Sixteen
Chic Waldbeeser
June–August 1985
In the weeks and months following her death, Chic settled into his new life without Diane. It wasn’t a good life, not that his life with her had been the good life, but this was worse. He stopped combing his hair. He rarely showered. He didn’t bother matching his socks. He wore threadbare v-neck t-shirts with stains under the armpits. Most nights, he would conk out on the couch while watching The A- Team or Knight Rider or some other action-oriented show he had little interest in, and wake up around midnight and head up to bed, where he would toss and turn, pulling at the sheets, rolling over on his right side, then his left, back to his right, his left, his right, onto his back, onto his stomach, his back again, until he would finally give up and open his eyes and stare at the ceiling, the same ceiling Diane had stared at while listening to The Art of Living. He thought about all the things he’d done wrong, and how he could have been a better husband, a better father, a better everything.
He rolled out of bed and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the cabinet above the sink were nearly two dozen glasses, way too many for one man. He pulled open the silverware drawer. There were enough knives and forks and spoons for the goddamn Brady Bunch. In the living room, Diane’s old issues of Dr. Peale’s magazine, Guideposts were scattered about, on the coffee table, on the floor next to the couch. He went back upstairs and peeked into the nursery. The nightlight cast eerie shadows across the dolls’ blank faces. They all wore the same expression: eyes wide and unblinking. He needed to get this stuff out of his sight, get it out of the house, get it out of his life.
He rented a storage space on the edge of town, out by the new soccer fields, and asked Russ and Ginger to come over the following Saturday. They started with the kitchen, wrapping the glasses and dishes in newspaper and carefully placing them in cardboard boxes, leaving behind two plates, two bowls, two glasses, and two settings of silverware. In the living room, they packed up the Airdyne bike, the couch, and the coffee table. In the bedroom, they emptied Diane’s closet and her dresser drawers and pitched all of her makeup, except for the dry skin lotion. Chic told them he wanted to hold onto that. They took the clock radio from her side of the bed, the lamp, too. They loaded all of Dr. Peale books into cardboard boxes; Russ carried the issues of Guideposts to the garbage can outside next to the garage. Chic had made a list, and each time they finished a task, he crossed it off. In the nursery, they placed each doll in its own box, then took down the shelves where the dolls had sat for so many years. They also carried out the furniture—the crib, the changing table, the rocker, even the mobile that hung in the corner. When they were finished, the room was nothing more than an empty square with holes in the walls and indentations in the carpet where furniture had once rested.
Near the end of the day, Russ and Ginger came into the empty nursery to find Chic sitting on the floor with a green Middleville Junior High School duffel bag. He’d taken a box of keepsakes out of the closet and was rifling through it, stuffing pictures and memorabilia into the duffel bag. He was going to tell Russ about the lie. He’d been thinking about it all day, and he couldn’t go on living it. It wasn’t right.
“I think we got it all,” Russ said.
“Unless you want us to take that lamp in the living room,” Ginger added.
“All I want left in the house is a bed, the television, the dining room table with one chair, and my toothbrush.”
Ginger looked at Russ. “We can get the lamp on the way out.”
“You want us to take the duffel bag?” Russ asked.
“Duffel bag stays with me,” Chic said. “The box, though, can go.”
Ginger picked up the box. “You want to come with us? Take over the last load?”
“Actually, Russ, I want to talk to you about something.” Then he noticed Ginger standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. They looked—what was the word?—complete, that was the word, complete. Russ was a good-looking boy. He had darkish skin, like his mother, and dark hair that was shiny and inky, like someone had colored it with Magic Marker. Ginger was a lovely woman, maybe a little tomboyish, but she made eye contact when she talked and seemed understanding and sympathetic. She was the type of person who’d share an umbrella with you in the rain. She wouldn’t hog the covers. She’d be a good mother one day. She’d clip coupons. And Russ, he had good teeth. Chic did not have good ones, especially lately. His dentist wanted to pull a molar on his right side. Russ would do the things that were necessary to avoid bad teeth, like flossing. Russ was smart, too, or at least, he said smart things, like that tree stuff. Russ would prepare himself for a time like this, a time like Chic was experiencing—this loneliness. After he told Russ the truth about his mother, after Russ asked him why he did it, what finally made him do it after all of these years, Chic would tell him he was getting whipped by his loneliness. It was a beast, a killer. It had fangs and claws. He didn’t want to be the only one hurting, so he told him, to hurt him. And he was sorry. But why do that? Why make him hurt like he was hurting.?There was no reason. Russ was young. He and Ginger had their lives spreading out in front of them, unfolding like a map. But, and here was the problem, their lives could go in two very different directions. Chic knew this . . . oh, did he know this. A life could bank and turn and end up in a grassy field full of wild flowers, the sun blazing down, the birds chirping overhead. Or a life could wash up on a beach after a storm, the waves crashing on the sand, the boat busted to hell. Maybe he should be like a lighthouse. Maybe that’s why he should tell him. Lay all the hell out for him. Give it to him straight. Warn him. That was the fatherly thing to do. But he wasn’t his father. He and Russ weren’t even related by blood. So, what gave him the right? Telling him the truth would be a big glass of saltwater, and what was it really going to do but make him upset? He didn’t want to see him upset, so he simply stared at him and said nothing, resigned, again, to say nothing, this time forever.
“What? What do you want to talk to me about?”
“It’s nothing. Forget it.”
“What, man? You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you.”
“Thank you. I just wanted to tell you thank you. For today. I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Dad.”
“Don’t call me Dad, please. Buddy is your father.”
After they left, Chic went downstairs to the living room. The room seemed smaller now that it was mostly empty. He clicked on the television and sat down in the chair. He set the duffel bag on his lap and pulled out his hand drawing of the pool he had wanted to put in the backyard. He’d found it in the box of keepsakes. Diane must have kept it, although he didn’t know why. How stupid he’d been. Like digging a pool was going to make things better. Not to mention the irony. What kind of person actually thought he could change things by doing something like putting a pool in the backyard? Maybe Diane had the right idea after all. Maybe there was nothing you could do. Just sit there and let things happen. Don’t try to do anything. Let the sun rise and set. Don’t move. Let the darkness surround you.
Mary & Green & Chic
July 27, 1998
Chic made it a point to be at the Pair-a-Dice the afternoon Green moved in. It was bad enough that Mary was checking her husband into We Care, but Carol Bowen-Smith also did these elaborate welcome parties for new residents, plucking away on a guitar and making up lyrics about the person’s life. Chic wanted no part of any of that. However, he mistimed his return trip from the Pair-a-Dice, taking the four o’clock bus back, thinking that the party had happened after lunch. When he arrived at the facility around four-thirty, Mary and Green and Carol Bowen-Smith were sitting together at a cafeteria table. Chic tried to do an about-face, but then he heard someone say his name.
“Mr. Waldbeeser,” Carol called out, “you’re just in time to welcome our new resident. Come say hi to Mr. Geneseo.”
Chic smelled like cigarette smoke, and his shirt was wrinkled. He was also chewing gum, something Carol had disapproved of ever since Jack Kearns nearly bit his tongue off while chewing bubble gum a few years back. Chic took a napkin out of his pocket and spit out the gum. Mary, Green, and Carol stared at him. He felt like he was standing in the middle of a stage under a blinding spotlight. Carol asked him if he was all right, and he said that he must have drunk too much coffee at the Pair-a-Dice. She then introduced him to Green and Mary, which, of course, was awkward. When shaking his hand, Green held on for too long and gave him an up-and-down examination, like he was a dog sniffing another dog’s backside. Chic wondered if he was onto him. Mary made a comment about his name, calling it “unique.”
“It’s a family name,” Chic said. “It was my great great great grandfather’s name.” This was a lie. It wasn’t a family name. It probably had significance, but he didn’t know what it was. To him, it was just an odd name that followed him around like his sad life.
“Chic has been living with us for about what . . . twelve years?” Carol Bowen-Smith said.
“Actually, thirteen. Lucky thirteen. But I’m planning a little break, a vacation if you will.” Chic quickly excused himself and went over to the steam table and loaded up a tray of food: oven-fried chicken and instant mashed potatoes, along with a roll and a glass of milk. He sat down a few tables away from Mary and Green and did his absolute best not to stare, though he couldn’t help himself. This was his competition—a guy in a wheelchair and lavender hospital pants. Wait a second, those weren’t hospital pants. They were polyester suit pants. My God, who was this guy, some sort of Las Vegas pimp?
Carol Bowen-Smith stood up and clinked her fork against her water glass. “In fifteen minutes, we’re meeting in the common room, folks. We have a new resident to introduce.” Chic surveyed the other tables to gauge the other residents’ interest. Janice Galbreath’s head bobbed, a thin spider string of drool yo-yoing off her bottom lip. Leroy Midge, the deaf guy, was slouched in his chair sleeping, the food on his tray untouched, and Chic’s roommate, Morris Potterbaum, dressed in his usual dinner outfit of shirt and tie, held up his water glass. “Cheers to the new guy. Bravo,” he declared.
The nurses helped the residents dispose of their trays. Mary negotiated Green’s wheelchair around some tables and out into the hallway. She gave a quick over-the-shoulder glance at Chic, but he averted his eyes, looking down at the floor.
“Join us, Mr. Waldbeeser? We’re going to do the Name Song,” Carol said.
“Yeah, quit being a sad sack, Waldbeeser,” Morris called from the dessert cart. “Show some spirit.”
In the common room, Green was parked in front of the television, facing the nurses and residents. Mary stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder, and Carol stood beside the couple, her acoustic guitar hanging from her neck. Several residents were squeezed onto the couch, and the ones who sat in wheelchairs were scattered around the room. Janice Galbreath was sitting in an old plaid chair, the same string of drool yo-yoing from her bottom lip. Morris stood against the back wall, eating from a container of yogurt.
“You folks wanna hear about Green Geneseo’s life?” Carol asked, to no response. She then nodded at Mary, and all eyes in the room that were still open and awake turned to her. Mary didn’t know what to say, as Green had never told her much about his past. She had tried to get him to talk, but he always gave her the bookie story, which she had her doubts about. One afternoon while he was out running errands, she’d snooped around the trailer and found a shoe box squirreled away in the bedroom closet. The box was wrapped shut with packing tape, but she managed to peel back a corner and weasel out a hand-twisted, tinfoil rose. She imagined the rose was something he’d given to the woman he’d previously shared the trailer with.
Mary cleared her throat and smiled nervously. “Green Geneseo,” she began, “grew up in Las Vegas with a loving mother and father. Actually, that’s not quite right. His parents weren’t that loving.” Green looked down at his lap. “He had a good childhood, though. He played peewee football and Little League baseball. His parents doted on him and called him Red Rider. They took him on vacations to the Grand Canyon and to California. He grew up fast and was a star athlete who lettered in two sports and got a football scholarship to the University of Nevada. He met his first wife, Kim, a cheerleader, during his freshman year. Her father owned a grocery store in her hometown of Dustin, Nevada. Love at first sight. They got married. He used to make her roses out of tinfoil and paper napkins, the Sunday comics. He was an accountant. She stayed at home and painted her fingernails. They lived in a trailer with a pool. They got older. They talked about retirement. Florida. Moving to Florida. Then, she died. Passed away is probably a better way to put it. Her heart. A heart attack. Forty-seven years of marriage or something like that. And then he met me, at a bowling alley. Two people in the right place at the right time, and you know what they say about love—you just know it when you feel it. And I’ve been the luckiest, happiest girl ever since. Or, at least, until he had a stroke a couple weeks ago.” She glanced over at Carol Bowen-Smith, who began strumming the chord progression to “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.”
“Sing it with me, folks. Green, you’ve lived a long full life. Here we go now. Everyone. Green, row your boat ashore . . . halleeelluuujjaaa .” Mary joined in, her thick hand squeezing Green’s shoulder. She leaned down and kissed him on top of the head.
As soon as the singing started, Janice Galbreath snapped alive and started clapping. Morris Potterbaum tapped a beat on the bottom of his empty yogurt container with a spoon. As part of the orientation ritual, Carol led a conga line of the residents around the common room and down the hall to the cafeteria where there was cake and ice cream. Mary pushed Green in his wheelchair, while the nurses pushed the other residents in wheelchairs. The rest, like Morris Potterbaum, walked, and the group headed down the hallway, everyone singing, Green, row your boat ashore . . . halleeelluuujjaaa.
Chic was pressed against the hallway wall as the group passed. He narrowed his eyes at Mary to let her know his utter disapproval, but she wouldn’t look at him. She closed her eyes and sang. He noticed Green was staring at him, though. He had a pained look like he’d just been socked in the stomach. Chic turned his back on him and walked down the hallway to his room.
. . . halleeelluuujjaaa.
