Oh, man.
“I kept looking up and down the street. I thought other people might be you. I wondered if you had gotten lost. Did you get lost?”
No, I didn’t even leave the house Sunday. I couldn’t get it together.
“Wow, I was really looking forward to it too. And you missed it. You missed an amazing day. You know what?”
What?
“It turns out my dad’s a really good painter.”
The show was good?
“Yeah! He even sold a bunch of things. People were impressed. I feel like I can finally relax. But I wish you had been there. You might have been impressed too, and your opinion would have meant the most to me.”
Oh, man.
“You’re really quiet tonight.”
I missed your dad’s show.
“But that’s not the most important thing. I have something really huge to tell you.”
What is it?
“I’m quitting Listeners.”
No! Don’t do that!
“Why not?”
Below the office, in Hawthorne Square, a Salvation Army volunteer rang a bell. I had a bottle of iced tea and some peanut clusters from the snack cabinet. I felt at home. When I worked alone in my overtime hours, I felt like this place was my living room.
Because you’re the best one.
“But I want to.”
You do?
“I’m leaving Listeners for you.”
Billy, don’t do it. Don’t leave Listeners.
“I’m glad to give it up. Do you know why?”
Why?
“Because I’m in love with you.”
Oh . . . I’m surprised. But not surprised.
“What do you mean, ‘not surprised’?”
I sort of thought so when you took the extra hours.
“I love you, Jenney. Do you love me?”
I can’t take this in right now.
“Then don’t. We’ll put this conversation on hold and we’ll talk when we see each other. It will be better then. So how was your weekend?”
It was bad. Really bad.
“Bad how? Is this why you didn’t get to the show?”
I remembered the thing I had been trying to forget.
“What was that?”
About my brother, Tobey.
“I thought you were an only child.”
I thought I was too.
“Who is Tobey?”
He’s the brother I forgot. Melinda must have helped me remember him.
“But where is he now?”
He’s gone. He was my little brother, and they killed him.
“Who did?”
My parents. My parents killed Tobey.
“When did this happen?”
Long ago, when I was five or six. This is the breakthrough. Melinda could tell I was breaking through. This is the thing I was supposed to remember.
The flashing of the lights on other lines was like a silent alarm. It seemed like all the fake-depressed people on the posters were listening. They were fake like Jenney’s parents, and they had known all along.
I struck Margaret’s doodle pad with my pen. Someone killed a child. Jenney had seen it. I had to protect Jenney.
“My God, Jenney, do the police know?”
They may or may not. They may have covered it up because of who my parents are.
“How did you figure this out?”
It was another sensory memory I kept having. Like the cold stone on my cheek and the cord around my neck. I remembered the name Tobey. And a baby’s T-shirt. Oh my God.
“What’s that noise? Are you laughing or crying?”
I’m not laughing.
“Oh, no. Jenney?”
What?
“You have to tell someone.”
I’m telling you.
I can’t be the only one who knows, I thought. A murder. This is too big for me. Without the college kids or Pep or Margaret or Richie, the room was too quiet. Where was everyone? I could use some advice right now. I felt like an astronaut tumbling in space with nothing to hold on to. Who could I call?
“You have to tell someone other than me. You have to tell Melinda. And you have to alert the authorities.”
I don’t know.
I wished I could reach into the phone and grab her. Grab her and put her in Margaret’s chair so I could see her and make sure she was okay.
“We can research it together. I can help you. I can find the right people to call.”
I doubt that that would work. You can’t fight those two. Maybe it’s time for me to stop fighting. Maybe now I have to admit that they won.
“How do you know they killed him?”
I kept hearing the name Tobey and seeing an infant-size St. Angus’s T-shirt stained with blood. I was working on the memories with Melinda. Melinda kept asking me, “Who is Tobey? Who is Tobey?” And she said, “You don’t have to protect them. You’re grown up, and you’re safe. You don’t have to protect them anymore.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible.”
They killed him in the basement. I was unconscious while it happened. Then, when I woke up he was dead. It proves something about my parents. About their values and what’s important to them.
“You have to tell the police about what you remember. Then it won’t haunt you anymore. Then you can be free. You can walk away and start over. You can be like the college kids and go to St. Angus’s. You can do anything you want.”
I waited for Jenney to agree, to even consider agreeing.
“I think you can start over now, Jenney. You can turn your life around, just like you wanted to.”
Nothing on the other end. I studied one of Margaret’s doodles, a vase of flowers with big, circular petals.
“Jenney? I don’t hear anything. Please say something to let me know you’re there.
“Jenney, take a deep breath.
“Jenney, I’m worried about you. I want you to call every day from now on so I know you’re all right. Call any time of day. Talk to whoever answers the phone. Margaret or Richie. Pep, especially Pep. Deke or Rosalys. Or the people on the other days. Okay?”
Okay.
“You’re not feeling suicidal, are you?”
I might be.
She might be?
“Oh my God. What do you mean?”
Calm down. It isn’t the end of the world.
“Yes, it is. You didn’t mean to say yes, did you?”
I’ve given it my best shot. I tried and I failed. Now it’s someone else’s turn to try.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I didn’t want to upset you. You’ve been so worried already, about your dad’s art show.
“I have no idea how you can say this.”
It’s just a feeling. You asked how I was feeling, remember?
At that moment the blood left my head. I was almost afraid to get up and go to my backpack.
“Wait a minute, Jenney,” I said. “I have to get out my manual.”
Okay.
She was waiting. For me to tell her what to do. I staggered to the coat rack for my pack. The room seemed too quiet. I could hear the rushing of traffic below the office, in Hawthorne Square. I went back to the table.
“Okay,” I said. “This is stupid. No, I’m stupid. My hands are shaking.”
It’s not your fault, Billy.
“Just a minute. Now. Do you have any means of harming yourself?”
I have Valium. And some other stuff.
“You wouldn’t really do that, would you? Jenney? Do you have the pills there? Do you have them in your hand?”
They’re right here.
“How many do you have?”
I don’t know. Do you want me to count them?
“Jenney . . .”
I flipped through the sections of my booklet: “About Suicide.” “Suicide Statistics.” “Causes of Suicide.” I had not looked at the booklet in a while and had trouble knowing which page or sect
ion would be best.
What?
“I’m panicking.”
I’m sorry.
“Do you really want this to happen? Do you realize that if you die, your life ends?”
Vaguely. I don’t feel like being clever right now.
“Suicide is only a . . .”
I’m thinking of the people who are going to be sad tomorrow, and that’s the only reason I’m still on the phone. There aren’t that many. But you would be one of them.
I had found the section: “Questions to Ask a Caller Who Is Threatening to Commit Suicide.”
“Don’t even think about me. Where are you right now?”
At home.
“Exactly where?”
On the couch.
“In the living room?”
Yes.
“Where are the pills?”
In my hand.
“All right.”
Good. I had the questions to ask. Jenney’s answers matched my questions. We were following a sequence laid out in the book. I had been climbing a rock surface that offered me nothing, but I’d found a toehold again.
“Now the main thing I need you to do is to not be holding that bottle. I want you to put the phone down, move the pills to another room, like the bathroom, and then come back and talk to me again.”
Okay. But I can only walk a little.
“Why’s that?”
I already took some.
That was not a good answer. I didn’t want to hear that. I felt the two of us pitching over the top of something. Like the Log Flume ride at Canobie Lake Park. The wooden dugout in a track filled with water labors slowly up the ride—tickety, tickety, tick. Then it reaches the top, and you’re falling and inundated by water.
“When did you take them?”
Before I called.
I flipped back and forth in the manual, looking for “Caller Has Ingested.” What was Valium? Was it an opiate? A narcotic? The book was too slow. I had to find something faster than the book.
“Oh my God. Where are Stacey and Rebecca tonight? Can you call them and ask them to take you to the emergency room?”
They don’t want to hear from me anymore. They usually don’t even answer when I call. Jenney and her problems.
“Would you give me their numbers, and the permission to call them? Will you let me call Stacey and Rebecca and ask them if they can help?”
They’re sick of me. They don’t want me to bug them. If they wanted to see me, they would have come by here a long time ago.
“What about Melinda? She would help you if your life depended on it, right? Will she take you to the hospital?”
She’s not allowed to see me. Look, don’t do this. I don’t want to think about my parents and the basement anymore. Tomorrow morning I’ll be peaceful.
“What about neighbors? Is there anyone outside? Or down the hall? Anyone whose door you could knock on?”
I don’t know them that well. I don’t really have friends in this building.
“So what? Try to get to the doorway and talk to them anyway. I’ll wait. They’ll be completely smitten with you. They’ll do whatever you ask them to.”
I remember every compliment you ever gave me.
“You do?”
Especially when you said I was strong.
“You were strong, Jenney. You are strong. You’re a fighter. Now get into the hall somehow, even if you have to drag yourself on your knees, and see if someone will take you to the emergency room. If you can’t get into the hall, just go to the door, open it, and yell.”
You need to stop this.
“I don’t need to stop anything. You need to stop. You need to stop yourself from getting close to dying. You’re the one who has to stop something. Jenney, why did you take those pills?”
I had my shot, and now it’s over.
“What a stupid reason.”
I began pacing, as far as the phone would allow. I picked up the phone base and carried it as I walked. I wasn’t used to a phone with a cord. I looked out the window as if I could see Jenney. If only I were at her apartment, or somewhere near her, I could do something real. Something to help.
I’m through with fighting. I just want the pain to end.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m sorry, that sounded judgmental. Jenney, are you still there?”
I’m going to lie down.
“Don’t lie down, Jenney. Don’t go to sleep. Just keep walking. Walk around the apartment while I talk to you. I want you to call 911. The police will come and take you to the emergency room. Will you do that?”
I’m really tired.
“I want you to hang up, call 911, and call me back.”
Don’t bother, Billy.
“If you won’t call 911, will you let me call 911? Will you give me your address and let me do that?”
It doesn’t seem worth the trouble.
“It is worth the trouble. You only think it isn’t because you took those pills. I’m going to call 911 right now. May I have your permission to do that? Are you still there?”
Jenney didn’t give me the address. In fact, she stopped responding.
——
I placed lines 1 and 3 on hold. The office was quiet except for cars slowing in the square. At this hour, not even the elevator ran. I swept the snacks off the table and onto the floor. I lay my head down on my workstation.
I imagined how different things might be if it were two hours ago, if Jenney had announced her intention while Margaret and Richie were on duty. Would they have coached me differently, and would my response to Jenney have been different? If Margaret had been here, would the police have Jenney now?
I left line 1, which I never had the right to man anyway. Margaret was line 1. I was a pretender and a usurper. I sat for a second at my old spot at line 3, with all three lines on hold, and wondered what to do. I had been happy as the number three guy. Why did I insist on being more?
90.
outside
Outside, I was closer to where Jenney was. Or at least not staying where she was not.
I started by primitively peering around my cave. Two blocks to the left. Three blocks to the right. No surprise, she wasn’t there. My bike was locked to a parking meter. Nearby was a lighted bus shelter with a schedule and map, but no routes running at this hour of night. And so many streets in our town that I’ve never heard of. But some large being—call It God, call It the best part of me—was holding me in Its hands.
91.
flying
Sometimes you move so fast, there’s only exertion. You don’t know what you’re doing other than moving forward. You only know that something inside you is compelled, is alive, is breathing, is productive, and motion is its only product. Now I was the one moving. People froze in crosswalks as I flew by. Cars rolled when the light changed, then saw me and thought better of it. Because sometimes the world reshaped itself to one person’s will, and will is always moving.
92.
compass
I pedaled into the honking, blaring center of Hawthorne. Across the Common, through its cheesy wooden processional arch. I felt totally off-manual. No notes, no tips, no scraps of paper, just my bare hands on the handlebars. Above me, a half moon, like God’s partly covered flashlight.
What did I know about Jenney that could help me find her? I knew so little, and because I was panicking, the facts flew out of my head each time I tried to get hold of them. Mother is a socialite, father writes books. No, mother writes books, father has a TV station. Well known, well connected, lots of parties. But I didn’t know their last name. Friends Stacey and Rebecca, didn’t know their last names. Therapist Melinda, didn’t know her last name but could possibly find it on a list of therapists somewhere, if she was listed as a therapist with first name Melinda instead of M and didn’t live too far away.
Just beyond the Common was the fire department. Four fire trucks, one van. Someone stood in the open door of one of the trucks. I waited for him to finish what he
was doing, but then I saw it was not a person but a pair of empty boots and rolled-down pants waiting for someone to jump into them. I schooned to the office marked VISITORS and found a firefighter behind the desk watching Boardwalk Empire. Another one was eating the last slice from a box of pizza.
“This is kind of a weird question,” I said, “but do you know of any caterers in town that do clambakes?”
“Woodbine’s?” the one behind the desk suggested.
“I don’t think it’s them. I don’t think it’s a restaurant, I think it’s people who bring the clams to your company or picnic or whatever.”
“Beauport Clam Company?”
“Is it—is it run by a woman who used to own a breakfast place with ‘Egg’ in the name?”
“The Incredible Egg,” the pizza one said.
“What is the woman’s name?”
“Marion Sibley.” These guys were pretty quick. They waited for more questions, as if tonight were trivia night.
“May I use your telephone book?”
“Do you have a sudden craving for clams?” the one at the desk asked. He laughed. Then I made a face, and he gave me the phone book from inside his desk.
I couldn’t waste even a second joking with these guys. Precious seconds were slipping by. In fact, maybe I should have asked the firefighters for help. They were real lifesavers, after all. But what about confidentiality? I decided that if five minutes went by and I made no progress, I would tell them I was from Listeners and what I was doing. But as long as I had a chance of finding Jenney in time, I wanted to save her myself.
I called Marion Sibley’s house. Thank God, a woman answered.
“I’m sorry to bother you late at night,” I said. “You have a new person working for you named Jenney, right?” She paused, and I realized that even Jenney’s first name, like Kevin’s, could be fake. If that were the case, I’d have nothing to go on, no clues even for the firefighters.
“Why?” the woman asked.
“My name is Billy Morrison, and I have something I have to drop off for her, but she forgot to give me her address. Please don’t think this is too strange. I’m not a weirdo or anything; I’m a new friend of Jenney’s and I have something of hers that she needs back and I don’t have her address or phone number, and this is something she needs right away, desperately.” I didn’t tell the woman that the thing I would drop off for Jenney was the rest of her life.
My Beautiful Failure Page 15
