was about to pick up the phone and dial her number she'd scribbled on a Marriott cocktail napkin when the phone rang and he answered it, instead.
seemed to know it would be her--Evangeline Fesnacht. The last he'd heard the previous night. A woman's husky voice, that air of urgency. When they'd been together, those intense hours, he'd felt himself drifting into love as a small tethered boat drifts with the current to the end of its capacity for drift and then is brought up rudely short. No. Too late. I'm a married man and a futher. A once-promising poet who has lost his youth, and ambition.
Too late.
He was thirty-seven years old. His father had died at the age of fortyseven That was considered young. Set beside eternity, forty-seven is young.
You could argue, Ritchie had ten years remaining.
He held the receiver to his ear. He heard the voice, wonderfully nasal, intimate, the unmistakable accent of his upstate New York boyhood, in girlish contentiousness as if they'd been arguing only a few minutes ago- "I have a question for you, Ritchie, Why weren't there fingerprints on that gun except tohn Reddy's?"
11. Mr.. Fix-it What I believed to be broken things of no more connection with one another than mounds of trash were pieces like those of a shattered mirror I could ft together again. Because God created the wholeness and mankind has shattered it and we are given the power to piece it back together again. On Mount Nazarene in the blinding ice slope this vision came to him would be completed twenty-two years later beside the Glass Lake.
Johmr. FIX-IT Says so in white balloon letters on both doors of sky-blue Ford pickup.
MR FIX-IT. HAVE TOOLS--WILL TRAVEL! In the yellow pages of the Oswego County telephone book, where he'd placed a small cheery ad both Carpentry and Handyman.
MR. FIX-IT was of an age difficult to guess. In his late thirties--but he seemed younger. Lean, dark, hungry-looking--women loved to feed meals, or to try. Men liked drinking with him because he was a listener, or gave that impression. A man of few words, himself. As if distrustful of speech. Though not shy. Much of the time he wore work clothes, jeans, T-shirts, old battered paint-splotched boots, but he'd show up at a customer's house in a white shirt and necktie beneath his jacket. Or a good-looking fedora instead of his usual grimy baseball cap. He was frequently unshaven but never cultivated a mustache or a beard.
black hair, threaded with silver like mica, was long enough to be tied back in a ponytail sometimes, and in warm weather held in place by a red stained with old sweat. There was an air of unconscious swagger about him, a just-perceptible favoring of his left leg. In addition to the pickup he rode a Honda motorcycle. He tinkered with both vehicles himself. He in a seconthand trailer set in a lush ruin of an apple orchard on what of a fruit farm on Barndollar Road, Route 37, a mile east of the country town of Iroquois Point, New York. Within the memory of most neighbors the fruit farm had been a working though not thriving farm, but it had been to sink into dereliction for the past twenty years, like many farms in the countryside south of the eastern shore of Lake Ontario. Of the outbuildings, MR. FIX-IT retained, and energetically repaired, only a small for professional use.
MR. FIX-IT HAVE TOOLS--WILL TRAVEL!
Carpentry Painting Odd Jobs My Specialty was prominently advertised on the front of the barn, two-foot-high balloon letters on a sky-blue background. There was a cartoon optimism to the sign. Customers asked, "Did you paint that sign yourself?"
MR. FIX-IT shrugged affably and said, "Ever need any signs painted, or small, I'm your man." There was a boyish-anxious defensiveness to this response.
As if MR. FIX-IT believed he might be challenged in his authority, and you hadn't better challenge him. He had a carpenter's look of being carved from wood, a darkish stained and carved wood, gnarly muscled forearms, hard-looking muscles in his shoulders and chest. He was restless still, shifting his shoulders, flexing his fingers. Though he'd smiling, too.
As if reminding himself every few minutes Smile! It was quite a smile. Women melted at that smile. Men found themselves smiling back.
MR. Flx-IT's voice was deep, throaty, hoarse and slightly as if, maybe, his windpipe or larynx had been injured. The impulse was Have you been hurt, MR. FIX-IT?
But no one ever did. For there was something edgy about MR. FIX-IT, too. Your heart might begin to beat more quickly in his presence if, who knows why, for what unfounded reason, you felt unease, even danger.
there was the man's smile, quick and boyish. And, for sure, you'd find yourself smiling back.
When John Heart, who was MR. FIX-IT, purchased what remained of the fruit farm, five acres of wild-growing apple trees, falling-down buildings and overgrown meadows, it was said he'd paid with a single check, not requiring a bank loan or a mortgage. The check was from an bank but where the man had come from most recently wasn't clear--"Up farther north. Different places." Meaning north in New York State, or elsewhere? There was a drawl to his accent that suggested not north but and west. The real estate woman, from Oswego, who sold John property liked to say he reminded her of Montgomery Clift as a sexy in Red River which played sometimes on late-night TV. It was late May when John Heart took possession of the farm and by time wild lilac, pale purple, dark purple and vivid white, had grown to a height of eight feet or more hiding most of the rotted old farmhouse from the highway. A rich, sweet, intoxicating lilac smell pervaded air. John Heart, the new owner, blinked like a man waking in a dream. Or a man waking from a dream. He sniffed deeply, half-shut his eyes, said, "Smells like heaven would be." In the years he'd live on the property, in a nickel-colored Cruisercraft trailer on cinderblocks amid the orchard, he was never to trim back the wild lilac trees or haul the debris of the house. He was never to do anything serious about the apple orchard, just let the trees grow more and more wild. He was a good-looking but elusive and mysterious man, apparently a bachelor, with no family. Or none mentioned. (People sometimes asked if he was related to "that old Heart, that artist or whatever you'd call him--the one who collected all the glass bottles? The Glass Ark' up in Shawmouth?" John Heart would his head curtly, no. ) If you stood close to John Heart you could see a small hook of a scar in his left eyebrow and a droop to the eyelid if he was tired and, attached to the dark liquidy iris of that eye, a tiny, invisible drop of blood. You might be distracted by this drop of blood, talking him. Until finally you might ask, "What happened to your eye, John?" And the man who frequently introduced himself to strangers as MR. FIX-IT, as might be his actual name, or as much of a name as you'd require from him, or he'd merit, touched the eye with his fingertips, annoyed or as if he'd never been asked about it before, and said, with his affable shrug, "Just lucky, I guess. It wasn't gouged out." In Iroquois Point where everyone knew everyone else, rumors circulated about MR. FIX-IT living out on Barndollar Road. He'd spent time in prison, it was believed. Auto theft? No doubt he'd been a kid the time.
His reputation through the county was for scrupulous honesty, first-rate and exacting work, never a complaint or surly remark. No one was close enough to John Heart to know the details of his background or to wish to ask. In any case, in Oswego County, it wasn't uncommon to men, many of them good family men, who'd "spent time," as kids, in or another prison facility.
Thirty-eight years old and not a day passed, not a night (unless drank, nights could be long), even an hour he didn't reflect on how he'd survived--so many years beyond the time, the hour, when he'd believed he would be killed, beaten and stomped to death by New York State who must've had good reason to hate him, or to fear him, as if seeing the very image of Satan in him, and he'd accepted this, his fate.
I didn't die.
Sometimes, though he loved his life, he felt regret. A good, death it would've been in that glittering ice field and his family would him kindly.
Since then he'd always been vigilant. Always prepared to defend himself.
He didn't want to hurt other people, other men, though he knew how.
was inconceivable to him he'd ever hurt a woman. ) Many
years ago the darktanned, squinting-smiling man who'd been Daddy had squatted before instructing him "don't punch--counterpunch"--"let the other guy first and get off balance then you step in, pow! "--and he believed his father had taught him, too, to avoid such confrontations when he could, where he could, so long as it was only pride and vanity, his pride and vanity, that might suffer, and no other person dependent on him. "You can always out of a fight, Johnny. Unless someone else, like a woman, will get hurt you do." It seemed clear to him as a child of scarcely six that Daddy must speaking of Mommy. Who else?
"Hey, Fix-It'--asshole!" This windy-bright March morning John Heart was walking quickly in corridor outside family court, at the first-floor rear of the Oswego County Courthouse. It was 10,20 A. M. The custody hearing, Leavey v.
Leavey, was still in session and would continue through the morning. And then it would be adjourned and rescheduled for another morning, probably. A from the judge was expected next week. John heard footsteps close him and saw in the corner of his eye the hulking figure of Leavey, his pursuer, who'd left the courtroom just after him. Leavey repeated, in a low, jeering voice, "'Fix-It'--asshole!" John Heart gave no sign of hearing.
continued walking, headed for the exit. He didn't want a confrontation with the former husband of the woman with whom he was in love, and with whom, in a manner of speaking, he lived. Not anywhere, not at stage in his life, and especially not here in the county courthouse with sheriff's deputies posted in the halls alert for sudden eruptions of violence--"domestic case violence" it was called. Nola Leavey had told him it was about the only kind of violence that occurred in the courthouse and that it centered around family court--divorce and child custody cases.
killed, and were killed. Men were the killers, women the victims.
Usually.
"I'm talking to you, asshole. Just a minute--" Leavey's voice was loud and aggrieved. People glanced at him warily. He sounded and looked as if he'd been drinking. John Heart was nearly at the exit, calculating how he'd make a run for the pickup as soon as he got outside, when Leavey grabbed at his jacket sleeve, then at his arm.
Strong, angry fingers. They scuffled together, panting, Leavey cursed him as managed to wrench his arm free, biting his lower lip, damned if he'd get into a shouting match with this guy another time. Though wanting to Leavey around the neck and shoulders to quiet him, comfort him--"You don't want to do this, brother. Let the judge decide, don't us all up." One of the guards was approaching them, right hand casually touching the butt of his holstered pistol. "Hey? You two? What's the problem?
guard was someone John knew, a name and a face he knew, though well, not well enough to save himself from getting pushed around if it came to that, possibly he'd done some work for the man's wife, or his parents, they'd seen each other around at the Lakeside Inn maybe, at the County Line, at Capuano's, weekends. John said, "No problem, Officer." Jordan Leavey said loudly, laughter in his voice, "Noooo problem, Officer." He have been mimicking the buffoonish speech of a TV personality, or he might have been mimicking John Heart.
John pushed through the exit door, and Leavey followed close behind.
Bright, gusty, cold air. Swaths of sky vivid as the sky blue of MR. Flx-IT's pickup parked on the far side of the lot where, God damn, he'd never get to it in time. Leavey kept pace with him, laughing, cursing, at him with the flat of his hand, pushing him off course. They were stumbling together, swaying like drunks. John ducked, swung around in a quick movement as if, on the basketball court, slipping a big, guard, but Leavey followed, a man about to lose control. John thought Don't fight him, don't make that mistake. He hadn't realized his face was burning until the cold air struck. His face had begun to burn in the courtroom, he'd had to get out, had to get to where he could breathe, knowing he was innocent, he'd done nothing to incur punishment yet knowing too that he would be punished and would bring punishment, and grief, upon others close him.
Nola had turned anxiously toward him as he'd suddenly stood, muttered, "Excuse me!" and left the room. He was an involved third party in this suit, as Nola's lawyer described him, but not a principal. Leavey v.
Leavey. Child custody, dangerous emotions. Loving another man's wife even if, fact, she wasn't the other man's wife any longer, hadn't been his wife for several years.
Yet John could understand why Leavey was risking so much, him. Demanding to know what John Heart was doing with his wife, kids, his. Nola had said, I hope to God he hasn't been drinking this morning, it will be terrible for us all if he's been drinking, and in fact Leavey smelled of alcohol, unmistakably. John tried to calm the man down though he was excited, too. "Jordan, come on. You're only making things worse." Leavey said, "Fuck you! Who the hell are you telling me what to do?" John heard his father's voice of thirty years before. Don't punch--counterpunch. He was broken out in sweat, trembling with the adrenaline rush.
But he didn't want to fight Jordan Leavey, he was finished with fighting, even to protect himself. Jordan's face was blotched with emotion, rage. He was younger than John Heart by a year or two but looked older, bloodshot slate-gray eyes, eyes of hurt, bafflement, indignation speech. A stocky man, formerly an athlete--college football. Now thickset a steer, with sloping shoulders, tall as John Heart at six-two, heavier by at least thirty pounds. There were vertical creases like knife marks in his cheeks.
His graying red-brown hair was thick at the sides, thinning at the crown. He wore a suit, a white shirt and tie, cuff links. As a younger man he'd been vain of his looks, Nola had said, but as an ex-husband who was restricted by a court order to visiting only on alternate weekends, for a number of hours, he'd lost his vanity, his masculine pride. Nola had spoken of her husband's hands, his strong hands that could be so gentle but sometimes "struck out" as if of their own volition. A vortex of heat, quick pummeling blows. We'd be left stunned. Both of us, and the kids, crying.
But I was the one on the floor with the bloody mouth. Leavey currently had a managerial position with a GM auto parts manufacturer in Lockport, New York, a well-paid job as he described it. But since the divorce it wasn't clear what the man's life was.
Sometimes, John Heart lost the logic of his own life. The life he'd scraped together out of the trash heap of his boyhood. He wanted miserate with Jordan Leavey, who stared at him with such hatred.
Not fight him. I know what it is. Once your family breaks up, you're fucked.
What's lost won't return, brother.
"No! Stop! Please!" A woman's voice--Nola's. From the rear entrance of the courthouse emerged, coatless. Her voice was shrill, frightened and angry, voice, triggering Leavey's fury. Now it begins John thought now can't be stopped. Leavey swung at John, grunting, a clumsy roundhouse would have sunk John to the ground like a dead weight except somehow he managed to avoid the force of the blow, crouching, but losing his balance, slipping on a patch of ice. Leavey charged after him, cursing.
was confused, chaotic. As if the parking lot was tilting. Earth and sky tilting. Long ago Dahlia Heart had thrilled and frightened her children by excitedly describing an earthquake, "a madness of God," in Guadalajara, Mexico, beautiful eyes widened, hands flurried, unnerving the younger children for what reason no one could know, even the eldest, John Reddy, who'd himself on not being susceptible to his mother's exaggerated, tales, he would recall this sorry episode in the parking lot of the County Courthouse, being harassed, mocked, struck by the enraged Leavey, not wanting to hit back, as a kind of earthquake. Picking you up, you down. Blows raining on all sides. The strength had rapidly faded from John's legs. He was thirty-eight, the legs are the first to go in an aging boxer, blood pulsed in his eyes, darkening his vision, a roaring in his ears, Nola screamed, trying to pull Leavey away, "No! Stop! God damn you, Jordan, you promised! You--" A knuckled fist struck John's cheekbone beneath the right eye, so hard the bone must've cracked. Another blow to the side of the head, Leavey was grunting, "Fuck! Fucker! Get out of my life!
wife's life!
My kids'! Ex
-con!" At Tomahawk Island you couldn't back up in a fight, if you backed up you were finished, but John staggered backward, ear ringing, the eardrum maybe broken, oh Christ. He'd never recovered from the beating the state troopers had given him on Mount Nazarene, fists, feet, billy clubs, resisting arrest was the charge, the provocation, he'd tasted his own death, black bile at the back of his mouth.
Leavey was shouting at him. Nola was pleading. The woman's deathlywhite face, not an attractive face now, her damp frightened eyes.
Do you love me enough to risk getting hurt by that madman Nola had inquired of Heart frankly, flirtation and dread in her voice, and John Heart had laughed carelessly. Sure. And so it was true. All of it.
"All right. Break it up." The scuffle, one-sided, hadn't lasted more than two or three minutes.
Two sheriff's deputies pulled Leavey off John Heart and Nola and man, a stranger, helped him to his feet. Nola was crying, not sorrow but in anger, frustration. She wasn't a woman who cried readily, and in public, strangers watching at the courthouse entrance, whispering to one another. Leavey shook off the deputies, cursing them. They quietly with him, repeating a few simple words. It seemed clear he'd been drinking, he was desperate, a hunted man. A man who only to see his two children more, to have more hours with them, more days with them, more custody, he'd filed for full custody, a measure his desperation but also his love, a father's love, that might be argued.
Joyce Carol Oates - Broke Heart Blues Page 31
