by Tom Howard
August wore on. By the middle of the month we had more than a hundred kids camped out every night. I didn’t know half of them. They staggered in with their sleeping bags and their lawn chairs and sometimes their stuffed animals, too, half asleep, collecting their popcorn and finding an open space wherever they could. Grandfather Vampire sat in the booth and never spoke and was always gone by the end. Praeger and me watched from our usual spot. Sometimes I’d look over at Praeger and wonder what he was thinking, but he didn’t say much.
Emilio graduated high school and joined the military. Fought in some distant place, and saw people around him die. We all had some nervous moments then, but Emilio survived. Won some medals. Came home, only not glowing so much. The town threw a party for him, same way they did with Praeger’s older brother Buddy.
He went back to school, to college. Met a girl named Raisa, which was my mom’s name. When they got married they bought a house at the top of Sunset Hill. Adopted a Lhasa Apso and named him Rusty.
And they had a baby too. Most beautiful baby boy you ever saw, except that he was sick, he was born sick. And everyone knew this was coming, that sooner or later something awful had to happen, and kids were looking at each other and shaking their heads.
Baby’s name was Donnie.
It was the last week of the summer. Storms were coming in but the rains held up while we watched Emilio and Raisa talk to the doctor, while we saw Donnie get a little older, just old enough to start to be a real kid, with an imagination, just starting to figure out who he was going to be. We saw the months slip away. Saw Donnie going in for an operation. Saw Emilio leave the hospital one night and walk back through the town toward the cemetery, the cemetery he’d once been buried in, and kneel down there, with the sun dying behind him. His father was there, too, old Grandfather Vampire himself, reaching his old bony hand down to grasp Emilio’s shoulder, squeezing it tight.
I got up and walked to the booth, which I knew would be empty. Just stood there, the movie playing behind me.
“Going home,” I said to Praeger, and then I left.
* * *
Next night around eleven-thirty, Praeger came by my house and threw something at the window. When I didn’t answer he threw something bigger. I said son of a bitch to myself and threw open the window. “I ain’t going,” I called down. Then I went back to bed.
Some noisy minutes later, Praeger hauled himself over the windowsill.
“What the hell,” he said, seeing me under the covers.
“Told you I ain’t going,” I said. “I’m tired, Praeger.”
“I need you,” he said. “To do the concessions and whatnot.”
I rolled over so my back was to him, fairly miserable, and said, “I’m going to sleep.”
“It’s the finale,” he said. “We gotta see what happens. To Emilio. To everybody. All this time? We gotta see.”
I didn’t say anything.
“So you’re going to be a coward, is that it?” he demanded.
Damn Praeger. I sat up and turned to face him. “Everybody dies. There. I just told you the end, you dumbass. Now get out of here.”
“How do you know?”
I didn’t say anything, just squeezed my eyes shut. When Praeger asked again, I said, “He took everything else. He can’t have Donnie.”
Praeger didn’t have an answer for that. So he just said, real quiet, “But you don’t know. What’s going to happen, I mean. You don’t really know.”
“Seen this movie before,” I said. And I dropped back down and turned away.
Next thing I knew, Praeger’s hands were underneath me and he was lifting me up out of bed. “You’re going to see the goddamn finale,” he said.
I didn’t fight him. I outweigh Praeger by a few pounds, so I was curious to see how far he’d get with me. He made it two steps toward the window. Then we went down in a heap, Praeger landing underneath me. Knocked the wind out of both of us.
I rolled off him. After we both caught our breath, I said, “What were you going to do when you got to the damn window?”
He shrugged. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he said.
I sighed and said, “Okay, fine. Let’s just go see the damn finale.”
* * *
The rains were coming, the end of summer rains that always came to Westover. It was a warm night and the stars were gone and the summer was gone, too, but the rains were coming.
The lot at the Super 130 was empty. I looked at Praeger and he shrugged. “So it’ll just be us,” he said.
I walked into the projectionist’s booth with him. Grandfather Vampire wasn’t there either, but there was one last reel on the chair where he always sat.
“I’ll get it set up quick,” Praeger said. “Before the rains come. You go out and sit down.”
“Doesn’t feel right,” I said.
“Go sit down,” said Praeger.
I walked out of the booth and sat down. Looked around at the lot for the first time in quite a while. The asphalt had cracked open in a hundred places. Weeds had taken over so much that you could barely see the screen anymore without standing up. Looked as much like a cemetery, that moment, as any place I’d ever been.
The movie started up.
It was different now. Just like a regular home movie, the kind your dad makes with one of those old video recorders. All different scenes of birthdays and band recitals and soccer games and family vacations, all running together one after the other, as if that’s all life was, just highlights, one happy celebration after another. Only in these home movies it was Donnie, and it was me, and we were the ones having birthdays, and playing games whenever Donnie wasn’t feeling so bad, and going on vacation when Donnie could take some time away from the hospital. Here was Donnie and me running through the sprinklers in the backyard. Here was Donnie holding my hand on his first day of kindergarten, when I kept trying to shrug him off but he wouldn’t let go and finally I told myself to hell with it and just let him keep holding it. Here was Donnie holding up a present I’d given him for his seventh birthday, some stupid book I found and I thought he’d love because it was about the pyramids and he was just a nutjob about the pyramids for a while. Here was the hospital bed, that stupid damn hospital bed. Here was my brother Donnie. Just waving at the camera and smiling. And I thought, just stop waving, what the hell are you waving for, and there’s me, refusing to get in the car, refusing to say goodbye because it’s a stupid goddamn thing to say. And then it was over, and the movie ran out, and all that was left was the sound of the reel flapping in the projector, and the wind coming down to sweep through the parking lot before the rains.
I walked back to the booth. Praeger was gone. I found the switch for the projector and turned it off, not bothering to take off the last reel. Looked around one last time, then shut off the lights.
When I walked out I figured it would be too dark to see, but there was some moonlight coming in through the clouds. I thought maybe I would see him. Even though the movie was over, I thought just maybe I would see him.
But the screen was dark. It shimmered like a curtain in the wind. And I just stood and watched it through the high weeds, in the last seconds of the summer, before the rains came.
7
The Magnificents
Woke up around midnight to explosions and helicopters. Must have dozed off on sofa due to long day, also being drunk. Looked around for Bo, expecting worst because of the fireworks, found he’d already eaten all the padding in his crate. Fortunately able to get him outside before it came out other end. Poor dog, terrible nerves.
Got dressed and grabbed bottle from wine fridge as party gift, set out into steamy June night. Stinton’s place lit up like a Christmas tree. Guy dressed as the Reaper getting bludgeoned by dwarves on small stage on front lawn. Impressive number of dwarves, couldn’t have been cheap. Only a few spectators, including Margot’s old kindergarten teacher, Nora Quincy. Nora Quincy dressed in familiar FUCK DEATH IN THE ASS T-shirt, the one tha
t showed Death bent over a coffin, being fucked in the ass, eyeballs crossed due to pain and terrible humiliation, et cetera. I waved but she didn’t notice me, too happy/enraged by show.
Realized as I got to the door that I’d brought wrong bottle. Brought bottle from private stash, left over from winemaking days. Meat-flavored. Many arguments with Gwen regarding idea; Gwen correct. Smashed bottle against side of house just as Bonnie answered the door. Meat smells drifted up, also notes of citrus and blackberry. Tried to explain to Bonnie about the smell. She frowned and asked if I was armed and I said ha ha, no.
Lively party. Chocolate fondue fountain, fire-eating demonstration, live Sumatran tiger. Also dead, stuffed Sumatran tiger. Lots of toasts to Stinton, and the usual chorus of people chanting. “A hundred more, a hundred more.” Plus some speeches outlining contributions to society, exemplary Net Social Value, great work ethic, et cetera. Then a poem in Stinton’s honor, recited by granddaughter, current Poet Laureate of United States. Humbling.
Talked with Stinton a little. Hadn’t talked much since the thing with Cleo. Who, speaking of, was running around at party and looked totally fine, I thought. Very slight limp due to missing leg but otherwise fine. Labradoodles more resilient than friendships, maybe. Friendships more easily mangled under wheels of fate/hybrid vehicle, leaving guts splattered everywhere. Metaphorically, not real friendship guts.
Told Stinton that Cleo looked good. Told him he, Stinton, didn’t look a hundred, didn’t even look sixty. Which was true. Looked waxy, but not old. Young and waxy. Then was asked by Dr. Wilhelm to keep reasonable distance from Stinton during conversation and to point face in other direction. So had to speak at weirdly high volume. Didn’t take offense. Wilhelm could be my Personal Aging Physician someday, if lucky. Would want him to protect me from unnecessary risks, to tell suspicious-looking neighbor without invitation to point face in other direction.
A good talk anyway. Bonded with Stinton some. Felt better about things, friendshipwise. Screamed at wall, Glad we had this time to catch up! Then wandered around, drank some. Not too much. Didn’t want to look like clod at Stinton’s party.
Ran into Gwen and her lover. Helena, or maybe Elaine. Gwen said nice to see me again. I gulped more champagne, also double tequila shot. Kind of a sad thing to say. Nice to see me again. Like we were old high school friends maybe. Or like she was popular girl in high school and vaguely remembered me as kid with weird teeth (now fixed!). Like we hadn’t spent ten years together, didn’t have two grown kids. Like I’d never made her laugh with my pretend Italian, or surprised her on thirtieth birthday with brochure for Venice trip we never took. Like she’d forgotten I used trip money to send away for gelato franchise quick-start book/DVD series.
She asked what I was doing now. Told her I was basically managing things at the office. Not sure why I said that. Dumb thing to say, began to sweat. Explained imaginary new management responsibilities in detail. Took another tequila shot. Felt shaky, pictured conversation in mind as train speeding toward collapsing bridge. She said she was just promoted to vice president of North American sales at Pfizer, and I said wow. Pretended I hadn’t read her feature profile in weekend Magazine section. Downed another shot, imagined conversation plunging off bridge, screaming passengers, monkeys. Not sure why monkeys. Learned she was in town promoting first book, Follow Through. She gave me a complimentary copy. Signed and addressed it to me using both our full names. I said well it was nice to see her, then threw up on Elaine’s/Helena’s boobs.
Left shortly thereafter. Saw guy who played Reaper walking to his car. Nice guy. Some broken ribs but he said the gig paid well, couldn’t complain.
Went home and sat in backyard with Bo and had nightcap. Threw up. Think Bo ate it, not sure.
* * *
Called in sick next morning.
I thought you were fired in the last round of layoffs, Toby said.
I asked if Meg was in today. Meg worked in reception, very pretty despite cloudy eye from glaucoma. Maybe prettier because of cloudy eye somehow?
She’s right here, Toby said. Want me to put her on? He asked Meg if she wanted to talk to me, and she said why. Toby said he didn’t know why, maybe I was in love with her. Then they both laughed.
Toby came back on the phone. Anyways, he said. Yeah, she’s here.
I said thanks. Said I was taking off Friday, too, for fiftieth birthday.
Must be nice, he said. To be so young!
I said yes, yes. Nice to be young.
* * *
Sat outside on patio with Bo the rest of morning. Good to be outside in the sunshine, though Bo still having intestinal problems due to crate padding in guts, et cetera.
Stinton’s party was on my mind. Maybe extravagant, sure, but symbolized life’s accomplishments. Symbolized grabbing hold of life by throat, as Gwen always said. Only: never much wanted to grab hold of life by throat, strangle life until tigers, dwarves popped out. Never desired enough, Gwen said. Head stuck in the clouds. Endearing at first, then maddening for Gwen. Needed me to want more. I said, More what? Just more, she said. Otherwise would never accomplish anything! And would drag everyone else down, like obese unemployed guy in HEY PARASITE! comic strip. Obese guy always taking, even when just daydreaming and enjoying flowers at public park. Doesn’t realize he’s blocking view of flowers for adorable little girl sitting on lap of decorated war veteran in wheelchair, both of them holding tiny American flags. Then obese guy leaves and tosses subsidized candy wrapper on adorable little girl’s head, makes her cry.
Took out notepad and started writing new resolution list.
Get in shape. Depressing, kind of. Implied existing shapelessness. Crossed out and wrote, Continue lifelong improvement of shape. Felt better, wrote in progress in margin. Take Bo for more walks. Which could also be part of shape-improvement plan. Felt like I was maximizing efficiencies already. Learn French. Italian harder than expected, maybe French easier? Imagined running into Gwen on streets of Paris. Saying nice to see you again, but with debonair French accent. Or some quote from Voltaire, et cetera. Something withering? No. Something thoughtful, kind. Then: tip beret and move quietly on, serene, dignified. Bond more with Margot and/or Philip. Tricky. Philip: more resentful, claims bankruptcy/divorce ruined high school experience and denied him chance at non-state-university education. Blames me for lack of direction, occasional trouble with law, having daughter with wooden arm. Margot: less resentful, friendly sometimes. But calls me Uncle Mike, tells people real dad named “Brian David Winston,” killed in line of duty during shootout with serial killer. Keeps scrapbook of real dad. Weird.
Dozed off while shopping online for berets. Dreamed I was a boy again. Down in basement, preparing for first/last performance in front of Mom, Dad, Janet. Michael the Magnificent. Full of joy because in dream, could really do magic. Not just tricks. Family walked in and sat down. Smiling. Anticipating a good show. Nothing up my sleeve. You’ll see Baxter is inside this simple box, et cetera. You’ll see this is a normal saw taken from the shed, et cetera. Golden magician light shone down from Golden Magician! brand spotlight purchased with own money. Thought to self: this is really happy moment. At peace, confident. Unlike in real life, dream family enjoyed the show. No screaming at all. Just wonder.
Woke up to Bo slinking away from fresh pile of something in corner of living room. Poor dog.
* * *
Went through mail after dinner. Usual stuff. Next to last notice, et cetera. You have been preapproved. List of neighborhood Centennials. Stop in and say hello and congratulations!
Was hoping for maybe a birthday card from Margot. Not expecting one from Philip, but maybe from Margot. Just between us, still think of you as real dad. Sorry re: Brian David Winston. Happy BDay. M.
No card, though. Maybe sent it today so card would arrive on Friday? Or even later. P.S. Sorry this is so late. Wanted to make sure found the perfect card!
Last thing was ad from Retirement Recruiters. Congratulated me on upcoming Semi
centennial, asked where I would be in fifty years. Helpful cartoon with two possible scenarios. Scenario 1: cartoon version of me dressed in tuxedo, sipping champagne on yacht, and surrounded by happy great-grandchildren. Heart bubbles floating out of heads of great-grandchildren, signifying love and appreciation. Scenario 2: cartoon version of me living in refrigerator box, hairless and ugly. Surrounded by hairless and ugly great-grandchildren in slightly smaller refrigerator boxes, with no heart bubbles. Not sure why great-grandchildren hairless in scenario 2. Familiar RR logo on the back, man in top hat dancing into coffin, children holding hands encircling globe behind him. Take One for the Team! Early Retirement Pay-Out Option Starts at 50!
Tossed in recycling and went for walk with Bo. Passed by Stinton and Bonnie sitting on their porch drinking mint juleps served by robot butler. Yelled howdy and Stinton kind of nodded toward Bo and me, then closed security gate. Probably Bo reminded him of Cleo, friendship guts, et cetera. Also saw Bridge Guy. Not real name, Bridge Guy. Assume not real name. Came up with name when Margot/Philip were kids, family still together. Margot: Why is bearded guy in army uniform always hanging out under bridge, carrying garbage bag? Me: Because he’s Bridge Guy! Sounded better than deranged homeless veteran. Like maybe he had special powers. Philip always terrified of Bridge Guy, but Margot fascinated. Said he was noble savage. Wrote poems about Bridge Guy, drew pictures of him that she left in garbage cans for him to find. Sweet, weird. Then one day Margot announced that Bridge Guy made her feel bad and she wanted to stop believing in him.
Found him sitting on curb now. Waved at him and said, Nice sunset! But he didn’t look over. Eyes blank and mouth hanging open, maybe just his sunset-enjoying face? Waved again and kept walking. Few steps later Bridge Guy stood up and staggered forward, flailing arms like zombie, or like sad homeless person. I grabbed a random bill from my wallet. Left it on sidewalk, headed quickly around corner with Bo.
Reached the field at the Civil War park and Bo sat down, wouldn’t move. Maybe tired out due to infrequent walks. I said let’s get back for special treats and he pretended to fall asleep, knew from past experience special treats actually green beans.
