Other Plans (10 page)

“Women are supposed to hold the family together,” Ceil had said once when they argued about the new roles of women. “The whole climate of the house is supposed to hang on the woman. That's man's way of getting off the hook, if you ask me. Men can do any damn thing they please, but as long as they bring home the bacon, that absolves them of further responsibility.”

“Dad's not like that,” John had cut in, defending him.

“No, he's not, and it's a good thing,” Ceil went on, impatient at being interrupted. “With all the marvelous things they do in the medical profession these days—in vitro babies, heart implants, all that—it is my fervent wish they get it together enough to enable a man to become pregnant and have a child. Not,” she'd said, her voice dry and sardonic, “not that I envision men lining up to be the first one to try. Men know when they've got a good thing going. They see pregnant women, they know all about labor pains and water breaking and all that inelegant part of childbirth. They wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.” He'd laughed at her then to alleviate the tension, but he knew she felt very strongly on the subject. She'd been a little cool to him afterwards, for a while.

“Let him know you love him, Henry,” she'd said earlier that evening. “There's nothing wrong with that. Is there?”

“He knows I do,” he'd said.

“No, I don't think he does. Show him. Put your arms around him. Kiss him, even.” At the look on his face, she laughed, a short, clipped sound, without humor.

“There's nothing wrong with kissing your son. You used to. Just because your father doesn't go in for kissing doesn't mean it's bad. European men kiss one another. No one thinks any less of them. Try it some time.”

“He'd think I'd gone crazy,” he'd answered, imagining John's face if, out of the blue, he kissed him. But now, lying in the dark, he wasn't so sure. My father wasn't affectionate, he thought, and I didn't suffer feelings of rejection. I don't think I did. People didn't dwell on things like rejection when I was a boy. My father was reserved. There's too damn much dissection today, too much pulling apart and examining of relationships. Even the word “relationship” had turned into a buzzword. Nothing is simple anymore. If it ever was. Take those fool how-to books. How To Make Love. How To Make Your Kid A Winner. How To Get Pregnant. It was ludicrous. Only this morning he'd read a story about a woman who was suing her lover because he refused to impregnate her. She agreed to drop the suit if he agreed to artificial insemination, using his sperm. If that didn't say something about the world today, he didn't know what did. Diamonds used to be a girl's best friend. Now it appeared sperm was.

Next to him, Ceil murmured in her sleep.

“No,” she said, her voice gutteral, unfamiliar. “No, no.” He tugged at one corner of her pillow. She shifted position and breathed deeply once more. When they'd first married, he'd been frightened at the intensity of Ceil's cries as she lay sleeping. When he spoke to her about them, seeking the cause, she'd said simply, “I have nightmares, Henry, I always have had. I can't stop just because I married you,” and he'd said, “Why not? I'm here to watch over you. You don't have to worry anymore.” She'd just given him a look. Her nightmares had continued and when he asked what they were about, although he knew she thought his questions unnecessary, she felt he was prying, she always said she couldn't remember.

“How about you?” she'd demanded. “How come you don't ever tell me about your dreams?” Startled, he'd said, “I don't ever dream,” which was true. And she'd said, “That's because you have no conscience.” Maybe that was true. He didn't think it was, but maybe she'd hit on something vital in his character.

Just before he'd asked Ceil to marry him, he and his father had lunch together. It seemed a proper formality. That and asking Ceil's father for her hand. He believed in going through the motions. His father had taken the news by saying, “It's a tremendous responsibility, Henry. A wife and family. Hard work, too. A lot of forgiveness is involved. And pain, as well as joy. Families inflict wounds. A family is the most complex entity I know of. Very complex. Can't even begin to tell you. It's something you have to learn for yourself. If the family's strong, there's nothing stronger. I advise you to think long and hard before you settle into the role of a family man.” And he had. Two whole weeks he'd thought over what his father had said. In the end, Ceil's golden arms, her walk, the way she held her head, had ensnared him. Theirs had been, still was, a splendid love affair. Those were the words he gave to it in the deep night. A splendid love affair. He would want as much for his children, for each of them to know a marriage like his and Ceil's.

Sleet and freezing rain slapped and tickled the windowpanes. Tomorrow would be a mess getting to the station. As he began the long slide into sleep, he thought with satisfaction that the back of February was almost broken. March heralded spring.

9

“How do you suppose they manage to make macaroni and cheese taste like live worms?” Keith poked a fork at him, just missing his nose. “It must be Gleason's grandmother's ancient recipe.”

He chewed absentmindedly. “I read in the paper that people in some parts of the South eat dirt,” he said. “They dig it up and put it in paper bags and take it home. It isn't just because they're poor, they like the taste.”

“Crazy.” Gloomily, Keith contemplated the ceiling of the dining hall, adorned with an intricate pattern of grease spots put there by expert practitioners of the ancient art of slinging butter pats. Margarine pats, to be exact.

Outside, snow swirled, thick, wet flakes that hugged the ground and disappeared the second they hit. With any luck at all, the storm would continue through the day and night, and tomorrow the intrepid students would be free to wallow in the snow drifts, cut loose from school due to hazardous driving conditions.

“When're you going to Florida?” he asked, peeling an orange. He managed to do it so the skin fell away from the fruit in one unbroken arc. It was one of his talents.

Keith's jaws worked on the macaroni as if he'd landed a piece of underdone wild boar. He drank half a glass of milk without answering.

“When's the wedding?” he asked, thinking Keith hadn't heard.

When Keith finally looked at him, his eyes were hard and slick, without expression; a doll's eyes, filled with the strange light that meant Keith had slid away from where he was to a place no one else could go.

“It's off.”

“Oh.” He felt bad, he should've known better than to ask. Did that mean Keith wasn't going to be best man? Or did it mean the wedding had been canceled?

“My old man got the cold toe.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Leisurely, Keith put both arms over his head and stretched. “He chickened out. Called the whole thing off.” Keith pronounced each word slowly, distinctly, clipping off the ends like a tailor biting off threads. “In other words, he couldn't go through with it. He skipped town. Sent his intended a telegram saying he'd had a change of heart. Or maybe he told her he'd just discovered there was insanity in the family. Or that he had herpes. Or leprosy. My father has a vivid imagination. No telling what ruse he used to get out of it.

“Or it's possible,” Keith continued in a bitter voice, “he delivered the unkindest cut of all. Maybe he told her he was filing for bankruptcy. Nothing like bankruptcy to put the kibosh on love. He sent me a telegram, too. He always sends telegrams when he freaks out. He hasn't got the guts to call. Said he was going to South America for a while. Probably going to dabble in real estate there. Or maybe life insurance. They must sell a lot of life insurance down there. All those terrorists, knocking people off like pigeons. Leave the wife and kiddies well-fixed when you're blown away, amigo.” Keith bit off the end of his fingernail in one piece, like the orange skin, and spit it out on the floor.

“You should've heard my mother,” he said. “She laughed like a hyena. She doesn't want him, but she doesn't want anyone else to have him. I think she feels better if she knows he's not happy. She's not happy, so she wants him to be miserable, too.” Keith threw out his hands, palms up. “Probably if she landed some rich dude, if she got married again or something, she wouldn't give a shit about my father. She might even wish him well, who knows?”

“Oh,” was all he could think of to say. He thought briefly of telling Keith about his upcoming date with Grace Lerner's niece, just to lighten the atmosphere. And decided against it. Keith didn't have a lot of dates, but when he did, they weren't blind. Maybe that was because Keith's mother didn't have friends who had nieces.

“I want you to tell me something off the top of your head.” Keith pushed away his plate and put his elbows on the table. “Which do you think would be easier, to commit murder or commit suicide?”

“What kind of question is that?” he said, his voice rising. They stared at each other with a fierce intensity, as if a fight between them was imminent. “How do I know?” Several guys at the next table looked over at them curiously.

“Just off the top of your head. Come on.” Keith leaned toward him, speaking softly now. “Don't think about it. Give me your gut reaction. Which would be easier?”

“Oh, that's different. Which would be easier. Why didn't you say so in the first place?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, that's a cinch. Suicide. Because then you wouldn't be around to suffer the consequences. You're out of it. Man, are you ever out of it.” He treated it as a joke, although he knew Keith hadn't meant it as such.

“If you commit murder,” he said, “you probably never sleep very well ever again. Ever. That's the way I figure it.”

Keith nodded, well pleased with this answer. “That's an interesting reason for not committing murder.”

There were times when he knew he bored Keith, but this wasn't one of them.

He elaborated. “You'd close your eyes,” and he closed his for maximum effect, “and you'd see the person you killed. Big eyes staring at you, always staring. And everywhere would be blood. Vats of blood. You have any idea how much blood the human body contains?”

“Open your eyes,” Keith snapped.

He opened them, not having realized they were still closed. He felt a sudden exhilaration. For once he, not Keith, was in control. “The human body has the most incredible amount of blood. Gallons, probably. I've forgotten how much.” He was improvising now, watching Keith's face. “If you're gonna kill somebody with a gun, aim for the stomach. A stomach wound is pretty nearly always fatal. Besides, the guy might be wearing one of those bulletproof vests.”

That might make a good macabre routine. Guy in bulletproof vest, looks a little like Woody, wouldn't hurt a flea, involved in shoot-out. Up and down fire escapes he goes, blind alleys, subway platforms, train thundering down the tracks. Don't hesitate to borrow from Hitchcock or any of the other pros. Subway platforms were always ominous. Guys in black suits, black hats in pursuit of Woody-like hero. Who turns out to be an expert dodger of bullets, an expert ducker of flying lead. A wimpy Dick Tracy type, impervious to flying lead and fear. Nothing can touch him on account of his bulletproof vest, which his girl friend just gave him for his birthday. In that vest he's Superman. Then, when it's all over and the bad guys are oozing all over the pavement, the wimpy hero counts all the creeps he's erased, scratches his chest triumphantly, and discovers he's not wearing his vest after all. He left it home on the kitchen table. He faints. Fade out. Laughter.

If only he had his pencil and paper handy. Some of his best ideas popped up when he least expected them.

“Last night on TV I saw a picture of a cop who got his, even with one of those vests on,” Keith said in a challenging voice. “They've got a new kind of bullet designed to penetrate the bulletproof vest.”

This was turning into some kind of a contest.

“Yeah, well, maybe it was a second. Flawed. They save lives. Why do you think cops wear 'em? They're very expensive. I've read plenty of stories telling about how some cop gets shot in the chest and if it wasn't for that old vest, whammo.” He socked one fist into his hand to illustrate, but Keith, having had enough, made for the door, walking fast. Typical. Keith had posed the question: which would be easier, murder or suicide. Keith had a thing about stuff like that, especially suicide. Every time he heard about some kid knocking himself off, Keith would draw an X in the air and say, “Another one bites the dust.” Now he was suddenly losing interest.

John took giant steps to catch up. Keith wasn't getting off that easy.

“There's always a knife,” he said into Keith's ear.

Abruptly, Keith stopped, turned. They almost bumped heads. “Yeah,” Keith agreed, that peculiar light in his eyes, “if I was going to kill myself, I'd probably OD on pills, plus booze. That way you're out of it. No pain, no nothing. The people who hang themselves really do me in. Or the ones who drive into a concrete abutment. Crazy.” He kneaded his forehead with two fingers. “You take a gun. Very impersonal. Never even get near the guy. But with a knife, you gotta be up close, right? You can feel the knife go in. Those Manson cats used knives. They got sexual kicks out of knifing those poor bastards. In and out, in and out.” Keith's cheeks were crimson. “Even the pregnant one. They nailed her and the baby. In and out. There's a sex thing you don't get with a gun that a knife gives you. A gun, you aim it, boom, that's it.”

“Keith! Keith Madigan!” They both jumped. It was Mrs. Arthur. “Mr. Gleason would like to see you. In his office, please.”

“God. What now.” Keith sloped off in the direction of Gleason's office. And he stood alone in the deserted hall, goose bumps climbing up his arms, the back of his neck, thinking about a sexual thing with a knife. Yeah, he could see that. Come to think of it, he'd never heard of anyone committing suicide with a knife. Maybe it wasn't possible. He drove his clenched fist against his heart, pretending it held a knife. It could be done. Wonder why nobody did it. Too messy, maybe. If suicides thought about mess. Probably by the time they got to the point of doing the job, mess was the thing furthest from their minds.