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The noise came again, three loud bangs. Lincoln looked at the spilled calzone.
Stupid.
He stayed frozen.
Stupid.
Romper trotted over to the spill and looked up at Lincoln.
“No.”
The dog edged closer.
“No.”
He slinked away.
Three bangs once more.
Lincoln moved to the door. But he was naked. There were steps to take: Get clothes on. Go to the door. Face them: Joseph and Lucy.
Another bang. “Lincoln?”
Not Joseph's voice. Certainly not Lucy's. “Lincoln, I know you're there.”
Andrew. Only Andrew. “Just a minute.”
A loud sigh.
Lincoln dashed to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from a dresser drawer and a t-shirt from another. Back in the living room, he pushed the pile of wet and muddy clothes out of the way and opened the door just wide enough to stand in it. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Andrew's eyes widened. “What in the—?” He reached out and peeled something off of Lincoln's temple. A crumpled leaf. He held it out, left eyebrow raised.
“A truck got me.”
“A truck.”
“A puddle. You know. A ...”
“Whatever. Can I come in?”
“I'm kind of busy.”
“Busy? You got a job?”
“No.”
“A girl?”
“No.”
“Then I'm coming in.” Andrew pushed on the door.
Lincoln held it. “I'm working, okay? I'm eating dinner. Just ... what do you want?”
Andrew gave the door a shove. Lincoln stumbled back, then stepped aside.
“This, Lincoln, this is how you live.”
It was a statement, not a question, so Lincoln didn't answer.
“You don't have to live like this.”
“I like living like this.”
“You don't.”
Andrew walked through the living room. It wouldn't take long to absorb—couch, work table, crate, shoes lined up neatly by the door. He shook his head, then turned. “You practicing monk-hood? Rejecting materialism?”
Lincoln shrugged. He'd had everything in Lucy and his apartment in Montreal. More than he ever wanted, than he'd ever thought he wanted. When he left that life, he left it all. Every TV and designer tie and espresso coffee machine. (They had two.) And it felt good. Freeing. Those monks knew what they were about.
“You have your shares in the business. Why aren't you—?”
Lincoln stepped forward. “I'm not touching those shares.”
“I'll get you a job then. You tired of office work? Is that what this is about? You can work on the floor. As a construction manager. Or on one of the crews? You used to love that when we were kids. Dad used to say you were better than some of his men, and Uncle Alex—”
“Don't talk to me about my Dad.”
Andrew's mouth snapped shut. He nodded. “I could get you a job.”
“If I wanted a job, I'd have one.” Lincoln wanted to sit. Exhaustion rolled over him. But if he sat, Andrew would too, and stay for a while, get comfortable. “If this is why you came, you can go. I don't need a job. I don't want a job. But if I did, I wouldn't get one from him.”
“From me, Lincoln. From—”
“They're all from him.”
“You need to work.”
“Who says I'm not? Who says work has to be what you think it is, what society thinks it is, what Joseph thinks it is?”
“Linc—”
“I'm alive, aren't I? I'm fine.”
Andrew let out a puff of air. “For now.”
“And now is all that matters, isn't it?”
Andrew frowned. “Whatever savings you have, they won't last forever.”
“I have a plan. A good plan.”
Andrew scoffed. He pointed to the cut outs on the wall, the detailed lists of everything that went right and everything that went wrong, the table scattered with experimentation. “This, right? This is your plan?”
Lincoln leaned against the wall, hating this exhaustion, the fact that he couldn't stand up and say what he was doing mattered with verve, say that with every swing of the axe, every thrust of the hammer, he was getting his life back. Building it. But he couldn't say it, not with Andrew's face looking like that. He hated Andrew's face: Pity? Frustration? Sadness?
Andrew picked up the book on architecture, studied it a moment, then let it drop to the table. “I know what happened—”
“You don't know the half of what happened.” Lincoln stepped back to the door. “You've offered me a job. Cleared your conscience. Now, can you go?”
“So you can get back to what? Eating dinner? That dinner?” He pointed to the calzone below the window, half out of its Styrofoam holder.
“You startled me.”
Andrew laughed. The big, boyish one he'd had as a kid. The one that got them in trouble during sleepovers when Mom or Aunt Mindy would come in shushing them. “I'm not here to talk about a job.” He picked up the calzone, put it in the container, and wiped his hands on a napkin. “I'm not even here to lecture you about living like a slob.”
“I don't—”
Andrew walked around the table. “You get the invite to Aunt Marilyn's sixtieth?”
Lincoln nodded.
“Rachel said you didn't RSVP.”
Another nod.
“Man.”
“You RSVP when you're going. I'm not going. So—”
“She's your mother, Lincoln. It's your mother's sixtieth birthday party.”
Lincoln straightened. Eight months. He hadn't seen her in—“I'll send a card.”
“You can't just—” Andrew crossed the room. He sank into the couch, legs spread.
Damn.
“I mean, Lincoln. Come on. She misses you.”
“She—”
“She doesn't even know you're here. None of them do.”
Lincoln walked to the window. The city twinkled on. He turned to face Andrew. The ball in his stomach pulsed. So heavy. “And they won't.”
“I know. I know. You want it to be some big mystery. Some big secret.”
“I want my privacy.”
“They're your family. And they're worried.”
Lincoln sent his mother an email once a month. Every month. The second Tuesday.
“Privacy doesn't exist when it comes to family.” Andrew slapped his palm on the arm rest. “Especially our family.”
Sunday made more sense, but the library was closed on Sunday. He used to send messages to his grandmother every Sunday, before she passed, and she forwarded them around to the rest of the family—no privacy.
But Lincoln had privacy now—he looked at Andrew—most of the time. “They know I'm okay.”
Did his mother send Lincoln's Tuesday message around? Did Joseph see it? Did Lucy? Not that he told much: I'm okay. I'm fine. I saw a beautiful sunset or took a rejuvenating hike. Lies about the location of the sunset or hike. No indication of when he'd be back.
Andrew stared at him. Too long. Lincoln reached for the calzone.
“Aren't you lonely?”
Lonely? Nope. “You ever read David Potter?”
“Relative of Harry?”
“He talks about how in literature any story about a man's complete isolation from his fellow man—be it physical, psychological, whatever—is considered a horror.” Lincoln took a large bite. Still warm. He wiped his mouth. “But it's not. Or at least it doesn't have to be. When you're alone you're ...” Lincoln paused. “Free. You don't have to account for yourself, for anyone else. You can just live.”
“Lincoln, come on.”
“People lie, Andrew. Have you ever met a person who didn't lie?”
“What's your point?”
“They lie. They disappoint. They cheat. Steal. Pretend.”
“Yeah. People suck. So what? You suck, too. But your family still loves you. They still miss you.”
“They're fine. They're better—”
“I miss you, man.”
Lincoln's throat tightened. He shook his head. Andrew and he riding bikes, having their first cigarette, their first toke ... telling stories about the first girl they'd slept with, years before they had.
“But you're pissing me off.” Andrew rubbed a hand through his hair. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your mother that ... well, whatever happened between the two of you, you work it out. You say sorry. Or I forgive you, or—”
“I'm not going to the party.”
Andrew stood. “You're a selfish bastard, you know that? A cowardly selfish bastard.” Andrew turned before he opened the door. “I'll keep your stupid promise. Act as if I didn't come here. Act as if I don't know you're minutes away, hiding out like a baby. And yeah, you're right. People lie. Even to themselves. Don't think you're some big exception.”
When the door closed, Lincoln stared after it. At last, he picked up the calzone again. It was cold, but he wasn't hungry anymore, anyway. He threw it against the wall, then stared at what looked like a Rorschach splatter.
Even if Andrew couldn't see it, even if no one could see it, Lincoln was right. People were the problem. People who thought the highest goal was to have these biologically determined social networks. It kept babies alive, yes ... but beyond that? Once we were grown? People no longer needed tribes. That yearning to connect had been an evolutionary requirement to ensure we didn't die in the wilderness: so we could protect and clothe and feed each other. But through grocery stores and electric heating and running water, society created a world that enabled the individual to be just that, an individual.
What had the tribe done for him? Lincoln was tempted to hit something again. Throw something. But it wouldn't work, he'd just have more mess to clean. He closed his eyes. Lucy.
Lucy on the street corner—Haughty. Resistant. Lucy in the hospital bed—outwardly so fragile, so precious, inwardly a cold, hateful vessel of recrimination.
This is your fault. She'd looked at him, her blue eyes like steel. You killed my baby.
Which was ridiculous, of course. The fall killed their baby. Lucy stepping backward down a flight of stairs killed their baby. But Lincoln was the reason she'd stepped.
Stolen from him, that’s what the tribe had done, stolen everything. His joy, the things he'd loved about himself. A new life.
That's what social living had done. Stolen his passion for the outdoors, the ecstasy of burden-free love, his hopes for the future.
I never wanted your baby. His passion for working with his hands. It probably wasn't even your baby. His joy in being alive. In fact, I'm sure it wasn't your baby. His ability to trust.
Stolen it and morphed him into a man who lived for business. For appearances. For the bottom dollar. For a woman who stood for everything he thought he wanted and nothing he truly desired.
Lincoln opened his eyes. It had taken time alone to realize he'd never wanted her, not really. To realize she'd done him a favour. Not freed him, he wouldn't credit her with that, but led to his freedom. He was happier now than ... not than he'd ever been, but than he'd been in years. Than he'd been since he started following the path people, the tribe, laid out for him.
It had taken time to forgive himself for the death of the child that was either his son or his nephew ... though he wasn’t sure he’d quite forgiven himself for that. Not yet.
He would see his mother again one day. His sisters. His aunt and uncle and cousins. But not today, or tomorrow either, or at the party. Not until he'd created a solitude that was sustainable. Not until he knew they wouldn't suck him back into the life that had sucked away everything he loved about himself.
A cabin in the woods. A cabin in the sky. A parcel of land large enough and isolated enough that nothing and no one could touch him. That would be his answer. That’s what he was working toward.