Alex

by Adam J Nicolai

Sunday he went to Cub to pick up a few basics for the house. When he left the house, he found the air giddy with snow. The radio said it would continue through the night, and into the coming week.

  Alex again asked him to stop wearing his black hat. He asked what would happen if he didn't. Alex said, "The eyes are scary on that black hat." Ian chewed this over as if just hearing it for the first time, but couldn't make any more sense of it than he had before.

  Cub took about twenty minutes. It was good to be around people, even strangers; the respite from his constant sightings gave him room to breathe. As he walked across the parking lot back to the car, he realized he was in no hurry to get home. He wished, not for the first time, that he knew somewhere trendy to go.

  A coffee shop, he mused. Or a... I don't know, some place downtown. I have no idea.

  He frowned. That was the whole problem.

  Even when he was at the U he'd never really been cool, though he'd had plenty of friends who were. He'd gone with them a couple times, to First Ave or the Lagoon, but a lot of the places they'd visited were closed now. The ones that were still open he couldn't even picture himself in anymore. He'd just look like a buffoon.

  He and Alina used to commiserate about how uncool they both were. But they'd done it cuddled together on the couch, under a blanket, watching TV and secretly feeling like they were the lucky ones.

  "Screw it," he muttered. He went to the library.

  The woman behind the counter gave him a little smile as he came in. They knew him here, mainly from when Alex was still alive. Ian used to bring him in on Saturday mornings, to give Alina a little extra time to sleep in. Once, when he was almost three, Alex had somehow located a copy of The Pimp's Bible and run wild through the place, brandishing it like a prophet with a sacred text. Ian had been mortified and apologized profusely, but remembering it still made him smile, and the staff here still talked about it.

  He wandered over to the little Fantasy/Sci-Fi section, relishing the ambience: hushed footfalls, murmured conversations, muted taps on a keyboard. It matched his mood. All the people he required, none of the noise.

  "Daddy! Can I get this one?"

  Ian jerked his head toward the voice, his heart hammering, and saw a little girl in a pink jumpsuit and pigtails. She had a SpongeBob picture book clutched in one hand. She wasn't talking to him.

  When the library closed at five, the sky was already growing dim. The clock in his car read 6:04 PM. He realized grimly that Daylight Savings Time had ended yesterday, and he hadn't set his clocks back. It was the first time in years he had missed that.

  Fuck.

  It was another one of those little signs, like staring into the sink for ten minutes, like the dirty pizza cutter. Signs that he couldn't hold it together.

  I'll talk to Shauna on Wednesday, he told himself. I'm gonna get help. I already decided. Let it go.

  But he couldn't.

  94

  He started toward home, but a heavy knot of dread settled into his gut at the thought of walking into his living room. He didn't want to see Eston there again, not after the way the man had grinned last night. "Well, well." Those two simple words had bled Ian's courage dry.

  So he flicked on the signal, not sure where he was going but sure he didn't want to go home. As he eased into the turn lane he imagined Eston at home, raping Alex while his father was away.

  He jerked back out of the turn lane. The car that had started rolling forward to take his spot slammed on its horn, and Ian tossed it the bird.

  What the hell had he been thinking, not going home? Alex was in the car earlier, but what if he was there now, back in the cellar pantry, while Eston molested him unchecked? What if Alex was calling for his dad again, right now, while Ian was busy dicking around having a pathetic day on the town?

  He eased into the gas, pushing it up to 65 even though the last sign had said 40.

  God damn it.

  The light ahead was red, but Ian kept his foot on the gas, watching the cross traffic blink past. There were no cars ahead of him, and the cross light was already yellow. His anger at himself wouldn't let him ease up.

  His light turned green, like he knew it would, but that didn't stop the giant Suburban hurtling into the intersection from the left.

  Ian tore his foot from the gas and onto the brake, but his shoe, slick with slush, slipped off the pedal and slammed back into the gas. It was only for a split second. But it was enough.

  The Suburban's horn shrieked. Ian jerked the wheel to the right, aiming for the curb, but the street spun too fast. A building flew by his vision, then the cross street, then the road he'd just come down. He jammed his foot onto the brake as everything went past.

  Thud. The world tilted, then tilted back.

  He didn't realize he was screaming until he stopped.

  95

  The Suburban rocketed out of sight to the left, still on the street, unfazed and untouched.

  Ian's car was straddling the curb. It was still running. He hadn't hit anything. These insights dripped into his brain slowly, like percolating coffee.

  I'm alive. I'm okay.

  He peeled his trembling fingers off the steering wheel as his heart galloped up and down his throat.

  The airbag didn't deploy, he realized. It couldn't have been that bad, if the airbag didn't deploy.

  "J-Jesus," he muttered. He was shocked to hear himself stammer.

  The door opened easily, and he took a walk around the car, as much to calm himself down as to look for damage.

  "Hey!" a man called, climbing out of a blue Prius. He was parked about twenty feet back, just this side of the intersection. Next to him, traffic crawled and gawked. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," Ian called back. His voice was steady this time. "Yeah, just - you know, just shaken up."

  Prius Guy slammed his door and walked up. He was short and heavy, white, wearing a pair of geeky glasses. "That was crazy! What a maniac! If you need a witness, I saw it. Freaking crazy!"

  "Yeah," Ian answered. One of his tires looked sort of scuffed to him. Had it been like that before? Everything else looked all right.

  Prius Guy caught him eying his car. "The car okay? God, I thought you were gonna flip for a second when you hit that curb. Isn't it nuts? It's barely even snowing!"

  "Yeah," Ian said again. His whole brain was ready to beat the tar out of something, or run screaming. It had no capacity for any language more elegant than he'd managed thus far.

  The other man approached the car, staying opposite Ian, and appraised it. "Doesn't look too bad." He sounded disappointed. "You got off lucky." As if it had only just occurred to him, he said, "Should I call the cops?"

  Ian shook his head, still inspecting his tire. "I didn't get the plate." He looked up. "Did you?"

  "Nah, I saw the driver though. She was texting, I'm pretty sure. Can you believe that shit? What the hell is wrong with people?"

  Ian waved this off. "It's all right. At least I'm alive." His hands were still shaking. He couldn't calm down. Why couldn't he calm down?

  "You okay to drive?" Prius Guy asked.

  "Yeah," Ian said, though he wasn't honestly sure. His legs felt like water.

  He remembered Eston kicking his son.

  "Yeah," he repeated, with more conviction.

  "You sure? You want me to follow you home or anything, just in case?"

  Ian looked at the guy like he was losing his mind. "No. Thanks. I'll be fine."

  "All right. You just look pretty shook up."

  No shit, he wanted to say. He'd only been in a handful of accidents in his life, and none of them had even involved another driver. He felt like he should be angry - Texting? Seriously? - but he just couldn't muster the energy.

  "I'm fine," he said, and got in the car.

  He was facing oncoming traffic, so he had to wait for the light to change before he could pull out. When the chance came, Prius Guy pulled into the street, blocking traffic for him. Ian saw him beckon self-importantly from
inside the cabin.

  Ignoring Ian's earlier claim that he'd be fine, Prius Guy followed him for maybe half a mile. Then he waved again and turned off.

  Ian's hands were still quivering when he got home ten minutes later. It was almost dark already. The wind chimes danced on the front porch, jangling madly.

  The living room was empty when he came in.

  He held his breath, listening. His own heart hammered in his ears. He didn't hear anything else.

  96

  That night he dreamed he was spinning. Spinning and screaming.

  Getting out of bed was a relief, even if he was still exhausted. The clock said 6:17 AM when he flipped off his alarm. It hadn't had a chance to ring.

  In the shower he closed his eyes and pulled in the heat: faced it so it would lash him directly, bowed to it so it would trickle over his lips and down his limp arms, breathed it in and out like a monk seeking om. It helped, for a time. Then, he started feeling that spin when he closed his eyes, and he got out.

  Long, quiet mornings to get ready had been the norm for him once, before Alex was born, but he rarely got them now. He could appreciate them, normally, but as he prepared his coffee and flipped on the TV to check the weather he was constantly listening for Eston, or Alex. There was no peace; only anticipation or dread.

  Yesterday's delirious swirl of snow had matured into a steady, ponderous blanketing. The front walk was doused in it, the yard transformed to infinite white. The street had been plowed, thank god, but beyond that lay pure, deep winter, come like a thief in the night.

  The heavy flakes drifted around him as he scraped off his car. The air was still. It was cold, but not yet bitter; the kind of whispering snowfall whose perfect, fragile beauty called like a siren.

  Most Minnesotan kids loved snow, and Ian had been no exception. Then he'd grown up, and started driving, and winter's mystery and grandeur had sloughed slowly away - replaced with despite for the long commutes it brought and annoyance at having to clear off the car in the mornings. That old sense of wonder had crusted over a little more with every year, starved out by the practicalities of his adult life.

  Then Alex was born, and winter had become beautiful again.

  He stopped in mid-scrape, his eyes stinging. He could've looked down, to try and get himself together, but instead he looked up: into the broad, grey-and-white expanse of falling snow. Nothing else existed when you looked into a snowfall like that. It eclipsed the sky.

  He remembered sitting in the front seat as a little boy and looking out the car window at night. The snowflakes were like stars, hurtling past a starfighter as it blasted through space. Infinite and unknowable. Sometimes, when Alex had been in the backseat staring out the window, Ian had wondered if he'd thought the same thing. A couple times, he had almost asked. But it was too private. He had contented himself knowing that his son was free to look, and wonder, because Dad was taking care of the driving.

  The snow caressed him, and he closed his eyes. Drew in a deep breath. When he'd gotten control of himself, he finished his scraping and climbed into the car.

  Alex was in the backseat, dressed in black slacks and a grey button-down shirt. He had Mr. Tuskers in his lap, and was staring quietly at the back of the driver seat.

  God, it was hard seeing him. Every time Ian had a moment like he just had in the snow, a moment when he said goodbye, the boy returned. Because I have no right to forget him. Because I have no right to move on.

  "Found him, huh?" Ian said, trying to ignore the guilt. Mr. Tuskers was too important to risk on casual car trips: he'd only been allowed in the car when Alex was staying at Grandma and Grandpa's for the night. And on the day of Alina's mom's funeral.

  Alex didn't answer; Ian didn't expect him to. That had been one of the few days when the boy had been quiet for an entire car trip: staring at the backs of the seats, trying to understand death.

  "Well, good," Ian said. He flipped the rearview mirror up so he wouldn't have to see his son, and pulled carefully into the street.

  97

  Sheila was with Justin in his cube when Ian got to work, huddled and whispering. She had some kind of tight purple leggings on - they weren't pants, exactly - with the word Princess scrawled across the ass in sequins, and a garish, tight-fitting yellow top. The two of them turned to glare at him as he stepped out of the elevator.

  If he didn't have both of them over a barrel, Ian would've been pissed. Livid, even. But he did, so instead he looked them in the eyes, waved, and smiled. "Morning!" he called.

  Jorge was reading a book at his desk as Ian walked by. Good. I could use a slow morning. He fired up his computer, got logged in, and checked his office email while he waited for a call. One message caught his eye at once.

  From: Kari Alefson

  Subject: Candidacy for Senior Pos.

  Mr. Colmes -

  Thank you for your interest in the Senior Technical Specialist position. Unfortunately, we have determined you are ineligible for this position due to your current corrective action.

  It went on to quote the relevant sections from the employee handbook, but Ian didn't read all of it. He knew what it boiled down to: Justin had written him up last week, so he couldn't post out of his position.

  Fuck. His left hand tightened into a fist. He was madder than he would've expected.

  I should go back to Justin. Tell him to get that write-up out of my file, or else. The temptation was powerful. It was intoxicating to feel like he had some power here, some recourse.

  But he didn't. Not really. He believed Justin when he said that Barb already knew. He'd only met the woman a handful of times, but her reputation preceded her: she was a nosy, micro-managing bitch. Since she'd taken over the call center, he'd lost one of his breaks and become accountable for every second of his workday. He couldn't take a piss that lasted longer than three minutes now without having someone come track him down.

  Even if Justin did as he asked and removed the write-up, Barb would ask questions. That was a great way for Ian to lose his job.

  Besides, when push came to shove, Ian wouldn't have the heart to deliver on his threats, and he knew it.

  He growled a sigh and leaned back. God dammit. He'd been looking forward to the new job. Some part of him had already decided it was a done deal.

  Stupid.

  98

  At lunch he grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria and took it down to his car to eat. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.

  The snow was still coming, and the cold had a definite bite to it now. He turned the engine and cranked up the heat. As he did this, he gave a jaw-crunching yawn. Maybe a nap wouldn't be bad, either.

  He drove to the far end of the parking lot - he hated napping in the car where people would see him - and nestled into his favorite corner, back against a growing pile of plowed snow. On public radio, some Republican was ranting about people being able to get health care. He would've preferred music, but it seemed like every other station just had commercials.

  The sandwich was one of those pre-made things, probably a relic from yesterday's batch, but it wasn't too bad. He finished it off, set his cell phone alarm for 30 minutes, and leaned the seat back. The gentle rumble of the engine, the roar of the vents, and the drone of the day's news soothed him, and he let himself drift.

  Untethered, his mind wandered to the job he'd been kicked out of the running for. Should he tell Alina? He'd told her he applied, so it seemed like he should. But if they were really over, why would he tell her anything? The job wasn't going to make a difference to her coming back one way or another.

  He wondered if she'd heard his message now, or if she'd just deleted it. If she had heard it, had she believed him? He wasn't sure she would. And really, did it even matter? He had to go ahead with what he'd said he'd do, whether she believed him or not, because he didn't want to go through the rest of his life treating her this way, thinking of her this way. His betrayal of her in the aftermath of their son's death was staggering.
He wanted to remedy it, as best he could, and that was all.

  His thoughts blurred as he plunged deeper toward unconsciousness. He'd known he was tired, but some part of him marveled at how quickly sleep was taking him. A respite from his headache would be wonderful. Sometimes these little naps really helped with things like that. Alina couldn't take them. She always said they left her more groggy than she'd started. If she had a headache, it invariably got worse; if she didn't, she got one. His head was hurting worse too, he realized. His naps could misfire too, sometimes. He hoped that didn't happen today.

  Unbidden and without transition, an image of Eston leapt to his sleeping mind: sitting on the couch in the basement, staring at him. Well, well. Eyes keen and hard.

  Ian wanted his bravado, he wanted his hate, but all he felt was a mewling, miserable terror. He pounded up the stairs, threw the door open, and was back in the basement. Eston was raping Alex on the couch.

  Stay down here, Eston grunted to Ian over his shoulder. Stay.

  Ian's guts twisted with nausea. Get off him, he tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. He didn't have enough breath to form them. His head was pounding.

  He took a step toward the kidnapper and staggered to his knees.

  Eston chuckled.

  From upstairs, Alex called. His voice was a ray of sunlight trying to penetrate the ocean, muted by the water, quivering and broken.

  Eston was sitting on the couch now, just looking at Ian and waiting. Ian wanted to challenge him, but he'd gotten too tired.

  In the dream, he closed his eyes. It was black, still, and silent. He wasn't falling. He was nowhere. He tried to wonder what was happening, but was too tired.

  Alex shrieked at him and the sound was barely audible, like it was echoing on the other side of several steel walls. It was a bare whisper, accompanied by the acrid tang of exhaust.

  Ian ignored it, and it went away. He was growing cold. He was lonely. No one would miss him.

  Then he heard Alex crying. It was the pure, simple wail of a child who needs help, and he responded to it without thought.