Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (19 page)

When the living room light finally went out, Buddy knew that Lijy had finished her tea and gone to bed. He waited about five minutes, then told Bascom the Cat that he'd be right back. He quietly got out of the car and softly closed the door. He snuck through the neighbors' backyards, going tree to tree and climbing over fences. When he reached the back of his house, Buddy climbed up on the gas meter and shined the flashlight into the kitchen window. Lijy's empty tea mug was upside down in the sink. He tried the window, knowing it would be open, and pushed it up as far as it would go. He slid through the opening, being careful not to make too much noise. Once he was inside, he could hear the ticking wall clock in the living room. The house smelled like one of Lijy's curry recipes. He crept upstairs to the master bedroom, shining the flashlight off the walls, the floor. At the end of the hallway, the bedroom door was closed. Standing outside, Buddy listened to Lijy shift her weight, the bedsprings sighing. His hand was on the doorknob. He wanted to burst into the bedroom and tell her how bad she'd hurt him, how angry he was, how sad she'd made him. He wanted to cry into her chest, and he wanted her to pet his hair and tell him it was going to be all right. How could she, how the hell could she? She was ruining him. Did she know that she was ruining him?

Instead he went to the basement. He shined the flashlight around until he found his coins, stacked like poker chips on a card table. An ironing board piled with folded laundry was next to the table. His white shirts hung on hangers from the ceiling
rafters. Buddy picked up an Indian Head penny and shined the beam on it. He quickly scooped the rest of the coins into the ammunition boxes he used to transport them. Back in the car, Bascom the Cat was curled up on the front seat but immediately woke up when Buddy opened the back door and loaded the first of the ammunition boxes.

The next morning, Buddy called the real estate agent, Phyllis Glover, who was listed in the
Journal Star
ad. Buddy had gone to school with the Glover kids. He tried to disguise his voice. Phyllis put him on hold, saying she needed to pull the spec sheet. When she came back, she asked what sort of business he was in.

“Storage,” he said.

“I can't quite hear you. It sounds like your hand is over your mouth.”

Buddy didn't say anything. He looked at Bascom the Cat sleeping on the unmade motel bed.

“Are you there?”

“Storage.”

“Oh. Okay. What sort of storage?”

“Human, Phyllis. Human storage.”

“Is that a polite way of saying a funeral home?”

“I'm going to live there, Phyllis. It's going to be my home. A big, goddamn house. Human storage. Get it?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, a buzzing sound.

“Look, Phyllis, do you want to sell me the place or not?”

“Of course, Mr., ah—”

“Waldbeeser. Buddy Waldbeeser.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Phyllis. My father froze himself behind the barn. Thank you for your condolences. It's been twenty years. And my mother's fine. She's great. I have no idea where she's at but I'm sure she's wonderful. Can you just meet me at the property in an hour?” Buddy hung up the phone.

The CILCO plant was down Route 7 about six miles from the Wel Kum Inn. A chain-link fence enclosed the property, with barbed wire coiled around the top. Sumac and locust trees hid the building from view. The gate was unlocked, and Buddy walked down the gravel drive about a quarter of a mile, until the drive opened into a parking lot. The building, a square, squat, one-story brick thing, looked like an automotive garage. It was clearly abandoned. The front door was boarded shut, and some of the windows had been rocked out. Buddy wiped dust away from one window and looked inside. In one corner was an abandoned Steelcase desk with a wooden chair on top of it. In the middle of the room was a lone metal garbage can stuffed with scraps of wood. Sunlight streaked through the windows illuminating floating dust particles. Buddy picked up Bascom the Cat up so that he could see in the window too, petting him between the ears. “Look at that. This is going to be our home.”

Buddy was leaning against his car smoking a cigarillo when Phyllis pulled up.

“Can I show you the building?” she said.

“I already saw it. I walked up there. The gate was unlocked.”

“Well. What do you think?”

“You take cash?”

“Of course. We'll have to fill out some paperwork. And then there's a closing, but the owner is a motivated seller. If you have some money to put down today, we can get the ball rolling.”

Buddy flicked the cigarillo on the ground and went around to the trunk of the car.

“You know, my son was a few years younger than you,” Phyllis said. “Or maybe it was your brother. You Waldbeeser boys both look so much alike.”

Buddy took a deep breath, then put on a smile. “Let's not talk about family.” He opened the trunk. Sitting next to the spare tire were eight ammunition boxes. He opened one to show Phyllis that it was full of coins. Buddy picked up a coin, flipped it, and
showed it to her. “Took me twelve years to amass this fortune. Twelve years of driving all over the country. I had a plan, Phyllis, but that plan has changed a little bit.”

She was eyeing him, looking at the coin, at his face.

He studied her worried face. This wasn't going the way he wanted it to go. “These are rare coins. Collector's items.”

She fidgeted with her pearl necklace. “I can't accept your coin collection, Buddy.”

“Wait a second. Hold on. Just hold on.” He went to the car and scooped up Bascom the Cat. “I can give you my cat.”

“You want to give me a cat for the building?”

“This isn't just any cat. This is a very special cat. His name is Bascom.”

“Come see me when you get some money, Mr. Waldbeeser.”

“I have money, Phyllis. My coins.”

“Is everything all right Buddy?”

“What do you mean is everything all right? Of course everything is all right. It's just that . . . I think that . . . my brother. You know I . . . he . . . why? Do I look like something is wrong? Nothing is wrong.”

“Why don't you sell the coins and come and see me when you have cash? And keep your cat. It's a cute cat, and it's named after your father.”

Buddy watched her get back into her car.

“He's named after all the Bascom',” he yelled after her. “My great-grandfather, grandfather, dad, and me. All of us. He's named after all of us.”

What was he thinking, trying to pay for a building with a coin collection? He was too busy thinking about his brother sticking
his dick in his wife to actually think; that was the problem. He needed to think. He needed to stay focused. Think happy thoughts—think of waking up with the morning sunlight streaking through the CILCO building's windows, think of the wind whispering through the trees, think of the Mackinaw River in the distance. Think calming thoughts. The car drifted toward the ditch. Buddy opened his eyes and jerked the wheel to swerve the car back onto the road. Bascom the Cat was curled next to his leg, and he scratched him between the ears. “Hang on, buddy.” He turned on the radio, and Chatty Jim Melvin the radio preacher shouted, “You should love your neighbor like your brother.” Buddy shut off the radio and stepped on the accelerator. He looked at Bascom the Cat. “Is this how you felt?” The cat looked at him. “Before you went off behind the barn? I'll tell you what. I feel like going off behind the barn. You're listening to me, aren't you? Dad? You're hearing me, aren't you?”

Buddy glanced in the rearview mirror. He thought he saw someone in the backseat, but there was only another car approaching, coming on fast. He looked down at his speedometer. He was going fifty. The other car had to be going seventy, maybe eighty. Buddy glanced over his shoulder. The car was in the left lane making a pass. He tried to speed up, but he couldn't go any faster. When the car was parallel to him, he looked over. “Dad?” Buddy whispered. “Is that . . . ?” The guy was looking straight ahead, both hands on the steering wheel. “Dad!” The car pulled into the lane ahead of him. Buddy floored the gas pedal, but it was no use. The car kept getting farther and farther ahead. “Don't leave me.” The car disappeared over a hill. “Dad! Please!” He slowed down and pulled the car over to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under the tires. He got out. It was dusty and hot. The sun was high in the blue sky above him. It was the kind of heat where your pants stuck to the backs of your legs. He loosened his tie. He was going to show his father. He was going to show Phyllis, Lijy, Chic. The entire town. He was going to
buy that goddamn CILCO building. The cat was looking at him. “You,” he said to the cat. “Get out.” The cat cocked its head like it was confused. “Get out of the goddamn car.” Buddy grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out. The cat scurried underneath the car. “Leave. Get out of here.” He kicked the side of the car hard, which hurt his toe. “Goddamn it.” He grabbed his foot. “Jesus Christ. Get out of here, you goddamn cat. I don't need you. I. Don't. Need. You.” He got on his hands and knees. The cat was cowering, looking at him with his big yellow eyes. “Go on. I don't need you. Scram.” He stood up and clapped—three quick smacks—which scared the cat. He bolted into the ditch weeds. “Now, please. Leave me alone.” Buddy got back into the car and pulled away. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The cat had crept back onto the road and was watching him.

 

Mary had promised to be at the hospital at five with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was now almost six. It wasn't so much the lateness that bothered Green, but that he couldn't complain to anyone about it. Complaining made him feel better, and what he really wanted to do right at this minute was run at the mouth to someone, the nurse most likely, since she was around. He could write a note. But then she'd have to read it. That had been a disaster this morning, when he'd had the nurse send flowers to the Brazen Bull for Mary. Green couldn't spell worth a dang, and he hadn't wanted the nurse to know that because then she'd judge him and he didn't want to be judged. So he purposely wrote sloppy, hoping the nurse wouldn't notice that he couldn't spell. But she couldn't read what he wrote. And, to make matters worse, he didn't know the address of the Brazen Bull and had to have the nurse look it up. While she was out of the room, he took his time with the note, trying not to misspell anything. Jesus, it took him like five minutes to write that note. It was bad enough he'd had a stroke. But, then, to have people know that he couldn't spell. He couldn't deal with that. Not to mention that writing a note delayed the complaining, and complaining needed to be immediate, a stream of consciousness kind of thing. Green wanted very much to spew a batch of complaints, like, for example, that Mary should be sitting in that chair, the one right over there. And that she should have been here an hour ago—one hour and three minutes ago, according to the clock in the hallway, which he had a view of if he leaned over on his right elbow. She should be feeding
him. She should be dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. She should be holding his hand. She should be talking to him in a gentle, soothing voice, making him feel loved, making him feel wanted, making him feel like he didn't almost goddamn die on the driveway of some stupid rental house in Peoria goddamn Illinois.

She was probably with some guy. That's why she was late. Maybe he had his arm draped over her shoulder like some baboon, holding her close like she belonged to him. Maybe they were driving in his car, a Cadillac probably, with the windows down, and she had her head on his shoulder. Maybe right now they were in this guy's Cadillac, sitting in the drive-through of a Kentucky Fried Chicken. That was his goddamn stinking luck. The one woman he ever loved gets cancer and dies, and two years later, he has a stroke and the woman he married because he couldn't stand to be alone runs off with a guy who drives a Cadillac. Green wanted to voice these complaints to someone, but couldn't write that on a goddamn Post-it Note.