by Owen Thomas
I cut the engine and kill the lights and sit staring across the yard at the home of Hollis and Susan Johns. Warm, yellow light melts through the draperies pulled across the living room windows, spilling out like syrup onto the row of leaves piled up along the side of the house. My parents would still be up, doing their things in their own parts of the house. Mom, on the phone or scanning the cable news for late breaking terrorist alerts, and Dad sealed downstairs in his office with his wine and the music blaring.
I’m here. I should go inside and say hello. But I don’t have the energy. Mom will be all spun up about Tilly, and the party, and that will lead to inquiry about what Mae is planning on cooking, which will force me to come clean about just what Mae is not bringing to the party and why, and I just don’t have it in me. Not now. I’ll tell her at the party. No, too inconsiderate. I’ll tell her just before the party, on the phone. In time for her to cover for her lack of party-food crisis, but not enough time for her to react to my lack-of-romantic-companion crisis. Mom, Mae’s not coming. She left me. She’s not coming back. Big argument. It’s over. Seriously. Well, devastated if you must know the truth. So, anyway, I guess you are going to be short a pasta dish. See you at six.
It’s late. I should just go home. School tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to fuck a little boy. Work tomorrow. Not school, work. I should just go home. But that thought is almost more depressing than Billy Rocks or sitting out here in the car. I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat, my breathing a rhythm of deep sighs.
Suddenly, I know what it is I need. And I know why. Without any conscious design – I am here.
Ben’s bedroom is on the ground floor in the back of the house.
For anyone else, the better room would have been my old room, or even Tilly’s, both bigger and situated upstairs with a decent view over the lower-lying houses and the elementary school. But the possibility of him falling out of a second story window would have cost him all hope of privacy. If Ben wanted his own room – and he did – it would be on the ground floor.
I walk as calmly as possible in the dark, hoping my demeanor will assure anyone who might otherwise be inclined to mistake me as a prowler. Which, I suppose I am. And a kidnapper. I just happen to be related to the property owner and the kid in question.
I can tell as I round the corner that Ben’s light is on. His shadow sweeps back and forth across the lawn in silent, fluid motions. I reach the window and look inside.
My brother is in his pajamas, the ones covered with professional football insignia. He is standing in the center of his room, his back to the window, his arms in the air swaying, as though he is in a trance. His mid-section begins to move in slow circular motions, but then he is back to swaying, like a big palm in a breeze.
This is Ben’s version of slow dancing. I have seen him do this for an hour at a time. It has always been a mesmerizing, deeply relaxing display of self-absorption. Sometimes he will do this when a song comes on the radio that, by Ben’s standards, is irresistible. Usually a sappy oldie by Nat King Cole or Dean Martin or Roger Whittacre. Wherever he is at that moment, in the car, in an elevator, the grocery store, he will close his eyes, raise his arms and sway until the song ends. He is always interruptible, and he will stop if you ask him to stop, but we try to leave him be. Once we had hardened ourselves to the stares and whispers of other people, our inclination was to leave him alone. To protect whatever unadulterated joy he is experiencing.
The longer “slow dance” sessions, like this one, usually come with no music at all, at least none that we can hear. He has found a sound or a feeling that is strictly internal, a rhythm that is a slow percussive riff from the beating of his own heart, and it is enough to move all one hundred and fifty pounds of him in a kind of sinuous dance of worship that is impossible not to watch in wonder. Whatever moves him on these occasions floats upon the sea of silent mystery inside the head of Benjamin Johns.
I tap lightly on the window. He is in too deep to hear. I try again a little louder. He snaps to and turns around. It is too bright in his room for him to see out into the darkened yard. I tap again. He shuffles to the window and cups his hands against the glass. I smile and wave. Recognition and an expression of joyful surprise breaks like daylight over his face. Ben claps and waves and jogs in place, dancing from one big, bare lily-white foot to the other as he fumbles with the window latch.
As the window slides up, I reach in with one hand and quickly place a finger to his lips, doing the same to my own lips with my other hand. Ben freezes at this instruction and I finish opening the window.
“Hey buddy,” I whisper. “Get your clothes on, we’re going to a movie.”
* * *
Fantasia is showing at a multiplex, twenty minutes away. On the off-chance that my mother has looked in on Ben before going to bed, I have placed a note on his pillow explaining the disappearance of her youngest son. She will be worried and that will give in to anger at having to worry, and that will eventually make way for disappointment that I did not bother to come in to visit, but in the end she will be glad for Ben’s sake.
We are late for the movie, but it doesn’t matter. We have both seen it about a million times. Mickey is working magic with a broom when we step into the darkened, almost empty theater, loaded with enough popcorn and sugar-coated crap to sink a battleship. Ben is so happy he is vibrating in his seat. As I look at him pulling at a rope of licorice and staring in wide-eyed wonder at the screen, I marvel at just how rare have become true joy and the satisfaction of normal human expectations.
It is these last moments of the day – the gratifying emotional sub-stance they hold – that I had woken up wanting and, in all of my stupid optimism, expecting.
CHAPTER 7 - Susan
“David, I don’t mind that you took him to the movies.”
“Okay, I know, I know. I just...”
“I love it that you took him to the movies.”
“Mom...”
“But you don’t need to sneak him out of the house.”
“I said, I’m sorry. What else...”
“Because when you sneak him out of the house, all your father and I do is worry.”
“I left a note. There was no need for you to...”
“We wonder if he’s been kidnapped or if he’s run away.”
“But I left a note.”
“You may be out having a good time and God knows Ben was having a good time. And that’s great. I’m all for everyone having a good time. I wish you and Ben did even more of that. It’s just we’re sitting around worrying while you are out having a carefree time and I don’t think that is particularly fair.”
“Are you telling me that Dad was sitting around worrying about us?”
“We’re not worried about you, David. You can take care of yourself just fine.”
“Okay, sorry. Ben. Are you saying Dad was sitting around worried about Ben?”
“How should I know? He spends all of his time in that damn study with his music and his wine and his bonsai tree. He’s impossible to talk to. So I don’t know if he was worried or not. He probably was. I was worried sick. Why shouldn’t he be worried too?”
“Because… I… left… a… note.”
“It’s just unnecessary, David. That’s all I’m saying. All you need to do is come inside and pick him up. Is that so hard? It’s almost like you’re trying to avoid us.”
“It was late. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It wasn’t that late. I was up. Your father was up.”
“Is that why you’re upset? Because I didn’t come in to see you?”
“David, I’m not upset. Don’t make this about me. This has nothing to do with me. Come see us, don’t come see us. Just let us know that you’re taking Ben. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t worry us unnecessarily by sneaking him out in the middle of the night.”
“It wasn’t the middle of the night. It was late evening.”
“Well, it was too late to be goin
g to the movies, that’s for sure.”
“I thought you said that it wasn’t too late.”
“David, I said it was not too late to come in and see me and your father. But we’re talking about Ben. Right? Ben. He needs his sleep. He cannot stay up all hours like you can. He needs to be here in bed, not mixing with the late-night crowd out on the streets.”
“Out on the streets? We weren’t out on the streets. We went to the…”
“You had to drive, David. You had to get there somehow. Right? Did you just spirit yourselves to the movie?”
“So your objection is to the late-night drivers?”
“Yes. People in general out late carousing in the bars and clubs and the streets.”
“ …”
“David?”
“…”
“David?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I thought we got cut off.”
“No. I …”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What, David?”
“Are you saying that if I had come into the house you would have not let Ben come with me because it was too late?”
“No. What makes you think that? I told you I’m all for having a good time. I’m glad you came by to take him. I just didn’t like worrying. I was very worried.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t know where he was.”
“I left a note.”
“And because it was so late.”
“…”
“David?”
“I give up. Okay. I’m sorry. I will not do it again. Next time I will tell you before we go somewhere. Okay?”
“If you want to go out carousing at night, that’s fine. It’s just...”
“Mom.”
“You sound angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Well, you sound it. I guess I’m the bad guy again.”
“You’re not the bad guy, Mom. I’m the one apologizing.”
“I’m always the bad guy.”
“Mom.”
“Your father has long since washed his hands of everything unpleasant.”
“What’s unpleasant, Mom?”
“Everything.”
“Everything is unpleasant?”
“Well, you know.”
“No. I really don’t”
“Oh… hang on, David. That’s call waiting. Hello?”
“Hi, Susan. It’s Gayle.”
“Hi Gayle! I was wondering when I’d hear from you. I haven’t seen you since … well… election night.”
“I haven’t seen anyone since election night.”
“Yeah, you sort of disappeared. That was what, eight months ago? How are you?”
“Well, let’s see…Voinovich is still senator of the great homophobic state of Ohio and incurious George is still in the White House, right?”
“Now, Gayle. It’s not that bad.”
“His foreign policy is a smirk, Susan.”
“It’s done, Gayle.”
“His domestic policy is a wink.”
“It’s time to move on.”
“He’s the only president in history who governs entirely by facial expressions. We’re one nose-wrinkle away from nuclear Armageddon. Whose brilliant idea was it to run John Kerry?”
“Gayle, you’re losing perspective.”
“I’m calling you from deep beneath my covers, Susan.”
“That bad?”
“Terminal.”
“Don’t talk that way. Not everything is bad.”
“Lies, lies. They’ve finally gotten to you.”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, I give up. Tell me something that’s not so bad. My standards for good news are now down around my ankles. Now’s your chance.”
“My daughter has been nominated for a Special Jury Prize at Sundance.”
“No shit? Really?”
“Yes, really! Can you believe it?”
“Tilly?”
“Yeah.”
“God, I still can’t believe she’s your daughter. For Peppermint Grove?”
“Yep.”
“Wow, yeah. God, she was great in that. She’s definitely got a shot at it. Susan, you must be busting open.”
“I am. I am! We’re having a party Saturday.”
“She’s coming home?”
“No. But we’re having one anyway. Why don’t you come over?”
“You mean get out of bed? Why don’t all of you come over here?”
“Gayle.”
“Okay. Okay. I’d love to come. I’d love to see you.”
“Yes, we’ll catch up.”
“What do I bring?”
“Nothing. Bring yourself. Six o’clock. You know how to get here, right?”
“I found it once I can find it again. What do I wear?”
“Anything.”
“Good. Pajamas.”
“Not pajamas, Gayle. Oh! Gayle! I put David on hold! I gotta go!”
“See you Saturday. Bye.”
“Bye. David? David?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Oh, sorry, David. That was Gayle.”
“Who’s Gayle?”
“She was a fellow campaign worker for Fingerhut.”
“How’d she take it?”
“Take what.”
“Defeat.”
“It sounds like she hasn’t gotten out of bed since the election. We really killed ourselves. Those were long hours. We really put our hearts into that campaign.”
“So you said.”
“Gayle especially. She was a real trooper.”
“Mmm Hmm.”
“Anyway, sorry. Where were we?”
“Everything is unpleasant.”
“It is?”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You told me that everything in your life is unpleasant.”
“Well, I don’t think I was quite that extreme.”
“Fine.”
“Why are you so dour?”
“I’m not dour, Mom.”
“Well, you sound awfully out of sorts. It’s not the whole Ben thing, is it?”
“No.”
“Because I’m really glad you came to take him out. It was a great idea.”
“Mom.”
“He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”
“Mom.”
“I wish your father would care enough to do more with him. He’s washed his hands of all of us. Especially me. Tilly too. But it’s all of us David. He’s in his own little world down there. He’s got the music blaring and he always has a glass of wine in his hand and he thinks he knows everything about everything. You can’t tell your father your own name anymore without getting corrected.”
“Well...”
“It’s really hard, David. Really hard. You don’t even know. The judgment. Scorn. Anger. Did you know he voted for Voinovich? And Bush? Bush! For the second time.”
“He and half the country, Mom. And yes, you told me. I was hoping we had left all of that behind months ago . . .”
“He voted for Bush!”
“... but apparently not.”
“He’s nothing but a bunch of facial expressions.”
“What?”
“Truly, David. Watch him sometime. It’s always a wink and a smile and a smirk.”
“Dad?”
“No, Bush.”
“Okay. You’ve lost me. I thought you were talking about Dad.”
“We are. I honestly think he did it to spite me. I think it was personal because of my work for Fingerhut.”
“Mom, what are you saying? Dad’s always voted Republican. And so have you. Except this last time.”
“It’s not how he voted, David. It’s how he talks to me. He said he was sick of me pretending that I knew something about politics. I’m not an idiot, David.”
“I know you’re not an idiot.”
“He’s smart. Sure, he’s smart. I’ve never denied th
at. Your father is a very intelligent man and he has done wonders for that bank. He deserves credit for that. Fine. Good. But I am not an idiot. I believe I knew a lot more about that Senate race than he did. Lots more. He knew what he read in the paper and what his friends on the board tell him, but I knew a lot more of what goes on behind the scenes in that election.”
“I’m sure you did, Mom.”
“Fingerhut himself took me to lunch and told me how impressed he was with my work on the campaign and told me that he had made good use of my insights.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you told me all about that.”
“He said he read my position paper on gay marriage three times and used some of my phrasing in the last Cleveland rally for Kerry and even in the Cincinnati debate. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I worked really hard on that paper and it paid off. It made a difference. He made some edits and then mailed it right off to the GLBTA. I made a real difference.”
“Well, it made a difference in the sense that...”
“No, it obviously didn’t win the election, but it made a difference to the GLBTA. And at least I was right! Wasn’t I?”
“You were right. The politics of fear.”
“Right. The politics of fear. Voinovich is a bastard but he knew what he was doing. Lie, distort and scare people to death and then rake in the votes. And now we’re all the big losers. But Fingerhut liked the analysis. He loved it. His campaign used it in the rallies. But your father thinks I’m just pretending to know something about politics. How much does he know about politics? He voted for Voinovich! For Bush!”
“And he won, so...”
“So now our house is half red and half blue. Just like the state.”
“What, so you’re a Democrat now?”
“I didn’t say that, David. I’m not a Democrat.”
“Well when you say things like red and blue…”
“I voted that way this time, but your father and I usually vote Republican. Who knows what the future will bring. I like to think of myself as an Independent. You want my vote, make your case.”
“Whatever.”
“All I’m saying is that your father makes it difficult for me to be anything. It’s very hard around here, David. Yesterday he came into the kitchen, picked up his dinner and took it down to his office.”
