Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (23 page)

After the funeral, Buddy approached Chic and Diane as they were getting into the limousine. Chic's sunglasses were mirrored and reflected Buddy's image back at himself—Hawaiian shirt and beach hat.

Diane grabbed Buddy's forearm. “Chic's putting in a pool. A pool! Ha. The irony.”

Her mother put a gentle hand on Diane's shoulder.

“Why are you dressed like that, Buddy?” Diane's mother asked.

“I'm sorry, Diane. Chic. Mr. and Mrs. von Schmidt.” He took off his straw hat and put it over his heart. “I don't do well at funerals.”

“Does anyone?” Chic asked.

“Mom did pretty well. You did, too, at Dad's.”

Chic remembered his mother talking to people, smiling,
laughing, Tom McNeeley beside her, his hand on the small of her back. Afterward, they went back to the church and had a potluck dinner. Chic spent the afternoon running around the church basement with some of the kids from the congregation while Buddy sat on the front steps scowling and muttering to himself.

“My son's dead, and you don't have the decency to wear the color of mourning. Shame on you, Buddy Waldbeeser,” Diane scolded, sliding into the back of the limousine. Her mother and father followed.

“I could tell you something,” Chic said when they were alone.

“Yeah? What can you tell me?”

“I'm not going to say.”

“You can't say you're going to tell me something and not tell me.”

“Yes I can and I just did.”

“What were you going to tell me?”

“You're welcome.”

“For what?”

“For being your brother.”

“Like I asked you to be my brother. And by the way, you've been a terrible brother. The worst. You know, I could ruin your life. Right now. All I have to do is tell Diane about what happened. But, I won't. I can't. I'll never say anything. Never. Zip my lip potato chip.”

Chic touched his brother on the bicep, then got into the limousine, which pulled away. The other cars filed out behind it. Buddy was now alone. He pulled out the flask and took another pop. He didn't feel like going over to the church. He was beginning to think that he was making things worse, and he didn't want to make things worse. He just wanted things to be better. He just wanted to go back to the way it had been with Lijy, before all this. Sadness bore down on him like the weight of a giant boulder, like he was under the thumb of God. If only someone could pick him back up, brush off the dirt, and tell him everything was going to be all right, tousle his hair, squeeze his shoulder.

The lot was now empty except for a single car parked on the far side under a maple tree—Lijy's car. The back door was open and she was putting the baby in his car seat. Buddy uncapped his flask and took another hit. He felt like he was about to cry. He took another sip. Suddenly, he noticed something. His father was crossing through the cemetery, carrying a derby hat in his hands, wearing the black suit and red tie he had been buried in. He got to the gate and lifted the latch and let himself through. Buddy took another drink. He felt the alcohol pulsing in his head. He shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his father was standing in front of him, the same look on his face as always. “Dad?” Buddy asked. He reached out to touch him. “I wish I had an axe so that I could break you out of this icy silence. I sold all the coins and live in an abandoned building. I'm sure you know that. Chic had sex with Lijy and impregnated her. I'm sure you know that, too. I'm sure you know everything. You're probably up or out or wherever you are watching us make fools of ourselves. I don't want to make a fool of myself. I want to do the right thing. Tell me, what's the right thing? Please.” His father looked like he was on the verge of talking. Buddy's heart surged.

“Yes. Tell me. Go on. Please. Go on.”

His father said,
Othing-nay o-tay ay-say.

“That's . . . you are . . . you're speaking . . . that's pig Latin.”

“Nothing to say. But you're my father.”

“No it's not. That's not life. It has to be better than this. Look at us. We're a goddamn wreck. Ravaged. I want to know what to do, how to stop it. What am I supposed to do? Tell me what I'm supposed to do.”

Ou-yay re-ay oing-day hat-way ou-yay eed-nay o-tay o-day. Eel-fay he-tay ain-pay. Eel-fay t-iay. Nd-ay orgive-fay e-may.
Then his father turned around and walked back toward the cemetery.

“Hold on. Wait. Don't go. Come back.”

But it wasn't any use. He wasn't coming back, and Buddy knew it.

He was gone.

From across the parking lot, Buddy noticed that Lijy was watching him. She wasn't dressed in a sari but a black dress, her hair up in a funeral bun. He went up to her.

“Why are you talking to yourself, Buddy?”

“I wasn't talking to myself.”

“You were talking and carrying on, and . . . you were talking to yourself. I saw you.”

“I'm a lone wolf. One-lay olf-way.”

“One-lay . . . huh? What are you saying? Are you drunk?”

“I-ay ove-lay ou-yay.”

“I don't have time for this, Buddy.”

“I'm trying to tell you I forgive you.”

A smile started to break out on her face. “Does this mean you're going to come home?

“You can move in with me, yes.”

“And you're going to be Russ's father?”

“That's what it means.”

“Do you want to hold him?” Lijy leaned into the backseat and scooped the baby up. The exchange was a little awkward, and she had to help Buddy, had to show him where to put his hands. “There,” she said. “Like that. You're a natural.”

The baby looked up at him.

“Hold him against your chest, so he can feel you. He wants to feel you. He wants to feel his father.”

Whenever Diane tried to get out of bed, she fell right back on the mattress. She didn't have the strength to move. She couldn't even
reach over and pick up the bottle of soda pop on the nightstand. She just lay there, staring, blinking, thinking. She hated thinking. Thinking was remembering and remembering was a knife slitting open her heart. She wanted to forget. But she couldn't. She remembered him in the kitchen, in his bedroom, in the backyard, at school, in the bathroom standing at the sink brushing his teeth. She remembered his smell, the smell of his hair, kissing him on the head and smelling his hair. The sound of the latches opening on his briefcase. Rustling papers. She remembered him at the bottom of the stairs calling for her. She closed her eyes. Nothing she'd ever done in her entire life could have prepared her for this. She put the corner of the pillow in her mouth. She wanted to rip it open and spread its guts all over the room; she wanted to make it rain pillow feathers. She wanted something. A change. Something. Chic. If only he would have taken him to Kennel Lake.
He should have driven him.
He should have driven him. But . . . no, he had to dig a pool. A goddamn pool. What the hell. She rolled over and pounded her fists into the mattress. Her head felt like it was about to burst. She wanted to get past this. She needed to get past this. There had to be a way to get past this. Her mother had sat on the edge of the bed and told her that she'd get past this. She'd rubbed her back, her shoulders, her back again, run her fingers through her hair. She told her again that she'd get past this. She'd brought her a book,
The Power of Positive Thinking
, and left it on the nightstand. She turned on the radio and told her about a program she should listen to, on WMBD. Diane said nothing. She couldn't talk. She couldn't even bring herself to roll over and look at her mother. Her father sat on the edge of the bed later on. His voice was low, confident, yet searching. It held a flashlight and tried to find her. He told her a story about loss. She didn't pay attention. He said, “Do you catch what I'm saying.” The story was supposed to make her feel better, but he didn't know how she was feeling. No one knew how she was feeling. Not one person. How could these people sit on her bed and tell her she would
get past this? She wasn't going to get past this. This was an ocean of sadness and she was floating in the middle of it, bobbing up and down. She was swallowing water. She was sinking. The pain had taken root inside of her. It had bloomed in her brain. It kept knocking on the door of her consciousness, surprising her, pulling a bouquet of sadness from behind its back. Chic sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't say anything. He got into bed and spooned her. She didn't have the energy to not let him. She didn't want him to touch her. She wanted to scream. He was digging a pool. A hole full of water, like a lake, like Kennel Lake. Why did they need a hole full of water in their backyard? He got up. She heard him in the shower. She heard him leave for work. She lay there staring at the ceiling. The day passed, he came home, made her dinner and brought it to her. She didn't eat it. He lay down next to her. They fell asleep. She heard him leave for work the next day. The day passed, he came home. He made her dinner. She didn't eat it. He lay down next to her. They fell asleep. She heard him in the shower. She tried to get up. This would be the day that she went on with her life. This would be the day that she got mad and told him that their son had died because of him. She would yell at him. She would pound her fists on his chest. She stared at the ceiling. Blinked. Thought. She hated thinking. Thinking was remembering and remembering was . . . She looked at the radio. Was it on or off? Was she hearing a voice, or was she thinking? The radio was on. Chic must have turned it on, or maybe she had. She didn't know. It didn't matter. The radio squawked voices that weren't her thinking and that was a little better. She was drawn to one voice in particular. A man's voice. Norman-something-something. She liked hearing him. Hearing his voice was not thinking and not thinking was better. The voice belonged to Norman Vincent Peale, a psychiatrist and minister, and from what she gleaned, he'd written a number of books. During his radio program, she kept hearing a commercial for his book,
The Power of Positive Thinking
. Diane picked up the book her mother
had left on the nightstand. It was the same book. On the radio, Dr. Peale said, “Become a possibilitarian. No matter how dark things seem to be or actually are, raise your sights and see possibilities—always see them, for they're always there.” Diane heard Chic come home from work. He was not a possibilitarian. He was a wreckatarian. A pool digger. Goddamn him. She should throw off the bedsheets and run down the stairs and punch him in the stomach. She should spit on his feet. She should grab both of his ears and scream her hot, vengeful breath in his face. She should jump up and down in the middle of the living room, then on the couch, and after gaining enough momentum, hop to the coffee table and finally leap on him and tackle him to the ground, where on top of him, she'd scream into his face, “Chic Waldbeeser, this is all your goddamn fault!” But she didn't move. She heard Chic go into the downstairs bathroom and lock the door. Dr. Peale said, “The life of inner peace, being harmonious and without stress, is the easiest type of existence.”

Chic wasn't really sure how to be sad. Diane, on the other hand, felt her sadness. It consumed her. She cried. He tried to cry but couldn't. He told himself, “Now is the time to cry.” The doorbell rang. It was another neighbor dropping off a casserole. Chic set the casserole on the counter with the other casseroles and went back to looking at the pile of dirt, the wheelbarrow with the shovels and rakes, the half-dug pool in the backyard.