas. Swears by it. Says you could be brothers.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Thomas was killed in Iraq. Fallujah. IED. Our boy was. Thomas. The one you look like.”

  “Ma’am, I got calls stacking up, and you know how it goes, the market doesn’t stop, I can’t just, I can’t just take the afternoon off, I’m sorry but, but I don’t even really know your husband—”

  “Harvey.”

  “Right, Harvey. Obviously I’m sorry about your loss and all but, I mean, we met just that one time, and he seemed, you know, like a very nice man and all.…”

  “Harvey Bunyan. You gave him your card.”

  “Well, right, but…”

  “Look.” She lowered her voice. “Thomas was our only boy. He worked in Chicago. Commodities, same as you. Went to Northwestern. Smart boy. Put himself through school on the GI Bill and then one day he gets called up, and next thing we know he’s gone. And Harvey, well, he just won’t accept it.” She paused. “I’m asking you, could you please just meet us for lunch. Forty-five minutes. We’ll buy. I think he’s lonely. Like I said, you remind him of Thomas. You must be a very nice man.”

  Denise stood in my office doorway, a look of concern on her face.

  “Where exactly are you guys?”

  * * *

  We met at Giordano’s, a famous pizzeria stuffed with tourists. They were standing by the door, Harvey and Edith, two people older than my own parents, looking stiff in their Rockport walking shoes, pressed pants, and windbreakers. Harvey looking older and more frail than what I’d remembered, constantly parting his thinning hair with thick fingers, his wet eyes darting all over me, the restaurant’s frenetically decorated walls, the crowd of patrons, and the young servers. Edith: plump, with thick, wobbly forearms, thin lips, and a gigantic purse dangling off her meaty elbow. I decided just to relax, to while away the hour, to humor them—two harmless old people and me, some ghostly reminder of their poor son.

  We ate pizza, sipped Coca-Cola. They asked about my work, where my office was, nodded appreciatively, Harvey squinting up at me, looking all around the buzzing room. “Sure is busy here,” he said. Edith talked about their little farm, about wanting to sell, about buying an Airstream and driving the highways of the American Southwest. I imagined her arms growing pink with sunburn, a streak of zinc oxide down her nose, her eyes hidden behind gigantic drugstore sunglasses. And Harvey: forever distracted by the memory of their farm, complaining about the cost of gasoline, traveling everywhere with a frown and arms crossed over his chest.

  “You do look like Thomas,” Edith said. “At first I didn’t see it. But now. You rub your hands together the same way he did, you know, when you get impatient. And your ears are the same.” She patted Harvey on the arm. “Sonuvagun.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’d like to pick up the check, if you don’t mind. It’s my pleasure. Really. And you’re my guests.” I had invited them.

  “Oh,” Edith said, rummaging through the cavern-land of her purse for her billfold. “We won’t hear of it. Now.”

  “No, no, no,” I said, deftly handing my credit card to the passing waitress, who scooped it up like a baton in a relay. The hour had passed more quickly than I would have expected. “Really, this has been a nice surprise. A nice break for me.”

  When we stood outside the restaurant about to part ways, I was surprised to find Edith giving me a long hug, her body pressed firmly against mine, the sweetness of her cheap perfume almost overwhelming. And then Harvey, never really making eye contact, presenting his dry, old hand, shaking mine, saying, “I’m sure that if you could have, you and my boy’d have been good friends. He was just like you. Strong. Smart. Polite.” He settled one hand on my left bicep, and I felt his grip there. He could not look at me and I heard his voice failing, the traffic sounds suddenly too loud, too frenetic. I wanted to shut the city off, to pause every action. Then Harvey stepped away from me and Edith took his hand in hers. They looked lost in the city, cowering almost, their shoulders slumped yet somehow proud, grave smiles etched on their faces. I peered down at my cell phone, unsure what to do with my own eyes.

  “So, when’s the wedding?” I asked.

  “Tonight,” Harvey said. “My sister’s daughter.”

  “And when do you guys head back home?”

  Pedestrians pushed between us. Suitcases and rolling luggage, cell phone squawkers and joggers.

  “Tomorrow,” they said in unison. Then Harvey: “Tomorrow morning. We’ll try to hit the road early.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, look,” I said, not even thinking about what I was going to say, to offer. “Maybe you might like to come on over to my place tomorrow morning before you go. I’ll make you breakfast. That way you won’t have to spend money on some expensive big-city brunch. I live in the John Hancock. Come on over. I’ve got a great view. You can tell me more about Thomas.” It felt good, felt right. Those two lost geezers. I’d never done anything like that before, or since, really, maybe until now.

  Their smiles slowly grew radiant. I wrote my address down on a scrap of paper, and waved them good-bye before Edith could cover my cheeks in any more lipstick, or my clothes in the scent of her perfume.

  * * *

  They did come to breakfast the next morning, stayed on until just past noon. We drank two pots of coffee and Harvey paced around my condo, staying a cautious distance from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Edith, sitting at my dining-room table, showing me photographs of Thomas from a small album she kept in her purse. He did look like me. It was unsettling. The same hair, eyes, face, build. In the photographs, he even seemed to favor the same brands of clothing I wore, clutched
the same bottle of beer I would drink. In many of the photographs he stood in the very same Chicago bars and restaurants I often visited.

  “Did you have other children?” I asked, not looking at Edith, already aware of what the answer would be.

  “No,” Harvey said from across the room.

  She closed the album and placed it carefully back inside her purse, then seemed to settle very deeply into her chair and for a count of three seconds or so, closed her eyes tightly, pursed her lips, and then exhaled.

  * * *

  You pour everything into a child, all your love, all your attention, all your hopes, all the promises of those kinfolk who preceded you, and you just don’t know. It isn’t like anything else in the world. Except faith, I suppose, and I’m not a very religious person. But when you invest in stocks or commodities, you can hedge your bet, you can put your money in a dozen different places, or a thousand. You can diversify your hopes and fears, and in the end, sure it’s a crapshoot, sure it’s a gamble, but I’ve always known that I could get a return. That I could get something out of it.

  Twice a year I got a greeting card in the mail from Harvey and Edith. Once at Christmas, and once on Thomas’s birthday, which happens to be only five days away from my own. The greeting cards are inscribed with Harvey’s bold, neat cursive. They never say much. The same farmer-gripes I might hear from Henry or the Giroux twins—not enough rain, too much rain, crop loss, diesel prices, an expensive hip replacement, et cetera. Sometimes, Harvey sent me pictures of their farm, the photographs clearly taken on a disposable camera and the quality of the film vague and overexposed. I’d see a field of seedlings, rows and rows of tender green, or a purple sunset over a field of pale, dry corn. Snow up to the windowsills of their house or a cardinal at their birdfeeder. There was never any explanation for the pictures he sent me, no pattern or theme. Just his life. The same pictures he would have sent Thomas perhaps, when the young man was stationed in Iraq, or even back in the States, at some fort in the humid American South.

  “Remind me who these people are again?” Felicia would ask, examining their address on the outside of the card’s envelope. “How do you know them again?”