David Gates - Preston Falls

He goes downstairs and polishes off the last of the Dewar's, which numbs him enough that he can nod out over "The VaUey of Fear." Waking up in full daylight, he dials 0 and asks if this is Saturday A reproachful second goes by before the operator says, "This is Friday, sir."

He starts coffee.

PRESTON FALLS

It turns so cold Friday night he gets the woodstove going; the first time since spring. Since he still hasn't finished stacking that wood, it's still blocking the back door into the kitchen and he has to wheel a supply all the way around in the wheelbarrow. But it comforts him: the old ritual of kindling and feeding fire, the primalness of wood heat. Which is bullshit, because heat's heat, a matter of molecules moving. He gets sleepy around ten, climbs the cold stairs and huddles under the cold covers in all his clothes, knees as close to his chest as his gut allows.

At daybreak he gets up to piss, looks out the kitchen window and sees frost has whitened the grass. Quick, back to bed.

When he's finally up for real — early afternoon, is it? — he makes coffee and starts in on Pilgrim's Progress, which turns out to be better than he remembers. Sometimes they would chide — Christian's wife and children, this is— and sometimes they would quite neglect him. Wherefore he hegan to retire himself to his chamber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery. But when he gets through the Slough of Despond part, which he'd forgotten was so early on, and into the shit with Worldly Wiseman, he starts thinking he should probably break out a guitar and see if he can get his fingers working for tonight..He's still trying to motivate himself when the phone rings.

Jean.

"Hey. Hi. Sorry I didn't get back to you," he says. Coffee has kicked in. "Everything okay down there?"

"As well as can be expected," she says.

"Oh, listen, I wanted to ask you. How did you make out?"

"With what?"

"Talking to Roger. About the kid.'' What is the problem with this woman?

"I don't know. I guess he's figured out that if you get caught hitting people, you get punished."

"Hmm," says Willis.

"The reason I called," she says, "I guess I'm just wondering what your plan is."

"My plan?"

"After your leave."

"I don't know what you mean. After my leave, I guess my leave is over. Why?"

"Oh God," she says. He hears her let out a big breath. "I just can't believe we've gotten to this place."

I S 5

"Are the kids there?" he says. I.e., hearing every word?

"They're with Carol. She took them in to the Museum of Natural History."

"So Carol got there?" he says.

Silence.

"Well, that's good at least." Silence. "That was nice of Carol." Silence. "I mean, to take them to the museum." Silence. "Listen, tell her I said hello. If that's appropriate." Jesus, he's got ants in here. Look at that scuttling little son of a bitch.

"You didn't answer my question," she says.

"Your question."

"About your plans," she says.

"I thought I had. Unless you know something I don't know."

"Meaning what?" she says.

"Well, Roger — for example — seems to have the idea that we're getting a divorce. Were you aware of that?"

"Crap," she says. "I am going to kill Melanie."

"So what exactly was it you said to her?"

"She asked what was going on, and I tried to answer her as best I could. Since J have no idea what's going on either. I did not tell her we're getting a divorce."

"Uh-huh. So you said what?"

"I just more or less told her, yes, this was a difficult time. And I did try to prepare her that this could be one of the possibilities — which it obviously is."

"Oh, great," he says. "So no wonder they're freaking out. That's practically an announcement."

"Well, then, I wish you'd been there to set us straight. I'm sure I'm stupid, but I fail to see why mentioning something as a possibility is an announcement. But of course you're the master of words."

Unbelievable. But he'll ignore the personal shit. "Apparently," he says, "what got communicated was that they better brace themselves. So it might be a good idea to get our stories straight."

"Our stories?"

"All I'm saying is, Roger has somehow gotten the idea that this is a certainty. Which it's very far from being. At least in my opinion."

"So that's our story?" she says. "That nothing's a certainty? I have to tell you, it doesn't exactly fill me with hope. Whatever I would even hope for at this point."

PRESTON FALLS

"Meaning what?" he says.

"Meaning I sometimes think there*s something to be said for not having quite this daily level of unhappiness."

"That's quite a statement." He sits down on the floor, his back against the wall. This is clearly going to be a long one.

"J think so," she says. "But I'm also not — I don't know — ready to say that I don't, you know, have any hope." Then she says, "Sorry, I guess that was an outburst. Am I embarrassing myself?"

He says nothing.

"Okay," she says. "Look, you want your break, you can have your break. I promise nobody will bother you from here on out. You've conditioned the kids not to expect to hear from you. And I don't want to hear from you. So I guess I'll just see you at the end of October. Maybe we'll end up taking the same train some morning."

And she hangs up. Dial tone.

He gets up and slams down the phone. Shit. For this not to fuck up the whole rest of the day is going to take some management. Which doesn't mean you try to push it away, no no-no-no. No, what you do, you bring it briefly up into the light: the way you propose a problem to yourself at bedtime, go to sleep and wake up with the solution, supposedly.

So he tells himself, experimentally. You used to love this woman.

Okay, so?

He turns it around: This woman used to be loved.

And then he begins to weep: big glottal sobs he knows will turn to retching if he doesn't stop. He has to feel his way to the kitchen table and sit down, hugging his shoulders and rocking, teeth bared and clenched as if he were doing his Louis Armstrong imitation. It doesn't escape him how weird this is: that he could work up a few sobs only by imagining her feeling bereft. If this is narcissism — and what the fuck else could it be? — it's got a kink or two.

When he's done, he goes into the bathroom, splashes his face with cold water, dries off and checks in the mirror to see how red the whites of his eyes got. Pretty satisfactory. Sons of bitches feel like they're swollen. He takes three Advils to preempt a headache. So what now? Haul out the Unnamable and try to condole his misery?

No: no heart for it. So back to the couch and Pilgrim's Progress, until he hits the thing with the guy in the iron cage who's hardened his heart and can't repent. He looks out the window. A nice day, looks like. But

I 5 7

the trees really are starting to go. Not just a few reds among the green, a whole bunch of fucking reds.

He puts his boots on and goes into the kitchen. After dumping the dregs of flat seltzer out of a plastic bottle, he pours in milk, then cold coffee, then Kahlua from the bottle Carol sent them as a housewarming gift five years ago. Which he's lately been working on when there's nothing else in the house. He takes the seltzer bottle, the comforter and Sherlock Holmes, and he's out the door.

He tries to climb the hill slowly, so as not to depress himself with heaving gut and pounding heart. But he still has to stop and take deep breaths. This is absolutely how he's going to die. When he reaches the top, he spreads out the comforter, sits down, flabby legs crossed, and looks across at the other hills. He imagines soaring off above the green and red and yellow treetops and into the everlasting blue. Then he looks down at the house, as you might look down upon your own body at the moment of separation. Down there, under the roof slates, he imagines Doug Willis stretched out on the dog-smelling couch.