Songs in Ordinary Time (37 page)

“Thirty days, Sam!” Litchfield sighed. “Therapy isn’t a matter of quanti-fication or fixing blame. It’s getting at the whys of your very existence.”

“Look, Doc,” Sam said, pointing at him. “All I know is, my thirty days are almost up, and I just want to get the hell out of here!”

“Sam, thirty days are nothing. That’s our minimum period of observation, unless, of course, a patient has signed himself in with a thirty-day stipulation.

I thought you understood. This is a private hospital, not a state institution, and your sister committed you without any stipulations as to time. It takes us thirty days to become familiar with your case. We certainly cannot undo the damage of a lifetime in only thirty days, Sam. There’s no Eureka! NowI-know-what’s-wrong-so-I’ll-be-on-my-way. This is a very long and delicate process.”

The intercom sputtered on. His temples had begun to throb. At Waterbury he had known the rules and what was expected of a drunk. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until the sockets ached. So that’s why Helen hadn’t sent him to Waterbury, as she had so faithfully done six times in the last ten years. There were walls and guards at Waterbury, but because it was a state hospital there were also rules that unlocked the front gate at the end of thirty days if the doctors thought he had played the game well.

Before, no matter how desperate or sick he was, he had always won, once he put his mind to it. But this time they were beating him. His sister, Marie, his children—they had all grown tired of him. Like a scurrilous, untrainable dog, he was being put to sleep. They had slid his noose from their necks and freed themselves of him. They had hidden him here out of mind, out of sight, out of their hearts. He wondered if Helen would spend as much on his funeral as she was willing to pay for his incarceration.

178 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

A woman’s pleasant voice came over the loudspeaker. Today, she said, was Charlie Skinner’s fifty-third birthday, which would be celebrated after dinner with cake and ice cream in the third-floor lounge. Her voice now grew stern. Someone in Bullfinch had removed all the screws from the seats of the scoop chairs in the solarium. Therefore, the solarium and its television would be off limits for all guests until every single screw had been returned.

The announcements over, Litchfield continued. “So, you see, it’s not just one thing, one piece of the puzzle. It’s the wholeness that matters. It’s
all
of the whys.”

He drew himself up in the chair. “I’m going to give it to you straight, Litchfield. I have no whys. I live from day to goddamn day, and that’s the way it is.”

“No man can live that way, Sam. Because to have no
why
, no goal, no meaning, is to cease to be.” Litchfield smiled.

“Shit!”

“And once the spirit dies, the body’s as good as dead,” Litchfield said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Look, Litchfield, go shovel your shit on someone else’s grave. I live a very simple life. Two things keep me going. Sometimes it’s ‘I will not drink.’

But most of the time it goes like this, ‘I need a drink. I need a drink.’ Now, how the hell you expect to find any spiritual truth in that is beyond me. I fall down. I get up. I try again. And each time I try harder than the last time.

One of these times I’ll make it, but it sure as hell’s going to be on my terms, because I made it happen, not because I’m locked up in some nuthouse with a frustrated philosophy professor!” He ground out his cigarette and glared at Litchfield.

Litchfield’s eyes gleamed. His nostrils flared with excitement. “Finally, Sam! This is truth!”

“Shit!”

“Yes, for the first time since you’ve been here, you are trying to elucidate truth.”

“Doubleshit!” He threw up his hands and laughed. Litchfield was beaming at him. “Hey! Okay, I’ll tell you the honest-to-God truth. You see, a lot of people think I’m a natural-born loser, but actually I can win anytime I want. Okay? You like this, don’t you? You see, the trick is I’m a lousy winner, but I’m a hell of a beautiful loser. I am comfortable with defeat. I know it well. I understand pain and anguish. They never pull any punches the way happiness does. You see, when you’re happy, you’re always looking over your shoulder for the big sucker punch. But hell, when you’ve been down as low and as long as I’ve been down, you don’t have a worry in the world, because the only way from here is up, right?” He winked. “Not too far, though, because you know the big one’s out there just waiting for you to stick your head up out of that hole.” He laughed at the brightening in Litchfield’s eyes. “Hey, I’m some hot shit all of a sudden, huh? I’m just what the doctor ordered, right, Litchfield? I’ll bet you haven’t had anyone to play with in a long time. Jesus, are we having fun! Hey, I know! Let’s call this SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 179

game Truth. We can make up a board to play on and print up little cards for each player to pull out of the deck. You know like, uh, ‘Anxiety—your boss thinks you’re a shithead.’ That’s minus three points off a hundred, right? And the object of the game, of course, is to get to zero first. After that, you go to the Choice deck and draw another card. Of course in the Choice deck there are only two cards, Overcome or Submit. Right? If you get Overcome you get ten points added onto your starting score of a hundred.

If you get the Submit card, then you subtract ten points from your score. In other words, if you win, you lose the game. On the other hand, if you lose, if you get to zero before anybody else does, then you win!

“Jesus, we’ll be rich! My wife will love me again. My kids’ll stop avoiding me on the street. People from all over the world will be beating down my door, calling me on the phone, screaming from the streets, ‘Let us buy Truth, Samuel Fermoyle. Sell it to us!’”

He held out his hand to shake Litchfield’s. “And to think I owe it all to you, Arnold. You asked me about truth and I spoke from the bottom of my heart, but did I tell about this terrible boredom? Did I tell you how people bore me, how life bores me, how you bore me, how I bore me, how the only time I’m not bored is when I’m sleeping?” He shook his head, laughing.

“Sleep is just an escape,” Litchfield whispered.

“Jesus Christ, my whole life’s one big escape, Doc, don’t you think I know that?”

“You can change that, Sam.”

“Why?” He couldn’t help laughing. “For what? For my family? My kids can’t stand to be near me more than five minutes at a—”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Litchfield interrupted. “Your wife said she’d like to bring the children up to see you, but her car is too beat-up to make the trip.”

“And of course if I was any kind of a man, she wouldn’t be driving around in a junk heap, right?” He smiled and stretched his arms back under his head. “She’s quite a woman, isn’t she, Doc? She never quits. She has spent her life trying to make me feel guilty. She needs that.” He stared out the window at the clear sky. “All right, Dr. Litchfield, you win. How much longer do I have here? Tell me the good news.”

“Your daughter, Alice, is coming to visit this Saturday!” Litchfield got up and patted his arm on the way to the closet. He opened the door and removed the decanter and glasses.

“That’s the good news?” He felt like crying. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes,” he said, the decanter clinking against the glasses as he filled them with weak tea. Litchfield raised his glass. “To a very important first step,”

he toasted. “Come now, Sam,” Litchfield chided as he stared up at him.

He picked up his glass and, closing his eyes, took a long sip. If only this were the real thing, then soon nothing would matter, nothing would hurt, certainly not this pounding in his chest, this terrible fear of seeing his own daughter.

180 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

B
enjy lay on the floor watching television as the shadow of his mother’s ironing arm swung back and forth on the opposite wall. Every now and again, he saw her glance toward the bathroom, where Omar was taking a shower. Alice was at work and Norm was out with his friends, so it was a perfect night. Omar was here and his mother was happy. Again, now, Omar burst into the same mighty refrain he had been singing since he turned on the water.

“This is the one,

The love I have known.

This is the one,

The love I have sown.”

“Here, Benjy,” his mother said, aligning the seams of the ironed pants.

She slipped them over the hanger. “Put these in the bathroom for Omar.

On the hook,” she said, gesturing, then turned modestly away when he opened the door.

Layers of steam floated in the narrow, high-ceilinged bathroom. As he hung the pants, he saw something glisten on top of the sweat-beaded toilet tank. There next to Omar’s gold watch was a wad of bills secured by a silver clasp. He stepped closer and saw the ornately engraved
D
.

“And I am a man,” boomed Omar’s voice from the dripping-wet side of the thin plastic curtain. “With nothing to fear…”

He backed out and closed the door.

“Nothing but love!” crooned Omar, holding the last tremulous note.

That was the exact same money clip Omar had him describe to the two black men. But maybe he’d been confused and it was Omar who had the money clip and not the old man’s grandson. But it didn’t make sense that Omar had all that cash when his constant lament was of a destitution so vast that his mother did Omar’s laundry, mending, and ironing, and not only lent him her car and cooked his meals but slipped him change when she thought no one was looking.

Strangely enough, it made him feel better knowing Omar had money, because it meant that Norm was wrong. Omar wasn’t after anything after all, not money, anyway. Maybe Omar was afraid that his mother wouldn’t feel so sorry for him if she knew he had all that money. That was it! It had to be. The money, the very lie was proof of Omar’s veracity.

Omar came out of the bathroom, bearing a bundle of wet towels, his dark hair slicked back, his moist flesh taut and pink. His mother smiled as she absently wrapped the cord around the iron handle. The air stirred and Benjy was conscious of some new presence, an image only they were seeing.

She started to fold up the ironing board and Omar reached for it.

“It’s the least I can do,” he insisted, his hand at his breast. “You have to let me.”

“No! You’ll just get yourself all mussed up,” she protested.

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 181

Benjy found this amazing; she was always complaining that no one ever helped her.

“Marie! If I can’t help in even these small ways, I mean, think how that makes me feel, how weak, how useless, how…how unmanly.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, tilting the ironing board toward him, letting him fold it and pick it up. “See!” she cried, taking her damp pressing cloth to scrub his lapel, soiled by the black rubber tread of the ironing board. “Benjy,”

she murmured while Omar stared down at her. “Put the ironing board away.” They stood so close their chests touched.

In the back hall he swung the ironing board onto the rusting nails he still remembered her driving, pounding, banging over and over into the wood as she cursed this tiny place, this dump, this cramped and miserable house that had no room for anything but trouble, she had chanted as each blow pulsed through the walls. That’s all, just trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, and more goddamn trouble.

Well, not anymore. Not with Omar here, he thought, looking outside, giving them enough time for whatever they were doing in there. Klubocks’

dog was in the driveway. From its mouth hung a strip of bright cloth. The dog’s tail wagged, sweeping a cloud of dust back and forth in the dirt driveway. Klubocks’ yard was empty. Louie was playing down the street with the children who were his age. Louie said his father thought Benjy was weird because he liked to talk to him. The Klubocks’ back door was open, and Louie’s bike lay in the grass. Mr. Klubock must not be home yet. He always made Louie put his toys away. Mrs. Klubock didn’t care. She said things always got done. Eventually. Life was too short to worry about every silly little detail. Benjy could see her lighted reflection through her dining-room window and knew she was playing the piano. He opened the door, and the dog lunged in an eager, barking charge. He pulled the door shut.

He didn’t want his mother to start screaming at the dog in front of Omar.

He didn’t want Omar to see her upset again. He wanted Omar to love her.

He wanted them to be as happy together as they were right now.

The phone rang and his mother answered, assuring the caller that it was fine; she understood. When she hung up she told Omar that Father Gannon couldn’t go to Burlington this weekend. The Monsignor had been invited to stay at the Cushing family’s summer home at Lake George, which left Father Gannon on duty in the rectory. He’d take Alice to see her father in another week or two.

The glass of water trembled in Omar’s hand. “This is a setback, a devastating setback,” he sighed.

“But even if Sam could give her anything, it probably wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks anyway,” his mother said.

Mouth drawn, eyes heavy, Omar nodded wearily. “Yes, with a week or two on top of that.” He gave a bitter snort. “Roy Gold won’t wait that long.

And I don’t blame him. Why should he? I mean, who am I when he’s got people practically banging down his door to become a distributor.”

“There must be some other way,” she said.

182 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

There was a long pause. Now, Benjy thought, wishing him on with held breath and clenched fists. Now Omar would tell her about his own money.

Not to worry, he would say. There’s this little nest egg….

“If there is, I don’t know about it,” Omar sighed.

“What about a bank loan?” she asked, and Omar laughed.

“I have about as much chance—”

“I mean me!” she interrupted, grinning. “I can get the loan.”

Omar pulled her close and buried his face in her hair.

Benjy slipped outside. He was puzzled but relieved that Omar hadn’t told her about the money. Somehow it was a test. And if his mother did all the right things, if she didn’t fly off the handle, if she didn’t cry, scream, swear, or break things, then her reward might be happiness, like Mrs.