600 Hours of Edward (7 page)

I have now applied two colors to the garage, and because of your inability to help me zero in on a single color, I will still have to apply another. This wastes my valuable time and could conceivably cause me to run up against the erratic October weather for which Billings is known.

Still, I also must acknowledge my own role in this failure. I could not control my impulse to buy three colors of paint, and that is not your fault. I had merely hoped that you could help me negotiate the many choices at your store. I will continue to work on my problem. Perhaps you could work on yours.

Respectfully,

Edward Stanton

I am standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down. I don’t know if I’ve been here before. There is a rimrock that surrounds Billings; it is the signature geographic formation of the area. I know it well. I see it every day. I don’t know if this is it, as I can’t see the whole rock or a town below. I see my feet and the brown, dusty, weather-beaten sandstone below them, and below that only the murky darkness.

Then I feel myself fall down. Only, it’s not me.

It’s him. Kyle. I can see his face as he falls away, and I know his little body is going to crash to the rocks that I assume are below, although I don’t like to assume. I can feel the black terror inside of me.

And suddenly, a hand reaches out and catches Kyle’s wrist. It’s my hand, and I feel the snap of my shoulder as his fall is arrested.

“Help me, Edward!” he says.

“I have you,” I say through my teeth, straining to keep my grip on his wrist. I’m lying flat on my stomach, my chin hanging over the edge of the cliff, my feet scratching at the rock behind me as I try to find purchase.

“I’m slipping!”

“I have you!”

And then I don’t have him. Gravity pulls him from my grip and hurtles him to certain death, and…

– • –

I am awake.

And I am up.

And I am out of here.

I don’t know what time it is.

My data is not complete.

– • –

Once I am sitting in the driver’s seat of my 1997 Toyota Camry, I notice three things. First, it’s 7:40 a.m. Second, the Behr mochachino looks horrid on the garage in front of me. Third, I am wearing my 1999 R.E.M.
Up
tour T-shirt and blue-and-red pajama bottoms. I sleep in these. I am wearing no shoes.

I don’t care.

– • –

From the house that my father bought, the route to Billings Clinic is easy: right turn on Clark Avenue to Sixth Avenue W., left turn on Sixth to Lewis Avenue, right turn on Lewis to Broadway, left turn on Broadway to Billings Clinic. I can be there in five minutes. My stomach is churning, and not from the left turns.

– • –

At Billings Clinic, I find a parking spot in the lot behind the emergency department. Before I step out of the car, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and lick my right palm, then paw at my head. My hair is puffed up and bent every which way from sleep. I look crazy. I feel crazy. I guess I am crazy.

I’m running for the door.

– • –

“I have to see Donna Middleton.”

“And you are?” The security guard at the emergency department’s front desk is looking at me with suspicion, and I cannot blame him, but I also cannot care.

“Edward Stanton. You have to get her.”

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“No. Get her.”

“Sir, you need to calm down.”

“Please get her.”

“Sir.”

“Please.”

“Sir, why are you here?”

“Please. Just tell her it’s Edward Stanton. Please.”

He looks me over slowly. I try to stand up a little straighter, as if it would make me look any less ridiculous.

He picks up the phone.

– • –

In two minutes that seem to take forever—it’s funny how time can be both fact and illusion—Donna Middleton emerges from the
double doors separating the lobby from the emergency department.

“Edward, what’s going on?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“OK. Edward, I’m at work.”

“I know. I have to talk to you.”

“OK.”

“I need you to call Kyle.”

“Why?”

“I need you to make sure he’s OK.”

Her face, until now perplexed, changes in an instant. It flushes with color, her eyes bore in on me, and there is a snap in her tone.

“What happened? Did something happen to my son? Why are you here?”

“Please, just call him.”

“What do you know about my son?” She is yelling at me.

The security guard, having watched us warily from behind the desk, is advancing on me now. Donna Middleton’s hands are fists.

“I…I…”

“What about my son?” She is quaking.

I start talking fast. “I don’t know. I had a dream. I’ve dreamed the past two nights. I dreamed that something happened. I couldn’t save him. I tried. I really, really tried. You have to call him. Just make sure he’s OK. Please. Call him.”

Donna Middleton wheels away from me and sprints back through the double doors. The security guard, a very strong young man, grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back. I slump to the floor.

– • –

I am not surprised when my father comes through the automatic doors and into the emergency department lobby. The security guard called the police, and the police called my father. It has happened before, although never here at Billings Clinic.

My father is wearing a tan golf shirt under a windbreaker. Given the unseasonably warm weather—I haven’t compiled my data yet, but I would guess that it will get into the sixties today, although I don’t like guessing—I have probably interrupted my father’s golf game. He looks at me and shakes his head slightly, and then he walks over to the front desk. He talks with the security guard, but quietly. I’m sitting in a chair along the wall, my hands shackled behind the back of it. I can hear my father identify himself, and I see the guard nod, but I’m having trouble hearing more.

After a few minutes of discussion with my father, the security guard nods again, and now they’re both walking over to me. The security guard reaches behind me and unlocks the handcuffs, puts them back on his belt, and goes back to the front desk.

My father sits down next to me.

“What happened, Edward?”

“I had a bad dream. I was scared.”

“About this woman’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Edward, what’s your relationship with this boy?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. Why are you so interested in this woman’s son?”

“I am not interested in him, Father.”

“Considering the circumstance you’re in here, Edward, that’s difficult to believe.”

“He has helped me with painting the garage. He came over one day. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. He has helped me paint. His mother knows about it. She hasn’t complained.”

“She’s complaining now.”

“Yes.”

My father sighs. He leans forward in the chair, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you understand how this looks? You’re in your pajamas, you don’t have any shoes, and you’re in a hospital emergency room talking about a woman’s son being hurt. Do you understand how that might be viewed as unacceptable?”

“Yes. I was scared.”

“OK, Edward. But now you’ve scared someone else.”

– • –

After talking with me, my father talks with Donna Middleton, who has come out to meet him. They talk a few feet away from me, and it’s as if I’m not here.

“Mr. Stanton, I’ve never been so scared.”

“I know.”

“I called Kyle. He’s fine.”

“That’s good. Edward says he had a bad dream. I’m sure your son was never in danger.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

My father smiles, as if to reassure her. “Edward has a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. He has had it for a long time. What he did today is something new, I’ll admit, but he
generally does what he has to do to control his condition. He’s on medication. He sees a therapist.”

This shows what my father knows. The full story is that I’m obsessive-compulsive and that I have Asperger’s syndrome. Some people call that “high-functioning autism.” Dr. Buckley says it’s not my fault.

“Is he dangerous?”

“No. At least, he never has been. Edward’s compulsions generally lie in solitary things—the TV shows he watches, the projects he gets involved in, the things that stimulate his mind.”

“I see. But you say that he’s never done this.”

“No.”

“Can you assure me that he never will again?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think he will, but I can’t promise that.”

“OK. Would you please tell him to leave us alone? Will he do that?”

“I will see to it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m glad your son is OK.”

“Thank you.”

Donna Middleton leaves.

– • –

My father lays out the situation for me, which I already know. I am to stay away from Donna Middleton and Kyle. I have scared them, and I am not to bother them ever again.

“Go home, Edward,” my father says.

– • –

There is so much to do back at the house. None of my data has been recorded. I start with the time I woke up. The fact is, I just don’t know. I was sitting in the 1997 Toyota Camry at 7:40, and so I estimate that my eyes opened at 7:39 and that I took a minute to dash out the door and get into the car. But I just don’t know for sure. I write down 7:39—the twenty-fourth time out of 292 days this year (because it’s a leap year), but the first time that I’ve put an asterisk next to the time. This signifies that the time is an estimate. I don’t like estimates. I prefer facts.

I also grab the
Billings Herald-Gleaner
and record yesterday’s high and low temperatures—fifty-four and twenty-eight. The forecast today is as I expected; it’s warm, with a projected high of sixty-three. I will know for sure tomorrow.

And my data is complete.

– • –

In the shower, I think about what a mess today already is. I’m relieved that Kyle is OK. I am scared of these dreams that I’m having. I wonder where they are coming from and why they are coming. It will be a long wait until Tuesday, when I can talk to Dr. Buckley about them. She is a very logical person. I hope she can explain what’s happening.

I think about how it’s too late now for a bowl of corn flakes, which is going to throw off my system of food consumption completely. I think about my data. I think about how ugly the garage is and how I’m going to have to do something about that soon.

Mostly, I think about Donna Middleton and how scared she was this morning. I was scared, but my fear was nothing like hers. I think about how if it hadn’t been for me, she would have been just fine, going about her work as an emergency department
nurse at Billings Clinic. I think about my father and how disappointed he seemed. I think about how many times he has had to show up somewhere and get me out of some trouble. This is probably worse than the “Garth Brooks incident.”

I slump down into the tub, pull my knees up to chin, and rest my head.

– • –

At Montana Personal Connect, I see it again:

Inbox (1).

I click the link.

Hi Edward!

Your SO funny. I liked your note very much. I would like to keep talking to you. You have a kind face too. I like youre eyes.

Let’s do this OK? I will ask you five questions about yourself and then you write back with the answers and five questions about me.

Here are some questions.

             
1. Where were you born?

             
2. Do you have any nicknames?

             
3. What do you like to do on a date?

             
4. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

             
5. Would you help the roadrunner escape from the coyote or help the coyote catch the roadrunner?

Write back!

Joy

This is a confounding woman. She has gotten no better at grammar, and I may have to prepare myself for the possibility that she never will. But she also asks really good, although random, questions.

I will have to think about this for a while.

– • –

After dinner—a Banquet roast-beef-and-potatoes frozen meal—I write back.

Joy:

You ask really good questions.

             
1. I was born here in Billings on January 9, 1969.

             
2. My mother used to call me Teddy when I was a little boy, but I prefer Edward.

             
3. I think I would like to see a movie on a date. I like movies. Also, if you eat dinner after the movie, you have something to talk about.

             
4. I am my parents’ only child.

             
5. I’m not sure why this matters, but it seems to me that the roadrunner needs no help in escaping the coyote—that’s the whole point of the cartoon, that the coyote never wins. I suppose I would help the coyote, although what I would really like to do is be the guy who invents things for Acme.

Here are five questions for you:

             
1. How many online dates have you been on?

             
2. What is your favorite season?

             
3. Do you watch
Dragnet
?
If so, what is your favorite episode?

             
4. What music do you like?

             
5. Where do you go on vacation?

Regards,

Edward

At 10:00 p.m. sharp, I sit down for my nightly
Dragnet
episode. Tonight, I am watching the twenty-fourth episode of the fourth and final season, “Robbery: The Harassing Wife.” It originally aired on April 2, 1970, and it is one of my favorites.