Flatscreen (22 page)

My real doctor was standing over me.

“Mr. Schwartz.”

“I just had the weirdest fucking dream.”

“My name is Zornstein, not Freud.”

“I’m looking for the guy with that crazy-colored coat or whatever.”

“Stay away from that guy.”

“But he’s not even real. He’s a character in a musical.”

“Exactly,” Zornstein said. “Good news. Your leg is healing nicely. We’ve decided to discharge you.”

“You think I’m ready?”

“As far as your leg goes, yes.”

“But am I ready to face the world with a clear head and a heavy heart?”

“That is what we’re concerned about. I’m recommending that you see a psychiatrist. Not a Freudian or an Old Testament dream interpreter. Just a good old Quinosset shrink with a nice couch and pills that will make you happy. I’ve discussed it with your mother and she concurred and said your father would be more than willing to pay for it. I’m going to give you pain medication, but you really have to get some help. I don’t like giving pain meds to drug users, but you did get shot. Now, before we can let you go, we need someone to come pick you up.”

“Okay.”

“Make the arrangements. Someone else needs your bed.”

Possible Ending #5 (Hollywood PG-13, but Its Heart Is Rated R):

After recovering from my injury, play catch with Dad in the backyard. He sees the bud of talent that only needs nurture, manipulation. Soon I’m pitching in Pawtucket, a call away from the bigs. My knuckleball zigs; my unprecedented story of late-age (for baseball) bloom is shown on local cable, complete with family interviews and astonishment at my courage in forgoing a downward drug spiral for a chance at athletic transcendence. Go to schools, talk to kids about the importance of hard work, win awards for community leadership, consider myself part of a community even if that community’s in Rhode Island. Dad comes to my games, wears tee shirts with my name on them. Groupies, RI-accented bleached blondes. They throw themselves at me, unattractively. But I take the bait, sink my overgrown nails (for the knuckleball) into their pale rumps. Later, girl in boozy slumber, cry into the echoey high ceilings of my apartment. Tom Petty plays.

Pam picked me up, brought me back to Sudbury, submerged me out of sight in yet another basement bedroom. Room furnished with mattress-bed and mini-desk from the last time I’d stayed there, ten years prior. Undecorated. I slept.

Didn’t see Dad until that night, when he came into my room smelling of Old Spice, still wearing his office clothes, though his tie was loose and his five-o’clock shadow had morphed into an almost-beard. He was backlit by the hallway light. From my low angle in the partial darkness he looked distorted and gigantic, twenty feet tall like a figure on a drive-in screen.

“Hello, son,” he said. He never called me son.

“Hello, father,” I said, like I was Luke muddafuckin’ Skywalker.

“Pam made dinner if you want some.”

He meant Julio had made dinner. Pam had put it into serving bowls, set the table. Didn’t ask where Julio had been for Thanksgiving, but glad he was here now with a mustache that reminded me of channel 238 OldWest, yellowed film, six-shooters, men on horses across Texas canyons, sun obscured by nothing, señoritas dancing as nighttime falls.

Never eaten in the kitchen before. Only been there for special occasions that took place in the dining room. This was the day-to-day: ceramic plates, ill-matched silverware. Twins were sleeping at a friend’s house, so it was just the three of us. A window-peeper would think we were normal, American as
Idol
. Must have been countless meals at this table: mouths full of food, days discussed, glances exchanged, drinks spilled, wiped up. Now we sat close to silent.

“This is nice,” Pam said.

First nonhospital grub I’d eaten in days. Took seconds on potatoes, thirds on salad, fourths on steak. Dad watched from across the table, trying to figure out why I was there, how he should feel about it.

Wondered why he hadn’t shown at the hospital, if it was spite or if it simply saddened him to see his ignored son, bullet-holed, hooked to machines. He’d always been a coward—leaving us, giving me cash when he didn’t want to. Hoped he still was one.

Pam smiled at the other end, watching me eat the way my grandmother did when I was thirteen and everyone kept calling me a growing boy, shoving food down my throat. Dad tucked his chair, walked out of the room, said “Good night” even though it was only nine.

Pam chatted with Julio in the kitchen. Couldn’t make out the words, but the rhythm of their banter was comfortable, sprinkled with laughter. Hoped that they were confidants, patrolled the same domain, were familiar with each other’s smells and moods; that he knew it was her period from the subtleties of her posture, the speed at which her eyes panned the room. In a different life he might have had a horse; she might have ridden sidesaddle.

Crutched back to the basement stairs, body a pendulum, circulation improving, sensations growing stronger in my toes.
Snow fell onto the glass atrium ceiling, as if the world were an oversized snow globe, only me on the outside—an unlikely God—shaking that shit up. Felt dizzy, almost lost my balance, managed to maintain composure, made my way to the stairs, sat on my ass, stretched my legs, bumped down, step-by-step. Somewhere in the house, up the stairs, then up the stairs again, the unseen au pair watched Conan, or watched the same snow out her window, computer producing ringing bells, IMs from across the world singing, “Good night, sweet child, come home soon—TTYL.”

Found During a Daytime Search of Father’s House While Looking for Clues as to His Missing Months:

Possible Ending #6 (Festival Fave):

Ingredients for Spaghetti Bolognese appear on the counter. Pam’s out that night with the girls, gossiping about wallet size, which parts of which people they know are made of plastic. Just me and the man. Pats on the radio, color man calling it as he sees it, Brady in the pocket taking snow-fudged snaps, snow falling on the atrium ceiling. Dad nods. I nod. These nods communicate things that words can’t. Soon we’re at the counter chopping onions, washing fresh herbs, sitting as it simmers, licking wooden spoons like satisfied Italians. There’s wine, ’86, year of my birth. Saved by Dad for such an occasion. Joke about the Sox never winning it in our lifetimes but then they did, how great was that, and your brother’s a funny guy, with his stress and short hair, his holier-than-fuck-all attitude but he’s a good guy and did you see Uncle Sal at Thanksgiving, everything turns to shit someday, but not quite true because Pam is love. But maybe there’s no bottle, no Bolognese, just Chinese takeout, couple beers, talking Dad’s old life, and where did he go? “Oh, that, son,” he says. “I went [ ] so I could [ ], only to return like a coward. Don’t you follow
my path. You be free by doing [ ] and you’ll succeed.” Eat dumplings straight from containers, fingers sticky with starch.

Dad worked during the day. Pam did errands, had lunch dates. Twins were at school. Afternoons they’d come home. I’d see them in the yard dripping mucus like broken snot-faucets. Thought I should love them the way I wanted Benjy to love me and maybe he did, give them advice, ease their boogers into tissues, heat hot chocolate on the stove. Wanted to do those things, would have if they’d shown any inkling of interest in me, any up-looking fraternal affection. But like the rest, they too rejected my advances, ignored my hot chocolate and offers to toss the ball, eyed me only in passing before disappearing into the backyard jungle.

Dinner convo centered around the twins: soccer, school. They would smile—already had adult teeth, though their mouths were still small, which gave the impression they were all teeth, half-canine, just wide-smiling chompers—say cute things about their days at school that made Pam gush, Julio cackle from the next room. Even Dad would smile, scratch his chin, give me a look that said, “I know they’re little shits, but you’ve got to give them credit.”

Hardly saw Dad. Thought he’d eventually come into my room, sit down, put his hand on my shoulder. Wait out
a long silence. Then he would speak, slowly, precisely, as if he’d been planning the speech for years. No idea what he would say—couldn’t get that far in the fantasy—but thought he’d say something. Or at least sit, stammer, back out. He kept coming home from work, eating dinner, retiring to his bed and personal flatscreen.

One night I left a note that said “November 1975–March 1976???????: ___________ (please account for your whereabouts),” but he didn’t mention it, probably threw it away before Pam saw and asked about a thing she didn’t know about, didn’t need to.

Got my stitches out. Zornstein was wrong; the scar was beautiful. Had its own meaning that couldn’t be articulated in any way other than raised, dotted flesh. Lying in bed, traced its outline with my finger, memorizing its contours. During the day wished it visible outside my clothes.

My leg got better. Walked, slowly at first, across the foyer. Eventually stopped needing to hold the banister when I went upstairs for meals. One morning, walked into the kitchen, tapped Pam on the shoulder, said, “I’d like to go home now.”

While I was packing, Dad took half a step into my room, pulled his foot back, stood framed by the doorway.

“You’re going to stop doing drugs now,” he said, like he wanted it to be a statement, knew it was a question.

Possible Ending #7 (Gritty Art House):

Strung out, selling my ass and mouth in the old Combat Zone out by the Chinatown gates for sips from the glass dick. Dream flaxen-filtered unrealistic escapes, sleep in the Pit with the Pit kids. Parents stage interventions (which means they care!), send me off to clean sheets, over-ample orange juice. Doesn’t work—not at twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty-three, etc.—eventually they give up, occasionally staring at my prom pic, understanding it was all my own doing, still feeling guilt about their roles in my ruin. Meet a girl, older, dirty-blond doll hair, stained white skirt from when she was a ’90s hippie, before all those mushrooms made her see ghosts in the streetlights. Sniffly fuck, city-silenced. Retreat and return like moody dogs. Weigh less than the corner dogs, eat dumpster doughnuts, scratch Estes into my chappy, deveined arm. If I don’t die or parse the years in prison reading bad poetry, then I end up pleasure-stripped, Anonymous, a reluctant convert. Get the kind of job they give the guys like me, make a meager life, recite aphorisms.

Home wasn’t really home—it was the condo—but it felt more like home than Dad’s place. The doorman recognized me, nodded with the solemn if condescending respect usually reserved for the elderly.

“Hey, brother,” to Benjy, who was home for Christmas break.

“Hey,” he managed, lethargic, feet on the ottoman, bare. Callused heels from years of nervous pacing.

“My scar looks like Bill Clinton,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get a few BJs, gain popularity in the African American community.”

“Are you high?”

“Actually, I’m off my pain meds. Any food in the house?”

Sliced tomatoes, cheese. He passed me the bread. Working the line, some greasy spoon, graveyard shift, radio mumbling low in the background, customers enjoying the fact that we were brothers—it legitimized us as salt-of-the-earth guys. Maybe our parents had owned the diner before dying in a car crash. Benjy had been on his way to college,
had come home to help out, never left. Harbored some bitterness about it, but it all washed away when those pretty girls with blue eyelids sat at the counter drinking milkshakes, watching our bodies move in counterpoint behind the counter, entranced by the rhythmic scrape of metal on griddle, the almost imperceptible wiggle in our ass cheeks when the horns kicked in on the old-school soul station you could hardly hear over the whir of the ceiling fan and the bubbling deep fryer.

“How’s Erin?”

But Benjy was on a different wavelength. Put the bread down, held back tears, held himself steady on the granite counter, wiped face, forehead, cringed, sat, blew his nose. All I could do was finish the sandwiches, plate them, pour Benjy a glass of water, put my hand on his shoulder, squeeze like a schmucky sitcom character, say, “It’s okay.”