Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (47 page)

“Lijy?”

She looked at the mail slot. Chic looked there, too, and saw the letter hanging half in and half out of the slot. He snatched it. It was a white envelope with his name scratched across the front.

“It's not what you think. No lie this time. It's not like that.”

“I don't care what it is. I'm not reading it. I refuse to read it. I won't let myself read it.” He ripped it in half.

“Chic. No. Please.”

He ripped it in half again. And again. And again. He ripped it until there was nothing left but tiny pieces. He threw the pieces at her, into the wind, which whisked them off the porch and into the winter night.“We both know what happened the last time you wrote me a letter.”

“I talked to Russ. He told me. You made him suspicious.”

“Do you know he has these ideas about trees in your head not matching the ones in the real world, or something like that? I don't know. It's not fair that he doesn't know the truth. I mean
. . .
he should know the truth.”

“I'm going to tell him. When the time is right.”

“He's married. He's twenty-five years old.”

“The time isn't right.”

“Suit yourself. Don't tell him. Do what you want. Is that all? Is that what your letter said? Don't tell him the truth. I can do that. I've done that for twenty-five years.”

“Don't be like this, Chic.”

“Be like what?”

“Like this.”

“Like what?”

“Cruel.”

“You dragged me into this. You concocted some elaborate secret that no one knows about but me, you, and my dead wife and son. And now you're moving to Arizona with my brother and leaving me here in Middleville.”

“What's moving to Arizona have to do with anything?”

“Look, I get it. I'm not going to say anything.”

“He likes you. And you two are starting to get close. I just want to make sure that you don't accidentally say something.”

“I'm not going to tell him, but you know, if you wouldn't have gone off and did what you did, which was, I should point out, a very . . . ”

“I know. You don't have to remind me. I know. Trust me. I know. And I'll tell him. I've been planning to tell him. And I will. I'll tell him. Just let me do it in my own time.”

“I didn't want to be part of this in the first place.”

“Actually, I think you did.”

“I did not.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Why are we talking about this? Why does it matter? This happened so long ago,
so long ago
.”

“You brought it up.”

“I did not bring this up. You were on my porch. You came over here to give me a letter. I've made my peace with this, Lijy.”

“You aren't over it. You're clearly not over it.”

“I am too.”

“I don't think you are.”

“Let's drop it. This isn't going anywhere.”

“I agree, but you should admit that you aren't over it.”

“You should tell Russ, and you should tell him soon. That's what should happen. And while you're at it, you should tell my brother too.”

“This bothers you, doesn't it, Chic? It
really
bothers you that I had an affair.”

“I'm just looking out for my brother. That's who I feel sorry for here.”

“Well, you're an awfully good brother.”

“Thank you. Finally. Thank you. I've been waiting a long time for someone to tell me that.”

“I'm going to tell him, Chic.”

“No you won't.”

“I will. I'm going to.”

“For some reason, I don't believe you.”

“I'm going to tell him the truth.”

“No one tells the truth, Lijy. No one.”

On the day that Buddy, Lijy, and Erika were leaving for Arizona, Russ and Ginger held their marriage celebration on the banks of the pond on their new farm. It was supposed to be just a quick afternoon picnic, but Buddy insisted on doing something more formal. After a minor argument beside the already packed station wagon, Russ agreed to let Buddy conduct a “ceremony.” Russ set up some lawn chairs while Buddy picked a handful of black-eyed Susans for Ginger's bouquet. When he was done, Buddy ushered Russ up front and made Ginger stand behind the lawn chairs. Buddy then pushed play on a boom box, and
Canon in D
blared through the speakers. Ginger, wearing a tank top and shorts, slowly walked down the “aisle.” When she reached Russ, who was wearing a mesh baseball cap, t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, she took his hand. Buddy then asked the two of them to turn and “face the congregation,” which consisted of Chic, Lijy, Erika and a few cows about fifty yards away behind a barbed-wire fence.

Buddy first read a passage from his book. Chic tried to follow along, but Buddy mumbled the words. After a few minutes,
he closed the book and went free form. He told Russ and Ginger that the greatest difficulty in life was finding something or someone to connect with. He hoped they'd found that connection in each other. He said he'd found connection with Lijy. He'd also found connection with what he called “spiritualism.” At one time, he thought he had found a connection with coin collecting, but that had been an artificial connection, and artificial connections offered only the illusion of connection. He told Russ and Ginger to look out for artificial connections. “I'm connected to all of you,” Buddy said in closing. “Me, Russ, Lijy, and Ginger, even Chic, all of us are connected to each other. We're family.” He stood there and shuffled like he had more to say. “Do you mind if I'm honest?” He turned to Russ.

Russ shrugged. “Sure. Be honest.”

“Ginger, it's your wedding day, and I don't want to ruin our connection.”

She said it was okay for him to be honest.

“Honey, Lijy, do you mind if I'm honest?”

She looked over her shoulder at Chic, then looked back at Buddy. “Be honest.”

“Erika?”

“Go ahead, Daddy.”

“People can change,” Buddy said. “People can change.”

“Amen.” Lijy clapped.

“As we all know, when I was a young man, I was full of rage. Chic, wasn't I full of rage?”

“You pulled me out of the living room window, if that's what you mean.”

“That's an example. Yes. That's true. Erika, honey, I once pulled my brother out of a window, but luckily for all of us, people can change. I changed. Lijy, my beautiful wife, I have forgiven you, and you have forgiven me. Russ, you are my son. Ginger, you have the hands of a man, but the bosom of a woman. I want you to know that I'm not Russ's father, but you are my son's wife. You should know that.”

“I knew that.”

“Very good, then. Erika, my daughter, my light, my angel, my everything. My connection. You would not be with us without forgiveness and change.”

Erika smiled at her father.

“And, Chic, my brother, my friend, my companion, my man, my dude—I learned that word from Russ. My dude, Chic,
my dude
.”

“I'm not going to Arizona,” Chic blurted out.

Lijy and Erika turned around.

“I know this is about me,” Chic said. “That's what everyone wants. For me to go to Arizona. Well, it's not what I want.”

“Chic, this isn't about you,” Buddy said.

“Cut the crap, Buddy.”

“This is about Russ—about family. About Ginger. About all of us.”

“You have negative energy,” Lijy said to Chic.

“I don't have negative energy.”

“You do, Uncle Chic,” Erika said.

“At one time, Chic,” Buddy began, “I wished that your guts would rain down on your house and the crows would come in from the fields and roost in your trees. I'm sorry for the violent imagery, Erika. But, Chic, my brother,
my dude
, I forgave you. In the moment of my ultimate distress, in the parking lot of Roth Cemetery, when you were burying your son, I saw the ghost of our father, and all the rage I had, all of it, leaked out of me. Or, most of it. The point was that I felt relieved. I felt . . . better. You need to let it go, Chic. Let it go. Let it leak out of you. Let it be gone.”

Chic just shook his head and glared at his brother. “I don't have negative energy.”

After the ceremony, they all sat down at a wooden picnic table for the meal. Russ cooked black bean burgers on a grill, and there were baked beans and asparagus for sides. They drank
lemonade from Styrofoam cups. Chic had brought a bottle of champagne, but Buddy wouldn't let him open it, so the bottle sat in the middle of the table next to Ginger's black-eyed Susans, which Buddy had put in a Styrofoam cup. They ate quickly because Buddy wanted to get on the road before dark. He was the first one done, and excused himself to take a walk around the pond. Chic watched as his brother stopped in front of a tree on the far side of the pond. Chic thought about his brother's sermon—or whatever you wanted to call it. He didn't give off negative energy. He was fine. A little sad, maybe. But negative? No way. Across the pond, his brother had his hands behind his back and was looking up into the canopy of the tree. Suddenly, about a dozen blackbirds flew out of the tree and into the sky.

After a few minutes, Buddy made his way back to the picnic table. Everyone was choking down the sugarless cake he'd made for dessert.

“How is it?” he asked.

“Tastes like dirt,” Chic said.

“You need to get rid of that rage, dude.”

Russ licked some frosting off his plastic spoon. “Well, it is a little dry.”

“It's good for you and that's what's important.”

“Did you really see a ghost, Dad?” Erika asked.

Chic laughed. “He didn't see anything. He saw his imagination.”

“You don't have to believe me.”

“At most, it was a metaphor. Erika, your father was using a literary device to make a point. But, still, his point was ridiculous. Does anyone really believe that crap he said?”

Lijy said she did, as did Erika. Ginger nodded her head. Even Russ, who Chic thought knew better.

“People can't change. Tell me you don't believe that, Russ,” Chic asked.

“But Buddy changed,” Lijy said. “He's living proof.”

“Do you really think this is Buddy? Writing cookbooks and wearing pastel robes. This is Buddy? My brother?”

“It's me,” Buddy said.

“This is not you.”

“I'm standing right here, Chic. How is this not me?”

“It's a lie.”

“I'm not lying. This is me.”

“I think its crap. It's overdramatic. But then again, Buddy, you always were overdramatic. Look at you. You're wearing a robe and baking sugarless cakes. Well, I got news for you. We're all sitting behind our own barns, just like Dad. Sitting in the snow alone.”

“Well, that's one man's opinion,” Buddy said. He looked at Lijy. “I guess we better get going.”

“Yeah, we should go,” Lijy said.

“Wait a second,” Chic said. “I'm not trying to run you off. I'm entitled to my opinion.”

“You hurt my feelings,” Buddy said.

“Settle down. Relax. Everyone just stay seated. No one's leaving without my surprise.” Chic set his green duffel bag down on the picnic table and pulled out a box with a bow on it. “Someone get that champagne popped. Russ, please.”

“We should get going,” Buddy said.

“I listened to you.”

Russ opened the bottle of champagne and poured everyone a little taste in their Styrofoam cups.

“None for me,” Buddy said.

“Oh, come on,” Chic said.

“I'm driving,” Buddy said.

“Ginger, can you open the present?” Chic asked.

Ginger opened the box. Inside was a copy of
Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
. Chic had signed it,
Look out where you're going
. Ginger stared at the cover, a dot matrix printout of a single, large star.

“I want to propose a toast,” Chic said.

“We really need to get going,” Buddy said.

“He's right. We should get on the road,” Lijy said. With that, she, Buddy, and Erika walked over to the station wagon. Russ and Ginger followed, leaving Chic alone. He was steaming; his brother got to sermonize about a bunch of bullshit, but he didn't get to read a poem and give a two-minute toast.

They all hugged in front of the car. Lijy and Erika called out good-byes to Chic, waving, but he didn't wave back. Buddy then slid behind the wheel, and Lijy got into the passenger seat. In the backseat, Erika put on Walkman headphones. Buddy maneuvered the station wagon around some sapling white pines. He honked twice when he got the car on the gravel road. Russ and Ginger watched and waved as the station wagon kicked up a cloud of dust and disappeared into the horizon.