“A writer always has something to say,” Elsa said, and I suspected she felt that was the right answer. True, even.
I had learned that it was never that simple.
“Not always,” I said. “Writers take days off, too.”
“But you’ve taken years off,” she said.
“A few,” I said. “That’s how it works sometimes. Or how it doesn’t work, that is.”
“Nobody wants to work all the time,” Matt said. “For sure.”
“There you go,” I said and Matt grinned again. I suspected that it was all the validation he needed.
“Wisdom from a guy still looking for a job,” Elsa said, pointing at Matt and then thumping him lightly on the forehead.
“But it has to be work worth doing,” Matt said. “Right, Professor Carter?”
I hesitated. “Certainly we want our work to have value, Matt.”
After another awkward pause, I offered more tea. They glanced at each other and Elsa said, “Well, I guess we should be going. We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Nobody else is asking for my time,” I said, “so you’re welcome to theirs, too.”
“Good one, Professor Carter,” Matt said.
“Life’s a series of one-liners, Matt,” I said.
“Very much so,” Matt said.
Elsa thumped his forehead lightly again.
“Don’t speak, Mattboy.”
He nodded, appeared confused again. I was betting Matt was getting real tired of being thumped on his forehead. Clearly she wore the pants.
“He’s in outlaw mode,” Elsa said to me as though Matt was not there.
I walked with them down the stairs to the side door and held it open as they filed out to the driveway.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I said. “Good luck with that outlaw thing, Matt.”
“Keep listening to Tom Petty,” Matt said, saluting and then drifting slowly down the driveway to their car. He had already shifted mentally to wherever and whatever their next stop was.
“Keep after posterity, Matt,” I said, and he turned and grinned. Matt was clearly an ass man. An ass outlaw.
Elsa offered a hand and the lingering handshake revealed the soft warmth of her hands. Pink hands. Small hands. I tried not to think about fucking her and couldn’t quite manage it. Then I had to try not to think about Matt fucking her. I wasn’t successful.
“Keep writing, Elsa,” I said. “It all starts somewhere.”
“I know,” she said, “but where does it end?”
“That would be a good story to tell, I suspect.”
“Maybe I’ll try.”
“You should,” I said.
“What about you,” she said. “What stops you?”
“Inertia, maybe. Gravity.” I shrugged, tried to smile gamely. “Who knows? Some days I think I might sit down and never get up again. Maybe melt into the sofa.”
“You won’t do that,” she said.
“You can’t be sure, Elsa. I can’t be sure.”
“I’m confident you won’t.”
“You have the confidence of youth.”
“But you have the confidence of experience, right?” she said. A breeze swept her hair across her face and she pulled it back and smiled.
“You should write something, Professor. You were good.”
I frowned slightly. “Maybe I will. You never know. And just call me Bryce the next time.”
“There’s always a next time. Do you believe that … Bryce?”
“I will if you will.”
“Then I’ll believe it,” Elsa said. “For sure.”
She turned and walked a few steps, then halted and looked over her shoulder at me, not quite smiling but not quite frowning, either. I watched her all the way to her car, noting that Matt was right about posterity—she certainly had a good one.
Chapter 5: Whiskey River
One day I looked for Black Kitty and found him sniffing curiously at the side door. I looked out the little window, but did not see anything or anyone, and so I opened the door and stuck my head out—careful not to violate the prime directive and set a foot outside. As I pulled my head back and began to shut the door, I saw an envelope sitting in the mailbox. Retrieving it, I saw that it had no stamp and no writing at all, and anyway it was too early for the chirpy-voiced mail carrier to show up to drop mail and critique the state of my driveway, which looked okay to me, with just the thinnest of white coatings. I did notice that there were tracks in the snow leading to my door and back out to the street, which had been cleared, and there the tracks ended and the envelope mystery began.
The sealed envelope became a test of will of sorts and remained on the coffee table for days. Each day I challenged myself not to open it, not to learn what mystery might be behind it, who might be behind it, what its purpose might be, whether there was mystery at all. I felt very satisfied every day that I managed to avoid opening it, and sometimes I congratulated myself for not even glancing at it. Once, Black Kitty knocked it on to the floor and I did not notice for hours. When I did pick it up, I tossed it back onto the coffee table without giving much thought to the fact that it was an unopened letter. I felt sure the envelope was not a bill, or from a family member, or anyone I could think of or even imagine, and I was not expecting an envelope from anyone in the universe, or even the universes of Mormons and Scientologists. The rules and boundaries of my self-exile had eliminated the expectation of any mail other than bills. I was sure this letter did not come from the chirpy letter carrier and so it was an x-factor as far as fate was concerned, and as far as I was concerned. The letter might well exist outside of the normal channels of fate. Perhaps it was a wild card, the joker in the deck, a mutation, and I was happy to believe that I controlled the letter’s effect on my destiny regardless of whether I opened it in a week, a month, a year, or never.
After a time, I realized the envelope had no magnetic pull, no overwhelming power over me, and that to resist the letter might be a very good thing because in resisting it I was asserting myself in my relationship with fate. I was declaring that I had a say in things—in fate—and a degree of control, perhaps a large degree of control. By not opening it, I was establishing that my life might go on fatefully without receiving whatever message the letter carried and which might be a factor in fate if I opened the envelope and allowed what was inside to become activated along a channel of fate. After a few more days, I secured the unopened envelope to the side of the refrigerator with a magnet so I would not automatically encounter it every time I pulled open the door.
* * *
Bennie came back, of course. Drunks are stubborn, and so it didn’t surprise me to hear him knocking again on the side door. Drunks want a drinking partner and don’t give up easily. It was tempting to just not answer the door, but of course he knew I was home. I was always home.
I eased down the steps to the door, still hoping he’d get tired of knocking and move on. That depended, I knew, on how recently he’d taken his last drink. If he hadn’t been to Louie’s yet, the gravitational pull from the bar could soon suck him away from my door. But if he’d stopped somewhere on the way over, he was fueled for a bit and might linger. No doubt he was convinced that a drink could yet be had at my house.
“I know you’re home, Bryce,” he called as he knocked again.
I looked over my shoulder, up the steps. Even Black Kitty had a skeptical look on his face. I waited a few more seconds and opened the door.
“About fucking time, Chief,” Bennie said, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“You’re not coming in with that cigarette, Bennie. That rule hasn’t changed.”
I had meager hopes we could fight our skirmish at the door and he would soon be snatched by the drunks’ tractor beam from Louie’s and sucked up into the sky and out of sight.
He smirked, blew smoke my way.
“Have it your way,” he said, and flipped the butt toward the street.
“In my house, it�
�s always my way, Bennie.”
“Used to be, you didn’t much care what happened in your house.”
“Used to be,” I said. “Now we’re beyond ‘used to be.’ ‘Used to be’ is fifty miles behind us.”
“The clever writer.”
“I can claim to have been a writer. I’m not claiming clever.”
“Lost your mojo, Bryce like in ice?”
He had the ugliest smirk I’d ever seen. I knew better than to allow the conversation to drift into mojos and writing.
“What do you really want, Bennie? I’m not going to Louie’s with you.”
“Who said anything about Louie’s, Chief?”
“Have you already been there … Chief?” I said. “Or are you on the way?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not to me,” I said. It was cold and I began to hope the cold would motivate him to seek out a drink.
“Can’t a guy look up an old pal?” Bennie said, attempting to smile sweetly, but his bad teeth defeated the effort.
“We did that already, Bennie.”
“You won’t invite an old buddy in? It’s cold out here, Bryce.”
“There’s no booze here, Bennie. That rule hasn’t changed, either.”
“So you said, Chief. But it’s still cold out here.”
“Okay,” I said, hoping that giving in meant I was the better man and simply demonstrating good hospitality. He followed me up the stairs to the kitchen.
“How about some tea, Bennie?”
“Iced tea?” he said,
“I was thinking hot tea, Bennie. It’s a cold day, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed. But I’d prefer iced tea.”
“All right,” I said. “Iced tea it is.”
“I’ll go sit with your cat, Chief,” Bennie said as he headed to the living room.
“The cat doesn’t want to go to Louie’s, either,” I called.
“Funny guy,” he called back. “You should be a writer.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” I said, too quietly for him to hear.
When I took Bennie his tea I was pleased to see that Black Kitty was keeping his distance. I figured cats knew horseshit when they smelled it.
I sipped my tea and watched Bennie sip his and then make a face.
“Not enough sugar, Chief?” I said.
“The sugar’s fine,” he said. “But something’s missing.”
“You want some honey in it?” I said. “I’ve got honey.”
“Honey’s for pussies,” he said. He dug into his coat pocket and produced a pint bottle of whiskey. “This is what she needs, Chief.” He poured a good amount into his tea and gulped it. “Now that’s tea, Chief,” Bennie said.
“You’re an asshole, Bennie,” I said quietly.
“But a thoughtful asshole,” he said, holding up the pint bottle. “See? It’s Canadian Club, Chief. Your old favorite.”
“A thoughtful asshole is still an asshole, Bennie. It doesn’t change the odor.”
“More clever-writer shit, Chief.” He leaned forward. “Now let me spice up your tea, Chief, for old times’ sake.”
I sipped my tea.
“Old times are called ‘old’ for a reason, Bennie. That’s because people move on from them.”
He extended the bottle toward me.
“Just a nip, Chief?” he said. “I know you want it.”
Perhaps there was a particle of my being that would have taken a drink, but that particle was now too small to matter, like the last dying ember of a fire that isn’t going to flame into sudden life.
He grinned and leaned closer across the coffee table, swinging the bottle back and forth.
“Just let me sweeten your tea, Chief, and we’ll be back to the old days. You remember the good old days, Bryce? You enjoyed the good old days.”
I looked at his ugly face for a moment and then at the bottle. I leaned forward and his grin widened.
“There you go, Chief,” he said. “Come to papa.”
I grinned and scooted even closer, but then I swung a fist hard and knocked the bottle from his hand and against the brick fireplace, where it shattered. I could smell the whiskey dripping down the bricks.
Bennie eased back on the sofa.
“A waste of good whiskey, Chief.”
I dug into a pants pocket and found a twenty and tossed it onto the coffee table.
“Go buy yourself a replacement, Bennie. Buy two for all I care.” I stood up. “Now get out, Chief, and don’t come back.”
He gulped his drink and picked up the twenty.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll get myself a pint and one for you. I’ll leave yours at your door, for the next time. How’s that, Chief?”
I stepped across the coffee table and grabbed Bennie by his throat with both hands and put a knee in his chest. He looked awfully surprised. I couldn’t quite believe it myself.
“There’s no next time, Bennie. Do you hear me?” I put my face almost against his. “There’s no fucking next time, no fucking more Canadian Club and Crown Royal. There’s no more anything.”
“Get the fuck off me.”
I pushed my knee hard into his chest and he coughed. He brought his huge hands up to my arms, but he couldn’t dislodge my grip.
“Let me up,” he said, his voice squeaky from the pressure of my hands. Instead I increased the pressure against his throat and he struggled, but could not get free. Adrenaline had given me the advantage. Slowly I relaxed my grip and stood up. Bennie coughed a few times and got up slowly. I expected a fight, but he apparently didn’t have it in him. He looked at me a moment, more surprised than angry, and then I followed him to the side door. He stood in the driveway, still massaging his throat, and turned back to me.
“You’ll be back,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “They always come back.”
“Others do, but not me.”
“What makes you so special, Chief?” he said.
“It’s not about being special, or not special, Bennie.”
“Then what’s it about?”
I thought about it a few seconds. “It’s about saving your life, Bennie. Before it’s too late.”
He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh and not convincing. Then he walked toward his car. He stopped once and said, “You’ll be back, Chief. Trust me.”
I watched him drive away and knew it was the last time I’d have to hear him say that.
* * *
It truly had become the winter of blizzards, a record season of them, the television proclaimed. Another descended ferociously, the wind howling and driving snow horizontally, and I felt concern for the neighborhood boy and his wonder machine when he showed up rather skeptically to once again clear my driveway. He worked harder and longer than before and wore a thick blue scarf across his mouth and lower face, a green watch cap pulled down tightly over his ears. It was slow going to clear the drive. I watched him struggle and then filled out a check for double the amount.
The chirpy letter carrier came to my side door, even though she had no mail for me that day, and complimented me on the state of my driveway while she stamped her feet to dislodge caked snow off her boots. I was sure she thought that each time the driveway was cleared I had bundled up like an Eskimo and worked hard to clear it just to satisfy her, and her rules. That made us buddies under rather false circumstances. I did nothing to discourage what I was sure she believed, and I nearly asked her about the unopened envelope sitting to the side of the refrigerator, but I knew she had not delivered it, so I merely smiled and offered a sloppy salute. She trudged down the sidewalk, which had not yet been cleared. As she struggled to make her way, I wondered, only momentarily, whether I should someday invite her in for a cup of hot chocolate or tea.
Very late in the day the snow went from deluge to a trickle. Soon I could see the familiar and stoic sparrows huddled on power lines, and even a blue jay and several energetic cardinals. Finally a crow appeared, sat on a branch of
the tree by the deck, and looked defiantly in my direction. I went to the window, pressed my face against the glass, and waved at the crow as it cocked its black head to one side. I saw its beak open, but I did not hear anything, and then it allowed itself to drop off the branch into a shallow flight across the yard and out of sight toward a frozen lake just beyond a thick stand of trees.
* * *
When I looked out a window at the snow, I wondered whether snow was a frozen river dispersed into more parts than could be counted or comprehended. I knew snow was symbolic enough of something—something capable of whitewashing things, of overwhelming things, coating things and hiding things, and even swamping things. My life had been swamped for a long time as I climbed out of one mess after another, soaked to the skin and shivering, washed up on a shore like so much flotsam from a maritime wreck, masts sticking up bent and splintered grotesquely toward a sullen sky, bodies in my wake. An odd part of me propelled me to the basement. I scoured it closely and found yet another pint bottle of whiskey, this one with even more amber liquid in it than the previous bottle, and once again I sat and held the bottle and looked through the amber liquid as I held it up to the light.
Soon Black Kitty came down the steps and brushed against my legs, and by this time I had opened the bottle and smelled the amber contents and jiggled the bottle to see the amber fluid sloshing like little waves—little amber waves hiding a giant amber river that could jump its banks and drown everything. A watery genie that could seep from the bottle and grow into a giant. I judged that I likely came very close to tasting the amber liquid, but something lowered the bottle so near my lips. Something as unseen as colorless gas compelled my arm to fall. I did not quite understand the force behind that action, but I appreciated it very much and admired it, and this time, instead of going upstairs to pour the amber liquid into the snow, I walked over to the drain in the floor by the washing machine. I slowly emptied the amber liquid down the drain until only a dark stain remained for a few moments around the mesh of the screen.
* * *
Then there were the sharp-edged, prickly days of looking back into the past darkly, and remembering what it was like to be swept along in Willie Nelson’s Whiskey River. I bobbed maniacally, the alcohol permeating all cells, to the bone, a man thoroughly drenched, saturated, pickled, like a bloated fish swimming in alcohol, a battered soul drowning, the current too strong to swim against. My willpower was easily swamped as the current took me nowhere, but always downriver, until fate, I supposed, deposited me on shore, half in and half out of the Whiskey River, and here, in this house, in this exile.
Exile on Kalamazoo Street Page 5
