Other Plans (2 page)

He lay there, thinking about the size of peckers, remembering the annual or, when he was very young, the monthly feel job he'd endured, courtesy of old Doc Spear, the goddam pediatrician. That had always been a low spot, the feel job. He closed his eyes, saw his mother solemnly escorting him into the examination room. Even at four or five, he'd resented the doc taking liberties. Taking hold of his pecker and squeezing it like it was a grapefruit the doc was thinking of buying and wanted to make sure was ripe. The doc wore big thick glasses that blotted out his eyes. In that phony jovial voice of his, he'd ask, “How're the waterworks, son?”

I'm not your son so don't call me son, he remembered thinking. The worst part was his mother, standing in the corner, staring at the wall like a dog in a Booth cartoon, studying the doc's medical degree. Pretending she didn't know the liberties the doc was taking with him. Why didn't she just stay outside and read the
National Geographic
?

The day came when he handled that problem. He was nine, in the fourth grade, where the teacher found him obstreperous and inattentive. He and his mother were sitting in the doc's office, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the summons from the inner sanctum. “You may go in now,” the nurse said, and his mother had leaped to her feet as if someone had goosed her.

In a very loud voice, filled with so much authority he'd been astonished by his own boldness, he'd said, “I want to go in by myself.” His mother had turned, startled, to see who had spoken. A big fat kid was sitting there, reading a comic, waiting his turn. He could see that kid now, see him perfectly, see how the kid's tight pants were caught up in his crotch. “Bully for you,” the kid had said, punching the air with his fist, then ducking down behind his comic. His mother stayed where she was, and he'd gone in alone, walked right in, and hopped up on the examining table like a pro. That was symbolic, he figured. A sort of coming of age. From that day forward, when they went to the doctor's, his mother stayed put.

The telephone beside the bed rang. He leaped off the taffeta bedspread and smoothed it hastily. His mother was giving her famous double cheek.

“Yes? Who iz?” He used his Hungarian accent to throw her off course, make her think she had the wrong number.

“John, it's me, Les. How are you?”

“How's it going, Les?” He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the pleasure out of his voice. Leslie, in her second year of college, was all of the good things: bright and beautiful and funny and honest. Les could hold her own anywhere. He figured she'd grab a magna or summa something when she graduated and go on to head up a big corporation. Maybe make the
Fortune
list of the ten most highly paid women in the country. He could see her flying her own plane to board meetings, maybe even making it to the Supreme Court.

“I'll be home next week on my spring break,” Leslie said. He could hear music and laughter in the background. There always seemed to be music and laughter in the background when Leslie called. College must be a perpetual party.

“I'm bringing a friend, and I wanted to let Mom know so she'd have plenty of warning. You know how she is.”

“They're not home,” he said, lying back on the bed, walking up the wall in his stocking feet. “They're cutting a rug someplace, probably getting stoned. You know them. Is your friend male or female?”

“Female. You'll like her, John. She's outrageous.”

“How come you didn't call collect?” “Outrageous” was Leslie's favorite adjective; it could mean anything.

She snorted. “I'm too old for that. And so are you. That's one of the first signs of independence, John. When you pay for your own phone calls home. That gives you the edge, sonny, and don't you forget it. They say, ‘My baby's finally growing up.'” They laughed, and he stored that away in the compartment reserved for bits of wisdom à la Leslie.

“When are you coming? Ma will want to know so she can start cleaning out the refrigerator.”

“Probably Sunday. If she wants to know what time, say you don't know. If I say three and we don't get there until five, she'll be pacing. They both will. If there's any change, I'll call, okay?”

“Sure. I'll see you,” and he hung up fast, beating her to the punch. He didn't want Les to think he was a pest, hard to shake, the typical kid brother. He also didn't want her to know how much he missed her. When she'd gone away last year he'd had no idea how much he'd miss her. He also hadn't realized how much heat she'd taken off him all those years. With Leslie gone, the full force of his parents' attention was directed at him. They discovered what they'd only suspected: he was goofing off. His teachers complained that his attitude wasn't good, his marks likewise. A set of ground rules had been laid down, calculated to lash him to the mast, stake him to the ground, deprive him of his freedom. Study time, meditation time, outdoor activity time, all were cataloged. No more than ten minutes in the shower and a pox on him if he turned up constipated.

He went to the window and peered out at the big blue globe of light shining from the house across the street. The TV set, holding folks in thrall, like a gigantic fireplace in front of which the family gathered in a ritual of togetherness. In the olden days, before his grandparents had been born, they'd probably blown out the candles and hopped into the sack for lack of anything better to do. Which was why they'd had such big families, he figured. And the kids were put to work hoeing and butchering hogs when they were barely out of diapers. Those days appealed to him. He'd never done a hard day's work. This summer he wanted to land a job working outdoors. Anything that might help to build up some muscle. He'd like to work on a farm, but farms were going out of style. Last year he'd lifted weights. Then he'd strained his back and wasn't able to play football. His father's forearms were bulging and beautiful. When he was little, he remembered stroking them, thinking of his father as a good giant. Now he was taller than his father, to his great delight, but his father still had bigger muscles. How come he hadn't inherited any? At night he did pushups and checked the “For Sale” ads, looking for one reading, “Slightly used barbells, good condition,” but none appeared.

His grandfather, usually a reliable purveyor of bygone customs, had told him that in days of yore, folks had huddled around the radio listening to President Roosevelt. Or, if they were Republicans and hated Roosevelt's guts, they could tune in to Jack Benny or Fred Allen, pretty funny guys in their day. “We made our own fun in those days,” his grandfather had said, on one of his infrequent visits. “I guess you do the same, eh, John,” and he'd winked. “Times haven't changed that much, I suspect.”

He liked to talk to his grandfather. Grandy was a rare bird. A class act, Leslie called him. He wore a Homburg and had a pair of pearl gray spats, which he'd promised to leave to John when he died. “If and when,” Grandy had said. “I'm not ready to go yet, John. Not for a long while. There are too many things I haven't done, places I haven't yet seen.” Grandy was flamboyant. So was Keith. He, John Hollander, was not.

Call me Walter Mitty.

He turned away from the window, thinking again of Leslie. Boy, if she knew how glad he was that she was coming home. Too bad she was bringing a friend. He would've liked it better if she came alone. When it was just the two of them, she talked to him, really talked. He could ask her anything, tell her anything. Almost anything.

Maybe he'd call Keith. He felt like talking. And Keith was the only person, other than Les, he could talk to without crapping around. Except Keith had said it would be better if he didn't call. Don't call me, I'll call you, Keith had said, laughing because he was dead serious. No telling what might be going on over there. Better leave it alone.

A desire for solitude followed quickly on the heels of wanting to talk. Sometimes it happened that way. He was alone, yet he wanted solitude. Odd. That's when he went to his room. It was a lifesaver, that room. His hideaway, one of the few places where no one could get to him. Safe. Inviolable, that room. He made for it, was halfway there when he remembered his homework. He went back downstairs to get his pile of books.

Walter Mitty indeed!

The room had one window. The solitary pane of wobbly old glass looked out on the lawn that sloped down to the pond. Now, in late February, a thin film of green-black ice usually coated the pond's surface, gleaming enticingly, inviting folks to try it out. Last week there'd been a few days of warm sun, almost shirt-sleeve weather. Last night it had snowed. Winter was capricious in southern Connecticut. Spring came slowly, dragging its muddy feet.

He looked down at the pond, layered now with a dusting of last night's snow that hid the dark ice. That's the boy. One step. That'll do it. Walk slow, careful now. Doesn't even creak. Sound as a dollar. Safe as your own bed. A couple of canards, those. Not to worry.

And the blue-eyed boy was hurled down, down into the terrible iciness that grabs the ankles and won't let go. Three little boys, brothers, drowned last week up in New Hampshire. He watched as they pulled the bodies from the water on the six o'clock news. Three of them. A family. No more trio of stockings hung by the chimney with care. He'd closed his eyes against the sight of their mother's face when she got the news.

The room was nine by twelve. Tacked onto the house by some errant builder nursing a hangover, it was cozy and dark, its smallness appealing. Cobwebs festooned the low ceiling with a proprietary air, swaying in the slightest breeze like a lacy curtain. A bordello-type curtain, or what he imagined a bordello-type curtain to be. When even he couldn't stand the room's ambience, he cleaned, wildly wielding the mop, stiffing up dust balls the size of jumbo eggs. The sofa bed beckoned, last year's castoff from a style-conscious neighbor. He had hauled it, with no little effort, from the Tuesday curbside trash heap before the antique dealers could get wind of it. It was definitely collectible. Thin and threadbare, it resembled nothing so much as a wrestling mat. And about as comfortable. He had dreams of wrestling there, on some hot and windless summer night, the humidity unbearable, the family away for a long weekend. If luck was really on his side, they were caught in a massive holiday traffic jam, delayed for hours. Days, even. His partner on the mat will be soft and enthusiastic, an experienced wrestler.

Two chairs cowered in a corner, leaning against each other for support; their springs rested on the floor. This was the furniture that cluttered the room. The decor suited him. He thought of it as understated elegance.

No one was allowed here except by invitation.

“So this is where you hole up, is it?” His father had to stoop to enter.

“Dad,” he heard himself say. And was unable to continue. Dad what? His mother, he knew, was responsible for this visit. “Go talk to him,” he could hear her say. “Show him you care. He's your son, after all. Talk to him.” His mother had a way with words. It was his father's maiden visit. First and last. They stared at each other, uncomfortable alone together, each waiting for the other to speak. His father's eyes were the first to fall. His father, who thought of himself as fastidious, backed out at last, grossed out by the swaying cobwebs, the dense, fetid atmosphere of the place, an atmosphere that discouraged further intimacy. He thought often of that visit, that moment, wished he could call his father back, run through it again. He would handle it differently. “Sit down, Dad,” he would say, “and let's chew the fat. Wait here and I'll get us some grass and we can smoke and let down our hair.” His father would raise an eloquent hand, rejecting this plan. Ignoring the gesture, he would reach inside his secret cache and produce some pretty good stuff procured by Keith, and they would light up and everything would be all right between them.

“This stuff is as good as, if not better than,” his father would say at last, relaxed, friendly, “any martini I ever had.” It was the highest form of compliment his father knew how to pay. A warm rosy glow suffused the room, their faces. Joy crowded their hearts. They were as one.

Now he stood looking out at the willows that ringed the pond, struggling for survival. When spring stirred itself, the willows would be the first to know. And would turn pale yellow overnight in celebration.

In summer an occasional swan, an arrogant, small schooner of a bird, sometimes established residence at the pond, advised of this place's existence, no doubt, by some peripatetic relative with a long memory and a love of quietude. The swan, bad temper well in hand, appetite quickened by the succulent slugs that nestled under the water, was ready to bite the hand that fed it. And often did.

He lay on the sofa bed and fished underneath with a long and dangling arm, looking for a surprise, a book he hadn't read. He had read and reread them all many times. He kept a sizeable supply there, waiting for his attention. These books were his source of joy and wonder. His palliative.

The arm came up with one of J. Thurber's collections. Good. Good. He was in need of a few laughs. Somewhere, recently, he had read that laughter wakes up the mind. He believed this to be true. He settled down to read. And was deep into “The Catbird Seat.” Mr. Martin had, in fact, just turned down the street on which Mrs. Ulgine Barrows lives, his pocket heavy with the unfamiliar package of cigarettes, which weighed like a small revolver, when John heard, like Radar in
M*A*S*H
, the family car. Or cars. His mother and father traveled in separate cars as others flew in separate planes. If an accident occurred, there would be someone left to look after the children, they reasoned. A habit started when the children were very young, it persisted, like most habits. Doubtless they would travel in separate cars when the children had flown the nest and were titans of commerce, writers of renown. He had a secret plan: when he was middle-aged, about thirty-five, he planned to find a village named Renown so he could settle there and then, when he died, his obituary could truthfully read “John Hollander, writer of Renown.”