Mr. Wonderful

by Daniel Smith

  “It’s not what you think, Dawn.”

  “That’s good, cause what I’m thinking might mean you come home with your teeth bashed in. Just kidding.”

  “Really? No, Elise is Mom’s client—the one that’s charged with murdering her boyfriend’s wife. I’ve been helping out.”

  “You—helping out?”

  “Yeah, I gave Mom and her some suggestions and, who knows, it may keep her out of jail.”

  “Wow. Let’s go check it out, man!”

  “What—the trial?”

  “Yeah. I love a good murder trial.”

  “No way, Dawn. Wouldn’t be cool at all. Just think about it: Nobody even knows you’re here. Mom freaked out already just seeing me show up at the house. What do you think she’ll do if I walk into court with you?!”

  “I don’t know. Shouldn’t she want to meet me? I’m your girlfriend.”

  “Are you?”

  “I sure am, you sonofabitch!” she says, whacking me across the ear with the back of her free hand, the other still shoving fries into her face.

  After brunch, we drive around south city. As we do, I notice that Dawn glances at her cell, then gets this faraway look in her eyes—like she’s thinking about something and it ain’t good. But I just look away and take in all the brick houses, one right next to the other, that is St. Louis. Dad said there was a huge fire in the city in the late 1800s that was so bad, they made a law that all new homes had to be brick. So they cut back on the fires but, man, they sure amped up the monotony of the homes.

  Dawn insists on checking out my old haunts. I hate stopping at the high school complex, but Dawn says she just has to see “where Danny really got his head messed up.” Actually, I had a pretty good time in high school. I didn’t stress about the grades—I wasn’t headed for Harvard or Yale, much to my dad’s disappointment—and so when I wasn’t playing baseball I just hung with my friends. Lot of smoking weed, private parties, and bull sessions. Finally broke through my junior year with a chick—Tashira, an African-American classmate—who let me bust both our cherries. Why me, I’ll never know (I think she was high), but it was much appreciated. Man, I had me some serious sexual street cred there for a few weeks, until word got out that it was a “pity fuck.” I drive Dawn by the crappy little row house where Tashira and her mom lived—the very spot where we had our little moment. Dawn laughs, then, suddenly asks about baseball.

  It’s a little early for practice when we drive up to the ball field. They’ve really fixed the place up since I played. They’ve got stands built now for several thousand. I remember the cheers and the highs from being on that mound and just dominating. Sometimes I wish I’d never given up on baseball. Played it all day every day from 8 to 18, and I got good at it. Hell, better than good: I made the all-district team as a pitcher. I could really bring it—around 90 mph—and had scouts looking at me hard my senior year. Dad was all over me to forget the pros and get a college scholarship. “You’ve got great stuff, Danny,” he used to tell me, “but the pros pick from kids from all over the country. And they all can throw hard.” His theory was that if I played college ball and the pros wanted me, well, I’d always have an education to fall back on. If they didn’t want me, I’d already be in school, getting a degree or whatever.

  Truth is, I was too scared I wouldn’t make it in the pros or college: not good enough for the pros and too bored to try hard enough in college. It’s like I got out of high school and just wanted to breathe for a while. I knew exactly the future that my dad and my teammates and teachers wanted for me; I had no real idea what Danny wanted. So I just took things as they came—a part-time job here, a relationship there. Before I knew it, I was running into my former classmates who were now college graduates while I was working the front desk at the Holiday Inn. Kinda hurt to see them taking good jobs, starting actual careers, while I was putzing around as a bottom feeder of the hotel industry. I guess all that party time in high school hasn’t really paid off but at the time, it was the best I could do.

  Dawn’s heard my sad baseball story before, but now that we’re sitting here in the stands, she has the visual of looking at my old high school field of dreams. “You’re not the first to give up on your dreams, Danny,” she says helpfully but not very convincingly. “People give up on their dreams because it takes so much fucking work and sometimes a lot of luck to ever realize them.” Now she’s sounding like a school counselor I once had to listen to for what seemed like hours. (Well, minus the “fucking.”)

  Dawn, it turns out, never had any dreams to fail at: with her parents dying so early and raised by her often sickly grandma, she pretty much just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. When she got out of high school, she bounced around from one bad boyfriend to another—thinking some man would rescue her—until one guy beat her up pretty bad. She shows me the scars from a couple of breaks in her arm and wrist where the guy clubbed her really good. From that point on, Dawn was in it for herself. “There is no knight in shining armor,” she says, “and if you think you see one, be careful around his sword.” I figure there might be something sexual in that comment, but I say nothing, ‘cause I get the message. I lean over and give Dawn a quick kiss. She smiles. Are we making up?

  Dawn’s never seen the Arch down at the river, so we go play tourist and check out the “gateway” to the west. I’ve seen it a jillion times, but it still amazes me how this ginormous Arch fronting the Mississippi River ever got built. Nothing says America like this shining symbol of western movement—see, I did pay attention in US history. It’s a big-ass country, America, and success is available to everyone. At least that’s the image, huh? Dawn is all dropped-jaw, OMG, and smiles once she gets an up close look at the Arch. “It may be a lie,” she tells me, “but it sure as hell makes you feel better just to see it.” I can’t dispute that. Just to seal the deal, she gives me a tongue-filled kiss right at the base of the Arch. It’s great to be American.

  Before heading home, we stop and get some ice cream at Ted Drewes. While she’s scarfing down her “concrete” cup of cookies and cream, Dawn once again gets a text that seems to distract her. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it. So I decide to let her know that while I’m trying to forgive her about Shithead, I cannot forget it. She gets philosophical, reminding me that every so often people who really love one another do something that betrays the other one.

  “Like having an affair?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But it’s not done out of hatred or indifference.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sometimes,” she claims, “it’s done just to shake things up. To see how strong two people are, if they’re ready for the long haul.”

  “So it’s like an experiment? A thoughtful testing of the relationship?”

  “Something like that.”

  I grab her ice cream away and start eating it.

  “What are you doing?!” she practically screams, grabbing her ice cream back from me.

  “Just a little ‘thoughtful testing.’”

  “Asshole,” she says, then lets a quick smile cross her face.

  Back at my old room we practically tear each other’s clothes off. When Dawn bragged about “dating the hell out of me,” I’m pretty sure this is what she was talking about because she jumps my bones like there’s no tomorrow. And maybe there isn’t one for us, but there’s a helluva today going on. I was afraid I’d have flashbacks to what I saw when I walked in on her and Shithead, but, I swear, she is making me forget that in a hurry. Doing it in a strange place—definitely strange to her—adds to the high, let me tell you. Whoa . . . here we go again!

  8 | brian

  After the day I’ve had taking on the dean and realizing how unwanted I am at good ol’ EMSU, I hit the pub on the way home. It’s buzzing with students, staff, and faculty all getting their load on after another day at the plant. I figure I can slip in for a quick drink or two before heading home to see what fresh outrage awaits me there. But before I ca
n get the bartender’s attention, I hear my name being called. It’s Melinda, my history colleague, waving me over from her table in the corner. Oh, God what does she want?

  I wander over and join her with her perky smile and a glass of trendy Chardonnay. “Haven’t seen you here before,” I observe.

  “I’m just meeting a friend who apparently really likes this place.”

  “Oh, in that event, I’ll get moving,” I say, starting to get up.

  “No, please, have a seat. Good to see you.”

  I’m wondering if that’s the wine talking or does she really want to spend some time with me. I order a glass of pinot and stare into the middle distance. I never know what to say, exactly, to new colleagues, especially in a social setting. They don’t want to hear my old war stories about the department and I can’t really help them acclimate to the fresh new world of academia they’re entering. They don’t yet have any enemies or well-tended grudges or dashed dreams. Their future, I assume, must consist mostly of wonder and hope.

  Finally, Melinda breaks the awkward silence by leaning over and telling me in one of her stage whispers, “I want you to know, Brian, that I am totally with you on this Watkins thing.” I give her an appreciative nod as she goes on: “And I cannot believe what the university is trying to do in this situation.” I look at her quizzically. “You know, trying to”—

  “Get rid of me.”

  “Yeah. I mean, that’s just not right, I don’t care how bad the financial situation is. You’ve been here a long time giving the department and the university everything you have.”

  “Well, maybe not everything,” I note, figuring this suck-up conversation deserves at least an ounce of honesty.

  “You know what I mean. Anyway, I just wanted you to know how I feel. I hope you don’t go.”

  “That’s nice, Melinda.” A slim brunette with an eager look in her eye and obvious ambition in her heart, Melinda, I suddenly realize, is just the sort of young woman I had hoped Danny might have wound up with. Of course, he’d likely have to find her at college or graduate school, not at a gun and knife show.

  “So, Melanie, how is EMSU and St. Louis working out for you so far? Socially, that is?”

  “You mean, am I finding a man?”

  “Or woman, as the case may be.” I figure total political correctness is the only way to go here.

  “I’m not really looking, to be honest.”

  “Makes sense. People say if you’re looking, you’re not really finding.”

  “Do they?”

  I can’t tell if, by this response, she’s doubting me or just wondering what an aging professor like me is doing offering up relationship advice.

  “Was that your experience with—?”

  “Corinne, yes. I found her, well, right here, in a pub. Well, not this pub. And I guess I was too buzzed to be looking.”

  “But you found her anyway.”

  I nod, watch her finish her Chardonnay, and wonder what it must feel like to be young and just starting out in the profession I’m now being urged to leave. “So, Melinda, does teaching college make you happy?”

  She’s clearly taken aback by my question, but sets down her drink as she thinks about how to answer. “Well, yeah, I guess so. I didn’t get into it for happiness, but I enjoy learning new things and teaching our students to think critically.”

  “Now you sound a bit like you’re on a job talk.”

  “Well, it’s just how I feel,” she says, obviously more than a touch offended by my remark. “I’m sorry if you’re maybe too jaded to believe in simple, authentic expressions of joy, Brian. I hope I never get that way.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s been a rough few days.”

  “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t. I just want this moment where I’m excited to be here and meeting new challenges, I just want this moment to last.” I say nothing and finish my drink. “It won’t, will it?”

  Just then, Melinda’s friend, a tall African-American woman I vaguely recognize from the English department, walks up. I get up, say goodbye, and head for the door. As I get to the door, I glance back at the two of them and notice they’re whispering and gesturing towards me. Jesus, it’s all over campus.

  The house looks dark as I pull into the driveway. It’s a little early for Corinne to be back from court but maybe that means Danny’s gone home and I might actually have a quiet moment alone in my own house. But then I realize, Danny wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to me—and doubtless requesting his “tide me over” loan (one that never gets repaid). So no matter what privacy I want, I’m going to get what I get. And, considering what I’ve been through today, do I really want to be alone? The minute I enter the house, all hopes of some quiet reflection are dashed: upstairs I hear what sounds like furniture moving. By the time I get to the top of the stairs, a new sound mingles with the creaking, shifting furniture: a woman moaning toward climax. What the hell? Has Danny already managed to get laid by some neighborhood woman, someone he picked up at a local bar?

  I go back down to the kitchen and fix myself a drink. So this is how you recharge and reflect? Go visit your “pops” and bang some stranger in your old childhood bed? Part of me envies his good luck and charm while the rest of me wonder if he’s capable of mature self-assessment.

  Just then, I hear footsteps coming down the staircase—it’s Danny and some woman I faintly recognize from pictures but can’t call her name.

  “Hey, Pops! Didn’t know you were home.”

  “Just got in. And this is . . . ?”

  “Oh, you don’t know?”

  “Hence my question.”

  “’Hence.’ I love his words,” he says to his consort. “This is Dawn. Dawn Robinson.”

  “The woman you’ve been with in Arkansas, but you broke up with?”

  “Well, that’s an awfully quick summary”—

  “Yes, Dr. Fenton, that’s me,” Dawn interjects, coming over very lady-like to shake my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Brian.”

  “I can sure see the resemblance,” Dawn says with a big smile that fools no one.

  “We were, uh—” Danny says with an embarrassed look.

  “Danny was showing me his room,” Dawn observes.

  “I bet he was.”

  “This is a wonderful place you have here, Dr. Fenton.”

  “Please, Dawn, call me Brian.”

  “Brian. It looks just like you.”

  “Not sure what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” Dawn, a dirty blonde, looks pretty rough around the edges—not least her crazy t-shirt that looks like it came out of the bargain bin at Dollywood—but is clearly a woman with a plan. Which is more than Danny seems to have. “Look, guys, you’re going to have to help me understand what’s going on here. Last I heard, Danny, you were running away from everything in Arkansas, and now here you two are, acting like everything’s copacetic.”

  “’Copacetic?’” Danny asks.

  “All good,” Dawn replies, one-upping Danny, at least for the moment, in vocabulary.

  “Well, I’m sure you know how strange and unpredictable love can be, Brian,” Dawn offers.

  “I suppose.” I don’t know why I’m agreeing with this line of thinking since this kind of strange and unpredictable strikes me as ill-conceived and impulsive.

  “We’ve just had some growing pains together, the way I see it, don’t you, honey?” Dawn asks Danny.

  “There’s been some pain, that’s for sure,” Danny allows.

  “And, what, you guys are now back together, is that it?”

  They give each other a long uncertain look. “Time will tell,” Dawn says.

  “It usually does,” Danny comments unhelpfully.

  I need another drink and go pour myself a three-fingered scotch. Danny and Dawn wander into the kitchen, I presume, to soak up more of my liquor. But as it turns out, Danny seems focused on me. He sidles up to me and looks at my drink. />
  “You’re hitting the Seagram’s pretty heavy, Pops.”

  “It hits the spot,” I say as I throw down a big gulp that burns my throat but helps anesthetize my injured feelings.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look so good.”

  “What’s the right way to take that?” I ask.

  “Are they coming after you—over at the college?”

  “Where the hell did you hear that?”

  “Me and Mom, we’ve had our little talks.”

  Good God, are Danny and Corinne becoming good buddies now? Why would she tell Danny anything like that? “It’s nothing I can’t solve on my own, son.”

  “From what I hear, you’re not solving anything. From what I hear, they’re trying to take you down. And that’s bullshit, Pops. You can’t let that shit stand.”

  “Look, this is not a cage fight, Danny. These are tough times in academia and people like me”—

  “’People like me’?! People like you fight for what you believe in. Please tell me you aren’t about to—what’s that phrase—‘go gently into the night?’”

  “Well said, honey,” Dawn notes, obviously impressed with Danny’s sudden literary flair.

  “Hey, I read books,” Danny replies. “Anyway, Pops, walking away is a punk-ass move. They got nothing on you, man!”

  “They say I haven’t published enough.”

  “For that low-rent university? Sorry, man, but that’s what it is. You have tenure; but more important, you have balls. Or at least you used to. The only fucking reason you should walk away is if there’s something else your heart tells you you just gotta go do.”

  “It’s not just about your heart, Danny. Sometimes, it’s about your, I don’t know, hope.”

  “You don’t have hope?”

  “Look at us, Brian,” Dawn says, apparently deeply moved by Danny’s sales pitch. “You look at us, you’re probably thinking, where’s the hope here? Right?”