Stranger, Father, Beloved (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

More and more the image kept returning to Michael's mind—that of himself living in a house devoid of other people. As he drove with John that evening, out of nowhere the image returned and took over his thoughts. The stillness of no other living beings, the absence of ­expectations, decisions, desires. There would be a kind of peace to his living, and his reclusive life would set him apart from other people.

The two men drove fifteen minutes to a local bar that sat on the edge of a creek. Across the street stood a campsite in the state park, where backpackers stayed before they started off onto the nearby trail. The bar had a mix of backpackers in fleece jackets as well as regulars, old men who worked nearby and came because it was the drinking spot closest to their houses or to work. The bar had multicolored Christmas lights tangled in lines a few feet above the rows of bottles. It was dark, and over the years the wooden bar had been carved into with words or initials.

Another source of light was the squat jukebox in the corner, which glowed a light yellow color as it played a small selection of fifty CDs.
Greatest Hits
was written in gold script across its side. The songs were mostly country, with some classic rock. A group of four young men
sat at one of the two tables by the door. They wore their camping gear, fleece jackets and rain pants, and two of the men had dreadlocked hair.

John and Michael sat at the bar and ordered some beers. The group of campers would occasionally erupt into fits of laughter over their conversation and then settle back down into talking. The bartender was a woman, older than he and John, with bleached dirty blond hair and a wrinkled face. She seemed to know everyone in the place, including the backpackers. She had a mellow cheerfulness, as if nothing made her happier than to float from one end of the bar to the other, making chitchat with the customers.

Patsy Cline was singing “I Fall to Pieces” on the jukebox as they drank their beers. It began to rain lightly, and a girl walked in, dressed in gear similar to that of the hikers. She sat down with the group of men, and they immediately became even livelier in her presence. When she took off her coat, Michael saw that she had on a lavender-colored turtleneck and had brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was attractive, there was something about her. Michael saw John watching her as they talked, and all the men at the bar would turn and take her in from time to time.

Michael studied John's profile and imagined all the nights he must have spent in the bar since his divorce. “So, is this your hangout?”

“I have been known to come by, but I'm definitely not lumped in with the regulars yet.” The alcohol had settled John, and Michael studied his completely relaxed face. He was actually quite a handsome man—it just took a while to see it. Some people were like that. They would hide and then suddenly appear in their own faces, reshaping the contours and owning what was theirs.

“Are you close to your parents?” Michael asked John, and as John began to speak, Michael again studied his face, half listening to his words. They had the bartender keep the drinks coming, and they shared
stories from their childhoods. John had been the youngest of four brothers and had been continually escaping their teasing and pranks. Michael had begun to tell John of his own battles with his close-minded sister when a man named Steve sat down with them and interrupted their ­conversation. Steve seemed to know John well. He had a beer belly, and his face was crudely drawn from the extra weight he wore.

“John and I worked on the same house together last year,” he explained to Michael. “Man, look at that girl. Why the hell is she in a place where it's all men and then her? Attention hussy.”

John held up the brown bottle and watched the little lights reflect off its surface, then looked over at the young woman seated with the hikers. She was sipping her drink from a stirring straw, her big eyes peering up at the men around her. How could women do that so easily—display a kind of innocence? Michael wondered. It was confusing for men to witness.

“Man, you better quit staring or those hippies will beat your ass,” John said to Steve.

“I can't help it,” Steve said with resignation. “Besides, they won't do shit. They have no idea I'm even here, let alone looking at their girl. Rich fuckers. What do they know anyway? Their parents pay for their damn trips up into the woods, their cars, all their shit is given.”

John nodded—he was more intoxicated than Michael had realized. His speech was slurred, and his eyes were less and less able to focus on one thing.

“Do you think I'm a rich fucker?” Michael said with a laugh, although he was curious to know the answer. Despite his many problems, Michael had always had plenty of money. He had accumulated much from his own job and through inheritance; he had an excess of money in the bank. In that regard, he was stable and could take care of himself and his family for the rest of his life.

“It's okay for you—you're a dad, and dads need the goods,” John answered. “A father can never have enough money—there is always something to pay for with kids. Not that I would know. I haven't produced shit in my life. My damn wife wouldn't have kids with me—good for nothing. I mean, people can't live together for years and years just the two of them—they need to at least make something. If not, someone gets bored.”

Suddenly Michael wanted to see John completely unravel, fascinated at what he would uncover. He ordered two shots, and they downed them.

The hiking girl was standing beside them at the bar, ordering herself another drink. She had a rather large chest and a delicately crafted face. To Michael's embarrassment, both John and Steve were blatantly staring at her.

“Here, honey, let me get this one,” Steve said, fumbling in his pants pocket for his wallet.

The girl's face clouded over, but she handled it well.

“Okay, then,” she said and gave him a small smile. Clearly, she pitied the three of them, yet her good manners prevented her from saying what she was really feeling.

“What'll it be?”

“Screwdriver, please.” She looked over at Michael and John to see what else she would have to deal with.

“Please sit down—here, have my seat,” Michael offered. He cared for neither Steve nor this girl, yet he wanted to see the situation continue, to see what the punishment would be for such a ridiculous kind of flirting—the girl was probably not even twenty-one.

“No, thank you, my friends are waiting,” she replied. Michael felt the sting of rejection. Even though he had not wanted anything to do with her, it was still hard to be refused.

“You don't have to pay for my drink,” she said, turning to Steve.

“Don't be so fussy. Don't make it into such a big deal. Can't a man even do
that
, I mean, are you so above me that I can't even buy you a drink?”

She stood there stunned, and her cheeks flushed, which, paradoxically, made her more beautiful.

“I never said I was above you, I just don't want you to have to pay for my drink when I'm going back to my table.” She looked over at Michael, as if hoping he would diffuse the situation.

“I mean, why are you with these ragamuffin guys anyway?” Steve persisted, his voice louder than John and Michael were comfortable with.

“Steve, quit it, man. Leave her alone,” John intervened.

“Oh, are you in love, John? Are you going to court her now?” He twisted up his face and, laughing, leaned over close to John. “I know it's been a long time since you got laid, but do you really think you have a shot with someone like her, just because you hang out with big bucks here?” He gestured toward Michael.

The girl took a couple of steps away from them.

“Come back. Can't you see us is fightin' over ya?” He said in a mock country accent.

Two of the backpacking guys came over and stood behind the girl. One was shorter, with a compact body and shaggy brown hair. The other was extremely tall and lanky, with pale skin and red dreadlocked hair.

“What the fuck is going on over here?” the tall one asked.

“Teach your fucking girl some manners.” Steve was shaking slightly, and his eyes had the wild look of a cornered dog.

“Oh,
she
needs manners, old man? What are you thinking will happen here? You'll score? You fat old loser?”

Steve sprang to his feet and lunged at the taller of the men. As his
elbow knocked into the girl's chest, she hit the wall. John wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him a few steps away from the backpackers.

“Who do you think you are, the sheriff of this bar? You useless tree-hugging freaks?” Steve shouted at the men.

The two men stood near him, a smirk on their faces.

“What, did you drive here from Brown? Just up for the weekend from Yale? I bet you told her: we can go to a hick bar to see some local culture tonight, honey. Soak up some of the local culture on some of Mommy and Daddy's money.”

Instead of being offended, the men laughed and looked over to their friends at the table, who also began to laugh.

“Get off of me, man! Whose side are you on?” Steve demanded of John, who was still trying to hold him back. His voice sounded momentarily hurt, as if he really felt John had turned on him.

“Let me go, you pussy bastard! Why don't you go after
them
?”

John struggled to hold Steve, but Steve eventually got loose. Steve, clearly drunk, swung at the tall man again, and his fist hit the man's neck. The man was hardly affected by the punch, but Steve fell backward, his face red and twisted into a grimace. Then Steve turned and grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and punched him in the nose. It was a weak punch and didn't draw blood, but it was enough to make John clasp his hand to his nose as he winced in pain.

Michael watched the scene before him with his heart pounding. It was all happening so fast, he felt paralyzed. Do something, do something, he thought. He reached out and tried to push Steve away from John, and succeeded in moving him a few feet before Steve slammed him into the bar stools. As he fell between the stools and onto the grimy floor, piercing pain shot through his shoulder. Steve looked down at him and shot out in a fierce whisper, “You fucking homo—
you can't do shit.” Michael stumbled to his feet as Steve turned his rage onto the backpackers once again.

The tall man easily knocked Steve over, and then he and the smaller one dragged Steve toward the front door, his legs writhing pathetically behind him. The girl looked on, tears welling up in her eyes. Steve was deposited outside, and the two guys came back in. Michael waited to see if Steve would burst back in, but he did not.

John put a hand on the girl's arm. “I am so sorry about that. I hardly know that guy, I swear.”

The “sheriff” came over to the two of them.

“That guy just sat down with us—I hardly know him. I am so sorry,” John said.

“You sure about that? You sure you're not out to get us, too?” the red-haired man said and laughed. He seemed relatively calm. He appeared to be like some big exotic bird, his gnarled red hair like feathers. “No biggie, guys. Come have a drink with us—we can put two tables together.”

They bought several rounds and sat at the tables by the windows. John sat next to the girl, Heather, who had relaxed and was now giving easy smiles. The kids were indeed students from Brown, down for the weekend camping at a Rhode Island state park nearby, as Steve had guessed. The group was talking about hiking and comparing stories about camping trips gone bad. Michael sat facing the window and past the lights in the window, saw the blackened bark of the trees and the thick masses of leaves against the sky.

“We got flooded—I had to stand on my friend Laura's back in the middle of a stream of water to get our bear bag down from the tree!” Heather exclaimed.

“That's not so bad,” John put in. “My wife and I both got hypothermia once and lay around useless when it was snowing, instead
of making our dinner and unpacking our sleeping bags. We almost froze.”

“Camping schmamping, have you guys ever tried going to the bathroom during a three-day rock climb while you hang in your harness? What about when you have to ice climb down a crevasse to get your water from a glacier because you have to perimeter camp in a blizzard? Ever been stuck on a glacier?” The man to the right of the “sheriff” interjected.

“We couldn't afford to do trips like that. The Himalayas are not so easy to get to,” said John.

“Forget the Himalayas, man, I'm talking about the Rockies. Or heck, go up to Vermont or Canada and you'll be set. You don't need to go far to have extreme weather, man. We'll take you, man. Come with us, we go all the time. You don't need much equipment.” The “sheriff” was animated but otherwise seemed unaffected by the many rounds of alcohol. Everyone else was floating around him, getting sloppier, while he remained solid.

Michael would lose himself in the pleasant drinking but then suddenly, the image of his crumpled body on the floor between the bar stools would snap back into his mind and anxiety would course through him. Why didn't I do more? he asked himself, and a feeling of deep anguish seized him as he realized he had not helped John, had sat there stunned for most of the fight. He wondered what John thought of him—did he see him as less of a man? Why do I care so much about what he thinks? Michael wondered.

The rest of the night was a blur. When the bar closed, John and Michael left and sat in John's car and drank from a bottle of whisky. They reclined their seats back as far as they could.

“I should have done more to help you. I could have punched Steve if I just focused more. It shouldn't have gotten to that point—I should have done more.” Tears were streaming down Michael's face, but he saw, with relief, that John had his eyes closed and had not noticed. He felt his hands shaking, due, no doubt, to his not having taken his medication. He pulled it out and slipped a pill down his throat without John seeing him.