Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (26 page)

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Authors: Ryan Bartelmay

BOOK: Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
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Chic decided to continue Lomax's translation project as a way of running head-on into his grief, as a way of better understanding his son and his great-grandfather, as a way of better understanding his family. Understanding would help him forget, or something like that. Chic called Dr. Dexheimer, but as soon as he heard the professor's voice, he remembered driving Lomax to his German classes. He hung up the phone. Perhaps it was too soon. It hadn't even been a year. Chic sat there staring at the phone, considering his options. He got another idea, to rid Lomax's room of every object that held a memory: the poster of the periodic table on the wall, the desk, the nightstand, volumes one through seventeen of Lomax's “Scientific Findings” notebooks, the dictionary, the pocket watch, the magnifying glass, the wheelie briefcase, and, of course, the crate of Bascom's German letters and notebooks. He'd take the crate to his brother and Lijy's. Let them have it—he couldn't stand to be under the same roof with those letters.
Chic started with the desk drawers, dumping the contents into a garbage bag. Next was the dresser: all of Lomax's clothes, his underwear and socks, everything into the garbage bag. Then he got down on the floor and looked under the bed. Underneath
there was a lot of useless junk (Lomax had not been clean): dress slacks with the belt threaded through the loops, a German-to-English dictionary, a single sock filled with kernels of un-popped popcorn. He threw it all in the trash bag. Then he found a photograph of Lomax with a fake mustache, spectacles, and an outfit with red suspenders. For Halloween a few years ago, Lomax had dressed as the ghost of Bascom. The picture was taken after Diane had whitened his face with makeup. Chic remembered that night. He'd walked with his son around the neighborhood, waiting for him on the sidewalk while he knocked on people's front doors. On Nelson Street, a group of kids hiding in the bushes ambushed them with eggs. Chic covered his head and took refuge behind a parked car; Lomax, defiant, stood on the sidewalk and tried to catch the eggs in his trick-or-treat bag.
In the closet, Chic found the crate of Bascom's letters and notebooks. Mixed in with the yellowed papers were mason jars—some with dirt in them, some empty. There was a pocket folder of Lomax's translations. Chic took one out.
April 14, 1855
 
Dear Mother and Father,
 
I've been in New Orleans for 1,427 days. Have I told you about my system for keeping track of the number of days I've been in America? I think I have. Have I? I can't remember. I'll tell you again. Every day I take a kernel of corn and put it in a sock. I just finished counting the kernels. It took me nearly three hours. I kept losing count, but that's fine. I have nothing else to do. I'm bored with New Orleans. I miss Germany. I didn't think I'd miss Germany. I know you told me I'd miss Germany, and I didn't believe you. I argued with you. I will not miss Germany, I said. But in this, my 364th letter, I'm finally ready
to admit that America isn't what I thought it was going to be. I had very high expectations. Last week, a man in the French Quarter sold me a vial of liquid. He told me that if I went home and put the liquid on my tongue I'd be able to make a wish which would come true within three days. Well, it's been a week, and that wish still hasn't come true. I'm not going to tell you what I wished for. Actually, I'm going to tell you because you should know. I wished to come back to Germany. I want things to be the way they were. I want to live at home with you both. I want my old bed back. If I could only come back to Germany, I think everything would be better. I know I said the same thing about coming to America. There is one thing I should tell you, though. I think I've met a girl. And mother, I know what you're thinking. She's a nice girl. I like her. Or I think I like her. I don't really know what it feels like to like someone. I sometimes sit in my room and close my eyes and think very hard about how I'm supposed to feel when I like someone. I have a confession: I actually haven't met this girl. I've seen her almost every day for about a month. Every day at noon she feeds the pigeons in front of St. Louis Cathedral. I go there, and I watch her. I haven't talked to her. I plan to. If I talk to her, I think I'll be happier than I am now. I know, I know. How many times have I said something like this? Too many to count, I presume. I should also mention that I've been doing a fair amount of gardening. I'm growing geraniums in terra-cotta pots. I set them in the south facing windows of my apartment. I've been collecting feces in the French Quarter, animal droppings mostly, to mix with the soil. I think I'm getting very good results. I've been keeping a notebook where I record my observations. I shall copy my observations and send them to you, in detail. Maybe if I lived elsewhere, I'd like America
better than I do. There are many Germans in states north of Louisiana. I'm saving money to go there. That's how people do it here. If you don't like one place, go to another. It will be better when I move north, I think. The great thing about America is that everyone is after the same thing. They are all trying to make a better life. Is it working for me? Is my life better? No. Do I think it will get better? I can hope. I do, however, think that my geranium growing is better here in New Orleans. I think the air is right for it. It's humid and the geraniums seem to like that. That's more than I can say about my attempts at geranium growing in Germany. I just don't think the sun is right in Munich for geranium growing. Or maybe it was the house, the placement of the house, how the sun hit the house. I do not know. I'll continue to think about this. I've just now taken off my shoes. My feet are beginning to hurt. I wouldn't wear the damn things if I wasn't afraid of stepping on something in the French Quarter. I've noticed that the shoes need mending again. I'm constantly mending my shoes. Anyway, I've nothing left to say. I'll write again. I conclude my 364th letter.
 
Love,
Bascom William Waldbeeser
The picture of Lomax dressed like Bascom's ghost was on the floor. Chic picked it up and stared at the fake mustache. He'd glued that mustache to Lomax's lip. Lomax had tilted his head up, and Chic had rubbed Elmer's glue on his upper lip and gently affixed the mustache. As he'd done it, he could feel Lomax's hot breath on his fingers. His son's eyes had been closed, and at that moment, Lomax had been absolutely dependent on him. A lump rose in his throat. From down the hall, Chic heard Dr. Peale on the radio: “Our happiness depends on the habit of mind we cultivate.
So practice happy thinking every day. Cultivate the merry heart, develop the happiness habit, and life will become a continual feast.” Chic stood up. He needed to get out of this room. He needed to get rid of these things.
Lijy & Baby Russ & Chic & Buddy
June 25, 1961
Lijy was sitting on the floor playing a hand-clapping game with Russ when a “hello” floated out of the tin can. She looked at the can dangling next to the door. She wasn't expecting anyone, and Buddy was out floating on the river in a canoe. Another “hello” came from the can; it sounded almost apologetic. She got up and went to the window. Because of the trees, she couldn't see much, but at the gravel pull-in off the highway, she was able to make out someone standing next to a car. She hoped it wasn't Ellis McMillion. The other day, she had been in town and glanced in her rearview mirror, certain that he was following her.
“I see you at the window,” the tin can said. “I have binoculars.”
Lijy recognized that voice and picked up the can. “Chic?”
“Let me in.”
“Are you alone?”
“Of course I'm alone. Who isn't alone? We're always alone.”
She told him where the gate key was hidden. Chic left his car at the pull-in and carried a cardboard box down the gravel road. When he reached the front door, Lijy was waiting for him.
“This is for the baby. It's Bascom's stuff,” he said. “Not the mason jars, though. Those are Lomax's. Were Lomax's.” He held the box out to her, but she didn't make a move to take it. “This is sorta heavy.”
Lijy stepped out of the way, and Chic set the box down on the dining room table. Since Lijy and Russ had moved in, Buddy had done some work on the old CILCO building. He'd erected drywall to room off the open space, creating a living room of
sorts. Out of plywood, he had built a kitchen counter and shelves. Off the back of the building, Buddy had put in French doors that led to a patio area with a view of the Mackinaw River and a path that went down to a makeshift dock.
Lijy reached into the box and picked up a folder containing Lomax's translated letters. Chic looked at Russ, who was playing with Lincoln Logs on an Oriental area rug in front of the sofa. “Diane and I are trying to have another one,” he said wistfully. “Begin again. Return to return. It's not going well. Last night I slept on the couch. Imagine that, will you? My back is killing me.
Killing me
.”
Lijy wasn't paying attention, instead reading one of the letters:
January 12, 1854
 
Dear Mother and Father,
 
This is my 217th letter, and I'm writing to tell you that I want to accomplish something. Anything. If I accomplish something, anything, then I'll feel much better about myself. When I think of myself, I'll think of what I have accomplished. You could probably say that coming to America is an accomplishment, but it's not. I simply rode on a boat, and now, 972 days later, I'm still without accomplishment. Maybe you'd say that these letters are an accomplishment. I disagree. I need to set my sights on a direction. A path. I need something, otherwise I'm just adrift—a young man among many young men . . .
Lijy looked up from the letter when she heard Chic utter Buddy's name. “I saw Buddy a few days ago,” he said. “I ran out of gas on Jackson, by the post office. He pulled up behind me, and I glanced up and saw him in the rearview mirror. I waved to him, but he sped off.”
“He probably didn't see you.”
“We made eye contact.”
“It's going to take time. He's still upset.”
“At that moment, more than anything, I needed a brother and he left me.”
“At night,” Lijy said, “I find Buddy out here talking to himself. He just stares at me with this look like he's there, but not there.”
“He's always been like that. Ever since our father . . . ”
“What happened to your father? I thought he moved to Florida with your mother.”
“Our father froze himself to death behind the barn. Buddy didn't tell you?”
She shook her head—no.
“We were young. Buddy was eleven.”
Now it all made sense to Lijy—the talking to himself, the staring off into space, the time in the parking lot after Lomax's funeral, the sofa cushions stacked up on the chair.
“We all need our diversions,” Chic said. “Diane listens to the radio. And you know what? I think it helps her. People need something, you know.”
“Buddy bought a canoe,” Lijy said, motioning to the French doors, which opened onto a view of the river and a steel bridge in the distance. “Sometimes you can see him. He's just a little speck out there, casting his line into the water.”
“That sounds biblical . . .
casting his line into the water
.”
“I can't believe he didn't tell me about your father.”
“I can't believe he drove off and left me there. That's the thanks I get after I helped him. I know he doesn't know, but think about how that made me feel.”
“Do you ever feel like people are watching you?”
“You mean, from the bushes? Like someone is going to jump out and, I don't know, sucker punch me? Yeah. I do. I mean, I got sucker punched.”
“That people are studying you? Scrutinizing your every move?”
“From the bushes?”
“No, not from the bushes. From everywhere. Like there's an audience. Like we're on stage.”
Chic looked behind him. “There's no one here. Except . . . ” He motioned to Russ, who was gnawing on the end of a Lincoln Log.
“Maybe things don't make sense and that's the point. Maybe they're not meant to make sense. I know you're trying to make sense of what happened to you. Buddy is too. Everyone is trying to make sense of what's happening.”
“Are you talking about me-and-Buddy everyone, or the-whole-world everyone?”
“I'm sorry about the church, about our argument.”
“I didn't really think it was an argument, but thank you for your apology.”
“You look horrible, Chic.”
“I feel horrible. I'm exhausted. I could lie down on that sofa right now.”

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