We sat on the porch swing. The night was cool, but comfortable.
“Let’s just hope we don’t do this every year,” Dale said, taking a swig from the bottle. He handed it to me.
My head already felt waterlogged, like a soaking wet sponge that couldn’t absorb any more fluid. But I took the bottle and forced down a snort. It burned inside.
Lonny came out onto the porch. He also had a bottle in tow. I couldn’t tell what it was.
“What are you up to?” Dale asked.
“Thought I’d just go for a walk.”
“At this time of night?” I said, still not really sure how late it was.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Insomnia. Had it a couple of years now. Just can’t seem to sleep. I try and try to force myself, can’t do it. It’s not that I’m not sleepy. God, I get so damn tired.” He took a long gulp from his bottle. “Now, I usually just drink until I pass out. Seems about the only way I can get any rest. Trouble is, I wake up so hung over and tired the next morning, doesn’t feel like it’s done me any good.” He took another gulp.
He looked out toward the town.
“You know, I used to love the nighttime. When Pam and I first got married, before we had the kids, we would go out at night all the time, have drinks, play pool, listen to a band. Once the kids came along, that all changed. Kids had to be in early. Put in bed by the time night fell. Then we’d be stuck in the house. I felt trapped. Like my home had become my prison. Though I could look out the windows and see the night, I couldn’t get to it. It was out of reach.” He took a swig from his bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his left hand. “Now it taunts me. I lie awake all night long, trying to get to sleep, just staring up at the dark ceiling, looking out the bedroom window at the night beyond. I have come to hate the night, knowing what restlessness it will bring. I dread that moment when I climb into bed, hoping sleep will come, knowing it isn’t going to. The night has become my demon.”
“That sucks,” I mumbled, not really knowing what else to say. “Where are you going to walk to?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe down to the boardwalk. Look at the lake. As long as Heifer don’t catch me and throw me in the drunk tank.”
“Heifer?” Dale questioned. “Is he still chief?”
“Some things never change.”
Lonny hesitated. “You know, I’m just having some financial problems, and I thought, since Oliver was doing so well, that a loan, just a loan, that’s all I was asking for.”
“It’s okay,” Dale said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s all I seem to do lately. Worry. I worry about money, worry about sleeping. Maybe it’s the worrying about money that keeps me from sleeping. I don’t know. I feel so desperate sometimes.”
“Things will work out,” I said, feeling sorry for him. But I doubted my own words. He didn’t look like he had too firm a grip on things.
“Is my hair on straight?”
“Yes,” I lied.
He turned, walked down the porch steps bottle held close to his side and disappeared into the night.
Our own bottle passed back and forth between Dale and me a few more times. I was nervous each time I took it. The tip seemed to waver in the air. I was afraid I was going to drop it.
“It was worth coming here just to see you,” Dale offered again.
“There were so many things I wanted to accomplish this weekend.”
“Like your book.”
I nodded and then took the bottle. “There’s a story I need to tell, and it has to be told here.” I handed him the liquor. “Speaking of telling. Why didn’t you tell me about your marriage being in trouble?”
He shrugged. “I was going to. Just waiting for the right moment I guess.”
“Oliver always seems to find the right moment.”
“Yeah.”
“So what happened.”
“We just can’t seem to get along. All we do is bicker at each other. We don’t really fight, but every single day we pick back and forth, usually about nothing.” He drank from the bottle. “It’s like we don’t even have normal conversations. As if we forgot how to talk to each other. I’d come home from work every day and we’d be sitting in our condo and I would try to think of something to say to her but nothing would come. We’d just sit there in silence.”
He looked down and shook his head. “You know, I used to enjoy lying in bed at night with her. We’d chat, make love, spoon like couples are supposed to. But then, more and more we started laying back to back. More like forks and knives.” He chuckled. “I mean, we still have good times, but there isn’t a day that goes by that one of us doesn’t get uptight about something with the other. It just isn’t fun anymore. I think the real problem is that I love her, but I don’t really like her. And I think she likes me, she just doesn’t love me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I wanted to say more.
“It’s funny. I had even stopped drinking from the day we got back from the honeymoon. I was figuring I was really going to try hard to settle down and be a responsible adult and husband. But that didn’t help at all. This is practically the first time I’ve drank since. I guess it’s my coming out party.” He hoisted the bottle to his lips.
“And you’re really between jobs?”
“Yeah, well sort of. I was actually downsized.”
“That sucks. That stress couldn’t have helped the marriage any.”
“That was kind of the final straw. I didn’t tell her right away.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I couldn’t bring myself to. I was embarrassed, at my age to be losing my job. So I got up every morning, put on my shirt and tie, grabbed my briefcase and drove off like I did every morning. I just didn’t have any place to go.”
“And she didn’t suspect?”
“Nope. It worked for a few weeks, till she called the office one day and was shocked to find out I hadn’t worked there for a while.”
“What are you going to do now?”
He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe move back here and milk cows for a living.”
“What?”
He broke out laughing. “Just kidding. Actually, that’s really the reason I came to this reunion, to talk to you about it. I thought I could come to New York, stay with you and look for a job. We could be roommates.”
I didn’t know what to tell him. If only. … If only.
“It’ll be like old times, you and me together. An adventure in the city. Think of the times we could have.”
… If only I had time.
I thought back to that day in Dr. Cutler’s office, driven there after the headaches wouldn’t cease. And after all the X-rays and tests he had sat me down in his office and told me about the tumor. He described in precise medical detail the exact location of it in the back lower left portion of my brain and all I could think of was the little attic room the Joker inhabited.
It was malignant and feasting on my brain, he had said. An operation was necessary and he wanted to do it as soon as possible. There were no guarantees though. It was only a fifty-fifty chance, but without it, he doubted I’d last another year.
I told him I needed time to think about it, sort it all out, and he seemed shocked. Time was not an ally, but I had an important decision to make and that’s why I think I really came back to Malton. Not to see how Woody was doing, not to see Dale and the others, not to find Meg, but to see if I really wanted to stop this thing.
The bottle went back and forth and so did my head, swaying as if it would fall off. Dale’s face got serious and he began talking, but I couldn’t hear him. I concentrated hard to see his lips move and hear the words coming out of them, tried to read them as they let loose from his mouth, but they were getting lost in the air. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, trying to clear it, but everything began to spin, and I gripped hard with both hands on the banister as I found myself making my way up the stairs to the second floor. There was a rele
ntless pounding in my forehead (Don’t open it), and the going was tough. Bile began to rise in my throat. I thought I was going to vomit, but it subsided. The pounding continued. Each step was slow as my feet felt weighted. I had to keep both hands on the rail for fear of swaying too far sideways or backwards and tumbling down the stairs. I could see cats all over the steps, the Peas sisters’ cats, and I had to be careful not to step on them as I made my way up each step. They were all around my feet. I could only see them out of the fringes of my vision and whenever I tried to look directly at one, it was gone, replaced by another just barely in sight.
The pounding in my head would not stop. I literally pulled myself along the banister, up the steps that seemed to get steeper the higher I got. The beating seemed to fade slightly, and I realized it was not coming from my head, but from somewhere below, from off to the left. The den maybe. But no, beyond it, the dining room, or further back in the inn.
At the first floor landing, I could have sworn the moose head’s eyes followed me again as I made my way up the next flight of steps. I reached the landing on the third floor and used the wall to guide me to my room. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, a rest for my reward for my mountainous assault.
I heard footsteps in the hall. Cats? No, the steps were too heavy. I turned and opened the door, just a crack, an eyeball’s width.
The sound came from the steps leading to the fourth floor tower room. A figure emerged down the stairs. It must be Sandy, Wolfe’s niece, carefully tucking in the front of her blouse and buttoning the top button. This was what Oliver meant by something else planned to cap the night. I closed the door and made my way to the desk. I picked up the pile of paper I had typed a short while ago. Or was it a long time ago?
I started to read it, though it was hard keeping the words in focus. I thought it was good. Hoped it was. I remembered in college how some of my best papers were written when I was drunk.
I put the papers down and nearly tumbled into the bed.
Maybe I should check underneath for cats?
I closed my eyes and thought about how far I had gotten in the story.
The pounding echoed in my ears.
THE FALL OF THE JOKERS CLUB
Dale had walked his bike to the boardwalk where Martin, Geoff and Jason were waiting astride their bikes watching the early summer activity on the beach.
Jason let out a deep sigh. “This school year seems like it’s never going to end.”
“The older we get, the longer they seem,” Martin replied.
“Every year feels like a prison term,” Dale said, popping a wheelie on his bike, the front tire slamming down on the boardwalk causing it to rumble. He glanced over his shoulder toward one end of the wood planks and smiled. “Hey, look who’s heading this way.”
They all looked in his direction.
“Carrothead.”
None of them knew Carrothead’s real name. There were many stories about how he got to be like he was, but one was more common than the others.
He used to be normal, the story went, and in fact was a star athlete in high school. But one summer he was out with a group of teens at the rope swing on the east side of the lake. The story went that he was swinging on the rope out toward the water when, at the apex of his swing, he released the rope and attempted to do a mid-air summersault. As he body twisted around it became entangled in the rope which wrapped around his legs and neck. He hung there in the rope, swinging back and forth over the water like a pendulum while his friends frantically attempted to cut him down. They managed to free him in time to save his life, but the oxygen to his brain had been cut off long enough to cause permanent brain damage. The rope had also damaged the circulation in his left leg that left him walking with a jerky, shuffling movement.
That was how the story went, anyway.
No one was quite sure exactly how old he was – most likely mid-twenties – but to Dale and the others, he appeared child-like. He lived with his mother somewhere off Autumn Avenue, and people said she was just as nutty as he. He always dressed in a pair of blue overalls, and whether he owned several or just the one, no one could be sure. He usually wandered the streets, spending day and night on the boardwalk, but he never bothered anybody so nobody bothered him, except for the kids who sometimes teased him. He kept a walkie-talkie with him that he constantly talked into, and no one knew for sure whether there was anybody else on the other end. Maybe it was his mother, telling him when to come home for lunch or dinner or to take out the garbage.
Carrothead came shuffling down the boardwalk toward the four boys. He looked all around him, first over his left shoulder, then over his right. He clutched the walkie-talkie to his chest with both hands as if afraid someone would snatch it from him. He brought it to his mouth and spoke softly into it.
His eyes lifted over the device without bringing it down. They scanned from left to right, from one boy’s face to the next. His lips moved as he spoke into the mouthpiece, too low to hear.
“Let’s go,” Geoff said, and the four boys pushed their bikes along the boardwalk past Carrothead. When Dale was a step or two past him, he stopped and turned around.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
Carrothead looked at him. His face scrunched up as he spoke. “It’s the other side. They want to know if it’s safe to come out.”
Dale stared in curiosity for a moment, then reached out and grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Let me talk to them.”
Geoff and the others had stopped ten feet further down and watched. Before Dale got a chance to utter a sound into the walkie-talkie, two stone-like hands grabbed onto his wrists.
“Don’t you touch it!” Carrothead screamed, his face red, his mouth twisted. His hands pried the coveted apparatus from Dale’s.
“Leave him alone,” Geoff yelled to Dale.
“They won’t talk to you!” Carrothead spat out of his scrunched face. “They only talk to me!”
Dale took a step back. Drool had begun to run out of the corner of Carrothead’s mouth.
“You’ll see them in time! Don’t worry!” A long string of spit hung down past his chest.
“Let’s get out of here,” Geoff called to Dale.
“Yeah,” he answered, turning his bike and taking a step, but then he stopped and looked back.
“They know about you!” Carrothead yelled. “I’ve told them all about you! They know everything.”
“Come on, Dale!” Geoff screamed. “Move it.”
“I’m coming.” He ran, pushing his bike, and caught up with them. “I’ve never seen him act like that before.”
“He gives me the creeps,” Jason said.
“We really shouldn’t bother him,” Geoff responded as they mounted their bikes and raced down Autumn Avenue. When they got to the clubhouse, Oliver and Lonny were already there.
“Don’t anyone dare breathe,” Oliver said.
Before them, on the cable spool, stood the biggest house of cards Dale had ever seen. It was seven stories high and must have taken three or four decks of cards to build.
“Wow,” someone said, and he could see the walls of one side flutter from the breath. Oliver turned his head slowly toward them.
“Who did that?” he asked in a whisper, but turned back to the house without waiting for an answer.
Dale watched as Oliver slowly placed another card onto the top of the house, admiring the steadiness in his fingers. Then he sensed movement beside him and turned to tell Jason he better stand still but knew right away it was too late as Jason’s left leg struck the open trap door in the floor of the clubhouse. It slammed shut with a loud, reverberating thump.
Jason froze.
Oliver looked toward him in horror, then back at the house of cards.
The whole structure began to vibrate like a giant mound of gelatin. Then Dale saw one card in the middle of the stack slip and tumble downward, almost in slow motion. Oliver reached both hands out, as if to try and steady the building, but in
a sudden flash, the cards fluttered to the table top.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” Jason said, “I’m –”
Oliver turned.
“You dillhole!” he screamed, his face red. His hands rose up in fists and he started to take a step toward Jason.
Dale saw what was about to happen and stepped between them. “It was an accident,” he said. “It’s over. Nothing you can do about it now.”
Oliver looked at him, then over his shoulder at Jason. Dale could almost see the color in his face drain, as if some chemical reaction was taking place in his head.
“You owe me big time, Florence,” he said and went to his seat and slumped down. Nobody said a word for a while. Nobody dared. They all just sat and kept quiet, looking from one to another.
“Anything going on, boys?” Oliver asked, calm now. It was as if the whole incident never happened.
“Carrothead’s freaking out on the boardwalk,” Dale answered.
“We should do something really good to that retard one of these days.”
“He doesn’t bother anyone,” Geoff said.
“He bothers me by breathing.” He scooped up a handful of cards from the table and dropped them back down with a sigh of boredom. “I almost gave up on you guys getting here.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got a treat.” He reached over, grabbed a brown paper bag and pulled a handful of cigars from it.
“Cool! Where’d you get those?” Dale asked.
“I lifted them from the five and ten,” Lonny said, smiling.
“I’ve already chewed the idiot out for not getting the kind that comes in their own tubes,” Oliver began to hand them out. “At least he didn’t get those wussy kinds that have the tips.”
“Good thing Woody isn’t here, he’d probably eat them,” Dale said, taking his.
“I don’t want one,” Jason said when Oliver got to him.
“Come on Florence,” Oliver waved the cigar under his nose. “It’ll make a real man out of you.”
Jason sighed. “Fine.”
A book of matches was produced and they began lighting up. It took nearly half the book for them to successfully light the cigars. Soon, smoke and coughs filled the confines of the clubhouse.
Jokers Club Page 7
