Even my own indecision should be a sign. I don’t have the resolve for battle anymore. But maybe the only way to get that back is to get into a good fight, something I haven’t had in years. I wish my mother were alive so I could seek her advice. I recall Billy’s tree house offer to commune with the dead, but I’ll never be that desperate.
While she was alive, my mother did teach me enough to appreciate whatever was in front of me, and with the leaves changing color now and the October sun bright in the afternoon sky, it’s been a pleasant diversion to drift over the mountains and valleys trying to find my way. From five hundred feet, the autumn tones of yellow and gold, the flaming reds and brilliant oranges, don’t seem to suggest dying at all. They seem vibrant and alive. Of course, I know the truth.
Ahead to the east I see Monroe’s water tower, with the letters curving across its round blue belly. I pass by and veer to the north, and sure enough, there’s the pond where I’ve fed geese with Nate. Gloria and Woodrow Sullivan’s house is nearby, and I ease down to treetop level so I can follow the winding street. There are only a half-dozen houses out here, spread between open fields and forest. I skim the tops of the sycamores and oaks, and the crisp air feels fine in my lungs. I feel so glad that I’ve come here. Although they’re a bit richer than most, the Sullivans are everyday, normal people, the kind I’ve always admired and even envied. At these gatherings, you get the craziest sense that each one of them wants nothing more than to be with you, just share your company. Being among them will help clear my mind.
I smell the fire just before I see the column of black smoke rising from the canopy of trees. Picturing their home ablaze, I accelerate, imagining trying to blow my ultrabreath across the flames, or racing through town to find the fire company. Carrying an entire ladder truck isn’t something I could do anymore, but I’m willing to give it a go. I would worry about Nate, but with Debbie at his side, there is no need. Before anything else—superheroine, daughter, wife—she is a mother. As soon as I come into the clearing that marks the Sullivans’ property, though, I see no rescue is required. Below me on the great lawn, two piles of leaves smolder and crackle. My brothers-in-law stand over the small pyres holding bottles of beer, leaning on their rakes like spears. Closer to the house, Debbie and her sisters sit in Adirondack chairs holding long-stemmed glasses, while the kids splash in other leaf piles. And then everyone turns to me, a masked man in a cape hovering in the fall sky.
Because they are just beneath me, I land by my brothers-in-law. Henry, married to Debbie’s oldest sister, Liz, says, “Nice timing. We’re almost done.”
I look at the field of green grass, raked clean and neat, and I speak the truth. “I’d rather have been here helping you. Trust me.”
Sober Gary, Debbie’s twentysomething kid brother, jacks a thumb toward the house and smiles. “You can always clean out the gutters.”
“No, no,” Henry says. “Jeremy’s old enough to get up on the roof. I’ll send him up, make him feel like a man.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I offer. The idea of climbing a ladder, balancing on the edge and being a part of this day, appeals to me deeply.
But Sober Gary shakes his head. “It’s a Sullivan rite of passage,” he says. “Pop sent me up when I was eight.”
“Yeah, yeah, in the snow, without shoes, clutching a broken broomstick between your teeth. Every time you tell that damn story, it gets worse. Jeremy will be fine.”
I glance at the angled roof and picture my skinny nephew (is he ten? twelve?) tumbling to the earth. Scooping out the wet leaves and pine needles that clog the gutter would take me less than a minute, but Debbie and I have a simple rule in this place: no powers. If not, she could have telekinetically swept the leaves into a geometric array, torched them, and extinguished the flame herself. She’s standing now, along with her three sisters and Sober Gary’s girlfriend, Kelly, watching my niece Marissa charge toward me down the sloping yard. She yells my name and waves something, a paper plate. The three of us step around, blocking her from the burning piles.
I bend over, and she crashes into my outstretched arms. She pulls back from the hug and asks, “Do you want a hot dog or a hamburger?” She holds a crayon and a paper plate with two columns, lines etched beneath each.
“What are you going to have?”
“One of each.”
“Me too,” I say. “Did you see me flying?”
She holds up a five-star oak leaf. “These don’t have any more chlorophyll.”
“No,” I say. “Where’s your cousin Nate?”
“Inside helping Grandy. She’s making snacks.”
I smile at her. “I could use a snack.”
“Feel free to raid my closet,” Henry says. I realize then that I’m still wearing the mask, and I take Marissa’s hand and head up the hill.
Debbie meets us halfway up the incline, greets me with a hug of unexpected warmth. “I didn’t think we’d see you,” she says.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Hardly.” She kisses me, on the lips, then wraps her arms around me and squeezes.
I hate to question the embrace, but this public display is unusual, especially here. Her sisters—Liz, Julie, and Sondra—are staring. Even the dozen kids have stopped upsetting the last of the leaf piles to watch us. Her chin settles on my shoulder, and she says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I know walking away is a sacrifice for you. But you’re doing the right thing. I’m so proud of you.”
It’s cruel, really, how this pains me. Because even though these are some of the exact words I’ve yearned to hear, I didn’t expect to earn them by quitting.
“What’s going on with Nate?”
She pulls back and says, “He’s OK. A little on the sensitive side. Still doesn’t want to talk about last night at all. Mostly, though, I think he’s just embarrassed.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s probably it.”
Ten minutes later, I descend the stairs dressed in a pair of Sober Gary’s jeans and a Boston College sweatshirt. I head for the kitchen, from which I can hear my son’s voice. “Sarah and Kevin say Pluto’s a planet. But it’s not. It’s used to be, but the scientists changed their mind.”
I step in to see Mrs. Sullivan listening intently as she cuts up a ring bologna. Nate sits on a stool, arranging crackers in the center of a silver tray. “Maybe it’s a matter of interpretation, then,” she says. “Maybe you’re all right.”
“We can’t all be right,” my son insists. “Something is a planet or it isn’t a planet.”
She slides him the plate of sliced bologna and is reaching for a hunk of cheese when I stride in. Mrs. Sullivan wipes her hands on her apron and wraps me in a huge hug, one of her trademarks. “Hello, Vincent. Can I get you a drink?”
I pass, then say, “Hey, Buddy. How was your trip up this morning?”
Nate doesn’t turn from the tray. “Fine.”
“Did you see any dragons?”
He sets the round pieces of meat down around the outside of the rows of crackers. “Dragons are make-believe.”
“You used to see them all the time.”
Mrs. Sullivan holds a hand up to tell me to ease off. “Nathan told me that tonight there are favorable conditions to observe shooting stars. Did you know that?”
“Nope.”
“How does the boy even know these things? And why is he sounding more and more like a college professor?”
I shrug and feel just a little guilty for not giving Ecklar credit.
She slices the cheese, and I watch her and Nate finish the arrangement. My presence has killed their good conversation, and I wonder if Nate has told anyone the truth of what happened last night. Once they’re done, I reach for the completed tray. “Can I take this outside for you?”
She shakes her head. “Woody’s up front. Can’t get him off that new flat-screen.”
“Want to come along, little man?” I ask my son, though I know he hates sports.
He shakes hi
s head.
My mother-in-law tries to warm me with a smile, ignorant of the true reason for my son’s mood. She tells me as I leave, “If Notre Dame’s losing bad, just leave it and go.”
Woodrow Sullivan’s temper, and his obsession with Notre Dame, are the stuff of legend. That I’m fifteen years older than his daughter didn’t seem to bother him when she first brought me here, and he never mentioned my previous marriage. But he was deeply unimpressed that I had no college degree, nor any preferred team in the SEC. When I asked, in this very den, for his blessing to marry his daughter, he folded the sports page on his lap and said, “Debbie’s a big girl. She’s always made her own decisions.” Over time our relationship has warmed, but he’s never cared for me like Carl did. Maybe because Carl didn’t have any sons.
A fire crackles in the hearth, but Woody and my nephew Jeremy, who is even taller and skinnier than I remember, focus on the game. Julie’s husband, Dan, waves at me from the floor, and Drunk Gary, Sondra’s notorious husband, is passed out next to Jeremy on the couch. When I bend to set the tray on the footrest in front of Woody, he tilts his head to keep watching. “Great to see you,” he says. “Fourth quarter just started. All tied up. Sit sit.”
Though I should go rejoin my wife or try to patch things up with Nate, I’m not upset to be summoned to less awkward duty. I plop onto the couch next to Drunk Gary. I lean over him and tell Jeremy, “You’d better not go outside. Your dad’s got plans for you and those gutters.”
Jeremy reaches for a hunk of ring bologna and gives me an appreciative nod.
I take a wedge myself and lean back into the cushions, feel the weight of the day slipping off me. The warmth from the fire feels good. One consequence of being raised fatherless is that I never played much organized sports. By the time I developed a sincere interest during high school, my powers had begun to emerge in fits and starts. In the middle of a wrestling drill my sophomore year, I broke Jeff Czerwinski’s wrist. There was a popping sound, and a shard of bone broke through the skin. Czerwinski wore a cast for six weeks. I quit the team. It wasn’t just because I’d hurt Jeff. It was because, deep down, while he was writhing in pain and cradling that arm, the other boys looked at me in shock and something like admiration. I felt then the temptation of raw power.
Every now and then, Woody explains something to Jeremy or offers commentary. “Linemen can’t go downfield before a forward pass.” “In the pros you need two feet in bounds. In college it’s just one.” I envy Jeremy for the education he’s getting, and I wonder what questions Nate will have for me later. I try to remember Woody’s answers.
Not long after the game goes into overtime, Debbie appears, cradling a baby. “That’s where you got to,” she says. She walks in, kicks Drunk Gary in the shin, and tells him to sleep it off upstairs. “Just resting my eyes,” he says groggily. He locates his gin and tonic on the coffee table, recovers it, and wanders into the hallway. Debbie slides in between me and Jeremy. I do not ask who the sleeping child belongs to. Every time I visit, there seems to be a steady supply of newborns. It’s like these people are trying to repopulate the planet. Debbie glances at the game. “What happened to Canipe?”
“Hamstring in the third,” Woody says. “Lowe’s a junior. Redshirt.”
Debbie’s arm is pressed up against mine, something that may be due in part to the cramped couch. But there’s an empty rocking chair she could have chosen, and she smiles at me when I peek down at the baby’s round, puffy face. After a Navy player drops a ball in the end zone, she leans into me and says, “Let’s not go back into the city tonight.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Ecklar’s not even going to pick them up till eleven. We could just leave first thing in the morning, be back in plenty of time.”
“Sounds great.”
My wife’s eyes stay on my lips, and I believe that if her father were not in the room, she would kiss me like she did on the lawn. There is a brightness radiating off her, and it isn’t just because we are here in her childhood home surrounded by those who love her. It’s as if she has found me again, remembered why she chose me in the first place. In her eyes, last night I helped save our son from certain death, and this morning I bested our team leader in personal combat. On top of this, by agreeing to quit, I have finally followed Dr. Janet’s advice and taken definitive action that demonstrates my willingness to change, my commitment to the family, and my openness to free communication. With the way my wife’s looking at me now, I know that later, after dinner and more wine and perhaps a sloppy game of Scrabble, while our son sleeps with his cousins in the basement, my wife will lead me upstairs to her old bedroom. We will scrunch onto the slim mattress that makes it impossible for our bodies not to touch. We will huddle together under a ragged quilt. And there will come a point—she’ll turn to her side and slide a leg over mine, her lips will barely brush my bare neck—when I’ll be certain she is looking for more than body heat. With the condoms in my nightstand a hundred miles away, we will make love like fumbling teenagers, as happened about five years ago in that very room. That is how we got Nathan, and tonight we will conceive again. Later, as passion and alcohol twine us together, I do not know if I’ll feel wrong, like we’re making love under false pretenses. I do not know if I’ll be able to ignore my guilt and screw, or if I’ll be a better man, set a calm hand on her shoulder and bring everything to a halt and tell her the truth about my retirement plans and everything else.
After Notre Dame wins, an event met with joy by the whole house, we are ushered into the dining room to pick from pyramids of cheeseburgers, hot dogs, huge vats of macaroni casserole. Deb loads Nate’s plate with cheetos and puts a stripe of ketchup down one side of his hot dog, mustard down the other. He sits with his cousins around a circular table in the kitchen, while the adults sit in the dining room. Talk at the grownup table floats from Monroe’s plans for a new elementary school to Jeremy’s choices of college to Liz’s decision to return to graduate school for a second master’s, this one in art education. Drunk Gary flirts with Kelly until Sondra whacks him in the arm with the salad tongs. At the head of the table presides Woody, smiling and chewing, content with the state of his kingdom. I am quiet and a bit bewildered, as I typically am among this thriving tribe. Since I was an only child, I often wondered about being part of a big family like this, and the many benefits are hard to ignore. It’s not that I envy Woody—I have no desire to be a respected patriarch. What I’m jealous of, the thing I wish I could possess, is the sense of ease each of these people seems to have in this place. Even Drunk Gary seems at peace with who he is, and even he is clearly accepted. Despite everything, they accept me too, but I never get the feeling that I really belong here. I feel like an interloper, like I have taken over someone else’s life. I don’t quite know what my part is. Everyone else knows their role. So for them, everything makes sense.
Still, it feels good to smile and listen to the stories and be on the edge of this warmth. During one of the rare lulls, Mrs. Sullivan notices I’ve been quiet and asks how my hamburger is. This is clearly a token question meant to draw me into the conversation. I finish chewing what’s in my mouth—the silence in the room escalates—and I say, “Good. Great. I’m glad you didn’t have me take over the grill this time.”
I grin at my line, recalling an episode from years ago when the grill ran out of gas. I tried to use my heat vision to finish cooking the meat. The result looked like hockey pucks and didn’t taste any better. Could be that’s when my powers first began to fade.
Mrs. Sullivan looks confused, and Henry, who always seems to do the grilling, glares down at me, looking a bit betrayed. Even Debbie looks baffled. “Come on,” I say. “We ended up having to order from Domino’s.”
“Domino’s won’t deliver out here,” Jeremy says. “But Pizza Hut will.”
And this is when I realize that I’ve misplaced a memory, that I was with Sheila’s family on a long ago Fourth of July when I burned those burgers. I ate that pizza w
ith Thomas and Carl, not these people. The expressions from everyone at the table suggest they may be worried about my sanity, and it occurs to me that no one has mentioned Biloxi. Woody reaches for his rum and Coke. Dan clears his throat. Debbie’s hand settles on my leg, and she squeezes. Mercifully, the little kids in the kitchen begin chanting, “We want dessert.”
Liz, Debbie, Sondra, and Julie all rise to help Mrs. Sullivan, and before long everyone has a plate with a brownie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Everyone but me. I’m not about to call attention to the oversight. The kids, who couldn’t have finished yet, come piling into the dining room with mischievous grins. Nate stands at Debbie’s side, and he is smiling at me. After they all settle, Liz hits the lights, and Mrs. Sullivan appears with my plate—the same scoop and brownie—only a single lit candle has been staked into the chocolate. I am again serenaded with the Happy Birthday song, but this version buries the one from last night. Those folks at Chili’s, they sang with the mocking tone of sarcasm. These kids, they want me to have a happy birthday with every ounce of their being. As Mrs. Sullivan lowers the plate to the table, the tiny flame illuminates my son’s beaming face, and he is thrilled for me. “Don’t forget the wish,” he reminds me.
Behind him, Debbie smiles.
Eyes on her, I say, “I wish for something special tonight.”
Nate turns from the candle. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”
The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction) Page 11
