The Fives Run North-South (15 page)

He resisted the urge to violently shove the door open. He felt his body start to shake as he forced it to remain in control, act natural. Outside, he felt the rush of the sun, making him feel less invisible, overexposed like a photograph blasting with light. To his left, just outside the door, two men were smoking cigarettes. They’d been talking but had stopped when he came out. Why? Why couldn’t they just carry on with their business? Why did they have to invade him by looking his way? Why couldn’t everyone just go away?

He felt his chest go tight, and he got his bearings. The parking lot was to the left. He breathed in the dusty smoke that had blown over from the two cigarettes. Steadying his legs as best he could, he started down the stairs. Two stone columns were at the bottom of the stairs. As he reached them he could hold it in no longer. He raised his arm and slammed his fist into one of the columns. He heard the bone snapping in his middle knuckle and saw a small swiped stain of blood left behind on the column as he walked away.

15

P
aul handed Ben the beer as Ben wrapped up his conversation with Dull George. Dull George was singing a verse that Ben suspected he’d hear from many between now and the end of the day: the shocking suddenness of his father’s death. It had indeed been sudden. Though massive heart attacks certainly aren’t rare, and are probably preferable as a way to go when compared to something drawn out like cancer, they were also stark reminders of the potential instantaneouness of death’s grip. It’s unsettling, because it seems we live under the illusion that if we can see it coming, we can somehow figure out how to avoid it. So Ben was quickly finding out that the end result of it was a funeral reception with endless chatter having to do with searching for clues.

“It wasn’t a lack of exercise,” Dull George droned on as Ben took his first sip. “I mean, for his age, he got that walking in. And our racquetball games. If there’s a better workout for guys our age, I don’t know what it is. So, who knows? You think you know what to do…”

Ben took his second sip. Time for the second verse of polite sentiment he was certain he’d hear over again.

Dull George didn’t disappoint. “Just a blessing it happened in his sleep. Lord knows that’s the way I’d want to go.”

And, finally, the grand finale: “If there’s anything I can do, just call.”

And repeat.

Ben scanned the crowd, who until he got the beer in his hand had seemed to all be staring at him as if expecting him to lead a flash mob routine any second now. Most had turned back to whatever conversation they’d started before he came in. In the back, he even saw a young guy leaving. Ben hoped it was the beginning; he was anxious for the time when the crowd had thinned and the end was in sight because it certainly wasn’t right now.

One face that still seemed to be looking in his direction caught his eyes. He found himself staring back for a second. He didn’t know her, but her eyes drilled into him. He’d never seen her before, he was certain. Her eyes were a deep purple. Upon looking further, he realized they were actually a deep blue, made darker by the way they mingled with her dark hair and the
expensive
-
looking
black dress she wore. As typically happens, they both looked away from each other. He was about to glance back when someone tugged on his sleeve.

He shifted and faced perhaps the only person in the room sweating worse than he was. A young kid,
bald
-
headed
, wearing an oversized jacket, obviously borrowed. The kid looked terrified and started stammering.

Ben took the delay as a chance to glance back at the
purple
-
eyed
woman. She had evaporated. He’d find her again, he was certain. He turned back to the kid.

“Hi,” he said, trying to help the boy ease into whatever condolence speech he was trying to muster.

“You have to help finish it,” the boy said, before his throat forced a swallow. A bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and ran down the side of his nose.

“Excuse me?”

“
Dented
,” the boy stammered. “You have to get the ending out there.”

Paul appeared behind Ben and shifted so that he was nearly between them. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Paul Collins. And you are?”

Ben looked at Paul. They were thinking the same thing. This kid didn’t belong.

“I’m Walter.”

“Hey, Walter,” Ben said. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Lots of folks here I didn’t know.”

Walter nodded agreeably.

“So…” Ben continued.

“What’s your last name Walter?” Paul asked. “I’ve not had the chance to meet you yet.”

“Benning. I’m Walter Benning,” he said, gaining confidence by saying his name. He stood a bit straighter. “I’m the Boston chapter president of the Rob Keaton fan club.”

“Oh boy,” Paul said under his breath.

Ben smiled. “Good to meet you Walter. I’m glad you could come to pay your respects.”

“I wasn’t invited,” Walter said, his eyes wide at his own lack of filter.

“I know,” Ben said.

“But it’s important.”

Paul was motioning to one of the private security guys.

“What’s important?” Ben asked.

“It’s more than just my group. The Facebook page is nuts. All the other groups are behind me.”

“Okay,” said Paul. “I know it’s important. But this probably isn’t the most appropriate time…” he was moving between Ben and Walter, gently tugging on Walter’s sleeve.

“It’s okay, Paul,” Ben said. “Walter, tell me what you came to say.”

“We know you’re a writer, too. We hear you did a book, and even though no one read it, I guess it was pretty good. So we’re thinking that your dad must have had an outline or notes to
Dented
.
It needs to be finished. It was like a return to his great stuff. When he was younger.” The sweat was pouring out now.

“Okay,” said Paul. “There’s just a whole lot wrong with the way this is going.”

“I’m sorry,” Walter said. “But you have to know how important it is. The story. Your dad’s story. Adam Mann, his wife Suze, and the guy with the red SUV…the world has to know how it ends!”

16

“H
ere’s to Rob Keaton,” Paul said, raising his glass.

It was a nice night, the kind built for sitting outside on the steps of a church drinking
single
-
malt
.

Ben raised his own glass against Rob’s.

“There’s a nice little hotel around the corner. Don’t know about you, but I’m thinking we can finish this bottle right here and stumble our way over there for the night,” Paul said.

“I’m not sleeping with you. I hear you get a serious case of the farts after whiskey.”

“I’m sure they have more than one room.”

It had taken longer for the guests to leave than either had anticipated. Even Dull George stayed well beyond the official end time of the wake. It had grown easier for Ben, perhaps a result of the beer, but also because those who knew his father best, those who stayed longest, knew about and honored Rob’s hatred of the cliché. After a rocky start, Ben had heard fewer and fewer of the platitudes. Instead, conversation had elevated to better things. Snapshot memories, some new to Ben, adding small dimension to his father’s life.

The street in front of the church was active. It was close enough to the village of Portsmouth that people strolling to and from pubs and restaurants were lending an air of relaxation to the evening. That and the fact that Ben could finally fully remove his tie.

“So what did you think of that strange little fan club fellow?” Paul asked.

Ben shrugged. “Suppose you have to expect that.”

Paul nodded. “The
Esquire
deal was working. As it turns out, probably too good, hey?”

“I suppose.”

Ben could sense Paul building up. There was a weighted silence, finally broken when Paul asked: “What do you think of his idea?”

“Shit,” Ben said. “I knew that was coming.”

Rob Keaton hit it big. Instantly. Not even a year out of college, his first novel,
Lilly Thorn
, hit number one on the
New York Times
best seller list. Though he was
ill
-
prepared
for success, he navigated that first year of his career with the guidance of his agent Joel Spain and Joel’s daughter, Melissa. Joel because he was an experienced, calming mentor, and Melissa because she became Rob’s wife only eight months after they met. His
just
-
add
-
water
lifestyle continued when Melissa got pregnant just five months after the wedding.

“You need to leave a few lifetime accomplishments for next year,” Joel had said upon hearing the news of his
soon
-
to
-
arrive
first grandson.

None of them could have guessed what waited for them that following year, however. Years later, Rob could make light of it: “If life is about ups and downs, the ups and downs of my twenties made me the first and only person in history to suffer both the bends and altitude sickness simultaneously.”

Didn’t seem that way going in. Rob had finished his second book. Joel had negotiated a better advance and royalty rate. It would hit the street in May, the same month their baby was due. Rob and Melissa knew their small apartment wouldn’t fit them, so they threw the advance in as a down payment in a stupidly large home, which had as its most outstanding characteristic a perfectly situated room that would become Rob’s writing
retreat
—
on
the opposite side of the house from the nursery. In truth, writing was Rob’s first love, and he never saw fatherhood as something he was particularly suited for. He was generally happy about it, though not as eager and giddy as his wife. Melissa was supportive of Rob’s passion, and laughed without annoyance when his writing office was the first room to be completed and ready to use. Their own bedroom was a maze of boxes and clutter, but his writing room was in full
use
—
desk
by the window, bookshelves up and filled with books (arranged by height within their categories), pictures hung, lighting in place and just right. Melissa was too far into her pregnancy for them to make as much progress on the rest of the new home. Really though, neither of them were in much of a rush. Rob was deeply into novel three when Ben was born. Melissa left him to it, happy to settle in with their son, proving her natural inclination to be a mom.

“We’ll have more,” she whispered to Rob late one night. “Right?”

“Of course,” he said, lacking her enthusiasm. Even as he said it, he sensed that they would not. He didn’t know why, neither did it concern him.

Ben was four months old when the rusty hinges that kept the doors of life open to them snapped under the weight of it all.

Rob’s second book,
Roman Numerals
, landed on store shelves with a thud (ironically, it’s now considered a classic, with first editions selling for upward of six thousand dollars depending on condition). Rob refused to believe he had to settle into the sophomore jinx cliché.

“Clichés make me break out in hives,” he would say in disgust.

He was nearing completion of the initial draft of his third book when
Roman Numerals
was released, so in order to get the taste of it out his mouth, he dived into the writing with renewed fervor. Unable to watch the baby when Melissa had to go out, she had to hire a
part
-
time
nanny named Esma. Esma was watching Ben the day the phone rang. Rob didn’t answer (he never did while writing), so it was Esma who told him that his wife was dead, as was Joel. They’d been together in the car, on their way out to buy a present for Melissa’s mother’s birthday.

Some thought Rob would never recover, and while he never remarried (nor even dated) again, he functioned. Mostly. He wrote. He wrote a bunch. Esma came on full time, living in a guest room in the suddenly
way
-
too
-
big
house, caring for Ben and keeping the place in order. Rob wrote, sometimes for periods exceeding
twenty
-
four
hours. There were nights he finally went to bed only to wake and stumble through the house, eyes red and wide, hair a mixture of flat, tangled, and shocked upright. He would go to his desk and write some more. His third book’s sales exceeded his first two combined. This ending was darker; the start of his tendency toward endings that ranged from utter dismal clutter to the occasional odd happy ending and everything between.

Often with only a few months between them, he cranked out books five through eight. And today, many considered those five books, from his third to his eighth, to be his crowning achievements.

And though he went to his grave claiming his writing had nothing to with it, it was during that time that he mixed his writing, sleep, and other functions with drugs. Convinced he’d found the way to control everything from his punishing memories to his annoying need for sleep and food, he measured out his doses so that when he wasn’t writing he was in the comfort and warmth of a chemically induced cocoon. Esma kept her space, kept his son healthy, and his refrigerator filled. When necessary, he could bring himself to life with uppers or coke, giving him a few minutes to play with his son, until he saw Melissa in the boy’s eyes and needed to escape before his whole body began to shake in a way that scared both of them.

His ninth book was the start of it. After cranking out a book every six months from the date of his wife’s death, he stalled. His new agent was Larry. Larry lived in a constant state of nervous fear. “He always had a tiny wet spot in the crotch of his pants,” Rob would say, “because he never even slowed down enough to shake his dingle after pissing.”

Larry called Rob daily with an underlying edge of panic in his voice as the space between books eight and nine expanded into a second year. After enough harassment, Rob finally handed his book to Larry one day, telling him to submit it to the publisher, after which he would consider himself fired.

“Why?” Larry asked.

“You ask ‘why’?” Rob said. “There’s your answer. Because you asked ‘why.’”

Larry had begged, and Rob had neither the energy nor the ambition to hire a replacement agent. He rehired Larry a week later and took shameful delight in the impact of the minifiring. Larry discovered new depths of nervousness from that point forward.

The book bombed, and although he never thought one fact had anything to do with the other, Rob’s pencil froze. Words stopped coming out. He went through a period of about twelve consecutive chapter ones, but couldn’t continue those stories any further. And on the day Esma called the police, he was unable to explain why he was lying on the kitchen countertop in his bathrobe crying in a convulsive fit.

Because there was a child
involved
—
Ben
was now halfway between three and
four
—
social
services took interest, and Rob’s new lawyer paved a path that involved an extended stay in a clinic for a good
dry
-
out
and series of evaluations. Esma was kept on to hold down the fort, allowing Ben to stay in his home, at least until Rob proved to be either hopeless or redeemable. Good and expensive lawyers make for patient authorities, as social services acted a bit less aggressively. In six months, an ashamed but optimistic Rob Keaton came home. Esma would stay and remain Ben’s primary caretaker, as she had been for nearly all of his life. Of the few friends and acquatintances who were paying attention, only a couple gave him a shot of staying straight. Most saw him as inescapably damaged.

And most would have been right, perhaps, had Esma not suffered a massive stroke, dying on the floor of Ben’s room just minutes after putting him down to sleep one night. Rob was alone with his son now, and in holding the boy as he screamed for Esma the next day, Rob felt a sense that he was desperately needed. Having been raised by grandparents who considered him a chore, Rob had been a stranger to how tight the knot of family bonds could be. As he held Ben, it was like tasting newfound nectar, where a sip leads to a drink leads to a gulp. Those few emergency drugs, the ones he’d stuffed in a plastic bag and taped to the backside of the guest room toilet, were flushed along with any lingering temptation to revisit their fragile comfort.

Another nanny was hired, but this one would never reach the status of surrogate mother. Rob resumed writing, but at a pace that threw balance and healing into his life. None who knew him could avoid recognizing that his son had become his world. Even through the typical consequences of teenage hormonal quakes, to the more troubling events of the years immediately following, Rob’s and Ben’s relationship held strong. Shoulder to shoulder. Until that day, at age
fifty
-
nine
when Rob had a sudden massive heart attack in his bed. And despite the comforting clichés repeated at his funeral by his happily ignorant acquaintances and friends, Rob did not pass calmly while sleeping. It’s what had racked Ben’s mind in the weeks since. It was evident that Rob was awakened by his heart attack and had died in pain lying on the floor in a desperate attempt to reach his phone to call for help.

Rob had finally fired Larry
Pee
-
Stain
for good about ten years ago. He didn’t really have a reason. Larry was nice enough, did a good job, and could be trusted. That trustworthiness was more a result of his lack of creativity than a moral quality, and perhaps that was the core of it for Rob. That and boredom. Ben had left home to go to college, and Rob thought maybe a change in agency would give him someone different to talk with. It was then he met Paul, a recent graduate from the same school Ben was attending. He immediately hit it off with the young guy, and found enough differences in his demeanor to convince himself that Paul wasn’t simply a faded replacement for the son he missed having around. Turned out the two boys had so much in common that over the years they formed a solid friendship. Rob was glad Paul turned out to be a hell of an agent, as he’d have hated to fire the guy who was growing into his son’s best friend.