The Full Cleveland (23 page)

Anyway, he poked around slowly and played with things interminably and reminisced the whole time; like how he had a fondness for old cars like the Dream here because you can find things on them and fix them up yourself, how Mercury was a good name for a car because Mercury in mythology was the messenger of the gods, how Mercury the little planet in the solar system was a little too close to the sun…. All I'm saying is, he really liked to poke around under the hood of a car. While I stood around thinking, “The Dream” is dead, and Dead is dead.

Finally, he put the hood of the Dream Machine down and got in, turned the key in the ignition and got back out again.

He headed straight toward his trooper car with a determined spring in his step. “Cheer up, Zu. You're out of gas.”

We drove to the old country filling station, and, very gallantly I guess, the Old Trooper said he'd go inside and leave the deposit on the can. But he came back out with a yellow Post-it stuck to his hand. He opened my door and stuck it on mine. “Maybe you'll check in with the folks before you leave town.”

I stared down at the Post-it. It had an address, a street called Seaview, in a town I'd never heard of. I tried to stick the Post-it back on the Old Trooper, but he pulled back his hand.

“It's about twenty miles out, on the lake. We'll fill up the Dream, return the can, and I'll lead in my car, and you can follow behind.”

“Oh no, sir. That would be too much trouble.”

But he put his hand up. He could be pretty authoritative when he felt like it. “Now sit tight. I have to tell my wife I'll be a little late getting home.”

“Oh, sir. Please don't do that.”

He held up his hand again and went back in to the phone.

I watched him, through the station window, calling his wife. And after that, after an old man calls his wife, I mean, how do you say no, I won't let you lead me home.

So I decided I'd let him, let him take me to the address on the Post-it. And then I'd thank him for all his trouble and all. And when he left, then I'd just a wait a few minutes until the coast was clear, and be well on my way again.

•   •   •

He drove very slowly, for a trooper. You know how the elderly drive, their noses pointed way out over the steering wheel. It's the same for old troopers. You wouldn't think it would be, but it was. We averaged about twelve miles an hour. I can't tell you how many times I was tempted to pass. But he was being so nice, I just couldn't do it. He was the perfect stranger, in a way. It's something to strive for, to be a good stranger, a kind of lone ranger, a kind of Old Trooper. You could save somebody's life someday.

I was thinking so fast, but driving so slow, a memory started to form. Memory, I guess its formation is much like that of a cloud. It takes certain atmospheric conditions to form one, like conflicting pressure, low and high, or as I say, driving slow and thinking fast.

The memory was when I once saw Cabot carrying the Bible. I was out by the rose beds when I saw Cabbie walking down the lawn to the reflection pool, lugging a major black book. I knew immediately something was wrong with the picture. The book was too thick for an eight-year-old. I slipped over closer to watch her plop the book down at the edge of the pool, take off her shoes and dangle her feet in the water.

She sat there for a time sunning herself, then she hauled the book onto her lap. She opened it, and looked earnestly up at the Little-Boy Statue that stood naked in the middle of the pool.

“This is the Bible,” I heard her say. I mean she was saying it to a
statue.
Then she started reading, to the
statue
, from the
Bible.

She was telling him about a very long flood. It lasted forty days and forty nights. And Cabot said to the statue, “And the Lord said to Noah …”

She looked down and up, and then, I guess so the Little-Boy Statue would be sure to understand, she started paraphrasing for him.

“It says that after God had drowned the earth and everybody in the flood …” She looked down at the book, looked up at the statue.

“Except those who went two-by-two into the ark. Uh …” Back to the book. Up to the statue.

“That God was so
mad
at himself, that … well … he'd never do that
again.”
She wagged a finger for illustration's sake. “And the proof would be …”

She looked down at the Bible and stared for a while. Then she looked up at the Little-Boy Statue and shrugged. “That He set His bow in the clouds.”

Huh?

She closed the Bible and put it aside and said to the statue, “So you don't have to worry. You're not going to drown.”

And happily splashed her feet in the pool.

It was kind of a critical moment for the casual observer though. I couldn't help glancing up at the clouds in the sky, looking for what God said He put there. But I didn't know what I was looking for. A bow, as in a present, or a bow, as in an arrow.

Then Cabot took the Bible and went back inside.

Memories are like water, one flows into the other, so there were more of them, oceans of them. They would well up and go back, not always reaching the whole way, like incoming waves not always catching dry sand. The problem with this type of memories, though, they flood you up inside. You get so full with them, you almost drown.

Where the 7-Eleven met the McDonald's and intersected with the Kmart and sprawling self-service gas station, is where the Old Trooper took the last turn for the address on the Post-it. And then there was the new neighborhood. The houses all looked exactly alike. All perfectly neat, all lined up on perfectly straight streets, which all met at right angles to form perfect square blocks. Each house had one main window, what's called a “picture window,” and each had a small front yard and an attached, two-car garage. If it weren't for the alternating colors, seashell pink, moss green, pale yellow, true blue, it would be impossible to tell one house from another. In fact, apparently my parents now lived in a Post-it.

We swung onto Seaview, which ran along the lake, and was the only street that possessed even the nuance of a curve. That's when the Old Trooper stopped his car and got out and held up his hand for me to sit tight while he came back to mine.

He sure didn't do it fast. But he had a nice, spry way of coming toward me, like a job well done, a mission accomplished, pride in his work that would probably never fade. I felt bad about the trick I was playing on him, I really did, and I got so absorbed regretting it in advance, I forgot to roll my window down.

He tapped on the glass. “You've got about one more block to go. Good luck.”

My heart flew up in gratitude. “Thank you, sir.” And that's all I could think of to say. “Thank your wife too.” I said it again, but it still didn't seem enough, and then the Old Trooper tipped his hat and walked away.

But when he got to his car, he turned around and came all the way back again. Of course, I had already rolled my window all the way down.

“What's that big brother's name again?”

“You mean Matt, sir?”

“Matt. That's it. Congratulate Matt for me on those Golden Gloves, you hear?”

“I will, sir. If I see him, I certainly will.”

“Good girl. Just one block to go.” He looked me in the eye and patted the roof of the Dream Machine. “Bring it home.”

Then he walked back to his car, turned on the light on top like he was open again for confession, and drove off.

•   •   •

After the Old Trooper left, I just sat there as I had planned to for a while. I mean, it wasn't exactly as I had planned to. Now I felt different about it than I had at the start. I felt pretty bad, to tell you the truth. He'd come all this way like that, and he'd tried so hard to keep me safe, and even his wife, an old trooper herself, waiting and worrying he'd get home okay soon. Plus he'd called me good girl like that. And his cute brown hat, with the white hair sticking out. That nearly killed me.

I mean I knew I still had to go, there was no way I could really live here, but I just couldn't stop thinking about the Old Trooper. I'd never see him again and I kind of hated that. He could only be a memory now, which can sometimes make you wonder if he existed at all. He was an angel or something, maybe a ghost, or maybe you'd just call him Grace, something that just appeared, without your asking for it or deserving it, and boy, I felt bad about going to live at the Oasis Motel. So I figured I owed it to the Old Troopers of the world and anyone like them to at least take a look at the new house and at least, you know, see what color Post-it they chose.

I started the car but didn't turn on the lights. Then I eased the emergency brake and rolled the Dream Machine down Seaview to across the street from 29936. The number was on the mailbox at the end of the driveway. The family unit itself was true blue. The worst, by the way. I turned off the ignition and sank down in the seat.

I thought I should do some sort of stakeout, but frankly, I wasn't in the mood. I knew how to do it, from movies. What you do is what I was doing. Sit in a car and look at the house you are staking out. It's entertaining for about two minutes. It's not even dangerous, as the movies would like you to think. It's not even dangerous if you pretend you're
in
a movie. But I didn't feel like pretending I was in a movie. I was pretty tired. Besides, I'd probably pretend I was in that movie with Jimmy Stewart again, and frankly, I wasn't in the mood.

Then, I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before, but I realized the address on the Post-it was probably wrong. Maybe the Old Trooper got the wrong family, with a name just like ours. Maybe he misspelled the name when he called information. Maybe he forgot and asked for a different name altogether. Maybe they just moved someplace new in Shaker Heights. Maybe they got an even bigger house. Maybe in the great America tradition, they had traded up. I mean who in America traded down?

I knew how I could prove it. The Buicks. So I looked around and got out of the car and walked quickly up the driveway and turned the handles on the true blue's garage. But both doors were locked. The odds were still fifty-fifty. Not bad. I hurried back to the car.

But I still didn't leave just yet. Maybe an hour passed. Some lights in the neighborhood flicked off, but the ones at the true blue stayed on. My eyes started blinking from fatigue, from all the driving since the Ohio border that day and the East Coast the night before, plus the long slow ride behind the Old Trooper, and I thought maybe I'd just sleep a little in the Dream Machine, and then we'd get started for the Oasis for sure.

But just as I was about to take my nap, a white form crossed the picture window at the true blue. I sat up, but too late to tell what it was. Then another went by, and it was definitely a male size, a rather tall male size. I bolted forward just as it disappeared. It could have been
Matt.
But Matt was away at college. So no way it was Matt.

Nothing was happening again, so I started closing my eyes again. But then a young woman, a girl, a teenager who could be
Cabot
, swept past the picture window, holding something out stiffly in front of her. Not far behind came a flying boy, who could be
Luke
, in hot pursuit. I sat right up straight, holding the steering wheel.

Then the tall male form reappeared in the picture window, walking by with more determination than before. It could have been someone's
father
, intent on settling some trivial family dispute.

Nothing happened in the picture window after that, and I sat there calculating. A teenager, a boy, and a father settling a trivial dispute. That could be any family in the world. I rested my head back on the seat, blinking my eyes, trying to keep them half-open just in case, but not trying too hard.

Then, just as I was giving up, the front door at the true blue opened and a child stepped briefly in the circle of yellow outside light, leaned down, and backed into the dark again. I nearly leapt through the windshield. It could have been a kid like
Lucy
, collecting a shiny white cat. But Lucy didn't have a shiny white cat. Lucy didn't have any cat. We didn't have pets, at least not any that could fit in
that
house. I shook my head, and fell asleep for real.

So it might have been an hour later, it might have been a night later, it might have been a year later, but when I finally woke up, the front door at the true blue was wide open. And I would have known her anywhere. I would have known her underwater, in a crowd, or if she were standing alone in total darkness on the blackest night at the farthest end of the playing field. It was none other than my own mother. She stood there, staring across the street at the Dream Machine, and she would not retreat. And then I saw how they lived here, all of them, in this true blue house out on this great, gray lake, in this place they had no skill or experience living in.

Against every bone in my body and every inclination in my soul, nearly drowning, in fact, I got out of the car, and a current stronger than I was carried me there.

“Hey, Egg Man”
It wasn't Easter yet but it was Sunday. It was springtime. I guess I just felt like calling him that.

He was standing below, on the rocks. I was twenty feet above, on the bluff . You could tell by the look on his face that it had been a while since he'd heard it.

“Climb down,” he said. “But the going's easier over there.”

I jumped and leapt and slid my way around the boulders and arrived at a rock not so far above his. “If we manage a few more,” he said, “we can walk.”

There was no beach to speak of, what there was was narrow and stony. There wasn't real sand. “We'll get our feet wet.”

“It's warm out. It's almost seventy.”

He got there first. I stood hesitating on a six-foot rock. He extended an arm. “Come on. I'll break your fall.”

I wasn't convinced.

“You've got the right shoes. Just do it.”

“Just
do
it, Dad? It's ten feet.”

“Just do it.” And he said it again. And again.

I started to like the sound of it. It could be an ad slogan. In fact, someday it would be. Anyway, I just did it.

Dad said, “There.”

•   •   •

We turned together to look back up at the house. Despite its ordinary architecture and rather cookie-cutter construction, you could consider it a house of character. It had just withstood the punishing wind and cold of a Lake Erie winter. Through its glass front, we had watched, awed by the scope of water and weather. A
Great
Lake, it was known as, and you wouldn't want to argue with that.

But the tough little house had proved up to it. Now it looked almost brave there on the bluff. Even valiant. A bit dumb and true blue, but so essentially American. “You know, it's good. It's like The Little Engine That Could.”

“That's not what your mother thinks.”

We began to walk up the shoreline but automatically stopped every few yards to turn and reappraise the house. Maybe it was more interesting than most houses because you could never make up your mind about it. The farther we walked, the more imposing it seemed. Its glass front began to appear even lofty, soaring, almost high-minded.

I glanced at him. Some of us gossiped that so was he highminded, that our new circumstances weren't due to delusional overspending, that he had lost all the money and brought us to live here on purpose. That he was capable of that. So someday we'd know something.

But I told the others I doubted it. I told them Mary Parker once said a writer once said, “Nobody commits suicide on philosophical grounds.”

“We have an option to buy.”

That sounded like something that happens on Wall Street. Cabot theorized that in a desperate effort to climb out of debt, he had invested heavily, and had taken what's officially known there as “a bath.” But we didn't know what really happened. And he wasn't talking. “What's an option again?”

“It means we can keep it for good, for a sum, at the end of the lease. It's affordable.” A few paces farther, he added, “But your mother would never be happy here. She'd rather we move to New York.”

Ah, I thought. So she'd said real estate after all.

He stopped and picked up a stone. It was burnished and pink, shaped like a cloud. But because it was exceptionally flat and thin, I like to think of it as more like a painting of a cloud. Since we'd moved here, he had given up Scotch and taken up stones. He had a collection he'd found during his walks after work. Over Mother's objections, they were displayed with the volumes of history, philosophy, and fiction on the sagging living room shelves. One thing he hadn't sold with the house were the books.

He tossed the stone from one hand to the other. He was good at catching it too. You could tell: if he got a few more, he could juggle.

“Zu, I never told you at the time because you weren't home, but I'm sorry we lost the house. It was as much yours as mine. Your grandfather gave it to all of us.”

I had never thought of it that way. Maybe I didn't mind so much, if it were part mine. I leaned down to pick up a stone of my own, but it wasn't good like a painting of a cloud, so I let it drop.

“And I'm sorry you had to find out how you did. We meant to drive up to school to tell you. But I didn't think it would come to that. I thought I'd be able to, well, keep my head above water.”

I remembered how I'd promised myself not to believe these very words when I heard them, but I guess I didn't feel like keeping it now. If it's to yourself, you're allowed.

“We'll get another house. A nice one, if not quite as grand. Next semester, Matt will go back to Amherst, and you'll go back to school too.”

I didn't ask which one. I knew he would send me to the Academy for my senior year if he could afford my tuition. I had a tutor so I could make up what I'd missed and graduate with my class. But Cabot would probably have to finish at public school. It still almost astonished us, that important things depended on money.

He handed me the stone like a cloud. “So here's a souvenir.”

It was smooth and flat, I liked the feel of it in my hand. I was tempted to skip it. I could get eight, maybe twelve skips out of this shape of stone. I was the current family champion, at least of our first Spring Classic. But I slipped it in my pocket. “Thanks.”

“Skip it.”

“No, I'll keep it. It looks like a cloud.”

“A cloud?” He laughed. “I see.”

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't.

We both looked out. Today the water was as flat and gray as a sheet of steel. A huge metal fishing boat stood halfway between here and the horizon, its hydraulic rigging working soundlessly up and down. It was kind of a guy thing to get bowled over by, and as he took a step closer to look, I sat on a rock and watched him watch it.

He was dressed in his same old weekend wardrobe, including paint-splattered khaki pants, canvas shoes, and ripped shirt. He could be any bum on the beach. But he wasn't. He was my father. I had never expected to see him from this perspective, standing on a sandless beach not far from a rented house, but there he was, and it hadn't done much to diminish his stature. I had realized that just yesterday, when I was walking by the picture window. Dad was outside watering the lawn with a garden hose, and a neighbor strolled up to talk to him. The man was wearing a beige leisure suit, white patent leather shoes, and a white patent leather belt. A look known internationally, but especially in Shaker Heights, as “The Full Cleveland.” My friends and I used to laugh.

But I knew Dad hadn't even noticed what the man was wearing. To him, he was just out there, lucky to be talking to the neighbor. And, when a few seconds later, I could see they were laughing, I took a step closer to try to hear why.

Clarine arrived beside me at the picture window. I glanced at her sideways. “I bet you're going to tell me those clothes have character.” She laughed a lot and slapped at my hair a little and shook her head and walked away. I stood there a moment longer at the picture window, studying the picture of Dad and the neighbor, until I found I was smiling to myself. Not laughing, I mean just smiling. So maybe I already knew something.

I slid back into a cozy spot between two rocks and put my face in the sun, which was just breaking through a new bank of sky.

My father walked up the shoreline. I watched him with my eyes half-open. Maybe I was afraid he'd get into trouble if I didn't watch, the way Lucy watched boxing so the men wouldn't get hurt. But I don't think it was really for him I was watching. Let's face it, it was really for me. It was in my own best interest to watch, because watching him, I inevitably thought of success, and how a father is in a unique position to teach you its meaning. A father is your giant standing at the door to the cave. He can be your clumsiest friend but your fiercest protector. Since so much of what you will become depends on him, he is at once your greatest love and your biggest fear. All I'm saying is, you had to keep an eye on him.

“Hey, you guys!”

I tipped my head back and it was Lucy home from church, high up on the bluff, in the prettiest blue dress with a wide sash tied in a bow at the back. In her arms was Lucy's Cat. Limping behind them was Luke's Dog. These were our first household pets. That's why the names were so lame.

I looked down the beach at my father. He had turned, seen Lucy and her entourage, and was waving.

“We're coming down, okay?”

“Okay.”

I sat up to see how she would do it. But she was just standing there, teetering, right on the edge, hanging over the rocks. Under one arm was The Cat. Under the other, now, The Dog. And she was wearing Mary Janes.

I glanced back at my father and realized he wasn't waving hello, he was waving Lucy away from the edge of the bluff.

“Luce. Go get your sneakers. You'll never make it in those shoes.”

“That's okay.”

“Well, believe me, you better go get your sneakers.”

“That's okay. This is easy.”

I looked and saw Dad had started back up the beach. Then, suddenly, he was running. Then leaping, like a hurdler, over the rocks, taking one smooth boulder after another. His eyes, steady as anything, were focused only on my sister. It made me glance back up at her, is all. And the look on her face. It was so happy and hopeful.

I scrambled to my feet. “What are you doing?”

“Are you ready?”

Are you kidding. She was going to jump. On rocks like these, she'd break like an egg.

“
Dad!
Stop her!”

But, of course, completely ignoring all common sense, they all took a fearless leap. And landed whole, in Egg Man's arms.