Exley (28 page)

“Really?” J. said in a disgusted voice. I looked at her. She still wasn't looking at me. I couldn't tell if she was mad at me for kissing her or if the smell really bothered her that much. She was fingering her scar now. “How can you not smell anything?”

I really didn't want to talk about the smell anymore, and it was making me mad that J. kept talking about it anyway, so I said, “Where'd you get that scar anyway?”

J. immediately stopped fingering it. She glared at me for a second or two, then looked away, toward my dad again.

“I'm sorry,” I said. J. didn't say anything back. She leaned down to look
at my dad up close again. I thought she was going to say it was nice to meet him or something. But she didn't. She just turned away from him and me and started to walk out of the room. “Where are you going?” I asked. J. didn't answer. Maybe because it was obvious. “Hey, how's your dad doing?”

“He's coming home today,” J. said.

“That's great!” I said. But by then she'd already left the room and left me alone with my dad and my thoughts. I didn't want to remember what I'd just said about J.'s scar, and I didn't want to think too much about what this Dr. I. would say about my dad, either. So I decided to make some more lists. These lists would be of Exley's favorite and least favorite places and things, so that after I found him in Alex Bay, I'd remember where to go and where to stay away from, what subjects to talk about and what subjects to avoid.

Here are the lists:

EXLEY'S FAVORITE PLACES AND THINGS

The New York Giants

Books

Beer

Vodka Presbyterians (possibly a made-up drink?)

Cigarettes

The Crystal

The New Parrot

Davenports

Chicago

America

Watertown

EXLEY'S LEAST FAVORITE PLACES AND THINGS

Work (noun and verb)

Nuthouses

Schools

Hospitals

Marriage

Army

Institutions of any kind

Books

Beer

Vodka Presbyterians

Black River Country Club

Fort Drum

Watertown

America

I'd just finished writing out the list and putting it in my pocket when Dr. I. came in.

“You're Miller,” Dr. I. said.

“Are you Dr. I.?” I said. Since this was a military hospital, I expected the doctors to be dressed in military uniform, even though the nurses were dressed like regular nurses. But Dr. I. was dressed like a regular doctor: he had a stethoscope around his neck and was holding a clipboard and wearing a white lab coat, and his face was a grayer white than the lab coat and looked tired, like maybe he hadn't had enough coffee, even though he was bouncing the clipboard off his chest, like maybe he'd had too much coffee.

“I am,” he said.

“I don't want to hear what's wrong with my dad,” I said.

Dr. I. frowned at me in an especially fatigued way, like he wasn't going to bother trying to understand a joke that he knew wasn't going to be very funny anyway, and then told me what was wrong with my dad. He told me what had been in my dad's head: not bullets, or bomb or rocket parts, but pieces of concrete. My dad had been near a concrete wall when a bomb went off. Dr. I. said that they'd taken some pieces of concrete out of his brain in Iraq, and then they'd had to wait until yesterday for the swelling in my dad's brain to go down enough for them to take out some more pieces. Now, Dr. I. said, they'd gotten out all the pieces that they could get out.

“You mean he still has pieces of concrete in his head?”

“There are pieces in his head, but not in his brain,” Dr. I. said. He said this like I'd understand the difference, which I did, kind of.

“He woke up a couple of days ago,” I said. “When's he going to wake up again?”

Dr. I. looked at his clipboard, and he was still looking at it when he said, “Your father has extensive brain damage.” Then he said some more things, but I couldn't really hear them: all I could hear was the sound of the machine, breathing and breathing for my dad.

“He's not going to wake up, is he?” I said.

This startled Dr. I. He looked up from his chart and said, “Your father is critical, Miller. But as you say, he woke up once. And we certainly were surprised when that happened, I can tell you! If it happened once, it could happen again.”

“But probably not,” I said. I was doing that thing when you say the worst thing you can think of and then hope that someone will tell you that you shouldn't be saying it.

“Probably not,” Dr. I. said. “Wait, where are you going?”

Because I was already running out of the room. Because I knew from what Dr. I. said that I didn't have any more time. I knew I had to find Exley right away or else there wouldn't be any reason to find him. I ran down the hall, through the lobby, past Mrs. C., and out the door, just in time to see J.'s father. He was in a wheelchair; the wheelchair was on a platform, and the platform was attached to a white van. J. was sitting in the passenger seat. Her eyes were closed, her head was tilted up. A woman was standing with her back to me. It must have been J.'s mother. “I'm trying,” she said. She had her left arm inside the van, and I wondered if she was pushing a button. The platform went up, then went down. The platform went up, stopped, seemed to begin to go back into the van, then stopped and vibrated a little. “I'm
trying
,” J.'s mother said again. I don't know who she was talking to. Because J.'s father hadn't said a word, not that I'd heard. He was staring at the hospital with his lips pressed together. He had a blanket over his lap, and his hands were holding tight on to the arms of the wheelchair. J.'s father looked so helpless, just like my dad, and that made me mad; it made me so mad thinking about what joining the army and going to Iraq and fighting for America had done to my dad and J.'s father. Earlier, in the hospital room, talking to Dr. I., I had felt so sad that I wondered if I would ever feel anything else besides
sadness again. But now I felt mad, and that was a much better, and much easier, thing to feel. I thought about the lists in my pocket, about what Exley would feel about what had happened to my dad and J.'s father. It would make him mad, too, I was sure of it. I was too far away to show J.'s father my lists, so instead I yelled, “America has incapacitated you!” This was something Exley had written in his book. Actually, he'd written, “I had incapacitated myself.” But whoever had incapacitated whom, America sure hadn't helped him, or my dad, or J.'s father, either. I yelled it again —“America has incapacitated you!”—and this time J.'s father seemed to hear: he yelled back something that I couldn't make out. But he didn't look happy when he was yelling it. Then the platform vibrated again, finally sucking J.'s father into the van. J.'s mother pulled the door shut. The door didn't have windows. Maybe there were some on the other side. J.'s mother trudged over to the driver's side, got into the van, and drove them all home.

 

 

N
o, no one at school believed M. when he said his dad went into the army; no one believed him when he said his dad went to Iraq.

Because he didn't know anything about it. He didn't know what division his dad was in or anything like that. He didn't know anything you would know if your dad was in Iraq. He just didn't.

It's hard to tell if M. knew no one believed him. He can be a weird kid, you know? But yeah, I think he probably knew. That's why he brought in a letter. It was supposed to be from his dad, and it had all these underlines and it didn't make any sense to me.

I guess it's possible M. wrote it himself. Like I said, he can be weird.

Yes, only one letter.

I don't know anything about any other letters. He only brought in that one.

Yeah, I saw the guy in the hospital. That was weird, too. M. didn't seem to know what was wrong with the guy or when he was coming home from the VA hospital or anything like that. And they didn't exactly look like each other, either. The guy seemed like he could have been anyone. But Mrs. C. was talking to M. like it really was his dad. And she let M. go see him, too. I don't think she would have done that if he wasn't really his dad. That's Mrs. C.'s job, mostly: to make sure no one sees a patient unless they're related to him.

No, I didn't look at his bracelet. You don't just walk up to a kid in your class's dad in his hospital bed and look at his bracelet. Who does that?

Well, no wonder they kicked you out.

No, I'd never seen his dad before. My mom told me he's a famous Watertown alky. But I don't think she's met him, either.

Because that's what people mean when they say someone's famous: that they haven't met him.

I met his mom a couple of times. Parent-teacher nights, I think. She seemed nice.

She said hi when we met, and then said it was nice to meet me when we said good-bye. That's what I mean when I say she seemed nice. Plus, she was
there
, at least, meeting his teachers and stuff. His dad wasn't. From what my mom says, they don't seem like they should be married to each other. Then again, my mom shouldn't have married my dad, either. She's said so herself.

He's my stepdad. I call him my dad because my dad isn't around anymore.

I don't really want to talk about it, OK?

No, I didn't believe M. when he first told us his dad went to Iraq, either.

I don't know. I still don't really believe him. But Mrs. C. seems to believe him. (
Long pause
) I guess I don't know what to believe.

I guess we're friends. We're friendly, at least.

What do you mean, he likes me?

What do you mean, do I know a K.? Who's K.?

That's gross. He's only a little kid. Why would you say something like that?

Anyway, like I said: he can be weird.

No, he's not a bad kid. (
Long pause
.) He probably just reads too many books.

Would I be mad if I found out he lied about his dad going to Iraq? I guess so. It's not something you should lie about. My dad would be mad, for sure.

Dad! This psychiatrist wants to talk to you!

A mental health what?

Whatever. I have to go back to school.

Yeah, I know H. I have gym class with him this afternoon.

Why would you want to go to my gym class?

OK, I guess. I'll wait outside while you talk to my dad. But hurry up. I don't want to be late, OK?

He lost his legs when he stepped on a bomb.

Thanks. I'm sorry, too. He's sorry. My mom's sorry. Everyone's sorry.

Does my dad seem
different
since he got home? He doesn't have legs anymore. So yeah, he seems different.

 

 

Y
eah, I met him. Quiet kid. A little nerdy. Laughed at my joke. Outside the hospital he said me and his dad have been . . . J., what is it? (
Pause
.) Right: he thinks America has
incapacitated
us. That's bullshit. She also thinks he might be lying about his father even being in the army. That'd be bullshit, too. That's so bullshit I don't even believe it's true. But him thinking America has done something to me and his dad is believable. Bullshit, but believable bullshit. It's like those protesters.

Out by Fort Drum. With their bullshit bullhorns and their bullshit signs, thinking they know everything about me and guys like me when they don't know. They don't. They sound like your little patient, except all grown up and with bullshit bullhorns and bullshit signs. They're what your little patient'll be like in twenty years if he's not careful.

Well, you know, I might just try to show him that. I might just. I've got nothing to do and that special van just waiting for me to drive it. The army paid for it, and it didn't cost me nothing except for my legs.

Because I thought joining up was the right thing to do.

I still think it was the right thing to do. But I wish I hadn't've done it. I shouldn't have done it. But fuck me if I'm going to let anyone else say so.

 

 

I
must now emerge from the cocoon of my interviewing, Notes. For it isn't just any gym class to which J. allows me to accompany her. It was the gym class everyone dreaded in my day, and I assume, by the looks on all the juveniles' faces, the class they still dread. I know from talking with some of my patients—some of my patients are in therapy because of their parents, some of them because of their siblings and friends, but all of them are also in therapy because of their gym classes—that normally in physical education the boys occupy one half of the gym and the girls the other. But today is the day they all come together and square-dance.

“Bow to your partner,” says the voice on the tape player. Coach B. (I recognize him from M.'s description) has pushed its Play button and, that feat accomplished, stands off to the side, talking with an adult female, who must be the girls' gym coach. I don't know what Coach B. is saying to her, but she looks most unmoved as she stands there, sweat-suited legs far apart and white Reeboked feet rooted to the shiny gym floor, twirling her whistle and masticating her gum. I leave J.'s side—to be true, before I leave her she leaves me to talk to H., who frantically waves her over when he sees us enter the gymnasium—and walk over to the coaches. I suspect that if I tell the truth and say that I am M.'s mental health professional and not H.'s, the coaches will not permit me to speak to H. So I lie and introduce myself as H.'s mental health professional and ask if I might have a talk with him. Other than the accelerated twirling of her whistle, the girls' coach doesn't respond to my presence or my words. But Coach B. nods and says, “There's your stick figure, Doc. You can have him, for all care.”