600 Hours of Edward (11 page)

She asks me to tell her more about the dreams, so I give her the rundown on the rest of them: the one with the naked woman I don’t know, the one with Joy and the giant plasma screen, the one where Mike is coming after me with a baseball bat. I tell Dr. Buckley that I’m embarrassed to talk about the dreams where I am naked, but she says that it is all right, that I should go ahead and tell her.

“Edward, there is much we still don’t know about dreams and the biological purpose they fill, but I think we can make some reasonable assumptions about yours.”

“I don’t like assumptions. I prefer facts.”

“I know you do, but let’s just go with this, OK?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve had a big week. People have become part of your life and your consciousness in a way that they never really have before. Would you agree with that?”

“Yes.”

“I think your dreams are probably rooted in that. You have made room for these people in your life, even in small ways. You take the time to correspond with the woman in Broadview, Joy. You have let Kyle help you paint, and you even made him a cool bicycle.”

“Tricycle. Three wheels.”

“OK, tricycle. The point is, they are in your sphere now. And that greatly increases the likelihood that they will also occupy places in your subconscious. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“The dreams where you’re naked, those are probably about vulnerability—about some latent fear of being laid bare in front of people. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“And the one with the man who attacked your neighbor…”

“That one I understand. He’s in jail because of me. It’s a revenge dream.”

“Yes, I think so, although I would say that he’s in jail because of him. Very good analysis. Now, I’d like to talk about Kyle.”

“OK.”

“Edward, what do you think you have in common with a nine-year-old boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“I really want you to think about this.”

“OK.” I draw a deep breath. “I like that he doesn’t make things harder. He makes them more fun. Even when he wasn’t painting the garage all that well, he was having fun. That made me have fun. And on the Blue Blaster—you should have seen it. He was riding all over the place and laughing and yelling. I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone have that much fun.”

“That’s a good answer. Now, why do you suppose you’ve had more difficulty with Kyle’s mom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Consider this: She is not nine years old. She is a grown-up woman who is raising a little boy on her own, and from what you’ve told me, she has had a very rough go of it. Is that fair to say?”

“Yes.”

“You may enjoy the wonder of a child, Edward, but to this woman, you’re not a child. You’re a grown man. And this woman has had a lot of trouble with grown men.”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand why she would be leery of you? When you came to where she worked and were frantic about that boy, you probably represented a lot of bad memories and fears for her. I know you didn’t know that, but do you see it now?”

“Yes.”

“She felt closer to you after you called the police and saved her, but for someone who has been treated that way by men, Edward, trust can be difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Tread carefully, Edward. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I understand. I understand Dr. Buckley more than I ever thought possible.

– • –

On the subject of Joy and Internet dating, Dr. Buckley’s tone is less serious.

“What brought this on? I’m intrigued.”

“Have you seen those eHarmony television ads? Everybody seems so ridiculously happy and in love.”

“Yes, well, the television ads are trying to sell a product. They’re not going to show desperately unhappy or lonely people.”

“Do you think that’s who does online dating?”

“I think there is a whole range of people out there, Edward. You just have to deal with them as they come. What do you think of Joy?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Anything else?”

“Her grammar is atrocious.”

“I think a high grammar standard may be a losing fight on the Internet.”

“I think you’re right.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. She thought it would be a good idea to meet, and I said I would like that. I haven’t heard back from her yet. What do you think I ought to do?”

“Well, I’m on record as in favor of your getting out and being among people. You know that. I would simply say to protect yourself.”

“What do you mean? Condoms?”

Dr. Buckley snorts out a laugh. “I’m sorry…That was funny. Yes, certainly, if it comes to that, but I hope that’s not on the agenda for your first date.”

“No.”

“What I mean, Edward, is that you know what situations are dangerous for you, and you know when people are pushing your buttons. If you sense that danger, leave. There are plenty of fish in the Internet.”

– • –

My usual Tuesday series of right turns delivers me into the Albertsons parking lot. On a Tuesday morning, when most of the rest of Billings is at work, my shopping goes easily: ground beef, spaghetti, spaghetti sauce, Banquet meals, DiGiorno pizza (supreme this week), twelve-pack of Diet Dr Pepper, corn flakes, milk, and ice cream.

The self-checkout stand is a breeze, and soon I’m back in the 1997 Toyota Camry, right-turning my way home.

At Grand Avenue and Eighth Street W., two blocks from where I’ll turn off Grand for the final run home, Billings drops away into a bowl that leads downtown. This is my favorite view of the city, better even than the one from atop the Rimrocks. I can see the First Interstate Bank building cast against a backdrop of the canyon, called Sacrifice Cliff, which borders the Yellowstone River.

It’s really pretty.

– • –

Back at home, I square away the groceries, and then I opt for an early lunch of Banquet Swedish meatballs. I don’t want to eat too much, as I will be dining at my parents’ house tonight, which I do monthly. I also don’t want to eat too little, as I may be making an early exit. I can never tell at my parents’ house.

It is often a torturous evening. My mother treats me like a child, and my father treats me like just another constituent, except when he’s treating me like a failure and a disappointment. Given the events of the past week, it’s not hard for me to imagine which version of him I will get tonight. Still, I won’t know until I’m there. I remember what Dr. Buckley has said, again and again and again, when it comes to my father: Do what I can to control my own behavior and hope for the best from his. Dr. Buckley is a very logical woman.

– • –

At Montana Personal Connect, I see what has become a familiar sight:

Inbox (1).

I click the link.

Dear Edward,

Your SOOOO funny again. I think I can forgive you for not liking Garth Brooks.

Would you like to do something Friday night? Maybe we could meet in downtown Billings at that new wine bar on Broadway. Ive heard good things about it.

8 all right? I know I must seem pushy but I guess since its my idea, Id just throw it out there.

Let me know…

Joy

I write back:

Joy:

I would very much enjoy meeting you at the new wine bar Friday night. Can we please make it seven? That will give me time to get back home for Dragnet.

With regards,

Edward

– • –

My parents’ house sits atop the Billings Rimrocks, giving them a view of the bustling city of 100,000 below. It is a huge home for just two people: 6,200 square feet, with stone floors, a kitchen with side-by-side Sub-Zero freezers, an indoor lap pool and sauna, and gardens for my mother to spend her days tending. On the south side of the house, the side that faces town, there are huge windows. I have heard my father, when leading visitors through the house, say that the windows allow him to always see “the city I love.” At this altitude, I think it’s more likely that the windows allow him to see his minions without their seeing him. This is a mean thing to think, and it’s not so much conjecture as an informed opinion, but perhaps it would be better for me to wait for the facts.

I always feel foreboding when I drive to my parents’ house, and it’s not just because of my parents. When I make the drive up the Rimrocks along Twenty-Seventh Street, then turn west at the airport and ride two more miles to their turnoff, I have to make many left turns to get there, and those left turns—I prefer right turns—lead me out of my world and into theirs. Theirs is not the house I grew up in. When I was a young man, which I will concede was a long time ago, we lived in a nice three-bedroom house in West Billings. During the latter part of the 1990s, when I was still living there with my parents, my father made some fortuitous (I love the word “fortuitous”) investments in technology, and then he got out of them before taking on the losses that other tech investors saw in early 2001.

Once I was out of the house and put into the place on Clark Avenue—because of the “Garth Brooks incident”—my father and mother sold that house and moved up here. It is their place. It is not mine.

At the wrought-iron gate, I press the call button. After a few moments, I hear my mother’s voice.

“Yes?”

“It’s Edward.”

“Come on in, dear.”

The gate opens. I feel like I want to throw up.

– • –

“So there’s the hospital hero,” my father bellows as I step into the foyer, with the last of the late-afternoon light hitting me from the skylight above.

“Hello, Father.”

He sidles up to me but offers neither a handshake nor a hug. He is dressed in a pink-and-white golf shirt, impeccably pressed slacks, and penny loafers—no socks. My father has been rocking this look for thirty years. (I love the phrase “rocking this applicable noun.”) From the smell wafting toward me, I am guessing that he’s on his second scotch and soda. Maybe his third. I don’t like to guess. I prefer…Well, never mind. It doesn’t matter.

“How have you been, Edward?”

“Fine.”

“Fine, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t seem too fine when I saw you last.”

“It’s OK now.”

“I heard what happened.”

“What?”

“You called the cops and got that boyfriend of hers busted.”

“Did the police call you?”

“No, Edward. But I’m a goddamned county commissioner. I know things.”

“Yes.”

“Scumbag.”

“What?”

“That guy. He’s a scumbag.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, you did good on that. I have to give it to you, Edward.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Come on in, then.”

– • –

My mother is in the kitchen, scurrying from island to stove to refrigerator and back to island as she prepares dinner.

“There’s my boy,” she says as I come into her view, and she dashes over to squeeze my cheeks and coo at me. I hate this part.

“We’re having your favorite: pork loin, grilled asparagus, rosemary potatoes.”

“My favorite is spaghetti.”

“But you like this, too.”

“I guess.”

“That’s good.” She’s now away from me and back to her cooking. My mother is the sort of woman who is dressed to the nines at all times, even when cooking dinner. She has been this way for as long as I’ve known her, which is all of my life. When I was a child, I was not permitted to see her until she had showered and put on her makeup and fixed her hair. She was a lovely woman then—tall and lithe, dirty-blonde hair, everything in its place. You can still see that beauty in her, though at sixty-three she is fighting a losing battle against the hair, which is rapidly graying,
and the waistline, which is expanding. Her clothes and nails and shoes, as ever, are flawless.

My father is in the dining room, staring out a window into the approaching dark.

“Cocksuckers,” he says to no one.

“Ted,” my mother scolds him.

“Ah, shit, Maureen, I’m sorry.”

When my father drinks, as he is doing now, his incidence of curse words—the “shits” and “fucks” and, yes, even the “cocksuckers”—increases exponentially. It can be amusing to watch, if you’re not the target of them.

“It’s just this goddamned economic development thing. Those assholes are killing me on this.”

I have been reading about this in the
Billings Herald-Gleaner.
The county’s economic development council, on which my father and the two other county commissioners sit, has been trying to hire a new director. My father put forward the name of a friend of his, someone who worked with him in the oil business years ago. The man came up to Billings for an interview and did quite well—so well that he appeared to be a lock for the job. While in town, though, he was cited for drunk driving, and now the council is cutting him loose as a candidate. My father is his lone backer, and he and the other commissioners have been sniping at one another through the newspaper and television news programs.

I do not know who is right, as it doesn’t really concern me, but I will note that my father often ends up on the other side of the fence from his fellow commissioners. Make of that what you will.

“Those assholes are so fucking high and mighty,” my father says. “Dave blew a zero-point-eight—a zero-point-eight. One glass of wine before leaving the restaurant, and they’re saying he’s a drunk. Had those fucking cops stopped him two blocks later, he
would have been fine. Now these guys are busting my balls over the whole thing.”

“Well, Ted, why don’t we just forget about it and have dinner?”

“Assholes.”

“Ted!”

“Yeah, yeah, OK. Well, come on, Edward, let’s eat.”

– • –

My father is holding a forkful of pork loin, and he’s jabbing it in the air toward me.

“Edward, what are your plans?”

“Plans?”

“Yes, plans. You know, those things that give some guidance to life. You do know what plans are, right?”

“Dear, please,” my mother says. Her dinner is dissolving into a family quarrel. Again.

“Yes, Father, I know what plans are.”

“Do you have any?”