Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

I hate the telephone.

“I wish they were here, too.”

He exhales again — I didn’t think he had any more breath in him. “Do you love those guys, too?”

“Oh yes, of course. Megalodon must have been so big.”

“Oh yes — he was so big!”

“You’re so big, too.”

“Oh yes, and I’m a good swimmer, too.” He chuckles. I can see him, ready to jump again.

“Okay, kid, I’ll see you soon.”

“X!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

“I love you, X.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Bye.”

“Bye-eye, Daddy.” He hands the phone to Edith and goes thumping away.

“Hello?” she’s ready to hang up.

“Hi. Where’s everyone else?”

“Well, I sent Cecil to the beach with the Crumwells and their boys — they’re nice boys. And Edith, little Edy, is taking a nap.”

“The Crumwells?”

“Yes. You know them.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re having fun, I’m sure.”

“I thought you were away.”

“Well, I was supposed to be, but I’m not.”

“When are they bringing him back?”

“We’re meeting them for supper at the farm.”

“Really?”

She ignores that. “Now, I’m supposed to get information from you — your arrival.” For a moment I don’t know what she’s talking about. She takes the opportunity to be condescending with me, too. “Tomorrow night, are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

I lie. “Nine.”

“Nine p.m. sharp?”

“Nine. .” I pretend to consult a schedule. “Nine-fourteen.”

“Oh, nine-fourteen. That doesn’t fit well with bedtime. Is there another?”

“No.”

“No more trains?”

“It’s a bus.”

“Oh.”

“Providence. Smithfield Road. Nine-fourteen.”

“Well, we can arrange something with the kids. . perhaps. . Nick Weed’s son is coming for the weekend from Brown. . Perhaps. .”

“Claire can come. She can bring the kids.”

“It’s late for them.”

“They can sleep in the car.”

“Well, fine then,” she breathes coldly. “Nine-fourteen. Friday. The bus. Someone will be there.” She hangs up before I can counter.

Ben is back in front of the shop, cleaning the door with Windex and paper towels. I almost call out to him from across the street as if he’s an old friend, but I stop myself and watch him work while I wait for the light to change.

Someone else is watching him, too, waiting at the bus stop leaning against the M15 sign. He’s older, stout, light-skinned. He’s so focused on Ben that he doesn’t see another man, perhaps in his twenties, sneak up behind Ben and grab him. Ben doesn’t seem surprised. He turns to face this new man, drops the towels and the sprayer, presses his palms firmly on his cheeks and kisses him lightly on the lips. The two of them laugh and then take each other by the hips and turn in profile to me. This new man is handsome in a romance-novel-cover sort of way — rugged, olive complexioned, short, straight dark hair. Ben mutters something, but his friend doesn’t seem to notice. He’s focused on the man waiting for the bus who stares at them, his face contorted in an ugly pucker. He coughs up phlegm, loud enough for me to hear, and spits into the gutter. Ben turns, finds the man, and stares back, never moving his hands from his companion’s hips. And for a moment it looks as though he may say something. He doesn’t. Still staring, he pulls the man to him — belly to belly and kisses him again, defiantly this time. The traffic stops, allowing the kiss to continue uninterrupted. And then the M15 runs the light. Someone honks. The bus blocks the scene. When it pulls away, only Ben is left. He sees me. I can tell he’s scrambling in his head for damage control — to explain. I want to tell him it’s okay. I fumble for a sign. All I can offer is a short wave. He waves back, bends quickly to gather his things, and hustles to get inside before I reach him.

Inside there’s a cold grilled cheese waiting for me, cold coffee, too, but Ben and Joy are gone. I sit down and look at the limp sandwich. The bread looks to have gone soft again and the cheese, hard — condensed vapor on the plate. No more Marley, just some strange, computerized dub playing.

I want to pay and go, wander downtown until it’s time to go to the other job— the other job. I kind of shudder when I think about it, about her. At first I think I shouldn’t, but then I sit down, lean into the cushion, and dare myself to re-create her — that little faux-English accent, the various hues in hair loops, and those strange brown eyes that didn’t seem to belong to her. In my head, she’s still not whole, only parts, long limbs, a little chuckle I imagine she has. Feeney’s pug nose invades the frame for a moment. I wonder if I broke it.

Joy materializes beside the table and slips the check onto it. I look up at her, and she frowns.

“You didn’t even try it,” she squeaks.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just got back.”

“Well, it’s ruined.” She slowly reaches for the plate, but I stop her attempt by softly pinning her hand against the table. It feels like the sandwich would. She pulls it away with a discreet revulsion, as if it was my touch that made her hand go clammy.

I hide my hand in my lap. “I’m going to start on it right now. I promise.” I try to deliver it with gentle conviction, to her eyes, but she’s looking out to the gray day, the passersby. Perhaps to the end of her shift — home — where she can hold her pained lip in any way she wants.

She leaves me without speaking and I look at the bill — two cups of coffee, a scone, and a cold old sandwich — sixteen dollars. I take out my fold and leave a twenty — then twenty-one. What the fuck is Claire doing in Boston? The question, along with the grilled cheese sitting in its sweat, twists my stomach. Then it straightens out again and I wonder why it did so quickly. I feel the pulse of my whole body — my hands atop my thighs, my legs against the seat, my back against the rest. I fight back a yawn, finish the coffee, and wait for my stomach to twist again. Nothing happens — just another yawn.

I wonder if this is what it feels like, falling out of love: feeling yourself fading out of existence — the gray sky, the coffee shop limbo — everything a way station of sorts. Making promises you know you can’t keep. Making promises — period. People in love shouldn’t have to vow or demand, petition or exhort. Nothing. Not even question. No collisions with your surroundings or yourself — you move gently, unknowing, in time. Wondering if you ever were in love: false compassion; skinny girls with bad teeth; tall men and long kisses in diesel residue; kisses as political acts, which makes me wonder if there really is love. I wonder where Ben has gone and want to apologize to him for what happened outside, then for all the times I’ve said nancyboy without thinking. Why wouldn’t anyone want another to love the one they fall in love with?

Can you even fall out of love? I remember mocking those who claimed they had. I certainly remember not wanting to love Claire — that little crooked laugh from that long crooked mouth — how it made me feel that I could make that face go rosy, make her forget her loneliness, the loss of her own specific garden; everything good now, flashing back to then. I’d been proud, so proud not to have been bullied or guilted out of it — the stares and snickers, the pure stupidity of people involving themselves in your own affairs, them knowing what’s best. And it burns more, the understanding that I may have been wrong. Wrong to take that stand, mistaking her for the eternal face of the eternal heart I believed was beating somewhere. It burns me, but then it goes, the heat like waves of sleep. Then there’s nothing.