by Owen Thomas
“Okay Susan,” she booms, “I’m here to help. Put me to work. What can I do?”
“Oh, bless you Gayle. Hollis is gone, now David and Mae are leaving. I was counting on at least Mae here to help with all of this. Here are the hot mats.”
“Mom… how can you even… she’s been sick.”
“Take the chicken out of the oven and put it over there. Yes. She’s always sick isn’t she. Now she injured.”
“She is.”
“She’ll be fine, David. Thank you; and these go with the beans, over there.”
“Have you seen her head, Mom? Have you even seen it?”
“David, we’re busy in here. If you’re going to go, then just go. I’m sure she’ll be just fine but if you’re really concerned then you should take her on home. Thanks for coming. The dressing is in the refrigerator… Gayle? The dressing is in the refrigerator, but it will need to be mixed a little.”
I leave them because there is no way my departure will be accepted with good feelings. There is no injury that would have provided a sufficient excuse. Mae could have accidentally dislodged an eyeball and the result would have been the same. Oh, really? Are you sure? An eyeball? Has she tried popping it back in? If you say so, David, but I was counting on at least Mae here to help with all of this food.
I find Mae outside on the driveway, arms crossed, looking up at the sky. It’s dark and the moon is big and bloated and yellow and trying to heave itself up over the overbuilt, endlessly remodeled, split-level homes of my old neighborhood. All the same houses, just bigger with freakish structural growths like tumors of glass and wood ballooning obscenely out of their backsides, and all of them a little defensive about still sitting on the same street after all of these years. We are all, it seems, trying to work with the illusion that things have changed.
The street is mostly empty save for the cluster of cars parked outside my parents’ home. The only other car actually on the street is near the corner, parked in front of the Van Susteren’s home. Well, the home the Van Susteren’s used to inhabit. To me it will always be their home – because I teach history and dwell in the past where nothing ever changes except the distance to the present and the distance to that place beyond the present that never ever comes.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say. “Ready to go?”
“Look, Dave. I’m feeling much better. The fresh air is really helping. I have a headache, but I’ll be okay.”
“You want to go back inside? You want some food?”
“No. I’m going home. This was a mistake.”
“Let me drive you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“All kinds of reasons. Starting with that.”
She is pointing to the humiliated Civic.
“Oh. Right. Well no one will think it refers to you. They’ll think…”
“Dave. No.”
“At worst they’ll think you’re a victim.”
I give her the, joking around, don’t be so serious about everything, look. Very close to the, relax, a little pot won’t hurt you, look that was never especially productive.
“People will be sympathetic. And they should be. You’ve been injured. You deserve sympathy.”
“Great. People will think I’ve been beaten and raped. No, Dave.”
“I’ll follow you to my place.”
“I’m going home.”
“I’ll follow you to your place.”
“Nice try. I don’t think so.”
“Well then call me when you get home so I know you didn’t pass out and end up on the grill of a semi.”
“That I can do,” she says and heads down the driveway.
I walk her to her gleaming Saab. Saab: When you want to make purplish hematoma look sexy. She slips off her heels and tosses them in the front seat.
“Thanks for a lovely time. It was dreamy.” She kisses me on the nose.
“Call me,” I say weakly. Like a pussy. Like my mother’s son.
The door closes and the Saab comes to life and she is suddenly a pair of tail lights; coals of a dying fire smothering in darkness.
She passes the car on the corner, which is still idling in front of the old Van Susteren place, and I get the same feeling in my chest that I get when I pull a VISA bill out of my mailbox. The feeling of reckoning. Of history calling. Of the past finding me hiding out in the present, in borrowed comfort, like a stowaway drinking bubbly in First Class.
The taillights belong to Detective North or at least someone who works with Detective North. I don’t really know this, but I know it anyway.
As I walk to my car and pat my pockets for my keys I fantasize about throwing a spotlight on the charade, like in Heat when Pacino pulls DeNiro over on the freeway, pausing the whole cops-n-robbers thing to invite him for a cup of coffee. I should just walk up and knock on his window. Let’s call it a night, detectives, shall we. I’m going home. I’ll see you boys tomorrow. Drive safely now.
Yeah, right.
I do not recognize the car. I pass it slowly, turning my head casually as I go, but I cannot tell anything about the occupants. I turn the corner and no one follows, but I cannot be sure because I have to make two additional immediate turns to get to the access road, each cutting off the view behind me. Suddenly there seems to be cars and headlights everywhere. I eventually abandon any hope of certainty and drive home simply assuming that he is back there somewhere.
Mae does not call as she promised. I am not especially worried, but I am a little worried and I am very perturbed that she seems not to care at all that I might be very worried. Worried sick, as my mother would say. I wait until it is two o’clock in the morning before I call her and when she answers I make a big deal about having been worried sick and I even mention the grill of the murderous semi again, but she is too groggy and half-asleep to be moved toward any sympathetic feelings. Anger and irritation, however, are far more accessible and she reaches those feelings just fine.
In the morning, I resist the urge to call her and apologize, knowing that I will only do more damage. Instead I call the offices of Chaney, Baker, Smith & Lyons to leave Glenda Laveau a message about my car. I am surprised when she picks up.
“Working on a weekend, eh?” I ask, like we are old friends.
“Fuckin’ work,” she says without even asking who is calling. “It never fuckin’ ends. Whatever you do, don’t get any ideas about becoming a lawyer. You understand what I’m tellin’ you here, Dave?”
She knows who is calling. I tell her I understand exactly what she is telling me. I agree to never become a lawyer.
“Good. You just keep bein’ a teacher. What can I do ya for?”
I explain that I simply cannot keep driving around in a car that announces my alleged proclivity for violent sex crimes. I want to get the thing painted.
“No shit. Tough to get laid drivin’ that thing around. So go get it painted.”
“I can’t. North told me I had to wait until the police came out and took pictures.”
“Fuckers. Is that what he told you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Dave, I gotta say it serves you right for hangin’ around and chatting with a policeman after I had left the room. What did I fuckin’ tell you about that?”
“I… I shouldn’t have.”
“Damn right. He’s just fucking with you. They’ve got the pictures, Dave. I’ve seen them. I’ve got copies.”
“You mean…”
“Yeah. You want copies for your scrapbook?”
“No. Why…”
“There’s a whole lot of silver Civics in the world, Dave, but I’ll bet there’s only one with the word rapist across the side.”
“Shit. I’m easier to follow.”
“A whole lot easier to follow. Go paint your car.”
“You sure?”
“Dave. What did I just fuckin’ say to you?”
I thank her and hang up, forgetting to time the call so that I can calculate just how
much money I spent in legal fees for advice and abuse.
Okay then. The car.
After much searching, I find the napkin. Somehow it had found its way into the trash, in amidst all of its brothers smelling of Chinese food from the Pink Pagoda, some of them smeared with Mae’s lipstick.
I smooth the napkin out on the counter so I can read the loopy blue letters: McMillan Autobody. I call the number for directions and explain to the man on the phone what I need. He says he is full up and can’t get to me for two weeks, which is just my luck. I am about to tell him that I will call around to see if I can get in someplace else sooner when I remember the woman in the non-ambulance handing me the napkin with a smile and telling me that it’s gotta get better sometime.
“Sissy told me to call you,” I say, having no idea what that is supposed to mean.
“Oh,” said the man. “Rapist?”
“What?”
“That what your car says? Rapist?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, she said you might be callin’. Well then bring ‘er on by, say, Monday afternoon. I’ll squeeze you in. I’m Eddy Mac. Ask for me.”
I want to ask about the magical powers of the woman named Sissy, but I resist and simply make the appointment and thank him profusely. He laughs under his breath as he types something into a computer one click at a time.
“Yeah, I reckon you’ll be glad to get a new coat of paint. See you then.”
I feed the fish and watch them eat and for the first time wonder what my sister thought about her party. I consider calling her to fill her in and to trade notes about our parents. But Tilly will inevitably want to give me shit about still being with Mae and that is not a subject I know enough about right now. So, I decide not to call Tilly and to call Mae, instead; apologize for waking her up in the middle of the night, apologize for the whole surprise mosh-pit party thing with Ben, thank her for coming anyway, see how she’s feeling, see if there is anything I can bring her, see if she wants to get together. She will certainly read it for what it is, which is weakness and desperation.
A better man would simply wait for her to call. But I am not a better man.
The phone rings and I am suddenly glad I waited. I am the better man I had doubted. She is reaching out to me. She is calling me.
But she is not calling me. Principal Robert B. Robertson III is calling me. On Sunday morning he is calling me.
“Mr. Johns?”
“Yes?”
“Bob Robertson.”
“Mr. Robertson?”
“Call me, Bob.”
“Bob?”
“Sorry to trouble you at home, Mr. Johns. I need to meet with you in my office, first thing Monday morning. Say 9:00? Can you be there?”
“Uh …let me think,” I say, as though higher math is somehow involved. “Yeah … I have an appointment in the afternoon, but… Why are we…”
“Please, Mr. Johns, no questions now. No pre-meeting meetings.”
“Has something happened?”
“Well, there has been a development …”
“Brittany?”
“Mr. Johns…”
“Am I coming back to work, or…”
“Mr. Johns…”
“Bob, please, call me Dave.”
“Mr. Johns, I’ll see you Monday.”
Bully the Bobblehead is in the background. I can’t hear him, but I can feel him.
CHAPTER 22 – Susan
“Oh, I can’t thank you enough for staying. I would have been up until three.”
“Hey, least I can do. It was nice of you to invite me. I’m not sure I really fit in.”
“What? Oh, nonsense, Gayle. You were a delight.”
“Really? A delight?”
“A delight. Trust me.”
“Where should I put this?”
“Here, I’ll take it.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been a delight before.”
“Well there’s a first time for everything. What time is it, anyway? God, it’s almost one. And still no Hollis. Some help he turned out to be.”
“Susan…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Where does this go?”
“Up there. On the left. What were you going to say?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“What.”
“I’m just not sure why you put up with him.”
“Oh, it’s complicated, I guess.”
“You’re right. I’m sure it’s complicated.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure he is. You have a nice family. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Here, let’s dry that first. Use this. No, I know what you’re saying, Gayle. Believe me. It’s not always easy. We sure have our share of communication troubles.”
“Have you thought of seeing a marriage counselor?”
“Me? No. Oh no. Nah. I’m not much for therapy. And Hollis certainly isn’t. We’re fine. Really. Oh, that goes over here and let’s just put those in the dishwasher.”
“You deserve to be happy, Susan.”
“I’m happy. I’m happy.”
“Are you? I mean really?”
“Yes. Yeah. I’m happy. That doesn’t mean everything is always wonderful. They aren’t always wonderful. But, I’m basically happy. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Other cupboard. Don’t apologize. It’s okay.”
“Are you worried about where Hollis is right now?”
“Nah. He’s having too much to drink with his old bank buddies. Retirement isn’t easy on him. He’s more social than he’ll ever admit. I think he misses having a place to go every day. He’ll come home drunk and feeling like he’s still part of the gang.”
“So you’re not concerned at all about Bethany?”
“Who? Oh, Bethany. Concerned how? You mean, oh, goodness no. She’s not even half his age. No. I’m not worried at all about that. Hollis is many things, but an adulterer is not one of them.”
“Hmm.”
“No. In Hollis’ view of the world, he’s way up here and philanderers are way down here. He sees that kind of thing as a complete moral failing.”
“Do you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose so. Do you?”
“I think it depends on the circumstances, doesn’t it. I’m not a religious person.”
“Well, neither are we really. Used to be. Not so much any more. Anyway, he’d see that kind of thing as you know, like a huge character flaw. Worse, a very common character flaw. Hollis will die before he will be seen as common, or as being flawed in a common way. He gets a lot of satisfaction in being better, you know, more enlightened than that. So, no, I think Bethany is just one of his little pet projects and she thinks he walks on water and that makes him feel good. But that’s all it is. That towel has had it. Grab another one out of the bottom drawer.”
“Well, you’re awfully wise and philosophical about all of this, Susan.”
“Oh, you spend enough time with one person and you get to know him, I guess. Yeah, he’s sitting in some hotel ballroom at a table full of bankers…”
“And Bethany.”
“And Bethany, telling lies and drinking and laughing. He’s fine. Should we save this, you think? I’m not going to eat it. Do you want it?”
“Wrap it up. I’ll take it. You know, a bunch of us are getting together for the week of the 14th for a planning retreat out in the country.”
“Oh? What kind of retreat are you planning?”
“A retreat to map out an activist agenda against the war.”
“Terrorism?”
“Iraq.”
“Same thing.”
“Susan? No. Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all. They’ve gotten to you. You’ve been brainwashed by the lemming media.”
“Nobody’s …”
“The terrorists love that we are in Iraq. We’re giving them a foot
hold they would not otherwise have. We took away Afghanistan and then we handed them Iraq.”
“Nobody’s gotten to me. I just think it can be more complicated than what you hear on the campaign trail. I think the Iraqis want democracy, and I think there are terrorists there that want to stop democracy. Al-Qaeda is there, Gayle, so…”
“Are you telling me you support this war?”
“I think the troops are already there, so…”
“I’m not talking about the troops. They do what they are told.”
“So?”
“So let’s tell them to come home.”
“I don’t know, Gayle. I think the world is more complicated.”
“That’s Hollis talking.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Maybe it isn’t. Sure sounds like him. Come with me on the fourteenth.”
“To do what, exactly.”
“You know Rae Donner?”
“No.”
“Yes you do. She was an organizer in Cleveland. Red hair, kind of a heavy-set gal? Brow ring?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, Rae’s got some connections with MoveOn.ORG. So she’s kind of organizing things. We’re all going up to this retreat place up in Peebles and we’re going to strategize about how to mobilize public opinion.”
“Against the war in Iraq.”
“Yes, Susan. Against the war in Iraq. I know you agree with this. I don’t know what has happened to your political sensibilities since the election, but I know you agree with this. Sorry, did I say election? I meant coups d'état.”
“So, what, everyone is just sitting around … strategizing?”
“Well, some of the time. But this place has beautiful grounds. Lots of great walking trails and outdoor hot tubs and quiet places to be alone. You’ll love it.”
“Well, it’s all sort of academic because I can’t leave Ben.”
“Hollis can take care of Ben.”
“Ben needs someone he can count on.”
“And you need to take better care of yourself, Susan. Don’t let life pass you by taking care of Ben and waiting on Hollis. It’s just for a week. Seven days.”
“I don’t know. Not in the dishwasher; they’ll ruin. Just put them in the sink.”
“I’d really love to have you come, Susan. All of these people have the passion, but most of them are just kids and very few of them have your kind of … of….”
