The Ask (24 page)

Maura would be home soon. Then it would be time to get Bernie at Christine's. But this really wasn't my life right now. My life was across the river. My life was in the rough patch. My life was vaporing about. But I'd be back. I belonged here.

A man sat beside me on the bus out to Nearmont. He looked about my age, with black and gray stubble on his face, a flannel shirt. He tapped a packet of guitar strings in his hands.

“Do I know you?” he said. “You look familiar.”

“I don't think so,” I said.

“Pat?”

“No.”

“No, that's me, Pat White. You look familiar. You play music? Did you ever play with Glave Wilkerson? Spacklefinger? Out of Eastern Valley?”

“No,” I said.

“Sure?”

“Yes,” I said. “I'm pretty sure.”

I pointed to his packet.

“You play?”

“Hells, yeah,” said Pat. “Used to have a band. Alternative. You like alternative?”

“I guess.”

“What they play now, that's not really alternative. My generation, maybe our generation, looking at you, we were truly alternative. My band, we played all over. We dominated the area in terms of battle of the bands and whatnot. We even beat Spacklefinger one time.”

“What was the name of your band?”

“Sontag.”

“Really? That's an amazing name for a band.”

“It means Sunday.”

“Oh, right.”

“That was the days of true alternative rock,” said Pat. “Now it's just commercialized. But anyway, what was I saying?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“That's 'cause I didn't say it yet.” Pat laughed. “Oh yeah. We were good, is my point. But our drummer, he fucking signed up for the army, went to the Gulf War. Never came back. I mean never came back around here. Went to California. And that was the end of the band, because, I'll tell you, man, you can teach any human ejaculant to play bass or guitar or even front the frigging thing, but you can't turn somebody into a kickass drummer. People are born with that gift, and not many, bro, trust me. Look at what's his name, the British dude, who died of his own puke. Nobody's hit like that since, and that was forty years ago. Forty years is a lifetime. Forty years is my lifetime.”

“Let's hope you have more than that,” I said.

“Bro,” said Pat, “I have no intention of outstaying my welcome.
I came, I saw, I rocked, I made no money, I got Hep C. End of story.”

Pat pulled a fifth of whiskey from the gym bag at his feet. He took some clandestine pulls, offered it up.

“No thanks,” I said

“It's decent stuff.”

“I'm trying to cut back.”

“Dude who says that is never cutting back. He's either drinking or not drinking. I know all about it.”

“All the same,” I said.

Pat slipped the bottle back into his bag. We both put our seats back and stared out the window for a while. Night fell and I stared at the dark shapes of trees until they were just dark shapes.

There was city darkness and the dark outside the city, the Nearmont dark, the Eastern Valley dark, which, being only one town over, was pretty much the Nearmont dark. I pictured the Pangburn Falls dark as something else. Darker, maybe. Did Purdy ever stay the night in those upstate motels, cuddle with Nathalie under scratchy bleached-out sheets, kiss her shoulder to wake her before his dawn drive home? Or did Nathalie leave first, nervous about young Don, his dinner, his suspicions? Only Purdy knew. Only Purdy's version would ever stand for truth. Maybe that was what Don finally understood. There was no use fighting it. Especially when all you were really fighting for was the love of a man you hated.

Nobody was going to tell Nathalie's story. Stories were like people. We pretended they all counted, but almost none of them did.

“Hey,” said Pat. “Want to rethink your decision?”

He was hunched over with the bottle near his knee.

“What the hell,” I said, took a sip.

“That's the way,” said Pat. “This country was built on the
backs of dudes who drank on buses. What we do honors them. Anyway, it's all highly dealable in the end.”

“What's that?” I said, drank some more.

“Everything. As long you don't choke on your puke. That's my golden fucking rule.”

We rolled into Nearmont late. I stepped off the bus and walked the berm of the county road. Big Jeeps and minivans roared by and a cold wind blew off Grandy Pond. It was hard to see inside the cars, but I could almost make out the mothers and fathers and children in them, the dirty cleats and grocery bags, the lulling glow of dashboard lights. Everybody wanted to get home. Home could be a ruined place, joyless, heaped with the ashes of scorched hearts, but come evening everybody hustled to get there.

Once I walked this road on early spring evenings, knapsack slung on one shoulder, the cars ripping along, headlights slashing the yard barrels and wet lawns, my hair wet, too, from the track team showers, my body sore and buzzy from the weight room, all those snatches and squats and curls.

I threw the javelin then, was no champion, not even a contender for regional ribbons, just good enough to know the happiness of making your body a part of that spear, to get a good trot up to the throwing line, to slip into a rabbity sideways hop and snap your hips, launch a steel-tipped proxy of yourself at the sky.

I would savor the long walk home, the sweet, achy daze of it, drift into the jagged excitements of my future, paintings, parties, people, women people, a ceaseless celebration of my greedy, spangled destiny. There was nothing noble about such want. But
it was me, and maybe some of you, walking home from school in April drizzle, dreaming.

And maybe it was me and some of you who took a nap before dinner, lay back on the sofa with a book, the assigned reading, another novel with the old-fashioned folk, their stiff speeches and chafed hearts. Maybe some of you, like me, shut your eyes with the book open on your chest, tumbled into another world, near and impossible, homeroom skin beneath rain-damp denim.

Certain noises would sever the reverie, a cough, my mother in the kitchen, the local news flipped on the kitchen TV—arson and elevator assaults across the river, or Don Mattingly, Donnie Baseball, with his leopard swing and porn-star mustache, on another hitting streak for the Yankees—the sounds of dishes pulled from their shelves, the rubber smooch of the refrigerator door, the tepid click of salad tongs, the hiss of garlic, frying.

No, Claudia never cooked with garlic. Maura did.

But this house in Nearmont, with all its woes, a Jolly Roger here and also never here, and the poison sadness seeping from my mother, even then this house in Nearmont was always a home, heated, with food, and familiar noises, and I was lucky to have it, this home to trust and hate, to launch myself from like a javelin that tails and wobbles and does not drive into the turf but skids to a halt at a slightly less-than-average distance, a mediocre distance, from the lumped lime line.

This is what the blessed get. A heated box, a stocked pantry, a clumpy metaphor.

The blessed get legs. The unblessed get humps, titanium girls.

I turned onto Eisenhower. Lights blazed in the bay window. Francine opened the door before I could knock.

“Come in, honey,” she said.

I stepped into the foyer, heard Purdy’s voice.

He sat with my mother on the sofa, sacks of chocolate and licorice between them. Michael Florida tipped forward in the rocking chair, winked.

“Purdy,” I said, took a seat on the hassock.

“How come you never invited me to your mother’s house? She’s a force!”

“I’ve been calling you,” I said.

“Your friend is making me fat,” said Claudia. “I’ll never fit into my racing suit.”

“Give me a break,” said Purdy. “You’re a knockout.”

“I like this guy,” said my mother.

“Did you get my messages?” I said.

“I’m sure I did.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Sweetie,” said Claudia, “you seem a little wound up.”

“Your mom was just telling us some funny stories about young Milo Burke.”

“Hilarious stuff,” shouted Francine from the kitchen. “Hey, guys, I’ve got stone-ground crackers and pony cans of pumpkin beer. Who’s game?”

“Bring on the crackers!” called Michael Florida. “Heck, let me get in there and help.”

Michael Florida trotted off to the kitchen.

“What kinds of stories?”

“Well, we just heard the one where you brought this nice Japanese girl home and then, just as you were about to kiss her, you shit your jeans,” said Purdy. “That was pretty good.”

“That never happened.”

“Plausible deniability. Well done.”

“I don’t care. It just didn’t happen. My mother is conflating.”

“It’s true,” said Claudia. “I’m a notorious conflater. And we
shouldn’t tease Milo. He’s always been thin-skinned. A very nervous boy. Anxious.”

“I wonder why,” I said.

“These things are chemical,” said Claudia. “We all have different temperaments.”

“So you think the nurture bit was top quality? Even the sociopathic cokehead dad part? And your perpetual war on flatware?”

Claudia smiled.

“Who knows what helps and what hurts, honey. Francine! Let me do something! Purdy, would you and your friend like to stay for dinner?”

“Love to,” said Purdy. “But we’ve got to get back to the city. Melinda really appreciates me being around these days.”

“Of course. It’s so wonderful. A baby.”

“Mom, you hate children.”

“You know that’s not true, Milo.”

“Just mine.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Claudia rose, joined Francine in the kitchen.

I leaned forward on my elbows toward Purdy.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Purdy glanced over at the glass door that led out to the patio, the yard.

“Tetherball? Lordy. May we?”

We walked out to the rusted pole. A shrunken ball, just a hunk of desiccated leather, dangled from the cord. Years ago, during a rare moment of domestic tranquillity, Jolly Roger had dug the dirt and sunk the pole and poured the cement. We’d played a few spirited games after the cement dried, to “test the apparatus,” then never again. Later, in my teens, I liked to stand out there alone, punch the ball, watch it whip and switch directions, duck as the thing looped back around, asteroidal, screaming.
All the creatures of planet Milo, extincted.

Purdy unwound the ball, slapped it into the air. The pole creaked. The ball sliced through the patio lights.

“What a crappy setup,” he said.

“It’s not so bad.”

I whacked the hunk back. Purdy caught it.

“You know what?” he said.

“What?”

“I always regretted not convincing you to work for me back in the day. It really was the best thing you could have done. We both knew the art stuff wasn’t going to happen.”

“We did?”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Right, I guess you didn’t. Or you wouldn’t have kept trying.”

Purdy tossed the ball up, smashed it into orbit.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.

“How could I? Besides, what did I know? I’m not in charge of everybody’s destiny.”

“You’re not?” I said.

Purdy stared until he seemed to understand.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be so down, buddy. I’m sorry about this job of yours. I know they pulled the rug out on you today. We all just thought it was best to uncomplicate things. To disentangle. But I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“There’s that negative tone again. You know, Milo, it was always pretty hard to be your friend. You have a lot to offer but you’re so afraid to give up your best. It’s like at the supermarket, when they put the old milk at the front of the shelf, so people will buy it. That’s you.”

“What’s me? The milk? I’m the milk? Or am I the supermarket? Or am I buying the milk?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Get back to me on this: Why did you come here tonight?”

“I came by to say hello. To make sure we were cool.”

“Cool?”

“That’s right, Milo. Are we cool?”

“Sure, we’re cool. I mean, you are definitely cool.”

“Good.”

“What could be cooler than all the stuff you’ve done? To your wife. To your girlfriend. To your son. That’s cool shit. I could be cool, too. I could learn.”

“See,” said Purdy, caught the ball, cradled it. “You’re confusing things. You think you’re talking to me, but you’re not. Because you have no right to talk to me that way. And because you’re talking to somebody else.”

“To somebody else? Whom would that be?”

“Fuck if I know,” said Purdy.

“No, really,” I said. “Tell me. I’m so curious.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Probably you are talking to yourself, Milo. You are probably talking to yourself. Or the deadbeat junkie that bought this ridiculously sad tetherball set for you.”

I lunged, snatched Purdy by the collar, yanked him into my chest, wrapped the cord around his neck.

“Jesus!” he gasped.

“Sonofabitch,” I said.

“Milo, cut this shit out right …”

I tugged hard on the rope. Purdy clawed at his neck.

“Where are the bodies?”

“Bodies?” gurgled Purdy.

“Where are the bodies, you motherfucking murderer!” I said.

“You’re … insane,” said Purdy. “Bodies? No bodies.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s just fun to say. I’m making my own fun. I just really feel like choking you right now. Is that cool? Are we cool?”

“Stop … this shit. Can’t breathe. Help!”

I heard the patio door swing open, a swish in the grass.

“Help!” said Purdy, choked, drooled.

I pulled Purdy to the ground, cinched the cord tight. Something heavy stabbed my head. A pointy hammer, I thought, right before thought stopped.

I woke a moment later in the wet grass, saw a blur of boots and black trousers, a flicker of metal, gone. Michael Florida stood over me.

“Man.” Purdy coughed. “This is ridiculous. What the hell? You can’t do that. Who does that? My fucking neck. My fucking
trachea
. What the … I mean, that’s … what, were you going to kill me?”

Purdy coughed again, stood.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Ridiculous. Unbelievable.”

“I think it was a joke,” I said. “I can’t think.”

“Get up,” said Michael Florida, pulled me to my feet.

The patio door swung open again.

“What’s going on?” said Claudia.

“Nothing,” said Purdy, unspooled himself from the cord, coughed once more, hocked phlegm into the hedges. “Everything’s fine.”

“We heard these noises.”

“Ladies,” said Purdy, “it’s been a beautiful evening. Let’s do it again real soon.”

Francine and Claudia nodded, frozen. Some sound, almost a growl, started up Claudia’s throat, fell back.

“Milo,” said Purdy. “Walk us to our car?”

Part of me considered resisting this little frog march across the street, but I was still dizzy and Michael Florida’s grip on my
arm was strong. He shoved me in the back of the sedan. He and Purdy slid in front. The door locks clicked. Purdy stared straight ahead. I rubbed the throb from my skull.

“Well,” said Purdy. “We tried. You can’t say we didn’t try. But I really don’t think we can be buddies anymore. It’s so hard to keep up the old friendships, isn’t it? People change. Priorities change. It’s sad, but it’s also natural, I guess. Let’s remember the good times. The parties, the high blood-toxicity levels, the laughs. We had a lot of laughs. But those days are over, I think. Those days are definitely done. Let’s just leave it back on Staley Street, shall we? Let’s just never write or speak to each other ever again. That would be wonderful. Let me not ever see your face again and I will die, well, not a happy man, but maybe vaguely content on the subject of Milo Burke and how he tried to strangle me—with a fucking tetherball rope, mind you—because he happens to be a sick freak living in a pathetic hallucination of a life, though you wouldn’t know that right away because he comes off as fairly normal at first so you might even befriend him, or re-befriend him, as the case may be, and then go so far as to trust him with some sensitive information until you realize, almost too late, that he is completely out of his fucking tree. Yes, I foresee vague contentment on my deathbed if we stick to this plan. Does that sound okay by you?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I can’t hear you, you piece of psychotic shit.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Now, I know you’re getting some severance from the university. But I also know how tough things are out there, and you with a kid, who nobody can blame for having a father like you. So, here’s our severance to add to your other severance. Mix all that severance together. It’s like a jambalaya of fucking severance. It’s tasty and you can stuff your fat treacherous face with it. Michael?”

Michael Florida slid an envelope between the bucket seats.
Everything with Purdy had been these envelopes, these seats. It could really put you off envelopes.

“That, along with the other cash I’ve given you, it should hold you for a while, no?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Sure, he says.”

“This should be sufficient,” I said, everything still blurred from the blow. I felt the tender bloom of the wound under my hand.

“Sufficient,” said Purdy. “You’re a fucking loser, Milo, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that you didn’t win. Do you understand that?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“All I ever did was give love, Milo. To everybody, I gave love. Even my old man, and that bastard …”

Purdy pinched his eyes shut, punched the glove box, lightly.

“I didn’t wreck her car,” he said. “I didn’t put her in a coma. The doctors recommended she be moved. The state place was better suited. That was their phrase, better suited. It was their suggestion. I was still going to pay. I loved her. I still love her. I can’t help it. And I am really tired of trying to help it when I truly cannot help it. You can all go to hell. None of you feel. You are feeling’s assassins. Get out of my car.”

The door locks clicked again.

“Wait,” said Purdy. “Give it to him.”

Michael Florida swiveled back. There was another glint in his hand.

“Jane heard you at the party,” said Purdy.