Writing on the Wall

by Christopher Cleary

  Megan didn’t really need his help. If she were alone, she could have propped herself on her elbows and wiggled her way up. There was a chance she would slip and fall backwards, but it was unlikely. Since Donnie was available, she waited for his assistance.

  All Megan could see were Donnie’s high-top sneakers. Standing between her outstretched arms, he bent at his knees, took hold of Megan by the upper portion of her arms and straightened his legs, thereby hoisting her up and out of her predicament.

  She exhaled a big breath like she had done all the work and patted herself off. “Thank you.”

  “No sweat.”

  The moonlight came from behind Donnie, casting him in a silhouette and hiding his features from Megan. Megan’s face was a little easier to make out, but not much because Donnie’s tall body cast a shadow upon her.

  Until he met her, the future had been filled with uncertainty. Megan added purpose to his life. He would not have enjoyed going to the mall or purchasing a baseball hat and tambourine before she came to Haviland. It was hard for him to take pleasure in the mundane, knowing that his father couldn’t find gratification in anything. But being at the mall, being part of their threesome, he felt involved. For the first time since losing his father, he was part of something.

  Seldom did he interact with other people, and they – for the most part – left him alone. He felt unworthy of any affection that Megan showed him, but never for long. She was the only person to make him feel like he deserved it.

  To prevent a potentially awkward moment in the middle of their clandestine operation, Megan walked past Donnie and toward the table.

  “Let’s hurry,” she said, “before they realize they forgot something and drive back for it.”

  Donnie caught up and lifted the front end of the box, while Megan lifted the back. They walked the rest of the way to the storage unit without further incident.

  Donnie wanted to open the box and test the table out. Megan wanted to get back.

  “My parents are home, you know?” she said. “Sleeping in a bed not far from my own empty bed.”

  “Can we at least stop at Swifts? Grab a couple of hot chocolates for the walk home?”

  Swifts was only a block in the wrong direction, but it seemed like a fair compromise. “K,” she said. “We stop for one hot cocoa and one decaf coffee. Then straight home.”

  “Gotcha.”

  THIRTEEN

  It was great to finally have some furniture in Unit #143. The table and two chairs were placed in the center of the unit. Megan put her bookstand on the table, along with some candles. Donnie arranged a few of the larger three-wick candles on the floor at the back of the room. After that, he stepped on one of the chairs and affixed the lampshade upside-down to the bare bulb. The combined effect of the lampshade and candles warmed the mood of the unit. The boom box was placed on a third chair. The streamers from Megan’s birthday remained hanging and gave Unit #143 a constant festive atmosphere.

  With their backs against the door, they admired their handiwork.

  “Look how cozy it looks,” Megan said.

  “It’s definitely an improvement.”

  Using her right incisor, Megan tugged at her lower lip, “I think we need drapes.”

  “Don’t we need windows to have drapes?”

  “Come on, Donnie. Think outside the box.”

  “Funny.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it is,” he said, holding his hands out toward the storage unit. “One big box.”

  The big box was no longer a barren concrete cell. Not only was it filling up with furniture and effects, it was also accumulating memories. Unit #143 possessed character. It had transformed into a hip hangout.

  As their sophomore year waned, Megan became one of Friendly’s best servers. She was popular with both families and high school kids. The families liked her because she was fast, efficient, and patient. High school girls liked her because she didn’t meddle in their affairs and kept a cool attitude with them. The high school boys liked her because they got to interact with a pretty girl who had no choice but to talk to them.

  The weather began to improve and so did business at Dirt’s driving range. The air still had a cool, spring crispness to it, but when the sun was out in full, its heat nullified any chill and gave golfers who had been itching to practice their swing a chance to get out.

  Donnie enjoyed those sunny days. The mindless monotony of picking up golf balls in an open field was relaxing. It was comforting to know that he was alone, but, at the same time, part of something bigger. He was an important piece of the driving range cycle.

  He was also taking more interest in the sport. When things slowed down, Dirt gave him a bucket of balls to hit. Donnie had never seen Dirt swing a golf club, but that didn’t keep him from shouting advice from the shack.

  “Follow through,” he would yell at Donnie, along with, “Keep that left arm straight,” and “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your head down? If you look up to see where the ball went, it’s still gonna be at your feet.”

  The biggest difference between practicing his golf swing and practicing for his driver’s test was instead of Dirt nagging him, it was his mother: “Slow. Slower. Slow down. Slow down. Slow down!” At least Dirt was more descriptive with his criticism.

  Megan’s mom offered a minimal amount of driving tips. It was more important to her that she was spending time with her daughter than providing a lesson. Megan had to ask for instruction.

  “Mom, it’s a one-way street. Can I turn left on red?”

  To which Mrs. Priddy would reply, “Do you feel like Thai tonight? Let’s stop at the store. Your father won’t like it, but he’s having dinner at the club.”

  Despite the inadequacies of their instructors, both of them successfully passed their driver’s exams and earned their licenses.

  Megan’s first trip alone in the car was to the nearest drive-thru for a small fry and diet cola. Her next stop was the discount retailer. She anticipated the summer heat and bought a cooler to keep their beverages cold and snacks from melting in the storage unit.

  “Ugh,” she said, slouching in her folding chair.

  Haviland High released students two hours early on the last day of school. The spring air felt great and it was a beautiful day. At the risk of being seen lounging around their unit, they left the garage door open.

  “I can’t believe that I agreed to work on the last day of school,” she moaned. “The last thing I want to be doing is serving ice cream.”

  “What would you rather do?”

  “Anything!” Megan told him, slouching down even farther. “In my first hours of freedom, I have to work. That sucks.”

  “It’s not that big a deal. Do you work tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “See. There’ll be lots of days this summer that you don’t work.”

  “Still sucks.” She thought for a minute. “What the hell are we going to do in here all summer?”

  Megan carried her Friendly’s uniform in a pale green gym bag as Donnie walked her to work. She would change her clothes in the restroom and put her hair in a ponytail before her shift started.

  Donnie always walked her to work if she was leaving from the storage unit. Megan’s co-workers began to wonder if they were going together. When the girls asked, Megan never answered with a definitive answer. Her standard reply was a mischievous grin accompanied with a shoulder shrug. She couldn’t say because she really didn’t know how to describe their relationship and it was none of their business.

  Before going home for dinner, Donnie went out of his way to go to the library. He had an idea for how to pass time in the storage unit that summer.

  He worked until two o’clock on the first full day of summer vacation. Afterwards, he hooked up with Megan and they walked to Unit #143.

  Even though school was out, he had his notebook with him. For years he had carried a notebook from class to class. It was usually a fi
ve-subject notebook, but his notes never went deeper than the first three or four pages of each subject. He’d tear a few sheets out here and there to complete homework assignments, but that was about it.

  Ten days after his father died, when Donnie returned to school, he had difficulties focusing on the teachers’ lessons. Actually, he had difficulties listening to what anyone said. He couldn’t go more than a minute without thinking about his father. When he did think of something else, it was always something silly like why is sugar pronounced “shooger” when there’s no “h” in it? These thoughts continuously rattled around in his brain and never came to a conclusion. To make matters worse, they continuously spiraled off in new directions. His thoughts and ideas became complicated and intertwined to the extent that it was extremely frustrating.

  To appear as though he was taking notes during class, Donnie began writing some of these thoughts in his notebook. Surprisingly, this gave him a sense of relief. He rarely went back to reread what he had written, but by writing it down, it was out of his brain. His mind was clear the next time a random thought about his father or something else attacked him.

  His notebook became an ongoing place for him to put whatever came to mind on paper. If it was his dad, he’d write that. If it was the cafeteria menu, he’d add that (the menu was one of the things that he’d refer to later). Sometimes it might be a poem. Sometimes it was an idea such as flavored pen caps. Megan was always chewing her pen cap. What if they came in flavors? He recorded all of these thoughts to keep his mind from exploding.

  He was on his fourth notebook since his father’s suicide. It was in his backpack when they stopped at Swifts before going to Unit #143.

  They purchased a bag of ice and a few bottles of soda. There was a new flavor of Polar Slurp, Orange ‘n Cream, which Donnie couldn’t pass up trying.

  Once in the storage unit, they put their purchases away and Donnie took a plastic case from his backpack.

  Megan asked, “What’s that?”

  Donnie opened the package and inspected the cassettes inside. “It’s an audio book.”

  Donnie had checked it out of the library the day before. He usually read while Megan finished her schoolwork. During the summer, she wouldn’t have any.

  “We’re going to listen to a book?” She was skeptical.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Donnie crouched down in front of the boom box. The only two functions they had ever used were the radio and the CD player and they no longer used the CD player because it burned up batteries too fast.

  “What book is it?” Megan asked.

  “Watership Down.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s by Richard Adams.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, I think you’re going to like it.”

  “Why? Have you read it?”

  “No.” He put tape one into the boom box and closed the cassette door. “I just have a good feeling about it.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Rabbits.”

  “Rabbits?”

  “Well, I know you like rabbits.”

  “I don’t like rabbits.”

  “You don’t?”

  She bounced her head back and forth. “I do, but they’re not my favorite.”

  Donnie stood up and tapped the side of his head, trying to jar the right information loose. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Megan, “Pigs!”

  “Yes, Donnie. Pigs are my favorite.”

  “I got confused. Tell me again,” he said sitting down with her at the table, “why do you like pigs?”

  She answered like he had asked what shape the Earth is, “They’re cute!” A true smile of pleasure spread across her face and her eyes glimmered. It was like she was the light bulb above them and someone removed the shade. Megan held her hands apart like she was holding a football by the ends. “Those little ones,” she said, “with their little legs and those cute snouts - they’re just so a-dor-able.” She didn’t want Donnie to think that they were just cute animals without substance, so she added, “They’re smart, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’ll have to get Animal Farm next.”

  “That’s about pigs?”

  “Not really. I mean, Watership Down isn’t really about rabbits either. They’re just, um,” he took off his baseball cap and scratched his head.

  Megan loved when he did this. She got a kick out of how Donnie actually scratched his head when he was thinking. She also liked it anytime his bushy head of black hair was revealed.

  “The medium!” he finally said. “The rabbits are the medium through which the story is told.”

  “You mean like an allegory?”

  “Maybe.” School was out and he didn’t want to think about what allegory meant.

  She sipped her diet root beer and said, “Play it.”

  Donnie went to the boom box and pressed play.

  When side one of the first cassette ended, Donnie asked for Megan’s opinion by raising his eyebrows.

  “That’s pretty good,” she said.

  “So you like the story?”

  “I was talking about my root beer.”

  “Oh.” Donnie was disappointed.

  “I’m joshin’. I like the story. A lot. What are we going to do? Like a chapter a day or a side a day?”

  He was delighted. “As much as we feel like, I guess.”

  “I like it and it’s kind of cool, you know? It’s like the old days, before TV. Didn’t people sit around and listen to stories on the radio? That’s what this is like. Boffo idea, Donnie.”

  FOURTEEN

  Megan parked her family’s blue mini-van and walked around the brown shack with the black saltbox roof. They were going to walk to Unit #143 after dinner, but she felt like seeing Donnie now. She timed it so she would get there when his shift ended at three o’clock. They could load his bike in the van and drive back.

  There were two golfers in tee boxes at the far end of the lane. Through her sunglasses, Megan’s eyes scanned the open range. She didn’t see Donnie out there.

  She turned toward the shack to ask his employer where he was, but once she got a look at him, she decided not to. Guys like him didn’t live in houses or apartments. They lived in caves or under bridges.

  Careful to avoid eye contact with Dirt, she scuttled toward the other end of the small, open-air tee boxes. The golfer nearest Megan picked up his empty basket and passed her on the decaying sidewalk. Without him obstructing her view, she saw that the other golfer was Donnie.

  She had no clue that he had taken up golfing. From the way his ball traveled, long and straight, she guessed that he had been practicing all winter. Her father golfed a minimum of twice a week and his favorite thing to discuss with his family when he wasn’t on the course was golf. Long and straight was how he desired to strike his ball, but he didn’t always succeed at it.

  Golf was an individual sport; Donnie liked being alone. Golf involved subtleties that needed to be studied and learned; Donnie was a quiet observer. Golf required patience; Donnie never rushed and only said or did things when he felt ready. It was logical that he would be a natural at golf.

  Megan stood partially behind him and partially to his side. She purposely did not make herself more noticeable, but even if she did, Donnie still may not have seen her. He was focused on his activity.

  She watched, mesmerized by his actions. Donnie’s body was long and tall. His backswing was slow and fluid. Once the club was above his head and perfectly parallel to the ground, he began to pull it back around. This was a fast action. His long arms whipped the club head around, creating a rapid swooshing noise. CLACK! The ball elevated high off the ground and out into the distance. Donnie’s head remained down at the tee for nearly a full second before he looked for the flight of the ball.

  It landed almost two hundred yards away, bounced a few times, and rolled to a stop. Donnie teed up another ball. His body wen
t through the same progressions and another golf ball was sent flying.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” Megan said as he prepared for another shot.

  He neither startled nor turned around. Megan couldn’t tell if he had known she was there all along or not. “Thank you. It’s all about timing.” He sent another ball off before he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I have the van so I thought that I’d give you a ride back.”

  “Thanks.” He turned back around and teed up another golf ball. “Can I finish the bucket? Only a few left.”

  “Depends. Do I have to help you pick them up?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “No. I’ll get’em tomorrow.”

  There was a precision to Donnie’s movements that she had never seen before. His actions usually seemed so awkward and aloof. To watch him, focused on one purpose, was captivating. His aura radiated an energy that tingled her sixth sense and demanded her attention. Megan could have watched Donnie hit golf balls all day. Instead, they went home when his basket was empty.

  Later that evening, they walked to the storage unit and listened to Watership Down.

  When they came to a good stopping point, they put the story on pause and walked to Swifts to replenish their supplies. The cooler was bare.

  Along with beverages and snacks, Megan got two packs of playing cards and Donnie bought two boxes of chalk, one white and one colored.

  When they got back to Unit #143, Megan turned on the radio and removed the cellophane wrappers from her playing cards.

  Donnie asked, “Up or down?”

  Megan knew that he was inquiring about the garage door. “Leave it up. It’s hot.”

  He picked the box of white chalk off the table.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  “Stand over here,” he said and pointed to the wall behind his chair.

  Megan trusted that it was for a good reason. She got up and walked over.

  “Here,” he said, gently positioning her body with her back against the concrete block wall. “Sort of…,” he began arranging her arms, “with this up maybe, then put this hand out like this...” She stood with her left arm in the air like she was waving to someone far away. Her right hand was a foot away from her waist. “Just stay like that.”