In the Walled City

by Stewart O'Nan

My father calls about the grass. It’s December, I’m trying to sell our place, and we’ve got a squatter jumping house to house down the beach, building fires on the marble floors.

  “You said once a week,” my father says, “it’s more like once a month.”

  It’s long distance —peak hours —and I pay no matter who calls. That’s all going to change once Eileen gets the papers together. The market’s depressed, and I’m eating Corn Flakes a lot.

  “Look,” I tell him, “I’ll give him a call, all right?”

  “I don’t want to be a pain in the ass about it.”

  “You are being,” I say, to let him know he isn’t.

  “So when are you coming down?”

  “Christmas.”

  “When Christmas?”

  “Things are crazy up here,” I say, and end up telling him about Eileen.

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “I bet you feel different now, don’t you?”

  “It’s a collarbone.”

  “That’s not the point,” he says.

  “All that’s over,” I say, “and I’m not going to talk about it.”

  He shuts up to make me feel bad.

  “I’ll call the guy,” I say.

  I’m living in the guest room off the kitchen so Sandy the realtor can show the house looking nice. The furniture’s here; Eileen only took the kids. I have the drapes open and the shades up, the rug’s just been shampooed. I’ve taken down all the crosses except Dan’s over my bed. I keep at the dishes, the counters. It’s with the multiple listing; when I get off swing shift I find cards by the sink. I’ll leave a few rounds on the dresser to give them a thrill.

  “He’s a detective,” Sandy or Barb or Gerry will say. It sounds better than a plain cop, like the pay was really different.

  The buyers’ll give Dan’s Jesus the eye, and depending on the sell, Sandy will or won’t tell the story. I wonder what they think I’m going to do. I wonder if they have any suggestions.

  Swing isn’t as bad as graveyard. Everything’s open, and you don’t have to change the way you sleep. The day is basically the same, the meals and everything, you just call dinner lunch. You’re never late for work.

  I don’t like to be in the house days. I’ll drive down to the ocean and read the Psalms, which sometimes works. I have the department Blazer while I’m on the squatter. The waves come up the sand until they’re under me.

  O Lord my God, in thee do I take refuge;

  save me from all my pursuers, and deliver me,

  lest like a lion they rend me,

  dragging me away, with none to rescue.

  My father hates Winter Haven, the people always out. He says he wants to come back north now that my mother is gone. He doesn’t have any friends in Florida, he misses the winter. When the spray is blowing and the gulls hover and the wind herds the trash barrels, I can see the attraction, but the old place is gone, and his friends are dead. But you can’t tell him that.

  “Any luck?” I ask Sandy.

  “Things will pick up with the weather, it’s just a buyer’s market right now. One problem is people with children don’t like breaking up the school year, and that’s I think who we’re looking for, a family with children. Unfortunately you know what the economy is like around here, I think that’s keeping the market slowed down, but things will pick up I’m sure come March, it’s just a slow time of year normally.”

  Eileen’s face is coming along but she has to wear a sling, and I have a hard time stopping my sympathy. Once on a bust I fell into a boat and broke my hand. I hated her cutting my food; no matter what it was, halfway through it was cold.

  “You want pizza five times a week?” she said. “You want hot dogs and hamburgers like a little kid?”

  Our squatter dumps in the toilets but they’re capped for the winter. It hits you a foot in the door, that and the smoke. He snips the alarms, even the big ADT systems, that’s why Jimby thinks it’s a pro. Jimby’s from the city; to him if you can fix a car you’re a genius. When I was a kid we used to do the same thing, that’s why I’m swing and Jimby’s days. Jimby comes in, there’s an address on his desk, something-something Dune road, and by the time I get in it’s pictures. A dried dump, charred ends of driftwood by a grand piano. I put on my duck gear and roam the dunes around the empty houses. Baymen say the sea talks if you listen, but I’m safe. God isn’t like a star that can go out.

  The grass guy says he’s been there. “914 Clarendon,” he says, “I got it right in front of me.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “Says Thursday.”

  “This Thursday.”

  “The Thursday just was.”

  “What about this Thursday?”

  “It doesn’t grow that fast.”

  “Then what, will you tell me, am I paying forty dollars a month for?”

  “I’ll go and do it again myself if you want.”

  “Please,” I say.

  I don’t like talking on the phone with the kids. I don’t know what she’s said to them. “Your old man’s not so bad,” I say sometimes, but they don’t bite. Jay wouldn’t trust me even if things were normal; twelve’s an ugly age. I expected some help from Dan, but he’s gone quiet. It’s a bad sign, I say to her, but she thinks I’m getting on her about the whole thing. “Maybe I should move back in,” she says. “Sure. Give me a minute to pack everything up, OK?”

  She doesn’t bother to argue anymore. She’ll hear it’s me and hang up. She thinks the restraining order takes care of everything. Her sister’s the one I feel bad for. Jenny’s always liked me. “She’s very confused right now,” Jenny’ll tell me outside. We both know it’s not true but it makes leaving easier, and she watches me walk away from the porch like I’ll be coming back.

  I’ve got the profit figured at sixteen thousand, clear. When the car commercials come on, I think about walking into the dealer and dropping an envelope on the desk and just pointing to the one I want. Not that we’re going to get close to what we’re asking.

  I like to four-wheel at night, rolling slow over the dunes. The surfcasters’ fires hop out of the darkness, then black. A camper forms, battened down for the night. I’ve got the kids’ mattresses in back, beef jerky on the dash, my basic ordnance. It’s not going to be easy to go back to the Caprice. I send the spotlight out over the water; even at night, it is still coming.

  O Lord my God, if I have done this,

  if there is wrong in my hands,

  if I have requited my friend with evil

  or plundered my enemy without cause,

  let the enemy pursue me and overtake me,

  and let him trample my life to the ground,

  and lay my soul in the dust.

  I don’t have trouble sleeping, I just forget a lot lately. Jimby leaves me an empty pack of Salems, half-burnt, a blackened matchbook with JFK’s face, and a pair of dead AA batteries. He has on a note card, “Menthol Crack Walkman?” I go down to the property room and get something to keep me going. I’m supposed to drop by the rest area past exit 66 and shine my light into the bushes, but when I get there I open the window and listen to the rustle of the men. When is love not evil?

  The lights are on at Jenny’s, the curtains drawn. Jay’s bike lies on its side on the front lawn. I eat a stick of beef jerky and watch the shadows cross and recross the living room window.

  Sandy calls and wakes me up to tell me we have a buyer. I’m in last night’s camo and still going. My eyes are like tinfoil, my gums sweat. The offer is eighty-seven-five.

  “That’s not even close,” I say.

  “No one is getting list value out here right now. If I were in your position I’d think about a serious counteroffer.”

  “Things are going to pick up in a few months in the spring, is that right?”

  “I can’t predict the market,” she says. “They’re a good risk for a mortgage.”

  “One-oh-two.”

  “I don’t think they’ll like that.”


  My pump leans in the corner. Dan’s Jesus bleeds down over me.

  “Oh well,” I say.

  Jimby comments on my beard. “You’re really getting into the part,” he says, pointing at my hunting vest, my orange hat. They’re my own clothes.

  “So,” I say, “how close are you?”

  “Don’t get wise,” he says, “how’re you holding up?”

  “Aces, Jimby. I’m living the life.”

  Jenny’s husband, Howie, bowls Tuesdays and Thursdays in Hampton Bays. He rolls three strings then yuks it up in the bar, two pitchers max. The season is on a chart on the wall; it’s not half over. This cheap crank makes me see funny, but it looks like Howie’s the team’s anchorman. Good for fucking you, Howie.

  “Jay,” I say.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to you,” he says, and hangs up.

  The men groan in the bushes. I go down to the beach and shine my fog lights into the houses, go home and sleep till noon. Sin is no enemy.

  I’ve got to remember to eat more often, and then when I try to have cereal the milk is bad. I feed the cards into the disposal, pour the clotted milk in, and grind it all. The buyers are fuck-heads.

  “The grass,” my father says, “no one came about it.”

  “I will take care of it,” I say, “I swear if I have to come down there myself and cut it.”

  “I’m the only one here,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Do you want me to come down?”

  “What about Eileen and the kids?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “That’s a shame,” he says. “Now don’t worry about this thing with the grass. I know you’ve got problems.”

  “I’m absolutely fine,” I say, “I’m just worried about you.”

  “Don’t,” he says, “I won’t be in your hair much longer.”

  The guy at the grass place says there was nothing to cut but he ran the mower over it anyway. He gives me the address again. “Does your father have a problem with his memory maybe?”

  “How much do I owe you total?” I say, “because I am sick of this bullshit.”

  Thursday our squatter’s camped out at the Flamingo Club in the empty swimming pool and risks a fire because of the wind-chill. Jimby’s coming back from a long lunch at the Crow’s Nest and practically trips over the smoke. A local kid, what did I say? I get a change of shift day which takes me through the weekend, then Monday it’s back to shaving.

  I get down to the beach before sunset. The wind is up, the surf bucking. A few men in waders are letting fly. I’ve got the heater blasting, a cold six on the seat, my box of Flakes. I can’t remember if I took the two I usually take around now, and take four to make sure. The sea never gets tired, never gives up.

  O let the evil of the wicked come to an end,

  but establish thou the righteous.

  I fill up at a Hess and buy two of their Christmas tankers and drive over to Jenny’s. They have a tree and presents under it, angels with pipe cleaner wings. Howie’s into his second game. Either none of us or all of us are forgiven.

  Jenny doesn’t understand what I’m doing there. I hand her the tankers through the crack in the door and show her the gun.

  “Ron,” she says, but won’t stop looking at it. I open the door and she steps back.

  “Who is it?” Eileen calls from upstairs.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  She comes to the top of the stairs. “Jen, are you all right?”

  “She’s fine,” I say.

  “What do you want?” Eileen says.

  “I wanted to say good-bye. I’m going to Florida. I brought these for the kids.” I point to the tankers.

  “Good-bye then,” Eileen says.

  “Good-bye,” I say, and shoot her through the sling. She falls back instead of down the stairs so I can just see her feet, flopping. I figure the one’s good enough.

  I steer clear of the rest areas, sleep in the campgrounds. In the Carolinas everyone’s friendly and has extra razors. Driving, I imagine a cop pulling me over, looking in my side while I pretend to get my registration. He’ll figure I’m a regular guy and ask, “What’s the lawnmower for?” and I’ll say, “To cut grass with,” and then who knows what will happen.

  Finding Amy

  Annie Marchand finds the mitten at the foot of the drive. Amy L has a runny nose and shouldn’t be out too long. Annie is sick herself, the flu has her couch-bound, a glass of flat ginger ale by her head. This is no time for games. She calls both ways, arms crossed, holding her nightgown to her chest. She has long Johns on and her boyfriend’s boots, unlaced. The red flag is up, in the box a Fay’s circular with garden things on the front. She calls and calls.

  They have been making love all night, off and on, glazing the sheets, filling the room with smoke. Brock likes her on top; Glenn never waited for her to decide. It is cool above the covers. She leans back, her hands finding a place to land outside his legs. Brock’s palms run up her front. In the next room Amy cries out in her sleep, and Annie stops. “Do you want to go see?” he says, but Annie waits, head turned sideways, not breathing. Then grinds on him, thinking —if only for him, for him waiting for her answer —that she needs the divorce.

  It is dark inside to save on the electric. Plastic covers the windows; the winter glow makes the carpet look ratty. She turns down “The Guiding Light” and calls through the house. Buster, under the TV tray, hoping for graham cracker crumbs, rises and trots after her. The lunch dishes wait by the sink, Amy’s plate with its bear hanging onto a rising bunch of balloons, an elbow straw nodding out of the matching cup. The shower curtain draws back on rubber flowers. She gets a rug burn looking under their bed, finds Barbie’s blouse, and with it in one hand and the mitten in the other, heads for the front door, repeating her name.

  Glenn has to drive over there if he wants to talk to her. She hangs up on him if he calls. He is living with Rafe, an old high school buddy from work, out past the middle school. Both of Rafe’s parents are dead, as are Glenn’s. The furniture is deep oak, the rugs frayed bare. They talk, nodding drunk, late at night when they know they have to get up for work, of how Amy is the only thing Glenn has ever done right in his life. Rafe is sterile. He holds Glenn and sobs, trying to explain himself. “You’ve got Amy, man, no matter what happens, you’ve got her, man.”

  “Come on, man,” Glenn says, “don’t start this shit again.”

  “You’re right,” Rafe says, sniffling, trying to laugh. “You know I can’t help it.”

  Out by the water tower the road ends at a striped guardrail. The fields swell into distance, cut by iced-over creeks lined with leaning weed trees. Power lines dip away, spidery towers stride off into fog. The dead stalks rustle. It has begun to snow.

  May, Annie’s mother, worries that Brock is taking advantage of Annie. Glenn has only been gone a few months, and supposedly the two were friends. Not that she has any sympathy for Glenn, leaving her daughter a four year old and no way to support herself. How she is getting the money May doesn’t know, certainly not from what she makes waitressing weekends at the country club. Everytime she asks Annie, they end up fighting. She has always felt —though never said, or only to Martin, softened —that Annie is not a very smart person, that she doesn’t look ahead and then is surprised when things go wrong. Dennis, their older boy, did a stint in the Marines, and Raymond worked his way through the community college. Annie still seems to be back in high school, working part time, picking which boy she will give herself to, as if her acts have no consequences. She is their youngest, and according to everything May has heard, she should be clinging to her for dear life. May just wishes she would settle down or, if that will never happen (and she fears this, her only girl), move away where she won’t have to see it. But she would miss Amy terribly.

  Annie has seen a man in a blue car under the water tower a few times in the last month. Brock asked his cousin the cop; no one seems to know him. They figured he was ha
rmless, an old guy sitting there by himself. Now she sees him watching their house, maybe her and Amy building a snow fort, sees behind his raised newspaper his hand, working.

  Brock gets stoned at lunch in the far end of the parking lot with Alicia from payroll. She is heavy and blonde and fun and from Ford City. She loves Neil Young.

  “I’m living with Kenny,” she says, “but when it’s permanent I’ll feel it, you know?”

  “And it’s not right now.”

  “Kenny? Are you kidding? We grew up together.”

  “Same with me and Annie.” The heater cranks, a leaf stuck in the fan. Smoke leaks out the window. She likes him, he knows, she lets him look into her eyes. He has been trying to figure out why he thinks he is in love with her. Maybe he is not as in love with Annie anymore. He does not want to hurt Annie, but he thinks Alicia may be expecting something more than friendship, and he would not be unwilling.

  “The Needle and the Damage Done” takes him inside the dash, into some lost summer night, a dark back road. The roach falls apart. Alicia has gum and gives him a stick. Behind them a few cars cruise for a spot; the front office people are getting back from the Forbidden City, Rick’s Cafe, Hojo’s. Alicia reaches over the stick to put her Visine back in the glove compartment, and they kiss, the gum sweet between their tongues.

  “Ay-meee!” Annie calls, “Ay-meee!” and runs around the house clumsily, the boots flopping. Buster paces the edge of the woods. Frozen footprints scamper under the clothes carousel. The rabbits are in the porch for the winter, Buster’s house odorless in the cold. She stands with her arms limp, breathing steam. The trees are bare, a few birds gliding above the tangle, lighting and calling. The paths down in back run clear around the pond and up to the interstate. She can hear the trucks far off, the whine of their chains.

  Karleen is going to forgive Annie, but only after she’s made her suffer, not a little either. Things were not completely over between her and Brock, everybody knew that. Maybe he was not her true love (the way they used to talk about love in school) but she’d given him three years, more than she had with anyone else. She moved out of her mother’s house into the apartment above McCrory’s for him. She and Annie had talked and talked then, about marriage and being faithful and about love. When she broke up with Brock, she and Annie sat out on the fire escape, watching the PBA team scrimmage in the churchyard, the ball making the chain net ring. Karleen cried, and Annie gave her swigs of peppermint schnapps from her flask and made her laugh. It hadn’t been two months when she saw his Grand National in the VFW lot. She and some of her girlfriends were going stag, for laughs. She wondered who the hard-up bitch was. She thought it would be funny.