I’m supposed to be decades away from this, supposed to be just starting my own family, but there’s been a setback, a calamitous detour, and you wouldn’t think you could get any more depressed while sitting shiva for your father, but you’d be wrong. Suddenly, I can’t stop seeing the footprints of time on everyone in the room. The liver spots, the multiple chins, the sagging necks, the jowls, the flaps of skin over eyes, the spotted scalps, the frown lines etched into permanence, the stooped shoulders, the sagging man breasts, the bowed legs. When does it all happen? In increments, so you can’t watch out for it, you can’t fix it. One day you just wake up and discover that you got old while you were sleeping.
There were so many things I thought I might become back in college, but then I fell for Jen and all my lofty aspirations evaporated in a lusty haze. I just never imagined a girl like that would want someone like me, and I had this idea that if I applied all of my energy toward keeping her happy, the future would sort itself out. And so I disappeared without a trace into the Bermuda Triangle of her creamy spread thighs, scraping through my classes with B’s and C’s, and when, shortly after graduation, she accepted my proposal, I remember feeling, more than anything, an overwhelming sense of relief, like I had just finished a marathon.
And now I have no wife, no child, no job, no home, or anything else that would point to a life being lived with any success. I may not be old, but I’m too old to have this much nothing. I’ve got the double chin of a stranger in photographs, the incipient swell of love handles just above my hips, and I’m pretty sure that my hairline, the one boundary I’ve always been able to count on, is starting to creep back on me when I’m not looking, because every so often my fingers discover some fresh topography on my upper forehead. To have nothing when you’re twenty is cool, it’s expected, but to have nothing when you’re halfway to seventy, softening and widening on a daily basis, is something altogether different. It’s like setting out to drive cross-country without any gas money. I will look back at this time and see it as the start of a slow process that ends with me dying alone after living out my days in an empty apartment with only the television and a slow, waddling dog to keep me company, the kind of place that will smell stale to visitors, but not to me, since the stale thing will be me. And I can feel that miserable future hurtling toward me at high speed, thundering across the plains in a cloud of dust like a wildebeest stampede.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet, ducking and weaving through the crowd, intercepting random bits of conversation, keeping my eye on the sanctuary of the kitchen door.
“. . . Paul, the older one. He spoke very nicely . . .”
“. . . on a ventilator for three months . . . basically a vegetable . . .”
“. . . a place down on Lake Winnipesaukee. We do it every year. It’s beautiful. Maureen brings the kids . . .”
“. . . recently separated. Apparently, there was a third party involved . . .”
That last one pierces me like a fishhook—but by then I’m at the door, and I’m not looking back. I step into the air-conditioned quiet of the kitchen and lean up against the wall, catching my breath. Linda is crouched at the fridge, absently chewing on the nub of a raw carrot like a cigar, trying to make room for all of the food that’s been delivered.
“Hey there, Judd,” she says, smiling at me. “What can I get you? And, bear in mind, we have pretty much everything now.”
“How about a vanilla milkshake?”
She closes the fridge and looks at me. “That, we don’t have.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to run out and grab one.”
Her smile is sweet and maternal. “Getting a little intense in there?”
“We passed intense a while ago.”
“I heard the shouting.”
“Yeah . . . sorry. And thank you, you know, for all of your help, for taking care of Mom and everything.”
She looks startled for a second, seems on the verge of saying something, but then just pops the carrot back into her mouth and smiles. From the other room, we can hear my mother laughing.
“Well, Mom seems to be enjoying herself, at any rate.”
“She’s had a long time to prepare for this.”
“I guess so.”
We stand there for a minute, the well of small talk having run dry.
“Horry looks good,” I say, and wish instantly that I hadn’t.
Linda’s smile is sad, ragged, and somehow beautiful, the aching smile of the long-suffering. “You learn not to think about what might have been, and to just appreciate what you have.”
“Yeah. I’m probably not the right guy to hear that right about now.”
She steps over to me and puts her arms on my shoulders. It’s been forever since I’ve been touched, since I’ve even had any sustained eye contact, and I can see my tears reflected in her eyes. “You’re going to be okay, Judd. I know you feel lost now, but you won’t feel this way for long.”
“How do you know?” I am suddenly inches away from a full-on crying jag. Linda diapered me, fed me, mothered me almost as much as my own mother, without ever being recognized for it. I should have sent her Mother’s Day cards every year, should have called her every so often to see how she was doing. How is it that, in all these years, I never once spared so much as a thought for her? I feel a dark wave of regret for the kind of person I turned out to be.
“You’re a romantic, Judd. You always were. And you’ll find love again, or it will come find you.”
“Did it ever find you again?”
Something changes in her expression, and she lets go of me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That was a terrible thing to say.”
She nods, accepting my apology. “It would be a terrible mistake to go through life thinking that people are the sum total of what you see.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” Linda says, not unkindly. “And it’s not the time or place to go into details, but rest assured, I have not spent the last thirty years sleeping alone.”
“Of course not. I’m an asshole.”
“Maybe, but you get a free pass this week.” She offers up a friendly smirk. “Just don’t abuse it.” She looks out the window to the crowded street in front. “Looks like you’re parked in by Jerry Lamb’s Hummer. Why a retired doctor needs to drive a tank like that in Elmsbrook, New York, is a question for the ages. His penis can’t be that small, can it?” She reaches into her apron and tosses me some keys. “It’s the blue Camry. If you time it right, you can pick up Horry on your way back. I don’t like him walking home this late.”
8:30 p.m.
LINDA’S CAR SMELLS like yeast and flowers. Other than the small gold locket that hangs from her rearview mirror, the car is empty and clean in a way that strikes me as sad. Or maybe anything empty is just striking a chord with me these days. The earlier rain has tapered off into a light mist that dusts the windshield just enough to blur the headlights of oncoming cars. I drive down Centre Street and park at a meter in front of Foxman Sporting Goods’ flagship store.
Dad worked as an electrician, but when Paul was born he decided he wanted a legacy for his children. He borrowed money from his father-in-law to buy a small sporting goods store out of bankruptcy, and over the years he expanded it into a chain of six stores across the Hudson Valley and into Connecticut. He was a firm believer in customer service and a knowledgeable staff, and proudly rebuffed the larger national chains who offered to buy him out every few years. Every Saturday he would visit the five satellite stores, to check their books and troubleshoot. When Paul and I were younger, he would wake us up at first light and hustle us into his car to come along. Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, Valhalla, Stamford, and Fairfield. I’d sit in the back, my eyes still glazed with sleep, watching the sun come up behind the trees along the highway through the tinted windows of his secondhand Cadillac. The car smelled of pipe tobacco and the tape deck played a steady rotation of Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Diamond, Jackson Browne
, and Peggy Lee. Every so often I’ll hear one of those songs, in an elevator or a waiting room, and it will take me right back to that car, lulled into semiconsciousness by the soft thrum of the road seams, my father humming along to the music in his gravelly voice.
Once a quarter he’d bring along Barney Cronish, his accountant. Paul hated it when Barney came, because he had to give up the front seat for him, and because Barney had to stop at every rest stop on the thruway, either to buy a coffee or piss out the last one. Barney also farted loudly and without shame, at which point Paul and I would crack our windows and stick our heads into the wind like a couple of dogs to escape the rancid, cabbage smell. Sometimes my father would press the window lock button in the front and play dumb while we suffocated, which was the closest he came to joking around.
Dad didn’t seem to know how to be around us when he wasn’t working. He was great with us when we were small, would cradle us in his massive forearms or bounce us on his knee while humming Mozart . . . As toddlers, we would cling to his sausage fingers as he walked us down the block, and he would lie down with us at bedtime, often falling asleep on the bed with us, until Mom came to get him. But he seemed hopelessly bewildered by us once we got a little bit older. He didn’t understand our infatuation with television and video games, seemed bewildered by our able-bodied laziness, by our messy rooms and unmade beds, our longer hair and our silk-screened T-shirts. The older we got, the further he retreated into his work, his weekend papers, and his schnapps. Sometimes I think that having Phillip was my mother’s last-ditch effort to find her husband again.
The hunter-green awnings of the shop, usually speckled with dried bird droppings and water stains, have recently been cleaned, and the windows, anticipating the fall season, are crammed with hockey, ski, and snowboard gear. The mannequin in the corner is wearing a goalie mask, and in the ominous flicker of the fluorescent light he looks like Jason, the serial killer from those Friday the 13th movies. Elmsbrook is the perfect town for a serial killer, and I mean that in the best possible way. It’s always the picturesque towns, with clean sidewalks and clock towers, where Jason and Freddy come to slaughter oversexed teenagers. Centre Street has a cobblestone pedestrian walkway with benches and a fountain, the stores have matching awnings, and the overall vibe is pleasant and well kept.
And maybe because I’m thinking of serial killers, when Horry suddenly knocks on my window, I jump in my seat. Or maybe it’s because he looks kind of scary. His long hair is held off his face by a white Nike headband with the price tag still attached, flapping against his forehead, and there’s a good inch of ash suspended at the tip of the cigarette wedged between his lips.
“You scared me,” I say.
“I have that effect on people.”
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but to be polite. You can’t help but feel bad for Horry, but you’re supposed to treat him like anyone else, because he’s damaged but not an idiot, and he’ll sniff out your pity like a dog sniffs out fear.
“Shouldn’t you be at home, sitting Sheba?”
“Shiva.”
“Shiva is an Indian god, the one with six arms. Or maybe it’s four arms and two legs. I don’t know. Six limbs, maybe.”
“Well, it also means ‘seven’ in Hebrew.”
“Six limbs, seven days . . .” He pauses to ponder the potential theological implications for a moment but reaches no conclusions other than now would be a good time to take another drag on his cigarette. “Well, shouldn’t you be there?”
“Yes, I should,” I say. “How are things inside?”
“Dead.” He shrugs. “You coming in?”
“Nah. I just stopped by because your mom thought you’d want a lift home.”
“She sent you?”
“She knew I was going out.”
He shakes his head and grimaces. “I need to get my own place, like, yesterday.”
“So why don’t you?”
He taps his head. “Brain injury. There are things I can’t do.”
“Like what?”
“Like remembering what the fuck it is I can’t do.” He opens the passenger door and throws himself down in the seat. “You’re not allowed to smoke in Mom’s car,” he says, blowing a ring.
“I’m not. You are.”
“I have plausible deniability.” He flicks his ash onto the floor mat. “You used to date Penelope Moore, didn’t you?”
“Penny Moore. Yeah. We were friends. Whatever happened to her?”
“She teaches ice skating over at the rink. The indoor one, where we played hockey.”
“Kelton’s.”
“Right. I still skate there sometimes.”
“You were a pretty good hockey player.”
“No, you were a pretty good hockey player. I was a great hockey player.”
“I never would have thought she’d still be living here.”
“Why, because she doesn’t have a brain injury?”
“No! Horry. Jesus! I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
But he’s grinning at me through the haze of smoke that has filled the space between us. “I’m just messing with you, Judd. Lighten up.”
“Fuck you.”
“I am already good and fucked, my brother from another mother.”
“Wow. Penny Moore. What in the world made you think of Penny Moore?”
“She’s in the store.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. She works the register on weeknights. You should go in and say hello.”
“Penny Moore,” I say. The name alone conjures up her wicked smile, the taste of her kiss. We once made a pact, Penny and I. I wonder if she still remembers.
“She’d be happy to see you, I bet.”
“Maybe some other time,” I say, starting the car.
“I say something wrong?”
I shake my head. “It’s just hard to see people from your past when your present is so cataclysmically fucked.”
Horry nods sagely. “Welcome to my world.” He fishes around in his pockets for a moment, spilling some loose change onto his seat before pulling out a sloppily rolled joint, which he lights from the dying embers of his cigarette. He inhales deeply and then offers me the joint, still holding his breath.
“None for me, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs and lets the smoke dance around his open mouth. “Helps me keep my head right,” he says. “Sometimes, when I feel a seizure coming on, this kind of heads it off at the pass.”
“Won’t your mom smell that?”
“What’s she going to do, ground me?”
His voice is suddenly, uncharacteristically belligerent, and I get the sense that Linda asking me to pick him up was a salvo in a long-standing battle between mother and son.
“Everything okay with you, Horry?”
“Everything is swell.”
He swings the blunt my way.
“I have to drive,” I say.
He shrugs and takes another long drag. “More for me.”
Chapter 9
9:05 p.m.
The shiva is still in full swing when I return to the living room. “Judd!” my mother shouts as I’m trying to slink quietly back to my seat. Every eye in the room finds me. “Where were you?”
“I just needed to get some air,” I mutter, sliding back down into my shiva chair.
“You remember Betty Allison?” she says, indicating the birdlike woman sitting on the chair directly in front of me. The shiva chairs, by design, are lower than the chairs of the visitors, and so my view tends to be up the nostrils and skirts of the people seated directly in front of me.
“Sure,” I say. “How are you, Mrs. Allison?”
“I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Thanks.”
“Betty’s daughter Hannah was divorced last year,” my mother says brightly, like she’s delivering a nugget of particularly good news.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
Betty nods. “He was addic
ted to Internet porn.”
“It happens,” I say.
“Judd’s wife was cheating on him.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom!”
“What? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
There are about twenty other people in the room, talking to my siblings or each other, and I can feel all their heads turning to us like a stadium wave. In the third grade, I briefly suffered from the paranoid delusion that when I went to the bathroom during class, the blackboard became a television screen and my entire class watched me piss. That’s what this feels like.
“Hannah and her son are here visiting for the summer,” Mom says, undeterred. “I thought it might be nice for you two to catch up, that’s all.”
In the first grade, Hannah Allison was immortalized in an inane jump-rope song the girls sang during recess to the tune of “Frère Jacques.” Hannah Allison, Hannah Allison / Two first names, two first names / You can call her Hannah / You can call her Allison / What a shame, two first names. Hannah cried about the song, there was a meeting between her parents and the principal, and the song was banned from the school-yard. Like all banned songs, it became an instant underground classic and continued to haunt Hannah until her peers outgrew jump rope in favor of Run-Catch-Kiss. Beyond that, I remembered a small, mousy girl with bushy eyebrows and glasses.
“I’m sure Hannah has her own problems,” I say, hoping my mother will see the murder in my eyes.
“Nonsense,” Betty says. “I’m sure she’d love to hear from an old friend.”
Betty and my mother smile conspiratorially at each other and I can hear the telepathy buzzing between them. Her husband was addicted to porn, his wife screwed around . . . it’s perfect!
This Is Where I Leave You: A Novel Page 7
