Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

The planet lurches beneath my feet. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Wade takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I was kidding myself. I’m not going to be any kid’s stepfather.”

“You broke up with Jen?”

He shrugs, then turns and steps off the curb, walking around to the driver’s side of the Maserati. “I think it’s what’s best for everyone.”

I stare at him, incredulous, as the rage in me builds. “It’s what’s best for you.”

“I know it looks that way.”

“It is that way. You had a good thing going as long as she stayed married to me, as long as you didn’t have to take any responsibility.”

“It wasn’t like that, Judd. I really did love her.”

“And now you don’t.”

“Love isn’t enough.”

“She walked out on her marriage for you.”

He looks at me over the scraped, dented roof of his car. His smile is sad and broken. “I’m a professional bastard, Judd. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” He pushes a button on his key chain and opens the door.

It would be so perfect right now if a passing eighteen-wheeler lost control on the rain-slicked road and just plowed into him, irreversibly embedding his crushed corpse into the steel and leather of his Maserati. They’d have to bury the car with him and justice would be served with poetic flair. But this is real life, and in real life Wade gets to fuck my wife, to fuck my life, bloody my mouth, and then flash me a last rueful grin before speeding away on twelve Italian cylinders. His tires spin briefly on the slick blacktop before catching and hurtling him out into the traffic, just another set of red lights disappearing into the horizon.

If nothing else, I am now completely sober.

I sit down on the retaining wall of a parking lot, my mind racing. Jen has been left. Jen is alone in the world for the first time in her adult life—alone and pregnant and vulnerable and contrite and probably scared out of her mind. I don’t know what it is I’m planning to do, or maybe I do, maybe I know exactly what I’m planning to do. Whichever it is, I like my chances.

MY CAB DRIVER is Mr. Ruffalo, who taught English and driver’s ed when I was in high school, until he fell for one of his students, Lily Tedesco. They would set off every Tuesday in the driver’s ed car, Lily’s hands positioned firmly at ten and two, and then pull over behind the county park, where they would discuss their plans to run away together after she graduated, and where she would crouch down between his legs, balancing herself on the training break to prove her love. They must have been spotted at some point because one day Mrs. Ruffalo showed up outside the school and tried to stab her husband with a steak knife hidden in the pocket of her red velour housecoat. No charges were ever filed, but the school board voted unanimously in favor of termination. Now he’s divorced and driving the graveyard shift, and probably never gets to see the two kids who are now much older than they are in the bent and faded pictures he has taped to the sun visor of his cab. Life is huge, but it can turn on a dime.

“You’re Foxman, right?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I teach you to drive?”

“Yes. I had you for freshman English too.”

“Really?”

“Romeo and Juliet. Silas Marner. The Catcher in the Rye.”

“That’s pretty good.”

“You made us each memorize one of the Canterbury Tales in Middle English.”

He laughs. “I was some kind of asshole, huh? It’s funny what we remember.” He cracks his window to light a cigarette. “You mind?”

The lights of Route 120 turn into a streak of colors in the grimy window of the cab. “Wonderful Tonight” is playing on the radio, and we stop talking to listen in silence. I have to believe it makes Ruffalo feel as sad and lost as it does me. He pulls up to the house just as the song is ending.

“You the ball player?”

“No, that’s my brother, Paul.”

He nods as I hand him a twenty. “That boy had a gift. It was a real shame what happened to him.”

“Thanks.”

“Death from above,” he says ominously. “No one is safe.”

“Tell me about it.” I overtip, although I suspect the extra seven bucks won’t make much of a difference in whatever it is that now passes for Mr. Ruffalo’s life.

DOWN IN THE basement, I wash some of Boner’s foam spray off the mirror to better study my reflection. My bottom lip is split and swollen, my eyes bleary, my cheeks pale and puffy. I look like a corpse pulled from the river a week after the suicide. It’s time for a gut check. I mean that literally. I pull off my shirt, which is caked with just enough blood and vomit to represent a much wilder night than the one I’ve had, and step back to study my torso. The overall effect does not match the image I cling to in my head. My belly is not yet what you’d call a gut, but you can see where the inevitable expansion will happen. I have no real chest to speak of; you’d miss it altogether if it weren’t for the two hairless nipples pressed on like decals. Broader shoulders would create the illusion of fitness, but I am sorely lacking in that department as well. The overall impression is lean but soft, and getting softer. This is the package, ladies. Come and get it.

I lie down on the floor to do some sit-ups and promptly fall asleep.

Iam sitting shiva naked. The cheap vinyl of the shiva chair sticks to my ass like duct tape. Everyone I know is here, milling about, lost in conversation, but at any moment someone is going to notice. I can’t get up to leave, can’t really hide. I am utterly exposed. I turn to Phillip, but it’s not Phillip, it’s my uncle Stan sitting next to me, smacking his lips and farting a mile a minute. I ask him for his blazer. He flashes a toothless grin and tells me he can see my balls. Over the bowed heads of faceless visitors I see Penny, in the back, looking strangely at me, and it makes me feel sad and embarrassed. And then Jen arrives, looking nine months pregnant, full-faced and radiant. I cannot let her see me like this. People greet her warmly, remark on her belly, touch it with casual reverence. She moves across the back of the room and then, just in front of her, I see him. He’s seated in the back row, cradling a baby in the crook of his arm. He looks like he did when I was much younger, large and broad, with thick forearms and a barrel chest. Our eyes meet and he winks at me, then gets up to leave. Wait! Dad! But he can’t hear me. He’s heading to the door, the baby pressed to his shoulder, chewing on the seam of his shirt. I jump up to follow him, my nakedness forgotten, but only once I try to walk do I realize that I’ve only got one leg, and I’m not wearing my prosthesis. I fall down hard, my flesh hitting the oak floor with a resounding slap. Everyone turns to look at me, mouths agape, while through the crowd I see my father’s head descend down the front stairs and disappear.

I wake up in pieces, still calling out for him to wait for me.

Iclimb up onto the roof and find Tracy already there, smoking one of Wendy’s cigarettes. She turns around, surprised, and then offers me a weak smile. “Did I take your spot?”

“It’s fine,” I say, crawling out to sit next to her. “Always room for one more.”

She offers me the pack. I take one and light it with hers. Then we sit there for a little while, staring out over the rooftops.