Simple Math Ch. 01

First a list of 'another's, just to clear the air:

-Another collaboration with SirThopas (more co-author than editor)

-Another set of borrowed ideas, repackaged and reimagined in the hopes of saying something new.

-Another story that touches on fatherhood as much as it does infidelity. Apt, as I am finishing and submitting it on my late father's birthday.

That's not to say it's a repetition, I hope. In many ways this was approached as a literal flipside to Boilerplate.

I also feel compelled to point out that I have a hard time evaluating any piece that I helped write. I literally can't tell the difference between the best and the worst. So, hopefully, this isn't the worst. ST isn't speaking on the matter. Fucker.

Anyway, I try not to fret. Failure and success are both just evidence of conclusion.

I'll leave it at that.

---

The first sign is a good one.

They always are, aren't they? It's like some cosmic joke. You suffer through a long straight-faced setup, dance on a razor-thin moment of hope, and then fall straight through into brutal, coldhearted punchline.

Har har. Repeat often. Only a fool feels hope.

But then, I think...you know. Maybe.

Maybe.

All I really know for sure is that my driveway is empty. As in, no unwanted car sitting out front. No announcement of cuckolding for all the world to see. No siren flash, no open confession. Just domestic silence.

It's the same all up and down the street. No one is hanging around outside, the shades are all drawn, and the dogs are barking at each other. Welcome to Middle America.

I maneuver my pickup into the driveway of a vacant rental house a block down from my abode. Then I kill the ignition, touch my head to the wheel, and invest a silent moment in what can liberally be referred to as prayer.

It feels good, like cold water on a fresh burn. Or maybe like playing pretend. But the truth is we're past prayer, now, and what's burnt is probably destined to stay burnt, so...

Best leave the Lord where the Lord can still service.

Climbing out of the vehicle, I stand under red clay and I try to collect it. Smell the air, feel the breeze. Capture every tiny detail of this memory for later viewing.

This is an evening only in the same way that death is a prophecy. There will be much to remember.

The windbreaker starts flapping against my body, so I zip it up. Keys rustle moodily down in my pocket, and get stashed just behind the driver-side tire.

Absolute silence. I will need nothing less.

Ready at last, and hardly ready at all, I hold my breath as I lift my foot to take the first real step towards ending this story.

And it is at this moment that, as so often happens when I stand at the edge, my father's voice speaks to me. He is spectral, lost, injured by time...but he is also deeply metastasized within my mind and my soul. And he sounds almost tired on this particular evening.

Almost sorry.

-
This whole thing started last year, didn't it, Joey?

Summer, I think...or near enough not to make any difference.

Michael called you up out of the blue, asking for help. Shit. I bet you just couldn't believe that one.

And he talked a bunch of crap, said he was ready to "make a change." Just generally sounded like he was full of BS. Like Michael does.

But he wanted to know if you had a place he could stay, and swore it was for real. Well, what do you do, when your brother asks you a question like that?

In your case the answer was simple. You told him no. 'Sorry, wish I could help, but we're in the middle of turning the guest bedroom into a craft room.' And that was an obvious lie, but it was also self-protecting. You didn't really feel too bad about it.

He persisted anyway. Just for a little while, he insisted...just until he got his feet on the ground. Just the one room.

Just this and just that. He bargains like your mother. Everything he wants is small, you know, and everything you ask him to give in return is just a little too big to consider.

This was a tough spot for you. I mean, Michael is family. Whatever else he may be, he is that. And he was reaching out to you in a time of need. Asking for help, sure, but with a purpose.

Turning him down would have been turning on blood. You knew I wouldn't approve of that. Blood is binding.

Then again, he'd also made these kinds of promises before, and we all know how that turned out.

Wow. What a history. Just nineteen, and already the family scandal. Your uncle was like that, too, you know. Well...not quite as extreme as Michael. But he gave the old women a lot to talk about in his day.

I remember when he brought me down to Galveston Bay. Told the school I was sick...I wasn't but maybe 17 at the time...and then smuggled me into a bar that was willing to serve underage kids.

Hell, I didn't know it was a gay bar. Back then people didn't even talk about that stuff. I had no idea they had their own bars.

No wonder they were letting young men order drinks.

Things were going well until that guy saddled up and asked me if was gay. "Hell yes," I slurred, drunk as I was dumb. "We're having a great time!"

You should have seen your uncle laughing. He just fell all over the place. What an ass.

Michael's story isn't as funny as that, though. And growing up now is uglier than it was back then. The world is meaner, the future a little less sure, and young people shouldn't be free to cause themselves as much harm as Michael has. He was a whirlwind of adolescent catastrophe, that one.

You, though...you were something else. You were nothing like anyone I'd ever seen.

You were twenty-seven when the fateful call came, and almost too grown up for your own good. Responsible, respectful, quiet and kind...you were hoping to get that vice principal job out at West. A little young for it, sure, but you'd been working at it for a long time already.

The last thing you needed was a spoiled brat lounging around your house all day, eating your food and carrying a history of drug abuse on his shoulders.

Besides, Michael was a good kid, but you knew firsthand what that stuff did to him. It changed who he was. Replaced his heart. You doubted that he could just put it down, quick as you like, and figured maybe you were better off wishing him luck and leaving him alone.

So, decision made. Right?

That's where your mother stepped in. And no big surprise, that.

"He's your brother," she pleaded. If pleaded is the word for it. "You're all he has left." And all of this in that damned squeaky voice that makes her sound so goddamn helpless.

The Victim Pretend. The Damsel in This Dress.

"He needs you, Joey." That came next, of course. Then there was more. And more. And more.

Oh, how she pleaded, wringing her hands and fretting about like a cartoon. You probably remember it better than I do.

In the end, it was a knockout punch that sealed the deal. "Your father would have wanted you to help Michael." Wow. That was a shitty card to play, even for a heartbroken parent.

And, for reasons even I don't fully understand, that sentence folded you right up.

I wonder about it, sometimes. Wonder why it affected you that way, I mean. "Your father would have wanted you to help Michael." What was it about that particular phrasing that caved you in so quick like?

Not gonna tell me? Well, alright.

We all get to keep the odd secret, I guess.

Michael was too young when I died to remember me, you know. And your mother? Well, she didn't handle my passing well at all. I mean, nobody handles something like that well, but she was something else. Just spread that poor kid all over her wound like a salve, and never worried what that might be doing to HIM.

Even now she can't give up reaching out to him, trying to bury her grief in his love. I think that's why he hates her so much.

No, it doesn't make any sense. But then, people never do.

Tell me, because I forget...did she cry, when she begged? Did she turn away and do that tissue thing she thinks is so dramatic? Maybe say something like, "Can't you at least give him just one more chance?" Or toss in a good old simple, "Do it for me," when she was done?

Never mind. I'd rather not know.

She always was an enabler, your mother. I didn't approve of it then, and I certainly wouldn't approve of it now. But you must have suspected that even I would have liked for Michael to be given the chance to fix his mistakes.

You were right.

Even if you hadn't gotten there in the end, I reckon Sally would have seen you through to it. She was always the voice of reason, wasn't she? Or, you felt that way about her. And that's part of what makes where we are now so confusing.

Oh, I think she was hesitant at first...and understanding about your worries, too. But she also didn't disagree with your mother's assertions. She didn't really interject her opinions at all. Instead, she just sort of...got you talking. Got you thinking, and feeling, and facing the problem head-on.

She used to be something, that one. Patient as they come. The two of you played "what if" games around the idea for days. Remember that? "What if we let him into our lives and he steals from us? Or goes back to using?" "What if he really is ready to change, and we turn our backs on him in his time of need?" On and on.

Sally had her opinions. There's no doubting that. But in the end, she left it up to you.

Because she trusted you, son. Trusted your judgment. Trusted your humanity.

And after all, you did have that big empty basement...
-

Stop it. Now.

I wave at a fly, then rub my hands across my face, and make my way towards the front yard.

The grass looks wet. Feels it when I kneel down to touch, too...but it's just the cool of oncoming night.

Don't worry. It won't squeak up your shoes.

I stand at the edge. Somewhere out in the deep distance, a motorcycle goes by. I study my home, swallow hard, and ask for a sign.

Nothing happens.

The light in the living room is off, by the way. And that's interesting, if only because it was on when I turned onto the street mere minutes ago. In its place, the main bedroom light is now aglow, and the soft hint coming from other upstairs windows tells me that the hallway light is, as well.

All this is information. Just detailed fact.

I'm not here for fact. I want truth.

Walking up the stoop, I put hands and ear to the door and listen. Experience tells me that some sounds carry through well enough to be picked up from the outside...especially things like television and voices. But right now, I hear nothing. So I guess I'm still waiting on that punchline.

God? Are you there? It's me, Idiot.

Stepping away, I turn and move toward the backyard. Truth is, I have no intention of sitting outside with my ear to the door all night, begging for scraps from heaven.

That repaired section of fence is drooping more than ever. A good storm, or even a real strong wind, I suppose, and it will come down. Probably add some new wreckage to the area around it, when it goes.

And that reminds me of a lot of things, just now.

-

I'd say it was about six weeks after Michael moved in that the fence first collapsed.

That sound about right to you, Joey?

Some idiot kid snapped a support, trying to clamber over it to get to the school bus. And that was hardly a surprise. The goddamn thing was past due for retirement, and the local boys had been slipping over it for months. It was just a matter of time before something gave. Simple math.

Remember how I always used to say that? When I was talking about unavoidable problems? Drove your mother crazy. But your fence was the easiest climb in the neighborhood, and going around the block took the kids longer than they cared to walk.

So, simple math.

Oh, the shits scattered like wind after the fence went down. And they never did come back, either. Maybe they were worried that you'd catch them and...oh, who even knows. But the goddamn fence was on the ground, so what difference did it make if they wanted to cut through anymore or not? A fat lot of good stopping now did you.

These kinds of things just come with home ownership. You know that. So you bought some planks...just cheap treated stuff, nothing fancy...as soon as spring started to wake itself up. But teaching summer classes, finishing your degree, and interviewing for vacant positions kept you from getting it done.

Or, really, you were just putting it off.

Oh, don't sulk. One thing I never managed to impart on you was a talent for working with tools. I tried...tried like mad, to tell you the truth. And you did, too. But the most we ever managed was to get you functional.

It's okay. You had your own gifts. And I made sure you knew that I was proud of them.

Didn't I?

The point is, you still have a habit of avoiding that stuff, because it intimidates you. Bothers you that you never managed to get as far as I wanted to see you get, so you just walk around it and hope that nobody sees the shame.

But I see it, Joey. I do see it.

"Eventually," you said. Eventually you'd fix the fence. And you kept saying that, every time you pulled up to the house and saw that gaping hole. "Eventually, eventually, eventually."

April passed, and May tick-tock'd away. "Eventually eventually eventually."

Then, one day, you came home...and it was fixed.

Oh, it was a rough job. Even by your standards, it was rough. You figured it probably wouldn't last more than a year or so.

But goddamn it if Michael hadn't tried his very best.

And he was proud, too. I doubt he'd ever seen what it was like to accomplish something you weren't being forced to accomplish, before...let alone to have done something for someone else out of nothing more than love and kindness.

"Just like Dad," you told him, as you slapped his back and looked over his handiwork. "Just like Dad would have done."

Which was a lie, but also very kind.

After that, things started to change. You started getting to know Michael...really know him, in a way you hadn't since he was 11 or 12. You bonded. He started helping out around the house more, especially with outdoor work. And, finally, you got him to work on getting his GED.

Even Sally, who had been maybe a little patient about Michael's presence in the house, and not wholly happy to have him there, started to treat him more as actual family. As time went by, the two of you even joked that he was turning out to be good practice for when you had teenagers of your own someday.

Someday.

Shit, Michael changed, too, didn't he? Less defensive, more open. Even seemed to want a parental kind of guidance. Oh, he wouldn't take it from your mother...hell, no. But he always came to you, and he always listened to what you had to say.

"Mikey," Sally took to calling him. And it was such a simple, familiar change.

One that seems far more important in retrospect.

That easy familiarity. Yes...it was already starting to show up, then. When exactly did it start?

I can't recall any more than you can when exactly "Michael the Houseguest" started to become "Mikey the Family Member." And neither one of us can know for sure what happened next.

-

We'll know soon enough, I think.

The back door into the garage yields ever so quietly, swinging into darkness with sickeningly easy silence.

Well, isn't that something.

I never use this door. Haven't used it in over a year, probably. But I've used it enough to know that it always, always squeaks on its hinges. Pull on it slow enough, and it starts to sound like someone's killing an animal with blunt utensils.

It doesn't sound like that tonight. I guess somebody's been oiling it up, quieting it down. Maybe somebody who's out in my garage quite regularly. Someone who helps with the yard work.

Someone who needs to be able to sneak in or out, from time to time.

As discoveries go, this doesn't keep my attention for long...because just a few feet away is something far more definitive, far more hauntingly conclusive.

Michael's car, cool to the touch and sitting easy in my parking space.

Goddamn it. Of all the things.

I actually went with when he bought the damn thing, Dad. Remember that? It was clearly used...and not gently so...but his budget allowed for functional. Nothing more.

Honestly, it was junk. A real miserable ride, but you didn't ever say it in front of him.

It's had a lot of problems over the last year or so, and I've learned a lot about engines just from helping Michael keep that car moving down the road.

Of all the things I regret...

Anyway, it was a big step. His first ever car. More than a vehicle, in his mind and in mine. It was responsibility. It was independence.

It was a sign of things to come.

Well, that sign of things to come is in my goddamn parking spot, right now, and I don't much like the sight of it.

As I turn away, I notice a new ding in the chassis. Huh. Even now, whatever other progress he's made, Michael still refuses to treat his things properly.

He's always been rough on what's his, and it's always pissed him off when things break down or give up the fight. It's like he figures they owe him their continued support, no matter what he does to them.

I've tried talking to him about it. I really have. But there just doesn't seem to be a connection in his mind between the way he abuses a thing and its subsequent unreliability. Or maybe he wants to test everything, push it far past the natural breaking point, just to prove that he can abuse the world and it still won't let him down.

Christ, what an idiot I have been.

Actually, now that I think on it, Dad, weren't you a mechanic before you started up your business?

What would you have to say about something like this?

-

Not much, to tell you the truth. I wasn't that great a mechanic.

Wasn't all that ambitious, either. If your mother hadn't pushed me into starting my business, I might have wasted my whole life in a job I didn't like or want.

Give her credit for that, at least. Whatever else you do.

Speaking of ambition, you wanted to be Dean of Students, didn't you? But then they gave you Athletic Director, instead. Hard draw, that.

Oh, it was technically the higher ranking of the two positions, as I understand these things. But it meant a great deal more evening work, more running around and putting out fires, and a shit ton more stress. If it got you to principal someday, you figured it was worth it...but you sure did hate being away from home so damn often.

You could tell that Sally was disappointed, too. With you being gone all the time, I mean. But she was also oh-so-proud of that promotion. Remember? Just bragging to anyone and everyone she could find.

Sometimes seemed like she only talked to people so she could say great things about you. And that made up for it some. Made you real proud.

And the way she looked at you when she talked about it! Hang on to that, kid. No matter what happens tonight, or tomorrow, remember the times when she looked at you that way. Those memories just might get you through some of the days ahead.

Anyway, she was incredibly patient, and so amazingly supportive of your new schedule...

...until, suddenly, she wasn't.

It didn't actually happen as fast as that makes it sound, I know. But it did feel that way at the time. One day you felt like the two of you were a team, the next you began to pick up on changes that had been brewing down deep for some time.

She was moody, withdrawn. Didn't want to be touched. Accused you of not helping out enough around the house. Did that thing she does, where she breathes out through her nose and it sounds like the last straw. She did it all the time, you now realized. Even at the smallest and pettiest of things.