by Kevin Wilson
Greg considered this, turned away from her and then back toward the table. Then he stood up, walked out of the kitchen, and went back to his room. Marta cleared away the food, and when she walked past Greg’s door, the PRIVACY sign was still facing toward her.
Alone, in her own room, she reached for the box on the top shelf of the closet. It was labeled Winter Coats, which she thought would seem innocuous enough to keep Greg from opening it; unfortunately it had not. She knelt down on the floor of the cedar closet, inhaled the sharp smell of the wood, and opened the box, which she could now tell had been opened before, by the clumsy way the top had been folded back into place. There was a large hooded parka on top, which she removed, and beneath that, was what was left of Sanders’s things, what she had saved.
A few months after the accident, Marta had read in one of the grief books that she had received from friends and family that it was necessary to cherish your memories of the deceased, including mental images, old pictures, and home movies, but that it was detrimental to recovery to hold on to mundane things that the deceased had owned. And so Marta had boxed up Sanders’s sheets and toys and clothes and donated them to the Salvation Army. Naton had been furious. “We could have given those toys to Greg,” he had shouted. “He could grow into those clothes.” Marta had felt sick at the thought. “We can buy him new toys,” she said. “He can have his own clothes.”
But she had saved some things, though she had never told Naton, had felt it necessary to keep it from him for some reason. Sanders’s favorite shirt, with its navy blue collar and red and blue stripes, a pair of jeans that were worn thin at the knees, a pocket calculator that his teacher had given to all the students, and that he always kept in his pocket. Other things, too, enough to fill the box, and she took all these items out and placed them on the floor, the objects giving off the collected scent of cedar from being stored in the closet. She looked at his baseball mitt, surprised at how it looked exactly the same as when she had placed it in the box two years ago. Though she had done nothing to care for the leather, the simple absence of use had preserved it. She looked at all the items: a toy robot so worn with play that the paint had been scrubbed to the silver metal frame, trading cards with comic book characters, all their faces a serious rictus of effort, a foam fist that, when smacked against a surface, made sounds of breakage and collision. Nothing had changed.
In the morning, during breakfast, Greg said only “Okay.” Marta immediately felt that she had the capacity to breathe deeper, that her ability to take in air had improved the moment he had relented.
“Okay?” she said, to make sure.
“I won’t do it if it makes you sad,” he said. “I just didn’t—” He squinted his eyes, seemed puzzled as to how to continue.
“Didn’t what?” she said, though already she felt her attention drifting to work, the focus of her mind shifting as difficulties required.
“I just didn’t think you still thought about him. I didn’t think you still missed him.”
There was no malice in it, she could understand that, but she felt the heat rush from her hands and feet, everything moving to the direct center of herself, which needed warmth. “I do,” she said, and that was all she could say.
At work, Marta felt things slipping out of her hands. A Ph.D. student had mistakenly provided her with the wrong set of tables for one of the sections of his grant application, and she now had to reenter everything all over again, time-consuming and frustrating and just slightly beyond her comprehension, which Marta felt most surprises ended up being. She had to finish everything by tomorrow, mail it the following day, and she was beginning to realize that it was possible she might not make it. This job, a miracle that she was underqualified to possess, felt like it could vanish with the slightest mistake. Her boss was kind but expected perfection, was already slightly concerned about the fact that Greg occupied a portion of her time. “Children can be such a time suck,” he once told her, as if they were a video game or a gambling addiction, something to be kept hidden from the rest of the world.
She was distracted by thoughts of what Greg had said at breakfast. It had stung her, the notion that she did not think of Sanders anymore. Naton had accused her of the same thing during the months leading up to the divorce. “You’re in such a hurry to leave me and Sanders behind and start over,” he had said. She hated the fact that her grief, because it was quiet, because she worked hard to conceal it, was somehow less genuine. She thought of Naton, drunk, unable to leave his father’s house, and she knew that the way she dealt with tragedy was the best way, the one that was necessary to keep going.
She thought about November first, the promise of being done, with the applications, with Halloween, and how the ease of things would come back to her and she could feel calm again. Then she looked at the clock and noticed it was five minutes past three. And she was late again.
When she pulled up to the front of the school, the principal was waiting, Greg sitting by her feet on the steps. Mrs. Chambers walked down to the car and said to Marta, “Greg’s teacher said that he was particularly quiet today. Was there a problem last night?” Marta, flustered from having to rush from work and relieved not to be called out for her lateness, answered, “He’s probably disappointed that he won’t be able to dress up as his original Halloween idea. We discussed it last night, and though he understands, I’m sure he’s unhappy about it.” Mrs. Chambers waved Greg toward the car, and the boy stood up and began walking to them. “That’s fine,” said the principal. “This is the reason we like to ensure such a strong parent-to-teacher relationship, to make sure that these kind of . . . these kinds of incidents get addressed before anyone is really hurt.” Marta smiled tightly and then Greg slipped by the principal and climbed into the car.
“You were late again,” he said, and Marta cast an apologetic glance at the principal, but she was already walking away from the car.
“You okay?” she asked Greg, who nodded and then said, “I need another costume for tomorrow.” Marta promised that she would bring something home after work, and when she dropped Greg off at the house, she was so rushed for time that she forgot to tell him that she would be home late, that she would have to work into the evening if she was to stay on top of things, if she was to stay in control.
Marta worked until 10 P.M., the office entirely empty, the doctors and Ph.D. students unconcerned about the grants once they had handed their materials off to her, and though she still had a lot of work left to do, she felt it was possible, that a solid day of work tomorrow would finish it. She was nearly home when she remembered the Halloween costume and had to drive back to Walmart. There wasn’t much left, the costumes picked over and the more popular ideas long gone. Marta ended up choosing three costumes, a giant bat, a cartoon character that seemed too young for Greg even as she placed it in the shopping cart, and some strange, almost terrifying outfit that consisted of a navy blue, acrylic business suit and a giant elephant mask. She had no idea what movie or comic book this costume related to, but she was mesmerized by the two parts of it, the mundane suit and the realistic-looking elephant mask. She hoped that Greg would settle for one of them, that her selections would not reopen the discussion. As she passed by the makeup and effects aisle, she picked up a packet of blood capsules, figuring they would increase the costume options: dead bat, wounded cartoon character, Wall Street elephant with a nosebleed. Standing in line to check out, Marta thought about the last Halloween Sanders had dressed up for.
By the time she made it home, Greg was already asleep. Even though the PRIVACY sign was still up, she silently walked into the room, the three costumes draped over her arm. She placed them over the chair next to his desk and then sat down on the bed. He stirred slightly and then fell back to sleep. She watched him for a few moments. He was the only good thing she had left. She could not imagine life without him, felt that if she had to start over alone, without her son, she would have no ties to the person she was before, and the thought terri
fied her. She did not want to forget about what had happened, only wanted to believe that something just as good as her past life was possible. She stood up, smoothed the indentation she had left on the bed, and went into her room. She opened her closet, took down the box, and was relieved to see that everything was there as she had left it, untouched.
In the morning, the boy came to breakfast wearing the business suit, the elephant mask in his hands. “Good choice,” Marta said, smiling. “I thought you would choose that one.” Greg only nodded. “So,” Marta asked, “do you know who he is? Is he some kind of superhero?” Greg shook his head. “Would you like some fake blood?” she asked, wanting to hear her son’s voice, test the tone of it.
“No,” he said, “I think he’s fine like this. I think he wouldn’t like blood on his suit.”
At school, she watched her son step out of the car and walk toward the building. She saw Mrs. Chambers watching through the window of her office, and when she caught the principal’s eye, they both nodded at each other. Greg turned to wave at Marta and then turned back toward the school, pulling the mask down over his face. “I’ll be here on time,” she told Greg, who did not respond.
Things moved quickly at work. The sections that, when she had first started the applications, required hours to complete now became more and more routine, and the understanding that she was nearly done allowed her to focus. Her son was at school, disappointed but not angry, and she was amazed at how accurate the phrase “light at the end of the tunnel” actually was, the objects around her gaining clarity as she finished each successive application.
At three o’clock, she was waiting for Greg at school. She had a strange feeling and then realized it was because she was surrounded by other parents, people who were always on time. She felt happy to blend in with them, these men and women who knew enough about her circumstances to be kind but not involved in the actual events so as to be rendered awkward around her. Greg finally walked out of the building with some other children, and when he saw her, he smiled, waved to her, and walked quickly to the car. “You made it,” he said. “Did people like your costume?” she asked, and he responded that no one else knew who the elephant was. “Well,” Marta said, “no one tonight will care about that. They’ll give you candy no matter what.”
She dropped Greg off with the promise that she would be back by six, ready to take him trick or treating. He nodded and walked off, stopping to wave to her from the top of the stairs. At work, she managed to finish the applications and avoided the temptation to double-check them, afraid of what she would find. She sealed them into envelopes, addressed them, and dropped them into the box for outgoing mail, assured they would receive a November first postmark the following day.
The sun was setting when she walked inside the house, and Greg was already waiting for her, elephant mask pulled down, his right arm threaded through the rings of a plastic shopping bag. She took a few pictures, though it was hard for him to keep still. “Let’s go,” he said. “There won’t be anything left for me.” Marta knelt in front of Greg, put her hands on both of his shoulders, and said, “Greg, I know this hasn’t been easy for you. I know you were disappointed. But you see how things can still work out? Things don’t always go how you would like them to, but they go anyway and you have to keep up.” He pulled away from her grip, just slightly, and said, “I know. I know all that.” She gave him a hug and, her face just inches from his neck, smelled the scent of cedar, unmistakable, coming from his costume. She let go of him, nearly pushing him down, and then looked underneath the collar of Greg’s costume. It was Sanders’s shirt.
“Oh, goddammit, Greg,” she shouted, undoing the lace that went around Greg’s neck. She pulled the costume down to his ankles and saw Sanders’s shirt, his jeans, the calculator sticking out of the pocket.
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, his voice cracking, the pitch too high. “I’ll go change right now.” He started to walk away, back to his room. Marta grabbed his arm and yanked him back, nearly spinning him around in the process. She knocked the elephant mask from atop his head and held tightly to his arms, unable to do anything else but stare at him.
It was not Sanders. She knew this. It was easy enough to understand that this was not her dead son. And for this reason, the simple fact that Sanders was not in the room with her, Marta was so angry that she was not sure how to proceed. She felt the tears coming, the sickness in her stomach, and for once she finally let it all happen. Greg was now crying, too, and he kept straining toward his room. “I’ll go change, Mom,” he said. “I’ll put all of his stuff back.” Marta pulled him even closer to her, holding him tight against her own body.
“No,” she said, “I don’t want you to go anywhere. Don’t you dare leave me.” Greg finally went slack and fell into Marta. Though something inside of her kept reminding her that she had to get up off the floor, stop crying, try to fix all this, she just held on to her son, the one who was still alive, and refused to let him go.
No Joke, This Is Going to Be Painful
We called them ice fights. They made things weird for a little while.
I had moved to Coalfield earlier that summer, after I lost my job as a checkout girl at the Bates supermarket in Mount Juliet. It wasn’t a huge deal. I was stealing small amounts of money every once in a while and then I got caught and they didn’t have any choice but to let me go. If they could have kept me, they would have. It happens.
I was living in a room above my sister and her husband’s garage, just my computer, three fans, and a futon we found at a garage sale. For a few weeks, I just sat in that room, nothing but the hum of the fans, no friends, no money, not a thing to do, wishing I was drunk. It was not, truth be told, an uncommon situation for me.
At dinner one night, my sister asked if I’d explored the town and I shook my head. “There’s a museum that’s not too bad,” she said, “and a roller rink that plays good music,” and I smiled and felt like I might cry because, although my sister seemed completely oblivious to the kind of person that I was, she wanted me to be happy. I felt like, if I killed someone in front of her, she wouldn’t turn me in, even though the guilt would cause her to commit suicide. “Can you drink beer at the roller rink?” I asked, and my sister got excited. “I believe so,” she said, and though I never went, it was nice to pretend that I would.
My sister and her husband had a group of close friends, and, in an effort to get me out of the house, they invited me to come along for a barbecue at Henry and Alesha’s. After nearly a month of not settling in, I was beginning to think that talking to some capable and attractive and financially secure people might not be such a bad thing. I had devised a theory that if I had some friends, I might not be so quick to want everyone around me to be miserable.
Henry and Alesha had a huge, sprawling yard with a picnic table and a Frisbee that no one even touched and condiments attracting flies while the smoke from the grill got in my hair. These people were nice enough, but they were a little older than me; they talked about TV shows I’d never heard of and drank beer over ice with some lime juice mixed in, which was something that seemed strange and pointless. One of the guys, Eddie, told me when we were alone that my sister had said I was the wild sister and that he had been a little wild in college. “But not anymore?” I asked. He smiled and his face got red and he shook his head. “Not so much,” he said, “no.”
And then my sister found a fly frozen in an ice cube and plucked it out of her glass. “Gross,” she said, holding it between her thumb and middle finger. Everyone was hooting and checking their glass like it was a party game. “Eat it,” I said, and everyone stopped laughing. “Gross,” my sister said again and frowned at me. Eddie, trying to be wild, said, “Hell, I’ll eat it,” but my sister shook her head and threw the ice cube in the grass. Wage, whose wife worked with my sister at the high school, said, “I bet you couldn’t hit that tree with a piece of ice,” pointing toward a dogwood about ten yards away. So far, Wage was the most interesting per
son in the group. He was cute but he also seemed, at times, to be mildly retarded. For instance, he had talked about a particular comic book character as if he was real. Another time during the party, he had mentioned that he could probably run a marathon this weekend without training, but his wife, Julie, kept saying that he’d never run a day in his life. He just shrugged and looked at me as if to say, She has no idea what she’s talking about.
Eddie stood up from the picnic table and picked up a piece of ice. “Hell,” he said, “I’ll do it.” He wound up and tossed the ice, missing the tree by a good distance. My sister’s husband grabbed another chunk of ice and calmly tossed it at the tree, the ice shattering as it hit the trunk. “Game over,” he said, and sat back down. But everyone was getting a little drunk at this point and so the game was most certainly not over. We started winding our arms in big circles, testing our muscles, and then tossing ice into the air, waiting for impact. Wage had hit the tree seven times in a row, each time stepping back a little farther. “I could probably play professional baseball if I wanted,” he said, and then he hit the tree for the eighth time. “My hands are cold,” Alesha said, but no one stopped playing. Wage hit nine, then ten, then eleven. Everyone else stopped throwing, content to watch Wage continue his streak, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. My sister’s husband had his hand on my sister’s ass, rubbing it like a good luck charm. It seemed like it might be a good night after all.
On his nineteenth throw, it was like watching someone put correct change in a Coke machine, and I was getting bored. I fished a piece of half-melted ice from my glass and shook the excess moisture off. Then, as Wage began his windup, I tossed my piece of ice and hit him on the back of his neck. Without stopping his throwing motion, Wage spun around and winged the ice directly at my head. Julie gasped and then yelled, “Wage? Jesus Christ.” I ducked and the ice sailed over my head, and then Henry, who was spectacularly drunk by this time, shouted, “Ice fight!” After a few moments of hesitation, people looking around to gauge interest, everyone ran to the cooler, dumped their cups into the ice, and then scattered. Ice was flying from all directions, skittering across the grass as it landed. I could hear the sound of my heart beating in my chest, and I hurled ice at moving targets, rarely hitting anything, but I put every ounce of strength into the throws, as if I was trying to put a hole in someone.
