Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (25 page)

The three of them stood there thinking or not thinking about what Dr. Himanshu had said. Finally, Diane wandered into the church, leaving Chic and Lijy alone. Chic was still mad at her, although he hadn't remembered his anger until this moment. He'd made a sacrifice for her, and now his son was dead and he was sure that Lijy had something—all of this had something—to do with what had happened, that there was this big cloud hovering over him, ruining his life, because of her.

“You're welcome,” he said.

Lijy cocked her head.

He motioned to the church. “This is because of me, you know. You're getting a second chance because of me.”

“You're welcome, too.”

“I didn't say thank you.”

“I'm a person. A real person. Not someone in your imagination.”

“Of course you're a real person. Did I say you weren't?”

“Chic . . . ”

“I almost lost my wife because of this. I was digging a pool to make it up to her. My son died. My son, Lijy. He's never coming back. Never. I want some recognition. I mean, no one knows. What good is doing something if no one knows about it?”

“I could tell everyone that you stood in my kitchen with your . . . ” she dropped her voice to a whisper, a harsh whisper, “ . . . boner hanging out of the front of your boxers. And about the time you were spying on me from your car.”

“You lied, though. Why?”

“You made it true. You confirmed it.”

“But it's not true.”

“It's true to him. And to me. We made it true. Thank you. Really, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I do. But he can't ever know the truth. Not now, not ever. I'm thankful that you helped me. Really, I am. And I'm sorry about Lomax. So sorry, but these two things don't have anything to do with one another.”

Chic could tell that she was being sincere, but that didn't make it any easier. He went inside the church and found Diane in the back row. He slid in next to her and kneeled down. How different his life would have been if he hadn't let Lijy rub his back at his wedding, if he hadn't tried to seduce her. How different it would have been if he hadn't married Diane . . . if his father hadn't committed suicide . . . if his brother hadn't disappeared after that, then showed back up in Middleville with Lijy . . . if his mother hadn't run off with Tom McNeeley . . . if he hadn't been born.

The organ started. Dr. Himanshu walked around, throwing rose petals into the air, while Father Eugene stood at the front and welcomed everyone. He said he wanted to have a moment of silence for Lomax Waldbeeser, nephew of the groom and son of Chic Waldbeeser.

Chic stood up. “He would have been a scientist,” he said.

The congregation turned to look at him. Next to him, Diane was zoned out, staring straight ahead.

Chic stretched out his arms. “My son died because of me.”

“Praise Jesus Lord and Christ forever and ever,” Dr. Himanshu blurted out. “Amen.” He then cupped his hand over his mouth like he'd accidentally burped.

Chic sat back down. “Did you say something?” Diane asked.

“The truth.”

Then, Dr. Himanshu clanged a tambourine and made everyone chant, “Rama-rama-esch-a-lam.” Father Eugene, not approving, snuck out the back door. Buddy held baby Russ, bouncing him to the beat of the tambourine. Dr. Himanshu motioned for everyone to chant louder. Diane fell asleep, and Chic lost focus after Dr. Himanshu began speaking about how marriage was a bond that transcended this life and went into future lives. “You may come back a frog,” he said giggling, before regaining his composure. “And one of your wives may be a hawk.” He giggled again. “Enemies marry . . . ” he put his hand over his mouth, “ . . . eventually in due time. That is the power of love, the power of connection.”

Chic stared at the crucifix hanging behind the altar. He knew the pain of a nail in the palm, not the physicality of it, but the mental anguish. Lijy didn't understand. He had done what he had done to save the family. His brother would have left her, and he prevented that. He'd done it to redeem himself, but now his brother was mad at him, his son was dead, and his wife hated him, or at least, he was pretty sure his wife hated him. So much for redemption. He felt like a car had dropped him off in the middle of the desert and he had to walk back to civilization. He stood up again. “Let me off this cross,” he shouted.

Buddy glared at his brother. He was about to march off the altar and show Chic a thing or two. Lijy grabbed his arm.

“He's hurting,” she said.

“He should keep that sort of thing inside his house. No one wants to see it.”

“We're good people,” Chic said. “Why is this happening to us?”

Dr. Himanshu continued to clang the tambourine: “Rama-rama-esch-a-lam. Rama-rama-esch-a-lam. Rama-rama-esch-a-lam. Rama-rama-esch-a-lam . . . ”

 

Chic wanted to have another child, but whenever he tried, Diane would just lie there. She could be dead. She could have been hit in the chest with a cannonball (she had been hit in the chest with a cannonball). It was bad enough that they slept in the same bed, but he wanted to touch her, too. She just wanted to be left alone, to curl up on the bed and not think, not do anything, not even move. She wanted to be as still as possible. Still, and alone. At one time, she had wanted to be a mother more than anything. Now, only a part of her, a very small part of her, like a sliver, like a fingernail, like a single strand of hair, wanted a family. She couldn't go through it all again. Not with Chic. Not with anyone, actually. The worry. The fear. It would consume her. It was consuming her. She wasn't going to do it again, but then Chic's mouth was all over hers, his breath stinking of beer. Then his pants were off. He pushed her back on the bed and rolled on top of her. He stuck himself inside of her. The radio on the nightstand squawked and hissed. Dr. Peale was talking about changing the negative thoughts into good thoughts, positive thoughts, productive thoughts, sunny thoughts, blue sky thoughts, beach thoughts, winning thoughts, smiling thoughts, laughing thoughts, but all she could think about was Lomax underwater, holding the garden hose, kicking and thrashing and struggling and not being able to breathe. Not being able to breathe.
Not being able to breathe.
Then going limp. No more thrashing. Just limp. Sinking to the bottom. No more struggling. Just limp and sinking. His hand clutching the hose, the unmanned boat on the surface of the water drifting toward the cattails.

She had driven to Middleville to visit some guy she hardly knew. Take a good long look at yourself, the whisper voice said. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Oh, shut the hell up, the loud voice said. It's a dog-eat-dog world. Get in there and get your bone. Yeah, she thought, get in there, seize the opportunity. Chic was opportunity. Mary dug through her purse trying to find her lipstick. She was going to march in there and talk to him. She was going to make him like her. The whisper voice cleared its throat. You're about to do it again. Another guy. Another change. How many times have you been married? The loud voice said, Go inside and talk to him, sit with him for a little while. Take him to the Dairy Queen you passed on your drive through town. Buy him a cone, a milkshake, whatever the hell he wants. The whisper voice butted in: Go back to Peoria, to Green. He's getting discharged tomorrow. You married him. The whisper voice was right, she thought. She wasn't going to do it like that this time. No more running. She was going to stay with Green. It was the right thing to do and it was about time she started to do the right thing. That's bullshit, the loud voice said. You've lived your entire life trying to find something better. The “right thing” has never stopped you before. Why now? Why this time? Are you feeling sorry for that putz in the hospital? Don't feel sorry for him. He'll be better off without you, and you'll be better off without him. That's right, she thought. You made Green promise he'd never cheat on you, and here you are about to cheat on him, the whisper voice said. Talking to someone isn't cheating, the loud voice said. True, the whisper voice said, but it's a slippery slope. Very slippery. Green's been good to you. This was true, she thought. You're going to up and leave him, the whisper voice said. Why? You
moved to Illinois with him. You moved to Illinois because you thought it would be better, and it's not, the loud voice said. It's terrible. Are you kidding? Green may die in a month, six months, a year . . . then what?

Mary put her hands over her face. She hated when she couldn't think clearly. She needed something to help her think. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. The voices kept snarling at each other. She didn't even know if she really liked Chic. He annoyed her, actually. He wanted to tell her about things from his past that she didn't want to hear. At least, with Green, he never wanted to talk about his past. She knew nothing about him, and she liked that. It was simply the present with him—the moment, the right here and now. The past muddied everything. Wait a second, had she just made a decision? Yeah. She was going back to Green. That was it. It was settled. She was going back to him. Hold the phone, the loud voice said. You really want to take care of him? Give him sponge baths? Feed him? That's what you want for the rest of your life? You don't want to take care of anyone. Heck, you want someone to take care of you. “Stop,” Mary said aloud. She looked around. Had she actually said that out loud? She needed to stop letting her thinking control her like this. She put the minivan in reverse and backed out of the parking spot and turned left onto Jackson Street. Bravo, the whisper voice said. This is the right thing to do. You're doing the right thing. And tomorrow you can take Green to the Brazen Bull. That's what he wants. It'll help. You gave Green's loafers to Chic, the loud voice said. You'll get new shoes. Right now—find a mall. Then, you'll clean the house and prepare it for Green's arrival. That's the irony here. You've never taken care of anyone in your life.

She needed to find a mall. She stomped on the gas pedal and refused to look in the rearview mirror.

Chic was shuffling through life like a zombie. He couldn't go on, but he had to go on. He was drinking six or seven beers a night and taking the empty bottles to the garage and hiding them in the garbage. He needed something, anything. The pain he felt, the loss, the hole, consumed him. He wanted to box up the pain and put it on a shelf in the back of his mind and turn out the light. He wanted to forget, but he couldn't forget: the pain was always buzzing around him like a pesky mosquito. He wanted to swat it, slap it, kill it.