When You Were Older (9 page)

‘Yeah, Larry told me they were shipping out.’

‘We’re gonna go out tonight, all the guys. Get drunk. See them off. Come with us. You should come.’

I just stood there a minute, looking at him. Not into his eyes. That’s always hard for me. I was looking at the girth of his neck. I was hoping he’d get it on his own. Belatedly. Without my having to say it. Didn’t pan out.

‘You know I don’t drink,’ I said.

‘Ooooooooh,’ he said. It was the ‘oh’ that almost never ended. ‘Riiiiiight. I forgot that whole thing. Shit. Well, come with us anyway, though. Just come with us. Have a pop.’

Pop. Right. Mid-westerners don’t say soda. They say pop.

‘I don’t think I’d do too well around all that. But thanks.’

I turned to go inside.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. I remember.’

I turned back, sighing. I didn’t ask any questions. I
just
waited. Obviously it would spew forth on its own.

‘You always were way up here,’ he said, reaching one hand up high, above his head. ‘And we always were way down here,’ he said, reaching the other hand down low, below his waist.

‘I think you’re remembering wrong.’

‘I’m looking at it. Right now.’

‘I just don’t want to be around all that drinking. You’d feel the same if it’d happened to you. I’m going to go inside and try to get some sleep. And maybe later I’ll go by and see Larry. Does he still live with his folks?’

‘Oh, hell no. He’s married and got kids.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘He’s in the phone book,’ Mark said, simply, turning his back to me.

Then he stomped back across the lawn. Just as I let myself in the front door, I heard the hose start up again.

I took a long, hot bath and got back into my mom’s bed.

Then, just as I was closing my eyes, I saw my cell phone. It was sitting on the bedside table.

I hadn’t carried it with me. I hadn’t turned it on. I hadn’t checked messages.

No, I thought. No. I’m going to sleep.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So I sighed, and turned on the phone, and checked voicemail.

Two new messages. Could have been worse.

The first was from Kerry.

‘I’m not trying to change your mind,’ she said. ‘I get it. I get it, I get it, I get it. But we can still talk, right? I mean … can we? I’m having a bad night, not that they’re not all bad lately, and I know you’re having a bad night wherever you are, you must be, and I just thought we could talk. So, if we can, call me.’ I could hear a break in there, right around the word ‘can’. A little crack, letting emotion through. ‘And if not, well … I get it.’ Click.

The second was from Stan Harbaugh.

‘I’m lost,’ he said. ‘Russell, I’m lost. And I can’t think who to talk to. The people who would know are dead, and the people who aren’t dead don’t know. So I called you … And you’re not there. OK. You’re not there. Call me. If you can. Or I’ll call back. Or maybe it’s OK. I don’t know. I’m sorry I called. No. I’m not. Call me. OK?’

I pressed disconnect. Turned off the power again on the phone.

I would call them. But not now. Later. When I could.

Funny how they both seemed to figure I had some of what they needed. Funny how people think that. Like they’re lost but you must be found. Everybody looks at you and judges you more stable. Because they can’t see inside.

If and when I was vaguely found – or even just a little better rested – I would force myself to call.

In the meantime, I was determined to sleep. And I did.

* * *

Larry lived in one of those old housing projects from the fifties, now turned into cheap duplex apartments. Over on Hardwood Court, on the south side of town. The other side. Right. All the way over on the other side of town. Took me almost four minutes to drive there.

I hadn’t called first. I’m not sure why I hadn’t called first. I’m the kind of guy who usually calls.

I could hear children shrieking as I knocked on the door. More than one. That ear-splitting, discordant child shriek that could be fierce indignation or could be all in good fun. The lines are so blurry at that age.

Larry looked surprised to see me.

‘Rusty,’ he said.

His face looked … now how was I going to finish that sentence? Older, but not literally. Burdened. I wondered if it was just now catching up with him, or if I was just now seeing him in the full light of day.

‘Yeah. Hey, I won’t take up much of your time. I know you’re trying to get ready to go. It’s just … Mark wanted me to go out with you guys tonight, and I can’t. I mean, I’m not going to. But I didn’t want you to think it was because I didn’t care that you’re shipping out. So I thought I’d just come around real quick and say bye.’

‘Come in, Rusty. Come in.’

I stepped into his modest – to put it mildly – living room.

Two boys, about four and three, came barreling into the room, the little one chasing the big one. When they saw me, they stopped dead. A ridiculously pregnant
woman
stepped out of the kitchen, and they hid behind her legs.

‘Trish, this is my old friend Rusty. You remember when I told you about Rusty, right?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, her voice full of hushed awe. As though he’d told her I was an axe murderer, or something.

‘And this is Petey and Jack. Sit down, Rusty. Sit down.’

I did as I was told. The boys ran outside, into the back courtyard, screaming.

Trish came and stood over me. I tried not to look at the horizontal mountain of her belly.

‘Larry told me so much about you,’ she said, still in awe of … something.

‘Sounds like it was all bad.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t say anything bad about you. He just told me you worked in the World Trade Center. So the day it … When it … He said you must be dead. I mean, until the other night, when he picked you up on the road.’

‘Yes and no. I did work there. I’m not dead.’

‘Well, obviously. Oh, God. I’m sorry. Is everything I’ve said so far just the worst, most tactless thing I could have said?’

‘Not at all. I appreciate the concern.’

‘Can I get you guys some coffee? Or a beer?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ I said. ‘I won’t be here that long. I know Larry’s trying to get ready to go.’

‘I’ll just let the old friends talk, then.’

And she waddled away.

I looked at Larry, trying to gather what I’d been wanting to say. It had all seemed so clear before I got there. But now I was there. And nothing was clear.

No words came.

‘You should come tonight,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘I can’t. I don’t drink. Remember? And I don’t do real well when other people are drinking …’

‘Oh, shit. Oh, yeah. Hey, I’m sorry, Rusty. I forgot. I forgot about that whole disaster with your dad. And Ben. Oh, God. Too much heartache for one family. That’s what my mom used to say. And that was before your mom went and died. Well, screw tonight. Who cares? You came to say goodbye. That’s what counts.’

‘I think I got into it a little with Mark. Without meaning to. He thought I was being high and mighty when I said I didn’t want to go.’

‘Yeah, well. Mark is a butt.’

‘Huh,’ I said. ‘Interesting. I always thought that was just me.’

‘Definitely not just you.’

‘So, listen. Larry. This has been on my mind. So I wanted to tell you again I was sorry for what I said. You know. The other night. When you picked me up out on the highway.’

‘No worries, Rusty. No worries. You were tired. You had a lot of crap going on.’

Petey and Jack came back. Ran in through what sounded like a kitchen door, shrieking. I didn’t even
bother
to try to answer. It wouldn’t have been heard.

Larry leaned closer to my chair.

‘Come on outside,’ he shouted. ‘It’ll be quieter. And I can smoke.’

I followed him out on to the front porch, where we sat in two rusty folding lawn chairs. The sky was the color of steel. It was a color I remembered. He lit a Marlboro and drew deeply.

‘I did want to ask you, though,’ he said, ‘but not like I’m trying to bust your chops or anything, it’s just, usually when people are really tired like that, they say what they really mean. They may be sorry they said it, and they maybe wouldn’t have said it at a better time, but they still mean it. So I was wondering. Did you mean it?’

‘Oh, hell, Larry, I don’t know. I guess I just feel like we’re going around in a circle. Everything that happens is in retaliation for something else, and so how is it ever going to end? I just get frustrated. You know? But I didn’t mean to—’

‘Hey. I asked.’

‘Yeah. You did. So … when I’m talking to Mark today … he lets loose with this accusation that I’ve always tried to act like I was above you guys. But it’s not like that. I mean, not as far as I know. I’m being as honest as I can. It’s not an “up here, down there” sort of thing. But we’re different. And I think we all know it. So, listen. I’m going to head out.’

‘You just got here.’

‘You got a lot to do, though. And that’s really all I wanted to say. Oh, no. One more thing. Come home safe. You better. That’s a lot of kids.’

Larry laughed. ‘Yeah, no shit, huh?’

‘And tell Vince and Paul I said come home safe, too.’

‘Will do, pal.’

I got up and ambled off his porch. A couple of steps later, I heard him call me.

‘Rusty.’

I turned, and found myself looking right into the sun. I shielded my eyes as best I could with one hand.

‘You gonna put Ben in a home?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. What’re you gonna do, then?’

‘Not a clue,’ I said. ‘Not the first clue.’

Then I drove away.

I picked Ben up at a quarter after three. Not a moment sooner. Not a moment later.

‘Hey, Buddy,’ he said. ‘You want to know … something?’

‘Sure,’ I said shifting into drive.

‘Don’t go! Don’t go yet. I have to put my seat belt on.’

‘Right. Sorry.’

‘OK, now you can go.’

I turned out of the parking lot and down the street. I felt a tug of apprehension. Staring down the barrel of another night with Ben.

‘What were you going to tell me, Buddy?’

‘Oh. Right. You know that gas station?’

That was a partial thought if I ever heard one.

‘Which one?’

‘The one we always stop at when Mom takes us to the farm store. The one that has two hot dogs for a dollar fifty. Mom calls it the no-name one. But it has a name. I just can’t remember it.’

‘Right. She called it no-name because it’s not one of the big brand names.’

‘Whatever. Can I tell you this?’

‘Sure.’

‘Somebody got shot at. There.’

‘Seriously? Around here?’

‘Well, it’s outside town. But pretty close to around here. Everybody at the store today was talking about it. All day.’

‘Anybody know why?’

‘Yeah. It was his head.’

‘Whose head?’

‘The guy that got shot at. He had that thing wrapped around his head. What’s that thing?’

‘I don’t know, Buddy.’

A brief silence, and then a muffled noise exploded from him. I looked over to see him banging his head against his knees. Hard. Barely missing the dashboard. His seat was back absurdly far, to give him room for his legs, but the top of his head still barely missed the dashboard. If he’d been sitting straighter, he’d have knocked himself out.

‘Hey, hey! Buddy!’ I pulled over to the curb and
shifted
into park. ‘Stop! Stop! What are you doing?’

Amazingly, he stopped. He just sat forward a moment, curled over his own knees, his spine curved in defeat.

‘I worked on this all day,’ he said. ‘So I could tell you.’

‘It’s fine, Buddy. You’re telling me. You’re doing fine. We just need to work out this one thing about the guy’s head.’

‘There’s these people,’ he said, gesturing wildly with his hand. ‘Who wrap a thing around their head.’

‘Like a turban?’

‘Yeah!’ he shouted, bolting upright. ‘That’s what it was! That’s why somebody shot at him.’

I sat still a minute, breathing.

‘That’s a bad reason,’ I said.

‘That’s what most of the people in the store said.’

Most of them? Not all of them? Then again, if everybody agreed it was a bad reason to shoot at a guy, nobody would’ve been shot at.

‘Was he hit?’

‘No. It missed. But it hit the car. And he was gassing up his car. So his car got burned up.’

‘Holy crap.’

‘I worked all day on that. So I could tell you.’

‘You did fine, Buddy. You did great.’

‘What did you do today?’

Oh, let’s see. Scrubbed eggs off a window that wasn’t even mine. Had a small fight with an old acquaintance. Said goodbye to an old friend going off to war. Ducked
two
important phone calls. Took a nap. Fell for a girl.

‘Nothing much, Buddy. Nothing much.’

It was an uneventful night with Ben.

We both went to sleep at eight. Not a moment sooner. Not a moment later.

I needed to sleep, so I built a wall. I closed my eyes and pictured it. It was built tough. Made of bricks and cement.

It was taller than Ben.

On the other side of the wall, I put wars. Arguments. Hurled eggs. Falling buildings. Temper tantrums. Butts named Mark. Desperate phone messages. Dead mothers. Dead friends. Multiple sons of Norville headed off to war. Bullets fired at men in turbans. Burning cars at no-name gas stations.

Brain-damaged brothers.

The only thing I allowed on my side was a girl. She had jet-black hair, and flour on her hands. And I still didn’t know her name.

I WOKE UP
early the next morning. Not earlier than Ben, but early. Before he could amble into my room and tell me I had to drive him to work.

I found him sitting at the breakfast table, eating kids’ cereal in the shapes of cartoon characters I didn’t recognize.

He ate slowly, too. Then again, I guess Ben did everything slowly.

‘I could take you in a little early,’ I said.

‘Why early?’ he asked, his mouth revoltingly full.