by Tim Waggoner
Aaron is nine and average in far too many ways. Average height, average build, average dexterity, reflexes, and speed … He played Little League ball for the first time this summer, and he spent most of the time polishing the bench with his ass. His father played baseball throughout his school years, on into high school and even college. He stopped playing when he went to law school, though.
I had more important things to do in law school than play games, he always says.
He’s still a big baseball fan, hardly ever misses a game on TV — especially if the Reds are playing. Aaron wishes he could say the same about his Little League games, but his dad is busy working most of the time, and he rarely made it to see Aaron play. And even if he did get to a game, he usually arrived late and left early. But Aaron’s trying not to think about that now. He’s thinking about what a great day it is and how lucky he is that his dad doesn’t have to work this afternoon. Today, it seems time is standing still, that the outer world has ceased to exist, and it’s just Aaron, his dad, two baseballs gloves, and a fresh white ball that just been taken out of its packaging. If this isn’t heaven, it’s close enough for Aaron.
“Throw me one, kid! Nice and hard!”
Aaron does so, his right arm flapping out to his side like a chicken wing as he releases the ball. It goes wide, but his dad steps deftly to the side and plucks the ball out of the air with his bare hand as easily as if the ball was a piece of slowly drifting dandelion fluff.
“That’s no way to throw, Aaron.” Dad comes toward him, brow knitted in a frown, lips tight with disapproval. “You’re side-arming it.”
When he reaches Aaron, Dad puts the ball in his hand and positions his son’s first three fingers over the top of the ball. He steps back and says, “Hold it like that and next time throw it overhand, like this.” He demonstrates by pretending to throw an invisible ball in slow motion.
Aaron watches close, takes it all in. When Dad’s finished, he nods. “Got it.”
Dad looks skeptical, but he says, “Okay, let’s see you give it a try.” He walks back to his previous position on the grass, then as if thinking better of it, takes two steps forward. Aaron tries not to let this bother him.
He concentrates on holding the ball just right and throwing it overhand instead of side-arming it. The ball flies fast and true and strikes the middle of Dad’s glove with a satisfying thwack!
Dad smiles and nods approvingly. “Better.”
It’s not much, but it’s the most praise Aaron can ever remember getting from his father, and it makes the boy nearly giddy to hear it.
“All right, let’s see you how catch.”
Aaron expects Dad to throw a fast ball toward him, but instead he hurls the baseball almost straight up, so high it seems to dwindle to a speck, lost in the clouds. Aaron looks up, glove ready. But the sun is bright and shining in his eyes, and he can’t find the baseball in the sky. But that’s all right, because a few seconds later, the ball finds him. It smashes into the right side of his head, and pain explodes in his ear. The impact and the pain cause his legs to fold beneath him, and he falls to the ground. He shakes off his glove, sobbing, and reaches up to touch his ear, which blazes with so much pain, it feels like it’s on five.
Please don’t let there be blood, please don’t let there be blood …
Terrified, Aaron looks to his dad. He’s just standing there, a look of disgust frozen on his face. Finally, still wearing a mask of disappointment, Dad starts walking toward him. Aaron wishes he would stay away, because the expression on his father’s face makes him feel ashamed, makes him feel as if he’s not good enough for his dad … not good enough for anything.
“You’re really something, kid.”
Aaron tore his gaze from the gray metal door and turned toward the man sitting in the passenger seat.
“Why’s that, Dad?” Aaron tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t keep the weariness he felt out of his voice.
“You’re forty-five years old, but you’re acting like a teenager with a twenty-four-hour-a-day hard-on.”
Martin Rittinger — Marty to his friends, of which there were precious few — looked just like Aaron remembered him: a thin man in his seventies with an unruly thicket of white hair dressed in a gray cardigan, white shirt, khaki slacks, and brown loafers. He looked more like a college professor than a bankruptcy lawyer.
“It’s just a fantasy, Dad. It’s not like I’d really do anything.”
Aaron hated trying to explain anything to his father. No matter what he did, no matter his motivation for doing it, it was never good enough. Not for Martin Rittinger.
“Jesus Christ, listen to you!” Martin shook his head in disgust, a gesture Aaron had seen far too many times before the cancer that had devoured his father’s prostate had claimed his life. “This is what I’m talking about, kid. A real man would make a commitment one way or the other: stay faithful to his wife or go after that sweet piece of ass behind Door Number One. Life’s all about making choices, kid, and once you make them, you stick to them.”
Aaron hated it when his father called him kid. He’d tried to explain once how the continued use of the childhood nickname made him feel as if Martin was belittling him. But all Martin had said was, It shouldn’t matter what anyone else calls you. You should be in control of your feelings. No one should be able to make you do anything — including feel.
Before Aaron could reply to his father, he sensed movement from the direction of the shopping center. He looked away from Martin and saw that the gray door — the fuckle door — was starting to open.
Aaron spoke without looking at his father. “Listen, Dad, I’d like to say and talk — ” which was one of the biggest lies Aaron had ever told — “but I really need to go.” He reached for the car door handle, but before he could open the door, his father grabbed hold of Aaron’s upper arm.
“Not tonight, kid. You’re not ready yet.”
Someone was coming out of the open doorway, but Aaron couldn’t tell who it was. His vision seemed to have blurred, and all he could make out was a shadowy silhouette that might or might not have been human, let alone Caroline. But if there was even a chance that it was her …
Aaron tuned to his father. “Let go. And don’t … call me … kid.” Aaron’s voice died away as he saw that Martin Rittinger no longer had eyes in his head. They’d been replaced by seething pools of inky blackness.
Martin smiled.
“Time to wake up, kid.”
And then darkness gushed forth from his father’s skull to engulf Aaron. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was choked off as the blackness surged down his throat and filled every empty space inside him.
Aaron opened his eyes to find himself staring up into darkness. At first this didn’t disturb him, but then he remembered his dream and cold fear washed through his guts. His bladder was full and aching, and for a moment he thought he might actually lose control for the first time since he was four and piss the bed. He felt a couple drops of urine squeeze out from the tip of his penis to dampen his underwear — which was all Aaron ever slept in — but that was it. He felt relieved that he’d managed to hold back, but he felt irritated, too. It wasn’t as if it had been that scary a dream. If his bladder hadn’t been so damn full, he wouldn’t have come so close to losing control. But he had to take a handful of cholesterol and triglyceride-lowering pills every night before he went to bed, and since he needed a lot of water to help him swallow pills, that meant he always had to pee at least once in the middle of the night. Ah, the joys of getting older.
Aaron sat up and looked over at Kristen. She was just a lump in the darkness, but she was still, her breathing deep and regular with just the faintest hint of a snore as she exhaled. Evidently he hadn’t been thrashing about during his nightmare, or if he had, not enough to wake her. He slowly pushed the sheet off him. Even with the air conditioning set to 72 degrees, it was still a bit too stuffy in here for him, though Kristen slept under a sheet a
nd two other blankets. Aaron then got out of bed and walked across the bedroom as quietly as he could toward the master bathroom. He went inside, quietly shut the door, and without turning on the light, made his way to the toilet and sat down. He usually peed standing up, but he didn’t want to wake Kristen by splashing too much. Sitting down, he could angle his urine stream so it would hit the inside of the bowl just above the water level and slide down with little noise. As he started to pee, he thought about why he didn’t want to wake Kristen tonight. Normally it wasn’t something that he worried about, since she never had trouble falling back to sleep.
Part of it was practicality. Kristen had been asleep when he’d gotten home, but he didn’t know how long she’d been in bed. She might well have stayed up long enough to realize that he’d taken an awful lot of time to return a couple movies, and he didn’t feel like explaining himself right then. His brain felt too sludgy to provide a believable excuse. Another reason was undoubtedly guilt. Kristen was a good woman who loved him and was a great mother to their children. She deserved better than an emotionally and sexually restless husband, even if so far he hadn’t done anything about it. While he was growing up, Aaron’s parents hadn’t been religious, but his maternal grandmother had been. Whenever the two of them were alone, even if it was only for a few minutes, his grandma would try to sneak in a little religious instruction, tell a quick Bible story or pass on a short quote from the gospels. And whenever she said goodbye to Aaron, she always added, I love you and remember that Jesus loves you, too. One of the lessons that she’d attempted to instill in him on several occasions was that sin was sin; there were no gradations to it.
Thinking an evil thought is just as bad as committing an evil act in the eyes of the Lord, she’d say.
When he’d been little, Aaron hadn’t understood, but as he’d gotten a bit older, he began to wonder that if there really was no difference between thought and deed. If God wasn’t going to punish you more for one or the other, why not just go ahead and commit whatever evil act you were thinking about? The cost would be the same, and doing would be a hell of a lot more fun than thinking, wouldn’t it? But young as he was, he’d known better than to share these thoughts with Grandma.
Aaron finished peeing, flushed, then washed his hands. He waited for the toilet tank to fill up and go silent once more before opening the bathroom door. Kristen was still asleep, though she’d shifted position and now the covers — instead of being drawn up to her chin as usual — were down around her waist. She wore blue silk pajamas, not that Aaron could see them in the dark, but he knew they were there. They always were. For years he’d tried to convince her to sleep naked, but though she’d tried, she always went back to her pajamas.
I’m sorry, sweetie. I just get so cold at night.
Aaron had resisted making a bitter joke then, though it hadn’t been easy.
He stopped at the foot of the bed and listened to Kristen’s soft night breathing. It seemed that Grandma’s tutelage hadn’t been entirely in vain. Why else would he be feeling guilty about tonight, even though he hadn’t really done anything?
He considered crawling back into bed and caressing Kristen through her silk pajamas. He liked the way the silk slid softly over her skin, and he especially liked how her nipples felt through the fabric as they grew hard. He might be able to rouse her. It had been almost two weeks since they’d last make love. Maybe she was ready. Aaron subscribed to a number of magazines for his practice’s waiting room, and though he didn’t have time to read them all, he skimmed the more interesting-looking issues. Once he’d come across an article called “The Sexless Marriage.” In it, the writer quoted a sex therapist as saying that a couple that has sex once a week or less was, for all intents and purposes, in a sexless relationship. Aaron had been stunned. He couldn’t remember a time when he and Kristen had made love once a week, let alone more often than that. Maybe when they’d first started dating. But by the time they’d gotten married, the frequency of their lovemaking had declined drastically. Hell, they’d gone on a two-week cruise for their honeymoon, and they’d only made love the first night. After that, Kristen was always “too tired.”
He looked at his wife now. He’d been awake long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness somewhat, and he could make out he rough shape of her face, his memory supplying the details that his vision couldn’t. Fine, delicate features, large brown eyes, full lips, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose, lush strawberry-blond hair. She was forty-two but looked younger, and though she wasn’t a health and exercise fanatic, she took good care of herself. Her body was trim and her breasts, though on the small side, hadn’t begun to sag yet. She dressed conservatively most of the time, but she still got plenty of looks from men when they were out. She’d always been attractive, but as the years passed, she’ gained a calm self-confidence that only added to her appeal. Aaron still lusted after her as much as he had when they’d first met in college. But the problem was she didn’t lust him back. He doubted she’d ever experienced the emotion.
Feeling good and depressed now, as well as wide awake, Aaron walked out of their bedroom and softly shut the door behind him. As he walked down the hall, he stopped and looked in Lindsay’s room. Her door was cracked open, just enough so that Aaron could get a glimpse of her huddled beneath her blue comforter that was covered with a pattern of bright yellow stars. She was definitely her mother’s daughter when it came to how she felt about cold. Above her was a shelf displaying numerous stuffed animals that she’d outgrown sleeping with but hadn’t quite outgrown enough to get rid of. She had the same strawberry-blond hair as Kristen, though hers was curlier, more like Aaron’s mother’s had been. Linsday was already pretty, and she’d no doubt be a heartbreaker in high school a few years hence.
Aaron then continued down the hall past Colin’s room. As always, his door was shut, and if Aaron tried the knob he knew he’d find it locked. Colin was sixteen, and Aaron understood that the boy needed privacy. Hell, he’d always kept his door closed when he’d been a teenager — primarily to keep his dad from catching him looking at Penthouse and masturbating. But he’d never kept his door locked at night. Aaron had tried to point out to Colin that not only wasn’t there any need to lock his door at night, but doing so was also a safety hazard. What if he became sick and needed help? Or what if there was a fire in the middle of the night? But whenever Aaron made these arguments, Colin just shrugged them off.
I sleep with my cell phone on my nightstand. If I ever got too sick to get to my door AND too sick to yell for help — which I can’t imagine — I’d just call you or Mom. And if there was a fire, I’d just open my window, knock out the screen, and climb through.
Aaron always wanted to argue the point. After all, Colin’s room was on the second floor. But he never did. What good would it do? Besides, he didn’t want to come off sounding too much like his own father. Always critical, always disapproving. But Aaron missed the days when Colin was young enough to sleep with his door open, missed being able to look in on him while he slept, listen to his gentle little boy breathing …
You’re too soft on your kids. Always have been.
Aaron ignored the thought and continued down the hallway until he reached the stairs. He went down, turned, walked through the foyer and into the kitchen. They always left a light on over the sink, so Aaron didn’t bother turning on any other lights. He went to the cupboard, took out a black mug with the words Number One Dad painted on it in white letters, then went to the refrigerator and poured some milk in it. He put the mug in the microwave and set it for two minutes. The microwave hummed to life, and the mug began turning in a slow circle as radiation agitated its molecules. Aaron didn’t usually drink warm milk to help him sleep, would’ve preferred a double scotch instead. But — he glanced at the clock — it was 3:33 in the morning. He needed to get up at six and didn’t want to risk oversleeping. So no scotch for him tonight. When the milk was done, he removed it from the microwave, walked into the d
ining room, sat down and began sipping his milk. It was only lukewarm, but he didn’t feel like going back to the kitchen to nuke it again. He’d make do with it as it was.
As he sipped his tepid milk, he thought about the dream that had awakened him.
He wasn’t surprised that his father had been in it. He doubted he’d ever get Martin Rittinger out of his head. Everyone has a self-critical voice inside them, Aaron believed, though he imagined some folks’ were louder than others. His had long ago assumed the tone and timber of his father’s voice, though it wasn’t like he was mentally disturbed or anything. The thoughts expressed were always Aaron’s. He’d asked a therapist about it once, years ago, after Colin was born but before Lindsay had been conceived. Aaron had originally sought out therapy to make sure he wouldn’t be as critical of his young son as Martin Rittinger had been with his children. Aaron’s older brother Bryan was a bachelor, a successful architect, and an alcoholic. His younger sister Jeanne had three kids, each by different fathers, and had a tendency to date jerks that smacked her around. Of the three Rittinger children, Aaron had turned out the most psychologically healthy, and now that he was a father, he wanted to make sure he stayed that way.
When he told his therapist about hearing critical thoughts in Martin’s voice she’d said that his father’s constant criticism — which had been so bad that it drove Aaron’s mom away when he was six — had instilled in his children the feeling that nothing was good enough. Worse yet, that they weren’t good enough. Because of this, Aaron would always struggle with a sense of pervasive dissatisfaction with himself and his life. And while he might temper this feeling of dissatisfaction and learn how to live with it, he’d never be able to escape it entirely. Aaron knew this was at least partially why he’d been so intrigued by Caroline tonight. Because of his constant sense of dissatisfaction with himself, the “I’m Not Worthy” Syndrome, his therapist had called it; Aaron was driven to prove his self-worth. Not only did he want to be a good husband, a good father, and a good vet, he wanted to be good enough to everyone in every way. That meant he wanted to be a good enough lover for Caroline, good enough to be chosen as her escort to whatever secret place lay behind the fuckle door. Whether he actually did it or not didn’t matter as much as being good enough to do it, if he chose.
