Dorothy on the Rocks (35 page)

“He's fine, Jack,” I whisper into the evening air. “Well, maybe not fine, but coping.”

I turn and head back to the subway. I study the sidewalks and houses and lawn ornaments and then I paint a picture of it in my mind and put Jack in the center as a young boy, riding his bike, skateboarding down the sidewalk, playing kickball in the street with his friends on lazy summer days or cold winter mornings, every day of every year of his life. I pass an empty lot where some boys are playing a pickup game of baseball. The evening is fast becoming night, and the sky in the west is bruised a deep purple.

Miniature golf flashes in my mind. Jack told me he and his best friend built a miniature golf course in his backyard the summer before junior high. I bet that best friend was Bob. I stop dead in the street. I want to see the backyard. I want to see if the miniature
golf course is still there, if there is something that Jack built still standing in this world. It's imperative.

I turn around and head back to the house. A light shines through the blinds in a room on the second floor. Maybe John is sitting on the side of his bed, tying a noose and contemplating the end. Stop it, I tell my self, stop thinking like that. I tiptoe quietly up the driveway and make my way to the backyard. I could get shot for trespassing with no questions asked.

I hear a television or radio as I pass by one of the windows. I crouch low and flatten myself against the wall and peek around the corner like a cat burglar. The coast appears clear. I take a few more steps and gently open the gate leading into the yard.

There are four lawn chairs and a barbecue grill, a picnic table, flower beds with pink petunias, and a bicycle leaning against a toolshed. Jack's I'm sure. I sneak in further—the gate creaks as it closes behind me, and then falls silent. I need to, have to see the golf course. But when I look, there is no sign of it. I crouch low to the ground and steal around the yard like a piglet nosing for truffles. Still no golf course, no jerry-rigged putting green built by innocent, adolescent hands. It was probably dismantled years ago and deposited at the local dump. I take a deep breath and sink down on the ground. A few stars are twinkling overheard now and the crickets are cricketing in the bushes. I hear a door open in the next house over. A woman's voice calls out, “Here, Ginger, come on, come on, girl.” A dog barks in response and trots home. The door closes.

I decide to leave but I'm disappointed I didn't find that piece of Jack I was looking for. Then, as I start toward the gate, I see it—a little wooden windmill in the middle of the petunias. The paint is peeling and one of the propellers is missing, but it's still there,
still standing, one last remnant of Jack's miniature golf course. I reach out and run my hand slowly over the wood. It's almost two feet high with a red base and white trim. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

I hear a noise inside the house. Someone is moving about. It's John. Oh God, don't let me get caught. I turn as quickly and quietly as I can and fast walk my way out the gate and down the driveway. Then the front porch light snaps on and I hear a door open.

“Excuse me,” I hear from the porch. “Can I help you?”

Shit. I turn slowly. John Eremus is standing on the top step of the porch. He's bigger than I remember.
Formidable
might be a better word, and much to my relief he is not holding a shotgun. Yet due to some perverse reflex on my part I throw my arms up in the air anyway and yell, “Don't shoot.”

And due to some perverse reflex on his part, he raises his right hand, cocks his finger, and pretends to fire. “Bang, you're dead,” he says. I stumble back in surprise, my foot trips over something solid on the ground, and I land flat on my back. I remain still, praying the earth will swallow me whole. When I open my eyes, John is standing over me. He reaches out a hand to help me up.

“You've got to be careful of those sprinklers,” he says. “They'll get you every time.”

“Thanks,” I murmur as he hoists me to my feet.

“You knew my son,” he says. It's a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I did.”

He nods and turns toward the house. “Would you like to come in?” he asks. “I was about to make dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, a little. I didn't mean to intrude. I was just . . .”

“It's no intrusion,” he says, interrupting me. “In fact why don't we fire up the grill and cook some chicken?”

“Sounds good, but I don't want you to go to any trouble.”

“I like the trouble. Trouble helps, trouble and keeping busy,” he says, leading me to the kitchen. The house has low ceilings and hardwood floors and lots of small Persian rugs. “You were at the funeral weren't you?”

“Yes, but I didn't think you'd noticed me.”

“Skin or no skin?” he asks when we get to the kitchen, which is a large room with oak cupboards and white tile counters.

“Pardon?” I ask.

“You like your chicken grilled with the skin or without?”

“Without,” I answer. “No skin for me.”

“That's smart. Animal fat doesn't do you a bit of good. Do you eat red meat?”

“Absolutely not,” I answer, knowing I'm going to get an A on this test.

“Good girl,” he says.

I like that. I like being called a girl.

John gets the chicken out of the refrigerator and hands it to me.

“Why don't you take off the skin and wash this and I'll get the charcoal hot.” He goes out the back door and I turn on the water in the sink and wrestle with the chicken.

I find a pan to put the meat in and take it out back. John is standing with his back to me. The grill is greased and fired up.

“Shall I put these on yet?” I ask, coming up behind him. He jumps slightly. I caught him off guard.

“Yes,” he says. “Please do.”

I place the chicken on the grill.

“How well did you know Jack?”

“Not all that well really. We were just . . .” I stop midsentence. I'm at a loss for words. Were we friends or lovers or merely acquaintances? What is the proper term? How do you label a relationship? You don't—that's the thing. At least not until it's over. “I only knew him a few weeks,” I say in conclusion.

“I see.” John nods.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I offer.

“Damn.” John's eyes fill momentarily, and then he tightens his jaw and narrows his eyes. He's fighting the tears. I remain still and wait. I know the next lines are John's if he can manage them.

“I can't look at anything,” he says finally. “Or hear anything or read anything that doesn't remind me of Jack. Like the bicycle over there. A few weeks ago he asked me if I'd help him change the chain on it. It took us a couple of hours. We couldn't find the right wrench, and by the time we did and got the damned thing replaced, we were starving so we ordered pizza and sat out here and ate it. It was the last meal we had together.”

The chicken sputters on the grill. John swipes quickly at his eyes and then goes in the house. Men are awkward with tears; they don't seem to know what to do with them. Women are better schooled in tear tending: a quick touch of the finger under the eye to catch them before they fall, a careful dab with a tissue so the mascara doesn't get blotched, a delicate brush with the forefinger, or we go ahead and dissolve into mewling messes.

“There's lettuce in the refrigerator and oil and vinegar on the counter,” he says, returning with a spatula. He flips the chicken and I go inside to prepare a salad. The refrigerator door is full of
magnets holding snapshots and grocery lists and laundry slips and old receipts. There is a picture of Jack with his dad next to the jib or the jibe (I can never remember which is what) of a sailboat. There on the boat standing side by side they look remarkably alike. Photos seem to pick up a subtle family resemblance that isn't as apparent in life. I run my finger over Jack's face. I don't know how John can stand being in this house. Jack is everywhere; I can almost feel his breath on the back of my neck. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Everything all right?” John says, standing in the doorway.

“Yeah,” I say, turning quickly away from the refrigerator. “We just need some plates and silverware.” But I've not moved quickly enough, and he notices I've been looking at the photographs. He eyes wander to the refrigerator and then back to me.

“What am I going to do?” John says in a whisper. “What am I going to do without my boy?”

I take two steps toward him. His head falls forward as if it is too heavy for him to bear. I put out my arms and pull him toward me and place his head on my shoulder. I cradle his head in my hand and rock him gently from side to side. John takes a few short breaths and then begins to weep. Tears pour out of his eyes and splash onto the collar of my shirt. No wonder he can't wipe his tears away with a graceful brush of the forefinger, there are too many, too many tears to brush away.

We stand locked together, rocking back and forth for what feels like hours. Then John inhales deeply and we slowly part, disentangling our arms and moving a half step back. John looks at me. His eyes are green or greenish brown. Hazel, I guess. The skin beneath is puffy, but the rest of his face is firm with wrinkles and lines etched in his tanned skin. His hair is grayish and brown,
and his gaze is unsettling. I drop my eyes and feel a blush in my cheeks. I hate this. I hate feeling awkward and exposed. I bite the inside of my cheek.

“I need to put some cold water on my face,” he says. He walks toward the door that leads to the rest of the house. “I hope that chicken's not burned.”

“I'll check,” I say.

John stops and turns. “I bought all these rugs after my wife left me. I wanted to cover everything up, the floors, the past, the feelings, the shit.” He spits out “shit” like a firecracker, he spits it the whole way across the room. “I can't go through that again. I won't make it this time.”

“Then let it out,” I say. “Don't cover it up. You don't have to.”

“No, I don't,” he says quietly. “I thought you were an angel when I saw you in the yard. Sent to help me, to help me find some . . .” His voice trails off.

“Serenity,” I offer.

“Yes,” he says, his voice breaking. “A little serenity.”

He lowers his head for a moment to regain his composure, then looks up with a smile. “You better check on the chicken or it'll be toast.”

Then he disappears into the darkness of the hall and I disappear into the backyard. The chicken is definitely toasty, but not ruined. I place it on a platter and put the platter on the picnic table. The back door opens and John comes out with the plates and silver.

“I have some candles in the toolshed. I'll get them if you'll bring out the salad,” he says. We get everything assembled and then sit down to eat our meal.

“Wait,” John says, jumping up. “We need something to drink.
What can I get you? Ice tea, beer, Coke, which I think I have, or seltzer?”

I hesitate. What I would really like is a pint of Johnny Walker with a beer chaser but I smile sweetly and say, “Seltzer would be fine.”

John leaves to get the drinks just as Goodie buzzes up and settles on my shoulder. “Whee, so this is Queens,” he says, puffing for air. “What a time I had finding you. You know I hate the boroughs.”

“Am I glad to see you,” I say. “This is getting intense. It's so strange being here in Jack's house, and his father is really in pain. I feel for him, and I also feel awkward.”

“Well this is great, Mags. Very Eugene O'Neill, I have to say.”

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

“Trust yourself and for goodness sake stick with the seltzer, Mags. Oh, here he comes. Got to fly. I love you.”

“Ah,” John says pushing open the screen door. “One seltzer with lime. I hope you don't mind. I put it in without thinking. I always take lime in mine.”

“Great,” I say. “I love lime.”

We talk about baseball during dinner. We talk about Derek Jeter and Joe Torre. We talk about the Red Sox and the pennant race, and I tell him about the time I went to Fenway Park with my dad, a staunch Red Sox fan, and the foul ball I caught. It's the quick, desperate talk people talk when they can't talk about what they really want to talk about. After my father died, my brother and I discussed recipes for split pea soup and the best way to make potato salad, talking as if our lives depended on it. And in a way they did. So John and I talk about batting averages and RBIs and strikes zones and by ten o'clock we've finished eating and we've washed the dishes and we don't mention Jack once.

“You a decaf person?” he asks, getting out a container of coffee from the refrigerator.

“Yes, I'd have a cup if you made it. Where's the . . . ladies' room?” I ask stupidly. I hate using the word
bathroom
in social situations but
ladies' room
sounds so formal when you're in someone's home. But, really, what are the options? I could say
latrine
but that's so military. And this guy's name is John, so that's out.

“Upstairs,” he says. “Second door on the right.”

“Thanks,” I say, as
powder room
pops into my head. Damn, why didn't I say
powder room
? I go through the living room and up the stairs and find the bathroom. It's just a sink and a toilet and is, in fact, a powder room. I guess there is another, larger one somewhere, but since I'm not planning to shower or bathe, this will do. I finish my business and head back to the stairs. The door at the end of the hall catches my attention. It's ajar and the light is on. It's the light I saw from the street. I tiptoe down the hallway toward the door. I push it open a few more inches and look inside. I know immediately this is Jack's room. I knew it when I saw the light from the street. I knew it. I knew John was in Jack's room. I look, and yet don't want to look. I take a deep breath and do a quick survey of the contents. I recognize Jack's Doc Martens on the floor by the closet door. T-shirts are thrown over the desk chair. I recognize a Yankees cap and a faded yellow bandana.