Stop Here (6 page)

“After so many years it's not unusual. There are months I can't stand the sight of Peter. Then, I don't know, some little thing happens, the way the light hits his bald spot, the way he rubs his eyes, it brings it all back. You have to wait for those moments to rekindle.” Patti talks fast.

“They're not here, they won't come back.” Peter is jovial. He cooks. He loves the house. In their worst periods, he brings her flowers every Friday night.

“How can you be so sure?” Patti asks.

“It's been too long, more than a year. I'm reaching the edge.”

“Then talk to him.”

“It's no use.”

“Why not?”

“He's shut down. Either he takes me to the bottom with him or I let him hit it alone. How can I get out of the marriage without being hated by my sons, you, Bruce, everyone else in our lives? You don't leave a drowning man, and Bruce is drowning.”

Two teenage girls make a noisy entrance, laughing like they own the future. Why aren't they in school?

“Shelly, you're going through that time, not yet fifty but closer than further, when we start asking ourselves what is this life? I've been there. I turned fifty last year.”

Patti's right, before long she'll be looking back at fifty, then how quick to sixty. There'll be limits that aren't here yet. “So stick it out and one day all will be fine? Is that what you're saying?” She can't help the sarcasm.

“It's the way things work,” Patti asserts in that voice of hers that claims to know everything. “You can't hold on to dreams that promise another life, because there isn't any. Maybe for rich folks who travel the world, own mansions. Not us. Think of the struggle, how long it took to create the homes we wanted. You won't be able to do that again. Why give it up because Bruce is going through hard times? You'd be sorry.”

“I didn't expect you to agree, but you're not getting it.” She should've waited to catch Mila on break. Single mothers know a thing or two about struggle that women who live with men don't. What exactly she'd be hard pressed to explain.

“What's there to get, Shelly? A marriage falls into a pit. Who climbs out first? The woman does. Remember Dad's depressions, what did Ma do? She walked around them till he snapped back. He always did. It never occurred to her to leave.”

“We don't know that. It isn't something she would've told us. Anyway, Ma didn't expect anything better.” She's not her mom, won't be.

“Shelly, what part in this do you play? What should you be doing that you're not? Is it all Bruce? It might be. But do you know that for sure?” Patti's bright blue eyes, so like her own, remain steady on her. Then she glances at her watch and takes another quick sip of coffee. “I couldn't take lunch, it's too early. I'm on break. It's over. Sorry. I'll call you later.” Her sister drops three singles and rushes out. The door slams, she and the teenagers the only customers there.

Is Patti right? Is she contributing to Bruce's behavior? She badgers him constantly. Wear the new boots, take off the hat, pick that up, don't drop it, too hot, too cold, not right, a thousand ways to control. He lets her, Bruce does. Actually, she does pretty much as she pleases, always has, with her sons, the house, her hours at work.

• • •

In the pharmacy next door, she buys a box of Epsom salts and a packet of bubble bath. Then she picks up a steak at the food market. She'll hash brown potatoes the way he likes, though he doesn't need the starch. Wine, yes, that too, and a candle for the table. Maybe some unexpected shaft of light will illuminate his face and rekindle her.

She takes out her cell phone and leaves Ricky a message to pick up Bruce another night.

• • •

Shoving the pillows deep into cases so they're plump, she turns down the duvet, exposing the pretty blue hem of the sheet. She remembers how the bed gave itself up to them as if it too was a star performer, the naughty pleasures that followed her into the next day. Remembers too the years of Bruce's whispered words, always the same endearments because they belonged to her. It's what's left of their marriage. Memories.

She scrubs the bathtub till it's as white as one in a soap commercial. He used to like it pristine. Peering into the crystal clear mirror, the face that stares back hasn't begun to reveal the truth. Strong-boned like her mother's with skin that promises to age gently. A few laugh lines would be good. Her touched-up dark hair is graying at the temples. She doesn't care the way she used to. There was a time she'd dress up on a Saturday night, heels and all, even if they weren't going out. He always noticed, Bruce did. He called her his dark Irish beauty, his one and only. He was her mirror, her happiness reflected there. Now her makeup sits unused on a shelf near the sink. She unzips the pouch, takes out foundation, eyeliner, blue shadow, frosty pink lipstick, all the while thinking this is even crazier than some of her fantasies.

• • •

She places the unlit candle in the center of the table set now with matching plates, stemware, and cloth napkins. She won't broil the steak till he gets out of the bath, then a few glasses of wine. It's strange, the fussing without the excitement that used to rise in her as naturally as her energy. Still . . . if she doesn't try . . .

Hearing the front door, she hurries toward it in the high-slitted long purple dress he brought her from overseas. Her eyes made up, she's wearing earrings and perfume. “Bruce? Honey?” When was the last time she called him honey?

“Something happen?” His face drains of what little color it has.

“No. Everything's fine. Let's have us an evening.” She touches his shoulder. “I bought salts and bubble bath for you. I'll fill the bath for you. You'll feel refreshed. Then we'll have some wine. What do you think?”

“Too tired. I'll watch TV in bed.”

She sees herself walk past him out the door.

“I need to say a few things. Come in the kitchen. Just for a minute. I'll make you a steak. You can eat it now or later.”

She pours wine for both of them. “Sit, Bruce. I can't talk with you standing there like someone's outside waiting for you.”

He slips into the armchair and watches her warily. She sits across from him. His curly black hair peppered with gray flattened now from the ridiculous cap he wears, though it's no longer winter. All of her sons have his large, round eyes and long lashes. Always a strapping guy, the kind who could pick up a woman and carry her over the threshold without losing a breath, and he did. Not anymore, though. She wonders if recalling the good times or the better times or just the times when he wasn't the way he is now would be helpful.

He drains the glass in two long gulps, and she refills it. “Just today I had an image of you with your strong arms pushing the stuff that bothers you into a carton. After so many years, the carton splits apart. The stuff floats around looking for a new hideout but it can't find one. I think it's what's happening to you, to us, Bruce.” Okay, it's not what she actually thought, but the bear-in-the-cave thing won't work for him.

He looks interested. He puts down the glass and seems to be figuring out something to say. She doesn't want to pressure him, so she goes to the stove and turns the potatoes, only the sound of spitting grease. She waits a beat, then returns to the table. “I was also remembering some of your war stories. They were horrible, particularly . . . and there must be many you never told me. Not that I want to hear them, god help me, but I was thinking . . . if you could vent to . . .” She's taking a chance here, trying to get him to open up when he doesn't want to. The last time she did that, after
9
/
11
, he mumbled, why bother, said it was the beginning of the end anyway. “Bruce, what do you think about what I'm saying?”

“Why do you care?”

She tells herself let him go to bed. She can't. “Bruce, I care, and I'm waiting for an answer.”

“Michael's carrying forty pounds, plodding through the mud, afraid of any noise in the trees. He's only nineteen. He doesn't want to die.” He leans toward her, breathing hard, his face tense, eyes wide, the tendons swelling in his neck. A cold hand squeezes her gut. It's himself he sees slogging through the mud, being pursued, his old demons creeping up his back and what can she say to prove it.

“Our son is nineteen, yes, Bruce, but he's in the desert, not the jungle. It was you in the jungle.”

He gazes at her but lord knows what he's remembering. “Yesterday, a helicopter was shot down. It was on the news. Everyone killed.” Then, scraping back the chair, he walks out slowly.

Once Ricky brought home a stray dog that kept growling at them. Why keep a dog that might bite the children? She called the animal shelter and asked for someone to come get it. When the man arrived, the dog stopped growling. He knew it was over.

She turns off the oven and takes the pot of potatoes to the sink. She carries her wineglass to the bathroom. Starts the bathwater, shakes in a cup of salts, adds the bubble stuff, and waits for it to fill. Heat dampens her face, the aroma gardenias, she thinks. Someone brought home flowers for one of her birthdays. Was it her thirty-sixth? Bruce ordered a gigantic cake and Ricky insisted on putting all the candles on it. “Make a wish,” they all shouted, even solemn Michael. What did she wish for? Was there something she wanted just for herself? A piece of clothing, a trip, a better job, she can't remember now.

What she does remember is what she feared even then, that Bruce wouldn't last through the marriage, that she'd be left alone with three young children. There were always clues she was good at ignoring. Things can turn on you when you refuse to pay attention.

She undresses, the purple dress a dark puddle on the floor. Then lowers herself in the bath, slowly stretches out. She reaches for the wineglass. No use letting good stuff go to waste. Faint voices reach her from the always-too-loud TV, sounds that will follow her into the den where she sleeps on the pullout couch. Where she gazes at the painting of three little girls in a field of daisies, cherubs with smiling faces lit by the sun.

The phone rings. No doubt it's Patti. Bruce won't pick up. She'll ask Patti for two days' work at the bakery, save enough for a vacation. When's the last time she left home? Bruce will have to fend for himself. He'll never get out of bed. He'll eat a bunch of crap, gain more weight. He'll develop heart problems. She'll return to find him in the ICU with just enough time left for her to say sweet nothings before his eyes close forever. The water tickles the back of her neck. Her body relaxes despite her thoughts as the bubbles quietly disappear.

 

5

In the Silence

Wiping his hands on the damp towel, Nick peers over the divider. Amazing the junk customers leave behind. Ava's clearing tables with the haste of someone stalking free time. She seems more energetic since that lying-faced guy vanished. Bursting past the kitchen door, she deposits a load of trays and turns to go.

“How's your son?” He can do better than that.

“Frisky. Girls are different. How's Glory?”

“She's looking for a job, not sure about college, moping, sharing little.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . give her time.”

“As much as she wants.”

“Nice beard. I'm going to get the newspapers.”

How about a drink? What's so hard about that?

His ear picks up the incessant drip of the sink tap. He'll fix it tomorrow. Charge Murray a plumber's fee. Yeah, right. Bruce shuffles in through the back door, an hour late. A man so worn he makes Nick feel chipper. Bruce wasn't always this way. He used to pay attention to whatever crossed his path, kept an eye on unsavory possibilities. He would think nothing of taking a heavy bin of dirty dishes out of anyone's hands. A helper. Now, well . . .

“What's happening?” he gathers his gear.

“Nothing.” Bruce speaks even slower than he moves.

He ought to stay a minute and make conversation. They're buddies, sort of, or would be if they were on a desert island together. Instead he heads out the back door.

Except for Ava and Bruce, he has little to do with fellow employees. His run-in with Murray still tastes sour. He tried to enlighten him about the war. Murray insisted in that loud voice of his, the boys over there are saving New York from another attack. Why did he bother? No matter the facts, the man has an opinion about everything. Yesterday it was Nick's beard, but he's not about to conform to some cockamamy dress code to work in a kitchen.

• • •

Early morning driving. He loves it—no traffic, Glory still asleep. She'd better be. A girl of eighteen isn't always where you want her. He's headed toward Jones Beach, his usual stop before home. No one around but a few male shapes sprawled on the sand. From their garb, he'd guess they have little reason to wake up. The boardwalk is shuttered, light splattering the dark horizon like a cracked egg. He locates his bench facing the ocean. If it weren't for Glory, he'd stretch out here, count a few sheep. But she'd know he didn't come home.

He breathes in the sea air, conjures up his usual vision: China Beach, nurses frolicking in the water. Joyce, his big-boned mate who wasn't yet his wife. Inhaling those weed killers took her lungs as sure as any soldier's. At the end she moaned because anything louder would've put him in a box beside her. One tough lady who kept his mind focused, his body functioning, which was no easy feat. She had a mantra: life's a jigsaw puzzle.

• • •

When he peeks into Glory's room, the computer screen is silver bright stars into the stratosphere. Asleep, her curly red hair is bright against the white pillow, one freckled cheek hidden. He tiptoes out and leaves the door open, the signal he's home. In the four years since Joyce died he and Glory have worked out a routine of sorts broken by his occasional bad days. Which reminds him . . . he follows the worn runner to the bathroom where an array of pill bottles summon him. A handful each morning to ease blood pressure, scare away migraines, lower the decibel of voices. A tiny aspirin to keep him alive. It's a joke.

Glory comes up behind him. “Skip one and Mom will clobber you.”

“I hate these damn things, get stuck in my throat, turn my piss orange. Jesus, even if I want to forget mortality, I can't.”

“Some people are deaf, blind, and paralyzed, but they still manage to smile if it's sunny out.”

“I smile.”

“When?”

“You mean that?”

“Totally.”

He gazes at her, trying to remember where it was Joyce offered him ten dollars to laugh.

“I need to brush my teeth, and other personal things. You going to be long in here?” she asks.

“I'm out of here to sleep. What about you?”

“What worthy tasks am I about to undertake for the day?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“How about job interview. Or a college visit?”

“Sounds good.”

“Well, truthfully, that's not it. I've been meeting with people who started a local antiwar collective. I bumped into them online a few weeks ago. They're very interesting. We meet in one of their houses, not far from here. But after, I really do have a job interview at IHOP.”

He groans.

“It's just temporary, till I figure something or everything or a little bit of everything out.” She kisses his cheek, making a loud sucking sound the way she did as a kid.

• • •

For reasons he can't locate, sleep eludes him. Is it the start of one of his bad days? He's tired but not edgy, his mind blank, not whispery. He imagines Ava beside him, her lovely hair unpinned, flowing. His affairs have been brief, itch-fulfilling but nothing to ruminate about, no one to bring home. Anyway with Glory here, it's not particularly lonely.

• • •

He opens his eyes, the room is hot, his mouth dry. A dreamless sleep, thank god. Hoisting himself off the bed, he stares at his feet, but remembering depresses him. The old wall clock reads
6
:
20
. Yesterday he conked out for two or three hours, today ten. His whole life lacks regulation. Glory's in the kitchen noisily preparing dinner. The girl can't cook but whatever she serves, he eats.

After a shower, he pads to the kitchen; the table set for two.

Glory seems nervous, excited even, as if she can barely contain news.

“What is it?” he asks.

She studies him for a second. “Let's eat first.”

Tension grips his body. “I don't think so.”

“The group I told you about, the one I spent the afternoon with, they're amazing. They're part of an organization that's global. People from lots of different countries go together to become witnesses for peace in the Middle East. It's a way to stop the killing and the torture, to show the rest of the world all the evils that are going on so we can eventually stop them.” She's nearly breathless, her eyes shining.

“Out of the question.”

“Dad, I don't need your permission. I thought I'd have your approval. You believe in peace.”

“I'm not sacrificing you for it.”

“I'm not going to die. Honestly, dad . . .” She gestures impatiently.

“I can't process this now . . .” His hand flies up to swat it away. The colors of a migraine seem close.

Her light blue eyes take him in. Her translucent skin tight around that tiny nose, her rosebud mouth. She's barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, her costume of the month. But there's nothing petite about her broad shoulders, her sturdy body, as solid and shapely as Joyce's ever was.

“Later, then,” her tone upbeat. She's handling him.

After a one-two, hurry-up dinner of pass-the-salt talk, he drives to the beach. Sits in the parking lot, a blanket of darkness about to fall. Even if he demands Glory not go, she'll do what she thinks is right. It's how kids her age navigate the world, impulsively. It's his fault and Joyce's too. They brought her up to believe everything is possible. Glory standing in some no man's land between tanks? It's insane, suicidal. Shit.

A cluster of young drinkers saunter by, beer cans in hand; their voices compete with the buzz in his head. He pulls out his cell phone.

“Ava, it's Nick. I'm tending a headache. Can you cover till I get there?”

“Sure. You take it easy,” her voice curious but restrained.

He could ask what she'd do in his shoes but hangs up instead. Her input might increase his anxiety and he doesn't have any pills for that.

He inhales sharply, warns himself not to drive fast. Useless.

• • •

It's late, but Glory is staring at the computer like it has the last word. Something in him wants to smash the screen.

“Hi sweets. We should settle the deal now.” Otherwise it's farewell to sleep and work and sanity.

“Okay.” She presses a few buttons and the screen is back to saving stars. “Have a seat. You're looming.”

He sits on the bed. She rolls her desk chair around to face him. Only one lamp is on and the dresser fan whirs annoyingly. It's been hot since the last snow melted. He offered her a small A/C but she said it would pollute the air.

“I'm not going to say witness for whatever is a bad thing. Except there's so much turmoil in that part of the world . . .”

“But Dad . . .”

“Wait.”

She leans back, stretches out her long legs.

“Your values are no different than mine or your mother's. But neither of us would put ourselves in jeopardy.”

“But Dad . . .”

“There are safer ways to protest. In the chaos of Gaza, the West Bank, or wherever the fuck . . . you'll be an ant, a tiny bump, an annoyance, and nothing more.”

Her expression closes down. Her eyes lower, her mouth tightens. “Look, I'm going. I need you not to worry. It's three months. I'll e-mail as often as I can.”

He begins pacing, wonders if he should threaten her, but how? “Glory, you just met these guys. I'm sure they're sincere, but Christ, who the hell are they? I mean what makes them witnesses? And the money, where's it coming from?”

“Rich people, older people, people who agree with us but can't participate physically.”

“Wonderful. They remain in their cream-colored houses while you sleep in the sand.”

“Dad . . . please . . . stop pacing, you're not in an emergency room. I need to be involved with something bigger than me,” she explains as if he were the child.

“I don't want you going.” He's trying to keep the volume down.

“Dad, even if I chose this for pleasure, or out of curiosity . . .”

“I don't want you going.” He'll never budge.

“. . . It's my life, my time to do such things.”

He stares at his daughter, at the band of freckles crossing her forehead, the clarity of her eyes, the strong jaw, the length of her fingers, and realizes he's memorizing her.

• • •

In the silence of her room the computer stands as a gateway to the rest of his life. Her messages were coming two a day, one every two days, once a three-day interval, but it's been six days. Jesus, God, Crap! How's he supposed to survive that? Rereading previous e-mails, which he never deletes, the information is lodged in his brain. She arrived; she's fine; it's too hot. She needs another couple of pairs of shorts; don't send them, no real address. She's bunking in a camp-like situation, electricity on and off. The beauty can feel like an insult: clay-colored dunes, sky so blue it hurts her eyes, stars so bright they light up the night. The misery, the poverty . . . the kids are killing her; hopeless, depressed by age eight. Her last e-mail bragged she could say words in Arabic, some in Hebrew. Tan, Dad, she wrote, I'm so tan, it's amazing.

He picks up the bottle, takes a long swig of bourbon. It'll be a month tomorrow. Two more to go. He's crashing in Glory's bed now. Without the sleep pills, dreams and crawly, creepy stuff wake him every hour or two. Even now his feet feel itchy. He peels off his socks and checks for fungus. Clean.

Then he remembers . . . begins rummaging through the desk drawer, slides a piece of paper out from under others; three names: Josh Towns, Emanuel Walker, Robert Messenger. He takes another long drink from the diminishing contents, finds himself on the faded couch in the living room punching in the first number. It rings until voicemail picks up. He leaves a message. He dials Walker's number.

“Hi.” Sounds like a child.

“Is your Mom or Dad there?”

“Who should I say is calling?” Her little voice is prissy.

Who indeed? “A friend of . . .” —and here he takes a chance— “your brother's.”

“I don't have a brother.”

“Your father's Emanuel Walker?” The decibels rise.

“I can't say.”

“Let me talk to your mom, now, please.” Jesus! Damn, the bourbon's still in Glory's room.

“Hello.” It's a voice so dull he wants to hang up.

He introduces himself. “. . . and I haven't had an e-mail in nearly a week, so I wondered . . .”

“My husband and I . . . we're not communicating much. If I hear anything . . . leave me your number.”

He does, but she'll never call.

Staring at the third name, he decides he needs hope; he'll try it tomorrow.

• • •

Two groups of noisy young people take over several diner booths. It's the middle of the night and they're ready to eat everything including the inventory. He works the orders nonstop. A few strays come in as well, probably because there's nowhere else to go. The kitchen is steamy; he's sweating. He stares at a chit but the letters scramble, so he blinks a few times, tries again, but the words still blur. He cups some cold water in his hands and splashes his face, tamps it dry with a paper towel and tries deciphering it again. Better. Except there's a pull in his stomach even though he visited the bathroom minutes ago. “Ava,” he stage-whispers over the divider.

She turns her perfectly shaped head to look at him and hurries into the kitchen.

“Have to go home . . . need to check the machine . . . I've been away for hours . . . haven't had an e-mail in days . . .” his voice trails off.

“That doesn't mean a thing, Nick. It's not New York. It can't be easy to find a computer.”

“All the orders are done. I'll be back. Can you cover?” Before she can answer he heads out. Great, she thinks he's crazy. Maybe he is. So what? Crazy or sane isn't the issue. Something happens to Glory, he's fucked. In the parking lot, he thumbs down hard on the car keypad; damn door won't unlock. The car begins beeping loudly. Shit, shit. Take a breath. Try again. The noise is deranging. Someone help. Did he say that out loud, because Ava's running out the back?