Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (43 page)

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Authors: Ryan Bartelmay

BOOK: Onward Toward What We're Going Toward
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The second item was a sealed envelope with his name written across it. He ripped it open and found a letter inside. He opened the letter, and a photograph fell onto his lap. He ignored the photo, and started reading the letter.
Dear Chic,
 
I want to apologize for the last thirty years. I know I haven't been myself. Or, maybe I've been too much of myself. I'm not sure which. I know you like poems, so maybe I should use a metaphor. I feel like a rusted tea kettle. Actually, that's not a very good metaphor. I feel like a shirt worn backward. You were more the poet than I was, obviously. Anyway, all of this is to say, I'm normal but I'm not normal. Like things are right but not right. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I should have tried harder. Everyone says that, I know, but for me, it's true. When you wanted to have another child, I admit that I didn't really try. I just lay there. You knew I wasn't trying. I saw the way you looked at me. I'm sorry. I know
you thought having another kid would have helped. But maybe it wouldn't have. Maybe it would have made things worse. I didn't want it to get any worse. I couldn't have taken worse. Worse would have been a hurricane during a blizzard. I don't even know if that's possible. If it is possible, it sounds horrible. I didn't want a hurricane blizzard, but maybe I should have risked the hurricane blizzard and everything would have worked out. Maybe that was my problem: I had a chance but didn't take it. Or, wanted to take a chance but couldn't make myself. I know it made you mad that we never took a chance. This, I think, was our major difference. You wanted to take a chance, and I didn't. What a pair we made. Anyway, I went through menopause prematurely, so maybe all of this doesn't matter. Oh well. Because these are my last words to you, I thought you should know that I felt my best the day we arrived home from the hospital with Lomax. What a day that was. Do you remember it? We carried that little baby into our house with these big grins on our faces. I was afraid if we had another baby, I wouldn't feel as good as I felt the first time. That scared me. I also felt pretty good in Florida, that night we made up, the night after I unlocked myself from the bathroom, that night after we went to dinner at that restaurant and ate crab legs. I wanted to have a baby more than anything and I seduced you, and afterward, after you fell asleep, I ate three chocolate bars and hoped and wished I was pregnant. The whole time I was eating those chocolate bars, you were snoring in the bed. I feel like that's a metaphor for our lives. We were both doing our own thing. Maybe that's what happens to everyone—you get so caught up you don't really notice the time passing. I'd go whole months without realizing that time was passing, and then, one day, I'd catch a glimpse of myself in the
mirror or remember something from the past, and then all these emotions erupted and I couldn't do anything but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I cried all the time and hurt so much, and I didn't know what to do. I wanted Dr. Peale to help, but he couldn't. I think I needed something that didn't require effort. I just wanted to feel better. I didn't want to put in any work. I guess maybe I should have taken more chances. I don't know. Maybe this was my destiny, and there you were sitting in the bleachers of that football game and from that point on, it was your destiny too. It doesn't really matter now. I'm dead, and you're reading this letter. Anyway, don't remember me how I was when I died. You probably found a big blob of woman flat on her back. Fat is not healthy, but I couldn't help myself. I liked food so much. It was the only thing that really truly helped me feel better. I hope I died in bed. I hope it wasn't a car accident or, Jesus, worse: I hope I didn't fall down the stairs. I hope it didn't hurt, and I hope I didn't suffer. I hope it wasn't cancer. I hope it was quick and painless. I hope I was sleeping, and you tried to wake me up one morning, and I was gone. Anyway, don't remember me dead. Remember me like the photograph I enclosed in this letter. Again, I'm sorry. And, also, good luck. Keep trying. You have to keep trying. Take chances. Or not. Don't listen to me. I had no idea what I was doing. Just be yourself, I guess. Just keep living is what I'm trying to say. I hope you find what you're looking for. I hope things change for you.
Chic picked up the picture lying in his lap. In it, Diane stood in the kitchen and was lifting her shirt to reveal her swollen, pregnant belly. She was laughing. Chic remembered taking the picture. Diane was about eight months pregnant, and across her stomach he had written in black marker: OUR BABY LIVES HERE!
May 27, 1985
Chic had no idea his wife's death would affect him so much. Until she was gone, he hadn't realized how much he depended on her, and not just for dinner or whatever, but for the little things, like hearing the creak of her footsteps upstairs as he watched television; feeling her weight in the bed next to him; the sound of her setting a knife in the sink after she buttered her Pop-Tarts. All these years, he had thought he was lonely. He wasn't lonely—she was always in the next room, in the kitchen, in the shower, listening to Dr. Peale on the radio. He had never really been alone.
At the Blessed Sacrament Church, Chic crept up to his wife's casket and looked at her dead body. A bouquet of red roses had been laid across her stomach. She wore a pillbox hat with a veil covering her eyes and looked uncomfortable squeezed into a small casket, but her makeup brought out the beauty of her face, a beauty that was still there, despite the years and the weight. He reached in and put his hand on her arm. “Diane,” he whispered. Behind him, the pews were filling up with those who had come to pay their respects. Buddy and his family were sitting in the first row. His brother looked ridiculous in a white dhoti and now, a shaved head. Russ had pretty much healed from his fall, though he still needed to use a single crutch. Holding on to his arm was his girlfriend, Ginger. Erika had her hair in pigtails and wore white socks pulled up to her knees. Lijy had aged. She was not the beautiful woman Chic had lusted after but was now just a woman in her fifties wearing glasses. Chic turned back to his dead wife. He patted her forearm. “I'm sorry this was your destiny.” He faced the congregation. “Now, it's just me. I'm a family of one,” he announced.
“What?” Buddy said out loud. “He has us. And what about Russ?” Lijy nudged him, while Russ smiled sheepishly and put his hand on Ginger's knee.
Chic cleared his throat. “This is all I have to say.” He then read one of his favorite poems, “I Know a Man” by Robert Creeley:
As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,—John, I
 
sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what
 
can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,
 
drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.
After the funeral, everyone went to the Knights of Columbus Hall. While Buddy and Lijy prepared the food in the Hall's kitchen, Chic drank two glasses of red wine in quick succession and then slow danced to Bob Dylan's “You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” with Ginger. It wasn't really a slow dancing kind of song, but they made do. After the song ended, Chic went to the jukebox and played it a second time. Then Buddy brought out the egg salad sandwiches. There weren't enough tables, so most people ate standing up. A couple of people patted Chic on the back and told him how sorry they were. Chic thanked them for coming. He hated the attention, though, and
mostly stood off to the side, watching everyone eat. Watching people eat reminded him of Diane, so after a few minutes, he slipped out the kitchen door to the parking lot, where he found Russ sitting on the tailgate of his truck, his crutch resting next to him. He had loosened his tie and was smoking something that smelled like burning rope. When he inhaled, his eyes became narrow and his chest puffed out like he'd swallowed too much air.
“Hey, man, sorry about your loss,” Russ said. “Truly. She seemed like a first-class woman. What I knew of her. Those pictures of her when she was young. Man . . . ” Russ whistled.
Chic smiled. “Thank you, Russ. That's very kind.”
Russ took another pull off the funny-smelling cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. “Hey, man, I got your card. ‘Reach, reach, way up.' Nice. It's a haiku, right? That's cool that you write those.” Russ took another drag from the cigarette.
“Is that marijuana?”
“Don't tell anyone. My old man will give me an earful. He's so into being one with the moment and all that.”
“Russ, I think I'm depressed. I haven't said that out loud to anyone ever. Not that there's anyone to say it to, but there it is. It's out there. I said it.”
“Your wife just died, man. Your life partner. Depression is what you should be feeling. You're going to be fine. This will pass; it's a rough patch, man.”
“It's a little more . . . I don't know if... it's hard to say. It's hard to admit, actually. I don't think I was a very good husband, I guess is what I'm trying to say.”
“I think you're being too hard on yourself. Hey, man, you ever look at trees?”
“Trees?”
“Yeah, like a tree can't be perfect. It's perfect in here, like, you know, right here.” Russ pointed to his head. “When I see a tree out here, in the world, it's never what's in my head. Like they don't match, man. Like the tree in your head and the tree in
the world. Two different things. And that produces conflict, you know? That's where the depression comes from, the unacceptance of the two trees. Like you know what a tree is, but when you encounter one in the world, it's not the same as your idea of it.”
“Interesting.”
“I'll bet that Diane didn't match the idea you had of a wife, and you probably didn't match the idea she had of a husband.”
“She was a good wife.”
“Did she match the idea you had of a wife in your head? The wife that you wanted to have?”
“When you put it that way . . . ”
“And that's the problem.”
“What's your idea of a father—in your head? Does Buddy match that?”
“I know where you're going with this. They told me. We had the talk. I was a little kid. I get it. You're my father.”
“I'm not your father, Russ.”
“I get it. You're being humble,” Russ said. “You don't want to, you know, creep in on Buddy's territory. It's cool. You're not. I dig it. I'm fine with this arrangement. Seriously. I'm not going to ask anything from you. I don't want to, you know, make some third act connection or anything. You're like, you're biology, and Buddy, man, he's my dad.”
“I'm not biology.”
“I didn't mean to sound harsh. Maybe you're not my dad, if that's what you're saying. If that's the case, then, whoa . . . that's . . . I'm gonna need some time to process. I mean—why would they lie to me? I mean . . . Is that what you're saying? Are you saying you're not my father? Like, are you saying that this is just one big fiction?”
“That's not what I'm saying.”
“Whew. That's cool, man. Because . . . man. That would be twisted.”
“I'm sorry all of this happened like this, Russ.”
“Don't be. People make mistakes. The trick is forgiving them. I forgive you, and forgive my mom.”
“You've got a great dad. Buddy, I mean.”
“I know, man. He's a good guy. He really is.”
“I better get back in there.”
“Good talk, man. I mean Dad. I mean . . . you know what I mean. Thanks for being humble by the way. I totally respect that.”
Chic walked across the parking lot. Before going back inside the hall, he glanced over his shoulder. Russ was lying down in the bed of the truck. Chic couldn't see his face, only the sole of his shoe on one foot and his cast with his exposed toes. He exhaled some smoke into the air, and it looked like he was breathing out his cold breath, like he was behind his own barn, alone and surrounded by snow.
Mary & Green Geneseo

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