I sat on the stairs and waited to see if Bennie would just go away, but he knocked hard again, and I concluded that while I had no problem pretending not to be home, he likely knew I was here, and to avoid reality would be to backslide—something I didn’t want to do. Black Kitty appeared at my side on the stairs. After rubbing him behind the ears a moment while Bennie knocked some more, I trudged on down and swept the curtain aside. Bennie was lighting a cigarette. I motioned toward the side door. When I got there, the cigarette was dangling obscenely from a corner of his mouth.
“No smoking in the house, Bennie.”
“And good afternoon to you, too, Bryce.” He exhaled blue smoke and grinned, revealing front teeth headed in different directions.
I’d forgotten just how bad his teeth looked. We stared at each other for an awkward moment.
“Chief, you going to let me in?” he asked impatiently.
“Not with that cigarette.”
He arched his eyebrows and then squinted at me. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“You a tree hugger now, Bryce? Greenpeace, maybe?”
“I don’t want to help you smoke a cigarette, Bennie.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
“It’s not ‘before’ anymore, Bennie. Now it’s after before.”
“Sounds complicated … and clever.”
He smirked and took a last puff, flicked the cigarette toward the street. It landed in my driveway. That annoyed me, but I decided to let it pass. I didn’t want to let him in, but then I did, out of some weak notion of civility. He followed me up the stairs to the living room and asked for a beer.
“There’s no beer, Bennie.”
“How about Crown Royal?”
“There’s no booze at all. Nothing.”
He took that in for a moment and then leered.
“You’ve probably got something stashed. Downstairs, maybe?”
“Search the house if you like, Bennie.”
“Oh that’s right,” he said, nodding his head and looking quite smug. “You’re on the wagon, so I hear.”
“I’m not on the wagon,” I said. “I pushed the wagon off a cliff. Kind of a difference.”
“That’s what they all say.” He smirked for added effect.
“Have you ever said that, Bennie?”
He shrugged. “I’m not pushing wagons off cliffs. Wagons have a way of coming back. Why bother pushing them?”
I looked over Bennie’s head, to where the stairs disappeared past a shelf above the sofa and Black Kitty peeked around the corner. It was just his head, and he did not seem interested in coming down. I vaguely wished Black Kitty would trade places with me.
“What are you pushing, Bennie?”
“Not a damn thing, old pal.”
“You were just in the neighborhood.”
“I’ve been in this neighborhood a lot, Bryce old buddy.”
“True enough,” I said. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of today’s visit?”
“I was headed to Louie’s. Figured I’d see how you were hanging.”
“And maybe get a free Crown Royal, too.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And it’s not the last time, Bennie. The last time has already happened.”
“Months ago, Bryce. A long time. People finally stopped asking about you at the bar.”
“Good. I’ve stopped thinking about the place. So it works out pretty well.”
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed softly.
“It’s not far, you know, Bryce. A short drive. We could go there now. Ten minutes and we’re there. Less than ten minutes if I drive fast.”
“No thanks,” I said. “But it’s terribly thoughtful of you. And please, drive safely.”
He chuckled, seemed to relish the sarcasm.
“Plenty of Canadian Club there, at Louie’s, Bryce. That’s your drink, right?”
I smiled sweetly and settled into my chair.
“I don’t have a drink, Bennie.”
“You used to, my friend. You sure did. Probably still do.”
“You’re living in the past, Bennie. I’ve moved on.”
“That’s noble. Maybe you should run for pope.”
“I’m not Catholic. Sorry.”
“Jesus, Bryce. Lighten up.”
“I’m light enough.”
“You might just blow away, my friend,” he said.
“Not your concern, Bennie. Or the pope’s, either.”
“Just trying to help.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “But whatever. I hear Louie’s calling you, Bennie. Don’t want to be late now, do you?”
He laughed and exposed those ugly front teeth.
“If you can hear it calling me, my friend, you can hear it calling you, too,” he said.
I looked away, toward the fireplace for a moment and then up higher to a painting of a sloop on a lake of sparkling blue water and charcoal clouds in the distance. I had to concede that he had a point. That was the real danger for me, that somehow I’d lose perspective and succumb to the allure of dissipation. Whiskey River still existed in the world. I had poured it out of my house, out of me, but it was still in the world.
“Nothing is calling me, Bennie. Except maybe dinner.”
He shifted his weight against the arm of the sofa. I could tell he was ready for a drink, needed a drink soon. Wanted a drink. Wanted to ease into a drink like someone cold easing into a Jacuzzi. Whiskey River was his friend forever. They were married and there would be no divorce.
“Where’s your sense of humor, Bryce? We used to have a lot of fun. Didn’t we all have fun?”
I shrugged. “Maybe we remember it all differently now, Bennie.”
“We threw some great parties, Bryce. Lots of fun right here in this house.”
“It’s not a whorehouse anymore, Bennie. It’s just a house.”
“That’s a damn shame,” he said, glancing quickly around the room. “It was a good whorehouse.”
“Depends on your perspective, Bennie.”
“Oh, now you have perspective, Bryce. I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“That’s right, I don’t,” he said. “No need for it.” He leaned forward as though sharing a secret. “Life doesn’t need to be more complicated than it is.”
“That’s all you’ve got, Bennie? Barroom philosophy, barstool philosophy?”
“I recall you were pretty free with philosophy when your smug ass squatted a stool, Bryce.”
“Fair enough.” I had to give him that one. “But I’m not complicating my life. I’m working on simplifying it.”
“Good luck with that, Bryce. Good luck with that shit, for sure.”
“That’s real good of you, Bennie. Nice.”
“Hey, I’m a good guy, man.”
“A legend in your own mind.”
He smirked and stared at me. “Well, I used to be good enough for you, anyway. Before your shit stopped stinking, that is.”
“That’s not what it’s about, Bennie.”
“I bet you don’t even know what it’s about,” he said.
“My problem, not yours.”
“I need a fucking cigarette,” he said and got up and walked out of the room.
“You know the way out, Bennie,” I called.
“You’ll be back, Bryce,” he yelled as he passed through the kitchen. “We’ll keep a barstool warm for you.”
“Knock yourself out, Bennie. With a Louisville Slugger. Swing for the fence.”
I heard the side door shut and I sat there a minute with a kaleidoscope of images from the past swirling around in my head. I could visualize Bennie giving me the finger as he drove away. Black Kitty skipped down the stairs and jumped in my lap.
* * *
The next day there were more loud knocks at the front door. Was my house now on the register of historic places? Or a stop on a tour of ex-drunks? I briefly considered fixing the
doorbell for a change of pace if people were going to keep showing up. But that would have required going outside, a rank violation of exile. And perhaps demanded more mechanical acumen than I possessed or cared to acquire. As I walked to the door from the kitchen, I figured it must surely be the good Rev. Mortensen, returning my smutty and vulgar novel.
Or, if my luck was truly and gloriously bad, it was Bennie again, drunk, and determined to get me to jump into Whiskey River with him. But then I realized both of them would probably remember to knock on the side door. I peered cautiously over the top of the front door curtain and saw two of my former students, Elsa Jurgens and Matt Whitehouse. It took a few seconds to recall the names. In my last year at the college, they had taken my Introduction to Literature course and then my creative writing class. Both had met in the morning, so I was usually sober. Maybe they even learned something. All I had learned at that time—barely—was not to drink before classes.
I opened the curtain, smiled, and pointed toward the driveway and side door. They looked as shiny and expectant as I dimly recalled they always had been. Elsa was still a Midwestern corn-fed beauty with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Matt was athletic looking, almost stocky, but didn’t play sports that I recalled. His almost black hair seemed longer. Both wore dark, full-length wool coats. As they trudged up the steps into the kitchen, I wondered whether they had become a couple—or maybe had always been a couple—and I just never gave it much thought. I had spent a lot of time concentrating on staying sober long enough to conduct classes.
I served tea in the living room. Black Kitty appeared and sat between them on the sofa as though there to chaperone. Elsa massaged his favorite spot—just behind his ears.
“He’s adorable, Professor Carter.”
I nodded, smiled, but added, “I’m not Professor Carter anymore, but yes, he’s adorable. And he knows it.”
“You quit teaching for good?” Matt said.
“I think teaching quit me,” I said, remembering to smile and seem upbeat, positive.
“Were you fired, Professor Carter?” Elsa said.
“No.” I sighed softly, looked into the dead embers in the fireplace for a moment. “One day I just wandered away and didn’t go back.”
“I know what that’s like, for sure,” Matt said, nodding and chewing on his lower lip.
“Do you really, Matt?” I said, my skepticism perhaps a little too clear. “How so?”
Matt shrugged, and Elsa poked his ribs good-naturedly.
“I flunked out not long after you left,” Matt said.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “That qualifies. I guess I sort of flunked out, too.”
“But Matt went back later and graduated,” Elsa said quickly. “He likes to forget that part of the story … to seem like an outlaw, I guess, though I have no idea why.”
Matt smirked, as if Elsa’s version was satisfying.
“That’s the best part of the story, Matt—redemption,” I said. “Didn’t I teach you not to leave out the best part?”
“He got a C in creative writing,” Elsa said. “I got an A.”
Matt shrugged but maintained his falsely buoyant smile, despite his general apathy.
“Of course you did, Elsa,” I said. “Are you still writing?”
Her smile erupted and rippled across her face.
“I had some poems in an online journal.”
“Good for you,” I said, forcing my smile wider.
“I know it’s just a small online site,” she said.
“We all have to start somewhere,” I said. “Hemingway once complained that he could only get published in an obscure German magazine.”
“But then he became Hemingway,” Elsa said.
“He worked hard,” I said. “He didn’t give up.”
“Like that Tom Petty song,” Matt said abruptly.
“Tom Petty?” Elsa said. She shot him a frown. “You’re equating Tom Petty with Hemingway?”
Looking a little lost, Matt shifted awkwardly on the sofa.
“I just meant that line from the song. You know, that song about never backing down, no matter what.”
“It’s a damn fine sentiment,” I said. “I like the song, too.”
“Really?” Matt said. “You listen to Tom Petty?”
“Sure I do.”
“Who else?”
“The Stones, mostly. I’m a Stones fan.”
“The Stones are awesome,” Matt said. “They’re like a hundred years old and still rocking.”
“Keith Richards is my hero,” I said.
Elsa rolled her eyes and Matt scratched his chin.
“Which one is he?” Matt said.
“The ugly guitarist,” I said. “Dr. Death.”
Elsa sniffed. “That doesn’t narrow it down far enough.”
“Good line, Elsa,” I said. “Save it for a story, or a poem.”
Her face lit up. “Maybe I should. Do you have any advice for me, Professor Carter? As a writer?”
“Inherit money.”
She blinked several times. “Would that help?”
“Depends on how much money,” I said. “If it’s a lot, you could avoid writing.”
She looked confused and after a few seconds said, “You’re joking with me, Professor Carter.”
“Sure I am,” I said, nodding and not forgetting to smile.
“I agree,” Matt said suddenly and too loudly. “If you got money, why would you need to write?”
Elsa poked his ribs again, but harder. “To create something, Mr. Buzzkill. For your posterity.”
“For my ass?” Matt said.
“Posterity, not posterior,” she said. “God, Matt, you don’t know your posterity from a hole in the ground.”
I laughed. It was a good line. Maybe there was a writer in Elsa after all.
“Definitely hold on to that one, Elsa,” I said. “That one is memorable.”
She elbowed Matt gently. “See? I’m on the right track, even if you don’t appreciate it.”
“But I do appreciate your posterity,” Matt said. “I admire it all the time.”
He glanced at me and winked. I kept a neutral expression and looked at Elsa, who either didn’t catch his meaning or chose to ignore it. She looked instead at Black Kitty and traced a finger between his ears. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to fuck Elsa. Pretty good, I suspected. Maybe even amazing, spectacular. She was, after all, about 23 or so. I was an exile, but still a man. I finally made the notion go away with some difficulty. I had never slept with a student—as long as she was still my student, that is—despite several opportunities, and I knew it was one of the few accomplishments from recent years I could still be proud of.
There was a long pause as I watched them gaze around the room. Matt looked ready for a nap or a beer or a baseball game … anything but socializing with a former professor. Elsa cleared her throat several times.
“Your hair is much longer, Professor Carter,” she said. “I like it.”
“Thanks. I’m auditioning for the Allman Brothers Band,” I said a little too snarkily.
Matt arched his eyebrows. “I never heard of that band.”
“Before your time,” Elsa said.
“And before yours, too, Elsa,” I said, dropping the snarkiness.
“But I have heard of them,” she said sweetly.
“You play an instrument, Professor Carter?” Matt said.
“I can tap my fingers to the beat pretty nicely, Matt, but, no.”
“Who are these Allman dudes?” he said.
“Half of them are dead now,” I said, “like The Beatles.”
“Who’s dead from The Beatles?” Matt said.
Elsa sniffed and punched his arm.
“Matt Whitehouse,” she said sternly, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve never heard of John Lennon?”
“Heard of him? Sure. He’s dead?”
“Years ago,” I said.
“How’d it happen?” Matt said.
“Someone shot him,” I said. “A fan.”
“That was no fan,” Matt said, shaking his head.
“George Harrison’s dead, too,” Elsa said. “He was my favorite Beatle.”
“Not Paul?” I said.
“Paul was cute. Even now. But George was … soulful.”
I nodded and felt ‘soulful’ was about as good a word for George Harrison as any other.
“Did someone shoot George, too?” Matt said.
“Cancer,” I said.
“Bummer,” Matt said, “but I guess he was old.”
“He was fifty-eight, Matt,” I said. “Is that old?”
“It’s not old at all,” Elsa said.
“Are you fifty-eight, Professor Carter?” Matt asked.
“Not for a good number of years yet, Matt.”
“God, what a thing to ask, Matt Whitehouse,” Elsa said.
Matt shrugged, frowned. I figured Matt mostly listened to rap and concluded that somehow people talking was actually music and somehow actually art. Black Kitty slipped off the sofa and rubbed against my legs before jogging off toward the kitchen.
“So, Professor Carter,” Elsa said, trying to steer us back to the mundane, “what do you do these days to keep busy?”
I shrugged, unsure what to say.
“A new book is coming along, I hope,” she said, edging forward on the sofa as though awaiting an announcement. “Another new novel, maybe?”
“I keep busy around the house, Elsa. Laundry and plenty of chores. Maybe I should get that doorbell fixed.”
“Aren’t you writing?” she said with a frown.
“I’m not, no.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Don’t forget about posterity,” Matt said, no doubt hoping the line was still funny.
“I’m afraid I mostly sit on my posterity, Matt.”
“Good one, Professor Carter.” He nodded approval.
“But, if you have the time,” Elsa said, “you could write a new novel.”
I shrugged and eased back farther in my chair.
“Maybe I don’t have anything to say, Elsa.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Maybe he doesn’t have anything to say. Stick to your guns, Professor.”
“Thanks, Matt. That’s what helps get me through my hours of need.”
Matt nodded, grinned. “No problem.”
Exile on Kalamazoo Street Page 4
