Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (45 page)

“It's a family name,” Chic said. “It was my great great great grandfather's name.” This was a lie. It wasn't a family name. It probably had significance, but he didn't know what it was. To him, it was just an odd name that followed him around like his sad life.

“Chic has been living with us for about what . . . twelve years?” Carol Bowen-Smith said.

“Actually, thirteen. Lucky thirteen. But I'm planning a little break, a vacation if you will.” Chic quickly excused himself and
went over to the steam table and loaded up a tray of food: oven-fried chicken and instant mashed potatoes, along with a roll and a glass of milk. He sat down a few tables away from Mary and Green and did his absolute best not to stare, though he couldn't help himself. This was his competition—a guy in a wheelchair and lavender hospital pants. Wait a second, those weren't hospital pants. They were polyester suit pants. My God, who was this guy, some sort of Las Vegas pimp?

Carol Bowen-Smith stood up and clinked her fork against her water glass. “In fifteen minutes, we're meeting in the common room, folks. We have a new resident to introduce.” Chic surveyed the other tables to gauge the other residents' interest. Janice Galbreath's head bobbed, a thin spider string of drool yo-yoing off her bottom lip. Leroy Midge, the deaf guy, was slouched in his chair sleeping, the food on his tray untouched, and Chic's roommate, Morris Potterbaum, dressed in his usual dinner outfit of shirt and tie, held up his water glass. “Cheers to the new guy. Bravo,” he declared.

The nurses helped the residents dispose of their trays. Mary negotiated Green's wheelchair around some tables and out into the hallway. She gave a quick over-the-shoulder glance at Chic, but he averted his eyes, looking down at the floor.

“Join us, Mr. Waldbeeser? We're going to do the Name Song,” Carol said.

“Yeah, quit being a sad sack, Waldbeeser,” Morris called from the dessert cart. “Show some spirit.”

In the common room, Green was parked in front of the television, facing the nurses and residents. Mary stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder, and Carol stood beside the couple, her acoustic guitar hanging from her neck. Several residents were squeezed onto the couch, and the ones who sat in wheelchairs were scattered around the room. Janice Galbreath was sitting in an old plaid chair, the same string of drool yo-yoing from her bottom lip. Morris stood against the back wall, eating from a container of yogurt.

“You folks wanna hear about Green Geneseo's life?” Carol asked, to no response. She then nodded at Mary, and all eyes in the room that were still open and awake turned to her. Mary didn't know what to say, as Green had never told her much about his past. She had tried to get him to talk, but he always gave her the bookie story, which she had her doubts about. One afternoon while he was out running errands, she'd snooped around the trailer and found a shoe box squirreled away in the bedroom closet. The box was wrapped shut with packing tape, but she managed to peel back a corner and weasel out a hand-twisted, tinfoil rose. She imagined the rose was something he'd given to the woman he'd previously shared the trailer with.

Mary cleared her throat and smiled nervously. “Green Geneseo,” she began, “grew up in Las Vegas with a loving mother and father. Actually, that's not quite right. His parents weren't that loving.” Green looked down at his lap. “He had a good childhood, though. He played peewee football and Little League baseball. His parents doted on him and called him Red Rider. They took him on vacations to the Grand Canyon and to California. He grew up fast and was a star athlete who lettered in two sports and got a football scholarship to the University of Nevada. He met his first wife, Kim, a cheerleader, during his freshman year. Her father owned a grocery store in her hometown of Dustin, Nevada. Love at first sight. They got married. He used to make her roses out of tinfoil and paper napkins, the Sunday comics. He was an accountant. She stayed at home and painted her fingernails. They lived in a trailer with a pool. They got older. They talked about retirement. Florida. Moving to Florida. Then, she died. Passed away is probably a better way to put it. Her heart. A heart attack. Forty-seven years of marriage or something like that. And then he met me, at a bowling alley. Two people in the right place at the right time, and you know what they say about love—you just know it when you feel it. And I've been the luckiest, happiest girl ever since. Or, at least, until he had a stroke a couple weeks ago.”
She glanced over at Carol Bowen-Smith, who began strumming the chord progression to “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.”

“Sing it with me, folks. Green, you've lived a long full life. Here we go now. Everyone.
Green, row your boat ashore . . . halleeelluuujjaaa
.” Mary joined in, her thick hand squeezing Green's shoulder. She leaned down and kissed him on top of the head.

As soon as the singing started, Janice Galbreath snapped alive and started clapping. Morris Potterbaum tapped a beat on the bottom of his empty yogurt container with a spoon. As part of the orientation ritual, Carol led a conga line of the residents around the common room and down the hall to the cafeteria where there was cake and ice cream. Mary pushed Green in his wheelchair, while the nurses pushed the other residents in wheelchairs. The rest, like Morris Potterbaum, walked, and the group headed down the hallway, everyone singing,
Green, row your boat ashore . . . halleeelluuujjaaa
.

Chic was pressed against the hallway wall as the group passed. He narrowed his eyes at Mary to let her know his utter disapproval, but she wouldn't look at him. She closed her eyes and sang. He noticed Green was staring at him, though. He had a pained look like he'd just been socked in the stomach. Chic turned his back on him and walked down the hallway to his room.

. . . halleeelluuujjaaa
.

 

Chic sat on the chair with his coat on and the green duffel bag in his lap, waiting for Russ and Ginger to pick him up. He'd been waiting for over an hour, ever since Buddy had called to invite him to Christmas dinner—though Buddy had made it clear it wasn't really Christmas, but rather, just “a dinner.” They didn't have a Christmas tree. And he shouldn't bring any gifts. (Not that Chic had any time to go to the store, anyway.)

In the truck, Russ and Ginger were both talking fast and finishing each other's sentences. They'd recently placed a down payment on a little farmhouse with a hundred acres and a pond outside of Farmington, about an hour's drive from Middleville. They told Chic they planned to grow white pines and Fraser First, and during the Christmas season, they'd hire high school kids to cut down the trees and tie them to the rooftops of cars. Ginger said that she remembered riding out to the country with her father and the two of them cutting down the family Christmas tree. Russ reached over Chic, who was sitting between the two of them, and patted Ginger's thigh.

Buddy greeted them all at the door, wearing a mint-green dhoti and sandals with black socks. He kissed Ginger on the cheek, then shook Chic's hand, noticing the duffel bag. In the open kitchen, Lijy and Erika were preparing the meal, which smelled spicy and a bit musky.

“What's with the green bag?” Buddy asked. “You planning on spending the night?”

“Memories,” Chic said.

“He carries it everywhere,” Russ said.

“I have something for you, Chic,” Buddy said.

“I thought you said no gifts.”

“It's not a gift. It's a loan. I want it back.”

Erika brought over a salmon-colored, satin fabric that was folded into a perfect square.

“It's a dhoti.”

“What's a dhoti?” Chic asked.

“It's like a robe. Like what I'm wearing. It's very comfortable. Put it on.”

“I don't want to.”

“Put it on.”

Lijy turned around from the stove. “Don't make him put it on if he doesn't want to.”

“Nonsense. He's putting it on. This,” he said to Chic, patting the folded fabric, “will change your whole outlook.” Buddy pointed him to the bathroom, which was down the hall.

After shutting and locking the bathroom door, Chic unfolded the dhoti. A piece of fabric was going to change his outlook? He stripped down to his underwear and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He'd shaved that morning and nicked himself on the chin. He was skinnier than he should be. He could see his ribs. He wrapped the dhoti around himself. He wasn't really sure how it went on. Did he wrap it this way? That felt a little too airy. He unwrapped it and wrapped it a different way. He looked in the mirror. He felt ridiculous. This wasn't him. He took it off and put his clothes back on.

At the table, there was an open place for him next to Russ. “Where's the dhoti?” Buddy asked.

“It wasn't really me.”

“How is it not you?”

“No offense, Mr. Waldbeeser,” Ginger said, “but it's kinda weird the first time you put one on.”

“Well, we like them,” Buddy said. He gave Lijy a look.

“He definitely likes them more than I do.” Lijy said, dishing herself some aloo gobi and passing the serving bowl to Chic. Chic looked at the food, not quite sure what the yellowish, chunky, oily goop was. He smelled it. Musty. He took a spoonful and plopped it on his plate, then handed the dish to Russ and sampled a tiny bite.

“Do you like it?” Lijy asked.

“It's interesting,” Chic answered. Actually, it was terrible—spicy and oily and strange. He'd never tasted anything like it. It made his tongue swell, and his eyes started to water. He wanted to spit it out, but he knew he couldn't do that. “Do you, by chance, have any white bread?” he asked.

“White bread?” Buddy said and pretty much clanged down his fork.

“Daddy doesn't allow white bread in the house,” Erika said.

“Russ eats white bread sandwiches,” Ginger said. “Lunch meat and yellow cheese, a little mayo.”

“Mayonnaise? Lunch meat?” Buddy snapped.

Russ shrugged. “If I'm in a hurry.”

“We have wheat bread,” Lijy said. “Buddy baked it yesterday.” She got up from the table and brought the loaf over. Chic took the heel and used it to scoop a potato out of the yellowish goop. Everyone watched as he bit into it, then spit it into his napkin.

“I guess I don't really like it,” he said.

“Well, you don't have to pretend,” Buddy said. “Eat whatever the hell you want. White bread and yellow cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches. That stuff will make you fat. It's terrible for you. But I don't care what you do. Gain weight. Get fat. Get obese and have a heart attack. Die a horrible death. I don't care. Who cares?”

“Daddy!” Erika said.

“What?”

“Diane didn't want to be fat,” Chic said.

“I wasn't talking about Diane.”

“It's okay. It's true.”

“But that's not what I meant.”

“Hey, you know, we have some news,” Russ interrupted.

“Yeah, Russ. Tell Chic the news,” Buddy said.

Russ put his hand on Ginger's leg. “You want to tell him or you want me to?”

“You tell him,” Ginger said.

“Someone tell him!” Buddy said.

“We got married. A couple of weeks ago.”

Ginger smiled. “At the courthouse.”

“Married?” Chic looked around the table.

“We're having a little celebration. Just family. This spring, at the farm.”

“Isn't it great?” Lijy said, looking at Chic.

Ginger put her arms around Russ and kissed him on the cheek.

Chic picked up his glass of water and took a drink. “That's really great.”

“You don't seem excited,” Buddy said.

“I'm excited.”

“You don't seem it.”

Chic held up his water glass and looked at Russ and Ginger. “Good luck.”

“Good luck?” Buddy said.

“Look out where you're going,” Chic added.

“Like the poem,” Russ said.

“About that poem . . . ” Buddy started.

“I thought it was a nice poem,” Lijy said.

“I liked it,” Russ said.

“Me too,” Ginger said.

“Let's not talk about the poem. Congratulations, Russ and Ginger,” Chic said. “Cheers, everyone.”

They all held up their glasses.

After dinner, Russ and Ginger went for a walk, even though Buddy protested that it was too cold outside. They said they
wanted to see the moon, which was full. Erika went to her room, and Buddy brewed Darjeeling tea and set a plate of cookies on the coffee table. Chic sat down on the couch.