Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (24 page)

Diane's parents came over. Her mother went upstairs to comfort Diane. Chic and his father-in-law sat in the living room. Chic tried to look sad.

“So,” his father-in-law said.

“I'm very sad,” Chic said. What was he supposed to say here?
He needed to be strong to show his wife's father that he was strong. Earlier, before his in-laws had arrived, Diane was wailing and pounding her fists into the mattress. “It's tough. But we're managing.”

“You're like a rock,” Diane's father said. “Diane needs your strength right now.”

Chic nodded, but wanted to tell him that he needed Diane's strength, too. He needed somebody's strength. He needed more than strength—he needed a map, a guide, some direction, a book of directions, something to tell him how to feel this sadness. “I was out earlier. In the garage. Hot out there. Whew. A boiler.”

“It's going to be OK, son. You're going to get through this.”

His father-in-law had never called him son before. Chic got up and moved to the couch next to him. He wanted Diane's father to touch him. Hug him, maybe. Touch his leg even. He wanted to be comforted by him. He wanted to be loved by him. Chic put his face in his hands. More than anything he wanted to be touched on the back by this man.

Diane's mother came downstairs. Diane's father stood up. “I'm going to go check on Diane,” he said. Chic watched his father-in-law go upstairs.

Diane's mother had been crying. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and said she needed some air.

“It's hot out there,” Chic said.

She smiled and went out on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her.

Chic went to the back of the house and stared at the hole in the backyard. He wanted to be in that hole, lying there, looking up at the sky, the moist earth cooling his back. The sound would be muffled. He could stare at the clouds. He wanted to feel what it felt like to have someone shovel dirt on him. He heard Diane's mom come in the front door. He wanted to sit with her, but he couldn't take wanting to be touched and not being touched again. Alone was better. Alone he wouldn't be disappointed. He felt like he was going to cry, but he wasn't going to let himself. Crying was
being out of control and he needed to stay in control.

Chic got a bottle of beer from the fridge. It tasted good, cold, good and cold, and he took another drink, a longer drink, sucking down half the bottle. Diane's father came down the stairs. He called out for Chic, but Chic didn't answer. He took another drink of beer. Diane's parents whispered to each other in the living room. His father-in-law called for him again. Chic edged himself into a corner of the kitchen, hoping they wouldn't come looking for him. He heard the front door open and close. He heard his in-laws get into their car. He heard the car start. He went out into the living room. Diane's mother's used Kleenex sat on the coffee table. Chic went upstairs and stood in the doorway of the bedroom and looked at Diane lying on the bed. She had a pillow over her head. He should go to her. He knew it. It was so obvious. He took off his shoes and placed them side by side next to the bed in front of his nightstand. He slid into bed and nuzzled close to her and put his arm around her. He wanted to share the feeling with her, wanted her to roll over and face him and acknowledge that they were both feeling this terrible awful sadness and it was like a bomb exploding in their hearts, like a thousand bees stinging their hearts, like a million trillion billion nails being pounded into their hearts. But she didn't roll over. It was another day in the life of his life and he was lying in bed holding his wife like he was expected to hold her. He squeezed her, but she didn't squeeze him back. He just wanted to make a connection with her. Feel one with her. He squeezed her again, hoping she'd squeeze him back, but she didn't move, so he got up and left the room, went downstairs to the kitchen and got another beer.

Morris Potterbaum couldn't sleep again. He rustled around in bed, fighting the covers, rolling over, rolling over again. Finally,
he sat up, put on his slippers, and got out of bed. Most nights, Chic slept through Morris's insomnia, but tonight he was already awake, thinking about the afternoon he'd spent with Mary. Before they'd gone to bed, Morris had asked Chic why he had missed the bus back to We Care earlier that day. Chic shrugged and told Morris that his son, Russ, had picked him up and taken him to dinner. Morris told Chic he was lying, and that Carol hadn't made a note of it on her clipboard.

Morris put on his robe and went out into the hallway. You weren't allowed to leave your room after lights out, but Morris always went into the hallway and down to the common room when he couldn't sleep.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 11:43. Chic rolled over. He wanted to go to sleep, but his mind was a rollercoaster, climbing up and dropping down, banking to the left and to the right, and all the passengers were screaming. He liked Mary; she was sorta, kinda, nice. And, best of all, she talked to him, and nobody talked to him, especially since Jessup had died and Morris had become his roommate. Jessup Anderson had been a talker; Morris, on the other hand, pretty much ignored Chic even when he asked him direct questions like, “Have you been outside? Do I need a jacket?” One night, about four months ago, at around three in the morning, Jessup had let out a howl, held his throat, gurgled a couple of times, and taken his last breath, which sounded like air hissing out of a tire tube. Chic always thought that someone's last breath would make a wheezing sound, like the person was clinging to a rope and didn't want to let go, but Jessup's wasn't like that; it was just an exhale, and that was that. A week later, Morris moved in. As Morris carried in a cardboard box full of personal items, clothes and a pair of gargoyle bookends, Chic tried to strike up a conversation, but after just a few questions, Morris told him not to ask any more questions. Later that day, Morris drew an imaginary line down the middle of the room between the beds and told Chic that they'd get along a lot better if they just didn't speak to each
other unless they absolutely had to.

The only person who really talked to Chic was Russ. Sometimes, he and Ginger would visit, or else Chic would go over to their house for dinner. Ginger usually made pot roast. Chic didn't like pot roast, but he didn't say anything because he didn't want to not be invited back. After dinner, Chic would sit in the living room with the television on until Russ fell asleep and Ginger knocked out the dishes and Chic knew he had to go back to We Care. It was then that he would get this sinking feeling, this emptiness, like someone had dug out his soul with a garden shovel. He was feeling that way right now. He wanted to see Mary again. She made him feel—how should he say it?—she made him feel wanted. He hadn't felt wanted in . . . well, he hadn't felt wanted since he was eighteen years old and Diane had come up to him at that football game and told him he was going to take her for ice cream. Chic was serious about what he had said to Mary about taking her to Florida. He hadn't thought about Florida in . . . well, he didn't know the last time he had thought about Florida. A long time ago, that's for sure. He hadn't really thought about anything or even done anything since Diane had died, and that was—what was it . . . fifteen years ago or something like that. He'd sold the house. That was something. And he had moved into We Care because Russ told him that maybe he wouldn't be as lonely. But We Care was like a holding cell for death. That's what really scared him. He was on the cliff 's edge of death—what'd he have left, ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years if he was lucky? And what did he have to show for his life? The role of a son is to save the family, and he had killed his, strangled it, cut off its oxygen supply, held its head underwater . . . .Jesus, he couldn't believe he'd let his mind wander that far. But it was true—everyone he'd touched had turned blue in the face.

He should try to be more like Morris. Outside of their room, in public, he was hello, how are you? and blah-blah-blah to everyone and smiling and shaking hands and making little jokes
and saying the right things at the right time and touching people on the back and winking at the old ladies and flirting with the nurses. Chic once asked Morris why he was so unfriendly with him in their room, yet so upbeat with everyone else in the place. Chic hoped that if he asked this, Morris would open up to him, but he just went about doing what he was doing, which was polishing his shoes. Chic then told Morris about his son, Lomax, how he had lost him, and about Diane, hoping that the two of them could share things that had happened over the course of their lives, but Morris said, “I don't want to know anything about you, Chic. What happens out there is what happens out there. But in here, leave me alone.” And then he went back to polishing his shoes.

Chic rolled over to face Morris's rumpled bed. One of his pillows was on the floor. Chic got out of bed and picked it up. The green duffel bag was hanging on the coat tree by the door. Chic went over and fished out his poetry notebook. Then he heard Morris say something to the security guard in the hallway. Chic quickly put his notebook back into the bag and got into bed and rolled over so that his back was facing the door. The door opened, and light from the hallway splashed into the room. Chic heard Morris get into bed and adjust the covers. Then, it got so quiet. Chic rolled over to face Morris, who was curled up in his bed, the outline of his body under the blanket. He liked Morris. Or he envied him, actually: Morris could put on a face when he went out into the world and pretend that nothing was wrong. That was a better way to be. Just walk right into the wind and hold on to your hat.

It was 11:56. He was going to the Pair-a-Dice tomorrow. He was going to try a different approach with Mary. The Morris approach. He was going to be the person she wanted him to be. Then she'd want to be with him, would agree to go to Florida with him. Chic closed his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't fall asleep. But that was all right. At least he was looking forward to something. It had been a long time since he'd looked forward to anything.

As a sign of their reconciliation, Buddy and Lijy decided to renew their vows at Blessed Sacrament Church. Buddy had asked around and found Dr. Himanshu, a “cosmic” spiritualist, in Chicago. His idea was for both Father Eugene and Dr. Himanshu to conduct the ceremony together. Father Eugene was skeptical. He'd been a Catholic priest for fifty-four years, and he'd never been asked to do such a thing. Still, Buddy pressed him, telling him that it would be good for the Waldbeeser family, as they—everyone—had been through a lot, what with Lomax's death, their father's death, their mother . . . wherever she was. Father Eugene said that this was asking a lot. Buddy kept pushing, and Father Eugene finally agreed, under one condition: that the ceremony be held in the dead of night.

Diane and Chic arrived on foot. Chic had lost their car keys, so they walked the two miles to Blessed Sacrament. When they arrived, Lijy was talking to Dr. Himanshu outside the church. Lijy introduced them. Dr. Himanshu was a short man, about five feet tall, and bald. He wore a salmon-colored dhoti and was eating sunflower seeds.

“Is it Halloween?” Chic said. He wasn't sure. He didn't think it was, but he'd spent so much time staring at that hole in the backyard that he'd lost track of time. Maybe it was Halloween. He looked at Lijy for confirmation.

“It's May,” Lijy said.

“Who is this guy supposed to be?” Diane asked.

“Dr. Himanshu,” Lijy said.

“Is someone sick?”

“We will all be sick someday and maybe someone is sick right now,” Dr. Himanshu said. He spit out some sunflower shell and giggled and excused himself to go inside the church.