Onward Toward What We're Going Toward

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“
Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
is impossible not to love. Ryan Bartelmay's generosity for the characters we meet here—the lovable and the lost and the losing—elevates their lives from the mundane to the magical. With breathtaking empathy for the human condition, Bartelmay combines humor and poignancy into a singular voice that sounds like nothing but the truth.”—Nic Brown, author of
Floodmarkers
and
Doubles

 

“Ryan Bartelmay, in
Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
, has written an ambitious and compelling novel of the contemporary Midwest, modernizing the American Dream by filling it with minor moments of triumph and regret.”—Manuel Gonzales, author of
The Miniature Wife and Other Stories

 

“
Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
, reminiscent of Winesburg, Ohio, is an exquisite novel of lost and lonely people, off-center people, in small town Middle America. The palpable ache of their desperation to be loved, to connect with someone, anyone, is balanced by Mr. Bartelmay's comic and deeply compassionate renderings. Simply put, this is a truly beautiful book.”—Binnie Kirshenbaum, author of
The Scenic Route

 

“
Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
greets us with arms spread wide. It's a welcome embrace from an author who knows the details of his characters' hearts as well as he does those of the world about which he writes. Remarkable for its deft mixture of mirth and sadness, this is a moving debut that accomplishes nothing short of a glimpse of the interior—physical, emotional, psychological—of an entire country.”—Josh Weil, author of
The New Valley

“Any idiot can face a crisis; it's day-to-day living that wears you out.”

—Anton Chekhov

 

On the Trailways bus bound for Florida, Diane wouldn't hold Chic's hand, wouldn't even look at it sitting on his knee like a dead fish. She pretended to sleep. Then she didn't and glared straight ahead at the derby hat of the man in front of them. This wasn't like her. For the last month, she had been chattering like a psychotic woodpecker about their honeymoon—
they were going to do this, they were going to do that, this and that, and this and that, and this
—and here they were, and she was grinding her teeth loud enough he could hear it.

At a bathroom break in Kentucky, he asked her if she wanted a NuGrape or some Nibs. She huffed and stared out the bus window. Inside the filling station, he bought a bottle of Coca-Cola from the vending machine and stood at the filling station's screen door watching a few navy guys taunt a yip-yip dog with a stick. His mind flashed to Lijy, his brother's wife. He wondered what she was doing right now. What was that back rub about at the reception?

The old man behind the pay counter said, “That Truman shouldn't even be in Washington. My vote would have been for Wallace. That is, if I could get someone to watch the store so I could vote.”

Chic took a pull off his soda.

“Couldn't though. My son doesn't wanna have anything to do with it. And my wife, she spends all day at the sewing machine.”

“They're gonna hurt that dog,” Chic said.

“Nah. That dog's fine. Seen it get hit by a truck, get back
up and keep barking. We're all like that dog. We all just keep barking.”

Chic dug a dime from his pocket. He was gonna get himself some Korn Kurls.

“Hey, where's that bus headed?”

“Florida. Then, I don't know. Back I guess.”

“You know if I was going to Florida, I'd go to Gatorland. I hear they got albino alligators.”

“I don't think my wife would like that.”

“You got a wife?”

“Yes sir.” Chic set his dime on the counter.

“I'd find me a way to get to Gatorland. Don't be letting your wife not let you see an albino alligator.”

“You seen it?”

“Heard about it.”

Back on the road, Chic stuffed Korn Kurls in his mouth. He was thinking about that albino alligator. He'd never seen anything albino. There was a kid in his grade school class, a kid whose name he couldn't remember, who had real blond hair and everyone said he was an albino, but he wasn't. Albinos had pink eyes and that kid had blue eyes. Then that kid moved away. Whatever happened to him? He probably went to high school somewhere, probably got married, probably got a job.

“Can't believe you sometimes, Chic Waldbeeser.”

He looked at his new wife, her anger so obvious he could hear it whirling like a drill.

“You haven't said anything to me in . . . ” He looked at his watch. “. . . twelve hours. Now you tell me you can't believe me. What's wrong with you?”

She cocked herself away from him and stared out the window. The bus passed a billboard that read, “Drive carefully. The life you save may be your own.”

He knew he had to do some fancy footwork. He dangled a Korn Kurl in front of her. “Want one? They're good.”

She rested her head on the window and pretended to be asleep.

Chic ate the Kurl. He tried nudging her with his elbow a couple of times. He tried poking her arm with his index finger. After about a minute, she opened her eyes and said: “Will you please stop that.”

“Why are you mad?”

“You should know.” She closed her eyes.

He poked her arm—once, twice, three times, four times.

“If you don't stop that, I'm going to scream.”

He finished his Korn Kurls and checked out the other passengers in the bus. The navy guys were sitting in the back talking in low whispers. A peanut sailed from the back of the bus and clinked off the woman in the seat opposite Chic. Chic turned around and saw the navy guys giggling. One held a hand over his mouth. The woman wiped her arm. She'd gotten on the bus at Carbondale, Illinois and Chic had heard her tell the driver she was going to visit her “Nana” in Pensacola. He looked over at Diane to see if she was awake. Her eyes were closed.

Chic never had a girlfriend in high school. Every time he approached a girl he froze up and his tongue felt like a sponge. He was not an unattractive boy with his flattop haircut, cuffed Levi's, and starched white t-shirt, but the confused look on his face made him appear like he was a few steps behind the herd. His shoes were always untied. After walking into a room he wasn't quite sure where to go, so he just stood there, causing a bottleneck in the doorway. Teachers and other adults liked him, though. He smiled a lot, kept his fingernails trimmed, said “please” and “thank you” and called women “ma'am.” In November, at a Middleville football game, while he sat in the bleachers, Diane approached him and told him that he, Chic Waldbeeser, was going to take her to the Dairy Queen after the game. He was sitting with a bunch of guys who weren't even really worth mentioning, guys just about like him, guys who all stopped talking and craned their
necks to look up at Diane. Everyone knew Diane von Schmidt. Her father was a math teacher, but she didn't act like a math teacher's daughter. She wore high-heeled shoes to the school dances. She'd gone steady with Randy Rugaard for two years, and in gym class, he bragged that she was a real “Sheba.” And by that he meant she was a tomcat. And by that he meant that she pretty much wore him out.