Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (49 page)

“Listen to me,” Chic said. “Listen. No, please, will you just listen.”

On the other end of the phone, Russ was pleading with him. “Something could happen to you. Then what? What are you even
doing this for?”

“Look, Russ. This is important to me. I need your help.”

“I can't. Not today. I told you. I have to help Ginger with her pottery. She's kilning some coffee mugs.”

“I just need you to pick up a couple boxes and bring them to me.”

“No can do, man. Sorry. And I told you I don't think this is a good idea.”

“You're really not going to help me?”

“Think about this. You're going to Florida with a woman you hardly even know.”

“Look, when you get to be an old man and your wife dies and you've spent the last ten years of your life living in some assisted living place, you'll understand. Then you can give me your opinion. Until you've walked in my shoes . . . ”

“What if this is a just a big scam and she's after your money or something. That happens, you know.”

“What money? I don't have any money.”

“You've only known her for—what—three weeks, four?”

“I gotta go. Thanks for your help.” Chic hung up. Goddamn Russ. He stared at the phone. Russ was right. Chic didn't know this woman, and who knows, maybe she did this sort of thing all the time? Maybe he shouldn't be going. Wait a second . . . No. No.
No no no no no!
Goddamn Russ. Goddamn him. Why couldn't he just support him? What would be so wrong with saying, “
Hey man, great idea. I 'm really for this. You need to do this. This is something you need to do. Let me help you do this.”
But, no, Russ had to plant some goddamn seed in his head.

Morris walked into the room. He was whistling. He went to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out his wallet and stuffed some money in it.

“You told Geneseo, didn't you?”

“I didn't say a thing—not a peep. Mum's the word. You paid me to keep my mouth shut. I kept my mouth shut.” He stuck his
wallet in his back pocket. “I'll be out for the day. Have a good afternoon.” He pulled the door shut with a bang.

Chic could hear him walk away, jangling his keys. He got up and opened the door and peeked into the hallway. Morris was gone, but Green was wheeling toward his room. He screeched to a stop. The two men faced off. Green pointed to his eyes, then at Chic.

“Yeah, I'm watching you, too.” Chic slammed the door. He stood there for a second listening as Green's wheelchair squeaked past. He had the urge to open the door and yell something at him, but he went back to his bed and took out his notebook. He had a knot in his stomach. He concentrated on the pain. He glanced down at his notebook and read the first line of the poem:
Around the corner is the end
. He felt kinda bad, actually, if he let himself think about it. Green was upset, and those shoes, those were his shoes. Chic glanced down at the loafers. Goddamn Russ. He had planted this seed, and now the thoughts were taking root. He wasn't going to let them. He needed to dig them out.

At a few minutes past five, Mary arrived at We Care and found Green in the common room, slumped over and sleeping. A Bugs Bunny cartoon was on the television. “Eh, what's up, doc?” The coffee table was littered with out-of-date issues of
Reader's Digest
and
Prevention
. Mary grabbed the remote and was about to click off the television and wake Green when she noticed how peaceful he seemed. She suddenly had the urge to touch his forearm and whisper a little bit of encouragement to him. How did we end up in each other's lives like this? How do we get to these places and why do we make these decisions to keep hurting each other like we hurt each other? You're a good person, the whisper voice said. Remember Christmas, 1970. It was your father's second marriage, or maybe his third. The woman had a
daughter who was around seven. The little girl was having a hard time coping. You heard her crying one night. You stopped outside her door and listened. Her mother was in there, and was whispering, “It's going to be all right. This isn't like last time.” You thought about your own mother doing the same thing to you—sitting in your bed, underneath the covers, combing her fingers through your hair while you cried. I'm sorry, Green. I really am. No, you're not, the loud voice said. She was, though. She was sorry. You're sorry, the whisper voice said. At least it's not you, the loud voice said. At least he's not watching you sleep and feeling sorry for you. Why couldn't these voices leave her alone? She just wanted to have a moment. Why couldn't she just have a moment? She reached out to touch Green's forehead to brush his hair back when he opened his eyes.

“Hi,” she said. “Taking a nap?”

He reached violently to grab the remote from her. She handed it to him. Bugs Bunny said, “Of course you know this means war?” Green clicked off the television.

“I thought I'd take you to dinner.” She hadn't noticed it before, but there were bags under his eyes.

He stared at her.

“Please don't be this way, Green. This is temporary. I told you. Please.” She heard keys jingling in her memory. She was about to open the door. Lyle. She had to shake this out of her head. She couldn't break down now. Green would get over it. She'd gotten over it. Everyone eventually gets over it. You're a good person, the whisper voice said. Remember that little girl. You're being sentimental, the loud voice said. I'm just saying, the whisper voice said, it's not too late.

Chic knew Mary and Green were in the cafeteria having their
“last supper,” and she had been clear that she didn't want him there. But he was starving. The turkey sandwich with mayo at lunch just wasn't going the distance. Ten minutes ago, he had eaten a granola bar that Russ had given him. He hated granola bars. They reminded him of Buddy. Besides, they dried his mouth out, and they hurt his jaw—so much chewing. But, really, it was his brother.

It was 7:17 and the rendezvous time was set for nine. He had been in his room for the past two hours trying to resist looking at the clock, but he couldn't avoid sneaking a peek now and then, only to see that just a few minutes had elapsed. It was amazing how slowly time crawled when you were waiting for something. He tested the smell of his breath by breathing into his hand. Maybe he should brush his teeth. That would take some time. He went to the bathroom and got his toothbrush from the medicine cabinet. Russ popped into his mind. He was trying not to think about their phone call, but he was thinking about it, again. Maybe Russ was right. Maybe this was a bad idea. He didn't really know her, and what if she was after his money—not that he had any. But, still, maybe she was after something. Maybe this was just something she did. She'd been with Green only for a few months. He couldn't think this way. Why was he thinking this way? He needed to push these thoughts out of his mind. He looked at himself in the mirror. He spit into the sink. He rinsed his toothbrush. Russ was right—he hardly knew this woman. And what about Green? He had called him a spiff. He was stealing his wife. He'd never thought of himself as the other guy. Well, of course, his brother had spent a lifetime thinking he was the other guy, but now he was officially the other guy. He sat on the bed and glanced at the clock. 7:21. Jesus Christ.
Around the corner is the end.
Could he do this? Could he be the other guy? What did that even really mean—
other guy
? Okay, he knew what it meant, but what did it mean for him? When Lijy had asked him to help her, it had been . . . he'd never really thought about
it like this, and besides it was Lijy and things were complicated. Not that he thought . . . okay, so he may have thought that Lijy maybe would have . . .

There was a knock on the door. Carol Bowen-Smith poked her head in. “Looks like you're all set to go.” She looked at the suitcase at the end of the bed. “Now, where is it you're going again?”

“My nephew's.”

Carol marked something on her clipboard.

“What time is he picking you up?”

“Nine.”

“Well, have a good time. Tell your nephew hello.” She closed the door behind her.

He looked at the clock. 7:22. He closed his eyes. Mary wasn't Lijy. She wasn't even Diane. What was Diane, actually? His wife, of course. His companion? The other person in the room? That sounded harsh. She was more than another person in the room. He used to wake up in the morning and feel her weight on the mattress, hear the whistle of her breath through her nose while she slept. He glanced at the clock again. Still 7:22. Outside, the sun was setting. He looked at Morris's bed; it was perfectly made, the comforter pulled taut. He wanted to rumple it up, pull the corners loose; he wanted to bury his head in Morris's pillow and scream. He wanted to be in bed next to Diane. He wanted to roll over behind her. That's all he wanted to do. Roll over behind her. What actually had happened, really? All of a sudden she was old, and he was old. They basically just sat on the couch and watched TV. Come to think about it, she was usually upstairs in the rocking chair or listening to Peale. He'd sit in the dark living room watching television by himself, and then it would occur to him that it was after midnight. He'd get into bed and she'd already be asleep. He never spooned up behind her. Or if he did, he didn't remember doing it. Or he didn't do it enough. Spoon up behind her and slide his arm around her. Fit his knees in the V of her
knees. Close his eyes. Feel her. Listen to her breathing. And just be next to her. He should have done that more often. Why didn't he do that more often?

Mary waited on Greenwood Street in the minivan. Greenwood Street—now that was ironic. You mean coincidence, the whisper voice said. Irony is when you say one thing but do another, the loud voice said. She knew what irony was. You just confused them, the whisper voice said. Okay, it was just a coincidence, but it was a weird coincidence. Did that make it ironic? No, the whisper voice said. But, by nature, coincidences are a little weird . . . She was not going to have this argument with herself. She knew what irony meant. The dashboard clock read 8:56. Four more minutes and Chic would be here. She had the window cracked. If she smoked, this would be the time to do it. She used to smoke, when she was with Lyle. They'd sit in the car, the windows down, the radio blaring, the ashtray mounded with mashed-out butts.

Headlights approached from behind. A Toyota Camry passed by, a soccer mom type behind the wheel. She wished she'd been a soccer mom, hauling her kids to practice, making dinner, stopping at their rooms on her way to bed to check on them. Her mother hadn't been a soccer mom, didn't have it in her. She hadn't had much of anything in her, actually, except for booze. And lies, which she called promises. Her mother always told her she was going to do better the next time. Why was she thinking about this right now? You always think about this when you get emotional, the whisper voice said. Don't think about this, the loud voice said. It's in the past. But it was true. Her mother was always going to do better the next time. After the divorce, they moved to
LA. “It's going to be better this time.” Better? A one-room apartment, her mother unable to get out of bed some mornings she was so hung over. Why are you thinking this way, the loud voice asked. She's feeling sorry for herself, the whisper said. She's hurting someone. She doesn't like to hurt people. They'd had a terrible dinner. He might know. He doesn't know, the loud voice said. She thought about him waking up tomorrow morning and having to ask someone to help him into his wheelchair. How was he going to ask someone to help him? He can't goddamn talk, can't explain himself, can't share what's in his head, his thoughts, his ideas, his feelings, nothing. In his time of need, she was leaving him. She was ignoring his needs. He's ignoring your needs, the loud voice said. Don't forget about your needs, the loud voice said. He can't talk to you, and you can't talk to him. How is that a relationship? That's trying to communicate with someone who can only write Post-it Notes. That isn't a life. It's a life, the whisper voice said. It's not a good one, the loud voice said. It's not running on the beach and jumping into the surf, but it's a life. It's helping. Help yourself, the loud voice said. Chic needs help. You're helping him. He wants to go to Florida, and you're going with him. It probably isn't going to be running on the beach and jumping in the surf, but it is going to be better than washcloth baths and Post-it Notes. And besides, the loud voice said, he'll find someone to help him. A nurse will help him into his wheelchair. He's going to be fine. You were eventually fine. We are all eventually fine. The loud voice was right. She took a deep breath. A dog barked in the distance. She wasn't going to think about this anymore. She was doing what she needed to do. The dog kept barking, and she looked toward the sound, and there was Chic, carrying his suitcase, coming out of the darkness. He crossed the street, slid open the rear door, and stowed his suitcase in back, then climbed in the passenger seat.