Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (30 page)

Mary slowed down. She looked this way and that and over her shoulder and around like she was trying to find something
familiar. She passed a pickup waiting to turn onto the highway. The driver kept a sharp eye on her; after she had passed, he pulled onto the highway going the opposite direction.

“Are we lost?” Chic asked.

“No, we're not lost.”

The minivan crossed a creek and passed a cemetery, then went up a hill. There was a farmhouse about a hundred yards up the highway. Mary pulled into the gravel drive. A dog chained to a tree in the front yard lunged and barked at the minivan. Mary put the car in reverse, backed out of the drive, and left the way she'd come, past the cemetery, across the creek. Chic wasn't sure where they were. Wasn't Russ's farm out this way? Or maybe it was over that way? There was a water tower in the distance. He was sure that was Farmington. Maybe he should suggest they stop by Russ's? They could all have a beer or something. He wanted to get her in the right mood so that he could bring up Florida. He'd been thinking about how to bring it up. Could he just say it? Come out with it. Blurt it out. She seemed a little flustered right now. The timing had to be right, and maybe this wasn't the best time. Maybe she and her husband had gotten into a fight? Maybe that was reason enough to bring it up? He should tell her more about Diane. If this was going to be an honest relationship, he needed to start being honest with her.

“My wife's name was Diane. She was seventeen when we got married.”

“You told me this.”

“We had a son. Lomax.”

“Chic . . . not now. I'm looking for something.”

“He died.”

She looked around—right, left, then at him. He was rubbing his thumb and index finger together nervously, like he was rolling something into a ball.

“I said he died.”

“What I'm looking for has got to be around here somewhere.”

“I'm trying to tell you my son died.”

“Yeah. I heard you. I'm sorry to hear that.”

“He drowned.”

The quiet voice in her head told her that this required a response. Make him feel like she cared. But she kept looking around instead, trying to spot the gravel pull-in.

“My wife and I, we never . . . It was just one of those things that we just never . . . have you ever had anyone die?”

She hadn't stuck with any guy long enough to have had one die on her. Her father had died, although she hadn't been around when it happened. He had been living in Bakersfield. It was ten years ago. His third wife, a woman Mary didn't know, called one afternoon. They'd already had the funeral. Her father hated churches, so Mary found it odd that he'd had a church funeral, but then again, maybe he'd changed since she'd seen him last—she hadn't been in the same room with him for seven or eight years. She'd talked to him on the phone only once in the past five years, Christmas or his birthday or something, and she could hear the television on in the background. For a long time, she told herself she was trying to find a man like him. Truth be told, her father hadn't really been a good man. That afternoon she called him for what turned out to be the final time, the first thing he said to her was, “What are you calling for? You need money or something?”

Up ahead was a gravel road that cut into a cornfield and led to two silos about fifty yards off the highway. Mary took her foot off the gas pedal. “Look,” she said. The sun was setting, a massive blazing ball sliding down below the horizon, casting a golden light on the silos, making them glow, making them seem so promising and new, two towers of hope, two rockets sitting in the middle of a cornfield about to blast off to a better place.

“That's what we've been looking for?” Chic asked.

After she and Green had sex that afternoon, they lay together on the floor of the minivan, her head on Green's chest, the carpet scratchy against her naked skin. The radio was playing country
music. Lying next to Green, their clothes scattered around the minivan, the radio on, she felt forty years younger, like she'd never aged, like the years had melted away, and she was simply a girl with a boy on the floor of a minivan.

She cut the engine and an orchestra of cicadas and corn bugs filled in the silence. She began unbuttoning her blouse. Chic swallowed hard. He remembered Diane, the weight she had gained after Lomax died, the two of them in the messy bedroom, Peale's voice on the radio, Diane so far removed from him that she could have been in another country. Mary put her hand on his leg and drew close. She closed her eyes. She wanted to kiss. He noticed she was wearing a men's watch. She opened her eyes. He was leaning away from her.

“Aren't you married?” Chic asked.

“How about we don't talk about my husband?”

“You bring me out in the middle of nowhere and you unbutton your shirt and you don't want to talk about your husband?”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“But you're married.”

“Do you want to do this or not?”

“It's been a while.”

“Me, too.” She touched his cheek with her meaty hand.

“I can't stop thinking that you're married.”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here.” She climbed in the back between the seats. “Come on.” She unbuckled her jeans and shimmied them off.

“I don't know about this.”

“Will you please shut up and take off your pants.” She was down to her bra and underwear. She was a big woman, rolls here, there, and everywhere. She took off her bra, and her breasts spilled out.

Chic unbuttoned his shirt. Underneath, he wore a white tank top, which he left on. He took off his pants.

“Come here.” She was on her back reaching up to him, and he crawled onto her.

“My wife and I, for a while, tried to have another kid, but I don't know. It was . . . it just didn't . . . I wanted to, but . . . ”

“You're kinda ruining the mood here.”

“I told you it's been a long time.”

She grabbed his penis through his boxers. “You're not hard.”

“It's just that my brother's wife, Lijy, she . . . ”

“Can we please quit talking like this?”

“Sorry.”

She fondled him until he was erect. “Here we go.”

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“No.”

“I want to go to Florida with you.”

She sighed. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Do you think you've aged gracefully?”

“Take off your boxers.”

“I don't think I can.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked embarrassed.

“What?”

“I think it was 1965, that was the year when I knew something wasn't right with me and Diane.”

Mary sat up on her elbows. “Can we please not talk about you and your wife's marriage?”

“I'm sorry.”

She reached for her bra. “You've ruined the moment.”

He was about to say something. He opened his mouth to talk.

“Chic, please . . . no more talking,” she interrupted.

 

Middleville was growing up. The town had doubled in size since 1950, and in what had once been the surrounding corn and pumpkin fields, subdivisions with names like Whisper Creek and Shady Grove had sprung up. A new high school was being built on the east side of town under the water tower, and traffic lights had been installed at both ends of Main Street. Buddy thought the timing was finally right for a health food store, which was what Lijy had always wanted, always dreamed of. Besides, if he was going to be a real father, he couldn't spend his days staring out the window like his father had. He wasn't going to be his father. He had a son, or at least, or rather, he was a father, which meant that he had a son,
a son
, which meant he was a father,
a father
, a man with a kid, heavy stuff not to be taken lightly.

He and Lijy leased a store on Main Street between Ray's Hairport and Witmer Insurance. Across the street from the store was Middleville Community Bank and Witzig's department store, which showcased a modest selection of conservative fashions. (Those who wanted colorful polyester jumpsuits or bell-bottom Levi's had to make the drive to Bergner's in Peoria.) The plan was to split the store in two: in the main area, they'd stock healthy fare like blackstrap molasses, brewer's yeast, nuts, honey, vitamins, herbal teas, and steel-cut oatmeal; while in the bac room, Lijy would give massages. Buddy sanded down the wood floors and snapped together the aisle shelving. Along one wall, a small commercial refrigeration unit was installed for yogurt, eggs, and milk. Lijy hung a beaded curtain in the doorway behind the counter
and made sure the towels were stacked on the shelf by the massage table. For a final touch, Buddy propped a copy of Gayelord Hauser's book next to the cash register; for ninety-nine cents, a customer could walk out with a paperback copy of
Look Younger, Live Longer
.

On May 1, 1970, Buddy and Lijy hung balloons on either side of the front door and a grand opening banner in the front window. To make the place look familyfriendly, Russ, who was now ten, put on his Little League uniform and stood on the sidewalk with free cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice. By noon, however, not a single customer had stopped into the store. Lijy was still holding a tray of yogurt samples, while Buddy, wearing a dhoti and flip-flops, kept looking at his watch. At one o'clock, Mrs. Witmer came out of Witmer Insurance and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the store. She gave the place a long look before getting into her station wagon and driving away. At three o'clock, Lijy set the yogurt samples on the counter and went into the massage parlor to lie down. She took one of the massage towels from the shelf and put it over her head. Russ came inside the store. Out front, a Chevy Impala parked next to the curb, and a man Buddy recognized as the high school football coach, Coach Reiser, hopped out. He wore sunglasses and a flat-top haircut. “I think we might have our first customer,” Buddy yelled. Lijy burst through the beaded curtain and picked up the tray of yogurt samples. Coach Reiser stood out front, rubbing his chin. He looked up at the hand-painted sign that read GENERAL HEALTH FOOD AND MASSAGE STORE. Buddy waved him in. “Come on in, Coach.” Instead of being the first customer, Coach Reiser turned around, got back into his Impala, and drove away.

For the next few months, the residents of Middleville walked past the store, scratching their heads, not sure what to make of it. A few did venture inside to have a look around; they would pick up the odd items, like the herbal teas, eye them suspiciously for a few moments, then put them back on the shelf and leave. (A few
brave customers did buy some stuff, mainly jars of honey or pints of yogurt.) Coach Reiser came back one day and wanted to know if they sold creatine or any other weightlifting supplements. They did not, but Buddy did offer him a complimentary package of licorice tea, which the coach declined.

One afternoon, Buddy saw Chic walk by, heading south toward Ray's Hairport. Buddy thought maybe he was in the neighborhood to get a haircut. A few minutes later, Chic passed going the opposite way. A couple of minutes after that, he passed by again. This back-and-forth went on for another few minutes, until Buddy went outside. Chic's car was parked out front, and Diane was in the front seat of the car, wearing Jackie O. sunglasses and holding a doll. When Chic saw Buddy, he slowly walked toward the car.

“Maybe you two can come in for some yogurt,” Buddy said. “I bet Lijy would like to see you both.”

Chic stared at his brother. “Do you really think that's the best idea?”

Then, it dawned on Buddy—he'd been so focused on the store, he'd forgotten about the affair. Actually, that wasn't true. He hadn't forgotten about it, but the years had dulled the sharpness, the pain, the agony, the betrayal. Occasionally, though, it would all come pouring back for a moment. This faraway look would appear on Buddy's face, and he'd get very quiet. He'd have to sit down, close his eyes, and rub his temples.

Chic got in his car, and Buddy watched him drive away. Diane hung her head out the window and looked back at him. They weren't okay. They weren't even close to okay. Buddy had heard from a few people in town that Chic hadn't mowed his lawn all summer, and that he was going into Stafford's and buying two dozen frozen TV dinners at a time.

By September 1970, after being open four months, the health food store had netted ninety-seven dollars. Lijy suggested they cut their losses and sell all the inventory at half price. They
could call the whole adventure a “learning experience.” In retrospect, the idea seemed so half-cocked, misguided, and selfish. How could she have been so stupid? A health food store in a small town in the middle of Illinois. Buddy wasn't ready to cut his losses, though. He told Lijy to have some patience. People needed time to get used to change. He reminded her of when she first moved to Middleville, how everyone used to stare at her. Did she not remember that first week—the goons on the lawn cackling and threatening to make their life miserable? How they tossed eggs at the porch and toilet-papered the trees and yipped like excited dogs until Buddy got his BB gun from the closet, cracked the living room window, and shot one in the leg, knocking him to his knees. All of them then jumped in their cars and sped off. It was the last time they gave them any problems. Of course, that didn't mean that people stopped looking sidelong at her, but at least they did their staring in silence. So, no, he didn't want to sell off the store's stock at half price. Quite the opposite: he was going to print up some flyers and stuff them in people's mailboxes. He was going to get a PA speaker, affix it to the roof of his car, and drive up and down Main Street. (Those things kept him busy for a little while, although they didn't really help. It would be another three years before the store got a foothold, when, in the summer of 1973, a fitness craze swept through Middleville. A health club featuring a weight room and stationary bikes opened on Main Street, and in the early mornings, small groups of men and women dressed in tracksuits and headbands would jog through town, dodging lawn sprinklers and barking dogs and stopping in the store to eat yogurt and wheat berries and vitamins and purchase copies of Gayelord Hauser's book.)