Authors: David Gilbert
Then Mrs. Freninger started to call. "Victor, where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry, I've been busy."
"That's no excuse," she said. "We're close to the end."
"I haven't had time."
"Victor."
"I'll be by Thursday."
And when I missed that meeting she called again, her voice a little more anxious. "Victor, get over here," she said. I pictured
her kicking the dog in frustration.
"Tomorrow," I said.
"You better be here."
"Tomorrow."
But I wanted her to wait. And over the next few days, when the phone rang, I didn't bother to pick it up, knowing that when
something is finished, the next step is to forget it unless you can turn it into something else.
There is a moment in
Adam Bede,
toward the end, which I now read over and over again. It's about love's gradual approach:
Those
slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul's language; and the
finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such "light," "sound," "stars," "music"
—
words really not worth looking at, or
hearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust." It is only that
they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. am of the opinion that love is a great thing and
beautiful thing too, and if
you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to
you; they will rather be like those little words "light" and "music,"
stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching your present
with your most precious past.
On Monday, I left work early, in the middle of cleaning a classroom, and Stan overreacted. He said it was bullshit, he even
used the term "unprofessional," but I just waved him away. When I burst through the metal doors—still, after all these years
of not being in school, an exciting moment of release—there was nothing outside. It was two in the morning. I don't know what
I was expecting, some sound track swelling to crescendo, a group of cheering friends, but there was nothing except a mist
not yet fallen into dew. And as I stood within that close air, I began to sense I was a boy again and I was sick in bed and
my mother had set up a humidifier in the corner of my room so that I might be able to breathe.
Mrs. Freninger didn't live far away. The windows of her house were dark, as were all the other windows on that perfect street.
I sat on the steps and smoked. I flicked the cigarette on the lawn, got up, and rang the bell for a full minute until she
opened the front door.
"Hello?"
"It's me," I said.
"Victor?" Her chin bumped against the screen. She wasn't wearing those useless glasses, and this seemed to make her more blind.
"I hope I didn't wake you."
"Well, actually, no. I was awake. I'm a bit of an insomniac." She opened the door and moved aside to let me in. "Everything
okay?"
I went from lamp to lamp and turned each on, her head following me with every click. I narrated my actions for her.
"I'm turning on the lights." I took off the lamp shades and piled them in the corner. "I'm removing the lamp shades." The
room was now bright and merciless. She was wearing a silk bathrobe the color of a peach. Her toenails were painted red. And
I saw her eyes for the first time. I stepped closer. They were completely black, as if each pupil had been poked with something
sharp and the ink had bled into the iris and then run into the rest of the eye. "I thought we might finish
Adam Bede"
I said.
"Right now?"
"Yes."
She nodded before answering, "All right," then walked to the couch and sat down. Her combed-out hair hung to her shoulders.
"Hetty's on her way to her execution," she said.
"Yes. 'The Hours of Suspense.' "
"That's right."
I began to take off my clothes. She heard me undo my belt, heel off my sneakers. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"The flesh is weak, as Dinah Shore might say."
Mrs. Freninger smiled and then wiped at her mouth as if something had grazed her lips. She pulled her legs up into her chest
and held her feet in her hands. She rested her chin on her knees. "Is this part of the ending?" she asked.
"No story is the same to us after a lapse of time; or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters," I said,
cribbing from the text. In that harsh light, Mrs. Freninger watched my voice, her black eyes reflecting my pitiful body, the
reflection faint or confused but definitely there.
Naked now, in the middle of the room, I held
Adam Bede
in one hand, a Magic Marker in the other. There are words that you use to describe impossible things, though these words do
no justice to your memory of the event. But still, you try.
I started on the left side of the room, and as the pen flowed in large and small loops over the wall, I told her my story.
Soon, my pen would touch her.
IT WAS THE Spring I tried to Save My Marriage, the Spring I made an effort to be My Old Self again. On weekends I visited
the house and devised basic repairs from the effects of winter. I replaced storm windows with screen windows, cutting up my
fingers in the process. I fertilized and mulched the quarter acre of stubborn land. I made sure the tree house was still solid
after the record snows and put in a few nails for good measure. And finally I built a fence, a white picket job, that edged
the perimeter of the property like a set of movie-star teeth. After this, my wife invited me over for a Family Dinner.
"Roast beef," she told me on the phone.
"Well, sure," I said. "That'd be great." My thumb was nervous on the remote's mute button, as if she could somehow hear me
waste time. My new shame was TV, and whenever I was in that small apartment, the TV was on. I especially liked C-Span's coverage
of the British House of Commons, everyone shouting and murmuring with basic good humor, often instructing their Right Honorable
Friends to shove it up their asses.
"How about Friday?" she said.
"Friday's fine."
"Good." And then there was an awkward silence between the two of us, a moment of indecision. Instead of the usual End of Conversation
abruptness, we had time to wait for the other to hang up. It seemed to baffle us.
This was also the Spring the Cleveland Indians were touted as American League contenders. Losers for as long as anyone cared
to remember, Cellar Dwellers season after season, the team finally had a chance at greatness. I was a fan. In elementary school,
I felt physically ill with each defeat; in junior high and high school, I switched allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds; and
in three semesters before flunking out of Ohio State, I rekindled my loyalty and started to take a certain pride in the losing
traditions of the ball club. During home games I'd sit in the stands of that old Municipal Stadium, and I'd drink beer after
beer in those waxy cups, the bottoms sagging against my thigh, until late in the innings, when I'd sneak up into the empty
Nose Bleeds and stretch out on the bleachers. The noise of distant incompetence lulled me into a comfortable sleep. Sometimes,
My Old Man came along, and he'd shout at the players to "C'mon, Hustle Up!" and "Give It Your All!" his voice filled with
an awkward desperation. And I remember once turning to look at him after the Indians had blown a lead, a smug smile already
on my face, and seeing him pinch himself on the arm, hard enough to leave a three-day bruise.
"They Break Your Heart," he said.
"You take it too seriously."
"Just shut up."
But this Spring promised to be different. The Tribe was stocked with a bunch of solid players, and they had a prized new Tepee—Jacob's
Field—designed to bring back memories of The Good Old Days. Eccentric angles, intimate surroundings, the stadium was considered
the third step in the Revitalization of Cleveland. Number four was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Gazing toward the future,
the Chamber of Commerce tried to wipe out the last thirty years with a thermonuclear blast of development. My days, it was
generally accepted, were days to forget.
That Friday night I took a taxi to my house, passing through Rockefeller Park on my way to Richmond Heights. Garfield's Tomb
was just starting to attract its usual crowd of Misdemeanors. They lingered like a whisper to the past. "Some kind of dance
or something tonight?" the cabbie asked, his eyes catching me in the rear-view mirror.
"No. Having dinner at home."
"Good for You," he said. This guy often drove me around during The Year My License Was Suspended; he didn't turn on the meter
until halfway there. "You guys might get back together, you think?"
"Who knows?"
"But that's good."
"We'll see."
The cars on Euclid Ave. were filled with kids, this being The Strip. Elaborate horns and funky lights battled for attention,
no one able to afford a real souped-up rig. At stoplights the shouting began, mostly taunts to Eat My Shit, You Candyass Motherfucker,
or sometimes a question of Where You Going Tonight? If these kids weren't drunk or high, they were doing a pretty good job
of acting that way. I watched from the stuck-open window, my hands on my lap as if they were handcuffed.
When the light changed and the cars began to move again, a breeze rushed in. I slid to the middle to avoid mussing up my hair.
"So to your house then, not the Mall?" he asked me.
"No, the Mall. I'll walk after that."
"Whatever suits you fine."
The Richmond Mall was like an airport without airplanes, and the people inside wandered around killing time, waiting for some
unfortunate delay to end. A large wishing fountain drizzled in the main terminal, though nobody threw in any change, and fake
plants struggled in an environment where seasons were defined by the "Sale" signs in storefront windows. Elderly couples sat
on benches and watched the circling adolescents. Sober entertainments were advertised with blinking lights, the video arcade
posting a small notice that warned epileptics of The Possible Danger Of Some Games. I wondered which ones to avoid. I also
wondered if you could still buy drugs in the bathroom.
I went into Norman's Sporting Goods—the air almost lonely without the smell of sweat—and walked toward the baseball section.
A full uniform hung from the pegboard wall, like an invisible Christ crucified for poor pitching. Below, aluminum and ash
bats leaned in a line, their weight marked on the heel. I picked up a Louisiana Slugger and took a few lazy swings. It felt
nice and simple, this back-and-forth movement, though my playing days had been Nothing to Write Home About.
Another display carried a slew of baseball mitts, each waiting for a hand to slip in. I grabbed a Raleigh with Barry Bonds's
autograph across the thumb and pounded the leather with my free fist. I crouched down in the ready position; I scooped up
an imaginary grounder; I threw to first. An Easy Out. That was my type of hit, worthless without an error.
A young man came over and said, "May I Help You?" He held an accordion of New York Yankee hats.
"Is this mitt any good?" I asked.
"Sure, once you break it in."
"Okay. And I need another, for a six-year-old boy. A lefty."
The young man pointed an elbow toward the bottom of the rack. "Go low," he said. "Lefties have an 'L' sticker in the palm."
I slid one free. "Is this the right size?"
"I really couldn't tell you," he said.
With the Norman's Sporting Goods bag bumping against my leg, I made my way down an alley, dodging potholes filled with water.
This was a shortcut. From here, you could see the back porches of the neighborhood, the kitchen windows steamed with cooking
food. Blue recycling bins were stacked next to the doors, and a few people had compost piles in their yards. Though I had
been away only a year, this was new to me. All that sorting and arranging would've driven me nuts, judging between the garbage
to be reborn and the garbage to be damned, as if Dixie Cups had a soul.
I loitered around, killing time, waiting for 7:30 P.M. on the dot. Lateness was once The Least of My Problems.
"Hey, that you?" a familiar voice called out.
I slid off the hood of a parked car, almost half a block from the house. "How do you see me?" I asked.
"I don't. Just figured you'd be lurking around." She stood in the doorway, the screen door leaning against her body. The streetlight
cast light on her face, and seeing that smile again, both forgiving and condemning, almost made me take off in the opposite
direction. But I picked up my bag and started forward.
"You been waiting long?"
"Not really."
She kissed me on the cheek, her hand intimate on my neck. I hated that I noticed her makeup, her perfume, her hairdo—hell,
I should've been pleased—but it seemed like she was making too much of an effort For Things to Work Out. Then again, I had
shaved that afternoon and remembered to hold off on the aftershave. She never trusted that smell, always thinking there was
a taint hidden underneath.
"What's in the bag?"
"Some stuff. Belated presents, I guess."
"Oh, great." She led me into the kitchen. The linoleum on the floor was peeling at the corners, no doubt another problem to
repair. She went over and peeked into the oven, sizzles emerging from the darkness. "Take a look," she said.
I glanced over her shoulder. "Yum."
"Be ready in twenty minutes. Hope You're Hungry." She checked the pots on the electric coils—peas and mashed potatoes and
gravy—and checked the bread in the toaster. She played the oven like a church organ. "Hot in here, isn't it?" she said, the
back of her hand dabbing her chin.
I wiped my forehead and said Yes.
In the living room, sitting properly on the couch, my son watched the TV even though it wasn't on. I wondered if he caught
his reflection in the curved gray glass and pretended that his life was part of a ridiculous show.
"What's on?" I asked.
"Mom doesn't let me watch with company."
"Is there often company?"
"Sure."
I sat on the arm of the couch and tried to be The Casual Father Just Home From Work. But my son wasn't interested in me. With
both hands he held a glass of Coke firmly on his lap. He seemed to be wearing his Sunday Best without the jacket and tie,
his ears straining for a Sermon.
"You can't do that," he suddenly told me.
"What?" I was ready for an outpouring of six-year-old bitterness: Mr. Rogers meets Oprah.
"Sit on the couch like that. Mom doesn't let that."
"Oh. Got it." I sprung up and bounced on my toes, as if the slipcover had suddenly turned red-hot, then I paced around, inspecting
the bric-a-brac on the shelves. A collection of figurine pigs had been started while I was away. After my brief lap, I came
back to the couch.
"You have pennies in those loafers?" I asked.
"I got quarters in case I need to make a call. Like I got quarters in my socks when I'm wearing sneaks."
"Smart."
He nodded the way kids do—all chin.
"Who do you call when there's trouble?"
"Mom, unless Mom's in trouble. Then it's nine-one-one and the cops come."
"That's very good."
A silence slipped in, and we both stared at the blank TV and waited for something to happen.
She came in with two glasses of very sweet iced tea, her face all blatant joy with the vision of Her Two Men together. "I
thought you guys had left, so quiet in here." She handed me a glass. "This'll cool you down."
I thanked her.
"Dinner will be ready soon. But let's see what you brought us."
She took a seat next to the boy, her hands rearranging her skirt. Her present was an afterthought to the baseball gloves,
just a gesture from the Hallmark store, but I could tell from her giddy anticipation that she expected more. And, as usual,
I had misjudged to the point of failure.
"Chocolates, how nice," she said. They were meant to be a nod of indifference to her growing weight, once a Bone of Contention.
I used to call her awful names, screaming at her through the walls, ranting on about everything. But now that I had so publicly
Straightened Out, I wanted to prove to everyone, including myself, that I wasn't that asshole anymore. I had changed. These
chocolates, while cheap and unexceptional, were meant to be symbolic of something. But she was unimpressed.
"They're delicious," I told her.
"I'm sure they are. I
am
trying to lose weight, though."
"You don't need to. Really."
Her head tilted and I quickly shut up. I could see my past wash against her face, wearing away the character until only a
smooth surface was left behind.
Luckily, things went much better with my son. "Two mitts," he shouted, holding one in each hand like a victorious boxer.
"Well, one's mine," I said.
"Which one?"
"The bigger one."
"Oh." He quickly relinquished my mitt, his face a bit disappointed at the sudden halfies of the score. But the web stitching,
the loopy autograph, the red Raleigh patch quickly distracted him from feeling too gypped. He asked, "What's this say?"
"Ozzie Smith, one of the great fielding shortstops."
"Is he an Indian?"
"No, he's black." I glanced over at my wife, hoping to see some laugh lines at her eyes, but I don't think she even heard
me.
"Kidding," I said. "I think he plays for St. Louis."
"Who are they?"
"The Cardinals."
"What's that?"
"A bird, a red bird."
"Cool."
"Now What Do You Say?" his mother reminded, sucking the fun out of the moment.
"Oh. Thank You Very Much."
I almost reached out and ruffled his hair the way TV Fathers expressed affection for their TV Sons.
Leave It to Beaver, Bonanza,
The Brady Bunch, The Cosby Show.
The history of TV can be traced through perfect families, though I often wondered why
The
Honeymooners
didn't have any kids. Probably because Ralph Kram-den would've been an abusive jerk.
"No problem," I said.
My heart panicked when he tried to force the mitt onto his left hand.
"Aren't you left-handed?" I said.
"Yep," he said.
"Well, the mitt goes on your right hand."
"Huh?"
I reached toward him. "Lefty means you throw with your left hand, catch with your right. You know that, don't you?"
"Sure."
"There, that's right," I said. "Now hold up your hand like you're catching a pop fly for the final out of the World Series."
I really should've gotten a ball as well. Two mitts and no ball. What could we do? Go out to the backyard and wave to each
other? I tried to improvise by grabbing a section of the
Plain Dealer
and crumpling the paper into a makeshift ball. I lofted this creation at him, aiming for the pocket, but the leather was too
stiff and the ball bounced off the mitt with the lightness of a rock on the moon.