The Year of Ice: A Novel, page 25
But there’s no one on the sidewalks. I pull the door open and barely manage to get out of the car before I slam the door shut again. I lock it and pull up on the handle to make sure I’ve done it right. All that’s left to do now is walk to the 90’s. So I just stand there, looking in the window of the Army Surplus. Knives, canteens, coats, old medals, helmets, caps, backpacks, camouflage jackets. That’s what I need, camouflage. A big fucking bush to hide behind as I sneak into the 90’s. I put my hands in my pockets and walk fast, deliberate, like I’m late for a surprise party. Now shapes appear and I walk past men, alone and in pairs, and I can’t tell if they are like me or if they hate me, I don’t know if they’re coming out of the 90’s or the strip joint. Some are foxy, some are dogs. A few look at me, their faces asking questions. But I don’t dare lose my pace; there’s somewhere I pretend I have to go.
I walk by what I think is the front door of the 90’s. No one enters or leaves, so I stroll past. I go around the block and every few steps I see a man or men out of the corner of my eye. The ones who walk in little groups smile and talk to each other; they laugh out loud. They ignore me as they share a joke or a secret. I wanna say hello. I wanna say My name is Kevin and I am so fucking lonely. But they have no idea who I am any more than I think I know who they are.
The door of the 90’s is a few yards ahead of me. Again. I’ve gone around the block so many times now that I’ve lost count. The traffic on Hennepin Avenue stops for a red light. I’m scared that the class of ’78 is in each car, staring at me, wondering why I’m circling the 90’s like a big faggy vulture. I’m scared that they’ll figure it out, mouths wide open, faces turning to each other. Oh, my God, did you see that? Kevin Doyle is a cocksucker!
I wanna go inside, but I can’t make myself do it. So I head to the Dart and stick the key in the lock. I sit inside for a minute or two before I turn the ignition, before I snap the lights on. I drive home, alone, cursing myself. I wanna cry. ’Cause the guy I love was waiting for me in the 90’s, but I didn’t have the balls to walk through the door and say hello.
* * *
I’m back to the apartment and I decide to have a beer and start work on my first essay for freshman composition. So when Tommy gets home I can pretend that I didn’t go anywhere, that I was here all night. Besides, I can’t flunk out of freshman comp. That’s the class that you have to take ’cause they want you to be able to write at the college level. So I snap open a Special Ex and sit on the floor, some paper and a pencil in front of me, still pissed off at myself for not going into the 90’s. The essay has to begin with “when I was ten” and has to be between five hundred and five hundred and fifty words.
When I was ten I was in fifth grade. My best friend was Tommy and he is still my best friend. Our favorite things to do were to watch TV and play baseball.
Jesus, only thirty-three words. That leaves four hundred and sixty-seven. What else?
We had to be in the chorus of Huck Finn because everyone was required to be in the play. We wore straw hats and my mom had to buy me a pair of overalls. Our song was “Drat That Boy.” We had to sing it three nights in a row.
Cool, that was fifty words. Four hundred and seventeen left.
We got really sick of the song because in addition to singing it every night, we had to sing it every day for two weeks in rehearsals. When everyone else would sing “Drat,” we would sing “Smack.” We thought we were really funny and we would start to crack up. Then we would get in trouble because we were laughing and not singing.
Sixty-three words. I keep getting better and better at this. Three hundred and fifty-four more and I’m done.
Our teacher told us if we had the audacity to laugh during the performance, in front of the entire school and all the parents, she would give us ten hours of detention. So even though we stood next to each other, we did not look at each other, because we were afraid that if we did, we would start laughing. The first night my mom and dad and aunt and Tommy’s parents came and saw us in the show. We didn’t laugh and everybody said we did a good job. That night Dad kept singing “Drat That Boy” and looking at me like he was being really funny.
The next night Tommy didn’t look at me but he did sing “Smack” instead of “Drat” and I smiled really hard but I didn’t laugh. My dad came that night too and asked me why I had a big grin on my face during the song. I lied and told him because I was happy that he was there.
One hundred and sixty-seven words this time. I deserve another beer.
The last night I knew that Tommy was going to try and get me in trouble by singing “Smack” and making me laugh. I decided I would one-up him and make him laugh instead. When everybody began to sing “Drat,” I came in early and shouted “Smack” and hit Tommy so hard on the back of his head that his straw hat flew into the audience. He shouted “Ow” and people started laughing except for our teacher. She looked like she was going to kill me. She grabbed me while everybody else was still singing and the audience laughed again. She dragged me into the hallway and shook me by the shoulders. She asked me why I had to spoil things for everyone else. How could I be so selfish? Didn’t I ever think of anyone but myself? She told me I was a spoiled little boy who needed to grow up.
That’s when Dad showed up because he was there that night too. You could tell he had been laughing really hard because his eyes were still watery. He told her to leave me alone, I was just a little kid having some fun. He asked her if she had ever been young once. She told him he was setting a bad example and if he didn’t take discipline seriously, I would wind up a juvenile delinquent. He thought that was funny.
Jeez, five hundred and forty-six words. Cool.
Then I think: Jesus, Dad was there every night.
OCTOBER 1978
You know, every year it’s the same deal. You blink and summer’s gone. And if you’re on the can during fall you miss the leaves changing and falling off the trees. Lots of things happen when you’re not looking. There are still over three weeks left till Halloween, but the apartment building’s caretaker has taped cardboard ghosts and skeletons on the walls. Some kid has already taken a Magic Marker and written bite me on one of the ghosts.
Anytime I see a Halloween ghost I think of Mom. I hope she isn’t watching me when I jerk off with my Playgirls or take a dump.
This is what I’m thinking about when the phone rings. Tommy picks it up. It’s Aunt Nora, but she hasn’t called for me, she’s still pissed that I didn’t offer her my condolences when the last pope bought the farm. She’s called to congratulate Tommy on the first Polish pope and tells him she can only imagine how excited he must be.
He says, “Yeah, you can only imagine.”
They talk for a while, giving each other shit. As soon as he puts the phone down, it rings again.
I say, “That’s probably her again. I bet this pope just kicked the bucket too.”
Tommy picks up the phone as he says, “No way, Pollocks live forever.” Then he says, “Hello? Yeah, Kev’s here. Hang on.”
He covers the receiver with his hand and whispers, “It’s your stepmother. She sounds kinda freaked.”
I get up from where I sit on the floor, sorting albums; Tommy’s gotten them all messed up again. He hands me the phone and I say, “Didn’t you ever learn your ABCs?”
He smacks me on the back of the head and takes his turn with the stack of LPs. I say to my wicked stepmother, “Yeah, what’s happening?”
She says, real fast, like she’s on fire: “Is your father there?”
“No.” He’s never been over here. “What’s going on?”
I hear her breaths, short and fast, the kind of sounds an obscene caller makes. I can hear her swallow, which is kinda weird. She says, “He wasn’t here when I got home from work. All his clothes are gone. I think he’s left me.”
Now she starts crying and hyperventilating at the same time. I look over at Tommy and point at the phone, shaking my head. He looks at me, his face asking What gives? I say to the phone, “Calm down, I can’t understand you.”
She’s gasping, “I think he’s left me. Oh, God!”
I tell her, “He’s gone missing before and he’s always come back. He’s probably drunk and sleeping it off in his car.”
She’s sobbing for all she’s worth, and I make out: “Do you think he’s with Jackie?”
I can’t help myself, I laugh. “Not unless he wants a pan of cinnamon rolls shoved up his ass.”
She screams, “Be serious! Oh, God! Where is he?”
“I’m sorry, okay? Don’t scream in my ear, Jesus.”
“Will you call her? Will you find out if he’s contacted her?”
“Jeez, I don’t think I have her number.”
“Look it up!”
Tommy’s staring at me now. I look at him and roll my eyes. “We don’t have a phone book.”
“Go over there!”
For Christ’s sake. “He’s not gonna be at Jackie Shaw’s, all right? Just give him a couple days and he’ll come crawling back like nothing’s happened.”
“I can’t wait that long. I need him here to help me. God, I’m in my last trimester and the doctor says I’m supposed to stay off my feet.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go over to Jackie Shaw’s.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. Give me your number again, I think I lost it.”
After I hang up, Tommy says, “What’s her problem?”
“My dad. I promised her I’d try and find him.”
“He’s gone?”
“He did a runner. I gotta find him before she shits her pants.”
“Want some help?”
We split up. Tommy takes his Challenger and checks out the bars, starting at Grumpy’s. I head over to Jackie Shaw’s even though I know it’s a big waste of time. As I pull up in her dead husband’s Dart I don’t see a single light on in her house. I get out of the car and ring the front doorbell. Then I knock. Then I look in some of the ground-floor windows. No sign of Jackie Shaw, let alone Dad.
Maybe he’s gone back to the house. Our house. Then I think, That’s stupid, somebody else lives there now. But I head over anyway. On the way over I turn the dials on the radio; all the stations play anymore is the BeeGees.
I park the Dart in front of what used to be my house, where I lived for more than eighteen years. The lights are on and as I walk up the front steps I notice that they’ve rescreened the porch and replaced the rotted floorboards. I ring the doorbell and wait.
I hear an adult yell at a kid, a kid yell at another kid, and then the adult yell again. As the door opens the man is shouting, “Do I have to do everything myself?” Then he turns to me and smiles. “Kids,” he says.
Mrs. Bartochevitz must have had a stroke when she found out that Dad sold the house to a black family. I say, “My name’s Kevin Doyle. You guys bought this house from my dad, Patrick.”
The man says, “Actually, I only met him at the closing. We always dealt with Jackie.” Then he says, a little annoyed, “By the way, women are always stopping by looking for your father. They want to know where he’s living now.”
“Trust me, they’re happier not knowing. Look, this is gonna sound weird, but have you seen my dad?”
The man frowns. “No. If there’s a problem with the sale, you’ll need to talk to our lawyer. We bought title insurance.”
“It’s nothing like that. I just don’t know where he is.”
“Oh.”
“I thought he might be drunk off his ass and come round here.”
“Oh,” the man says again, but deeper and softer this time.
He gets a notebook and a pen so I can leave my name and number. Before I leave he says, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll call the police first and you second if he does show up.”
“Good plan.” I turn to leave, but I stop myself. “How’s the house working out for you?”
“Great. We love it here.”
When I’m back in the Dart I sit and think. I think that Dad’s gone for good.
* * *
The phone rings and Tommy asks me to get it. He’s studying an engine diagram. I tell him to get it; it’s never for me, it’s always some burnout from Dunwoody. He mutters and answers it. After he hangs up, he smacks me on the back of my head. He says, “Your stepmom’s had it. Premature, but she’s had it. She wants you to come visit. She’s at St. Mary’s till Tuesday.”
“Cool,” I tell him. I’m watching Saturday Night Live.
Tommy sits on the floor next to me. “She really wants you there. Laurie can’t get in until late tomorrow. You got a little sister, man.”
I take another bite of my Swanson Hungry-Man salisbury steak. “I’ll go, I’ll go, don’t sweat it.” There are peas in the cobbler section of the tray, which pisses me off ’cause I hate peas. Then I get it. Tommy never got to see his own son before Catholic Social Services took him away. I pick a pea out of the mashed potato compartment. I say, “You wanna go over with me now?”
Tommy says, “Cool.”
We take the Dart; the Challenger has died again. It’s the class project at Dunwoody right now.
We drive and Tommy says, “Aren’t you kind of psyched? You’re a big brother. When Mom had Timmy I was really psyched. He’s a pain in the ass now, but when he was little, it was really cool.”
I’m not psyched. “Yeah, I’m psyched.”
Okay, now that we’re almost there, I’m kind of excited. The hospital is on the West Bank, not far from the leftover hippie shops that sell the pyramids like the one Floyd wore. There are slogans painted on the New Riverside Café and as we pass the People’s Center, the phone poles and streetlights get thick with layers of flyers. Finally, we drive by Culla’s before we make the turn into St. Mary’s. The place is quiet, it’s late and visiting hours are over. But when we get to the miserable old cow’s floor, a nurse leads us to a double room. The nurse whispers just outside the door, “Hardly anyone’s been by since she was admitted, poor dear.” Inside is the cow, lying in the shadows like she’s had the shit kicked out of her and then stuffed back in again.
When she see us she says, all hoarse, “Thank you for coming.”
I say, “Where’s the baby?”
She swallows and it must be painful to do, ’cause she scrunches up her face. “The intensive care unit.”
Tommy looks at me and frowns. I say, “Cool. Can I go see her, or do I need permission or something?”
She closes her eyes and says, “Just tell them you’re her brother. Kevin, you should know that she isn’t doing well. There were a lot of complications.”
I look at Tommy and back at her. “What do you mean? Is she gonna die?”
Eyes shut, her voice cracks as she says, “They don’t know.”
Tommy nods toward the doorway and leaves us alone. I sit in the chair next to her bed and say, “I’m sorry.”
She puts a hand over her face and says, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your father.”
I could lie, but what would be the point? “No.” To be helpful I tell her what I always tell her when she asks: “He’s taken off before and come back.”
She sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different. We knew the baby was going to have some problems, the doctor told us.”
I look at her. “When did you find that out?”
“The day before he vanished.”
Oh.
She lies there, quiet, and I sit there, with nothing to say. I try to get mad at her for Mom’s sake, but I can’t. I should feel like a traitor but I don’t. I get to keep the Dart and the two hundred bucks, which I’ve already used for rent money anyway. Well, not just the rent. I bought some records, to tell the truth. And a couple of them just because the guy on the album cover was really hot.
Whenever she called me after Dad took off, the miserable old cow sounded mental; here, lying on the hospital bed, she’s too tired to do much of anything, except talk softly. I expected there to be some flowers or balloons or candy, but the room’s empty. A gust of wind pounds on the window. Winter’s already on its way.
After a while I say, “Laurie’s getting in tomorrow night?”
She nods.
I make conversation. “Kind of weird that she didn’t go to St. Kate’s. NYU is the last place I thought she’d wind up.”
The cow, I mean Mrs. Gunderson, I mean Mrs. Doyle, screw it, Carol says, “It suits her new political outlook.”
I say, “You mean like her speech at graduation?”
Carol smiles a little and says, “Yes, but as I learned, pretty speeches aren’t enough. You must act for justice, not just talk about it. You see, Laurie has evolved to a higher level of consciousness than the rest of us. ‘If you want peace, work for justice.’ Oh, and let’s not forget her other mantra, ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.’ I couldn’t wait for her to move out. She had become a holier-than-thou pain in the neck.”
I laugh.
Carol says, “My guess? In five years she’ll be a radical nun doing ‘social justice work’ in some third-world backwater.”
Carol’s kind of funny. I never noticed before.
She sighs and says, “I could never understand why she didn’t have a sense of humor. Her mother loved to laugh; so did her father. And they both could stay out all night long on the dance floor. Then they had her, this glum little girl. I just didn’t get it. But her ‘political awakening,’ that was what finally pushed me over the edge. You want to go to New York, I said to her, be my guest.”
