It's. Nice. Outside. (9 page)

“She's here. I'm in a hotel. Kind of a hotel.”

“Where. Karen?'

“She's sleeping, buddy; she's up in her room. Listen, you make sure you're a good boy, okay? We'll play catch or hoops when you get here. And you call me anytime you want, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Now, who's your favorite uncle?”

“Sal!”

“And who loves you, baby?”

“Sal!”

“And who takes you to football games, Bulls games, Cubs games, the track?”

“You took Ethan to the track?”

“Sal!”

“Book 'em, Danno! Now, let me talk to your father. Put the professor on.”

Ethan handed me the phone.

“Where the hell are you?” Sal asked. “I'm drinking alone out here.”

“I'm in Knoxville.”

“Jesus, John, that sounds far.”

“It's not that far. So, how's everything there? How's Karen? Is everything okay?”

“She's all right. Some shit going on though. Something.”

“You mean between Karen and Roger? What, what is it?”

“They had a blowout, a real knock-me-down. Fifteen rounds.”

“What exactly happened?”

“That's all I know. Details are sketchy, you know, the fog of war. Hey, how is he doing on that ride?”

“He's fine. How's Karen?”

“You know, I got to be honest here, I think you're crazy driving with him.”

“Where's Karen?”

“In her room. Everything will blow over. The Jaw and her, they gotta work things out. Listen, I gotta warn you about something before you get here though. There's something else you should know about.”

More trouble. I braced myself.

“This place, this inn or whatever, the rooms, they don't have no TVs.”

Sal paused, waiting, I'm sure, for me to share in his disbelief, raise my voice, scream, “What the hell?” My hulking brother-in-law held very few tenants in life, and one of them, the one he clung to, the one he would take to his deathbed, was that any flat surface required a flat-screen.

“You believe that, John? I mean, what kind of bullshit is that?”

“It's a historic inn.”

“What's that supposed to mean? TVs aren't historical? What the hell—I watched, what, the first moonwalk on TV. The Towers go down.
Roots.
”

“Roots.”

“So I bought a TV and had them put it in my room.”

I digested this before repeating, “You bought a TV and had them put it in your room.”

“That's what I just said.”

“You bought a TV and had them put it in your room.”

“Hello? You hear me okay?”

“Why. Mad?”

“I bought a flat-screen. Small thirty-two-inch, LG. Nothing fancy. And when I'm done, they're gonna ship it back home. I can get one for you, too, if you want. I got a guy down here, in Charleston, this Korean, if you believe.”

“I can't believe that.”

“They got Koreans everywhere, John.”

“The TV, I can't believe that.”

“You sound like my wife. What you want me to do all day, huh? How many times I'm gotta stare at the goddamn ocean? I got news for you: that thing never changes. I'm going stir-crazy here. Everyone's walking around crying here.”

“Who's crying?”

“No one. Everyone.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“I don't know details; I just told you. They're keeping me in the dark. Shutting me out. That's why I need a TV. The rooms are already wired for cable, which is very ironic, when you stop to think about it.”

I felt the familiar pain of a Sal headache coming on. “I have to go.”

“Where you going? What's the rush? What, suddenly you got plans? You're in Knots Landing for Christ's sake.”

“I'm in Knox—Listen, tell Karen that I'm thinking about her. Can you do that for me?”

“You want me to wake her with that urgent message? Hold on, I'll run up there and bust down her door. Hey, Karen, wake up, your dad is thinking about you.”

“I'm going.”

“Put Ethan back on, then. I want to talk to him some more. He's the only one who listens to me. Only one who gives a shit.”

“Fine.” I passed the phone back to Ethan, who eagerly took it with both hands.

“Hello! Hello! Hello!”

“There he is, Mr. Big!” I heard Sal say as Ethan squealed with delight.

*   *   *

As soon as we got to our room, I started making calls: Karen, Mary, Sally, then Karen again and then again, but got nothing but voice mail. I briefly considered calling the Jaw, but then cooled down and decided to wait for someone to call me back instead.

So we spent the rest of the afternoon killing time, watching baseball at the bar, swimming in the outdoor pool, and briefly touring the Women's Basketball Hall of Fame, which was conveniently located right across the street and featured, much to Ethan's delight, a
huge
basketball at its entrance.

As the day progressed, I grew increasingly agitated about Karen. Why was no one calling? Was this by design? Was I being punished for not being there? Or was I simply not important enough anymore, my place in the family dynamic forever diminished? I didn't know. What I did know was that the silence was worrisome.

I considered, but decided against exploring Knoxville, choosing instead to stay at the hotel for dinner. One of the many Ethan Rules I strictly adhered to was when things are going well, don't press your luck. So it was cheeseburgers and fries and pickles at the bar, then back to our room.

After a final attempt to reach Karen and Mary, I brushed Ethan's teeth and helped him into bed. It was just past eight, but I could tell he was tired.

“You were really a good guy today,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Leave. Now.”

“Really good.”

“Leave. Now.”

“As you wish.” I turned the lights off and waited for the sound of his heavy breathing, which usually commenced soon after his head hit the pillow. Sure enough, a minute or two later, I heard it, soft and sweet.

I relaxed. Even in the most turbulent times, the depths of the War Years, once Ethan was down, he was
down
. So nights were our salvation, a chance to pay the bills, run a few late errands, wash all the surfaces Ethan had licked, and try to fix all the things he had broken that day. As the girls got older, we gradually became nocturnal, staying up later and later. We played board games, ordered pizza, watched movies. Mindy once said that at eight thirty every night we became a normal family. It was a painfully accurate observation.

The nights were also when I used to write, or at least try to. I had published a novel in my thirties: a short, funny, pathos-filled coming-of-age story about a young man in the Reagan eighties working at an accounting firm who steals inside stock information and plays the market. I had written the bulk of it in the evenings right before and after Ethan was born, before the troubles. It had been published by a local university press—then, after some pretty good reviews, later by a larger, New York house. The New York publisher, encouraged by solid, if not exactly spectacular sales, offered me a contract for a second book.

Despite dozens of attempts, false starts, first chapters, titles, outlines, extended deadlines, and more false starts, that book never came. Ethan's issues soon surfaced, and the ensuing chaos made it impossible to find the time, energy, or solitude to work. At least that was what I told myself, as well as my publisher and my newly acquired agent, both of whom eventually left me.

I lay on the bed and wondered about Ethan's irregular ninth chromosome. I wondered, not for the first time, if that chromosome was normal, if it didn't appear more times than it should, if I would have gone on to write other books. I then wondered if that extra cell was a convenient excuse for my literary failings—maybe all my failings.

I got out of bed, booted up my laptop. I was too tired to beat myself up that night.

Nothing much to report on the school front. Football practice began in five weeks. The boys cross-country team would be looking to defend its state championship this season. The first faculty meeting was set for August 19. Time to do
all that
again. I uttered an interior groan and returned to bed. No relief here.

The school year, nine and a-half months of purgatory, was barreling toward me like a runaway freight, and I looked to it with trepidation, if not outright dread.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when I looked forward to the school year, to standing in front of a roomful of blank-faced kids inspired to inspire. I took pride in what I did, saw every day as a challenge. Occasionally, I wore a bow tie to class, talked in various goofy, foreign accents, did wild, interpretive readings that made my kids laugh. I was into things: I challenged the coach of the boys basketball team to a game of HORSE for charity (I won), and challenged the coach of the girls basketball team to a game of HORSE for charity (I purposely lost). For years I helped publish a funny student newspaper, directed the student comedy show, was the funny emcee at the annual basketball banquet. Three times I was voted most popular faculty member at Wilton Township, an honor that thrilled me.

Over time, however, gradually then suddenly, my desire to be the perfect teacher, cool and funny, faded and, more often than not, I found myself staring at the clock, waiting for the 2:35 dismissal bell. Ethan, obviously, had something to do with this. Irreverent quips about Shakespeare or Steinbeck or Principal Hegenderfer don't fly off the tongue as quickly when your youngest child is trying to gag himself to death. And the girls leaving home, first Karen then Mindy, hastened the transformation. Once they were gone, Mary and I were left with just Ethan. No more Karen cheerleading, no more Mindy onstage. Just Ethan, my man, no distractions, no diversions, just Ethan. It took a toll. Even though I loved him fiercely, things got dimmer when the girls were gone, things got sucked out of me, and Mr. Involved morphed into Mr. Going Through the Motions. Two years ago changes were finally made, and I was dispatched to play right field, otherwise known as “roving substitute teacher,” where I bounced from class to class, gazing out windows while I sat at other teachers' desks and waited for my full pension to kick in.

I had started my adult life, my career, with two clear and, I thought, attainable goals: be a writer and be a good teacher. The realization that I was no longer either made for a not-very-good moment in the Marriott in Knoxville on the banks of the Tennessee. So, in the quiet of my dark room, I tried to focus on something positive.

The wedding would be nice. It would be good to see some of my family again. An only child, I looked forward to reconnecting with my handful of cousins. I would work hard on my toast, be the hit of the party, dance with Karen, maybe make more headway with Mary.

But my mind inevitably broke free of my leash and scampered off to sniff out problems, worries. I wasn't sure I liked Roger, the man my oldest baby, my queen bee, Karen, was marrying. I feared him pompous and insincere. Yet here I was, standing by while he took her away. Then, after she and my family disappeared, after all the commotion, the music, the dancing, the distraction was over, I would be left to enact the final phases of my secret and painful Overall Plan.

I pushed out of bed and returned to the computer to check the weather in Camden. Then I went to the Ocean View Web site to see what the main house was having for dinner: chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I grew alarmed.
Ethan hated carrots.
I quickly clicked off and grabbed Stinky Bear, and propped him up on my stomach.

“You think I can go through with this?” I whispered.

Stinky stared back, button eyes blank.

*   *   *

My phone woke me sometime later. I groped around on my hands and knees in the darkness before finding it on Ethan's side of the bed. It was close to eleven o'clock, and I had been asleep for almost two hours.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Hi, I'm here.”

“Where?”

“At the airport. Just landed in Nashville.”

“You mean Knoxville, I hope.”

“Fuck! Hold on.” I heard Mindy saying something to someone, her voice animated, muffled. “Yeah. I mean Knoxville. I'm waiting for a cab or whatever they have down here, a stagecoach. Did you get me a room?”

“No, I guess I thought you'd just stay with us.”

“Guess again.”

“I'll get you a room.”

“Is the restaurant still open? I'm starving.”

“I'm sure the bar is. I bet you can get something there.”

“I'll be there soon. Can you meet me?”

I glanced over at Ethan. “I can probably sneak out for a few minutes. He never wakes up.”

“Okay, I'll see you then.”

I checked on Ethan, and then, on a whim, picked up Red Bear and slipped out.

*   *   *

Sitting in a high-back chair, off in the corner of the lobby, I waited for Mindy. And in less than fifteen minutes, there she was, making her entrance, stage left: fast walking, arms pumping, hint of a smirk on her pixie face. When I saw her, I felt a surge of happiness, relief. My little Mindy, my little buddy, my coconspirator, my sidekick, my best audience, was here. When you observed your children from afar, when you saw them making their way in the world without you, even if it was just walking across a hotel lobby floor, that was when you saw them perfectly and that was when, I suspected, you might love them the most.

I watched her. Like her mother, she was small and thin and wore her dark hair pulled back in a permanent ponytail that allowed her large green eyes and turned-up nose plenty of space to be noticed and admired. Mary used to call her Sweet Pixie when she was a girl, which was misleading because Mindy did not meet any definition of the word
sweet
. (Note: As a toddler, one of her first spoken words was
fuck
, a word she picked up from her articulate and emotional Uncle Sal, and one she consistently utilized in all its various permutations throughout life.)