I Loved You More (22 page)

There's a video my cousin converted from eight millimeter. Most of the video is dead relatives, but there's this one segment that I can't stop watching. It's of me and Margaret sitting on the cement steps of a front porch. Sis is maybe eight and I am five. She's wearing that plaid coat with her red scarf and I'm in my bomber hat and the jacket with a belt that were two metal links across the waist. Sis has her arm around me. Me, Little Ben, sitting in close to my sis, her arm around me, and we are holding hands. The way we sit, the way we touch, everything about our bodies is saying we are safe, this is my little brother, this is my big sister. I'm protecting him because he's mine. I'm the only one she has.

When the camera pulls back, I am surrounded by women. My mother and all her sisters. Great beauties, all of them. The noise they make, magpies or crows, they all talk at once. My five-year-old eyes don't know what to do, who to look at first. Tall, glamorous, my aunts with the Veronica Lake swirl, with snoods, with penciled-on eyebrows and shoulder pads. Katharine Hepburn, Hedy Lamarr, Ava Gardner, Gene Tierney, Rosalind Russell. It's 1953 and these are the women who worked the nation
through the war. And the war has given them something back. In their Catholic hearts, film noir is just meeting the Virgin Mary.

THE AIRPORT LOUNGE,
in the booth, Margaret and I, hip to hip, are still two kids sitting on the cement steps. We're not holding hands, but the way we talk makes Hank look up and watch. Hank's across the table from Kevin. They're talking straight guy talk. The smile, the distance, the autonomy, the polite regard, the kind of talk that's always about things or events, sports on the radio that sounds so exotic when I hear it. But whenever I try, I sound the way I always sound when I try – like I'm trying too hard. Kevin's in his orange ISU Bengal cap. He's got an alligator on his shirt. Ten years ago, living in Chubbuck, Margaret's man wore a cowboy hat and beat her with a pitchfork.
You've come a long way, baby
.

All those red balloons bouncing up around us. The cocktail waitress has got the big Eighties hair and earrings that are holograms all the way down to her shoulders. A hint of cleavage. Lots of space between her teeth on top. She looks familiar. I think maybe a girl I went to high school with. She wasn't popular. Future Homemakers of America. Becky maybe. She doesn't remember me either. She smells of
Halston
.

“Last call,” she says.

“Three more margaritas,” Kevin says, “and a Bud.”

Hank raises his hand, tries to pass on the beer.

“Oh come on,” Margaret says. “How often you get a book published?”

Then to the waitress: “We're celebrating,” Margaret says. “My brother, Ben, and his friend Hank Christian here are famous authors. They're reading tomorrow night at the Blind Lemon. You should come.”

What Margaret says next she says like she's still just a kid.

“And it's my birthday!”

We all take Margaret's cue. We toast our glasses, we all yell:

“Happy Birthday!”

OUTSIDE THE AIRPORT
lounge, it's the wind. The Idaho wind that's always there. The sky is black and stars are bright as flashlights. The yellow moon, three-quarters full, the man in the moon has no left cheek. Beyond the runway lights, miles and miles stretch out into darkness in all directions. High desert plain, coyotes, sagebrush. Just due south, giant sprinkler robots roll huge wheels over the ground, their high arcs of water sprayed onto the earth of the Michaud Flats. Just beyond, it's Magic Valley. Its square, irrigated fields are third crop alfalfa, are stubbled wheat fields, J.R. Simplot potato vines waist high, and acres of barley dark amber almost rust.

Inside the airport lounge, so many margaritas, so many dreams. Tomorrow friends from high school and university will come to the ISU bookstore for Hank and me to sign their books. And the reading at the Blind Lemon, Wilbur Tucker will ring the fire bell, his voice saying Hank's name, my name out loud for all my home town to hear.
Ladies and Gents, Pocatello's own Ben Grunewald
.

Hank, my buddy Hank, him and his book, right alongside me.

So many dreams. May as well have been dreaming of parades and marching bands. The mayor giving me the key to the city. But more than anything. Although I didn't know it then. Not like I do now. More than anything was the moment in the spotlight at the Blind Lemon, standing in the spotlight in front of all those people, and the best dream was that my big sister was in the audience, Margaret, sitting there so happy and proud that I, her little brother Benny, was standing up there in that spotlight.

A dream bigger than that, better, I couldn't imagine.

THE NEXT MORNING
Margaret's at her stove frying eggs. She's smoking a cigarette. The reason I notice the cigarette is because after smoking cigarettes at night, a cigarette in the morning always made me sick. I'm filling the percolator with coffee. I'm
feeling sick. Hank's in his white T-shirt and his jeans, sitting at Margaret's round oak table in the kitchen of her double-wide, buttering whole wheat toast. None of us got to sleep before three, six o'clock New York time. Hank slept on the couch. Me on an air mattress on the floor. Sleep, if you can call it that.

Outside, the sun is bright coming in through the lace curtains. The fresh coffee smells good. I've never seen Hank look so hungover.

“How do you like your eggs, Hank?” Margaret says.

“However I can get them.”

Margaret puts out her cigarette in a big, green glass ashtray, washes her hands in the sink, puts lotion on them, then sets a big oval orange plate of fried eggs, ham, and hash browns onto the table. Both Hank and I go for the food. We didn't really get any supper. Margaret sits down at the table, slides her chair in. She makes the sign of the cross, folds her hands. I know I probably should too. But I don't. Instead, Big Ben gets up, pours coffee all around. When Hank sees Margaret, he bows his head, too.

Idaho. This is what we do in Idaho. We pray. To Jesus Christ to have mercy on us. To the Virgin Mary to save us. To all the saints to intercede for us. We pray for the poor souls in purgatory. We pray for the missions in Africa. We pray for the defeat of communism. We pray so that it will rain. We pray it won't rain. We pray for more snow pack on the mountains. We pray it won't freeze. We pray for our immortal souls. We pray we won't go to hell.

“Happy Birthday, Sis,” I say.

“Yeah,” Hank says. “Happy Birthday.”

Margaret slides an egg, a slice of ham onto her plate, grabs a piece of toast.

“I didn't tell you,” Margaret says. “Kevin's rented a stretch limo. A white Cadillac. Tonight, we're going to hit all our favorite bars in Pocatello.”

A hitch in my breath. Something behind Little Ben's eyes fries a little. Hank looks up, too. Margaret sees my look and, fast as she can, she says:

“It's a white stretch Cadillac,” she says, “with a driver. It's one of Kevin's birthday presents.”

Hank's black eyes are checking me out. Christ I'm always an open book.

“You still going to make it to the reading?” I say.

Margaret goes for her pack of Virginia Slims, pokes out a cigarette, lights it, inhales deep.

“What time is it again?” Margaret says. “Eight, right?”

“Eight sharp,” I say. “Wilbur Tucker's hitting the fire bell eight o'clock sharp.”

“Oh sure,” Margaret says. Exhales. “Anyway we should make it by eight.”

IN MARGARET'S TINY
bathroom, Hank showers first. Hank shaves while I shower, or tries to. He can't keep the steam off the mirror. Halfway through my shower, the hot water goes. I let out a yell and jump out of the shower. Hank's got a towel wrapped around him, white shaving cream half on his face. His black eyes look over at me, at my body, and his eyes look down. No big deal. Every guy is curious. I go to cover my cock and balls but I don't. Little Ben acts like I think a straight guy would. That it's perfectly normal to be standing naked in a tiny room so close we're almost touching.

MARGARET WORKS AT
the university and she's set the book-signing gig up. She didn't have much time. Big Ben had made the whole Idaho Book Tour thing up on the spot in the Strand Book Store. In the two weeks, she's managed to get the book signing and the reading at the Blind Lemon advertised in the
Idaho State Journal
, plus she got the ISU bookstore to agree to let Hank and me bring our own books to the book signing and not take a cut.

That morning, we load our books into the tiny trunk of Margaret's blue Mazda sports car. Margaret drives us to the university, Hank and I jammed in both on one seat. Hank's on my lap, or let's say his body is part on my left leg and part over the
gearshift. Hank's either got to bring his left leg close into him so Margaret can shift, or he has to open his left leg way out so she can reach between his legs to shift. That's when it starts, the laughter. Then halfway to the university, Sis drops her cigarette. Somewhere down between our tangle of hips and legs and arms, there's a cigarette burning. By then we're laughing so hard Margaret has to stop the car. Good thing there's no traffic on the country road. The cigarette has rolled down by my left foot, I can see it, but can't get to it. Sis reaches down through our legs and I look and I can see the manicured, polished nails of her hand feeling around down by my foot.

“Little more to the right,” I say.

Sis's hand goes onto Hank's white tennis shoe. It ain't long and Hank says:

“The other right.”

Laugh. That's what we do in Idaho. So hard I have to roll down the window.

Finally somehow Margaret gets her Virginia Slim back, and gets it back between her lips and we're off again. Hank's big arm at the back of my head. My head pushed down into his armpit. Mennen. Red potatoes, raw, and earth. Never smelled Hank up that close. Sweat is what tells the tale true.

In the parking lot, Hank has to reach down to grab the door latch because my whole left side is dead and my right side is too smashed against the door. When the door opens, Hank and I fall out, two of the three stooges.

Idaho. The Book Tour.

Hank and I each get our suitcase of books out of the trunk. Margaret's just pulling away when I grab the car at the open passenger window. Margaret stops the Mazda. She looks at me like she's always looked at me. A mixture of tenderness and something else. Her little brother.

“Remember,” I say, “eight o'clock.”

“Okay,” Margaret says.

“Kevin knows that the reading's at eight, right?”

“See you then,” Margaret says.

“Blind Lemon,” I say. “Wilbur Tucker rings the fire bell at eight sharp.”

HANK AND ME,
both our suitcases are luggage. You know, those Samsonite-looking things. Hard rectangular boxes with latches that snap. A lock in the middle that tiny keys unlock. Hank's is covered in a faux dark brown leather, and mine is powder blue. I can't even remember where I got this fucking powder blue piece of shit luggage, but there it is, heavy, really heavy, in my right hand.

That moment. Little Ben standing in the ISU parking lot next to Hank, in the wind, in the hot noonday Idaho sun, holding onto the handle of my stupid powder blue suitcase filled with my twenty-four books, watching Margaret drive off in her blue sports car. I should have known better. But what there was to know wasn't knowable yet.

That first time, my first book, I thought there was no longer any reason for the world not to pay me attention. I'd shown that I could do it, make something of myself, make art, important art, and the
New York Times
had said so. The truth is, I thought the publication of my book had bought me passage. From then on my destiny would be different. Finally, I could get on the sailboat. At One Fifth Avenue, I'd take the elevator up to the penthouse with the arched tall corner windows. Switch on the crystal chandelier you could see in there at night. The blue plate on the kitchen wall. Pressed starched linen. Chablis Grand Cru. Truffles. Café de Flor. Havana, Cuba. People to love you like Hemingway.

Love. The hole in me I didn't even know was a hole it was so big would be filled and I could stop the way I lived in the moments of my life, empty. Love, not a speck of it.

Havana, Cuba. Now there's where I should've gone. Instead I go straight to Pocatello, Idaho.

If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

In a world of shit. And Little Ben didn't have a clue.

You never go back to your hometown if what you're looking for is love.

“
IT NEVER FAILS
,” Hanks says. “As soon as I walk onto a college campus, I always got to take a shit.”

In the student union, everything is like it was. Clean, shiny expanses of windows, granite floors, mopped and waxed. The sun shining in. Back in my day, Friday at noon, things would be hopping. On this Friday, though, from where I'm standing, there's only two tables of people in the cafeteria. No receptionist at the front desk. On the events calendar, a happy face with magnetized letters that say:
Have a fun weekend!
Outside on the quad, I count seven people.