We Are Not Ourselves

by Matthew Thomas

  “Shh,” his father said. “Close your eyes.”

  Connell closed them.

  “I am telling you that we will be back here when they are inducting you. I want you to feel the reality of that for a moment.”

  “Okay,” he said, relenting a bit. There was something sort of exciting in the way his father had said it. He sounded so sure. Connell wanted to believe his father could see the future or something.

  “Feel it. Let yourself. You pitched for the Mets your whole career. You heard your name over the loudspeaker thousands of times. You heard the cheers. You heard the boos. You played on grass. You played on Astroturf. You killed your shoulder, you blew out your elbow, you mangled your knuckles, but it was worth it. You set aside seats at every home game. Your kids were in those seats. Your wife was. Now you’re looking at a plaque with your face on it. You’re thinking the portrait makes you look like someone else, but it’s you—those are your numbers, under your name.”

  The way his father said it was like he’d been talking about more than baseball, more than the Hall of Fame. He meant it to mean whatever Connell wanted it to mean; he meant it to mean he believed in him.

  And then, somehow, Connell did feel it: what it was like to have brought joy to people and done something extraordinary. He never let himself imagine outcomes like that. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

  “I want you to really feel it,” his father said. “And I want you to remember that feeling, because it is as real as any experience you will have in your life. Will you remember?”

  Connell nodded with his eyes closed.

  “You have to use your imagination,” his father said.

  Connell could feel his mind opening like a flower in bloom. If he wasn’t afraid to consider the impossible—that he would be a Major League ballplayer people would talk about for years—then in imagining it, he would not need to live it; he could have it, along with whatever else he wanted.

  “Okay,” Connell said. He could hear people passing by. He didn’t peek, but he could see them going past, what they were wearing, the looks on their faces.

  “Do you feel powerful?”

  “Yes,” he said, and he did; he had stepped outside time.

  “Are you angry right now?”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know that I love you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Open your eyes,” his father said, but Connell waited a bit, because something told him they would never be back where they were. “Let’s go find your mother.”

  38

  The kitchen cabinets were installed on a Friday. When Eileen came home from work after a week that had threatened never to end, and saw their pristine white surfaces, she stood leaning against the island she’d always coveted, looking around in frank amazement. Then she began opening doors and running her hand for pleasure over the sanded interiors. She couldn’t wait to head to the Food Emporium. Ever since she’d emptied out the cabinets in preparation for their dismantling, she’d anticipated with great relish this restorative trip.

  The next morning, she waited for the countertop man to arrive with his enormous slabs. She had settled on Corian, because granite was too expensive and she’d be damned if she’d live with Formica again. Then at the last minute she’d called and changed the order to granite.

  She had thought she might like to watch them put the slabs down on the cabinets, but as the fabricator and his assistants hauled them up the back steps she realized she preferred that magical feeling of seeing the job complete, which she’d gotten as a child whenever she’d come home from school and seen the lines her mother had put in the carpet by vacuuming.

  She snaked her way up and down the aisles of the supermarket, filling her cart with anything she could think she’d ever need. She hadn’t even gotten through dry goods before the cart was so full that she had to check out, bring the bags to the car and start over. After this second round of shopping, not only was the trunk full, but also the back seat, the passenger seat, and the floor areas. She couldn’t see in any direction except straight ahead and in the driver’s side mirror. She felt the engine laboring to get her home.

  She pulled into the driveway and honked for Connell to come down and carry the bags. She went upstairs and gaped at the glossy countertops. She walked their length, running her hands over their cool surfaces, amazed at how they kept going and going.

  Connell came up with the first bags and lay them on the island. “What gives?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You planning for a disaster?”

  “I bought some things,” she said defensively.

  She started putting them away. Connell made an endless circuit from the garage to the kitchen. When he had nearly finished, and bags were arranged in a ring around the island, Ed walked into the kitchen and flew into a frenzy. He started grabbing items from the refrigerator and throwing them into the trash can.

  “We eat too much!” he yelled. “This is too much food!”

  “Would you please control yourself?”

  “We need a new regime around here,” he said. “We’re getting fat. There are going to be changes. One meal a day! No more than one!”

  “This should last us about a decade, then,” Connell said.

  “Get rid of it!” Ed shouted as he left the room. “All of it!”

  Eileen followed him out. “You can throw it all out if you want,” she called up the stairs, to his retreating back. “That’s fine by me.” She was trying to stay calm, not to sink to his level. “All it means is I’ll have to spend more to replace it. I want every inch in that pantry filled.” He disappeared into the bedroom. “I don’t care if you starve to death, the rest of us in this house are going to eat.” He didn’t answer. “Like kings!” she shouted. “We’ll eat like kings!”

  39

  In recent weeks, Ed had taken a hammer to places of rot in the drywall all through the basement, so that it looked like a target in a shooting range. In the minefield of the living room, he’d made a bigger mess, ripping up floorboards almost indiscriminately. The drainpipes were clogged. The garage door had stopped working. They’d suffered another flood in the basement after a heavy storm. And now that the cabinets and countertops were in, Ed refused to hire a single contractor to help.

  He sat beside her at the wheel, seething in the mismatched outfit he’d passive-aggressively donned after she’d barked at him for half an hour to change out of his dirty undershirt and get a move on. They were going to the McGuires’. Ed was beset by distraction as he drove, drifting between lanes and slamming on the brakes to stop just short of stalled traffic.

  “Would you pay attention? You’re all over the road.”

  “I know how to drive,” he said. “I’ve been driving for”—he paused—“since I was sixteen.”

  They’d left late and hit a bad jam, and by the time they arrived they were quite late indeed. Ed sat in the car after he’d shut it off. She stood outside the car, waving him out. Then she opened her door again.

  “Are you coming?”

  The light in the foyer went on; one of the McGuires would soon be at the door. She climbed back in the car. Maybe she had to try another approach. She drained the impatience from her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just give me a minute,” he said. “I can’t think straight with you talking.”

  “Honey,” she said as gently as she could, “we don’t really have a minute.”

  “Who’s going to be there again?”

  “Just us. Us and Frank and Ruth.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “We see too many people.”

  They hadn’t seen anyone since they’d moved, but this wasn’t the time to argue. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll scale back. We’ll just focus on the house for now.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Now, can we get inside?” She handed him the bottle of wine. Ruth opened the door
and gave them both kisses. Ed’s hand was shaking as he handed the bottle over; she saw Ruth notice it.

  Dinner was ready and they took their seats right away as Ruth shuttled dishes in. Eileen tried to help her, but Ruth told her to sit. Frank opened the bottle to let it breathe. She felt herself begin to relax.

  “How’s the money pit?” Frank asked. “You find where they buried the bodies yet?”

  This was where Ed would say something snappy and the two of them would be off.

  “It’s fine,” Ed said flatly. “Coming along.”

  “Ed’s been busy trying to get rid of the rot from the flood.”

  “Funny enough, I’ve been taking a continuing ed course in the history of water,” Frank said. “Irrigation, water transport. We haven’t gotten to floods yet. I’ll let you know when we do. Maybe I can give you some tips.”

  Ed didn’t say anything.

  “It must be nice to get back in the classroom and learn something new,” Eileen said.

  “We’re not getting any younger,” Frank said. “We have to keep the brain going. Am I right?”

  Again, Ed didn’t speak. Ruth came in just in time with the platter of roast beef.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to Ed. “Help yourself.”

  Eileen felt an instinct to serve him, but he was sitting between her and the platter. Ed stabbed at a piece with the serving fork. The tines didn’t get a good purchase on the meat, which fell back to the platter with a juicy splash that sluiced grease onto the tablecloth. He went in again, stabbing with too much force, but managed to get one piece onto his plate, and then another. The third dropped into his lap. Ruth and Frank shot each other looks. Ed picked it up and put it on his plate. He didn’t try to wipe the marinade from his pants. The three little strips huddled on his plate. He handed her the fork, though protocol called for him to serve her or pass her the platter. She had to stand up to reach the meat. When she was done filling her plate, she put two more pieces on his. She looked up and realized that both of her hosts were watching this transaction intently.

  “You want me to serve you?” she asked Frank.

  “That’s fine, I’ll do it myself.”

  “This all looks beautiful,” she said, handing over the utensils. She stayed on her feet. “Let me have your plate,” she said to Ruth. She felt like a chess player thinking several moves ahead. “I’ll serve the potatoes.” She spooned some out for Ruth; then she put some on her own plate, and then, as though it were a matter of course, on Ed’s. She did the same with the vegetables.

  Ed looked skeptically at his plate. After having trouble gathering food onto his fork, he started pushing it on with his finger. He transported a few bites successfully to his mouth before one dropped on his shirt.

  This was a good time for Frank to make a joke about Ed being drunk. It was impossible for Ed to take offense at anything Frank said. They ribbed each other all the time, and nothing was sacred; they fell into hysterics while she and Ruth wondered what was wrong with them. Tonight, though, Frank just sat there, looking at Ed until he saw that Eileen saw him looking and looked away.

  They got through the meal with some effort. “You sit with them,” Ruth said, as Eileen tried to follow her into the kitchen to help clean up. “Sit in the living room and have a drink. Make sure they don’t get into any trouble.”

  Eileen brought them drinks. There was less awkwardness in the living room. Frank helped by talking at length about the class he was taking. She was never more grateful for his long-windedness. Ed interjected here and there, and the exchange resembled an actual conversation. Ruth came in and they sat holding their glasses in the comfort that follows dining with old friends, the engine of one topic running down as the engine of another revved up.

  “So how’s Connell?” Frank asked.

  “His grades are good, but he’s struggling in biology, if you can believe it.”

  “I was a horrible student in high school,” Frank said. “If it had mattered then the way it does now, I wouldn’t have had a prayer.”

  “Me too,” Ed said.

  “It’s a different world,” Ruth agreed.

  “He’s in his second year already,” Ed said. “He’s got to settle down soon.”

  Eileen flinched.

  “I thought he was a freshman,” Ruth said. This was the danger of having friends like Ruth and Frank who paid attention when you talked about your kid.

  “Yes, freshman,” Ed said. “That’s what I said.”

  “He likes English,” Eileen said quickly.

  “That’s great,” Frank said. “I love literature. I’m going to take a Shakespeare course next semester.”

  “Ed’s disappointed,” she said. “He wants him to love science. He wants him to go to medical school.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ed said. “I want him to follow his bliss.”

  “Maybe he’ll come around,” Frank said. “Listen, we were thinking of having him up for a weekend. Do you think he’d like that? Or would it be more of a drag for him?”

  “He’d love it,” Eileen said.

  “Maybe while he’s here you can talk some sense into him,” Ed said. “He’s having a hard time with biology, if you can believe that. He’s not applying himself, is all.”

  “I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Frank said. “I failed bio the first time I took it.”

  “That sounds like Connell, I’m afraid. His biology grades aren’t the greatest. He’s focused on literature.”

  “Is there an echo in here?” Frank asked, laughing. “I might have to cut you off.”

  “Please do.” Eileen tried to sound authentically relieved. “For all our sakes.”

  “Or maybe what he needs is not less but more.” Frank stood up and took her glass, then Ed’s, which was still full. He looked at it for a moment.

  “Let me freshen this for you,” he said.

  The business of getting drinks occupied a few minutes, and Ruth refilled the cheese and cracker plates.

  “So tell Connell to think about what weekend he wants to come up,” Frank said.

  “You’re having Connell over?” Ed asked.

  “If he wants.”

  “Do me a favor and talk to him about giving more of his time to science,” Ed said.

  “Before I forget,” Ruth said abruptly, “I have to tell you the funniest story.” She embarked on a narrative about having had her car towed the last time she went into the city. It wasn’t funny at all, and it wound up being far shorter than Eileen had hoped, but she felt her eyes well up in gratitude.

  Soon it was pumpkin bundt cake and coffee. The rituals of meals had never been more of a comfort. Ed ate his cake without trouble and they sat in the pleasant ease of digestion. She could see the distance to departure beginning to narrow. They might very well escape without further incident.

  Ruth gathered the coats, and they said their good-byes in the hallway.

  “Remember,” Frank said. “Ask Connell when would be good for him to come up.”

  “I will,” Eileen said.

  “Maybe you can talk some sense into him,” Ed said. “He’s slacking in science.”

  Frank’s eyes widened. He broke into an awkward grin that looked more like a grimace. “Don’t let this guy drive,” he said.

  Although she had had more to drink than Ed, she got behind the wheel. She felt exhausted, and more than once she had to blink away sleep. Ed snored the whole trip, like a child, oblivious of the danger he was in every time she let her mind wander.

  40

  The floors in the living room and dining room were still a mess. Not only hadn’t he begun to lay down wood, he hadn’t even bought any, and it was now the second week of December. He had put the floor job on hold to focus on the basement. It drove her crazy to have the most important rooms in the house be off-limits. She had given up on the dream of entertaining the first Christmas in the new house (when the Coakleys agreed to host, she was afraid she might have lost dibs on Christm
as Eve to Cindy forever), but she wanted to be able to finally sit in her living room. He was kidding himself if he thought he was going to be able to handle it alone.

  The noises of destruction and toil emanating from below made it sound as if he was overseeing a torture chamber. She never approached him when he was down there, and when he came up covered in plaster dust and dried concrete, he sat and ate in remorseless silence. When he was asleep she went down to check on his labor. The space was coming together somehow. A do-it-yourself home improvement book sat perpetually splayed on the floor, its dog-ears attesting to the concentration that had gone into making things flush and square.

  • • •

  She found a disposable razor on the coffee table in the den, sitting in a streak of shaving cream. She told herself that Ed had come downstairs to answer the phone while shaving and gotten distracted. When she picked the razor up, though, and saw that the book under it was his beloved fifth-edition copy of The Origin of Species, she let out a shriek. No one but Ed ever touched that precious volume, and it never left his study. The fact that it was on the coffee table at all was amazing enough, but for its front cover to be stained by a filmy dollop of Barbasol was simply unfathomable. Her first thought, her only thought, was to leave the razor alone so he could see he had ruined the book himself.

  • • •

  She’d written him notes lately—gentle reminders she would leave on his nightstand before bed, like a secretary laying out the next day’s agenda for the executive she was secretly sleeping with. We’re going out with the Cudahys tonight, or Don’t forget parent-teacher conferences at 6:00. There had been something pleasant about writing the notes; whatever tension still hung in the air after a given evening’s misunderstandings evaporated like a cup of water on a hot afternoon.

  One note struck her as odd when she read it over. It grew more opaque the longer she looked at it, like one of those unfathomable koans. She couldn’t escape the sensation that she’d written the note to tell herself something as much as to get a message to Ed. Christmas is six days away, Edmund, the note said. Please don’t forget to get Connell a new baseball glove. I’ve asked you three times now. I’d take care of it, but I don’t know the first thing about them. It seems like the kind of thing a father should pick out. That is still you, right, a father?