Onward Toward What We're Going Toward (46 page)

“Have a cookie,” Buddy said.

Chic picked one up and took a bite. He reached for a napkin. “Jesus,” he said, spitting the cookie into the napkin. “That's the worst cookie I've ever had.”

Buddy picked up one and dipped it in his tea. “No refined white sugar. No bleached flour. I even made the chocolate myself.”

“When I want a cookie, I want a cookie.”

“That's the problem,” Buddy said.

“How is that a problem?”

“It's a problem. Trust me.”

“I don't see how that's a problem.”

“Okay, boys. Enough,” Lijy interrupted. “Chic, we have something to tell you.”

“Me, too.”

“You first,” Buddy said.

“No. Go ahead. You first.”

“No, please, Chic,” Lijy said.

“I just wanted to say,” he looked at both of them, “that I thought you should know. Both of you. You should know . . . ”

“Come out with it. What is it?”

“I'm lonely.”

“Lonely?” Buddy said.

“Well, sure you are,” Lijy said. “You live in that house by yourself.”

“It's that . . . I'm lonely, lonely.”

“Like you need a girlfriend?” Buddy said.

“No. Not that kind of lonely.”

“You should get a dog,” Buddy said.

“I think I've always been lonely. Even when Diane was alive. That's what I'm saying.”

Lijy and Buddy exchanged puzzled glances.

“I've been spending a lot of time with Russ. That helps.”

“That's good. You should do that,” Lijy said. “That's important. You being his . . . you know. Isn't that good, Buddy?”

Buddy didn't say anything. He forced a smile.

“I don't want to be his father or anything. That's not what this is about. I'm happy for both of you. For all of you. The whole family.” He gave Lijy a look, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. “I don't want to get in the middle of anything.”

“I forgive you, Chic,” Buddy said. “I should have said it years ago, but . . . well, I'm saying it now.” Lijy grabbed Buddy's hand. Chic could feel his brother's forgiveness. He had a warm look in his eyes, and his eyes reached out to him. It seemed as if Buddy really had made peace with what had happened—or with what he thought had happened. Chic hadn't. He hadn't made peace with anything, and he didn't understand how his brother could have all this stuff, this warmness, this family, everything, and Chic had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“I think I'm going to move into We Care. Sell the house,” Chic said.

“The nursing home,” Buddy said.

“Assisted living. I've been looking into it.” He was bluffing, but he wanted Lijy and Buddy to feel sorry for him. He wanted them to do something for him. He was desperate. He didn't want to feel the way he was feeling, but he didn't know how to make it stop.

“You're only fifty-five years old,” Lijy said.

“I'm lonely. I told you.”

Lijy exchanged a glance with Buddy.

“So, we have some news for you,” Buddy said.

“We're done talking about me?”

“We can come back to you in a second,” Buddy said. “Tell him, Lijy.”

“We're moving to Arizona.”

Chic didn't say anything. He looked at his brother, then Lijy. “How is this helpful?”

“We're going to join a church,” Buddy said.

“A church?”

“Not really a church, per se,” Lijy said. “More a group of like-minded people.”

“You're joining a cult?”

“No,” Lijy said. “Not a cult.”

“I wrote a book,” Buddy interjected.

“When did you write a book?”

“It's like a cookbook type of thing, and I also included my thoughts on some things, and I sent it to this publishing company in Rock City, Arizona. The publishing company and the people, they're all in Rock City, Arizona.”

“They invited us out there for a visit,” Lijy added.

“We went out and stayed a week. And . . . we decided to move out there.”

“Rock City, Arizona? You're leaving me? It's like Mom. It's like . . . I can't believe you're leaving. What about Erika?”

“She'll come with us.”

“What the hell do either of you know about Arizona? You're from . . . Lijy, where are you from?”

“That doesn't matter,” Buddy interrupted.

“There are rattlesnakes in Arizona.” Chic said. “And cactuses. Have you ever seen a cactus? And not on television.”

“And here's the thing,” Buddy said. “We want you to come with us. So, you don't have to move into We Care. You won't have to be lonely. You'll be with us.”

“Why can't we stay here? What's wrong with Middleville?”

“Middleville has changed. It's twice the size as when we were kids. Witzig's is gone. They're building new houses on the east side of town. There are a bunch of second-rate teenyboppers all over the place. You know this. You've seen it. It's not the Middleville we grew up in. I hear the teenagers talking. I see them.
The boys have long hair. They listen to loud music. I hear it coming from their cars. They're having sex.”

“You should at least think about it, Chic,” Lijy said.

“Rock City, Arizona. That doesn't even sound like a real town. It sounds made up. Are you making this up?”

“You just told us you're lonely.”

“If I was going anywhere, I'd go to Florida.”

“Florida? Like Mom. What the hell is in Florida?”

“I can't believe you're leaving me. My wife just died. You're leaving me, and my wife just died.”

“Just think about it, will you?” Lijy asked.

“I thought about it.” Chic picked up the wadded-up napkin containing the remnants of the cookie he had spit out. “By the way, if this is Arizona . . . this cookie . . . then I don't want it.”

Mary knew Green was pissed after Carol's welcoming party. In his room, she tried to give him a little peck on the cheek, but he pulled the bed covers over his head. So, this was it. This was what she'd gotten herself into. “Come on, Green. Don't be like this. This is temporary. I told you. A few weeks, tops.” Behind her, Green's roommate, whatever his name was, was snoring. In her wildest dreams, she never would have guessed she would be sitting in a nursing home trying to coax her “husband” into talking to her. Just go, the loud voice told her, let him be like this. You don't need this. You've already made up your mind. Just walk out the door.

Mary went out into the hallway. It felt like was four in the morning (it was twenty minutes after nine). The place was so quiet, except for the hum of the vending machines down the hall. It was after lights out, but since it was Green's first night, Carol
had let Mary stay with him until he fell asleep. Chic's room was two doors down the hall. She stood in the hallway listening to the soft buzz of voices from the television in the common room. She wanted to go to Florida, but she didn't want to go, or rather she wanted to go more than she didn't want to go, or actually, she didn't want to go but wanted to go more than she wanted to stay. It was clear, but it wasn't. Nothing was clear. What was clear was that she couldn't stay, not in this town, not in Peoria. She wanted to go. That's what she wanted to do, and the loud voice agreed. You should go, it said. But the whisper voice didn't agree. She couldn't dump Green at a nursing home. People do it all the time, the loud voice said. You can't go, the whisper voice said. She couldn't help herself. She was pulled by some magnetic force, something larger than herself. She'd leave Chic too, someday. That was out there in her future, and she was speeding toward it. She knew, deep down, this wasn't going to work, none of this. She'd had a shot once at making something work, with Lyle, even though everyone who ever met him gave him a look that told her they thought he was an idiot. She saw the way they looked at him. But she ignored it. She loved him. She did. Or, thought she did. Or wanted to. Or, thought she should. And then . . . she opened that door. God, she felt that for a long time, the pain, like a mallet to her heart. She still felt it, actually, if she let herself think about it. Not that she wanted Lyle back. Jesus, no. She hoped he had gotten syphilis and gone mad and jumped off a bridge. But, holy shit, he had marked her, scarred her—whatever the hell you want to call it. Sometimes, at the strangest moments, she flashed back to that day, her keys jingling as she opened the apartment door, Journey's “Don't Stop Believing” on the stereo. When the memory snuck up on her, she had to sit down and choke it back, choke it the hell back. It was so much easier to think about it getting better. That's what she focused on. It was going to get better. It had to get better. It would get better. It was getting better. Chic had come into her life, and she was following the path his appearance had
presented. She couldn't help that Green was going to get hurt as a result. She was only a blip in his life, something for him to see in his rearview mirror, like Lyle was something for her to see in her rearview mirror. She had to do what she was going to do. It was settled. She had to. She could. You can, the loud voice said. And you will. She tried the knob on Chic's door. It was unlocked. She peeked in. A slit of light from the parking lot squeezed through a part in the drapes. The room smelled of Vicks VapoRub. She slipped off her shoes and tiptoed across the tile floor. Chic's bed was the farthest from the door. She set her shoes in front of his nightstand and slid in behind him.

Chic was on his side, his back to the door. She nuzzled into him. “Hello, hello,” she whispered.

He was spooned around the green duffel bag. He opened his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Shhhhh.” She slid her hand down the front of his pajama bottoms.

“My roommate is in the next bed.”

“Close your eyes.”

“I don't want to close my eyes.”

“This is Florida. Right now. We're in Florida.” She blew her hot breath on the back of his neck. “Close your eyes and think about the beach, white sand, palm trees, blue sky.”

He rolled over to face her. “Look, this is important to me. What are we doing? Please. Tell me.”

She stared at him.

“Why'd you move your husband here?”

“I can't just leave him.”

“So, you're choosing me?”

“What if, I was thinking, what if we went west—to Arizona?Your brother is in Arizona.”

“Why does everyone want to go to Arizona?”

“Or Nevada? Or Utah? I'd even go to California.”

“I want to go to Florida. That's the whole point.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, and whisper sang: “Some will win, some will lose. Some were born to sing the blues. It goes on and on and on and on.”

“What is that?”

“It's a song. By this band, Journey.”

“Never heard of them.”

Morris sat up in his bed. “Are you guys almost done yakking? I'm trying to sleep.”

“Sorry Morris,” Chic said.

“And don't think I don't know that you're the new guy's wife.”

“I'm not the new guy's wife,” Mary said.

“Very funny. I saw you come in. Now, please, shut the hell up so I can get some sleep.”

For the first time in over twenty-five years, Lijy told Buddy a lie. After dinner, he and Erika were watching television, and Lijy poked her head into the living room and said she had to run out to Stafford's to pick up some bananas. Outside, it had begun to snow lightly, little salt shakings falling to the ground. She knew she had about thirty minutes before Buddy would start pacing and looking out the window. A few days after Christmas, Russ had told her what Chic had said at Diane's funeral. He was curious. Was Chic really his father? He didn't seem anything like him, and why would Chic say he wasn't his father and then backtrack and try to smooth it over? Come to think of it, Russ had said, Chic hadn't ever come out and said that he was his father. The way Russ had looked at her that afternoon, like he wanted some answers, his eyes searching her eyes, trying to determine if she was lying to him, she had wanted to melt into a puddle and get the hell out of the conversation. She dodged the bullet by
repeating over and over that Chic was his father and telling Russ that he was reading too much into what Chic had said, that he was probably just upset about his wife dying and not thinking straight. That seemed to do the trick. But she was worried. Could she trust Chic? She thought she could, but now . . . Jesus . . . she didn't know, and in a couple of months, she and Buddy were off to Arizona. As soon as they left, was Chic going to spill the goddamn beans? They'd been spending a whole lot of time together. Russ was always going over to his house. It was not his secret to tell—that's what really irked her. It was her mistake, and she was going to tell Russ. She had it all worked out in her head. She'd take him to dinner at some nice restaurant. Maybe she'd make him dinner. Or maybe they'd go for a drive. Anyway, she'd tell him—she hadn't decided on the time or venue and really those details didn't matter—and when she told him, she'd reach out and grab his forearm. This was how she imagined it. It would be spontaneous. She'd grab his forearm, and squeeze it, squeeze it so hard that Russ would look down at her hand and then up to her eyes, then down to her hand again. She'd probably be hurting him she'd be squeezing so hard. When he looked up to her face again, she'd come out with it. She'd start, of course, by telling him she was sorry. “Russ, I'm so sorry . . . ” But anyway, it was her truth to tell, and she wasn't going to let Chic Waldbeeser beat her to it. So she'd spent the better half of the afternoon locked in the bathroom writing Chic a letter, another letter, and the letter was tucked safely in her purse, and her plan was to put it in Chic's mailbox. However, there was a problem. Instead of a mailbox, Chic had a front door mail slot. She noticed this as soon as she got on his porch. She also noticed that the living room lamp was on, and she could hear the television, some sitcom with a laugh track. But she couldn't back out now. She had to get this letter to him, so she rummaged through her purse and got the letter out and ever so quietly, she began to slip the letter into the mail slot. She was careful not to go too quickly. She didn't want the
metal flap to squeak. She kept sliding the letter slowly, slowly. She was breathing heavily, her heart thub-a-dub-dubbing in her chest. She worked the letter about halfway into the mail slot and stopped. That was good enough. He'd find it there. She stood up and quietly turned around, but before she could get down the first stair, the door burst open.