The Silver Linings Playbook (31 page)

Just before the ball drops on Dad’s huge flat-screen television, Mom asks me if I want to go outside and bang pots and pans like we used to do when I was a kid. I tell Mom I don’t really want to bang pots and pans, especially since I am tired from spending the day outside in the cold, so from the couch, we watch people celebrating in Times Square.

Two thousand and six becomes 2007.

“It’s going to be a good year for us,” Mom says, and then forces a smile.

I smile back at Mom, not because I think it is going to be a good year, but because my father went to bed an hour ago, Nikki never came back, there’s not even the slightest inclination to suggest that 2007 is going to be a good year for either Mom or me, and yet Mom is still trying to find that silver lining she taught me about so long ago. She is still holding on to hope. “It’s going to be a good year,” I say.

When Mom falls asleep on the couch, I turn off the television and watch her breathe. She still looks pretty, and seeing her resting so peacefully makes me angry at my dad, even though I know he can’t change who he is, but I wish that he would at least try to appreciate Mom more and spend some quality time with her, especially since he doesn’t even have the Eagles to be grumpy about anymore, because the season is already a success regardless of what happens in the play-offs, especially after making it this far without McNabb. And yet I know my father is not likely to change, because I have known him for thirty-five years, and he has always been the same man.

Mom tucks her knees and elbows in close to her body and begins to shiver, so I push myself up, grab my crutches, and crutch my way over to the closet. I pull a blanket from the bottom of the closet, crutch my way over to Mom, and cover her—but she continues
to shiver. Back at the closet, I see a heavier blanket on the top shelf, so I reach up and pull it down. It falls on top of my head just after I hear a little crash. I look down, and by my feet is a videocassette in a white plastic case that has two ringing bells on the cover.

I crutch my way over to my mother and cover her with the heavier blanket.

It is hard to pick up the cassette with my cast preventing me from squatting—I actually have to sit down on the floor to pick it up. After sliding over to the TV, I slip the cassette into the VCR. I look over my shoulder, checking to make sure that Mom is sleeping soundly, and then turn down the volume before I hit
PLAY
.

The video is not completely rewound, and the part that pops up on-screen is the beginning of the reception dinner. Our guests are seated in the banquet room of the Glenmont Country Club, which is near a golf course in a swanky little town just outside Baltimore. The camera is focused on the entrance doorway, but you can see the dance floor and the band too. Using the microphone, the lead singer says, “Let’s introduce the wedding party Philly style,” at which point the horn section of the band begins playing the opening notes of “Gonna Fly Now!” The guitarist and bassist and drummer soon begin playing, and even though it doesn’t sound exactly like Rocky’s theme song, it’s close enough to get the job done.

“Parents of the groom, Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Peoples!”

Our guests clap politely as my mom and dad cross the dance floor arm in arm, and the painful expression on my father’s face suggests that this was one of the worst experiences of his life—being announced at my wedding.

“Parents of the bride, Mr. and Mrs. George Gates.”

Nikki’s parents do a little skipping routine into the banquet hall, making them look sloshed, which they were, and I laugh thinking about how much fun my in-laws were when they drank. I really do miss Nikki’s parents.

“Bridesmaid, Elizabeth Richards, and groomsman, Ronnie Brown.”

Liz and Ronnie come out waving to our guests, as if they are royalty or something, which was strange, and the tactic all but mutes their applause. Ronnie looks young in the video, and I think about how he was not yet a father, how Emily did not even exist when this video was shot.

“Maid of honor, Wendy Rumsford, and best man, Jake Peoples!”

Jake and Wendy walk across the dance floor and directly toward the camera until their faces are life-size on my father’s huge flat-screen television. Wendy just sort of screams like she is at an Eagles game or something, but Jake says, “I love you, brother!” and then kisses the camera lens, leaving a lip-shaped smudge mark. I see the videographer’s hand emerge and quickly wipe the lens with a piece of cloth.

“And now, for the first time ever, allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Pat Peoples!”

Everyone stands and cheers as we walk into the banquet room. Nikki looks so pretty in her wedding dress. She’s holding her head in that cute, shy position, with her chin close to her chest, and seeing her now makes me cry because I miss her so much.

When we move to the dance floor, the band shifts gears, and I hear those sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps, and then
the soprano saxophonist steps forward and “Songbird” takes flight.

Something in my mind begins to melt, and it feels as though I am experiencing an ice-cream headache—or as if someone is churning my brain with an ice pick. I’m not seeing the television screen anymore, I’m seeing the road through a fogged windshield, and it’s raining something fierce. It’s not even four in the afternoon, but it’s as dark as midnight. I’m upset because we have a big game coming up and yet the gym roof is leaking again like a sieve, which has forced me to cancel basketball practice.

All I want to do is take a shower and then watch game tapes.

But when I enter my house, I hear a soprano sax moaning, and it’s strange to hear Kenny G’s smooth jazz coming from my bathroom at a time like this. Mr. G’s notes are swirling all about. I open the bathroom door; I feel the steam lick my skin, and I wonder why Nikki is listening to our wedding song in the shower. Kenny G’s solo has reached a climax once more. The CD player is on the sink, and two piles of clothes rest on the floor, and a pair of men’s glasses are on the sink next to the CD player. Sexy synthesizer chords, faint high-hat taps.

“You fucking whore!” I scream as I rip the shower curtain off the rod, exposing so much awful, soapy flesh.

I’m standing in the tub. My hands are around his throat. I’m between them now, the shower is spraying the back of my coat with hot spokes, weighing down my sweatpants, and he is in the air, begging me with his eyes, pleading for a breath of air. His hands are trying to break my grip, but he is a tiny, weak man. Nikki is screaming; Kenny G is playing; Nikki’s lover is turning purple. He’s so small, I can hold him up against the tiles with one hand. I cock my elbow back, squeeze a tight, teeth-shattering
fist, and take aim. His nose explodes like a packet of ketchup. His eyes are rolling into the back of his head; his hands have fallen away from mine. When I cock back my fist a second time, the music stops playing, and then I’m on my back in the tub and Nikki’s naked lover has fallen out of the tub and naked Nikki is holding the CD player in her trembling hands. When I try to stand, she smashes the CD player over my head once more; my knees give out, and I see the silver faucet rise like some fat, shiny snake to strike the hard spot just above my right eyebrow, and then—

—I wake up in a hospital and immediately begin vomiting all over myself, until nurses arrive and tell me not to move my head. And I’m crying and calling for Nikki, but she does not come to me. My head hurts so badly. When I touch my forehead, I feel some sort of bandage, but then my hands are being forced to my sides. The nurses are screaming and holding me down, and then doctors are restraining me too. I feel a prick in my arm, and …

When I blink, I see my reflection in the blank television screen. The video has ended. I look life-size on my father’s flat screen, and I can see my mother asleep on the couch, just over my right shoulder. As I continue to stare at myself, my little white scar begins to itch, but I do not really want to smash my forehead with my fist.

I find my feet and crutch my way into the kitchen. The address book is still in the cabinet above the stove. I place a call to Jake’s apartment. As the phone rings, I look at the microwave and see that it is 2:54 a.m., but I remember that Jake is at a swanky hotel
party and won’t be home until tomorrow, so I decide to leave a message.

Hello, you’ve reached Jake and Caitlin’s machine. Please leave a message after the beep. Beep.

“Jake, it’s your brother, Pat. I need a huge favor …”

Pat
,

It’s been a while, hopefully long enough.

If you haven’t ripped up this letter already, please read until the end. As you have discovered, I am a much better writer than I am a speaker at this point in my life.

Everybody hates me.

Did you know your brother came to my house and threatened to kill me if I made contact with you? His sincerity scared me—enough to keep me from writing earlier. Even my parents have reproached me for pretending to be Nikki. My therapist says my betrayal might not be forgivable, and by the way she kept repeating the word “unforgivable,” I could tell she was very disappointed in me. But the truth is, I did it for your benefit. Yes, I was hoping that once you found closure and got over Nikki, you would want to give me a shot—especially since we are such great dance partners, we both enjoy running, we are in similar housing situations, and let’s face it, we’re both fighting hard to maintain our grip on reality. We
have a lot in common, Pat. I still believe you fell into my life for a reason.

Because I love you, I want to tell you something I have never told anyone—except my therapist. It’s sort of screwed up, so I hope you will be able to handle it. At first I wasn’t going to tell you, but I figured the situation couldn’t get any worse, and maybe a little honesty could go a long way right now.

I don’t know if you know this, but Tommy was a cop. He worked for the Meadowville Police Department and was assigned to the high school sort of as a counselor. So half of his hours were spent working with and counseling troubled teenagers, and the other half of his hours he was just a regular cop. I’m telling you this because it is important to understand that Tommy was a good man. He did not deserve to die, and his death absolutely proves that life is random and fucked-up and arbitrary, until you find someone who can make sense of it all for you—if only temporarily.

Anyway, Tommy was really good with teenagers, and he even started a club at the high school designed to raise awareness about the dangers of drinking and driving. Many of the parents thought the club condoned underage drinking, because it was not an anti-underage-drinking club but just an anti-drinking-and-driving club, so Tommy had to fight really hard to keep it afloat. Tommy told me that a lot of the high school kids drank every weekend, and underage drinking was even condoned by many of the town’s parents. And the funniest thing to me was that the kids came to him and asked him to start the club because they were worried that someone was going to get hurt or die if their friends kept driving home after parties. Can you imagine talking to a cop like that when you were a teenager? That’s the kind of guy Tommy was, people trusted him instantly.

So Tommy organized assemblies and even put together this
teacher karaoke night where students could pay money to hear their favorite teachers perform the current hits. Tommy could talk people into doing things like that. I’d go to these events, and Tommy would be up on the stage with all those teenagers, and he’d be singing and dancing with the other teachers, all of whom he had convinced to dress up in wild costumes—and parents, students, administrators would be all smiles. You couldn’t help it, because Tommy was such a burst of positive energy. And he always gave speeches during these events—listing facts and statistics about drinking and driving. People listened to Tommy. People loved him. I loved him so fucking much, Pat.

A funny thing about Tommy was he liked to have sex a lot. He always wanted to make love. I mean, as soon as he got home from work, his hands were all over me. I’d wake up every morning and he’d be on top of me. We could hardly eat a meal together without his hands sliding under the table, searching for my legs. And if Tommy was home, there was no way I’d ever get through a television show, because as soon as a commercial came on, he’d be rock hard and giving me that look. It was pretty wild, and I loved it for the first ten years of our marriage. But after ten years of nonstop sex, I got a little tired of it. I mean—life is more than sex, right? So one bright sunny morning, after we had just finished making love under the kitchen table, the teakettle whistled, so I stood and poured two cups.

“I’m thinking maybe we should limit sex to so many times a week,” I said.

I’ll never forget the look on his face. He looked as if I had shot him in the stomach.

“Is something wrong?” he said. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No. It’s not like that at all.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Is it normal to have sex several times a day?”