I tell him to help me, and together we blow out the candle. Everyone applauds, and the lights come up.
Afterward I’m told it’s a Sullivan tradition that the birthday boy does the dishes, something I suspect is a lie and part of my never-ending hazing. As Drunk Gary adds plates to a teetering stack on the counter, I let the hot water rush over my sudsy hands. And I think about how, back in my bachelor days, I would always do such tasks with superspeed. Vacuuming, laundry, the chores that burden the day, all passed through my world in mere moments. But more and more lately, and especially here among the Sullivans, I enjoy doing simple tasks that show accomplishment. Loading the dishwasher while others clear the table makes me feel like perhaps I do have a place among these people. The kids are bathed, and the basement is transformed into a huge dormitory—quilts and mismatched pillows, unrolled egg crates and old yoga mats. They are corralled to watch a Disney double feature, and the grownups divide into groups; some go outside to start a campfire, some catch the night game on ESPN, and the rest settle around the cleared table for a game of Scrabble.
Debbie and I are placed on the same team, and we rearrange the tiles on our rack, spelling out different suggestions. As the games goes on, I keep hoping for some overtly playful message from my wife, something like DO ME or O YES, but the closest I get is GRIP. Every now and then, Sondra comes back in with an update on the fire, or one of the guys watching football steps out for a cigarette. The cold air rushes in. It’s probably dropping into the forties out there, but crazy Aunt Sondra is determined that the kids will have roasted s’mores. Sober Gary and Kelly play TACO, which Mrs. Sullivan—who always gets a dictionary before the game and who prefers to play without a teammate—considers challenging as a foreign word. Then she realizes it’s opened up something for her. She plays OOZE for twenty-eight points. Without consultation, Debbie plays ZIP, which gets us out of third place.
Midway through our second game, Nate appears, padding up from the basement in footed pajamas. Debbie asks how the movies are going, and he says, “Not so good. Something sad always happens in those movies.”
He pushes a chair over next to Mrs. Sullivan and climbs up. “Aren’t you lonely without anybody on your team?”
She pats his back sweetly and smiles, but when he starts rearranging her tiles, she says, “No, no, honey, you mustn’t touch.”
“How about quest?” he asks. “Is that a good word?”
She glances at the board, plays it into an S. “Twenty-six points,” she says, beaming. “Sullivan genes.”
We finish dead last in the second game, but Nate’s having such fun we begin a third. Aunt Sondra gets mad because the kids started another movie without going outside to make those s’mores. The house begins to fill with the smell of Mr. Sullivan’s cigar, though the cigarette smokers still go outside. Vanderbilt upsets Texas Tech. Debbie works on her wine one sip at a time, but as soon as her glass is empty, she refills it.
We actually have the lead in the third game, perhaps because Mrs. Sullivan is now letting Nate make all decisions for their team. This despite the fact that he’s resting his heavy head on his hands. After Kelly and Sober Gary add an s to zoo, Nate straightens and says, “Hey Grandy, we forgot about the meteors.”
“Buddy,” I tell him, “it’s freezing outside. And it’s really late.”
“I’ll get a coat,” Mrs. Sullivan says. “We won’t be but five minutes. After that, straight to bed, though, right?”
Nate’s eyes are bright, and he nods in eager agreement.
I turn to Debbie, but she’s already standing, and I realize that the game is at an end. Nate suddenly stills and looks up at Deb. “A big poop is coming.”
My wife glances my way, and I say, “Come on, Little Man.”
Nate hesitates, then reaches for my hand. He’s been potty-trained for a while, but when it comes to number two, the boy still requires a cleanup inspection.
As Nate sits on the toilet, his feet dangle. I am tired and ease down on the edge of the tub, emptied of water but still loaded with rubber letters, ducks, and various shipwrecks. Nate picks up a battered Reader’s Digest from the sink and starts flipping.
I look at the cover and wonder if he’s reading “Ten Ways to Make Money in a Bad Economy” or “Drama in Real Life: Trapped in Sutter’s Canyon.” Finally I say, “I’m glad you’re having a good time tonight. This is a terrific birthday for me.”
“Today isn’t your birthday,” he says. His eyes stay on the page. “It’s your birthday celebration. Your real birthday isn’t until Monday.”
“You’re right.”
He closes the magazine and considers me. “I didn’t want to go in Uncle Ecklar’s flying suit.”
“I know that.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought you would have fun.”
“I didn’t have any fun at all. It was just scary.”
Footsteps shuffle past the door, and I worry about who might be overhearing. I lower my voice and say, “It was an accident. When I put you in there, I didn’t think it would take off. I thought it would just be pretend. But I made a mistake, and I’m really sorry for it.”
He shrugs and says, “Everybody has accidents sometimes. It’s OK.” The sincerity in his face makes me marvel. I’ve been witness to spectacles few men have seen—stars going supernova, a silver city at the center of the moon—but nothing compares to the easy absolution of a child. As I’m thinking this, trying to be appreciative, my son’s face freezes, and his eyes fix. His skin turns red, and a vein emerges on his neck. Ten seconds later there’s a splash, and he says, “A plopper.”
“Sounded like a huge one.”
“Enormous.”
He climbs down, and together we gaze into the bowl. He says, “Ultimate gigantic.” Bursting with pride, he reaches for the roll of toilet paper.
With minimal instruction, Nate cleans himself just fine, and we wash our hands in the sink. When we’re done drying off, he stands in front of me at the door but doesn’t open it. Instead, he turns and says, “How come you said I got in Uncle Ecklar’s robot by myself?”
I look into the tub, then back at Nate. “That was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“That was an accident too?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
I rub at my chin. “That’s a hard question. I don’t know.”
“How can you not know why you did something?”
“I’m not sure, Buddy. You know I love you, right?”
“You’re my dad. Of course you love me. I just want to know why you told a lie when telling a lie is a bad thing and you’re not supposed to do bad things.”
“Like I said, I’m really not sure.”
“Well, will you think it over?” This is one of Deb’s lines, a question she poses when he breaks the arms off action figures or crayons the wall.
“Sure,” I tell my son. “I will think it over.”
“And you’ll tell me if you figure it out?”
“You bet,” I say.
Satisfied, my son reaches for the bathroom door. I think about what I just agreed to and realize it’s a promise I’ll likely never keep.
Outside, Drunk Gary is passed out in one of the Adirondacks on the edge of the campfire’s glow. The only way we’re sure he’s not dead is the great clouds of breath blooming from his open mouth. Aunt Sondra is puffing on a cigarette. She’s thrilled to see a child and tries to shove a stick in Nate’s hand. “Ready for s’mores?”
Nate looks behind her at Mrs. Sullivan, who says, “We have to find some shooting stars first.”
Debbie takes the stick from Sondra as a kind of consolation prize and impales a marshmallow, steps toward the fire. My wife could use her thermal powers to make it a bit more comfortable, take the chill out of the air. But I know she won’t, and not just because of her rule. Here, she isn’t Venus. She’s just Debbie.
Mrs. Sullivan and Nate
settle into the other Adirondack, and she tosses one of her husband’s big coats over them like a blanket. They ease back and gaze up. Thin clouds spread across half the sky, but beyond them the stars blink and twinkle. Nate’s arm emerges from beneath the coat, and he points. “The Orionids get their name from the constellation Orion.”
“Do you know the story of Orion the hunter?” Mrs. Sullivan asks.
“Yeah,” Nate says. “But you can tell me again.”
I slide over by Sondra and Deb, hold my palms up to the fire. Drunk Gary begins to snore. “I could carry him inside,” I offer.
The sisters exchange a look. Sondra says, “He’s fine. I’ll get him a blanket before I go in.”
“Just don’t leave him out here with this thing still burning,” Deb says. “Liz would never let him hear the end of it if he caught on fire.”
My wife smiles at her joke and hands me a perfectly toasted marshmallow. I take a bite and say, “Nice technique.”
“You get no credit for noting the obvious.” She reaches for my hand, and our cold fingers interlock. She squeezes, and together we scan the sky.
“It’s too early, isn’t it?” Sondra asks. “They don’t really start till after midnight.”
“We might see some,” Deb says.
“The clouds don’t help,” I say. “It’s a bad night for this.”
Deb lifts her chin toward our son. “Tell me how miserable he looks.”
Nate has melted back completely into Mrs. Sullivan, still talking about Orion. His face is sunk onto her shoulder, and his eyes are at half-mast. In ten minutes, he’ll be as gone as Gary. My wife turns to her sister. “Hey, Sondra, why don’t you go tell the kids we’re stargazing? Maybe they’ll come out if they know Grandy’s out here.”
“Tell you the truth, I’m about done with freezing my tush off. Little ingrates had their chance. I’m finishing this cigarette and calling it a night.”
She takes a puff. Then Deb, without explanation, leads me by the hand away from the warmth, out into the dark, open field. Once we leave the fire’s light, I can’t even see the grass beneath my feet. Behind us, either Mrs. Sullivan has stopped talking or I can’t hear her anymore.
Deb takes us most of the way down the sloping yard, almost to where the men were burning leaves this afternoon. When she stops walking, we face the dark tree line side by side, holding hands. For a minute, we’re just quiet there.
“I know you’ve been worried about me,” I finally say.
“I’ve been worried about us. All of us.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
“You have so much. Your health. Your powers. Nate. I don’t understand why you aren’t happy.”
“I am happy,” I say, and in the moment it feels entirely true.
“Right now you are,” she says.
I step around in front, face my wife, then fold my arms around her body. “Things will be different soon,” I tell her. “Better. You’ll see.”
“That’s what I want,” she says. “I want us all to be happy.”
Up by the house, the screen door slams. Three kids come out along with Mr. Sullivan, who is trying to unfold the tripod legs of a telescope.
Debbie takes a deep breath and says, “You’d tell me if you still loved her, wouldn’t you, Vince?”
“I don’t love her,” I say.
“Just a little?”
“No,” I say. “Maybe like a sister, but not in the way you mean. I only love you like that.”
“Good,” she says.
“I’m glad I got divorced,” I say, and the statement startles me. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have you. And we wouldn’t have Nate.”
“Don’t make me think about things like that. It’s too terrible.”
She plants her face in my chest and sniffles twice. It could be my superpowered wife is weeping. I want to tell her that I feel the same way, that our son is the one thing that really does make me feel good about myself. And out here in this field, the idea of another child, another person who would need me and accept my love and give it back tenfold, it seems like a grand one. I should tell her this, tell her I’ve decided I want another child. But I do not trust this impulse. I worry that I’ve lost the ability to separate our desires and can no longer untwine what I want from what I think my wife wants. So, instead of seeing if my wife would like to have another baby, I make a different offer. “Tomorrow night, come with me?”
“Where?”
“My last patrol,” I tell her. “It would be nice to do it together.”
She looks up at me and, indeed, wipes some tears, then smiles and says, “That would be great. I’d like that.”
When she first joined the Guardians, we always patrolled together. Her telekinetic powers aren’t strong enough that she can actually fly, but she can make herself weightless, so towing her around took no effort, like pulling a balloon. I remember the first time we did that, her hair streaming out behind her. Just keep going, she said. I don’t want this to stop.
Up at the house, Sondra, maybe Liz, yells Debbie’s name.
“That’s got to be Nate,” she says. “I should get him inside.”
“You’ll bring him downstairs?” I ask. I want us to have that bed to ourselves.
She nods. “He’ll drop like a rock.” She leans up and kisses under my ear, and her cold lips send a shiver through my body. “I like talking with you like this.”
“I’ll stay here,” I say. “Come back and find me.”
Our code talk feels intimate, close, and I feel certain that, like me, she’s thinking of that too-small mattress. Maybe part of her desire is the creation of a sibling for Nate, or maybe it’s just lust. My wife disappears into the darkness, and I stare into the night sky. Were I a better man, I’d wait upstairs for my wife with the lights on. And when she came in, I’d tell her about the Zone I stole from CVS, what really happened with Nate and Ecklar’s battle armor, even that elevator encounter with the Speedstress. I’d come clean and seek her forgiveness. And then the way would be clear for me to tell her about the deadness growing in my chest, and my plan for Chaos. But at forty, I know myself. I know that if my wife turns to me in that bed, I’ll quickly forget such noble thoughts. My rough hands will roam along her body, over her shoulder, and up the behind her ear. In the darkness, I’ll tug her hair and expose her tender neck.
EIGHT
Navigating a Descent. A Change in Plans. Everyday Crimes.
Okapi Mystery and the Humor of Skunks.
Threat of the Techno-Horde.
Battle in the Food Court.
“Trust me,” I tell Thomas, as we stand on the helipad atop the western rim of the HALO. Behind my teenage son, a red windsock flaps madly, the tail of a desperate fish. Nate sits snugly on my right forearm, his chubby arms locked in a death grip around my neck, and I beckon Thomas with my free hand. “Come on already,” I say. “It’s not like I’m not going to drop you.” When I hear it out loud, the possibility briefly enters my mind, but I keep the smile plastered on my face. Good fathers have confidence in themselves.
Arms crossed, Thomas peers over the side at the city a half-mile below. “Why can’t Ecklar just fly us down in the hovercar?”
“He’s maneuvering the HALO for us. Besides, the hovercar draws too much attention. Look, this is just easier. You and me, we used to do this all the time.”
“I was, like, fifty pounds lighter then,” he says. “And you were—” Rather than finish the sentence and embarrass me, my son falls silent. I’m sure of it now, by the expression on his face: he’s seen those photos of me in Biloxi.
“Tommy’s right. Let’s just take the hovercar,” Nate whines. “It’s cold. I don’t want to do this.” With his hood up and his face planted in my leather jacket, his voice is muffled.
“Enough,” I say. It’s true that Ecklar could give us a ride, but today’s primary mission objective is family unity—a father and his sons together. Flying down as a group should show Thomas
that, despite our troubled history and his perception that I’m the next worst thing to a deadbeat dad, I can, literally, carry the weight. I walk over, loop my free arm around Thomas’s waist, and say, “Hang on.”
When we lift off, it’s true, that shoulder aches, and we even tilt a bit like a boat with too many passengers on one side. I should’ve saved my strong arm for Thomas. But I right us pretty quickly, and it’s just over a thousand feet to our destination. I drift us out over the HALO’s sloping side and begin the descent. Nate squeezes my neck to the point where some air is being cut off. He may be weeping. I glance at Thomas only to find his eyes shut tight.
My target is a bank building’s helipad, one of a dozen landing spots where we’ve made arrangements for situations like this. Ecklar piloted the HALO close so I wouldn’t have far to fly, and as my shoulders begin to burn, I’m glad that all this requires is basically controlled falling. I doubt I could accelerate upward or navigate with both boys in my arms. Thomas is heavier than I expected, the crosswinds are a bit stronger, and we’ve floated off course. I strain to give us some lift, put us back on target. We corkscrew upward maybe fifty feet, and my lower back flares. I see flashes of white and feel dizzy, but I don’t pass out. I remember the brown bottle of Zone. This morning I considered taking one just to help the day go more smoothly, but I decided against it. With all that’s at stake, today I need to be sharp.
As we start drifting down again, it’s clear Nate is crying.
Thomas says, “It’ll be over soon, buddy. Just close your eyes.”
I shake off the vertigo and reacquire the circular landing pad. It’s closer than it should be, and a hundred feet to my right. Thankfully, the winds have shifted and are working with me now, so without too much effort I manage a rough touchdown on the outer rim of the bull’s-eye. I stretch a foot back to touch the line so that, technically, I can tell myself I landed on the target. The instant we hit, before we even stop moving, Thomas pries himself out of my arms. I set Nate down, and he runs to his brother, who holds him and says, “It’s OK. I’ll call Ecklar to pick us up later.”
The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction) Page 12
