Woke Up Lonely (14 page)

On another TV: Ida reading under the covers with a flashlight. Esme considered paying her a visit. She wouldn’t be home from school forever. Plus, no child should be up this late. Why was Ida still up? Esme frowned. Whatever the reason, it was, she feared, just the open eyes of anxiety atop a body of trauma nine years long.

She turned off the monitor. If she tried to comfort her daughter, she might end up exposing herself instead. Since Thurlow, she had not once turned on anyone with a look that might reveal the effluvia of her heart. Its overflow. The puffery of loss and guilt acquired in the span of her time on this earth. She worried now that for having waited so long she might turn that look on Ida, on her little child, and then what?

She just did not have a frame of reference for the happy stuff of intimacy, and it had been many years since she had tried. She’d been on her own since eighteen, though more properly thirteen, which was when her brother had an accident that left her emotionally abandoned and, in essence, without family. Though in the last couple of weeks, that phrase—
without family
—had succumbed her to variations of loss that shamed what she’d associated with the concept before.

Her brother had been a surfer, world-class, and had trained every day. Their parents drove them to the beach—mornings before school and on the weekends—because when there’s manifest talent condensed in only one child, you spend all your time and money on that child and hope the other one knows you love her anyway. They were only one year apart.

His friends were surfers, too, a little older, and one day the eldest, who was fifteen, got fresh with Esme behind a shed of garbage cans, she gathering fish bones for a spell she wanted to try that night—Spirit of distaff and fertility, make my breasts grow now!—and he asking if she wanted to see something and maybe to touch something, and, wouldn’t you know it, she kind of did. At first she was shy, but she cottoned to it pretty quick. So did he, since he ejaculated on her bathing suit in seconds. Next thing, she was back to the fish bones when her brother showed up, taking her by the wrist and saying, “Ez, don’t be stupid, we are assholes,” and her thinking he was jealous because his friend liked her more than him. Probably, she said as much. Probably, he was hurt.

An hour later, they were in the hospital. The kid who saw him go down said he didn’t know, just that Chris seemed distracted. Took a bad part of the wave, but still, there was no way to know there was a sheet of fiberglass down there and that Chris would crack his head. Or that he’d stay under for the extra seconds that are the difference between relief, brain damage, and coma. The doctors did not bullshit around. Chris was indeed in a coma and, barring a miracle, would never come out.

In the twenty-four years he slept, Esme saw him six times, all in the first six months. Her parents? Maybe they saw him once. Was she to blame for what had happened to him? In a word: yes.

A tear dribbled down her cheek and settled at the base of her throat. People liked to say the greatest distance on earth was between your head and heart. And say it as if this distance were a problem. What problem? Esme would have been glad not to know anything of what went on down there. Because once in a while, a feeling would cover the distance, usually while she was on the job and stretched thin on emotional resources, so that when she got home: there it was, a feeling on her mind. Nine times out of ten, this feeling was about Ida, and the feeling said: You are ruining her life. And then she could not breathe. And the feeling, in triumph for having made it this far, would parade about her head, crush what forces she deployed against it, and lord over the place until another job came in. Which meant that, while she liked to think she was saving lives, it was really the job that saved her.

And so: Do not think; work. This was not work but rescue.

Olgo Panjabi, 2315 hrs:
Nodding off in an armchair. Palm concealing his face because only old men nodded off in their chairs. He did not want Kay to come home to a drooling, narcoleptic husband. It was after eleven, and she was out. He did not know where. She had not returned his calls. She had not left a note. Still, he refused to worry. If he worried, he would call Erin, and that was a no-no. On the other hand, if he worried, it meant he still thought there was a chance Kay had been abducted, hurt, lost, instead of on a date. If that was what one called such a thing at her age. Could one still date after fifty? Of course. Every night with her had felt like a date, down to the weakness in his knees when she’d come out of the bathroom wearing a low-cut dress or black sheer stockings. He had always loved her legs. Lean and beautiful, and willing to part for him, always. They had had a wondrously sensual life together. He could not swear his experience had been a cut above the rest, but he guessed as much, given what people said about marriage over time.

He had stopped nodding off. Instead, he was pacing and producing reasons why a wife suddenly took up with another man. Suddenly? He felt tonight’s ratatouille start to web in his stomach.

He heard a key in the lock and decided not to ask where she’d been. It was good to feign indifference and also to give space. He was not sure which tactic would help, but he was glad for one stone, two birds.

Only it wasn’t Kay at the door, but Erin and Tennessee.

Olgo stood. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Erin said, “Where’s Mom?” And she started to cry. Her high ponytail of yore was crestfallen, and the hair was ballooned in all directions. Tennessee, who had, from the looks of it, been crying for hours, crumpled to the floor to pound the linoleum with her fists. She did not
want
to sleep here. She
wanted
to go home.

Erin flopped into a second armchair. She was obviously forsaking her daughter to Olgo, who rushed to the kitchen to make hot chocolate with marshmallows. He set up Tennessee in the guest room with the TV on.

When he came back, Erin said, “Jim changed the locks on the apartment. We had a fight. He says it’s his place, he pays for it, and we can’t stay there. Says he’s got too much work to deal with us right now.”

“He threw you out? My God.”

“He’s an ass,” she said. “And I bet his girlfriend’s coming over. That trampy little hunchback.” She looked around. “Where’s Mom?”

“She went to the store.”

“At midnight?”

“It’s not midnight.” But Olgo would not check his watch. If it was midnight, there was the distinct possibility Kay had passed into a mind-set in which she did not intend to come home at all. Not until morning, in any case.

“Can we crash here for the night?” Erin said. She unlaced her boots. “Might be for a couple nights, actually.”

Olgo returned to the kitchen to make tea. Erin followed.

He said, “Since when is the Defense Department God? Last I heard, you could work for the government and still have time for your wife.” He said this with more heat than he would have liked, and quickly tended to the kettle.

They sat on either side of the counter, on bar stools.

“What’s Mom getting at the store? What could be so important?”

“Women stuff,” he said.

“Dad, what is going on? First you ask about Mom’s hair, and now she’s out past midnight on a Sunday. A
Monday.
”

“Let’s talk about Jim. We need to get him out of that house. You need to get a locksmith and do unto him and so on. So much for your mother’s little tête-à-tête today. She said it went well!”

Erin hooked her toes over a rung of the stool. “You don’t know where she is, do you.”

Olgo slammed his mug on the counter. It was empty; there was no effect. “No, okay? No. I think she is out with friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes. Your mother has friends. And so do I. We do not have to do everything together. We
do
have separate lives. It’s what makes a marriage work.”

Erin was on her feet. “Are you saying I was too clingy with my husband? Are you saying this divorce is my fault? Because last I checked, he’s always off doing some secret something or other. And you know what else? I didn’t
ask
you.”

“I’m talking about your mother and her friend. This has nothing to do with you.”

“What friend?”

“
Friends.
She has many. I am speaking in general.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you said
friend.
As in one.”

“I’m going to check on Tennessee.” But Erin stopped him.

“You know, Dad, people change sometimes. They need new things. They get involved with new things.”

“Erin, really. It’s late. We can talk about the birds and the bees tomorrow.”

“Has it occurred to you,” she said, “that Mom might be in trouble? Not out with her friend
s,
but in trouble?”

“Don’t be silly. She’s not in trouble.”

“How do you know? You asked if I’ve noticed anything weird about her, and the truth is, I have.”

“Your mother is a capable, intelligent woman. She’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“
Dad,
I’m trying to tell you something.”

He began to pay attention. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose; the pads were greasy. “What sort of trouble?”

“Well, you know how Mom’s gotten all therapy lately—”

“No, I don’t know that.”

“Yeah, okay, so you know how Mom’s gotten all expressive lately? I think she’s met some people. Or someone. And I think that someone has ideas about some things and that maybe those ideas are exciting for a person who’s gotten all hippie a little late in life and missed out on all the sixties stuff. I mean, what, Mom was just a wife or whatever, hardly an exciting experience if you’ve got a passion for the hurt of people’s lives.”

“Since when do you talk like this?”

Erin poured herself more tea. “I might have been at a meeting or two with Mom.”

“Please don’t say it’s the Helix. And how many is one or two?”

“Me, two. Her, twelve.”

“
Twelve?
Erin, the Helix is for wackos!”

“Could be thirteen.”

“Erin. What are you talking about? Your mother has never been interested in community work,
hippyism,
whatever you want to call it. And, okay, we haven’t seen so much of each other since I started my new job, but I have not heard a peep out of her about it.”

“I think she figured maybe you wouldn’t have the patience.”

“She got that right.”

“Or maybe”—and here she began to pulp her words, which was what people did when they wanted you to hear but not hear what they were saying—“maybe it’s just that you’re part of the problem.”

“I’m the thing she’s going to the Helix to solve?”

“Dad, how much do you really know about the Helix?”

“Nothing.” This was not true, but he was feeling so petulant and infantilized by this hint of how much bigger the world was than him that he’d reverted to the best juvenilia there was. No, no, no.

“Just keep your ears open, that’s all I’m saying. Tomorrow I’ll try to reach my lawyer and deal with the apartment. It’s going be hard. Jim seems to have everyone in his pocket.”

“What a shit,” Olgo said. “And what do you mean
That’s all I’m saying?
If you know something about your mother that I don’t, you have to tell me.”

“Don’t raise your voice. I just think if no one knows where she is, maybe she’s with this person she met and maybe they joined the Helix for real.”

“What the hell does that mean? Is this a spiritual thing? A quest? Your mother is
soul searching?
” He did not have any idea what Erin was talking about, only that she’d conceded some kind of poverty in his marriage such that Kay had gone off to find her bounty elsewhere. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve heard enough. Really. So your mother’s run off to join the circus. I’m going to bed. I expect she’ll be back in the morning. You need anything? There’s more blankets in the closet.”

He headed for the bedroom and closed the door. Waited for Erin to join Tennessee and then said a short prayer. Please let her come home. He had gone to bed without his wife only once in thirty-five years, and then only because she had left on short notice to see her father. He stared at the closet and bureau. Pressed his elbows into the mattress because he was on his knees. Opened doors and drawers. All items belonging to Olgo? In place. All items belonging to Kay? Gone.

Esme closed his file. She had known Kay was about to split for the Helix but could not have known it would happen this fast. Perfect timing. She looked at a map of Helix communities and confirmed that Pack 7, Richmond, was the closest to his house. Kay was probably there by now. So, would Olgo go out to Cincinnati and do whatever it took to shut down the Helix? Absolutely. Would he bother questioning why him and not some Navy Seal trained for this purpose? Not at all.

It was after one in the morning, and Esme was spent. She nearly called it a day, because why bother with Bruce? He was proving the easiest of the four. Still, she got in bed and watched him from there.

She wrote:
All quiet on the surveillance front except for Bruce Bollinger,
who by 0149 hrs had vomited so many times, there was a crescent dented into his forehead from the toilet seat. He sat on the tile, legs splayed, wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. He said: Benny, Jack, Lothar, Nick. They had not settled on a name for his son,
their
son, though earlier today Rita had said, Che, how about Che? to which Bruce had said, Yeah? How about Santa. It’ll give him a leg up come winter. And so another fight, more tears, and a foreboding sense that already they were bad parents because probably the baby could
hear
them, was being exposed early to this soundtrack of wrath, and would, years later in therapy, hold these notes responsible for some of his blues.

Bruce looked at his reflection in the toilet bowl. His throat burned; his nose ran. He wrung a tube of Aquafresh, rubbed the paste on his teeth, and made for the couch. As part of the downsizing of their lives from comfortable to poor, they had disconnected their cable service. This meant, in general, two things: One, in the hour it would take Bruce to stream thirty seconds of porn using dial-up, the urge to touch himself would have long since passed, so that he had not experienced anything close to pleasure in this department for nearly five months. Two: since what cable they did have was pirated, you never knew what channels were going to come in, which taxied Bruce into new areas of entertainment, among them, City Drive Live, which aired a traffic feed from locations all over D.C. During the day: blah. But at night: my God. A camera trained on the GW Parkway southbound, the footage gritty and dark, the cars speeding by, but staggered, because how many cars sped down the GW at 2 a.m.? Watching this stuff was like pawning the feel and hue and smell of your life for scenes of the forlorn. Bruce loved it.