by P. E. Ryan
“That would be great. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s our pleasure,” his mom said. Garth liked the idea that Mike would still be around in the morning, but then he heard his mother sniff, and when he looked at her again he saw that her eyes had suddenly teared up. “I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just—without your beard, you really do look an awful lot like Jerry.”
“Ah.” Uncle Mike rubbed his jaw and nodded.
She got up then, and started into the kitchen to clean the dishes. Garth knew she was exhausted, so he said he would take care of it. She thanked him and told them both good night.
When she was gone from the room, Uncle Mike stood up and stretched, yawning. “I’m going to collect some stuff from my car,” he said to Garth. “You can just point me to the sheets, if you want. I’ll take care of myself.”
“No, I can do it,” Garth said. “The dishes won’t take long.”
“Aces,” his uncle replied. “Be right back.”
Garth let Hutch out into the backyard, then washed the dishes and stacked them in the dish strainer, occasionally peeking through the blinds of the kitchen window to where a sleek blue Camaro was parked along the curb next to their building. The car seemed to glow in the street light. Its trunk was open, and his uncle was bent over, rummaging around.
When he came back inside, he had a toiletry kit in one hand and a slim paperback book in the other. Some clothes were thrown over one arm.
Hutch barked impatiently at the back door.
“He sounds fierce,” Mike said.
“He’s gotten cranky in his old age.” Garth let the dog in, and then led Mike to the guest room. Just across the hall from his own room, it was six by eight and had only one window, opening onto a skinny alleyway. Mike went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth while Garth made up the daybed. When he came back, Garth switched on the window fan and said, “Kind of a weird little room, huh?”
“It’s perfect. Trust me, I’ll sleep like a baby.” Uncle Mike tossed the clothes onto a chair, and set his book on the little side table.
Garth peered at the book. “What are you reading?”
“Double Indemnity. They made a pretty good movie out of it about a million years ago. You should watch it sometime.” His uncle glanced at the dull gray-avocado walls—the color of dust and mold, if you mixed the two together. “Hey”—he lowered his voice a notch—“you guys have had a rough time of it, haven’t you?”
Lowering his own voice, Garth said, “It’s been a pretty rotten year and a half.”
“I know,” his uncle told him. “For me, too, when I think about it.”
How could you not think about it? Garth wondered.
“Your mom seems a little on edge.”
“She’s always been a worrier, but she’s been worse since Dad died,” Garth said. “Especially when it comes to me. It’s like she’s just waiting for something else bad to happen.”
“Well, do you give her any reason to worry?”
She would say yes, he knew. But he and his mom saw certain things differently. And if Uncle Mike was only here for the night and would be gone tomorrow…there was no point in getting into personal stuff. “I don’t think I do,” he said.
“You seem like a stand-up guy to me.”
Garth shrugged. “Thanks.”
“Oh—and sorry about the ‘short stuff’ remark.”
“It’s okay. Night, Uncle Mike.”
“Just ‘Mike’ is fine. Otherwise, I’ll keep calling you ‘Nephew Garth.’”
“Deal,” Garth said. “Night, Mike.”
“Good night.”
He crossed the hall to his own room, and clicked on the light, thinking again how strange it was having someone else in their home. And not just anyone, but a near look-alike of his dad.
Hutch leaped up onto his bed and immediately closed his eyes. Oh, to be a dog, Garth thought. To be able to fall asleep in a heartbeat and dream about squirrels and…Milkbones. Maybe tonight—knowing Mike was right there, close by—his dad wouldn’t feel quite so far away.
2
He woke in the morning to Hutch licking the side of his face.
“Yuck,” he mumbled, turning away. “You need to brush your teeth.”
But Hutch was more interested in rousing him, and Garth—an animal lover who could see himself becoming a vet one day—liked observing the dog’s habits and behavior. Make one move in the morning, say one word, and that was it: in Hutch-think, you were officially awake and should get out of bed.
He was pulling on a T-shirt when he realized he hadn’t had the nightmare the previous night. In fact, he’d had the opposite: a good dream about his dad—about the two of them painting the outside of the second hardware store his dad had opened several years ago. Cracking jokes. Sharing a can of soda. Basically just a good memory relived in his sleep. Why couldn’t there be more dreams like that? He wondered if his uncle’s presence had anything to do with it.
As he was coming down the hall, he heard his mom’s voice and he paused to listen.
“And how long would you like to stay?”
“A couple of weeks,” Mike said. “Maybe three? It would be great to spend some time with you guys under, you know, normal circumstances. A real treat for me. And I can help out with expenses—household stuff, groceries, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be a deadbeat, I promise.”
Garth stayed where he was, still listening.
“Well, the thing is, Mike, you kept dodging me last night whenever I asked what you’ve been up to. If you’re going to be under my roof, with Garth here—well, I’ll just put this bluntly and hope I don’t offend you: Are you dealing drugs?”
Garth nearly moaned with embarrassment. Only his mom would immediately let her mind go to such a worry.
But Mike didn’t sound insulted or even surprised by the question. He told her no, then went on to explain that he didn’t even smoke cigarettes or drink anymore, that he’d cleaned up his act a few years ago and had never felt better.
“Okay,” she said. “Well, then, would you just tell me once and for all what it is you do? You’ve evaded that question ever since you walked through the door.”
“You’re right. Only because I didn’t think you’d approve. Mostly, I gamble.”
Garth thought of horse races, people jumping up and down and hollering—stuff he’d seen in movies—but his mother asked: “As in poker?”
“Poker, blackjack, even dice if I’m feeling lucky. And I have to say, I’ve got a knack for it. Most people don’t think too highly of it, I know. But it’s the life I lead. For right now, anyway.”
Garth pictured Mike in a tux, à la James Bond, tossing a chip to the dealer. The image was almost laughable because Mike seemed so informal, so relaxed.
“But don’t you have a degree in something? I remember you went to college.”
“Yeah. Graphic design. And I took to it like a duck to water, but I didn’t like working for a company, you know? It just felt gross, doing the same thing day after day. It felt like an anchor.”
“Most jobs are.”
“I guess so. I’ll probably be heading for Atlantic City next, see if I can keep on my winning streak, but just so you know: I won’t be doing any kind of gambling while I’m here.”
“Good. That’s a relief.”
Mike asked her what she was doing these days, workwise, and she told him about her two jobs (she was a secretary at a small law firm and a concierge at one of the nicer hotels). “Not very challenging work, and not very inspiring, either,” she said.
Then the conversation shifted to Grandma Rudd in Ohio—how she was retired now, and how Mike tried to see her at least once a year. Garth’s grandmother had a sweet, soft-sounding voice, and they used to drive up and spend Thanksgivings with her when his dad was still alive. They hadn’t been able to do that last year because his mom couldn’t get enough days off to make the trip. Besides, she’d told him, they couldn’t really afford it. They’d settled for a l
ong phone call after Thanksgiving dinner, in which his grandmother told him how proud of him she was, and how proud she knew his dad was, looking down from heaven.
“She’s still waiting for me to give her a grandchild,” Mike said with a small laugh.
Garth heard the creak of a chair and feared for a moment that his mom had gotten up and would catch him listening, but he heard her say, “Anyway, we’d be happy to have you stay with us for a little while.”
“I really appreciate it,” Mike said. “And like I said, I did pretty well in Houston, so whatever you need—a share of the rent, groceries—I can help out.”
“Well, maybe,” his mom said. “We’ll see.”
“This is like a dream come true for me, you know. A chance to finally get to know the two of you.”
Finally. Garth was surprised at how happy he felt that Mike was going to stick around for a little while, but slightly annoyed by the implication that his dad had to be gone for it to happen. He cleared his throat, stepped around the corner, and emerged into the kitchen.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” his mom said.
“Morning.”
Mike was still in the dragon T-shirt but was wearing a pair of shorts and was barefoot. He had the Richmond Times-Dispatch open in front of him. He smiled at Garth. “How’s it going, sport?”
Garth rubbed his eyes and sat down at the table.
The coffeepot was gurgling. His mom hummed softly as she stirred. When Mike turned a page of the newspaper, the combination of the three sounds brought back what felt like a previous life to Garth. He yawned and asked, “Can I have some coffee?”
“One cup,” his mom said. “Only because it’s Sunday.”
“Sunday is coffee day?” Mike asked.
“For him it is. He asks for it all the time, but I don’t want him to get hooked on it.”
“I might turn into a junkie,” Garth said. “Injecting it into my veins.”
Mike sipped from his mug. “It is something of a habit.”
He offered Garth the sports section, but Garth dug through the paper and pulled out the funny pages instead.
The waffles—complete with whipped cream and sliced strawberries—were served. Mike dug in. He seemed comfortable enough in their apartment to have lived there for years. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking at Garth, “it looks like I’ll be sticking around for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He dragged his napkin over his mouth. “Think you can put up with me?”
A short while later, Garth was sitting at his desk, gluing the bowsprit to a model of the HMS Victory, when he heard a knock. He anchored the bowsprit in place with a piece of Scotch tape to allow the glue to dry, then said, “Come in.”
“Wow,” Mike said, staring at the model as he entered the room. “That may be the most detailed thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“It’s about a seven on a scale of one to ten in terms of difficulty,” Garth said. He was surprised at how impressed Mike seemed—and surprised at the little jolt of pride he felt, being able to impress.
“‘The HMS Victory,’” Mike read off the front of the box, which Garth had cut out and taped to the wall over his desk as a visual guide. “It looks a little like the Flying Dutchman. Ever heard of that one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s a legendary ship whose crew was cursed to sail around the world helping other ships in distress forever and ever.”
“Doesn’t sound like such a bad curse.”
“I guess the curse was in the ‘forever’ part.” He gazed about the room at the dozens of ship models. “So you’re a boat fanatic, like your dad?”
“No. I just build models.”
“Well, you’re good at it. I’d never have the patience for that kind of thing—unless there was some sort of shipbuilding contest and a big prize to be had.” Mike sat down on the unmade bed and his eyes fell on the open closet, which was basically a landfill for dirty clothes and miscellaneous junk. Garth would have closed the door if he’d known he was going to have a visitor.
But Mike didn’t seem to notice the mess. He was staring at the clothes rack. “What’s with all the Halloween costumes?”
“Oh—I used to…reuse them.” How humiliating: the only reason he’d been able to reuse them was because he was still small enough to fit into them. “I don’t dress up for Halloween anymore, obviously, but this guy at school told me I should keep them, said I could sell them on eBay one day and make a fortune.”
“Good thinking,” Mike said, eyeballing the half dozen polyester outfits, their hems a little frayed and their colors slightly faded. “Ever been to Duluth?”
“No. Why? Is that a good place to sell Halloween costumes?”
“Ha. No idea, but they’ve got this museum dedicated to ships. You might get a kick out of it.”
Garth nodded. He took up one of the Victory’s hatch doors and ran sandpaper over the nub where he’d snapped it free of the plastic frame. He felt a little awkward, suddenly having an audience; he searched for something to say. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he finally managed. “It gets kind of boring around here in the summer.”
“Don’t you have friends around?”
Garth nodded. “My best friend, Lisa, lives just a few blocks over. And there are a few other people I hang out with who live nearby.” The truth was that he’d practically become a hermit since the accident. Lisa was the only friend he hung out with now on a regular basis. “There’s just, you know, not that much to do around here.”
“I hear you. I was bored out of my mind when I was fifteen, and that was in a town a lot smaller than this. You just have to keep yourself occupied.”
“Piggyback the neighbor’s cable and I’ll be occupied.”
“Right. I’m taking you and your mom out for a fancy dinner tonight, by the way. If your calendar’s open.”
“I’m going to hang out with my friend Lisa this afternoon, but then I’m free.”
“You don’t sound so bored,” Mike observed. “This Lisa—she your girlfriend?”
“Nope. Just a friend.”
“Is she a hottie?”
The question nearly made Garth burst out laughing; Lisa was, in fact, hot. She had straight dark hair that often covered half her face in a shadowy, mysterious sort of way, and her body was long and sleek and tanned—but those weren’t the sorts of things Garth went around noticing. His mind ran through a short list of possible responses as Mike smiled at him. “Yeah,” he said, his nerve slipping. “She’s a definite hottie.”
It was Lisa who’d dubbed his predicament the Issue. She also called it the Big Duh and, every now and then, Project Garth. She was the first person that he’d come out to—nearly six months ago. Something about listening to her express her fear that the world would never embrace her for her art and her “creative vision” told him she’d have no problem with his sexual leanings. And she didn’t. In fact, she claimed to have “intuited” his being gay from the first day they’d met, in the seventh grade. “I can read people like a book,” she’d told him, “and your book screamed gay on page one.” Though Garth was not “artistic” like Lisa, the two of them had a lot in common. They liked the same music, the same movies. They hated loud people and Hummer drivers and Republicans. And occasionally, to her great amusement, they liked the same guys—from afar, in Garth’s case.
That afternoon, they lay stretched out on her bed side by side, listening to the latest Sufjan Stevens CD and ranking the songwriter’s features. For Garth, Sufjan’s eyes were the best thing about his looks, but Lisa disagreed. It was the lips, obviously, the lips. She’d thrown a red handkerchief over the lampshade on the nightstand, and it cast a pink hue onto the walls, where row after row of her photographs were taped up and curling in the humidity. Most of them—black-and-white, shot digitally, and Photoshopped with swaths of color—were of strangers captured in random moments: a man with a parakeet on his shoulder waiting for
the bus; an old woman sitting on a bench in Capitol Square, transfixed by a pigeon; a young girl watching a Civil War reenactment at the base of the Robert E. Lee Memorial. Lisa was calling the series “Obfuscation” (whatever that meant).
“So, my uncle’s in town,” Garth said, gazing up at her ceiling, where some long-dead, bald-headed painter gazed back from a postcard. “He showed up last night out of the blue.”
“What uncle?”
“Mike. My dad’s brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, and then, “Shh! Listen to this part.”
Sufjan’s breathy voice dissolved into one prolonged, slowly fading note from his trumpet.
“Perfection,” she said. “I remember your uncle from the funeral. He had that scruffy beard, and it trembled when he cried.”
That day was something of a blur in Garth’s mind. He remembered just a few specific—and significant—details (the shine on the casket; the feeling of his mom’s wedding ring as he held her hand; the feeling of his other hand being squeezed by Lisa, who stayed by his side the entire afternoon).
“The beard’s gone now,” he said.
“Yikes. That must be like looking at a clone of your dad.”
“I think it was a little weirder for my mom than it was for me—but you get used to it pretty fast.”
“So what’s he like?”
Garth thought about how best to describe Mike. Laid-back? Easygoing? “He’s like a big teenager,” he said. “Ish. I mean, he’s this middle-aged guy, obviously, but he doesn’t seem like one.”
He was in the middle of telling her about the conversation he’d overheard that morning when Lisa interrupted him, midsentence.
“Hold on. Your uncle gambles for a living?”
“That’s what he said.”
“And his mom—your grandmother—doesn’t have a problem with that?”
“I don’t think so. She might not even know about it, though.”
