“I’m only saying,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“Did you shave?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Did you shave, Mikey?”
“Not yet,” he said, fingertips against the coarse hairs on his cheek.
“It gets better, Mikey,” she said. She hadn’t called him Mikey in years, but these last four days, she did so every time they talked. “Remember what I told you,” she said.
From where he sat, he saw the detritus from the All-Occasion Basket he’d bought at Harry & David in Fashion Island. He’d been feeding off pears, apples, cheddar cheese, honey-roasted nuts, and smoked sausage, and had subsequently suffered mild constipation, in four days discharging three firm marble-sized shits. Now all that remained was half a jar of Wild ’n Rare Strawberry Preserves and Moose Munch Popcorn.
“Sure it does,” he said, and he wanted to hold her through the telephone, drag her with him through his pain. Tears were in his eyes, and one slid down his cheek before he rubbed it away.
“I’m unraveling,” he said.
“That’s okay,” she said tenderly. “Sometimes you have to; sometimes it’s necessary.”
“Tell me something,” he said. “Was I an asshole? I mean, what happened to me?”
“You became a Republican,” she said, deadpan.
“I mean it,” he said. “Did I act like a rich prick?”
Her dryer buzzed and the rattling stopped. She seemed to be considering his question, and he didn’t want to press, hoping she would be honest. She sighed theatrically.
“Answer,” he said.
“Water under the bridge, Mikey,” she said, confirming his suspicion. “Water under the bridge.”
Walking to the front door of the house he had lived in just four days ago, Michael was aware that the past was dominating the present, every detail loaded with memory. Before he rang the doorbell, the front door opened and he realized Anthony had been waiting, watching from a chair positioned to allow him to look out a small window carved near the top of the door. Anthony smiled sadly, bravely, a gap in his mouth from a lost tooth, as if acknowledging the seriousness of the visit but trying to make Michael less nervous. His hair had recently been cut short so that his ears appeared vulnerable, fleshy. Michael hadn’t seen him in four days, and the haircut startled him. Anthony looked older, holding his Ninja Turtle backpack, unzipped, filled with toys, and it never failed to astonish him how much they looked alike, even though genetically this made sense. “Daddy,” Anthony said, his face crumbling all at once. He let go of the backpack. “Daddy, Daddy.”
“Anthony,” Michael said, lifting him, hugging him tightly to his chest. He swayed Anthony back and forth—Anthony’s fingers clutched the hairs near the back of his neck, and it hurt, but he didn’t ask him to stop. Anthony was a sensitive boy, thin for his age, particular about food, with dark eyes and a naturally down-turned mouth. He cried with frequency and like most children, he was partial to physical contact, wanting to touch, kiss, and hold hands. The sharp angles of his shoulder blades, the definition of his ribs, and the slimness of his arms and legs filled Michael with a stinging, protective devotion.
Certain that Anthony was done crying, he set him down, and there was a wet splotch on his shirt, below his chin, from Anthony’s damp face. He knew Penny was inside somewhere, and he hoped she’d witnessed the emotional exchange, thinking, See what you’ve done. When he looked past the door, he saw only the ticking clock on the mantel, a light from the kitchen, the antique Persian rug, and he shut the front door. He had agreed to have Anthony back by four.
Anthony’s small hand in his filled him with a longing to reestablish his dignity, and as they walked the front walkway to his BMW—Deader Industrial’s BMW—he vowed to be strong. With a flash of irritation, he saw from the dry soil that his roses—his Rugosas and Albas and his climbing Don Juans—hadn’t been watered. Despite Penny’s protestations, he’d shunned the idea of a gardener, taking on the responsibility, not submitting to the homeowner association’s pressure to hire a community gardener for “aesthetic uniformity.” He’d planted the roses on the southeast side of the house so that at four o’clock each afternoon, they’d get a couple of hours of shade. The hose was coiled perfectly, unused.
Castaways Park was a large piece of land with a winding dirt path located on a bluff that overlooked all of Newport. He’d taken Anthony to the park many times, so he thought it might be a comforting locale for the separation/divorce discussion. He carried the backpack, and as he put one leg in front of the other, it was as if he were outside his body witnessing a Father and Son walking together. The fingers of Anthony’s left hand clutched at his shirt and he saw the roof of Penny’s house. Beyond was Fashion Island, the apartment tucked somewhere among the glittery buildings. The sun made everything look bright and polished; even the ocean had a glistening surface, reminding him of the slick exteriors of the cars the men washed.
When they arrived at their favorite spot, a slight hill with a wooden bench and a view of Newport Bay, he handed Anthony his backpack. Anthony carried it with him to the grass. “Mom says I have to go to Italy for vacation,” he said offhandedly, releasing and shaking out toys, not looking at Michael. “When she marries Donald.”
The sound of the other man’s name in his son’s voice, associated with marriage and Italy, made his stomach rise, hit the top of his throat, and drop. The agreement had been that he would explain to Anthony, but after the shock subsided, there was some relief that Penny had told Anthony, even if it included her plans to marry another man.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he said, a hint of belligerence in his voice. He walked over to Anthony, ran his fingertips through his hair. Like running my hand through light, he thought.
Anthony moved his head from his father’s touch. “Donald is nice,” he said, facing away. Michael did his best to hold back the hurt from his expression in case Anthony looked at him. “He took me to the Peninsula and I went on the bumper cars, but not the Ferris wheel.”
Michael didn’t say anything.
“He gave me cotton candy,” Anthony said quietly, looking at his toys as if trying to decide which to play with. The last time Michael had taken Anthony to the Peninsula, he hadn’t bought him cotton candy, despite Anthony’s steady pleading, and he knew Anthony was reminding him of this fact.
They didn’t speak for some time. Anthony dug in the dirt with his plastic shovel, forming a shallow hole. Scrape, scrape, scrape. He ignored Michael, acting strangely detached, even callous.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Michael told him. “You probably blame me, but I want you to know I’ll always be your dad.”
Anthony paused from his shoveling and looked at him. “That a beard?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, as if questioning his genetic linkage.
“This,” Michael said, thinking that he would shave and call a lawyer, “is what is called a vagabond look.”
Anthony nodded, unconvinced. “No matter what,” he said, businesslike, “I don’t have to call Donald ‘Daddy.’ Unless I change my mind someday.”
“That’s right,” he said, stifling a catch in his throat, and suppressing his anger. “Don’t you even worry about that. Ever.” He believed that enough hadn’t been said on the subject. “Ever,” he said again.
Angry, distraught, and regurgitating the conversation—the words “marry,” “Donald,” “Italy,” and “Daddy” throbbing in his mind—he watched as Anthony played indifferently with his bucket, shovel, and trucks.
It was in this frame of mind that he witnessed three plump men holding hands and wearing yellow and orange nylon vests, walking along the path. The vests reminded him of what community service workers wore when they picked up trash at the sides of the freeway. He was drawn to the scene by its rarity, and even from a distance, he saw that they weren’t normal by their disorganized and clumsy gaits, despite a man—probably their counselor—trying to keep them
ordered, touching their shoulders and directing. The word “retarded” came to mind, and he wondered if it was no longer an acceptable term.
The group milled around another bench, ten feet away. One of them, the shortest, noticed him watching and waved frantically, as if they knew each other. His earlier conversation with Anthony had made anger coil in his chest like a snake, and if he wasn’t careful, he knew it might strike. The man kept waving and he didn’t respond. But the man wouldn’t give up, and he began walking quickly in their direction, hands swinging at his sides with a determined purpose.
“Who is he?” Anthony asked.
“I have no idea,” Michael said.
The man’s hair was in a lopsided bowl cut and he moved rapidly. His pale and hairy stomach showed through where his shirt had ridden up and the latches on his orange vest had come undone. When he stopped, he stood directly in front of Michael, and before Michael knew what was happening, the man hugged him tightly, arms thick and fleshy wrapped around him. Despite being short, the man was able to lift him from the ground. The swiftness of the event prevented him from responding logically, and he panicked, especially when his feet left the ground. The man smelled like sweat mixed with pancakes. Michael noticed Anthony staring, mouth open. He was set down, his feet settling in the soft grass.
“What the”—he put his hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed—“hell are you doing?”
The man took a step back and regained his balance. He looked crestfallen, his bottom lip jutting out like he might cry.
“Daddy,” Anthony said, standing, “he’s being friends.”
The man’s shoulders were pulled forward, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth, pouched between his lips. But he smiled.
A bewildering empathy came over Michael, softening his anger. The man’s eyes slanted upward and he tucked hair behind one ear with two blocky fingers. The ear appeared unusually small and folded over at the top.
“Kenneth,” the counselor said, reaching them, out of breath. “No, no.” He pulled Kenneth by the arm, but Kenneth shrugged the counselor away.
“Sorry about that,” the counselor said, putting his hands on Kenneth’s shoulders, his fingernails painted a deep purple. “Down syndrome,” he said. He wore nickel-sized earrings in both ears, causing his lobes to distend, and he had a weary look, as if his efforts to control his wards exhausted him.
Kenneth’s body appeared doughy and soft—there was a bleariness to him, as if his joints were loose; his head moved down, up to his left, down, up to his right, as if responding to imaginary music.
“Kenneth seems to have a special connection with you,” the counselor said.
The sun was hot on Michael’s neck and shoulders and sweat had collected on his forehead. “Glad to meet you,” he said, extending his hand for Kenneth to shake.
A surge of affection radiated from Kenneth, and Michael knew what was going to happen even before it did: Kenneth came at him for another hug and this time he submitted. His body slackened and he shut his eyes. Kenneth made sounds, not words—a soft humming noise.
In the seconds of darkness, Michael imagined Anthony’s face watching, and the ocean breeze moved through his hair. When he was set down on the grass again, he opened his eyes, and Kenneth’s mouth and tongue were coming closer. Before he could move, Kenneth kissed the side of his face, settling there, lips hot and cheek sweaty. Kenneth needed to shave, the same as him.
There was wetness on Michael’s hair and the side of his face, but he didn’t wipe with his palm. Kenneth walked back toward the others, and the counselor followed, shooting them a glance over his shoulder, pale and alarmed. When they were a safe distance, the counselor turned and called out, “I’m so sorry,” painted fingernails in the air, as if to suggest defeat. Kenneth’s back was to them, his pants sagging at his rear.
Michael didn’t call back. Feeling as if he’d been smashed and dragged across the park, he wondered what his face must look like—as if he’d shattered into nothing. “Strange,” he heard himself say, and his voice brought him back, like a magnet attracting loose bits of metal. He imagined Kenneth collecting tickets at a movie theater, more useful to the world than he was. Then he saw that Anthony was staring at him, shocked, like he’d never really seen him before.
“Don’t worry,” he said, wanting to reassure Anthony from whatever it was he was thinking. “I’m okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t want to go to Italy,” Anthony said, eyes big, his son again, through and through. Anthony’s head dropped, and he began shaking it determinedly. “I don’t like spaghetti. I don’t like tomato sauce. No planes. I don’t like planes. They smell bad and I don’t like Italy.”
When Anthony looked up, Michael saw that he was about to cry, and that he would need to be held.
Michael found it far more palatable thinking of Anthony, his future outside Deader Industrial LLC, and Penny’s engagement with a few slugs of Wild Turkey inside him. He sat in his apartment with a paper cup from the Arrowhead water dispenser between his legs, the bottle of whiskey within reach, his back against the wall, staring at the heads of the men and women who waited for their cars.
It was dusk, close to closing time, only four customers left. After delivering Anthony to Penny, having a perfunctory conversation with her on the doorstep regarding Anthony’s diet, thinking as he spoke that it was amazing Anthony had once been in his custody, that he’d taken this fact for granted, that he hated Penny for betraying him, and that he would never be allowed to live with Anthony again—“We ate at the Food Court. He had two chicken nuggets and a small fries”—he had stopped at High Time Liquor. Six years had markedly decreased his tolerance, and within two pulls from the bottle in the parking lot on an empty stomach, warmth spreading through his chest down to his groin, he was drunk.
The window was open and he could hear one of the car wash employees whistling. The mustached manager had arrived, and Michael had witnessed the men snapping their towels as an alarm. Thinking about how they looked out for one another made him want to weep.
Instead, he attempted to light a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Reds he’d bought at the same time he’d purchased his Wild Turkey. After repeatedly trying to strike a match from the packet the clerk had given him, it finally sparked, but the match had bent to a ninety-degree angle, confusing the cigarette-lighting process.
Because Penny’s love had been finite, he wondered if she’d ever truly loved him; he was a fool because he loved her, a part of his bones, impossible to extricate. Had he not changed, if he’d proved himself outside the Deader kingdom, like her precious Donald, would she have continued to love him? Would time allow perspective? A gust of fear passed through him, speculating whether Anthony’s love was made of the same ineffably limited substance. But this fear slid from him quickly.
Watching the little fire burn all the way to his fingertips, he decided he didn’t like cigarettes anyway, and he let the cigarette drop from his mouth as he waved the flame away. The desire to smoke had only been to further destroy his and Penny’s “health plan,” which along with abstinence from alcohol, tobacco, and caffeine had included a large vitamin regimen.
He thought about how he’d been disgusted, even frightened by Kenneth, as if Down syndrome might rub off, but in his limited interaction, Kenneth had been more open and alive than anyone he’d interacted with in years. Then he remembered Lisa saying that it was okay to fall apart, that it was necessary, and he wondered if that was what was happening now. If he fell apart, would he come back together as the same man that had married Penny, with the same goals and ideals, or had the Deader influence changed him? He’d grown fond of golf, even the country club—the lifestyle; it had made him feel important, as if his dad could never hurt him again, which didn’t make sense, since his dad was dead. Then he pictured the Deader family like an octopus, tentacles gripped around Anthony.
He finished the whiskey in his paper cup and poured some more. As he drank slowl
y, he thought of how he’d held Anthony, cradling him in his lap while he cried, and he began to cry a little himself, tears sliding down his cheeks and collecting at his chin.
The phone rang, and he knew it was Lisa calling to find out how his visit with Anthony went. He fumbled with the phone, making sure not to answer by speakerphone.
“This afternoon,” he said, “I got blessed by a retard at the park.”
“How’s Anthony?” she asked, pretending not to hear.
“She’s not watering my roses,” he said, wiping his chin with his shirt. He let out a strange soblike laugh. His fingers felt good on his forehead. “They’re dying,” he said.
“Shit, Mikey,” she said. “You’re drunk?”
“You have to bear in mind,” he said, “factors such as temperature, light, humidity, rainfall, soil fertility.”
“Mikey,” she said.
“Shade,” he said, “needs to be taken into consideration.”
“Mikey,” she said. “God.”
“I used to imagine Dad had a timer on his shoulder,” he said. “I had sixty seconds to say what I wanted before I lost his attention. I could almost hear it buzzing.”
“What an asshole,” she said, seemingly forgetting her worries because of her dislike for their father. “Weed out the weak, all that bullshit.” She became impatient. “Why are you thinking about him now? It’s useless.”
“Dad would’ve hated Kenneth,” he said.
“Who’s Kenneth?”
“I love you,” he said. “I’m afraid.”
“Shit, Mikey,” she said gently. “I love you, too.”
“You’re snapping your towel,” he said.
Drift Page 5
