Another You (35 page)

“I want things to turn out well for all of us,” McCallum said, pushing open the restaurant door. Over his shoulder, Marshall saw that the family still sat around the table, the man stubbornly remaining until he was asked to leave, the little girl powerless, the
mother fatigued, resigned. My God, Marshall thought: Were those people so different from their own trio? McCallum bullish; Cheryl trying to resist intimidation; himself, sitting silently for most of the time they were there at the table, under the weight of a situation—a constantly unfolding situation—that seemed never to stretch to full length, so it could be examined and understood.

The cold air might as well have literally smacked them, the impact was so powerful. It took Marshall’s breath away. In the parking lot was an old pickup, a Toyota, and a black Ford station wagon. A sheet of newspaper blew across the lot, followed by a can of Coke that rolled from underneath the pickup. Back in the restaurant, one light was turned off, then another.

“If you didn’t know me, if you didn’t know anything about me,” McCallum said, “would it bother you as much that she had a place in her heart for me, and that I still cared for her?”

“You don’t care for her,” Cheryl said, hunched in the wind. “This isn’t some cosmic coincidence either. Your marriage is over and you’re doing what’s expedient. You were driving through on your way to Florida anyway.” She gestured toward Marshall. “Wasn’t that what you pointed out earlier?” she said.

“Don’t confuse me with him. Please,” Marshall said.

“I don’t,” Cheryl said, arms crossed over her chest. “I remember you, too.”

That night, as McCallum slept curled against the pillow he clung to like a life raft pushed against his stomach to ride out another stormy night, the flashlight from the road emergency kit sending an oblong beam along the dirty gray shag carpeting because there was no bedside lamp, Marshall played back in his mind the night he’d left his house intending to go to Livan Baker’s rescue. Had he really been going to the apartment because of her, or because of Cheryl? Cheryl more than Livan, to tell the truth. In the moment, though, that trip had seemed to be about something else; it had been convenient not to think it through. Now he thought Sonja might have been with Tony. Was that why she wasn’t home, though it was late? Was that why she’d said, “Happens” with such resignation, sitting tiredly on the bed, still in her clothes, after McCallum’s long night of revelations?
“Happens.” Well, that was indisputable. Things happened, situations materialized and transmuted, changed of their own accord, it seemed, as if they were not within people’s control. Maybe, he thought sleepily, everybody in the face of life’s power, its tragedy and its absurdity, its changeability, became the little brother, looking to someone else for explanations, confirmation, guidance. That would be one of the reasons people procreated: so they’d have someone impressionable to tell their stories to, someone who would believe them, at least for a long time, an audience to whom they could recite their stories instead of introspecting. All those little dramas, made huge because they were personal: How Dad Met Mom; Your First Brilliant Statement; Why Our Family Has Special Reason to Fear Thunderstorms; Gentlemen Open Doors for Ladies. Family myths, passed on from generation to generation, along with a tendency toward tooth decay, or genes determining baldness.

He could remember distinctly lying in bed, a twin bed far more comfortable than the bed he was lying in now, taxing Gordon’s patience by wanting everything the adults had said that day verified or refuted by the one person he trusted absolutely. What a reluctant interpreter Gordon had been: caught in the middle, Marshall now understood, having to decide whether it was better that Marshall believed what they said, because that would make things easier on everyone, or whether he should respect his little brother’s intelligence and give him more information, allowing him to see through the adults’ rhetoric, their shaky scenarios passed off as absolutes, their parents no more convinced what direction to take than their mapless children. For years, Gordon had pointed out the fallacies in their parents’ logic, kept from sleep by the necessity of setting Marshall straight: the parents needed to believe in Santa Claus, so it was best to pretend; their father had sent them from the table not because they’d had inappropriate fits of giggling, but because he wanted time alone with his wife. In retrospect, he had been a burden—more than he’d suspected, thinking over their nighttime debriefings this many years later. He could remember Gordon saying,
She’s really dying
, and
He doesn’t think you’re a sissy for playing with paper dolls, he wants someone to blame for her getting sick, because he can’t blame her and he can’t blame himself. You just happened to have your stupid paperdolls out
. He could also remember climbing into Gordon’s
bed, when no amount of reasoning would work to make him feel better, and Gordon’s deep sighs, as if Marshall’s presence were a boulder rolled onto his tiny island of mattress to displace him, though another part of him knew that Gordon was flattered to have him there.
Yes, she’s sick; she’s dying
, he remembered Gordon saying, whispering it with real urgency,
but there’s something else
, he had said.
I
can’t figure it out, but there’s something I don’t know
.

It was Marshall’s last conscious thought, sliding lower in the bed, fastidiously turning back the green bedspread he automatically assumed was soiled, settling himself in the bed’s deep crease as well as he could, the hum of a headache boring into him. The idea of being on his way to see Gordon was at once comforting and discomforting; he had asked so much of Gordon—probably too much. And then when they became adults they had drifted apart. He had drifted away from the person who had been his life raft, yet he had the idea now that he needed, at least temporarily, to return; that even if McCallum hadn’t seized on the idea of a trip, he would have made the trip alone. It was a time in his life when Gordon shouldn’t have any power over him; everyone knew that at some point the complexity, the sheer accumulation of experiences, evened out age differences between people. He supposed it was not so much his insights that he wanted as his guaranteed sympathy: his burdensome friend; his disenfranchised wife. Though he wasn’t talkative on the phone, face-to-face he would become again the Gordon Marshall had always known, the brother he could still turn to.

He looked across the room, as he had when he was a child, though instead of seeing the reassuring sight of his brother asleep—the explanations all registered, Gordon leading the way even into sleep—he saw the lumpish mass of McCallum.

18

MARSHALL
—the note from McCallum began. I
wouldn’t do this if I thought I’d really be leaving you stranded, but I’m afraid I’ve been getting you down. I do have to see Janet Lanier, but am not going to end her marriage (I guess that’s been done already) or force myself on her sexually, and if I do, I won’t tie her up (joke). Got up a little after five, found diner across the highway just opening. Looked at my horoscope. Scorpio must “trust those from the past to provide knowledge about your present.” I don’t suppose I have to justify this to you, but it’s pretty hard to see myself as Prince Charming—Cheryl’s wrong about my power—but what I’m hoping for from Janet is some acknowledgment I’m not a monster, either. I got some money out of the cash machine (behind 7-Eleven, if you’re interested; it’s one of those new ones. Screen says
HELLO, MR. MCCALLUM
when you slide in card) that I’m going to press on her. Not my cock, my money. As if I could get it up feeling this bad. One more addendum, slightly embarrassing: the same way you were telling me you still look up to your older brother, I look up to you. I know there are problems in your marriage right now, but I also know they’re going to blow over. Hey—at least you didn’t marry Susan. If she loved the kid as much as she said, she wouldn’t have gone after me, landing herself in jail, leaving him stranded. Can still hear the old lady’s gasp when I called her from the hospital and told her what her daughter had done
.

Marshall turned to the other side. He looked at McCallum’s little arrow, surprised that McCallum might think he wouldn’t have the
sense to turn the bag over. On the flip side, McCallum’s writing became smaller, sloppier.

About Boston: felt guilty cheating on Susan, though as you might suppose, our sex life wasn’t great. That trip wasn’t the first time Livan and I had sex. Afterwards, I had a nightmare in which Susan’s greatest fear (along with doing anything positive to help the kid, that is) materialized. I was Prince Charming, or at least somebody richer than I am, and Susan was a bag lady, which is always what she feared she’d end up. She wanted me to join the Masons, so she’d have a decent old age home to go to if I died. Not in the dream, in real life. We had fights because I wouldn’t join the Masons. A guy who writes in “Gore Vidal” on every Presidential election ballot, a hippie who spent his college years in SDS, and she wanted me to join the Masons. In the dream, I was kissing Livan, walking pretty much where we actually walked, area around Boston Common, and the b. lady threatened us with a gun. I talked the b. lady into dropping it. Then I kissed her, and suddenly it was Susan standing there. I grabbed her hands. Then she was handcuffed by the police for causing a public disturbance. Livan woke me up because I was grabbing her wrist. Bits and pieces of what Livan later accused me of are true, but they weren’t done to her the way she said, they were things I’d described to her from nightmares
.

You’ve been more of a friend to me than anybody since I lost Livan. No kidding: I once thought that despite her age, despite the fact she was a girl, she was my best friend. Trust you know me well enough to know that I know what I’m doing. This afternoon will get ticket back north from Roanoke, try to pick up pieces. I appreciate everything you’ve done
.

What do you sign a note written on two sides of a takeout bag? Best Wishes? Best wishes, Happy New Year next year, Hang loose, God bless.—McCallum

It was an incredible document. The obvious thing to do would be call the Laniers’ house. McCallum would be glad to hear from him, reassured to know Marshall worried about him after receiving the note; he’d also no doubt want him to go there and sit around the kitchen table, listen along with him to the woman’s story, or even—God forbid—he’d want him to listen to more of his own. He sat in the car, where he’d been sitting since he looked through the window
and saw the note on the driver’s seat. The first thing he noticed was that without a passenger the car was quiet and seemed infinitely spacious. He tossed the bag in the backseat, rubbed his hands over his face. McCallum had mentioned Roanoke. Where was Roanoke, and how had McCallum known there was an airport there?

He went back into the dingy motel room. A maid’s cart sat on the blacktop outside, and a fat black maid was cleaning in the room next door. He wanted to be gone from the room as much as the maid wanted him gone. He decided to forget about shaving and tossed the few things he’d brought in with him into his duffel bag. As he picked up his shaver, he saw that one of McCallum’s dirty shirts hung on the back of the bathroom door, and when he saw it a feeling went through him almost as if he’d seen the ghost of McCallum. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Neither was he proud of himself for leaving the shirt hanging there until he felt ashamed—of course he would have to turn around and get the shirt. He zipped the duffel bag and picked up the shirt, exiting the room just as the maid came to the open door. He said good-morning to her; she returned his greeting. He tossed the duffel bag on the backseat—no more McCallum, who’d stretched out there for naps periodically—and got halfway to the office, on foot, before he realized McCallum had taken his denim shirt. It had been in a plastic bag on the floor of the backseat, a last-minute grab on his way out of the house in New Hampshire, Sonja thoughtfully having decided to go to the cleaner’s the day before he left. His next-to-favorite blue shirt, and McCallum had just helped himself.

Behind the desk was a thin woman with a missing front tooth. She stood behind dish gardens and potted plants that had a lavender Gro-Lite aimed at them from a bulb clipped near the top of a coat-rack. He saw that a philodendron had been trained to grow coiled around a toilet plunger, which had been painted white. At the top, with nowhere else to climb, the plant looped down and was headed for a pink ceramic elephant with a begonia planted in its back. Small pots of African violets were dotted amid the larger plants, rounds of cotton underneath the bottom leaves, padding the rims. Stuck in some of the pots were drink swizzle sticks topped with pink plastic mermaids, or bright green sailboats.

“Your brother paid the bill,” the woman said.

Was it the woman’s supposition they were brothers, or had McCallum told her that? If he had, he’d probably guessed there was a good chance the woman would repeat the information.