Quabbin - 12. Chapter 12

Part of the reason the doctors had worried after my accident -- and a part I never thought made any sense -- is they had to make sure it really was an accident.

“Why in hell would I ride in front of a car?” I remember shouting, even as I was still trapped in my body cast. “He hit me! He was the one who was drunk! I was just riding home!”

“Because,” as more than one well-meaning psychologist told me, “once there’s been a death in your family -- especially when you’re reasonably young -- it increases your chance of depression.” And when there are two deaths, and you’re not even sixteen, well, you get watched pretty close.

They were spying on Carol, too, but she didn’t get hit by a car. “After that happened,” she told me, “they practically put bodyguards on me. No surprise I didn’t want to date.”

Which is why the reservoir had suddenly scared me. I could deny it all I wanted, but I’d been raised on numbers and stats. Ignore them, and they just sneak up and whack you.

“The problem with all of us,” my brother Ted had told me, “is we think we’re so damned smart -- at least smarter than any psychologists. We see where they’re heading, and can easily talk our way around them. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

“So you think I rode in front of that car, too?”

“I wasn’t talking about you, Jim. I was thinking about me. There was a night I was working too hard and too late at the hospital and just needed a break. So I went out on a balcony, and there I was, twenty-something floors high, and it was a straight drop, nothing to hit on the way down. I almost pushed off -- not even stopping to think. And everything was just fine. I was busy and happy.”

“Well, you couldn’t have been that happy,” I’d wanted to say. But Ted’s always been an easy-going guy, and now, almost three years later, I finally saw his point.

Ron kind of admitted the same thing, when I was joking about Ted. “No, really, Jim, it’s not like you’re even thinking about it -- you’re not thinking anything close to it. You are happy. Life’s good. Friends are around, and you’re even getting laid. Then you’re speeding along one night, and some jerk pulls in front of you -- and you realize, ‘Jeez, I could’ve been killed!’ From there, it’s just a skip to, ‘Wow, if I just let the steering wheel turn the slightest bit, I could go right off this bridge.’ ”

“So you’re both telling me I’m crazy?” I kidded. “Because I got creamed by an idiot fratboy? It’s a good thing you two live across the country.”

“You just gotta be careful,” he warned. “That’s all anyone’s saying.”

“I am careful!”

“Good. ‘Cause we don’t want to lose you. We almost thought we had, once.”

That was kind of a shock, ‘cause I didn’t think I’d come close to dying. Banged up, yeah. But it’s a good thing they didn’t tell me otherwise till long after.

“Still, Mom didn’t kill herself,” I’d insisted. “These things aren’t connected.” They had an answer for that, too.

“It doesn’t matter how she died. She started a cycle.”

So Saturday and Sunday, I was careful. The weekend wasn’t much of anything anyhow. I slept most of Saturday, coming back from the reservoir around seven and still being so far behind on my sleep. I did talk with Carrie. She was spending as much time as possible with Mark, who had to go back on Monday.

“He could quit,” she said. “But I won’t be much fun to be around this summer, and it would mess up his degree.” She’d already told me that Mark’s internship was directly connected to his Master’s thesis.

“See you Monday then,” I said.

“Maybe Tuesday,” she put off. “Maybe for dinner.”

Dad had seen the guitar when I came in Saturday, and he might even have seen the empty case on my bed. It’s a soft case, so you can tell when there’s nothing in it, and I almost never close my bedroom door. He just sort of looked at me, maybe wondering if I’d been with the same guy as the night before.

“Nah, he’s in Boston,” I told him, without explaining further. Of course, if Dad hadn’t figured out I’d been with a guy Thursday night, ‘stead of just drinking perversely late, now he was plenty confused. But I couldn’t just store the guitar again after he’d seen it. Well, I could, but I’d scared myself a little out at Quabbin, and having the guitar around might keep me calm.

Mainly, I figured I’d keep myself distracted. There were still a bunch of friends I hadn’t seen since I’d gotten back, and a couple of them were around for parts of the summer. The ones I’d seen -- other than Dane -- had all loved my stories, even though I didn’t have many pictures to go with them. “How could you travel for two years and not take a camera?” more than one of them had asked.

“I’m a lousy photographer,” I’d joked, but the truth was I didn’t want to be loaded down. I’d mostly carried a small duffle bag I’d picked up surplus in London, and I’d been so stubborn, I’d actually gotten on that first plane with only the clothes I was wearing.

By the time I woke, Saturday night, it was too late to chase down friends. I had to be up early Sunday anyway, by nine, to go to church with Dad. That was fine, ‘cause I had to be up at eight for work on Monday, and if I just kept staying up later and later, I’d be way off schedule. But the question was How was I gonna sleep Saturday night?

Drugs was my first answer, but I’d never been big on keeping them around, so that would involve friends, to make a connection. If I was gonna do that, I might as well just hang out with friends and get drunk -- that was my second choice. Still, on beer, I’d get sick before I’d pass out, then I’d still be sick Sunday morning in church, a double nasty blessing. My third answer was a fifth of Scotch. Hey, Dad, want to kill a fifth of Scotch with me? Maybe a fifth each? Then we could both skip church. God would forgive us.

Nah, He really wouldn’t. So I warmed the dinner Dad had kept for me, then wandered into the living room and showed him my progress on the guitar. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me to play anything I needed music for. I was sure it was stashed somewhere, probably deep in my closet, but I really didn’t want to start cleaning that out. Luckily, he just let me play. And he liked what I chose, and smiled at one point, even tapping his fingers on his knee. After he went to bed, I played for another hour-or-so, then started hitting songs that reminded me of the reservoir. That wasn’t good, so I went downstairs. I’d rather have hit the gym, but it was too late, and I knew we had weights in the basement.

It’s amazing how tired you can make yourself, doing rep after unnecessary rep. I could’ve been in jail, with nothing to kill but time. Workouts. Sleep. Bad food. Living with Dad.

I did every exercise I could think of, till my mind was wiped. I knew I’d still be pumping, unconsciously, as I fell asleep, but didn’t want to risk a shower, fearing that might wake me. I’d purposely told Dad to get me out of bed if I missed my alarm. I’d also told him so he definitely knew I was going church with him and was planning to stay in that night. Actually, I fell asleep around three, on the weight bench, but woke around four. Upstairs, I quickly went back to sleep, then heard Dad in the bathroom when my clock said just past six. Then I didn’t remember anything till he was shaking me.

“James? James!”

When I focused my eyes, he was looking uncomfortably at his hand. I guess it was wet from my sweaty shoulder. “You didn’t hear me call,” he explained. “And you missed your alarm. We only have twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be ready,” I insisted.

But when he didn’t seem sure, or when he was thinking I’d just fall back asleep if he left my room, I had to get out of bed. That embarrassed him even more than a wet hand. Well, what did he expect, first thing in the morning?

Church was unchanged, except there are always fewer people in the summer. Some of the missing were students, and some just people on vacation. But the old folks were always there. “Hello, Jim.” “Good to see you, Jim.” “It’s been a long time, Jim, glad to have you back.” And I knew all their names. And their children’s. And their grandchildren’s -- the kids my age. I could remember birthdays of kids I’d been in confirmation class with and hadn’t seen since ‘cause they’d moved away. “Whatever happened to Tony Laliberte?” someone would ask, and I’d know.

I’d memorized all these things to block out religion. Not the good stuff -- I loved most of my neighbors -- but the parts that mainly led to wars. Dad, of course, saw it differently. He saw it absolutely every way but mine, and -- from his view -- I was never gonna be right about religion.

So I sat there, re-memorizing the local begats to keep myself out of trouble. Then I checked out the new paint job on the altar and judged this week’s flower arrangements. I stood when we were supposed to, and sang as instructed, not even gently mangling the words, ‘cause Dad could hear my every joke. I held hands with the old woman next to me, greeted everyone surrounding my pew when required, and even tossed ten bucks into the collection plate -- it wasn’t a tithe, even for as little as I was making. In every outward way, I was the good son I’d been raised to be, and I was always amazed that people seemed to accept that.

“Good sermon,” Dad might have told me as we drove home, but he knew not to push his luck. As I knew not to pretend I’d been listening.

“Need me to mow the lawn?” I asked. We were in the kitchen, eating the chicken salad sandwiches I’d just silently helped him make. As usual, I had to start conversation.

“I did it yesterday,” he said.

“Anything around the house you want me to do?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The problem was that anything that needed to be done, he happily did himself.

“Anything you can’t do by yourself, that I can help you with?” I went on.

“I’ll ask Scott.”

Scott was a high school junior, two houses down. Dad used to get the local newspaper just ‘cause one of our other neighbors’ kids delivered it. The paper was lousy, and was never read, and I think even Dad was happy when the boy finally outgrew his route.

“Well, I have nothing planned,” I announced, “so I guess I’ll just hang out with you. Maybe I’ll wash my car.”

Washing my car was ludicrous -- it would look as bad clean. And washing and hand waxing it, especially ‘cause it was getting pretty hot out, and there wasn’t a lot of shade in our driveway, was absolutely bizarre. But I felt I should Spend Time With Dad, and I was gonna stay around even if he ignored me all day.

As it happened, he changed the oil in my car as I waxed it. And added antifreeze, and transmission fluid, and checked the fan belt. He did that on his own cars, too, which is why they always ran like new.

He did let me take him out to dinner, though I quickly chose a non-chain restaurant so we wouldn’t end up at Friendly’s. There was a time when Friendly’s was just for ice cream, though not in my lifetime. Still, I wish it would go back.

Did he thank me for dinner? Did he help me talk? Did he pick anything besides the dullest thing on the menu, then skip an appetizer, salad, dessert, or even a drink?

“Not even coffee?” I asked.

“We have it at home.”

He wasn’t being cheap. He carefully made sure I tipped twenty-percent on the inexpensive check. He was just being Dad.

And there was no reason for him to thank me for dinner. If I thanked him for every meal he made, it would make us both nuts.

After dinner, I practiced my guitar again, till my fingers couldn’t take it anymore, the pleasure of steel strings. Then I read magazines I didn’t need to, just so I could sit in the same splotch of light as Dad. When eleven o’clock came, I was relieved, but not tired, so I went downstairs again and worked out till two. Doing crunches, and chins, and push-ups, both passed the time and kept my mind off dark black water.

Somewhere in there, I wondered how long Mom would’ve lasted after we’d all gone to college. As long as Carol and Maddie and I were living home, there was still lots to do. She’d started working full-time again when I’d hit middle school. She had the same degrees as Dad. But that was still only 40 hours a week.

Mom had her hobbies, which Dad sometimes shared, but there were plenty of times I saw each of them alone in the house. And it’s not like they did everything for the rest of us. We’d all been taught to cook, and run a wash without ruining our clothes, and scrub a toilet. Also, fix a vacuum cleaner, and change a flat tire without wrecking our suits. But I couldn’t imagine how Mom could’ve lived alone with Dad for another thirty years, without talking. It went beyond love.

I took a shower in the basement, knowing that would make less noise, then slipped upstairs. I packed my guitar, though didn’t put it away in the closet -- my fingers just needed a few days’ break. I didn’t want a beer. I didn’t want to think about Dane. And I’d managed to block most of the orgy Cameron was having with Kevin Orr in Boston. I easily envied them for the way sex can happily pass huge chunks of time, but I doubted it would have wiped out this new thing I’d been trying to forget. ‘Cause under the whole weekend’s worth of sleeping, and working out, and going to church, and passing time with Dad, I still wasn’t able to lose how much I’d scared myself Saturday morning at the reservoir. In fact, it was only getting worse.

I really liked going to the reservoir. I liked the peace, and the isolation, and the connection. But I wasn’t sure how soon I could risk it again.