You Don't Have to Live Like This (27 page)

“She’s running one of her baby yoga classes. It’s okay to take Jimmy, that’s kind of the point, but Michael gets bored. What do you want to eat? I want to eat somewhere you can have a drink.”

We ended up at the Elwood Bar & Grill, by the ballpark. The Tigers were on the road, it was midweek, so the place was pretty empty. A Wurlitzer Music sign, lit up in neon, stood over the bar. There were a bunch of TVs on the wall, showing different games, Cubs-Mets at Wrigley, Rangers-Brewers at Miller Park, but the angle was bad, I couldn’t get a good look.

“My dad used to take me here,” he said, “before it moved. It’s a different crowd now. I don’t like it much but I still come.”

Tony ordered two Bell’s Oberons, which were on tap, and a Cobb salad. I had the tuna melt. When the beer arrived, I said to him, “So what did you want to talk to Robert about? Citizen’s arrests?”

“Partly. I feel like I’m climbing out of a black hole, I’m writing again. People are taking me seriously.”

“Is that what you’re working on? Virtual policing?”

“Not really. You know, I published my memoir at the wrong time, about five years too soon. The
Times
piece had a link to it, and I checked my Amazon ranking this morning. It’s still somewhere in the hundreds of thousands, but yesterday it was in the millions. You can reach people these days, if you want to, if you make the effort. It’s a simple numbers game. How many email addresses do you have? About a thousand? So when a book comes out you write to everybody, asking them to buy it and spread the word. Even if the take-up’s only five percent, that’s still fifty people. And then they send it to another thousand, and so on.”

“I don’t know anything like a thousand people.”

“To email? Come on. Even if my numbers are way off, it still adds up. You just need a critical mass.”

“So what are you working on?”

“Another memoir, about being a father this time. There’s this thing that happens when you become a dad. They should cut off your dick but they don’t. Because that’s basically what happens to the woman. All the sex organs get turned into something else. You know, their vagina turns into the birth canal. Their breasts turn into milk bottles. Cris just lies there in bed leaking and then Jimmy wakes up and comes in with us and sucks at her. And it’s natural and beautiful. But all this time I’m lying there trying to sleep. And you know what happens to a guy. Your dick goes up and down all night long. You get these erections. And kids don’t have a clue, they
jump all over you. So you’re stuck with this thing that is totally inappropriate but you can’t do anything about. And you feel sick about it. Even in the morning, you’re so sleep-deprived, you get these erections coming and going whenever you sit down—that’s how tired you are. What happens in the night keeps happening in the day. It’s like being a teenager. And you feel really weird about it. Dads don’t talk about this kind of thing. Mothers spill their guts to perfect strangers, people they hardly know. But we don’t talk to anybody. And the fact is, while all this is going on, you’re probably not having much sex. Anything that walks by on two legs gets your attention. And you feel sick about that, too, because you just saw what she went through for you, and it’s no picnic. And the whole point of babies, the point of kids, is that they’re sexually innocent. That’s what you love about them. I mean, Jimmy goes right for his pee-pee when you take off his diaper, but it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t hurt anybody. Kids reduce everything to the same kind of pleasure. But for grown men all that’s left is one kind of dirty pleasure, and everything else is responsibility. So right from the beginning fathers have these feelings of guilt, which nobody has time to address. And six months later, or five years later, or twenty years later, the marriage starts paying the price.”

“How’s Cris?” I said.

“She’s fine, we’re doing fine. And Jimmy’s great, he’s starting to sit up, he’s starting to eat solid food. That’s just my first chapter, that’s the premise. I want to talk about the new economy, too. Dads stuck at home with the kids, because they got laid off. Moms working.”

At two o’clock I asked the bartender to switch one of the TV stations over to the local news. Eventually he found what I was looking for—Larry Oh’s press conference.

He sat behind a table in some windowless room, with micro
phones bunched up against his face. You could see the effect of his white genes. His mother was a Catholic-school girl, when there were still Catholic girls’ schools in Detroit. I remembered this much from the newspaper article. Oh had one of those ageless Asian faces, but a little tired-looking, a little crumpled around the eyes and mouth. I had to stand up and walk over to the TV set to hear him.

Dwayne Meacher came out of his coma yesterday morning, around three a.m. He’s weak, but he’s talking, Oh said. The EEG shows no sign of brain damage. In the light of which, they had decided not to press charges against Tyler Waites.

“What about charges against Meacher?” a reporter asked.

“We have no plans of pressing charges against Mr. Meacher.”

“Okay,” I told the bartender. “You can switch it back.”

“Cris is basically fine,” Tony said, when I sat down again. “She identifies totally with the kids, she’s a great mother, I love to watch her with the boys. We used to fight about Michael. How long are you going to nurse him for? If he can spell breast, he’s too old. But Jimmy’s made a lot of that easier.”

“I’m glad you said that. I didn’t always know where to look.”

“I could have told you where to look.”

Tony paid for lunch. Both of us needed to take a leak. On the way out I asked him if he was okay to drive.

“Do you want to drive?”

“I had as much as you.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

There’s nobody on the streets in Detroit anyway. About fifteen minutes later, we pulled up outside the gates of Robert’s house; the workmen had gone. By this point it was maybe three o’clock in the afternoon. The sun had burned the clouds away, but the sky looked hazy, not quite blue. Tony had misjudged the angle, so I got out to tap in the entry code. With the bushes blooming and the grass
recently cut, the air smelled almost tropical.

They must have changed the code. We couldn’t get in and Tony backed up to park in the road.

I kept ringing and ringing the bell by the intercom. “Maybe it’s broken,” Tony said, but eventually Robert himself buzzed us in. Then he opened the door for us and stood in the doorway.

“I don’t know where anyone is,” he said. “Probably the garden.”

So we went through the air-conditioned house, and into the kitchen, and out into the garden again. I was sweating already, just from the contrasts. Peggy lay on a blanket in the grass, trying to read on one elbow, under a hat.

“Where are the kids?” Tony said.

“Fran’s just getting Ethan to sleep. He refuses to nap unless you put him in the stroller.”

“Did Michael go with them?” he asked, and Peggy sat up.

“I think so.”

“Which way do they usually go?”

Peggy had taken off her shirt. She was wearing a swimsuit top, but she put her shirt on again and stood up. “I’ll go with you,” she said, buttoning it.

“You sure he’s not in the house?”

“I don’t know.”

But he wasn’t in the house, and it took us half an hour in the car to track down Fran. Her phone was dead, and she had stopped on Charlevoix at an ice cream parlor that had just opened up. We saw her pushing the stroller out again; Ethan was still asleep. Peggy and I got out. Tony was driving. Peggy said, “Where’s Michael?”

“I thought he was with you.”

“Why would he be with me?”

Fran thought for a minute and said, “The last time I saw him he was watching TV in the kitchen. You were talking on the phone.”

“You’re right, that was me,” she said.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just take him home.”

We got in the car and Peggy told Tony, “It was probably my fault. She doesn’t know where he is. The last time anybody saw him was in the kitchen.”

“He can’t have gone far,” I said.

So we drove back to the house, and Peggy ran in and started calling for Robert. Tony said to me, “I don’t feel well, I shouldn’t have drunk. I need to clear my head. I need some water.” Peggy got the number of the repair guys, but it was a company number, and she had to wait on the phone to get through to a human being. So we looked around the house again; it was a big house. I went into the garden and ran around it once, from back to front, then walked back the other way, already out of breath. My eyes itched, I couldn’t stop rubbing them, but I didn’t find anything except his soccer ball, under a bush.

W
hen I came back in everybody was in the kitchen, Robert and Tony and Fran and Peggy. Mrs. Rodriguez, the cook, was there, too, preparing supper. It was cool in the kitchen, the air tasted nice and artificial, I could breathe again. Fran said into the telephone, “Give me a fucking break. I just want a phone number. We’re looking for a kid.” Apparently the human being was reluctant to give out personal information, and Robert took the phone away and walked out of the room with it. I heard him say, “Nobody’s angry with you, she’s upset.”

I said to Mrs. Rodriguez, “When did you get here?”

“About a half hour ago. I didn’t see the boy. Maybe I left the gate open, I don’t know. Sometimes I park in the driveway to bring something in, but I don’t leave the car there, I park in the road. Today I had a little shopping, so that’s what I did.”

“He was missing already, a half hour ago,” Tony told her. “We went out looking for him. It wasn’t you.”

Robert came in. “She’s going to call back. She doesn’t know their private numbers. The next thing we do is call the police. Peggy, give me your cell. I don’t want to use the house line.”

“I can’t sit here,” Tony said. “I can’t just sit here.”

“Do you want me to just drive around with you?”

“Okay.” He gave me the keys. “You drive. I’ll look.”

We went outside to the car. It was like walking into a bathroom where the shower’s been left on. My hay fever came back, my throat ached, my nose started running. The only thing I had to blow it with was a balled-up sheet of toilet paper. For the rest of the afternoon I had this uncomfortable drip.

Tony kept the windows rolled down. We crawled around the neighborhood. It all looked terrific, the big houses, the old trees, the front gardens, it looked like a million bucks. But we didn’t see anybody to talk to.

“Look,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to him. He went outside and got lost, that’s all. There aren’t even any cars around.” Later I said, “Maybe we should take both cars. That way we can cover more ground.”

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” Tony said. “Okay, all right.”

So we drove back to my place, which wasn’t far. Outside the house I pulled up and left the keys in the car and got out, and Tony got out, to switch sides. Nolan was standing on the porch.

“What do you want?” I said.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Not now.”

“I want to talk to you now,” he said.

“Tell him to fuck off,” Tony said, and got in his car.

My car was parked in the drive, with the driver’s side facing the porch. Nolan had a big blue medical bandage on the side of his neck and face. The whites of his eyes looked bloody, his nose was scratched up.

“Where have you come from, the hospital?”

“I got the kid.”

“What do you mean, you got him?”

“I mean I got him, I took him.”

I called out to Tony, “It’s all right, he found Michael.”

“I didn’t find him, I took him. I got him.”

“Well, where is he?”

“I want to talk to Robert James. I want you to call him for me.”

Tony came out of the car, and it went from there. Eventually I managed to get them in the house—they were shouting at each other on the porch, like a couple of drunks, you could hear them up and down the block. But there was nobody around. I had a hangover coming on, a faint one, starting from the inside of my eye sockets, by the bridge of the nose. I felt thirsty and light-headed, almost dizzy, but Nolan looked excited, too, he didn’t make sense. First I pulled Tony inside and up the stairs and then Nolan followed.

“Let’s just sit down and get something to drink. It’s too hot outside. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

But nobody sat down. “I want to talk to Robert James,” Nolan said.

“Where the fuck is my son?”

“What do you want to talk to him about?”

“He’s got to understand what this is about. We’re not fucking around here. He can buy up our neighborhoods and there’s nothing I can do about it. But this is due process, this is the law.”

“What’s Michael got to do with it?”

“I’m just making him sweat a little. He needs to understand what political pressure is. This is political pressure.”

“You’re not listening. I need to know where he is.”

“He’s fine. He’s not the one you should be worried about here.”

“Tell me where my fucking son is, you fucking—”

“Tony, shut up for a second. Let’s everybody calm down. I just want to understand what’s going on here.”

Afterwards it occurred to me that maybe Nolan thought Mi
chael was Robert’s kid, maybe that’s why he took him, in protest, when he wandered into the street. I don’t know if Nolan ever met Michael. When Clarence came by our house, his grandmother picked him up. But even Nolan must have realized his mistake. At one point, Tony said to me, “This is stupid. Give me your phone. I’m calling the police.”

“The fuck you are,” Nolan said and took the phone away, grabbing it out of my hand—he had big hands. Suddenly it was like this very obvious fact about all of us, which nobody ever mentions, had just been mentioned. He wasn’t just stronger than me but maybe two or three or four times stronger. Tony had left his cell in the car but then Nolan stood up to block the door, and I remember thinking, he’s scared, too, Nolan’s a big guy and Tony is scared. “Haven’t you got a gun, Marny?” he said. “Go get your fucking gun.”

“That’s right, Annie. Get your gun.”

“Go to hell, Nolan.”

“Just get it,” Tony said.

So I went upstairs, which I was glad to do anyway, to get away. I had two guns, the Remington from Walmart, which I kept under the bed, and Mel’s Smith & Wesson, a handgun, standard police issue. That lived in my sock drawer. The shotgun was plainly ridiculous, but then the Smith & Wesson seemed ridiculous, too, and I sat on my bed fighting a strong sense of unreality. I felt like I had to fight the unreality if I was going to get back to some kind of normal state of affairs, because if I didn’t get back to normal, bad things might happen, things outside the human range I was accustomed to, which I had read about but which I had mostly preserved myself from.

The best way I can put this feeling is this. Once, driving through South Carolina with a couple of college friends, on the way back from Spring Break, we struck a rock in the road and popped a tire,
and had to pull across the lanes of traffic to the hard shoulder. It was about one in the morning. The highway wasn’t particularly busy, there were a lot of trucks, but the noise they made was terrific—more than terrific, frightening—as soon as you stepped out of the car. When you’re in the car your own noise drowns much of the traffic sound, but as soon as you stop, as soon as you stand aside to observe it, you hear and feel the violence of the machinery passing by. And bad things can happen to you. Someone might run into you, someone might pull over and rob you. Until you get back in the car, on the road, in the traffic again, you feel helpless, and I sat on the bed until I heard Tony calling out to me so I went downstairs.

They were wrestling and punching each other on the floor, punching but not really hitting. They were both worn out. Nolan was almost on top, on his knees, and Tony lay on his back trying to hit him. “Get this— Get him off me,” Tony said, but I just stood there, watching. Both of these guys were my friends, I didn’t know what to do. Tony kept clawing at Nolan, openhanded, and then he caught him in the face and Nolan’s bandage kind of dragged away. All his human mess, the inside stuff, started leaking out.

“Fuck me,” Tony said. “You’re fucking gross.” He rolled away and pulled himself up by the sofa cushions. Nolan tried to stand up and got as far as his elbows, but Tony started kicking him, in the shoulder area. Not hard, but still, kicking. Nolan kept trying to get up but then he fell back again and hit his head on the floor; it kind of bounced. “What have you done with my kid?” Tony said. “Where is he?”

But Nolan was out cold, and I had to pull Tony off him.

“What were you doing up there?” he said. “Taking a nap?”

“I was trying to work out what to do.”

“Well, you didn’t do shit.”

He picked up the phone, which was lying on the floor, and started dialing. There were faint handprints on his shirt, one of those short-sleeved collared shirts you wear to go bowling, red with a black stripe down one side. It said
Pearson’s Auto Parts
in white italics, and then, underneath,
Mayflower Lanes
and
Summer League 2006
. The color of the shirt hid most of the blood.

“Who are you calling?” I said.

“Who do you think, the cops.” But this took a while—he stood there giving answers. Yes, no, his name, his son’s name. What’s the address, he wanted to know, I don’t know the address. Everything pissed him off. He turned to me, waiting; everything distressed him.

“Tell them to send an ambulance.”

“Send an ambulance,” he said and hung up. “Where does he live?”

“He lives with his mom. The house on the corner.”

“Maybe she’s got Michael. What are you doing?”

“Waiting here till everybody comes.”

Tony took off. He had to step around Nolan, I heard him running down the stairs, and then I heard the front door bang. After a minute the door clicked open again and I heard him calling, “Marny, Marny!”

He was standing at the foot of the stairs, almost in tears. I went down and he said, “Which corner.”

So I showed him. I didn’t mean to go all the way, but he was walking fast and wouldn’t stop. It was about four o’clock, the real baking point of the day. School was out, and we didn’t see anybody. When I pointed out the house, he started running and then I ran after him and caught him on the steps and rang the bell.

Eventually Mrs. Smith waded into the hall. She opened the front door and looked at us through the screen. “I suppose you come to
collect him.”

We both had to catch our breaths, but I said, “Is Michael here?”

“They’re in the garden, playing with the hose. Anything to cool down, it’s one of those days. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” Tony said.

“Would you like some lemonade? We’ve been making lemonade from scratch. It might be a little sour. They used a lot of lemons.”

“I just want to see my son.”

“He’s been fine, he’s been a good boy.”

Tony walked through the house and into the kitchen and out the back, which had a screen door, too, that clappered behind him. Mrs. Smith poured a glass of lemonade into one of those mottled translucent plastic cups, and gave it to me. We could see the garden through the back door. Clarence had the hose in his hand, and pointed it in the air, spraying the water upwards with his thumb. It fell down in a soft arch. Michael waited and then ran through the mist, squealing. Tony tried to pick him up but he wriggled out of his father’s arms. We couldn’t hear what Michael said but Tony put him down and Michael ran through the mist again.

“Those two just found each other, it’s a beautiful thing.”

“I wouldn’t mind a turn.”

“When I was a girl,” Mrs. Smith said, “when I was a teenager, my mother used to run a Bible study group on Wednesday afternoons, and all these old women, it was mostly old women, though I don’t suppose they were any older than me, came by the house and sat on my chairs and my sofa. Because I wasn’t permitted to disturb, my mother kicked me out. Being the youngest, most of the time they sort of gave up with me, I got the run of the house. But not on Wednesday afternoons. And all these old women talked about their grandkids. I got five grandkids, I got seven grandkids, I got three grandkids and another one coming.
They were big on the numbers, it used to make me laugh. They talked about grandkids the way my brothers talked about home runs. But now I know. It’s hard work. You got to make them normal, not too much, you got to make them so they can love somebody, and you got to do it again and again and again. If I had five grandkids I’d count ’em, too.”

Eventually Tony picked up Michael and carried him in, and Clarence came after them, leaving the hose spilling into the grass. “Turn off that water!” Mrs. Smith called out and he went back and turned it off. He got his shoes wet in the spreading water, and Mrs. Smith said, “Take off those wet shoes,” when he came in.

“You sure I can’t get you a glass of lemonade?” she said to Tony. “You can put a little extra sugar in it.”

“We’re all right, we better get going. His mother is waiting for us.”

“Thank you,” I said. She held the door open behind us. Clarence stood beside her in wet socks. There were sock prints and Michael’s wet shoe prints all over the floor. The boys looked at each other but didn’t say anything; there were grown-ups around and they didn’t want to talk.

“Anytime,” Mrs. Smith said. “You can drop him off anytime.”

When we got down to street level, Tony took Michael’s hand and the kid kind of dragged himself along the sidewalk until Tony picked him up. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Put me down,” Michael said. “I want to walk.”

“Well, hold on to my hand.”

“I don’t want to hold your hand.”

“Just tell me what happened and I’ll let you go.”

But Michael scrambled loose and ran ahead. Then he turned around to look at us and ran ahead again.

“I am unbelievably angry with you right now.”

“What did I do?” I said.

“I told you to keep Michael away from that boy. I told you something would happen.”

“I did keep him away, I don’t know what you mean.”

We walked on, it was only about a hundred yards to my house, and at one point Tony kind of laughed, and I said, what, and he said, “I bet that’s one angry bee.”

When we reached his car he opened the door and told Michael to get in. But Michael wouldn’t. “Get in the car!” Tony shouted suddenly.

“You can’t leave me like this,” I said. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“There’s no way I take my kid in that house, with him like that. You got to be kidding me.”

“So leave him in the car.”

“There’s no way I leave him in the car.”

“Just lock the door. If something happens, he can honk the horn.”