Edward Adrift e-2

by Craig Lancaster

  — • —

  I’ve returned from a post-dinner walk around my neighborhood when my phone rings. I pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Edward.”

  It’s my mother.

  It’s funny—not ha-ha funny, but just funny—how a few hours and some good news can change things. I’m still angry that my mother intruded on my sovereignty and spoke poorly of my father, but I’m no longer angry at her. One tiny preposition is removed, and everything changes. I still intend to make sure she understands that she cannot do that to me again. I simply have no intention of being mean about it, and I was a bit mean earlier today.

  “Hi, Mother.”

  “I know you’re angry at me, but I’m hoping that you’ll come for dinner tomorrow. I didn’t expect to be in Billings for the holidays, but since I am, let’s try to make the best of it, OK?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “I want us to get back to where we were. I don’t want to be feuding.”

  “I don’t want that, either, Mother. We can talk about that when we see each other tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mother.”

  — • —

  I’ve made another important decision. My effort to renew routine in my life is going so well that I realize I’ve been missing my most important routine for far too long. It’s time for me to get back to watching Dragnet every night. Adam-12 was fine, a perfectly worthy show, but it’s not the gold standard. If it were, I wouldn’t have gotten off-track with it. That’s clear now.

  As today is the 355th day of the year and there were ninety-eight color episodes of Dragnet, if I had been on my old routine all year, where I start with the very first episode on the very first day of the year and watch the episodes in order, one a day, I would be watching the sixty-first episode of the series, “Narcotics: DR 21.” This is the sixteenth episode of the third season and it originally aired on January 30, 1969. It is one of my favorites.

  I queue this episode up on my bitchin’ iPhone and settle into the couch to watch it.

  In this episode, Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are flummoxed because drug cartels are moving large amounts of contraband through the airport and the police are having trouble stopping it because they cannot develop probable cause. It’s an offhand comment from Officer Bill Gannon about not being a dog who’s able to sniff out the drugs that gives Sergeant Joe Friday an idea—the police department should train a dog to identify packages containing marijuana.

  This seems like a no-brainer, and I remember when I watched it for the first time wondering whether Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon were idiots for not thinking of it earlier, but it turns out that training a dog to sniff out drugs is not easy. In fact, I get stressed out watching the episode for fear that the dog, Ginger, won’t be up to the task. This is silly, of course; I know how the episode goes. Ginger ends up joining the police force, and she’s so good at what she does that the drug cartels put a price on her head. Drug cartels are assweeds, and it’s a testament to Jack Webb’s filmmaking ability that I stress out every time I see this episode.

  But regardless of the stress, today has made this much clear: I’m on the right track. I’m on the right track. I’m on the right track.

  TECHNICALLY THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2011

  It’s 3:06 a.m.

  I am not on the right track.

  I did not give Sheila Renfro permission to be in my dreams. I guess she didn’t need permission, because there she was, in the nightgown she wore the night she slept in my bed, following me in the night through a wooded area. She would let me see her, but she would not look at me and would not respond when I called for her. For hours, we walked through the woods, a place I did not recognize. It could not have been Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, as there are no woods there. Sheila Renfro has no context in my life here in Montana. It was a confusing dream, and when I finally decided to run for her—in the dream—she vanished.

  That’s when I woke up, scared and screaming “Sheila!” Not “Sheila Renfro,” which always bemused (I love the word “bemused”) Sheila Renfro, but just “Sheila.” What does it mean?

  That’s a rhetorical question, of course. For as long as I’ve had vivid dreams, I’ve been reading what I can about the science of dreaming, and I’m afraid the oneirologists are not much help when it comes to definitively diagnosing what we see when we sleep. Some believe that deeper meaning underlies our dreams and that interpreting them can lead us to greater understanding of our conscious selves. Others think that dreams are nothing more than images we’ve stashed away in consciousness that are then unfurled and combined in nonsensical and psychedelic ways by our deep brain as we sleep.

  In my reading, I’ve learned about authentic dreaming and illusory dreaming. I’ve experienced both. The dream I had about being on the barstool with my father in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, was an authentic dream. It really happened. This one tonight, with Sheila in her nightgown and following me through the woods, that was illusory. The nightgown stemmed from something real; everything else did not.

  It’s all very baffling, the mixture of the known and the unknown, and it’s a burden on this fact-loving brain of mine, so I find that I must be practical about this.

  It will be very hard to get a decent night’s sleep if I’m going to be regularly dreaming about Sheila Renfro.

  It’s a practical impossibility not to think of Sheila Renfro when I’m awake. When I was speaking with Dr. Bryan Thomsen yesterday, my favorite part was when I got to talk about Sheila Renfro.

  I have to deal with things as they are. I’m here and she’s there, and so I have to build the best life I can. This shitburger of a year has taken so much from me, and it took Sheila Renfro, too. I have to accept that. I’m not the special man to recognize her specialness. She said that herself, and she should know.

  I hate that she said it, but she did, and I must get on with things.

  OFFICIALLY THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2011

  From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

  Time I woke up today: 3:06 a.m. from my terrible dream. After I calmed down, I set an alarm for 8:45 a.m. so I could attend to my data and make my appointment with Dr. Rex Helton.

  High temperature for Wednesday, December 21, 2011, Day 355: 35, a seven-degree drop from the high the day before. It’s still a very reasonable late-December temperature.

  Low temperature for Wednesday, December 21, 2011: 28, the same as the day before.

  Precipitation for Wednesday, December 21, 2011: a trace amount.

  Precipitation for 2011: 19.48 inches

  New entries:

  Exercise for Tuesday, December 21, 2011: I took a 45-minute walk around my neighborhood, my longest walk since the accident. I stuck to the sidewalks of Lewis, Clark, and Yellowstone avenues. I really enjoyed the route and the scenery. I think I will do it again today.

  Miles driven Wednesday, December 21, 2011: It will be a while before I take another long driving trip. Let’s retire this category.

  Total miles driven: Let’s retire this one, too.

  Gas usage Wednesday, December 21, 2011: Let’s retire this one, too.

  Addendum: I’m nervous about a lot of things today. I’m nervous about seeing Dr. Rex Helton. I’m nervous about going to see Jay L. Lamb about a job. I don’t like Jay L. Lamb very much, which may be unfair of me now that he is treating me well, but I can’t help it. I don’t like the idea of his finding a job for me, but I have to balance that against the certainty that I need something to occupy my time if this new program of mine is going to work. I will stifle my concerns and see what Jay L. Lamb has to say.

  My mother called this morning and told me to come by her condo at 5:00 p.m., that we would have dinner and talk. I’m ready for this discussion now. My destructive anger is gone. I still wish to make her acknowledge what she did to me, but I can do so in a constructive way, thanks to Dr. Bryan Thomsen.
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  I can barely believe I wrote those last five words, but there they are, right above these words. Nobody else did that.

  Astoundingly—adverbs are not my favorite things, but “astoundingly” is a good one—Dr. Rex Helton says I’m on the right track.

  “Blood pressure is down. You’re at two hundred and eighty-four pounds, so you’re losing it steadily but not too quickly. And, of course, the car wreck probably has something to do with that. As for the diabetes, it’s too early to do the full blood work again, but let’s see what a test strip says.”

  He puts on rubber gloves and brings out a glucose reader. I set my hand palm up on the counter, and he says, “Little prick,” which I assume is in reference to the needle and not my character.

  I just made a joke. I’m pretty funny sometimes.

  “It’s a hundred and twenty-three. Not bad, Edward. Not bad at all. Keep up the fine work.”

  — • —

  The delightfulness of Dr. Rex Helton’s office is offset by the intimidation of Jay L. Lamb’s. For the first time since just after my father died, I’m made to sit in this uncomfortable modern furniture that Jay L. Lamb insists on buying. I’m sitting in front of the desk of his impossibly beautiful secretary, who has now just said, for the fourth time, “He’ll be with you shortly.”

  Jay L. Lamb also has a magazine problem. In Dr. Buckley’s office, now Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s office, there are women’s magazines, sports magazines, car magazines, outdoor magazines—in other words, pretty much every kind of magazine you can imagine, except pornography. It speaks to Dr. Buckley and Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s willingness to make a range of clients feel welcome and at ease.

  Jay L. Lamb has only investor magazines. I’m his client, and yet I feel neither welcome nor at ease. Excuse me for saying so, but that’s pretty shitty of Jay L. Lamb.

  “He’ll be with you shortly,” the impossibly beautiful secretary says.

  I look at my watch. It’s 1:17 p.m., seventeen minutes past our appointed meeting time. We passed “shortly” a long time ago.

  — • —

  At 1:21 p.m., I’m finally shown into Jay L. Lamb’s office. He directs me to sit in a chair in front of his desk, one only slightly more comfortable than the seat I just extricated (I love the word “extricated”) myself from.

  “Edward, how have you been?”

  “Well, Mr. Lamb, I’ve been in a car wreck and forcibly removed from Colorado. Things have been better.”

  Jay L. Lamb smiles uncomfortably, which is the only sort of smile he’s ever given me.

  “Yes, well, your mother has filled me in on things, which is why we’re here today. I have found you a job, if you want it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a courier position.”

  “You mean, a delivery boy?”

  “No, not quite. This is actually a very trustworthy position. This law office—there are three partners, plus six associates—generates a lot of paperwork, and that paperwork needs to find its way to various places, be it the courthouse or a regulatory agency or a client or another law office. We need someone who is highly organized, who knows the city and the region, and who is reliable. It’s actually the perfect position for you, because you’re all of those things. In fact, I’m a little stumped that I didn’t think of it before.”

  “Would I report to you?”

  The position sounds pretty good, but his answer to this question could be a deal breaker for me.

  “Ordinarily, you would, yes. Me and the other two partners. But this is a different kind of situation, for two reasons. First, I’m your lawyer and a family friend, so it wouldn’t be right for me to be your supervisor. Second, I’m retiring early next year.”

  “You are?”

  “I’m sixty-three years old, Edward. It’s time. I’ve been working nonstop since Clea died two years ago. It’s time to relax and enjoy the time I have left. So, anyway, I’ve talked it over with Mr. Slaughter and Mr. Lambert, and one of those men will be designated as your supervisor. You and I will be coworkers, for a few weeks anyway. If we have to discuss your employment as partners, I will recuse myself from that discussion. Does that sound fair?”

  It sounds more than fair. I think now that perhaps I have not given Jay L. Lamb enough credit.

  “Yes, it does,” I say. “I have two more questions.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “Who will be our lawyer now?”

  Jay L. Lamb laughs, and he stands up and sits on the edge of his glass desk.

  “I’m becoming something called ‘partner emeritus.’ That means I’ll still have a role here. I’ll keep an office. And I’m taking two clients with me into retirement—your mother and you. So in that regard, nothing changes. Now, you had a second question?”

  “Yes. What does the position pay?”

  “It pays thirteen dollars an hour to start. I know that’s less than you were making at the Herald-Gleaner, but on the plus side, your health benefits will be entirely paid for, you’ll get three weeks of paid vacation to start, which I believe is better than you were getting at the newspaper, and we also do a 401(k) match. It’s a good package, and I think we both know that in your financial condition, this paycheck isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

  I think Jay L. Lamb just said, in a nice way, that I’m fucking loaded.

  “I accept the position,” I say. “When do I start?”

  “Let’s say January second, the Monday after the new year. It’s going to be a ghost town around here between now and then. Be here at eight a.m. and we’ll get you started. Welcome aboard, Edward.”

  We shake on it. This astounds me.

  — • —

  I’m home by 2:42 p.m. While I’m grilling chicken for lunch, I watch the next Dragnet episode on my bitchin’ iPhone, since I may be late at my mother’s tonight. I wouldn’t want to miss Dragnet so early in my return to it.

  “Administrative Vice: DR-29” is the seventeenth episode of the third season of the Dragnet color episodes, which ran from 1967 to 1970. This episode originally aired on February 6, 1969, and it’s one of my favorites.

  One of the things I appreciate about Dragnet is its authenticity. Unlike television shows today that are monuments to falsehood, Dragnet shows you how police work actually takes place. In addition, Sergeant Joe Friday (played by Jack Webb) often provides a history lesson on Los Angeles in the intro. I will not hold my breath waiting for Jersey Shore to do something similar.

  — • —

  My mother’s condo is in a place called the Stapleton Building downtown. When it was built in 1904, it was the tallest and most glorious building in Billings, Montana. It held the city’s finest department store, Hart-Albin; offices; and even a men’s overnight club. For much of my life, however, it was empty and dilapidated (I love the word “dilapidated”), until some local developers turned it into something new, with the condo units and restaurants and shops. My mother moved here after my father died, and now she splits her time between here and Texas—with an increasingly larger share of the time being spent away from here.

  My mother rings me in from the lobby, and I ride the elevator to the third floor, where her condo is. She has a view of the downtown streets. It’s a very nice place, although I still prefer my bungalow on Clark Avenue.

  My mother opens the door and sweeps me into her condo.

  Jay L. Lamb is standing in the living room.

  “Hello, Edward,” he says.

  “Hello, Mr. Lamb.”

  My mother, having closed the door, has walked up behind me and wrapped an arm around me.

  “Jay was just telling me about your new job. I’m so glad this worked out.”

  I wrench myself out of my mother’s arm.

  “My ribs still hurt,” I say, and she quickly apologizes.

  “Why don’t you two chat?” she says. “I’ll finish with the dip.”

  Jay sits down and invites me to take a spot on the couch opposite him. In
stead, I follow my mother into the kitchen.

  “Do you need something to drink?” she asks.

  “No, Mother. Why is Jay L. Lamb here?”

  “I invited him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s our friend, and he just did something very nice for you.”

  “And I appreciate that. I thought you and I were going to talk.”

  “We are.”

  “With Jay L. Lamb here? I have some things I need to say to you.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  My mother is being obtuse. I leave her and go back into the living room. Jay L. Lamb is stirring his drink. I go to the window and look down on Broadway, with my back to Jay L. Lamb and my mother so they don’t see how flummoxed I am.

  “What’s new, Edward?” Jay asks me.

  “Since you saw me four hours ago? Not much.”

  My mother comes into the room carrying a tray of crackers. I can see her reflection in the glass.

  “Edward, are you ready to talk? We have some time before the roast comes out of the oven.”

  “No.”

  “Could you come sit down, dear? We’d like to chat.”

  I turn from the window and walk to the couch across from Jay L. Lamb and my mother, who are sitting together. I sit on the far end, as far from them as I can. I’m not hungry. I thought I was, but I’m not.

  “Edward,” Jay L. Lamb says, “you remember how I told you I’m retiring.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother has asked me to come with her to Texas, and that’s what I’m going to do—if it’s all right with you.”

  I look at my mother. She’s nodding, smiling at me.

  “Why?”

  “Because we care about each other.”

  He reaches into my mother’s lap and takes her hand in his.

  Holy shit!

  “You mean, like, you’re her boyfriend?” I ask.

  “Something like that.”

  “Something exactly like that,” my mother says.