We All Fall Down, page 15
But on the fourth day, depression set in. The blues. A rotten test in English Lit. simply because he hadn’t read the chapter. Came face-to-face with Harry Flowers on three occasions and Harry’s face had been like a stone wall, unreadable, cold. Diarrhea this morning, upset stomach. Jane had remained at school this afternoon, trying out for the chorus. Rain slanted against the window. A perfect setup, he thought, for the booze but I’m not buying. Despite the blues, the down feeling, the grayness of things. He wandered into his parents’ bedroom. Saw the unmade bed. An unmade bed would have been impossible when his father was still here in the house. The sadness of the tousled blankets, the pillow rumpled and punched in, brought tears to his eyes. His mother did not seem to care anymore. She had not mentioned going on retreat again and he had neglected to ask her if she had changed her mind. He should take more interest in his mother, Addy, and what was happening in all their lives. More reasons for the blues.
He wandered into the garage strictly out of curiosity, to see if the bottle was still there, knowing that he could not always trust his memory these days. He certainly would not take a drink from the bottle, not at this stage of events. Whistling softly, he reached under the usual pile of debris and found the bottle in its brown paper bag. Took it out and looked at it. Still sealed. Think of Jane. And one day at a time. He slipped the bottle back into the bag and returned it to the hiding place. Then stood there, feeling sad. More than sad. Down, depressed, the pits. Indecisive.
The telephone rang, far away, in the house. Let it ring. He thought of that bottle in the bag, so close. What if he only took a sip or two, enough to soothe the edges, smooth out the rough spots? The ringing continued. First, answer the phone. Then we’ll see.
He went into the house, fearful now that he wouldn’t reach the phone in time, that whoever was on the other end of the line would hang up before he reached it. But it still rang. When he picked up the receiver, he was astonished to hear his father’s voice:
“Buddy, how are you?”
Without waiting for an answer, his father went on: “I’m calling to see if we might get together.”
All thoughts of the bottle in the garage vanished as Buddy heard himself saying; “Great, Dad. Any time you say. Morning, noon, or night.”
One minute not there.
The next minute there.
That was the way she reached consciousness the second time. She did not know precisely how or when, knew only that she was suddenly present and alive on the planet earth, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling had a crack in it that was strangely familiar. She directed her attention away from the ceiling to the rest of the room and knew instantly she was in a hospital, and that she had been here for a long time. She did not knew how she knew but was certain of her knowledge, as if she had absorbed it into her system the way she absorbed the liquid seeping into her arm from the bottle suspended above her at the side of the bed. She listened to the small beeping sound and the hum of a nearby machine and closed her eyes, content to lie dreamily, hazily in the bed.
Sounds leaped in her ears, magnified, as if her ears were actually speakers in some gigantic stereo system. Footsteps padded by, a door closed, then a muffled cry, all the sounds sweet, as if she had been deaf a long time and could suddenly hear. A small scratching sound—she listened intently, trying to drown out the other noises. More than a scratching sound, a kind of whistle—of course, a bird, a robin outside her window, louder than a robin, a blue jay, possibly.
Footsteps joined the small screeching of the blue jay and she looked toward the door as a nurse entered the room. Jolly face, apple cheeks, glasses perched on her nose, and a smile of happy surprise when she saw Karen awake.
Hello, Karen wanted to say. I’m Karen Jerome and I don’t know where I’ve been but I’m back now.
When she tried to speak, the words would not form on her lips and her mouth worked futilely, as if it belonged to somebody else.
Careening. That was the word Jane used to describe the car as her father drove to the hospital. Ordinarily, her father was the safest of drivers, to the point of making everyone crazy. He always slowed down even as he approached a green traffic light, afraid it would turn to yellow if he continued into an intersection. He obeyed all the traffic rules and had never received a ticket, even for overtime parking.
But now he drove with what only could be called abandon through Burnside streets, taking a corner perilously, the engine protesting and the wheels squealing as if some demented teenager were at the wheel. To her father, every teenager at the wheel of a car was demented.
The speed with which they were driving was unnecessary because the hospital was only a few blocks away from their house. But her father seemed to enjoy speeding while her mother clamped her hand to her head as if she were holding an invisible hat, and Jane and Artie looked at each other with delight.
For the first time in his life, her father parked in a No Parking space directly in front of the hospital steps and almost leaped out of the door, running around the front of the car, waiting for the rest of the family to join him.
It was difficult to believe that in a few moments, they would see Karen awake again, hear her speak, sit up in bed maybe or even leave it.
“Let’s go,” her father railed impatiently over his shoulder, a lovely impatience as he led them up the steps to the hospital door.
Karen studied her mother and father and Jane and Artie. Saw them clearly and sharply, no fuzz at all at the edges of her vision. The fuzz had been there earlier when she tried to focus on distant spots of the room. They were staring anxiously at her, which made her sad. But something else besides anxious. Expectant. The word was strange to Karen—but that was it. They looked as if they expected something to happen. And for a moment Karen was annoyed. Wasn’t it enough that she was back, had returned from—she wasn’t sure where but it had been far far away—anyway, what did they expect her to do? Jump up and sing and dance? She scolded herself. She should be happy to be back after all those weeks in the darkness.
She smiled at her family. Or at least she formed what she hoped was a smile, arranging her lips the way she would arrange flowers in a bouquet. Which was a crazy thought, of course. But everything was crazy. Being here in the hospital, all those weeks of nothing, not even sleep—it had not felt like sleep, although she could not express in words what being in a coma felt like.
They were still staring at her. Her father in his usual suit and striped tie, staring. Her mother, hair a bit askew and staring. Jane in a new blue sweater Karen had never seen before, staring. And Artie, video-mad Artie with his Nintendos, also staring. All of it weird.
She wanted to talk to them. Explain. Explain that she was fine, despite what the doctor had told her. She had fallen down the stairs at home. She could not remember falling down the stairs. She remembered something but wasn’t sure what. She remembered shadows. She remembered being afraid like when she was a little girl and woke up in the middle of the night, resenting Jane who always fell asleep instantly and never woke up in the night afraid. She did not remember falling down the stairs. Do you remember anything else? the doctor had asked. She could not remember the doctor’s name. He had told her his name but she could not remember it. She wanted to remember it because the doctor was very nice. He answered her questions before she asked him. Actually, she was unable to ask the questions. For some stupid reason, she could not speak. She had forgotten how to talk. Which was ridiculous, of course. But the doctor said that she had come a long way—progressed was the word he used—and that time would take care of things, don’t worry. Then told her, without her having to ask, what had happened. How she had fallen down the stairs. But she knew that it was not that simple. There was something else, just beyond the horizon of her memory. A shadow, more than one shadow, and the shadows had faces. She did not know whose faces.
Please, she thought, looking at her family, don’t look at me like that, like I’m behind a glass wall and you can’t touch me. When they first came into the room, they had gathered around the bed, hugging and kissing and saying sweet words and she had basked in those words, letting herself be carried in the caresses and the murmurs. Then tried to work her mouth but nothing came out. Hey, everybody, look, I’ve forgotten how to speak. Funny, but not funny at all.
She did not mind not being able to speak. Time will take care of it, the doctor whose name she could not remember had said. What made her feel sad was that she could not tell her mother and father not to worry. I’m all right I feel fine. Later, when she was stronger, she would write them notes.
Then for some reason, she began to cry.
Hated herself for crying.
For what her crying did to them.
Because they started crying, too. Her mother, her father, and Jane and Artie. Everybody crying.
Thank God the doctor entered the room at that moment. The doctor always looked tired. Long thin tired face. But then he smiled and didn’t look tired anymore. Made you feel good. And now he smiled at her family and this made her feel good, too.
She closed her eyes, afraid for just a moment that she might plunge into that coma again but instead let herself drift into the sweet, sweet, sweetness of sleep.
Buddy met his father for lunch at one of those brass-and-fern restaurants in downtown Wickburg. His father’s eyes were bloodshot. His face drawn, as if he were not getting enough sleep.
“You look great,” his father said, voice hearty but hoarse.
“You look great, too, Dad,” Buddy lied, flooded with sudden affection for his father. He looked so … sad. Buddy was suddenly willing to forgive him here and now for whatever he had done to break up the family.
After the waiter brought the menu, his father ordered a martini, dry. Turning to Buddy: “Martinis have gone out of style these days. But I’m old-fashioned, I guess.”
His father had two martinis before lunch and two glasses of white wine with the meal. Buddy drank three Cokes, Classic. Managed to eat the hamburger and french fries although his appetite was absent. Answered his father’s questions about school, his marks, Addy. Waited for him to ask about his mother, his father’s wife—they weren’t yet divorced, for crying out loud—but waited in vain. He was tempted to tell him about Jane but held back for some reason, not certain why. He watched his father sipping the wine and sighing after each sip as if it were some rare vintage. He was surprised to find that he was not dying for a drink, as if through some kind of magic the booze his father consumed was somehow being transfused into himself, taking away his own desire.
His father ate his small steak without enthusiasm, as if only marking time between sips of wine, smacking his lips a bit after each sip, holding the glass up once and looking at it appreciatively.
While Buddy waited. And wondered what he was waiting for. Then knew he was waiting for his father to get to the point, to divulge the purpose of the lunch. A wild hope rose. Was his father returning home? Was he building up to a big announcement?
The waiter removed their plates. Dessert menu? Both shook their heads and then his father said: “Wait, maybe another martini. Want another Coke?” his father asked.
As Buddy held up his half-filled glass, he studied his father more closely than ever before, trying to see him as a stranger would see him. The word that leaped into his mind was: ruin. As if his father’s face, which he’d remembered as pink and lean and handsome, had fallen on hard times. Small veins were visible in his nose and cheeks, as if there had been tiny explosions under the surface of his flesh. More flesh had gathered under his eyes. His eyes were not only bloodshot but sore-looking, as if he’d been staring at the sun too long.
“You happy, Dad?” Buddy asked, the question startling him even as he spoke the words.
“What kind of question is that, Buddy?” he said, obviously taken by surprise.
“I just wondered.” You don’t look happy.
“I don’t know whether we’re meant to be happy or sad all the time,” his father said. “I mean, it’s like taking your temperature just to see if you have a fever when there’s no need for it.”
He’s talking in circles, Buddy thought. Or maybe he’s right. Why do we always have to be either happy or sad? Why not just be?
“Don’t you want to know how Mom is?” he asked, needing to lash out, say something, do something.
“I know how she is, Buddy,” he answered, sighing wearily. “Miserable. And I’m the one who made her miserable. Guess I’m miserable, too, sometimes.”
“Why, Dad? Why did all of this happen to make everybody so miserable?”
His father glanced around the room, caught the waiter’s eyes and signaled for this drink, mouthing the word martini. “Things happen,” he said, settling back in his chair. “We don’t go looking for things to happen but they do.”
Buddy plunged: “Are you ever coming back home, Dad?” Not too big a plunge: if his father was miserable sometimes, maybe he wanted to come home.
Big silence. His father fingered the empty glass, looked around the room again. “Where’s that waiter?” he asked, irritated, drumming the table.
With sudden clarity, Buddy saw that his father needed another martini more than he needed to answer Buddy’s question. Or needed that drink before answering. He wondered about that old saying: like father, like son. Would he grow up to be like his father, still drinking, his face filled with the tiny flowers? Would he someday make Jane miserable and become miserable himself?
Giving up his search for the waiter, his father looked at him directly. “No, Buddy. I’m not coming back. I don’t even think your mother wants me back or would take me back. It’s like a broken window, Buddy, the glass shattered. You can’t fix it. You get a new window …”
These are not windows. Dad
That’s what Buddy wanted to say but he remained silent as he saw his father still angling to see if the waiter was approaching with his drink, fingering the empty wineglass, glancing into it to see if there might be a drop or two left then actually, actually raised it to his lips to drain away whatever dregs might be left.
He could not wait for this terrible luncheon to end.
Jane called Buddy from the pay telephone in the lobby of the hospital, eager to share the good news of Karen’s recovery. The telephone rang and rang.
Karen wasn’t completely recovered, of course. She had regained consciousness, had suffered no loss of locomotion (the doctor’s word) aid was functioning normally (more doctor words) except for her inability to speak. Which was probably not physically originated (the psychiatrist’s words now) but a temporary condition. Seven, eight rings. She hoped Buddy’s lunch with his father went well. He had been excited about the invitation, like a little boy going to the circus with his daddy.
She was about to hang up when he answered. “Hello,” his voice dim, subdued. Was something wrong?
“Buddy,” she said. “How was lunch?” Please say that lunch was fine, that you and your father had a good time.
“Okay,” he said, the word lacking in enthusiasm. Had the lunch gone wrong? She would have to deal with that later.
“Karen is out of her coma,” she said, unable to suppress her excitement. “I’m calling from the hospital—she’s going to be all right….”
Silence from Buddy. She was a bit angry that the lunch had not gone well and was spoiling her news about Karen.
“That’s great,” he said, the words booming with enthusiasm across the wires. Was he playacting? He sounded too enthusiastic, now, his voice, like, too loud, too high. “You must be happy. I mean, your parents must be walking on air.”
His voice still sounded fake. It must have been a terrible lunch. “There’s only one thing wrong,” she said, “She can’t speak. The doctor says it’s psychological. Listen, can we get together somewhere? Gan you come over to Burnside? We can get a Coke or something and you can tell me all about lunch with your father and I’ll tell you all about Karen.…”
“Sure, good,” he said, and his voice was again normal, the voice of the Buddy she knew and loved.
“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there,” he said.
After all this time, the sound of his voice still thrilled her.
The Avenger could not believe his eyes.
There she was, Jane Jerome, his Jane, with one of the trashers. Standing beside him on the sidewalk, holding his hand. Looking up at the trasher as if nobody else in the world existed. Looking up at him with—what?—a tender expression on her face. A look of love.
The Avenger stood still. Stood still on the outside, that is. Inside, he was all movement and turmoil, his blood surging through his veins, his temples throbbing, his face growing hot, hotter, until he was afraid his cheeks would explode and pieces of his flesh would fly through the air and splatter the sides of buildings. At the same time he needed to go to the bathroom, desperately, afraid he would have an accident right here on Main Street in front of Dupont’s Drug Store. But the urge to go to the bathroom was replaced by the need to hide as they began crossing the street, heading in his direction. He had to get away, out of their sight. Spinning completely around, he searched for ways of escape, and saw the alley between Dupont’s and Burnside Video. He hurried into the alley, and hugged the wall. Saw Jane and the trasher pass by, still holding hands. He waited a moment, surrounded by the smell of garbage from a nearby barrel. Did not breathe, did not want to inhale the smell of garbage, did not want to bring the smell inside his body.
