The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (77 page)

“I've never been late before so guess they'll excuse this once.” He doesn't look at his uncle as he says it, laughs nervously and is gone.

Dwight walks to the kitchen to put the teakettle on. He goes to the window, staring far out. He doesn't want to get ahead of things, to jump to conclusions. Still. He sighs. Like the alternative Fridays, another of life's little challenges, and as he's considering this his eyes absently lower and he is taken aback to see Rett on the sidewalk just below, apparently confused, trying to remember which direction the bus stop is.

 

7

Dwight is relieved that by the time he leaves for his meeting Rett has found the bus stop, or whatever he was looking for, as it would have been awkward for them to have run into each other on the sidewalk. After the excitement of the morning he barely makes it on time, seeing the door start to close from the church corridor and having to run the last ten steps to make it. On a day where it would seem he'd most need to talk, he can't sort out his feelings, and when the order comes around to him he makes a rare choice to silently pass.

When the meeting is over he walks a few blocks, sits on the front steps of a residential building, and tries to figure out what to do. He seriously considers going to Morrison & Foerster to see if an Everett Meyers works there. But maybe interns wouldn't be part of the general employee roster. Then he thinks of going to the firm and waiting outside to see if Rett would eventually exit. But beyond the logistical complications, the possibility that there might be a back door, is the uncomfortable sense that Dwight would be reducing himself to something like a stalker, a covert element of himself too reminiscent of his active junkie days. Some voice of reason insists that he simply wait for the boy to come home and confront him. No.
Speak
with him. He wants to go home now. And what. Count to ten thousand waiting for Rett to walk through the door? He forces himself to go to the museum as originally planned. But try as he might, he cannot let go of his domestic concerns enough to give himself over to the work, and promises to come back another day, that Henry Ossawa Turner deserves his full emotional attention.

He's home by 4:15. Knowing Rett was always here when Dwight would return from work by 5:30, the uncle begins to be concerned at 6:15 and is a little sick with worry an hour later when he finally hears the key in the lock. “Hey Uncle Dwight. They made me stay late to make up for this morning.” Rett seems tired. “I'll be back. I'm just gonna change.” He goes into his room. When thirty minutes pass and he hasn't returned, his room quiet, Dwight gently knocks and calls, then peeks in. Rett is dead asleep on top of his unmade bed. It had been a strange day, one in which the behavior of his mysterious nephew had hinted at even bigger secrets than Dwight had imagined so, just to be sure, Dwight stands in the doorway until he clearly detects the rise and fall of Rett's chest.

He waits in the living room, paying scant attention to the television, the volume on low. By ten Dwight finds it hard to keep his eyes open, and turns out all the lights in the apartment. In the middle of the night he hears creeping in the kitchen. Dwight glances at his bedtable alarm, 1:30, and closes his eyes again.

When he emerges in his bathrobe four hours later he cries out, seeing a man standing in the living room.

“Oh sorry to scare you, Uncle Dwight! I just wanted to apologize for yesterday.”

Dwight takes a breath, trying to put his morning head together. “You want some tea? Coffee?”

“Whatever you're having.”

Dwight puts the kettle on. It had not occurred to him that Rett would be up first, before Dwight had a chance to get himself fully awake and ready for this conversation.

“You probably think it's weird.”

“What.” Dwight speaks over the kitchen half-wall to his nephew, who still stands in the living room.

“That every time you come home from your work I'm already home from my work, and then the one time you're home that I definitely should have been at work I was still home.”

Dwight's a bit discombobulated by Rett's summary of the situation but he gets the gist.

“It won't happen again, Uncle Dwight. It was just a weird coincidence, the one day I'm told to come in late you—” Rett doesn't complete the sentence.

“I was lookin out the winda. I didn't mean to be spyin on ya, but I happened to look out the winda. I thought you were gone. But there you were on the sidewalk below, like you ain't never been to the bus stop before and didn't know which way to go.”

Rett's brow furrows, trying to understand. Then he laughs. “Oh! That happens every morning. Cuz whenever we've taken the bus for sightseeing, it's that other bus stop so I always get confused—” Again Rett stops mid-sentence. The teakettle whistles and Dwight pours two mugs, bringing them to the dining table. They sit. Rett takes a sip, then lowers his cup. “You don't believe me.”

“It just seemed odd, two and a half weeks workin at the place and you didn't appear to know how to get there. I just want you to know if there's anything wrong you can come to me. If you're ever in any trouble. I ain't gonna get mad.”

“Oh I'm not in any trouble.”

“Well if you ever get in any. Cuz I know trouble well and no matter how bad it might seem to you, it can only get worst if ya don't ask for help. And I want you to know no matter what it is you can tell me and I promise I'll help ya so it don't become worst.”

“Oh I'm not in any trouble.”

“
I want you to stop sayin that.
Hear? I want you to just promise if anything comes up you'll tell me. I can only help ya if ya let me know. Okay?”

Rett stares, not sure whether he should answer. Then he nods.

“Okay. Now yesterday. What happened was I found out I'm gonna have every other Friday off over the summer. That's why I wasn't at work. I took this Friday off, and I'll work next Friday.”

Rett nods again.

“Okay.” Dwight takes a sip. “Now. Anything special you wanna do today?”

Rett looks at his cup. “I should probably work on my French lessons. I've kind of been neglecting them.”

“Okay. How about tonight? Go to a movie?”

“If. If you want to.”

“I'd kinda like to. There, look in the paper and see what's playin.”

Since they're up early, breakfast is early. And Dwight gets fancy: homemade banana walnut pancakes. Afterward Rett goes to his room and, though his uncle hasn't asked, begins to clean it, leaving the door cracked open as if to show Dwight he has nothing to hide. Dwight washes the dishes, and after his shower he walks by a clean guestroom, Rett sitting on a made bed wearing his headphones and softly repeating:
Je voudrais commander le coq au vin et les escargots.
In the evening they go out for pizza and then to see
War Games,
a film they both enjoy and discuss all the way home.

Sunday afternoon Dwight heads to the grocery store for his weekly shopping before his 4 p.m. meeting while Rett vacuums the apartment. Hardly accurate to call it “weekly” anymore; with his nephew on hand he seems to stop by the market every other day. Dwight had felt inspired to bake his peanut blossom cookies—peanut butter with the chocolate kiss pressed in the center—but after walking two blocks from the house he realizes he'd forgotten to jot down the ingredients. He turns to go home and retrieve the recipe, but as he enters his apartment he is startled to glimpse a movement in his bedroom. He hurries to his door. Rett stands staring at him, frozen.

“What are you doing in my room?”

The silence interminable.

“A mouse. I thought I saw a mouse in here. You get mice, Uncle Dwight?”

“Never.”

“I thought I saw a mouse in here. Sorry, tonight I wouldn't be able to sleep if I knew there was a mouse in the house. I had to look for it.” He goes back to his own bedroom, sits on his bed looking at nothing, his head hung in juvenile shame.

Dwight goes to the market and when he returns carrying two bags of groceries, he taps lightly on his nephew's closed door. “Rett. You wanna come out and help me put this stuff away?”

Rett appears and quietly does as his uncle has asked. Dwight finally breaks the silence. “I'm sorry about before. I probably overreacted. Just. I been alone for so long. Private.”

“It's okay, Uncle Dwight. I never would've gone in there if I hadn't seen that mouse.”

On Monday Dwight dials the telephone company from work, asking for a record of recent calls to and from his home. He breathes easier when he hears that the only two he didn't make himself were both to the number Dwight recognizes in Indianapolis: Rett calling home.

No doubt owing to the domestic stress, for the first time in his ten months on the job Dwight has forgotten his lunch. He'd packed it this morning and left the house without it. He sighs, dreading walking into his apartment to find Rett there. He strolls home, and to his enormous relief his nephew is gone. Rett had even made his bed, though the rest of the room is already finding its way back to its occupant's natural disarray. Dwight sniffs. Lately he'd noticed an odor, and now he realizes it seems to be originating in this room. He opens the window, then picks up his lunch and returns to work.

That evening as well as Tuesday and Wednesday are mercifully uneventful, a simple dinner and light conversation. Dwight is surprised that Rett has so quickly recovered from the events of the weekend. If anything he seems strangely more at ease, showing Dwight a California guidebook he'd picked up, expressing his enthusiasm about the forthcoming excursion, how much he loves driving and his eagerness to go rolling down alongside the great Pacific.

On Thursday Dwight comes home from work to find Rett on the couch, MTV turned on, munching on chips with a large glass of milk next to the bowl. He wears his pajamas. Dwight goes to the kitchen to see what he will cook for dinner but is once again distracted by the odor, now seeming to flood the entire apartment. He walks into the living room.

“Rett?”

“Yes? Oh hi, Uncle Dwight.” He had not looked up when his uncle entered the apartment and even now his eyes remain glued to Michael Jackson stepping on sidewalk squares and lighting them up.

“Did you go to work today?”

Rett turns to look at his uncle, momentarily confused. Then he looks down at his attire.

“Oh. Sure! I just changed when I got home. More comfortable.” And he turns back to the television. Dwight opens the refrigerator, looks in, and closes the door.

“Rett?”

“Hmm?”

“I just bought two large bags of potato chips and a gallon of milk last night, and now they're all gone.”

“Oh. Oh wow, I'm such a pig! Sorry, I'll replace em for you.”

“Thank you. You know, it might be good if you started chippin in with the groceries a bit. Since you're earnin a paycheck.”

“Sure, Uncle Dwight.”

Dwight pauses. “Rett?”

“Yeah? I mean, Yes?”

“You're starting to smell.”

Now Rett turns to stare at his elder.

“You have very strong body odor. When's the last time you had a shower?”

Rett considers the question. “Oh wow!” he laughs. “Funny how you forget those things,” and he turns back to the screen.

“No one at work has mentioned anything to you about this?”

“No, they're pretty laid back. I mean, in a corporate law firm sort of way.” Rett still facing away from his uncle.

“Okay. So I would appreciate it if you would bring a couple bags fulla groceries home after work tomorrow?”

“Yes, I will.”

“And take a nice thorough shower tonight? Wash your hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And clean the tub when you're through?”

“Gotcha,” and with that word Dwight for the first time glimpses a bit of Eliot in his grown nephew.

Friday morning Dwight applies the second and final coat of paint to the south hall of the school, finishing just in time to run to his meeting. When it's over he is aware of being utterly exhausted. He goes back to work but finds it just too much, and remembers Ms. Lorenzo's advice to take it easy. He calls it a day at one, four hours of work, deciding to make it up by taking one of his future Fridays off and turning it into another half-day. Although he'd asked Rett to pick up a few things at the market he hadn't given him a list, and he remembers now that he needs garlic and onions for his tomato sauce, having planned spaghetti for dinner. At the grocery he puts the vegetables in his small basket, and as long as he's here he picks up a box of cereal, and he could use some eggs, and butter, are they running low on salt? And he should get lettuce, and seven-grain or garlic bread? Italian dressing or Catalina? and as he's struggling over all these dire questions it dawns on him that he's avoiding going back to his apartment early for fear of finding Rett there when the boy should be at work. He'd told him he would be at the school all day today so Rett would not expect his uncle to appear until after five. Dwight adds nothing to the cart, walks to the cashier to pay, and heads home.

When he enters he immediately sees that Rett is indeed there, in his room. The door is ajar, and Rett sits on the floor facing away from it, headphones on. Dwight sighs. He puts the groceries into the kitchen trying to stay calm,
At least the boy is dressed,
and he walks to his nephew's room, pushing the door open wider. Dwight hears the tinny sound from the headphones, the volume must be earsplitting. Rett still isn't aware that anyone is behind him, and now Dwight notices his nephew is reading something. He takes a step in for a better look, and when Dwight sees what is in Rett's hands he cries out in horror.

Rett leaps up and across the room, inadvertently pulling the phones out of the stereo, the room suddenly flooded and pounding with men declaring and demanding
We want the funk! Give up the funk!
Rett quickly turns the stereo off.

“What are you doing reading my journal?”

Rett stares at his uncle, mute, wanting to answer, searching wildly for an answer. Dwight snatches it from his nephew, the composition book wherein he has stored his memories. It was the second of two volumes thus far, and Dwight now notices the first on the floor, apparently already perused. He seizes it and storms into his own bedroom, slamming the door. He paces, catching his breath before making the call. Why had he waited? Until last week he would have been the harbinger of only good news. Two years clean, and he and his nephew getting along well. But now. He picks up the receiver. In all these years the number hasn't changed, and he hasn't forgotten it.