Beneath the Weight of Sadness

by Gerald L. Dodge

  “Nothing is the same anymore, Ethan. I doubt if it will ever be again.”

  Those words came from a seventeen-year-old girl, and so they had to be considered from that point of view. Teenagers have their whole lives ahead of them and Carly’s statement was ephemeral, like the daffodils that bordered the trees on the edge of where we stood, or Carly’s striking and youthful beauty. But in truth, Carly Rodenbaugh might as well have been speaking for me. Her words carried a weight that I’d felt every waking hour of every day since my son had been murdered. For me, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Carly

  The day of Truman’s death

  “You’re so beautiful, Carly,” Tommy said as he traced his finger down the edge of my nose, and I knew he was looking at the freckles that sprinkled my nose and the tops of my cheeks. My father used the word “sprinkled” and I’d always thought of them that way from then on. I was nude next to him and we’d just gotten done. It wasn’t the same, though. It hadn’t been the same since he’d beaten Steve up and I wondered if he felt it. I wasn’t being a slut; I still had deep feelings for him, but I could never stop thinking that the hands that slid along my hips or touched my inner thighs or ran along my legs and feet had been the same hands that had done so much violence to my friend.

  I guess I mostly felt a tenderness toward him, because I knew he felt such pressure because of his dad. I knew his father was always on him about something. If it wasn’t his sports, it was his school work or the chores he had to do around the house. My father said there was something terribly sick in that house. He knew Mr. Beck from the club they both went to, and he said there wasn’t a time he didn’t overhear Tommy’s father talking about his son, how great he was, what he’d accomplished as a wrestler or baseball player. It was a shame, my father said. At first I thought that was odd, that my father would say, “It’s a shame.” But as I got to know the family I saw what he meant.

  Tommy hated his dad. I was the only one, except for his mother, who he didn’t mind calling him Tommy, for instance. He said he cringed every time he heard it from his father.

  “It never has the same meaning as it does when you or my mom calls me that. I actually like when you call me that. I do.”

  My friend Caroline and I went to see Shutter Island at the Persia CinePlex. We both thought Leonardo DiCaprio was hot, or at least we thought that when we watched Titanic on DVD. But this movie was different. He looked much older, we both agreed, and the movie was confusing. We tried to concentrate, as if we owed Leonardo something, but it was hard. Weird. We left the theater not saying much. Finally Caroline said, “Pretty much shit if you ask me.”

  I laughed with relief. “Yeah,” I said.

  I checked my cell and Tommy had called five times since we’d gotten out of Caroline’s car to go into the movies.

  We’d driven in Caroline’s Saab 9-3. Her parents had bought it for her seventeenth birthday, and we stopped off at Applebee’s for a salad. It was fun watching all the families order whatever and discuss whatever and act so happy to be at Applebee’s. Caroline, for like the thousandth time, asked me about Tommy. She knew about the summer before and I’d told her in confidence that I wanted to see other guys.

  “It’s hard,” I said as the waitress brought our salads and forced a smile. She had a fat ass and I could tell she ate too much of the greasy food they had there. She had a pretty face, though. I didn’t recognize her. She might’ve gone to Chatham High or something.

  “Just fucking tell him how you feel, Carly!”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I still care about him. I mean, I don’t know what he’d do if I told him. I WILL though, Caroline. It’s just a matter of when.”

  I was sort of jealous of Caroline, because she had this perfect guy. He was already in college and she’d met him at a party. I’d met him a few times and he was smart and handsome and not the least full of himself.

  “Look,” she said. “I think Tommy Beck is the hottest guy in the school, except for you-know-who. But I also think he’s damaged. We’ve talked enough about this.” She forked through her salad. “This salad sucks.” We both laughed.

  “He’s fucked up, but mostly it’s because of his dad. I think once he gets to school he’ll be different. I think he just has to get away from his family life. Plus Sam is no help. She’s always instigating him.”

  “She’s spoiled, but so is he.”

  “He is by his mother, but his dad is always after him about his grades or some shit. I hate going there when they’re home.”

  Caroline wrinkled her nose in amusement. “So you do it mostly at your house?” She giggled.

  “Yeah. As much as we do it anymore. I used to like look at the time at school and think, ‘Hurry the fuck up!’” I laughed and ate some of my terrible salad. Caroline laughed, too. She had black, curly hair and her face looked slightly Asian, which only made her more beautiful. I loved to look at her face. We’d talked about rooming together if we both decided to go to Princeton—I mean if we got accepted—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. The closer I got to graduation the more I thought I should room with someone I didn’t know. Just to like get a different perspective. My dad thought that was a good idea.

  “Do you think he knows you want to end it?”

  “Yeah, I think deep down he does. I mean, he can’t not know. I don’t spend half the time I used to with him.” I leaned across the table so the people on the other side of the railing wouldn’t hear. “I think he’s too much of a baby. He’s always whining.”

  Caroline laughed. “I’m glad you finally said that, Carly. I’ve always thought that about him. Somehow I think he thinks that makes him more appealing. Always going around with that James Dean look. ‘I’m wounded, help me!’”

  I felt a slight tinge of anger, but I had to admit she was right. He was always complaining about something: his father, coaches, teachers, us.

  “I wish Truman…” But then I trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I wished.

  “That he wasn’t gay,” Caroline said, taking another forkful of her salad.

  “God! I get sooo tired of hearing that shit! Truman is Truman.”

  She smiled. “You’ve always had a thing for him, Carly. Everyone knows it.”

  “What the fuck,” I said, laughing. “I have not!”

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

  I felt my cell vibrate in my bag, but I didn’t check to see who it was. I knew who it was. Give me a fucking break, I thought.

  “It’s just that he’s so handsome and so smart. I don’t know if I love him because he’s like a brother or because he’s like the only person I’ve ever really wanted.” I looked at Caroline and crossed my eyes. “Weird, right?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. There isn’t a girl in the school who wouldn’t hook up with him if he wanted that. If he WANTED that. That’s the problem.”

  “I know, but I don’t think he’s gay.” I shook my head. I had never ever told anyone the secret I knew about Truman, that he was gay, and I never would. Especially in this town. They could make all the conjectures they wanted, but it wouldn’t come from me.

  “Then what is it? I mean, like I don’t want to get into your shit, but he knows he could have you. You’re like the best-looking girl in the school. What else could it be?”

  I didn’t answer, though. I couldn’t really. I could’ve repeated that it was just Truman, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t really know myself. I didn’t know what kinds of things went on in his head. I didn’t know. I changed the subject.

  Caroline dropped me off at the end of our drive where two large brick columns stand with lights on the top and black wrought-iron gates that can be closed but never are. I thought as I made my way up the driveway that it was warm for late March. Maybe it was. There was a strong wind and for some reason I was reminded of Cape Cod, of the Engroffs’ house. There were only a few lights on inside, only one downstairs.

  I started thinking about leaving ho
me, going away for college. I knew I would miss my parents, especially my dad. We’d always been close, he was always there and I was glad he was. He didn’t particularly like Tommy, but the times we’d discussed my relationship with him, he’d tried to understand. I knew he was banking on the fact that Tommy’d be going away to college in the fall, and he knew things would change after that.

  So I didn’t hear Tommy whisper to me until he stepped out from the hedges that line the driveway going to the house. His face was in shadow and at first I didn’t know it was him. It scared the shit out of me, actually. Especially since he had something in his hand.

  “Carly,” he whispered.

  “Jesus Christ, Tommy! What’re you doing?”

  “Sorry,” he said. He came close to me and leaned in and kissed me on the lips. I could smell his cologne. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you all night.”

  I let out a sigh of frustration. “I was with Caroline. We went to see Shutter Island.”

  “And you couldn’t return my calls?”

  “I was with her, Tommy.” He was coming more into focus. “What’s that in your hand?”

  I actually felt a split-second of panic.

  He raised it in front of him. It was a baseball bat with two gloves, which had been slid down the wide barrel of the bat.

  “For some reason the lights are on at the field. I thought maybe we could hit the ball a little.” He produced a ball that had been in his other hand.

  I laughed because the thought was so sweet. We hadn’t played flies and grounders since before Thanksgiving. It was a part of what we did together, and I loved it. He was different when he had a glove or a bat in his hand.

  “I don’t know. Mom and Dad will be mad if I come in too late.”

  “They’re already in bed.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I thought maybe you were home. I looked in at the lights downstairs and then they turned them off and I saw them go upstairs together. Only the outside light is on.”

  “That is definitely creepy, Tommy.”

  He laughed and put his arm around me, pushing me back toward the street. It was about a ten-minute walk to the park from my parents’ house, and I thought about whether I should go or not. I knew that if my dad got up in the middle of the night and I wasn’t there, he’d have a shit-fit. He was always worrying about my safety, and he didn’t like or trust Tommy.

  He’s too polite. He’s like Eddie Haskell.

  He had had to explain to me who Eddie Haskell was. And he was right. Tommy was like that and it pissed me off. There was always this fake side to him and he displayed it in front of me as if I were too stupid to know that he was acting like a fraud. It was so clear that that part of him came from his dad. Like father like son, my dad would say, especially after his second martini and the subject of Tommy came up. And my mother wasn’t much different. She’s always been really intuitive and because of it she knew Tommy and I were sleeping together. She never called me out on it, but I knew she knew. He’s not the one for you, Carly, so I can’t imagine why it is you…but then she’d trail off, never saying what she really wanted to say.

  I don’t think it lowered her opinion of her only daughter, but I knew she was frustrated. And neither of my parents liked the Becks. They often used the word pedestrian to describe them, and I had to laugh because I couldn’t help but agree with them.

  But there was something about Tommy that kept me wanting to be with him. I know that part of it was that he was the first and only guy I’d ever slept with, except, of course, for Truman, which didn’t really count. But it wasn’t just that. I felt some sympathy for Tommy that was deep inside me, that made me short of breath when I thought about him. Sympathy? Maybe that’s not a good word, although Truman would nod his head if he heard me use that word to explain why I was attracted to Tommy Beck. But it was something like that.

  I felt like if he could just separate himself from his own vision of himself, separate himself from how he thought other people perceived him, he would nearly be perfect. Except for his temper. And I guess that’s what it was, too. Tommy was different when we were alone. He was more like the Tommy he should be, had the ability to be. He was gentle and generous and he listened. What are the lyrics to that Sinead O’Connor song, Only You? Only you know how to hear me through the silence…something like that. And when I first heard that song I thought of Tommy.

  He could guess what I was thinking but he wouldn’t prod me about it until I was ready to talk. But that was also the frustration, because he was only like that with me, and I knew that part was the part that would finally end our relationship. He had a split personality or something. Did I love him? No. I’m almost sure I didn’t. I loved Truman if I loved anyone. I was hoping when I got to college that part would go away, too, the pain of that would disappear. And the ironic thing was that I felt like I was in prison and I had no one to talk to except the walls and they didn’t fucking talk back. I couldn’t confide in anyone about Tommy, because Truman wouldn’t listen and I didn’t want to get into anything that was really my own shit with my other friends, and I definitely couldn’t get into a conversation about Truman with Tommy, even though a couple of times I’d tried.

  So I felt funny about walking to the park with Tommy at 12:30 in the morning, mostly because I knew part of why we were going was because he was going to lecture me or fucking interrogate me about why I didn’t answer my cell anymore or text him back as often as he thought I should. And of course that’s exactly what happened.

  The wind was blowing pretty hard, but the moon was full and it was only blocked out occasionally by a passing cloud. It felt like rain.

  We had to pass through the square in the middle of Persia and it was empty. I like the square, with its guns from World War I and II and the memorial plaque of all the men and women who have died in all the wars, including a number of young boys from the Civil War. When we were younger, Truman and I would go to the plaque and touch the names to see if we could feel what they must’ve been like when they were alive, how they felt in war, what they felt when they knew they were going to die.

  The memorial was the only part of the square where there was a light, and I could see the wind whipping around a few leaves still on the ground from last fall. From the square we took Water Street to a small service road that runs behind the municipal building and then up a hill that leads to the baseball field. There are dugouts there and a fence in the outfield, and when the season starts the little-big league has the stands on the home side of the field packed with people. And Tommy was right. For some reason, the lights were on. The field was almost as bright as daytime.

  “Give me a glove,” I said as I kicked off my sandals.

  Tommy slid a glove from the barrel of the bat and threw it to me. I could tell it was Sam’s, but it fit okay.

  I ran out to second base, the grass on the infield cold and wet from the dew. Tommy was using a hard ball, which was good. I liked to practice with a hardball because then the softball seemed even easier to control. And Tommy didn’t take it easy with me. He hit the ball the same way he would if he were hitting with a guy. I could hear the hiss from the speed of the ball and it stung when I caught it in the padding. I rolled the ball back and that’s the way it went on, Tommy hitting the ball to either side of me so I had to make solid plays to catch the balls. Sometimes he’d hit the ball high in the air, and that was thrilling because I’d lose it as it went above the scope of the lights and I’d have to judge where it would come down in order to catch it. All the time Tommy hit it he kept up a commentary.

  “I know you haven’t completely let go of what happened between Steve and me, Carly.”

  “Bullshit, Tommy. I have.”

  “No,” he said, slicing the ball to my left-hand side, the side I had most problems with in a game. “Ever since that night you’ve been different.”

  “I think you’ve been different is what it is. You keep thinking things have ch
anged because you’ve obsessed about it. And you keep saying the same thing over and over again.”

  “Then why can’t you answer your cell or respond to my texts?”

  “I do, Tommy. Just not every fucking minute you send them. I do have a life, you know.”

  “See!” he said. “You never used to be like you are now. You couldn’t wait to see me.”

  I caught a ground ball that nearly got past me, crawling up my arm and hitting my chin and then going up in the air where I snagged it. I held the ball and looked at him. “Jesus Christ, Tommy! I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “More of what?”

  “More of me being accused of not caring anymore. It’s like your fucking mantra.”

  I threw the ball hard back at him and it hit the backstop with a smack. He jogged back to it and hit a ball high in the air. It went above the lights and as it did I realized the sky no longer had a moon or stars. I judged where the ball would reappear and waited for it. It took a few seconds to come down into my vision. I caught it Willie Mays style, underhand, and laughed, hoping Tommy would laugh, too.

  “Come here and kiss me, Carly,” he demanded.

  “I will if you let me hit for a while.”

  He grinned brightly. “First a kiss.”

  I trotted toward him, his face lit by the brightness of the lights, and as I got nearer he took on a shy expression. I felt a tug of regret. Maybe I had been too hard on him lately. It was just that he wouldn’t ever give me any space. I threw my glove at him and he dropped the bat and caught it. Then I threw the ball and he caught that. For a minute he juggled the bat, the glove and the ball. I am always dazzled by his athletic ability.

  “You are such a fucking show-off.”

  He let everything drop in front of him and stepped over it all and put his arms around me. He leaned in and kissed me and like always I felt my breath come up short.

  “Let’s go where it’s dark.”

  “No way, pal. I have my little friend.”

  “I don’t care,” he said, pulling me closer. “I just want you.”