Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (21 page)

“Jesus. You don't have to hit me.”

“I don't need your help. You've already made this difficult. My brother-in-law had to take the rap for this, you know.”

“Your brother-in-law? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

After Lijy got the diaper changed, she picked up the baby and snuggled him close to her chest. “You know, Ellis, if that's really your real name . . . ”

“It's my real name.”

“You seduced me that afternoon.”

“I did nothing of the sort. You wanted to give me a massage. You told me to take my shirt off. I thought that was an invitation.”

“I was using you, Ellis. The whole time you were doing that . . . that . . . I didn't like that, by the way, but that's beside the point. The point is the whole time you were . . . you know . . . I was thinking about Buddy.”

“Who's Buddy?”

“My husband.”

“His name is Buddy?”

“Yes. His name is Buddy.”

Ellis smirked.

“What?”

“Don't you see the irony?”

“His real name is Bascom. Bascom IV.”

Ellis chuckled to himself, then started nodding. Lijy thought he was going to say something, but he just kept nodding.

“Why are you nodding like that?”

“Nice try. Very good, Lijy. Buddy. Bascom IV. That's a real laugh. You're making this up. You don't have a husband.”

“I have a husband.”

“I have been in front of your house for two days, and I have not seen anyone enter or leave this house.”

Lijy pointed to a framed photograph on the end table next to the couch. In the photo, Buddy was leaning against the rear quarter panel of a 1957 Coupe de Ville. When she and Buddy were driving from California, he'd seen the car in a parking lot of a motel, and for some reason, Buddy had wanted his picture taken with it.

Ellis sat down on the rocking chair across from the couch. “Look, I don't care if you have a husband or not. I have a plan. Do you want to hear it?”

“No,” she answered, but he told her anyway. That week, he'd quit his job with the Rivermen. The job had been a stepping stone, a rung in his climb for the future, but his future had
changed. He was going to California. He loved it there. And it wasn't just the state. It was the word: California. When he got to California, he planned to get a job teaching American history and coaching girls' softball. After he secured this job, they'd get married. He didn't want a religious wedding. He didn't believe in religion, but he thought it was important for their son that they had a legal marriage. He also wanted the tax breaks, and besides, people looked at you strangely if you were living together without being married.

That was phase one of his plan.

Phase two involved a farmhouse and some animals, goats mostly, but cows and chickens, too, perhaps some horses. Lijy would write a book about Ayurveda massage. Their son would play baseball. If he didn't want to play baseball, he could take up table tennis or golf, perhaps. Basketball was acceptable too, as was football or bowling. (Was bowling really a sport?) He needed to play a sport. He was going to be good at a sport. That had always been his problem, he told her. He wasn't good at a sport, and he saw how others, guys especially, looked at him. They knew he wasn't good at sports. He had his parents to blame for this, and he wasn't going to have his son blame him for anything.

Phase three would start when Lijy published her book. If she couldn't get a publisher, they'd self-publish and take the books to where people would appreciate them. They'd buy a van. By this time, his girls'softball team would have won a state championship or two. He'd been reading a book on softball strategy and believed that the key to a winning team was having a strong infield. He asked Lijy if she knew anything about baseball. Had she ever heard of Roger Maris? He was having a great season for the Yankees. He and Mickey Mantle were two of the best baseball players of all time.

Lijy stared at him, stone-faced. He waited for her to make a move, to do something, bat an eye, crack a tiny smile, maybe go into the kitchen and uncap the bottle of rum. Instead, she just glared at him.

California! She hated that place, and she wasn't going back there, back to where people called her “Hindoo” and did miserable things to her and her family, catcalling at them, snapping their fingers, shooting rocks at them with a slingshot, standing in their front yard wearing white robes and whistling strange music that she never wanted to hear again. California was not a place she ever wanted to think about again. She hadn't even told Buddy about her past there; she hadn't told anyone.

“What's the baby's name?” Ellis asked to break the silence. “I was thinking we'd name him Ellis. Ellis Junior. Call him EJ. I came up with that this morning. Actually, I lied. I've secretly always wanted to name my son after myself. I know naming a baby is important in your culture. Maybe he should be named after your father. What was his name?”

“I was thinking Buddy,” she said.

“Your husband's name? Not a good name.”

Lijy didn't say anything.

“Do you mind if I lie down?” Ellis asked. “I've been sleeping in my car for two days. I could really use a little nap.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“I just need to rest my eyes.”

“Ellis, I don't care about your plan, and I'm not going to California with you.”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Do you want to hear phase four?”

“I think you should go.”

“In phase four we open a health food store like you've always wanted to.”

Lijy felt herself go momentarily dizzy.

“I know you don't want to be with your husband. If you did, that afternoon wouldn't have happened.”

Lijy thought about Buddy pacing the living room and smoking his mini-cigars. She thought about the night she had visited him at the Wel Kum Inn. She'd never intended to hurt him, to
hurt anyone, to get Chic involved or any of it. It just, somehow, the next thing she knew, it had happened. Ellis rolled off her, sweating and quivering, and she was staring up at a crack that ran from one edge of the ceiling to the middle, directly above her.

“This is what you've always wanted. I can see it in your face.”

“I think you should go.”

“You can't deny our son his father, Lijy. He's going to want to know me.”

She showed him to the door. “Good-bye, Ellis.”

He stepped onto the porch. “But . . . ”

She shut the door. She could deny him his son, and she would. He was not the father. He would never be the father. She peeked out the window. Ellis was standing in the driveway. He appeared confused, looking up and down the street like he'd forgotten where he'd parked his car.

Next to the entrance gate of the CILCO building, Buddy had set a plywood sandwich board that read: BUDDY WALDBEESER'S RESIDENCE. NO TRESPASSING. KEEP OUT! PUT THE MAIL IN THE BOX. TO BE ANNOUNCED, TALK INTO THE CAN. An arrow pointed to a tin can hanging from the chain-link fence. A piece of red string ran from the can and disappeared around the bend of the gravel road. Lijy picked up the tin can and eyed it suspiciously. Then she spoke into it. “Hello. Buddy? Buddy Waldbeeser.”

Her voice traveled down the string, around the bend, through the window, across the concrete floor, and out the second can, which sat next to the secondhand couch Buddy was sprawled out on. He was using a magnifying glass to look at the only coin he'd kept, his first coin, the gold Double Eagle his grandfather had given him.

“Buddy? Buddy Waldbeeser.”

He picked up the can. “Buddy's not here. Go away.”

“Buddy, I recognize your voice.”

“This is not Buddy.”

“Don't play games.” She shifted the baby's weight to her other hip. “I brought your son to meet you.”

“He's not my son.”

“So you're admitting you're Buddy?”

“Fine. Yeah. I'm Buddy. What do you want? I'm very busy.”

“Open the gate. I want to come up there.”

“Nope. I told you. I'm very busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Things.”

“I want you to meet your son.”

“He's Chic's son. Remember? You had sex with him.”

“This is a baby we're talking about. A real baby. Not some doll.” She held the tin can in front of the baby. “Hear him.”

“I don't care if he's real. I don't care if he's cute and I don't care if he slobbers all over himself. I don't care, Lijy. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.”

“Buddy, I'm sorry.”

“That doesn't help.”

“I want you to help me name him.”

“Name him Chic. Chic Junior. CJ Waldbeeser. He'll grow up to enlist in the navy and die when his ship sinks in the Indian Ocean. Only then will you hurt like I hurt. You tore out my heart. You're a devil woman. I hope you fall in a deep hole and are buried alive.”

“It's a boy, by the way. You always wanted a son. Can you please just help me? What do you want to name him? I want to name him after us. ”

“Who's Russ?”

“What?”

“Is that your boyfriend? Is he taking care of you? Why did
you come out here to tell me that? Haven't you put me through enough? Who is this Russ?”

“Russ?”

“You said you want to name him after Russ.”

“I said after us.
Us,
Buddy. We're a family. The Waldbeesers. I love you. I do. Honestly I do. I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, Buddy. I was only trying to get your attention and I made a mistake. A horrible, terrible, unfortunate mistake.”

Buddy opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He felt like someone was looking at him. He sat up and looked over the top of the couch and hoped that his father was standing there, a ghost, ready to finally at last be his father. But there was nothing.

“Please forgive me and come home and be this baby's father.”

His voice was frozen in his throat. The only sound he could get out was a squeak, and it traveled down the string like it was using a cane and never made it out the other side.

Lijy waited, but nothing came out of the can. She'd said that she loved him, and he'd met her apology with silence. She dropped the can, and it clinked against the fence and hung there, dangling and swaying back and forth like a pendulum. She felt sick to her stomach. Maybe he couldn't forgive her. Maybe—and this was the worst possible thought she could have—he didn't love her. She loaded the baby into the car and got behind the wheel and backed onto the highway. Before she put the car into drive, she screamed, a piercing, high-pitched wail that was so profound, so full of pain, that her baby son didn't even respond. He simply sat there too overwhelmed by his mother's emotion to make a sound.

After Lijy drove off, the tin can continued to dangle. The crickets chirped in the ditch weeds. The cloud of dust the car had kicked up settled on the road. Finally, Buddy's voice came out of the can, softly. “I want to come home.” Not finding any ears, his words floated down to the gravel. “I want to come home,” he said, again. “Lijy?” He stood up from the couch and screamed, “Lijy!”

On the morning of July 15, 1960, Chic watched proudly as William T. Daniels maneuvered his backhoe into the yard. After he got the machinery in place, William T. stretched the bucket out as far as it would go. Chic, who was leaning on a shovel, smiled. He was going to have a pool, his own pool, his own slice of Florida, right in his own backyard. William T. lowered the bucket into the ground; the teeth of the bucket dug into the earth. Diane watched from the upstairs bedroom window. Chic saw her and waved, but she didn't wave back.