A Life Transparent (3 page)

Whenever Donovan spoke about his brother, he was always sure to mention Michael’s career as a Private Eye.

Donna turned off the faucet. Dishes clanked together in the sink.

“So ...” his brother said. The lingering tension in his voice made Donovan uncomfortable. “What’s up, Don? How’s life?”

He sucked in his breath. He pictured his brother on the other end of the line, his arms crossed, with a contrived smirk on his face. Their conversations, however innocent, always shifted focus to Donovan’s quality of life. It could only get worse. He cleared his throat and tried to redirect the conversation’s flow.

“Same as usual. Say, have you spoken to the folks lately?”

“Nah. You?”

“A couple weeks ago. They called from Rio.”

“Rio de Janeiro?”

“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it?”

Their parents always spoke of seeing the world after they retired. Now, with their father’s pension paid out, they decided to make good on their dream. Their travel agent booked a month-long continent hop. Imagining his folks reclining on some white-sanded beach along the Equator made him smile. He glanced over at Donna. He hoped they would be able to travel someday.

His face fell when he remembered her request for a weekend vacation. Maybe they could, but not in the near future. They had to save their money for the baby.

“Don? You there?”

“Huh? Yeah. Sorry, just spaced out for a sec.”

“I asked how the wife’s doing?”

He looked at Donna. He could see the rigid frown on her face as she finished the dishes.

“Donna’s just fine. Feisty as ever.”

She paused for a moment, shot him a quick glance, then splashed her hands back into the dishwater.

“How’s—how’s
your
girl? Jennifer, right? Any kids yet?”

It was laughable, the thought of Michael having children. He was too wrapped up in his own life to focus on kids. It was astounding that he even had time to date. Donovan hadn’t met Michael’s new girlfriend, but he hoped to soon. From what his brother told him, she seemed lovely, a perfect match.

Michael said, “No, no kids yet.”

“You know, Donna and I are trying. You might be an u—”

“You still a phone jockey?”

Donovan closed his mouth.
Uncle
, he finished. Thick pockets of heat collected around his face, accenting his shame. The phone’s plastic casing popped, and he realized he was gripping it too hard. That invisible hand began to pull at his midsection again, working its nonexistent fingers around his spine and threatening to pluck him away. Donovan heard a hiss of static, and then it was gone.

He collected himself, measured his words. They came slowly.

“Yes. I still for work Identinel.”

Michael chuckled. Donovan imagined his brother’s smug grin. It was an expression he knew well. While growing up, his brother picked on him for burying himself in his books, mocking his choice to view life through imaginary eyes rather than living in reality. Even now, at the age of thirty-two, Michael’s condescension still pulled at Donovan’s strings. Michael knew this, and that made it even worse.

“You need to live a little, Don.”

“I’m happy with the way things are, Mike.”

It was the same conversation as always. Why did it always come to this?

“No, Donovan,” his brother said, “I don’t think you are. I really don’t. And you want to know why?”

I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway
, Donovan thought, biting his lip in silence.

“It’s because you have no life. Not really. You only think you’re happy because that phone jockey job—”

“I’m one of the top salesmen—”

“—Whatever. That job is all you know. You’ve worked there, what, ten years? Twelve?”

“Nine,” Donovan muttered. The phone’s casing popped again. He relaxed his fingers.

“Nine years and you’re a top salesman. I thought you wanted to write, Don. What happened to that book you were working on?”

He sighed.
Every damn time
. It always turned into a bickering contest, revolving around how his older brother thought he should live his life. There was always that air of elitism hanging over every conversation, about how Donovan wasn’t living up to his expectations, how he was letting himself and his wife down by not reaching his potential.

Donovan frowned.
Somehow
, he thought,
Michael’s always been happier
.
Always more successful
. It was true. Once Michael knew what he wanted, he went after it, not stopping until it was his. Donovan, on the other hand, meandered. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. As the years slipped by, he chose the path of least resistance, and now he was frowned upon for swimming with the current. Perhaps that was what he didn’t understand: how someone who went against the grain could be so successful, while he—the more compliant of the two—remained static.

“Go out, Don. Take Donna and just go somewhere. Do something, don’t just plan it. Pick up your shit and go, man. Otherwise you’re just living in a box while the world moves on without you.”

“I can’t afford to,” he snapped. His voice was shaky, eyes watering, and a lump had lodged itself in his throat. Worse, the weird indigestion kept coming back. Sweat dotted his forehead. In the span of the last five minutes he was reduced to a bullied six year-old all over again.

“And that’s because—”

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations. I’m sorry I don’t live the glamorous lifestyle, Mr. Private
Dick
. My job is my job and it pays my bills.”

“It pays your bills,” Michael countered, “and that’s all. To top it off, your job is sucking the life out of you one day at a time.”

“No.” It was a weak reply. He slammed one hand against the refrigerator door. It startled Donna, and she dropped a plate into the sink. “It’s just a job. I’m still working on that novel. One day soon—”

Michael sighed. “Y’know what I want for my birthday, little brother?”

“What?”

“For you to get a fucking life.”

He scrambled for a retort, could even feel it climbing up the back of his throat, warm and boiling with venom—

But the line was dead. The dial tone hummed in his ear. He hung up the phone and turned. Donna leaned against the counter with her arms folded across her chest and a damp dish towel hanging over shoulder.

“How’s your brother?”

Donovan stared at her, noting the slant of her lips and the glint in her eyes. He knew that look. He knew he should choose his words carefully, with little hesitation.

“He’s an asshole.”

“What did he say?”

“Same old crap about how I should find another job, how I’m not really living, blah, blah, blah.”

He twirled one finger in the air. Mr. Precious Paws pranced into the room and rubbed against his leg. He knelt, picked up the cat, and scratched between his ears.

Donna frowned. She turned back to the sink, reached into its murky water, and pulled the plug.

Donovan said nothing. He kept scratching the cat between his ears. The dishwater gurgled as it went down the drain, and he cleared his throat when it finished.

“So, about that vacation.”

“Just forget I said anything, Don.”

There it was. The tone. It grated down his spine.

“Honey, you know we can’t—”

“And why not?” She tossed the dish towel onto the counter.

“We can’t afford it.”

“We
can
afford it.” She turned to face him. “I’m not sure what your brother said to you, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

She counted off details of their conversation with her fingers. “He probably asked you about your job. He asked how long you’ve worked there—”

He smirked. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“—and how you’ve not done anything with your life because you don’t have one. Am I right? Am I in the ballpark, Donovan?”

His face fell. His mouth was dry. Donna shook her head.

“If you don’t want to go, just tell me. Don’t give me the same excuse as everything else. We can afford it, Don. I can check the savings account too, you know.”

He chewed his lower lip. “But we have to save for the baby, Donna.”

“I just—” She stammered. “I just want to do something with our lives, Don. It’s always save, save, save, and for what?” She paused, held back a sob, and said, “It’s not about the money. You know that. We don’t have to stay at a five-star resort. I would be happy just driving to the shore for a day, but you won’t let me finish. You’ve already made up your mind.”

The first tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Face it,” she went on, “your brother’s right. You live for that job, and nothing else. Money, time, routine—it’s all that’s important to you, and what you earn is never enough for you.”

He squeezed Mr. Precious Paws tightly enough to elicit a low growl from the feline.

“That’s not true.”

Donna wiped the tears from her face. “Then take a day off.”

“To do what?”

“Nothing!” she shouted. “Absolutely nothing! Not a goddamn thing!”

“But—”

“But what?”

He searched for an answer. A plausible answer. One that would make sense to her in this state. He scratched away at the interior of his own mind looking for the perfect thing to say, and still he came up with the very excuse he’d tried to avoid.

“But we have to save.”

Donna forced a smile, shook her head, and made her way out of the room. A few moments later the back patio door opened and closed. His words hung in the air, thickening, weighing down upon him.

He
had
a life, damnit. He had a wife, a job, a house, maybe a child—what more to life could there be? Had he missed some vital detail about growing up—something explaining the details of having a “life?”

Mr. Precious Paws yowled and scratched at his cheek. He flinched, yelped in pain, and watched as the feline ran for the stairs. He realized he’d squeezed the cat too hard, a victim of his tense reverie. He stood there for only a moment longer, rubbing the scratch and nursing a battered ego. He looked at his watch: 6:49. Within the span of twenty minutes, he’d managed to alienate every member of his family. That was a personal record.

•  •  •

Donovan retreated to his office. It was at times like this that he tried to escape into the world of his novel in an attempt to pull out something good and productive. His characters—the disillusioned Joe Hopper, a hard-boiled Private Eye, and the often philosophical, often dangerous Mistress Colby—were experiencing their plight as two human beings trying to survive in the decline of Western culture. Donovan pecked at the keyboard for an hour, listening to the crooning, Southern drawl of Hopper in his own head. When he typed a thousand words, he stopped to read over them.

Ain’t no good, hoss
, Hopper said. Donovan frowned and deleted them all. He started again.

It had been like this for over a year. Every evening he would sit down to work out the details of the plot’s climax, and no matter how much he wrote, no matter the quality, it would always end in deletion. The story was frozen on page 299.

After a second attempt and another deleted set of words, he sat back in his chair and shook his head. The cursor blinked.

He leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, and muttered, “I don’t know anymore.”

Tonight just wasn’t his night. The day was shot, and the evening wasn’t shaping up to be much better.

He looked back at the stack of pages on his desk. The first 299 pages of his magnum opus stared back. No matter how hard he tried to get into the groove of writing, he could not. His head was clouded by conversations with his brother and his wife. Memories of Timothy Butler’s contrived grin only served to drive the feeling home. And there was that damn indigestion, too.

Perhaps Identinel
was
sucking the life from him. He had to consider the possibility. Had he made the right choice by staying with the company for so long, rather than working for a few years before moving on to greener pastures?
Of course
, he told himself.
I’ve made enough money to sustain the both of us for years.

Donna’s voice chimed in his head,
It’s not about the money.

And it wasn’t. He knew that. Turning in his seat, Donovan stared at the document on his screen. He frowned.
Should’ve finished this damn thing by now
, he thought.
I could’ve pumped out five novels in the time I’ve spent on this one.

He thought about Joe Hopper, and wished life could truly imitate art. He wished he had the guts to face an uncertain future, walk into work tomorrow, and tell Butler to cram the review up his ass. It was something Hopper would do with Southern grace and style. It was something Michael Candle might do, too.

Staring at the great white nothing beneath page 299, Donovan suddenly saw the story’s faults. Page 300 would never be realized, because nothing had really happened in the previous 299. He’d fallen into complacency with the story, certain that this was the best it could be. In that security, he’d resigned his characters to the same fate.

He’d lost his drive, his vision. To fix the story, he realized, he would have to start over. He closed the document and deleted the file. The indigestion, which had grown from an occasional discomfort to a constant, annoying sensation, relented for a brief moment.

Maybe I’m getting an ulcer.

He looked at the blank page and was just about to type “The Great American Novel by Donovan Candle” when he glanced at the clock. He smiled, closed the document, and turned off the computer. It was three minutes to nine o’clock.

“Almost forgot,” he said to the empty room, “it’s time for
CSI
.”

•  •  •

The discomfort in his stomach grew worse as the minutes passed. It wasn’t pain, so much as uneasiness building up within him. A few times, a sharp droning chime filled his head, making it hard to concentrate on the screen.

Donovan tiptoed into the bedroom half an hour after Donna retired. He thought about waking her to tell her about the strange sensation he felt, but that would make him even more of a jerk. Whatever it was, it didn’t hurt, and so he decided to take it like a man.