David Wallace - Broom of the System

“I think I’d better be the judge of that,” Slotnik said.

Evelyn worked at closing the collar of her robe over her throat. She sniffed out at the lawn. “What happened was Steve and Scott and I were going out to the car. This was a long time ago, Scott was tiny, Steve was ten, I think. I think I was taking Steve somewhere, for something. The car was in the driveway, and Mr. Costigan was in his lawn on the other side of the drive. He’d been getting dandelions out of his lawn, I remember. He had a little wheelbarrow full of dandelions. Anyway, he was there.” Evelyn took a deep breath, and her robe fell back open. “And we stopped, and I said hello, and we made some small talk. He was saying how hard it was to get the whole dandelions out, roots and all, how stubborn they were. I don’t remember what else. And what he did…” Evelyn’s eyes narrowed; she squinted at a memory. “What happened was that in the middle of the talking, for no reason, he just reached out a finger, very slowly, and touched Steve. With just one finger. He touched the front of Steve’s shirt. On his chest. Very carefully.”

“What do you mean, carefully? He touched our child carefully?” Slotnik looked down at Evelyn.

“It was like…” Evelyn looked at Fieldbinder. “It was like, sometimes when you’re standing in front of a clean window, a very clean window, looking out, and the window is so clean it looks like it’s not there. You know? And to make sure it’s there, even though you know it’s there, really, you’ll reach out and just… touch the window, ever so slightly. Just barely touch it. That’s what it was like. And Steve didn’t do anything, I don’t think he even noticed. I think he thought Mr. Costigan was just getting something off his shirt. But he wasn‘t, I know. It was strange, but it was so… tiny. I forgot all about it. I don’t think I ever even put it in words to myself.” She looked at Fieldbinder. “That was the.only thing, just that one time, and it was so long ago.”

“I see,” said Fieldbinder.

The Slotniks didn’t say anything.

“So you can maybe understand why I thought it was worth barging,” Fieldbinder said. “I just thought you ought to know, at some point, and I figured now was as… well, better than some point.” He made a small smile.

“Good of you,” Slotnik said quietly.

“Listen,” Fieldbinder said, “if you care to hear my advice, from having been next door, I think all you need to do is have a talk with Steve. Not to make a big fuss about anything, but simply to make sure nothing has ever happened, that might have upset him.” He looked at Evelyn. “Which I’m sure hasn’t. It just doesn’t sound like that sort of thing. But of course naturally you’ll want to just… talk to him.”

“I’ll go wake him up right now,” Slotnik said. He rose. Fieldbinder and Evelyn rose. Fieldbinder picked up his raincoat and unfolded it, smoothing the wrinkles out.

“Probably a good idea, Don,” he said. “Probably a good idea just to have a little talk. I personally think that’s all you need to do. And Don, if you want to come over and have a look at… everything, I should be next door for about another hour.”

“Not a chance in this world,” Slotnik said. “We’d appreciate it if you’d have your crew just dispose of it. I don’t want to see any of it.” He attacked his cowlick. “If he’s laid one hand on that child, I’ll kill him.”

A moment passed.

“Anyhow,” Fieldbinder said, “I’m off. I hope I did the right thing, coming over. And I’m sorry if this upset you. I just thought you ought to know the story.”

“Monroe,” Slotnik said, “you’re a good friend. We appreciate it. You did the right thing. We appreciate it more than we can say.” He extended a sticky hand, which Fieldbinder shook, smelling syrup. Slotnik whirled on his slippers and headed for the stairs.

Evelyn showed Fieldbinder to the door. She didn’t say anything.

At the door Fieldbinder turned to her. “Listen,” he said. He looked up the staircase. “I’ll understand if this isn’t the right time.” He smiled warmly. “But I’d like to see you, and I’ll just tell you that I’ll actually be next door all day. I’ve got to get it all finished today, I’m so behind. But all day, is the thing. Although the crew’s coming at three. So I’m just telling you. Do what you want, of course. But if you get a chance, feel like it, while they’re at baseball…”

Evelyn didn’t say anything. She had opened the front door for Fieldbinder. She was seeing something past him, in the lawn. Fieldbinder turned to look.

“Well there’s Scott!” he said. “Hello, Scott! Remember me?”

Scott Slotnik was bouncing a tennis ball on the bricks of the front walk, out by the street. The ball made a dull sound as it bounced off the lawn clippings that lay on the walk. At Fieldbinder’s call, Scott looked up.

There was a silence, except for the chatter of a hedge trimmer across the street. Evelyn stared at Scott, past Scott. Then she seemed to give a start. “Scott!” she called sharply. “Please come in here right now!”

Fieldbinder turned back to look at Evelyn. He smiled and put a soft hand on the arm of her robe. “Hey,” he said gently. “Come on.”

Evelyn looked at Fieldbinder’s hand, there on her arm, for a moment. Scott had begun coming toward the door. She looked back out at him. “It’s all right, sweetie,” she called. She made a smile. “Stay and play, if you want.”

Scott looked at Fieldbinder and his mother and then at the ball in his hand.

“Anyhow, the point is just know I’m here, is all; I’m there, all day, till three,” Fieldbinder was saying.

“Yes,” Evelyn said. She went back in from the door, leaving it open.

Fieldbinder moved down the rough brick walk toward Scott Slotnik.

Through the living room window, Evelyn watched Fieldbinder stop and smile and kneel down to say a few words to Scott Slotnik. Something he said made Scott smile shyly and nod. Fieldbinder laughed. Evelyn tried to smooth her morning hair back over her ears. Her sticky thumbs pulled at her hair.

/a/

9 September

A dream so completely frightening, disorienting, and ominous that Fieldbinder awoke streaming.

“Dr. J __ is in significant personal danger, ” he thought wryly,

Lang and I are in my office, in our respective chairs, the translation between us. We are both mysteriously and troublingly nude. It is noon; the shadow is moving. I look down and cover myself with a tea bag, but there is Lang in all his horror. Lang is drawing a picture of Lenore on the back of the final page of “Love.” It is a stunning, lifelike drawing of an unclothed Lenore. I begin to have an erection behind my tea bag. Lang’s pen is in the shape of a beer bottle; Lang sucks at the pen, periodically. Lenore is there on the page, on her back, a Vargas girl, a V. Lang puts his initials in the side of Lenore’s long, curving leg: a deep, wicked W.D.L.

As the initials go down, hands and hair begin to protrude from the page; breasts swell, a tummy heaves, knees rise and part, feet stroke demurely at the edges of the page. Lang works his pen. Lenore emerges from the page and circles the room.

Fingernails click on the window. Outside the window is a young Mindy Metalman, very young, perhaps thirteen, with bright lipstick on her tiny bruised mouth. She holds hedge trimmers, points at the tea bag. I am sucked back into the shadow as it spreads like ink across the white wall. When I look away from the window, Lenore is kneeling, with the beer-bottle pen, signing Lang’s rear end, signing her name with long slow curves, in violet ink, while her other hand finds what purchase it can on Lang’s heroic front.