The Wonders of the Invisible World (12 page)

“Pop, can I ask you something?” Dave Senior said. “What do you honestly—I don’t know, shit, forget it. You’re not really the person to ask.”

“Hell, go ahead and ask. What is it?”

“Well, I guess you knew we’d been having trouble.”

“No, I had no idea.” Though Bonnie had said some things.

He took a long swallow that finished off his beer, and put the empty can on the table next to him. Then he turned back to the television, so I did, too. That girl tossed her head again and gave the doctor a look, and I wouldn’t have been in that doctor’s shoes for a million dollars.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re too curious,” he said.

“I don’t want to stick my nose in your business,” I said. “But if—”

“Nope. Nope, I think you’re smart,” he said. “I think we might as well leave it right there.”

He turned in after the news, the best thing he could’ve done for himself. I found sheets and blankets in the linen closet and pulled out the hide-a-bed, but I wasn’t tired—I mean I wasn’t sleepy—so I put the TV back on with the sound low, hoping that might do the trick. Letterman had some actress on, and the two of them kidded back and forth. I’m guessing she was an actress; he didn’t say. The point was she was young and pretty, had a lovely figure, full of fun. Something to keep old men watching TV.

I got disgusted and went out to the kitchen for another beer, in hopes that might put me under. But I noticed there was no milk for the morning, and not much of anything else in the icebox. Pudding snacks, yogurts, hot sauce, jar of dill spears, open can of black olives. I lifted the lid of a covered saucepan—leftover Spaghetti-O’s—then hunted up my jacket, wallet and car keys.

Everything’s changed in this part of the world, but you were bound to hit a 7-Eleven or something down on the Post Road. Turned out I didn’t even need to go that far: the Mobil
station on the corner had a Mini-Mart, pretty well stocked. I picked up a half gallon of milk, plus a pint of half-and-half as an extra treat for the coffee. A dozen eggs, a package of bacon. Quart of grapefruit juice. Loaf of bread, pound of butter. And a six-pack of Bud Light so Dave wouldn’t run short. I put it all on my debit card, and stuck the receipt in my shirt pocket so I wouldn’t forget to write it in my checkbook. That’s the damn problem with those cards.

Then I figured since I was out, I might as well swing by and have a look at where it happened. A motel on the Post Road, in Clinton, but over toward Westbrook: shouldn’t be too hard to pin down. I switched the radio on and picked up an oldies station—what
they
call oldies. Back when Bonnie was growing up, these songs used to scare me: so cheap and raw, and all tied up with drugs and whatnot. Now I kind of like to hear them, though I’d be ashamed if anybody caught me listening. They played a Little Richard number—
Gonna tell Aunt Mary about Uncle John
—then “Angel Baby,” then that “96 Tears.” About half a mile before the Westbrook line, I saw a place up ahead on the left—the Nautilus Motor Court—that I remembered from years ago. If it had a bad reputation back then, I never heard about it. Sure enough, you could see skid marks on the pavement and the burned-out stub of a flare; safety glass still sparkled on the shoulder under the streetlight. I slowed down, pulled over to let a car full of teenagers pass and looked across at the motel. They’d painted the cinderblock wall white and planted geraniums along the top; seemed like they kept the place up nicely. I couldn’t see a pay phone by the office, but they might’ve had it inside, or back along where the rooms were. Anyhow, it didn’t mean anything one way or the other. She could easily have pulled in thinking there might be a phone, not found one and tried to pull out again. Or maybe this wasn’t the spot after all. I crossed into Westbrook, then made a U-turn in a car wash and started back.

In the center of Clinton, I thought,
Why the hell not,
and took a right under the railroad underpass. It was lower and narrower than I remembered; I hadn’t been up this way in how many years? I drove up 81 and crossed over the turnpike, glancing down at white headlights bound for New York and red taillights bound for Providence and Boston, then took a right on Glenwood Road.

The house looked pretty much the same—same shutters with crescent moons cut out—but they’d put up a split-rail fence along the driveway, and the little shrubs I’d planted on either side of the front door had grown to four or five feet wide, and somebody’d squared them off with a hedge trimmer. We bought the place the year after Sylvia went to work for Martin Real Estate and Insurance, the year before she ran off. It was too much house for us, really—three bedrooms and a finished basement—but Sylvia had talked in terms of another baby. I was hoping for a son; meanwhile, she must have had Harold Martin on her mind. I don’t doubt it was true love—look how long they’ve been together now—though at the time I know certain people assumed otherwise, seeing that he had his own business, was president of the Lions Club and so forth, when I was just a machinist there at the Wahlstrom Company.

After Sylvia left, Bonnie used to work on me about getting myself a ladyfriend. Or I’d go over to somebody’s house for supper and the wife would want to introduce me to this one or that one. But with Bonnie and the house and my job, I had enough to do as it was. And then later, when Bonnie went off on her own, I got used to coming and going as I pleased. I rewired the basement and set up my shop—lathe, drill press, milling machine—and if I felt like spending the whole weekend down there working on some project or other, there was nobody to complain. When Bonnie would tell me it wasn’t normal not to have what she called an outlet, I’d always say I had plenty of outlets—put ’em in myself.

I sat with the motor running for a minute, just looking, then used the driveway to turn around. I don’t think anybody was home; the windows were all dark, and they’d left the outside light on over the kitchen door the way we used to do.

Sylvia showed up the next afternoon, looking like a million dollars for a gal her age. Last time I saw her was when Dave Junior was born—this same hospital, as a matter of fact. She gave us each a two-hand squeeze and a peck on the cheek, asked if anything had changed since she’d phoned from LaGuardia, told us about her trip. But when they called Dave Senior into the ICU, she started up. Did these doctors know what they were doing? Shouldn’t we get Bonnie to someplace in New York? I finally told her, “Look. You and I don’t have a thing to say about it. This is all up to Dave now.”

“They could put her on a helicopter and have her down there inside of an hour.” A fellow in a green hospital outfit was walking right past when she said it.

“You want to keep your voice down,” I said. “Listen, I forgot to ask: how’s Harold getting along?”

“Harold,” she said, “is won-derful. By the way, he said he’d be glad to help out any way he can.”

“Tell him that’s much appreciated, will you?” But I thought,
To the tune of a couple hundred thousand dollars?
Because where Bonnie worked they had no health plan at all, and when I’d asked Dave, he’d said his plan only covered her up to a certain amount. “Cocksuckers inch that deductible up every year and bring the cap down,” he’d said. “Sons of bitches.” I told him not to worry over the out-of-pocket because I had more in my checking than I knew what to do with. True, up to a point.

“Had the boy been drinking?” Sylvia said.

“What boy’s that?”

“The boy that
hit
her.”

“It wasn’t any boy,” I said. “This was a man thirty years old. Sure, of course he was drunk.” He’d been killed instantly, and there’d been some talk of charging the bartender who’d served him. Typical.

“And what about Bonnie?” Sylvia said.

“How do you mean?”

“Hel-
lo
?” she said, in that new way that means you’re thickheaded. I’d thought it was a thing only young people said. “Bonnie? Your daughter? Was
she
drinking?”

“Of course not,” I said. “She was on her way home from work, for Pete’s sake.”

“But she pulled right out in—”

“Here’s Dave,” I said. “Maybe he’s got some news.”

He came over and sat down in the chair next to mine. “They got the nurse in with her now. Be about fifteen minutes, they said.”

Sylvia leaned across me. “Is she awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Shouldn’t she be awake by this time? What are they
doing
in there?”

“Probably just, you know—I don’t really know, to tell you the truth.” He ran his hands through his hair, scratched the back of his head.

“Well, what did they say when they called you in?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” he said.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t we all go down and get some coffee? Wouldn’t kill us to stretch our legs.”

“I think I’ll just sit,” Dave said. “Why don’t you two go ahead. Bring me one back?”

“Cream and sugar, right?” said Sylvia.

“Good memory,” he said. “I better have it black, though. I need to cut down. Couple Sweet-and-Lows?”

“Well, they must have skim milk here, for pity’s sake,” Sylvia said. “It can’t be
that
primitive.”

shaking her finger, and I’d told Sylvia how I used to hate it. “What am I going to do with you?”

We finally got Sylvia settled in, though we had a little go-round about who slept where. I was bound and determined that she should have the hide-a-bed. I’d slept on it the night before and my back was fine; I hated the thought of her trying to get comfortable on that sofa in the den. I was just going to put a couple quilts down on the floor in there. But she said she’d rather have her privacy.

After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch—the hide-a-bed, folded up—trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.

“What would you like Nonny to read, punkin?” she said, once she finally got him squared away. “Your daddy said you could have one story and then off to bed.”

He went and got the mouse book from the coffee table and put it right in her hands. “
That.
”

“He loves that one,” I told Sylvia. “Just so you know, they don’t have any words in it, so you have to sort of make it up as you go. It’s kind of along the lines of the—”

“Oh, I think Nonny can manage.” She had him up on her lap, playing with his hair. “What do you think, punkin? Does Nonny have it under control?”

“Just telling you,” I said.

Sylvia opened the book, flipped through the first few pages, then nodded. “Now, once upon a time,” she said, “there was a little mouse. And one fine day, this mouse happened to meet up with a kitty cat who was as big as a
monster.
”

“You don’t need to hold back,” I said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“I’ll be all right in a sec,” she said. I looked at this lady, fairly well along in years—like I am, sure—pressing a wadded napkin against her eyes, and I thought,
I was married to her.
I sometimes get the idea that old Harold didn’t turn out to have as much money as he let on. Though of course she’d never say so. Sylvia turned out to be loyal as the day is long—though a little late in the game, from my point of view. She looked at the black stuff on the napkin. “I better go fix my face again. I wanted to look nice for her.”

“You look fine.” In my pocket, I ran my thumbnail over the ridges of a quarter to make sure it wasn’t a nickel. “I wouldn’t expect her to take too much note anyhow. You know, the first few days.”

She unwadded the napkin and tried to smooth it out flat with her fingertips. “Have they said anything at all about the long term?”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe so.”

She worked some more at smoothing out the napkin, then said, “I wonder if I hadn’t better start looking for a reasonable place to stay.”

“But aren’t you—I just assumed you were staying at Dave and Bonnie’s.”

“Aren’t
you
staying there?”

“So?”

“Well? Don’t you think that would be …”

“What?” I said. “Christ, they got a big enough house. I can take the den and you can have the hide-a-bed. Or vice versa. I think Dave was sort of counting on you helping out with the baby.” I stood up. “You want anything from the machine? I’m going to get some Raisinets.”

“Is that what you’ve been eating?” She shook her finger, which was an old joke between us: my mother had a habit of
shaking her finger, and I’d told Sylvia how I used to hate it. “What am I going to do with you?”

We finally got Sylvia settled in, though we had a little go-round about who slept where. I was bound and determined that she should have the hide-a-bed. I’d slept on it the night before and my back was fine; I hated the thought of her trying to get comfortable on that sofa in the den. I was just going to put a couple quilts down on the floor in there. But she said she’d rather have her privacy.

After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch—the hide-a-bed, folded up—trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.

“What would you like Nonny to read, punkin?” she said, once she finally got him squared away. “Your daddy said you could have one story and then off to bed.”

He went and got the mouse book from the coffee table and put it right in her hands. “
That.
”

“He loves that one,” I told Sylvia. “Just so you know, they don’t have any words in it, so you have to sort of make it up as you go. It’s kind of along the lines of the—”

“Oh, I think Nonny can manage.” She had him up on her lap, playing with his hair. “What do you think, punkin? Does Nonny have it under control?”

“Just telling you,” I said.

Sylvia opened the book, flipped through the first few pages, then nodded. “Now, once upon a time,” she said, “there was a little mouse. And one fine day, this mouse happened to meet up with a kitty cat who was as big as a
monster.
”