by Keith Knapp
More memories flooded in as Mike walked into the kitchen. The six-heater stove with the two-deck oven: his station. He was the cook of the couple, and a damn good one at that. His honey roasted chicken was a favorite of Alison’s and every time he made it she’d swear up and down that he should really just get it over with and open up a restaurant. But that never happened. He had no interest. The cooking was just for him and his girl, and one day (they hoped) their children.
He pulled open the refrigerator. A six-pack of Budweiser looked out at him—the only food left. He remembered in those last days of Alison’s life that his diet had gone right into the crapper and the drinking had gotten really out of hand and that he had needed to put a stop to all that bullshit, quick. Gary Schalling had helped out with that, too. Ol’ Gary had gone to his fair share of A.A. meetings and knew a thing or two about a thing or two. Mike remembered-
-he was remembering it all, now, his entire life in this house with Alison. The day they bought it and made love on the floor before they had any furniture; the day their first piece of furniture arrived, Alison’s piano, and how Alison was more than relieved that it made it into the house in one piece and in perfect working condition; the day he sprained his ankle in the back yard trying to clean the rain gutter on the roof; the day they both called in sick to work, stayed home and watched Oprah and Dr. Phil together. Years spent trying to forget the painful memories of this house, then BAM, here they all were again.
Hey, Mike. Long time no see. Remember us?
He leaned an arm on the open refrigerator door and rested his head against the freezer. It was cold, and it felt good. He could stand there forever.
On auto-pilot, his hand pulled out the six pack. He dropped the beers on the kitchen table, pried one off its ring, popped it open and took a swig. He hadn’t been home for more than thirty minutes and already his mind was ready for the good folks at Budweiser to make everything alright again. How quickly he was falling back into the pattern of his life during the weeks between Alison’s accident and her death.
Come home from work. Drink some beers. Turn on the TV. Drink some more beers. The TV wasn’t enough. Turn it off. Drink some more beers. Go to bed. Repeat.
So powerful were these memories that Mike felt he had gone back in time. He shouldn’t be here. That wasn’t the right word. He couldn’t be here. It was impossible. The house had been sold—some other couple, maybe a family, lived in it now. He had moved to the other side of the Valley and did his best to forget that Hazeltine Avenue even existed.
The silence of the empty house was shattered by the tinkling of a piano. Mike couldn’t make out the song, but it was something classical. Chopin? Beethoven? No, that wasn’t right at all. Then the hook of the tune came around and he recognized it as an old Bruce Hornsby song he couldn’t remember the name of. He had been way off.
The piano was in the back room, surrounded by a deck outside. Windows open, shades up, the neighbors would hear it. They usually did and had never once complained. Alison had been good.
Mike looked at the Budweiser in his hand, shook his head at how easily he had slipped off the wagon, then placed the can on the kitchen table. To his surprise there were four other empties already there. He looked on the counter and saw there was only one unopened beer left.
He decided then and there that the slip would be a freebee. It didn’t count. There were bigger things going on here than his sobriety and he could work out any reservations he had about it later.
The hallway to the back room was longer than he remembered. He passed photos of Alison’s parents on his left, his parents on his right. The light in front of him, coming from the back room in question, seemed to get brighter and brighter the closer he got. But his eyes adjusted or the light dimmed (he couldn’t tell which) as he approached the door to the piano room.
The alcohol was kicking in big time now and Mike had to hold onto the wall for support. When he got to the room it was spinning madly. He peered around the doorjamb as Bruce Hornby’s song ended and Billy Joel’s Piano Man kicked into gear. He passed out before he could see the pianist, even though he already knew who it was.
* * *
“Wake up.”
Mike’s lids creaked open to a hazy view of his living room. A film had crusted over his eyes, no doubt due to the five Budweisers he’d downed in just under an hour. The sixth one still sat unopened on the kitchen counter, where he hoped it would stay.
“Mandolin Rain,” said the voice that told him to wake up.
Alison Sullivan-Randal stood at the top of the stairs. Her hair went down to her waist, brown intertwined with blonde. She had no make-up on, but then she never really needed it. She had what many referred to as Natural Beauty, and lots of it. She was dressed casually—plain white t-shirt, faded blue jeans, no shoes. Ready for a weekend on the couch reading a favorite book or kicking Mike’s ass at Monopoly.
She stared at Mike and, unlike him, she didn’t have a look of utter surprise on her face. She regarded him knowingly, as if she’d been waiting for him.
All Mike could offer in response was: “Mandolin what?”
“Mandolin Rain,” she said again. “The Bruce Hornsby song you couldn’t remember.”
“Bruce who?” he asked. But before his previously thought dead wife could answer, it all came back to Mike in a flash of a heartbeat that made his head pound.
The town, the smoke, the lawn, the beers in the fridge, the long walk down the hallway leading to the piano room.
Holding onto the arm of the couch for support, Mike somehow found his way to his feet. His mouth, dry and bitter with the after-taste of five Budweisers, opened but no words came out. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand things he wanted to ask, but not one of them came to mind.
Finally one word came out, the only one that seemed to make any sense at the moment. “Alison?”
A smile floated down the stairs from her. “I can tell you’re freaked, Mikey, but don’t be. This is a safe place.”
He took a step forward, forcing his hand to release its vice-like grip from the couch. His legs trembled, his knees the consistency of pudding. His tongue unstuck itself from the roof of his mouth and licked his lips.
“You’re still a little dizzy,” she said. “That’s good. Sorry I had to do that to you, but it was the best way to hide you from him. A foggy mind makes for foggy prey.”
Alison’s eyes followed Mike as he moved to intercept her at the bottom of the stairway. She saw him, and he her. This was real. She was really there.
“Three probably would’ve done the trick, but let’s consider it a freebee.”
Then her arms were around his waist. His heart raced as he wrapped himself around her, not really listening to what she was saying. The texture of her shirt was smooth against his fingers and he could smell fabric softener; she’d just washed it. He slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back and felt the warmth of her skin underneath. Her heartbeat thudded against his own. It wasn’t as fast as his—he was having a heart attack and she was perfectly calm.
“Are you here?” he asked. “Are you really here?”
“As here as I get.” Still with that perfect smile.
He hugged her tight without saying another word. Seeing her in the pizza place/saloon was nothing compared to this. There he had just been an observer. Now he could touch her, talk to her, feel her, smell her. He wasn’t observing the situation. This wasn’t a dream.
A whiff of her hair. Cinnamon. She had used her favorite conditioner today. That stuff in the brown bottle with the green bubbly writing on it.
“Not all of you are dead,” Alison said, pulling back from Mike. “Not entirely. At least not yet.”
“This, none of this, this doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know,” Alison said. She bit her bottom lip, thinking. “How to explain this.” Now she bit her top lip. “Do you remember what a coda is?”
“A what?”
�
�A coda. When I was showing you piano music and teaching you some keys. A coda.”
A look of bewilderment came to his face, then he felt the effects of not being allowed to sleep off the five Budweisers—or maybe it was his mind just wanting to shut down from everything—and passed out again.
* * *
A cool cloth was on his head. A hand stroked his cheek, and he could smell Calvin Klein’s “Eternity.” He’d gotten it for her last Christmas. No, not last Christmas. Christmas eleven years ago.
The sweet, caring face of his wife stared down at him. The shades were drawn, but still enough light shown through so that he could make out their old bedroom. Just like the living room and the kitchen and everything else, the bedroom was faithfully as he’d left it before he moved out. He had left almost everything because he wanted to start fresh. And now here he was back in a bed that he had never wanted to be in again in a home that was no longer his to be in. The desk that had taken two weekends to put together sat in the corner.
Wooziness was as good a word as any to describe Mike’s head at that moment, a turbulent sea of angry waves.
She wiped his brow again with the damp washcloth. “Just take it easy.”
His eyes bored into hers. “What’s happening?”
“This is a safe place,” she said. “I tell ya, honey, you did a damn fine job of trying to forget about our home. Hurt my feelings a bit, but I understand. I’d’ve probably done the same. And it was a good thing, too. He wasn’t able to, how did you put it? Download it. Combine that with the nice buzz you got going on, he can’t see us here.”
“Who?” Mike asked. “Who can’t see us? Bruce Hornsby? Is Bruce Hornsby after us?”
Alison dropped the washcloth as she erupted in laughter and began to brush Mike’s hair with her fingers. “No, I think he’s on tour right now. I’m talking about the guy that’s been giving you all such a hard time.”
What she had referred to as one guy, a guy with no name and a thousand names, Mike now knew was in actuality the town itself. And the three ladies. And the dog-things. They were all one and the same, and he knew this because Alison was uploading this information into his mind.
He could feel their connection now. He was in her head and she was in his. Despite Alison insisting he was drunk and/or buzzed, Mike felt neither of those. At least not now, not anymore.
Here came the definition of a coda for him:
The end piece of music, like when a band closes out a song or the score to a film uses the main theme at the end of the credits. It looks back on the whole musical movement, summing it all up, in a way. That’s what this place is, Mikey. It’s a coda for your life.
Her thought-teachings went on:
This is a safe place, but not for long. He’ll know you’re here soon enough. Now that you’re here, he can see it. We don’t have much time. He wants to make all of you pay for what you’ve done. There are nightmares here, but there’s still a chance for some of you.
37.
Splootch.
Brett’s feet landed in the sand underneath the slide, stopping his momentum. He then fell forward and landed face first, grains of sand entering his mouth and nostrils. He didn’t mind one bit. As a matter of fact, he had planned it that way.
Brett jumped up, wiped sand off his face, and moved out of the way so Davy Palmer wouldn’t kick him in the back on his way down (a lesson Brett had learned many times the hard way). The sound of the other children playing outside faded as Brett watched his best friend ready himself, slick back his hair (it was ever so important to look your best when sliding) and push himself off.
Skimming down the slide, Davy moved faster than Brett—Davy weighed a good twenty pounds more. When he hit the ground, Davy used his momentum to run as fast as he could out of the sand area and into the small kickball field of Lankershim Elementary School. A smile was on his face. Of course there was a smile on his face: he was having the time of his life.
Brett had shared his friend’s enthusiasm—was anything better than feeling the wind on your face while moving faster than Han Solo’s Millennium Falcon down a slide?—until just now. The kickball field was for the Big Kids, which they were certainly not. He and Davy were in the third grade, and there was an unspoken rule that only sixth graders and up could even be on the field, let alone run around and have the time of their life. This wasn’t a faculty rule; this had been a tradition of sixth graders and beyond since Brett could remember. It was probably a rule of every middle school in the world.
Hurrying to his friend, Brett began to pull him off the field but it was already too late. Here they came: Gerald Kendall, Joey Fletcher and Harold Darby—the undisputed leaders of the Big Kids.
The eighth graders towered over Brett and Davy, Gerald bouncing a red kickball on the ground as they approached. When he was close enough, Gerald heaved the ball at Davy’s legs, and the boy went down.
“Ow! What gives?” Davy said, rubbing grime from his hands which had luckily stopped his fall.
Joey picked up the ball and tossed it back to Gerald. “You know what gives, fat ass. You’re on the wrong side of the yard.”
Looking around, Davy realized what Brett already knew: they had broken the cardinal rule of Lankershim Elementary. “Shit,” he said as Brett helped him to his feet again.
“Get the retard,” said Joey, motioning to Brett. “Helpin’ his boyfriend up. How sweet.”
One of Davy’s hands clenched into a fist behind his back. “He’s not a retard.”
“Looks like we know who wears the pants in this relationship,” Gerald laughed. The others guffawed. Gerald was a hoot.
There were so many things Brett wanted to say to the three bullies, so many things he wanted to do to them. He wanted to tell them to fuck off—his older brother’s current phrase of choice. He wanted to punch them all in the throats, or better yet, the nuts. But more than either of those two choices, he wanted to run. Run away back into the school and hide underneath his desk in room 241.
“Is the retard gonna cry?” Joey prodded.
Brett did all he could to hold back the tears. It was working so far, but he didn’t know how long he’d be able to hold out. His bottom lip quivered. He figured he had a minute at most before the waterworks started.
Then they’d really let him have it.
A circle formed around them. Classmates of all ages—some Brett recognized, some he’d never seen before—watched with open mouths. No one, of course, stood forward to stick up for Brett or Davy. This was also a cardinal rule of Lankershim Elementary: when a fight’s about to break out, you watch it, you don’t stop it.
Two fists appeared from behind Davy’s back, and Brett’s eyes widened at the sight.
Davy put up his dukes. “You take that back. You take back that retard comment.”
“Or what?” Gerald wanted to know.
“Davy, d-don’t,” stuttered Brett.
“Or I’ll pop ya.”
“Yeah? Pop this,” Gerald said, then heaved the kickball once again at Brett’s friend. It sailed two feet through the air and collided with the kid’s nose. Blood shot out, and that’s when Brett started to cry.
“Cry baby!” someone yelled with a laugh in their throat.
“The baby’s crying!” someone else shouted.
It didn’t take long for it to become a chant: “Cry-BABY cry-BABY cry-BABY!”
The laughing and chanting was more than Brett could handle, and that just made him cry even harder. Davy was down on the ground, trying to hold the blood in his nose and having no luck at it. During all this, Gerald and his goons laughed and laughed and laughed. They were having a grand old time.
You’re a cry-baby, Bretty-boy. They all know it. You know it. One big stupid CRY-BABY!
Gerald bent down to come eye level with Brett. “What’s’a matter?”
With his head still down, Brett’s field of vision was filled by Gerald’s Reeboks. Two cockroaches crawled out of the cuffs of the boy’s jeans and
scampered away.
The mantra continued, but Brett didn’t hear it anymore. It died away into the background. All he heard was the shakiness of his breath as he tried to stop crying and the voices in his head keeping him in his weepy state.
You can’t stop and you’ll never stop ‘cause cry-babies don’t stop! They cry FOREVER! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
The next thing Brett felt were his feet slamming into the ground as he ran away, ran away fast, toward the school. He got to the doors and pulled them open. He didn’t hear Mrs. MacKenzie cry out “What’s wrong?” or feel her hand try to grab his arm. She went on her way outside to stop the fight. Too bad she hadn’t been out there sooner like she was supposed to be.
Tears blurred Brett’s vision as he ran down the vacant hallway. With most of the kids outside for lunch recess, he had the place pretty much to himself.
Cry-BABY! Cry-BABY! Cry-BABY!
Streaks of tears ran from the corners of his eyes to the lobes of his ears. He wiped them away, creating two clean patches on either side of his dusty face. He passed the janitor on his right. The old man, balding and gray, watched him turn a corner and fall. Brett skidded across the floor, the wind knocked out of him. His day was just getting worse and worse.
The tears were no longer those of sadness, but those of anger. How could he let those guys treat him like this? And Davy…poor Davy, how could he just leave his best friend in the world like that?
Jimmy told him what to do when this sort of thing happened, he had drilled it into his skull, but Brett couldn’t remember what it was. He didn’t think running away crying like an infant was it, though. He was always forgetting things. Maybe those kids were right. Maybe he was a retard.
If he could just remember what Jimmy had told him to do.
The janitor towered above him. His hand was out in an offer to help him up. Brett took it (the guy’s hand was cold, amazingly cold) and got back to his feet while the janitor gave him a courtesy dust-off of his back.
“Bad day?” the janitor asked.
Sheepishly, Brett nodded.
“Should’ve hollered for a teacher,” said the janitor.
