Only Love Can Break Your Heart

by Ed Tarkington

  “What kind of story?” he asked.

  “A true story,” I said.

  He looked down. In one hand he palmed his old Zippo, burnished from years of riding around in his pockets. In the other he held his cigarette, the trail of smoke that trickled off its end fingering its way up and out the open window.

  “I don’t remember any true stories,” he said.

  When we reached the house, William was outside, shooting baskets. It was to be his last week with us. He had seen it coming when Paul started taking his hours in the afternoons. William tried to be cool about it, but you could tell he felt burned. I hadn’t thought it would be that hard to find another sick person who needed to be looked after, but apparently we weren’t the only people having a hard time affording home health care that year.

  Ironically, after months of abusing William with abandon, the Old Man began to regard him as a saintly personage. He grew prone to fits of weeping over how helpless he’d be without William, with no one but the selfish, inept Paul to look after him while his faithless wife was off giving blow jobs to the neighbors. William clearly agreed with the Old Man (about Paul, not the blow jobs).

  We met him at the edge of the side yard by the basketball goal. He tucked the ball under his arm and took out a cigarette. Paul lit one of his own and offered his lighter. William grudgingly tipped his Kool into the flame.

  “How’s the Old Man?” Paul asked.

  “Ah-ight,” William said. “He sleeping.”

  “Good,” Paul replied. “Is Leigh still here?”

  “Uh-huh,” William said. “She visiting with a friend.”

  “A friend?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” William said. “Her friend from up on the hill.”

  William pointed his cigarette past us, down to the fence, where we saw the Culvers’ Velma, saddled and bridled and tied to the fence.

  Paul couldn’t have failed to notice the shock on my face, but he didn’t say a word. He knew about me and Patricia—I’d told him everything. He’d said it seemed like a good experience for me to have had. He was a bit angry at me for selling Leigh out, until I pointed out that if I hadn’t, Leigh might well have ended up living in a gilded Manhattan penthouse as Mrs. Charles Culver. Still, we’d all been a bit too preoccupied with surviving the winter to wonder what might happen when Patricia came back.

  Paul dropped his cigarette to the ground and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, come on then,” he said. “I’d like to meet Leigh’s friend.”

  We found them in the living room. On the coffee table was a silver tray bearing a pair of teacups and saucers, cream and sugar, and a plate of the kind of cookies Patricia would refer to as “biscuits.”

  “Oh, hello, boys,” Leigh said. “Look who’s here.”

  They stood from their seats on the couch in front of the tea tray. I must have been staring quite helplessly at Patricia. She looked fit in her weathered jeans and black turtleneck. Her cheeks were freckled and still rosy from the Florida sun. She wouldn’t look at me; instead she stared at Paul, who regarded her with a like measure of bemused curiosity.

  “I went out with William to have a cigarette after your father went down for his nap,” Leigh said. “Lo and behold, there was Patricia, trotting along on Velma. We had so much to talk about, so I thought we might come in and have a little tea party. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Paul said. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

  “I know,” Patricia said, extending her hand to him. “Patricia.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Paul said.

  “And you,” Patricia said. “You’re quite the legend around here.”

  “I hope you’re not disappointed,” Paul said.

  “How was Florida?” I asked.

  “Oh, fine, I suppose,” she said, her eyes still fixed on Paul. “Humid. Warm. A bit dull. I always find the place disorienting. Winter should be cold. Sunny and eighty-five degrees makes the Christmas tree look a tad out of place. But it’s good for the horses.”

  We heard the Old Man’s voice from down the hall. William disappeared back through the living room door while Patricia continued to scrutinize Paul—mostly, I thought, so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

  “And how is Charles?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”

  “He flew in for Christmas and spent the day with us,” she said. “Then back off to New York, and then back to Venezuela. His company has business there. Very serious and important, I’m told. Normal stuff for Charles, you know—spreading capitalism round the globe.”

  “Charles got married,” Leigh blurted out.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Patricia said, in that exasperatingly disingenuous tone of polite sympathy I had found so pretentious before she won me over with booze and sex. “Mummy and Daddy were quite shocked. It all happened very fast. They met in Caracas. She’s the daughter of some significant personage in the government down there. Daddy claims the marriage was part of a business agreement—like Charles’s company gets a break on barrels of oil in exchange for his marrying the daughter of the local jefe.”

  Patricia grasped Leigh’s hand.

  “It was my understanding that Charles had spoken to Leigh beforehand,” Patricia said. “It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “I’m very happy for him,” Leigh murmured.

  With her free hand, Patricia touched Leigh on the shoulder as if she were comforting a gurgling half-wit.

  “Are you back for good, Patricia?” Paul asked.

  “Actually I’ve found a place just outside Charlottesville,” she said. “I think Mummy and Daddy were ready for me to move along, and I’ve loads of friends in the area.”

  Loads of friends? I thought. She’d never mentioned anyone in Charlottesville to me.

  “She’s found someone,” Leigh said in a comically hoarse stage whisper.

  “Please, Leigh,” Patricia said.

  Patricia blushed. I felt my own face getting hot. I hoped I didn’t look as stung as I felt.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Just a friend from the circuit,” Patricia said.

  “I’d like to meet him,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll bring him around for a visit,” she said. She smiled at me—exasperatingly, I thought. Despite my attentions having shifted elsewhere, I still felt more jealousy than relief.

  “I’m just glad I got to see Leigh before I left,” she said.

  “I hope it won’t be the last time,” Leigh said.

  “I’m sure we have many more little tea parties in our future,” Patricia said.

  She sighed and stretched her back like a sleepy cat.

  “Well,” she said, “I must be off. Can’t leave poor Velma tied to the fence all afternoon. I hope I didn’t impose.”

  “Tell your father I said hello,” Paul said with no discernible trace of irony.

  “I most certainly will,” Patricia said.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Leigh said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Patricia said.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said.

  I held the door open for her and followed her down toward the fence where Velma stood waiting.

  “I’m very sorry about your father, Rocky,” she said. “What an unkind twist of fate, especially after his and Daddy’s unfortunate dealings.”

  “We’re getting along all right,” I lied.

  “Leigh told me about what happened at your school.”

  “Yeah, I guess I blew it.”

  “It sounded a bit out of character for you.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me that well. So,” I said, “Charles ran off and got married.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “He might have told her himself, at least.”

  “Maybe Leigh forgot the conversation. Given her state, she might prefer to block out such painful memories. Then again, Charles can be rather cruel
and remorseless.”

  “He’s not the only one,” I said.

  “Don’t be that way, Rocky,” she said. “It’s so childish, really.”

  Her jaw hardened and her eyes turned cold with spite. I glanced down at the ground. When I looked up, her face had relaxed into the old, intimate air of September.

  “Have you found a girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” I lied, again.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s nothing like you.”

  “Goodness, Rocky,” she said. “I feel a bit wounded.”

  “Why?” I said. “It’s what you said you wanted.”

  “Come again?”

  “For me to find someone more—how did you put it?—worthy.”

  “Now you’re just being spiteful,” she said.

  “What about your new friend?” I asked.

  “Oh, Nelson?” she said. “It’s nothing serious. Just someone to pass the time with. A little fling, you might say.”

  “That’s what you used to say about me,” I said.

  “If I did,” she said, “I meant it differently.”

  Velma snorted and tossed her tail.

  “What happened between us was very special to me, Rocky,” she said. “I mean that, more than I expect you will ever know. But you must have realized it couldn’t last. It was terribly dangerous, more for me than for you. Quite frankly, it still is. If you were to tell anyone . . .”

  “I would never do that,” I said.

  “What about Leigh? She knows.”

  “Not for sure. I mean, she knows, but I never actually told her.”

  “And Paul?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you see, Rocky?” she said. “Do you understand why I just couldn’t carry it on any longer?”

  “Paul would never get you in trouble,” I said. “He thinks it’s cool.”

  “I’m sure he does,” she said dryly.

  She crossed her arms and smiled softly at me.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” she said, “but it was just as painful for me to leave you behind as it must have been for you to let me go.”

  I didn’t bother to summon a response. I knew Patricia well enough to know that she couldn’t be made to feel chastened by how much more favorably things had turned out for her than for me or anyone else.

  Patricia mounted the fence and stepped over and pulled herself up onto Velma’s back.

  “I hope I’ll see you again, Rocky,” she said. “I’m sure I will.”

  20

  ON APRIL 1, THE OLD MAN had another stroke—a transient ischemic attack, or ministroke, the doctor called it.

  “Transient attack,” Paul said. “Sounds like he got mugged by a vagrant.”

  Even my mother laughed at that one.

  It had been a long time since any of us had held out much hope that the Old Man’s health would improve, but as he grew weaker and less easy to manage, it became more and more difficult to hide from each other that we were all privately praying for his death.

  Sometimes, when the Old Man slept, Paul and I would sit on the floor in his room and play chess or backgammon while we listened to records. Most kids my age were into Nintendo by then, but Paul thought video games were for dorks.

  One such afternoon, we were surprised to hear the doorbell ring. We thought it must have been Leigh, making a surprise visit. When we opened the door, we found the Old Man standing there, naked but for his diaper, covered in fresh-cut grass. Next to him stood William, dressed in work clothes, clutching the Old Man’s arm with one hand and a carving knife in the other.

  “Your daddy came calling for Mr. Culver,” William said.

  “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch,” the Old Man muttered.

  We brought him inside and helped him to sit down at the foot of the stairs. I went back to the Royal Chamber to get his clothes. When I returned, Paul was awkwardly brushing him off with a hand towel from the kitchen. The Old Man had begun to shiver and moan.

  “Here,” William said angrily.

  He handed Paul the knife and snatched away the towel. Paul looked on mutely as William cleaned the Old Man with quick, practiced hands, murmuring reassurances as he helped him into his undershirt and flannel button-down and his favorite red cardigan and chinos.

  “Jeez, William,” I said. “How did you find him?”

  “Been helping out at Culver’s stable,” William said.

  William, in my old job! I didn’t think Culver would be shoveling his own horse manure for long. I wondered whether Patricia had invited William in for cocktail hour yet. But she couldn’t have—she was up in Charlottesville, with her new fling.

  “Working for Culver?” Paul asked. “How’d you hook that up?”

  “Needed a job,” William said curtly. “So I went over and asked. Lucky it was me that found him, huh?”

  “I don’t know how he got outside without our noticing,” Paul said.

  “Can’t hear him over y’all records.”

  “He was asleep,” I said. “He always sleeps almost until dinner.”

  “Not always,” William said.

  “I can’t believe he got that far without his walker,” Paul said.

  William put his arm around the Old Man.

  “Guess they a lot you don’t know ’bout your pops,” William said. “You mind if I get him settled?”

  “Sure,” Paul said. “I mean, yeah, thanks.”

  Paul and I lurked in the hallway while William took the Old Man back to his armchair. Paul picked up the kitchen knife from where he had set it on the front hall table and held it up in front of his face. We were both embarrassed, I think, but also a bit amazed—even impressed—that the Old Man’s demented fury could get him all the way across the field and up the hill to Twin Oaks.

  “Son of a bitch,” Paul said, almost admiringly.

  A few minutes later, William emerged from the Royal Chamber.

  “He in bed now,” he said.

  William walked past Paul and out the door without a word. I followed him to his car. He pulled out his pack of Kools and lit one up.

  “He don’t look too good,” William said.

  “He had another stroke,” I said.

  “He need someone to take care of him,” William said. “Someone who know how.”

  “I know,” I said. “We just can’t afford it.”

  William looked past me, over my shoulder, at the house. I knew I couldn’t explain to him what it meant to be “house poor.” Any way I tried to lay it out, we still just sounded cheap.

  “I can’t believe you’re working for Culver,” I said.

  “Gotta eat, Rock,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said, “since you’re around, maybe you could come by and shoot hoops sometime. Or come by when Leigh’s here. I bet she would like to see you.”

  He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, looking me up and down cooly.

  “Keep an eye on your daddy,” he said. “And your brother.”

  NOT LONG AFTER that day with William, Paul didn’t show up to take me home from school. Cinnamon had been gone for at least half an hour before I gave up and went into the office to call home. No one answered, so I took the city bus and walked the mile from the end of the bus line at the intersection of Riverdale and Boone’s Ferry back to the house, as I had done before.

  When I got home, I went back to the Royal Chamber to find the Old Man asleep in his chair with his head tilted forward, a slight, almost invisible string of drool dangling from his lip. In front of him stood Paul, still and solemn. In his hands he clutched a throw-pillow embroidered with a cross-stitch of Noah’s Ark.

  Paul looked up at me, startled. There was something odd about the look in his eyes. When he glanced back down, the Old Man’s eyes were open, watching—pleading, I thought.

  Without a word, Paul grasped the Old Man’s shoulder and gently lifted him forward and bent to kiss him on the forehead. The Old Man’s eyes slowly closed as he drifte
d back off to sleep. Paul silently walked past me, out of the room, all the way out through the front door.

  I followed him to the edge of the yard, where he stood with his arms resting on Culver’s white picket fence. Paul pulled his smokes from his pocket and flipped open his Zippo. We stared at the field as Paul dragged on his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils like a pissed-off dragon.

  “Where is Leigh?” I asked.

  “Something happened,” Paul said.

  Earlier that day, Miss Anita Holt had shown up at the job site where Paul was working, honking the horn and calling his name through the open window. When he reached the blue Buick, Miss Anita had moved over to the passenger seat.

  “You drive, honey,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” Paul asked.

  “To the Culvers’,” Miss Anita said. “And put your foot down.”

  Along the way, Miss Anita explained to Paul how Jane Culver had come out of her house that morning to find Leigh Bowman standing on the hood of her Mercedes dressed in her thin cotton nightgown, carrying on a murmured conversation with the air above her. Mrs. Culver ran back into the house. She tried but was unable to reach Prentiss Bowman. When Jane came back to the window, Leigh was gone. She waited a few minutes before she crept outside, peered around, and ran to her car. Just as she was about to escape, she heard a reedy, high-pitched wail behind her. Leigh was perched on the roof of Twin Oaks at the peak of the highest gable, her arms uplifted as if someone was reaching down for her.

  Mrs. Culver ran back inside and called her husband first and then Miss Anita, who went straight for Paul. When they arrived, they found Brad and Jane Culver and our old friend William, who was trying unsuccessfully to coax Leigh down from the roof.

  “I don’t know how she got up on the roof of that house,” Paul said. “It was like she flew up there.”

  Miss Anita and Paul spoke soothingly to Leigh until finally she sat down on her rear end and slid down the slate tiles to the gutter, where Paul waited for her at the top of a ladder William had brought up from the barn.

  “I asked her what she was doing,” Paul said. “She said she’d seen the angels calling to her.”

  Paul lit another cigarette off the end of the first one and tossed the butt into the field before him.