by Paul Cody
I decided to try one of each. A little chemical cocktail for my eighteenth birthday. Why not? I thought. I’m eighteen.
So I took one of each, went to the third floor, where my phone and computer were, and waited, lying on the futon. Nothing happened.
I was checking through Facebook, seeing where people were going for break, and it seemed as though quite a few were leaving town. Not only did most of the students get out of town, but many of the faculty and staff families left to visit people in other places.
I wondered if my father stayed in Cleveland, or went to East Anglia. I knew Sam would be around, and Anna was staying, and so were Avery and Sierra. Meg was going away for maybe a weekend, but was mostly gonna be around.
I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed, and I had to say, the drugs had proved to be a disappointment. I thought that maybe I should break with tradition, with my entire life, and actually call some people, or take a walk and get coffee the way Sam and I did once. Invite them over for—
What did people do? Talk? Drink? Smoke cigs? Have sex? I was eighteen, and I’d never even kissed a girl. Not really. Girls had run up to me on a dare and kissed me, but that didn’t count. It was all pretty sad. Jejune. That was the word. Unsophisticated. Dull. That had been on the SAT. I’d nailed it.
Then I was starting to feel something. Something relaxed. Something pleasant. Something warm, almost sweet. A little floaty. A bit euphoric. Happy. Really loose and a little tired. But nice. Like the world was nice, and people were nice, and everything was pretty much good all over. Just warm. Just lovely.
So this was drugs. This was what the fuss was all about.
I could hear Mozart, and God, oh, God, it was splendid. The Sanctus. The Benedictus.
I was floating, but getting sleepy too. And I was happy because I had a father. But sad too because for all those years I had not had one. Part of me was high as the sky, but part of me was watching me, and there I was on my eighteenth birthday, and I was on the third floor, buzzed on drugs, and feeling kind of new and good. But also not so good, because I was the way I always was, and that was alone. And even with the pills, or maybe because of the pills, I felt something.
I went downstairs and took another of each of those pills. What the hell. It was the holidays. I think I took two more Christmas morning.
I felt alone. A speck, floating by itself in this great sea of human beings. That’s what it looked like from a distance anyway. Just alone and alone and more alone. The way it had always been. But it didn’t feel distant anymore. It felt sad. And even though I didn’t, the way I never did, it made me want to cry.
Twenty-five
Sam
I wrote my college essay on the year I spent at McLean and Austen Riggs. I figured, What the hell. I couldn’t just skip that year; it wasn’t on my transcript, and Meg said it was a show of strength, and if someone in an admissions office saw it as a negative, it was more than offset by my SATs. Plus, it was part of what I was, for better or worse. Take me or leave me.
Then I got into Cornell ED. I was pretty happy. I didn’t want to leave Ithaca so soon. It was growing on me, even as the winter set in. I had heard a lot about the Ithaca winters. How long and cold and gray they were. How unrelenting. But I wasn’t exactly from Miami or Phoenix. I was from Boston. We had winters there.
So the city started to empty out, just like in the summer, only cold. And almost everyone I knew, my friends, were going to be around. Mom and Dad and I were going to stay put too, and that made me happy. If Christmas was half as good as Thanksgiving, then I was content. Abby and Bob were going to see relatives somewhere, but Mom and Dad invited a few foreign grad students for dinner, early Christmas afternoon. One from China, one from the UK, one French, and one Irish.
I knew somehow that Levon had a birthday two days before Christmas, and then I heard that he had refused to go to Kansas with Susan, to see her family, the way they’d done almost every year. He was staying home, celebrating by himself.
Levon celebrating?
It kind of worried me. Some serious shit seemed to be going on with him, and it wasn’t just about his father; now he and Susan were not getting along. When I asked him about that, he paused and said, Let’s just say I’m realizing how fucked up she is.
Then he walked away.
It was like there were storm clouds surrounding him, and he was even more distant than ever.
Avery and Anna said they always thought something was kind of off about Susan, and they said they weren’t the only ones. This whole thing about Levon not having a father. That his father might be dead, or some psycho killer or mysterious figure who could not be known or named. How weird was that?
Sierra, who I had begun to kind of like and respect and even hang out with a little, said there was nothing wrong with Levon that couldn’t be laid at the feet of fucking Susan.
We were having our last coffee on the afternoon before break, and Sierra had gotten hold of some Gauloises, these French smokes that could tear your lungs out, but were very cool because they were what everyone smoked in French New Wave movies back in the ’50s. We sipped and shivered and talked about getting together over break, and I said that maybe we should try to get Levon to come out, should do something together, all of us.
Sierra and Anna laughed, and said, Good luck with that.
Avery said, Honey, you haven’t known him very long. We’d love to, but it just won’t happen.
At home we had a tree, which Mom and Dad and I actually cut ourselves on a tree farm. I was freezing my ass off, and Mom said maybe we should have just gone to one of the places on the strip on Route 13, with flags like a used-car place. But Dad was gung-ho, and Mom and I called him Nanook of the North, and we laughed and froze, but it was kind of fun.
Once it was up and decorated, it was lovely, and then Mom ordered the turkey from Wegmans, of course, ’cause Mom couldn’t cook a turkey to save her life.
Mom and Dad seemed to be doing pretty well, but I’d still hear yelling behind closed doors once in a while, and one weekend she spent two days in bed. She claimed she had a cold, but I could tell she was depressed or pissed off, or Dad had done or said something—maybe about her parents, or maybe she just felt really, really down. Depression didn’t just disappear, even if it improved. Maybe it was just hard to be grown-up and married.
I called Levon three times on his birthday, left messages, said I had a few presents for him. I’d gotten him a copy of DeLillo’s Mao II, which he hadn’t read, and I knew he’d love, and I burned him copies of Radiohead and the Pogues, which were two of my favorite bands.
But no answer, and no callback.
I called again Christmas Eve. I said, Levon, would you please call me?
But nothing.
Then on Christmas we opened presents, and it was all pretty nice. I hate the word nice, but it was. There were sweaters, coats, electronic stuff, some jewelry, but not as much as in past years. Then we did dinner around two, and the grad students who were staying in Ithaca for the holidays came over and they were all a little awkward. But we plied them with wine, and loosened them up, and they told jokes, and Mom said, No talk about business, and Dad said, You each have to tell a funny story about home.
The Irish woman’s story was best—about a skinny chicken that was supposed to be Christmas dinner, and got away, and she and three brothers had to chase it for at least a mile through fields in the country, and finally gave up, figuring it had more than earned its life. They all had to take baths before dinner. We laughed, and ate, and the fire was going.
By the time they were gone, it was dark.
Both Mom and Dad said they were going upstairs for a nap, and I thought, Hmmm.
Then I didn’t want to think about it.
It was five, and then six, and I was sipping wine very slowly, and I tried Levon again. Still no answer.
Finally I thought, Fuck it.
Christmas nights are always a little sad anyway. Like the time after a p
arty. Empty cups, and full ashtrays, and everything a mess. Not that our place looked so bad at all. I cleaned up a little, then I thought again, Fuck it.
I left a note, saying I was going to Anna’s for a while.
I got my coat and bag, and Levon’s presents. Outside was cold and clear, but the car started up, no problem. I knew where he lived, had driven by his house a bunch of times, and I even knew that they kept a spare key under the front doormat. He’d written that somewhere.
I drove down the hill and there were no cars on the road at all.
I parked in front of his house, and it was completely dark. There were two or three houses with lights on in the entire block.
I got out, walked up the creaking steps to the porch, and rang the bell and waited. Nothing. One minute, two minutes. I rang again, waited again.
Then I thought once more, Fuck it. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was fear. Or love. Maybe it was all those things. But I felt around under the mat, found the key on a ring, opened the storm door, and tried the lock.
My hands were shaking. This was actually illegal, wasn’t it?
But the key fit; I turned it, opened the door, and went inside.
Everything was silent. I knew he slept on the third floor like me. I paused and listened, just in case Susan had not gone out of town. But all I could hear was the hum of the refrigerator, and the furnace below.
My eyes got used to the dark. I could see polished wood floors. Bookcases, chairs and couches and lamps. The rooms were small, but the house seemed to be deep, like there was room after room. The stairs were immediately on my right. They were carpeted.
I went slowly up, and these stairs didn’t creak. There was light from a streetlight falling through a window on the second-floor hall. There were lots of doors. An office, a small bedroom, a bathroom, another doorway on the left, then another, and that was a big bedroom, with another big room beyond that room. I backed up, went to the second doorway on the left, opened the door, and there was a steep flight of carpeted stairs. At the top I could see bookshelves, and a skylight.
I started up the stairs, and I could feel his presence. I could hear his slow breath, and my heart was beating like a hummingbird.
What am I doing? I thought. Then I thought, I don’t give a shit.
At the top was a long room with slanted ceilings, two skylights, a railing around the stairs, three big windows behind a desk that looked onto the street, and bookshelves that ran the entire length of the room on both sides, just below where the ceiling slanted. And in a corner was a big futon on the floor, and sleeping deeply, under a mountain of blankets, was Levon Grady, Birthday Boy, Mr. Yuletide, Man of Mystery.
I took my coat and boots off, got the wrapped book and burners out of my bag and set them on a chair. Then I walked carefully to the futon and sat on the edge. There were Buddhist prayer flags hanging over the three front windows, and prints and cards on the wall, most of which I could hardly make out. One was a Vermeer, the pregnant woman reading a letter, another one was that eerie Empire of Light by Magritte, which I’d once seen at the Museum of Modern Art.
It was beautiful and peaceful and strange.
There were clothes in neat piles, and books and books and more books, and Levon’s phone and computer were on top of the bookcase near the futon.
Hey, I whispered.
Levon, I said, a little louder.
But his breathing was deep and even, and he didn’t stir.
I put my hand on his shoulder, on top of the blankets, and shook him a little.
Hey, pal, I said.
Then I slid my hand under the blanket, and he was warm as a bear. I rubbed his shoulder, then I began to move my hands in his hair, that wild unruly mess of hair.
Levon, I said. Wake up. It’s Christmas.
Mmmm, he said.
It’s Christmas and your birthday, and you’re sleeping your life away. C’mon.
Whaaaaaa, he said.
Levon, it’s Sam. I’m here on a mission.
Sam? he said, still half asleep.
Your friend and co-conspirator. The girl who’s been calling you.
Oh, damn.
Damn what?
I’m sorry.
Don’t be sorry.
How’d you get in here? How’d you know—?
I knew Susan was away, and you wrote somewhere that she left a key under the front doormat. And I knew you weren’t going to Kansas, so you’d be here hanging with all your friends.
You’ve been drinking, he said, and laughed.
We had wine with dinner. And I sipped a little while I cleaned up a bit. Just a buzz.
God, I tried a few of Susan’s pills. Slept a lot. I still feel kind of buzzed. Loosey-goosey.
He sat up, his back against the wall.
Mind if I get under the covers? I said. It’s a little chilly up here.
What the hell, he said, and lifted the covers.
I got under the covers, my back to the wall, to the pillows. He must have had a half dozen pillows.
So this is where it all happens? I said.
He smiled.
This is where it happens, he said. Or fails to happen.
The inner sanctum, the lair, the aerie.
I like those. Maybe aerie’s the best.
I brought you some presents. Just some minor birthday and Christmas stuff.
I handed him the two packages wrapped in silver paper.
Should I open them?
I nodded.
He opened Mao II, and read the first page.
Jesus, he said. Why didn’t I know about this?
’Cause you didn’t know me.
Then he opened the burners. I love them, he said. Should I put one on?
Sure. Put on In Rainbows, but skip the first two tracks. They’re kind of loud when you’re waking up.
He got up, and he was wearing cut-off sweatpants and a T-shirt. I couldn’t help noticing how long and beautiful he was.
Then “Nude” came on, and Thom Yorke’s weirdly beautiful voice. Gliding, whispering, soaring, silent.
Boy, he said, back under the covers.
You like?
I think.
You mind if I hold your hand? I said.
Really?
I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.
Please do, he said.
I’m not trying to put any moves on you. I don’t know any moves.
Nor do I.
I just couldn’t stand the thought—
Of?
You here alone.
I’ve done a ton of it.
I gathered, I said, and laughed. I’ve done some too.
It gets—
Boring?
Alone?
Repetitious?
Redundant?
Un-fun?
Could I make a request? he said. Purely as friends.
Of course.
Can I put my arm around you?
That might be nice.
So he did, and Thom Yorke sang, and I said, This is a sweet room, and my fingers played with his hair.
Then I was getting really warm. I said, I’ve gotta take my scarf and sweater off, and I did, and I said, I’m not trying to seduce you. I promise. I’m a virgin too.
Why are you so sure—?
We listened to Radiohead, and I said, But maybe, to kind of make up for your birthday and Christmas, I could spend the night. Just you and me. Familial, not erotic.
Hunh?
You know? Plato or Aristotle’s three kinds of love: spiritual, familial, and erotic.
What about your parents?
I’ll call, tell them I’m at Anna’s.
You sure?
Very sure.
Then yes. Very yes.
Lemme get my phone.
You need a light?
No. This should all be done under cover of darkness.
I gotta use the bathroom, he said. He got up and went downstairs, and I texted Mom. Am spending night at Anna’s. Love,
S.
Then just in case, I texted Anna, I’m spending the night at yr place if anyone asks. Talk later.
Then I took off my top and jeans, my socks, and was under the covers in my underthings when Levon came back. He had washed his face and brushed his teeth. He was minty.
He slid under the covers and said, Holy shit, and I said, Familial, remember, but why don’t we try kissing? We’re both a little buzzed.
His lips were soft and warm, and we were slow and very tentative. Light, and just touching, and then we used our tongues.
This is unbelievable, he whispered, and I kept saying, Sweet Levon, and he said, Lovely, lovely, lovely, over and over again.
Sometime very late, near dawn, I think, we fell asleep. And that was my first Christmas in Ithaca.
Twenty-six
Trevor
New Year’s Day. I had just received the most extraordinary email. It began, Dear Professor Towns, aka Father, aka Dad—
He had said that his name was Levon Grady, and that two weeks ago he found out from his mother, Susan Grady, that I was his father. He had never known my name, or who I was, or if I was dead or alive. He hadn’t known if I was a killer in some prison from Susan’s early research, or if I was a salesman at Sears, or if I was an airplane pilot or a chef or a gas station attendant in Ohio or Miami or some town near Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
He hadn’t known what I looked like, if I lived in a split-level suburban ranch house, or a trailer park, or under a bridge, or in an apartment house in Wheeling, West Virginia. Or Australia or Amsterdam or Vienna, for that matter.
He knew I had once existed, because he existed. But that was all. He had always wondered. He had asked from a very early age, and Susan had always made it very clear that I was not a part of their lives, that it would not be a good thing if I were, and that I would never be part of their lives.
So forget it, she always said. It didn’t matter. Don’t even think about it.
So he tried not to.
He tried hard. And for the most part, during the days, he didn’t. At least not consciously. But he dreamed about me all the time. He wrote, Sometimes you were a very scary monster, almost like the devil, with fangs, and long greasy hair, and you were always about to hurt me. But sometimes you were a good guy, and we were throwing a baseball back and forth, or walking along a street, or hiking through these sunlit woods, and just sitting and laughing at something stupid. Once I dreamed we were watching a baseball game on television, even though I don’t watch or know anything about baseball.
