In the morning all his body aches from rolling sleepless in bed and perhaps also from the fall and being punched by Gary. Surprisingly his face doesn’t look bad in the mirror. Perhaps he was made for a harder life.
His mind sore from wandering the same fruitless tracks over and over, thinking of Rhoda and all that happened. Tired thinking that goes nowhere. He will need to face his parents today, his mother’s worry, judging him and saying “well” as she comes up against the wall of him. His father’s silence in the other room.
Gary wakes early, so the two of them sit in the mead hall in dazzling morning light with a view over forested ridgelines all insanely clear after the rain.
“Ridiculous how beautiful that is,” Jim says.
“You look tired.”
“I’m always tired. I don’t sleep.”
“You should sleep.”
“Yeah, I’ll work on that. How was it sleeping with the guns?”
“Cozy.”
They’re eating cereal in large artsy bowls that must have come from Mary. Handmade ceramic with little nubbins that the spoon catches on. Pain in the ass. “Fuck these bowls,” Jim says.
“You seem much better adjusted today. All fixed.”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad will be pleased.”
“They’re afraid to see you. We’re all afraid to see you. Nothing makes any sense. You have a good job and a lot of money, you’re smart, you had a good wife and kids.”
“Kind of a selective list, not really capturing all of a life.”
“Only a few things are important.”
“Nothing and everything.”
“For one day try to be simple.”
“The weather again. Snap my fingers and the sun blows out.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah.”
They go back to crunching. The redwoods shaggy and straight and with some agreement to share space, not extending their branches too far. A few birds visiting, long fall if they forget how to fly.
“Maybe I shouldn’t see them,” Jim says. “Save everyone the discomfort.”
“You have to see Mom and Dad.”
“But why? Why do we put up with obligation? Has anyone ever enjoyed it or received any benefit?”
“We’re family.”
“That’s what I mean. Why torture ourselves?”
“Family isn’t torture.”
Jim laughs, real laughter, a feeling of joy sprung suddenly from deep inside him, coming up past the cereal all along his chest and throat.
“Stop,” Gary says, but Jim loves this feeling, soaring inside.
“This is the manic part,” Gary says. “You have to say no to this.”
The idea of saying no only increases the joy. Jim can hardly breathe.
“It’s just as important to stop the euphoria as it is to stop the depression,” Gary says. “You have to even off.”
Jim imagines himself some rough blob getting both ends sawn off. He feels so much better, lighter, insane the relief and how complete it can be. He can imagine never being in pain again. “You’re killing me,” he says, and this makes him laugh harder. Words the strangest of all.
“Please,” Gary says, and Jim feels instantly guilty, even in his joy, and then rage, so quickly.
“Fuck you,” Jim says. “That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t even laugh without it being something bad I’ve done to my family, and I have to feel guilty. For two fucking seconds of laughter. Because we’re not allowed that, not even that. That’s what family is.”
“Jesus.”
“We’ve had enough of Jesus. Mary sucking his dick all day long and you letting her.”
Gary swings from across the table but this time Jim raises his arm and blocks it, throws his cereal bowl in Gary’s face, impact and milk and cereal everywhere, the two of them rising in what has happened in every mead hall since there were mead halls, locked in battle, Gary tackling him hard but he somehow gets free, sees the enormous plate of glass looking over the valley and runs straight for it to break through and soar thirty feet to the ground but everything will be denied him, the glass so damn strong he only folds against it, painful, something happening to his shoulder and knee, and he bounces off and is back on the carpet and doesn’t want to move again. Closes his eyes and refuses to be here, too many indignities all at once.
“Fucking psycho,” Gary says.