Authors: Tom Mendicino
Gina calls on Christmas Eve to wish me a Merry Christmas and to inflict a ration of guilt for declining her invitation to spend the holidays in Boca Raton. The family’s making progress, she reports. Dustin’s father got him the Original Cast Recordings of
Annie
and
Rent
for Christmas, and Dustin is over the moon about the Stowe father-and-son ski trip the two of them are planning. She wants to talk about our mother, to rhapsodize about our last tortuous Noel, remembering it as a glorious Technicolor MGM musical. You really are a selfish bastard, she says, do you know how much it would have meant to me to spend this first Christmas without her together? That goddamn minimum-wage job is a pretty lame excuse. We both knew I hardly need the money now. But she says all of this affectionately, without rancor.
I tell her it would have been impossible anyway. I have a houseguest. I can’t really talk. He’s sitting a few feet away. Robert. JR. You know, I say, Bobby’s kid. No, he’s eighteen now. Yeah, how time flies. Stop being so suspicious. He got into a little trouble and needed a place to stay. No, not that kind of trouble. Of course his mother knows he’s here. She’s the one who asked me to help. Look, I said, I’ll tell you about it later. Merry Christmas. I love you too. Yes, I got it. Yes, I love it. No, I haven’t read it yet. But Robert has spent hours poring over the Beatles coffee table book she sent me for Christmas.
Christmas is a clear, sunny day. The forecast is calling for a high in the upper sixties, chance of precipitation nil. I let the kid sleep in the morning; it’s almost noon before the smell of brewing coffee, my second pot of the day, lures him off the couch. He chews on a Pop-Tart, crumbs falling to the floor, and asks what we’re doing to celebrate. I invite him to take a ride with me. Sure, he says, not asking where we were going. A couple miles from home I curse myself for forgetting my sunglasses. He insists I borrow his.
The gas tank is nearly empty as I pull into a station—
We Never Close
—just over the Gastonia city limits. I pump while Robert, always hungry, goes in search of a bean burrito and a microwave oven. As I wait to pay, I realize I’m going empty-handed. I grab a pale, wilted poinsettia on the counter and ask the Pakistani behind the register to add it to the bill. Take it, take it, no charge, free, Merry Christmas, mister, he says, bobbing his head and smiling like a lunatic.
The cemetery isn’t far, another mile or two. We pass the crumbling headstones and the granite pylon dedicated by the Daughters of the Confederacy and drive up the hill where the grave markers are flat and the lawn kept neat and trim with riding mowers. I set the flowerpot on a small pink slab that marks the final resting spot of Anthony (Nunzio) and Ruth Calhoun Nocera. Later that night, the weather will turn more seasonable and a strong wind will tip the pot, mercifully finishing off the already half-dead flower. Robert takes pity on me and stares at his feet when I start to cry.
The temperature plummets as soon as the sun goes down. Robert and I, neither of us wearing coats, make a quick dash through the truck stop parking lot. The waitress is in a good mood, dropping quarters in the jukebox, playing Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” six times in a row. Robert, a smudge of yellow omelet on his chin, calls out the chord progression. Wrong, I say, correcting a major to a minor chord. Right, perfect, we really need to play together, as soon as these are off, he says, waving his bandaged wrists. The waitress brings refills, wincing and trying not to stare. Sure, I say, we’ll play some day.
W
hat goes around comes around?
Things have come full circle?
There must be a one-size-fits-all cliché for this final chapter of my belated bildungsroman.
A leopard doesn’t change its spots?
When all is said and done, it’s been easier to embrace my new “lifestyle” than to accept the fact that I’m a natural born salesman. After all, my style of life seems remarkably unchanged. I live in a brand-spanking-new town house that, except for a difference of, say, a thousand square feet, could be mistaken for 12 Virginia Dare Court—not surprising since the elves in the Toll Brothers workshop are more renowned for their productivity than their originality. The Toyota’s been upgraded to an SUV, same make, later model year, same color as the vehicle I’d signed over to Alice. Maybe I dress a little better. No, not really, but my clothes fit better because I hit the pool five mornings a week, determined not to concede to the full-frontal assault of early middle age. Then I guzzle a cup of coffee, premium blend of course, and resist (usually) the Krispy Kremes, fortifying myself for another day on the front lines. You could say I’m an evangelist of sorts, spreading the Gospel of Nocera/Olsson Climate Control Systems, formerly known by the more quotidian moniker Nocera Heat and Air. What could have persuaded me to walk away from the promising career opportunities at Barnes and Noble? Randy T had been running the business since the old man died. My mother had been generous, paying him a substantial salary and a hefty percentage of the ever-increasing construction boomtown revenues. He’d lost his hair, but still had his athlete’s body and charm and animal magnetism, expanding Nocera Heat and Air into commercial construction and exclusive distribution rights. After years of being unfettered by our mother and anticipating a future under the scrutiny of the ungrateful heirs, he was about to accept an offer to jump to a competitor. Regina and I engaged a broker to value the business and summoned Randy T to Boca Raton. He left Florida an equal partner, owner of one-third equity interest with the title of President and CEO.
Randy T has a vision for the company’s future. The old man installed and serviced HVAC units; Randy T toils in “thermal control design and construction.” He didn’t need a Wharton MBA to know that Nocera/Olsson needed a Director of Sales and Marketing to take it to the next level. The title was a compromise because family pride, which I graciously allowed my sister to defend, would not permit the son and heir of the Founding Father to agree to be called a “Vice” anything. It wasn’t a hard decision to make. Lying awake in my bed at Magnolia Towne Courte, full of midnight courage, I’d plotted my escape to Atlanta or south Florida. But when I gazed into the crystal ball in the harsh light of day, the future was daunting: the anxious interview, the entry-level sales position, the young and hungry competition, difficulties closing the deal, the sweet temptation of bourbon as an antidote for loneliness. Fearlessness isn’t one of my virtues. I’m still the boy who opted for the comfort and safety of Sweet Home Carolina when I hit a speed bump on the yellow brick road to Chicago.
A leopard doesn’t change its spots.
The time had arrived to step forward and embrace my legacy. I’d been preparing for this since I withdrew from Duke. Selling thermal control systems is a step up from persuading gullible retailers that Shelton/Murray design solutions will turn their pumpkins into Cinderella’s coach and it’s a whole other league from hawking cheap pieces of glued fiberboard for the King of Unpainted Furniture. I could even say it’s a noble endeavor, preserving the Nocera in Nocera/Olsson, carrying on the family name.
Besides, supporting Robert has turned out to be an expensive proposition. There’s tuition, room and board, spending money. Robert couldn’t sleep on the sofa forever; a boy needs the privacy of his own room. He knows there is a place he can call home during school breaks or the occasional weekend when Chapel Hill doesn’t feel so friendly. He’s taken up residence for the summer and tries to act enthusiastic about spending ten weeks on the Nocera/Olsson payroll, spending eight hours a day trying not to look totally useless. Randy T’s son has taken him under his wing.
Things have come full circle.
“Andy, uh, there’s someone here to see you,” Randy T says, standing awkwardly at my office door, looking a little flustered.
Goddamn it. It’s Friday afternoon and if there’s any chance of making Durham by the first pitch we need to be on the road in an hour. The Charlotte Knights are playing the Bulls tonight and rumor has it that Josh Strickland, the ace of the Triple-A pitching staff, is going to be called up to the majors after the game. Harold says he’s a highly prized prospect, the jewel of the White Sox farm system. Every general manager in the majors would like to hold his rights, and the Sox, desperate to trade one of their aging superstars to strengthen their bull pen, can’t close a deal because all of the potential trade partners insist that Josh be part of the package. Harold is a repository of useless sports trivia. Not trivial, not useless, he protests, since this is knowledge he needs to defend his championship of his fantasy baseball league.
Somewhere up there my father is smiling.
Harold’s a sweet kid, although Robert is quick to remind me he’s barely ten years younger than I am. It’s just that he seems like a kid with his floppy hair and his aversion to any Gillette products and his wardrobe that consists almost entirely of Official NCAA and MLB Sanctioned UNC and White Sox gear. He manages a Charlotte branch of an office supply chain but he’s only twenty-six credits away from his bachelor’s degree in secondary education. He wants to teach American history and coach high school hoops, an ambition I caution him he’s not likely to achieve if he keeps on spending happy hour at the Carousel and insists on broadcasting his lifestyle with that ridiculous rainbow bumper sticker. He says he’s not worried about stuff like that, that people don’t care who you sleep with so long as you don’t rub it in their face. Maybe he knows something I don’t, but I doubt it.
Anyway, I won’t have to comfort and console him when he smacks into a brick wall of disappointment. It’s not like I expect him to still be around when he discovers that the good Christian people of Mecklenburg and Gaston counties have no intention of giving him an opportunity to pat their impressionable young sons on the ass when they make a free throw. Harold is a temporary thing, no doubt about it. It’s hard to believe it’s sustained itself for three months. It’s still surprises me that he wakes up in my bed most mornings, brushes his teeth (with his own toothbrush, nestled in the cup beside mine), chugs a glass of orange juice, and says “call you later” as he walks out the door. He calls by noon, every day, for no reason at all, not because he has to, only to ask “how’s it going” and we decide where and when to meet after work. And every morning at 11:45 I start to fidget, growing irritable, because I’m certain that this is the day he’s not going to call, then the phone rings and by 12:15 I’m content and satisfied, a man with plans and someone to be with. Someone whose odd little tics are more endearing than irritating.
Usually.
Harold can barely carry a tune, but he loves to sing. Actually, his taste in music isn’t bad, even if he refuses to concede that his beloved Jesus and Mary Chain ought to pay the Velvets royalties for ripping off their songbook. He says it wouldn’t hurt for me to try to appreciate music recorded after the invention of the compact disc. Robert says it’s all very romantic. I think it’s preposterous, this thing with Harold. Robert asks what’s so preposterous about falling in love? God, he’s so young. Where does he get these ideas?
I’m about to call Harold to warn him we might run a little late. But I drop the phone, dumbfounded, not knowing how to greet my surprise guest.
“Fucking Jesus, I don’t fucking believe it! Oh Jesus, I’m sorry, damn, I wasn’t thinking!”
“It’s okay, Andy.” Alice laughs. “I think Bradley is a little young to be permanently scarred by your dirty mouth.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, forgetting my manners. “I mean, I’m glad to see you. It’s just, well, I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”
The baby is fussing, demanding her undivided attention. Alice looks like a suburban sherpa, saddled with her infant and an overstuffed, oversize canvas bag.
“Here, let me take that,” I offer.
“You can call him Bradley.”
“No. No. I mean the bag, not the baby,” I say as I roll my chair from behind my desk.
“Thanks,” she says. “Can you get the bottle out of the bag? Is there a microwave around here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah well, we’ll make do, won’t we, kiddo?” she asks.
I start to answer, then realize she’s talking to her son. Baby Bradley is soon sucking away, drifting into sleep.
My wife, by Bellini, Madonna and Bambino, placid, content, destiny fulfilled at last.
“He’s beautiful,” I say.
“Don’t forget we were together for twenty years. I know you think all babies look parboiled.”
“Other people’s babies,” I say. “Not yours,” I add quickly so there’s no room for misinterpretation. “But what are you doing in Gastonia? You didn’t make the trip to our fair city just to see me.”
“We came to Charlotte to spend the weekend with Barry’s parents. I drove over to Gastonia to see you.”
“Well,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you again for the baby gift. It was lovely.”
“It was nothing.”
“Well, it was a lovely nothing.”
“Your thank-you card was sweet.”
“You look much better than the last time I saw you.”
“I was a mess. I don’t think I ever thanked you for coming to the funeral. I wouldn’t have made it through the day if you hadn’t been with me.”
“I wanted to be there.”
The baby is squirming again.
“Would you like to hold him?”
“No. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to hold him, but what if I drop him? I’m not very experienced.”
“You’re not going to drop him,” she says as she lays him in my arms.
“He smells like a baby,” I say, amazed by the sweet powdery scent of his pink skin.
“Enjoy it.” She laughs. “Sometimes he smells like a goat. I’m warning you. He can turn in a second.”
I squeeze him gently and tell him what a lucky, lucky boy he is.
“You would have made a wonderful father,” she says. Knowing her as well as I do, I detect the slight hint of regret in her voice, the what-if, the if only.
“I hope I would have been a better father than I was a husband.”
“You were a good husband,” she says firmly, leaving no question her opinion is not open to discussion.
“I doubt Curtis would agree with you on that subject.”
“What my father thinks is beside the point.”
And now I know. The obvious can no longer be denied. Curtis hadn’t ended my marriage. Neither had Barry. It was my wife.
“You may not believe it, but you’re back in my father’s good graces.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She lowers her voice several octaves. Her impersonation of the King of Unpainted Furniture is still pitch-perfect.
Goddamn it, not one of these cocksuckers is half the salesman that little cocksucker was.
We’re laughing, tears in our eyes, and Baby Bradley is protesting at having his nap disturbed. I don’t know how long Harold has been standing at the door to my office. He looks a bit forlorn, like he’s just stumbled across a party to which he hadn’t been invited.
“Oh, hey,” I say. It’s awkward being stranded between Alice’s curiosity and Harold’s self-consciousness. A moment passes, then two. I can’t seem to kick-start the introductions.
This is…the woman who shared my life for twenty years. Sorry I can’t be more specific. “Wife” isn’t accurate. “Ex-wife” sounds harsh, too full of bitterness and regret. “Friend” would be an insult to our history; it can’t describe the bond between us, even now.
This is…a pal, a buddy, the man who’s been falling asleep beside me for the past few months. “Boyfriend” is too juvenile; we’re not in high school and he hasn’t asked me to go steady. He’s definitely not a “partner” or “lover.”
A half million words in the Oxford English Dictionary and I can’t find two that fit.
“Alice, this is Harold. Harold, this is Alice.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” he mumbles, shyly approaching her and extending his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, please, it’s okay,” Alice and I say in unison.
“I’ll call you later,” he says as he backs out the door.
“No, no. We’ll just be a minute.”
“Really, I was just getting ready to leave,” Alice says.
“We’re driving to Durham. We need to be there by seven,” I explain, offering a reason for his palpable anxiousness.
“Durham?” she asks. Harold doesn’t know the subtext to her question.
“Alice and I used to live in Durham,” I explain.
“I thought you lived in High Point?”
“Before that, when I was at Duke.”
Another fact in my personal history Harold doesn’t know.
“It was nice to meet you,” he repeats, excluded, the odd man out. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
“I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“He seems very nice,” she says after he’s gone.
“He is.”
“How did you meet?”
“Believe it or not, he pursued me.” I laugh. “Harold has very low expectations.”
She rocks little Bradley in her arms, saying nothing, knowing her silence will compel me to babble on.
“He’s more persistent than he looks. He kept buying me beers at the local watering hole and I kept blowing him off. Then one night I was eating dinner alone at Cracker Barrel—go ahead and laugh—and he plopped in my booth uninvited. That’s how I learned the man pours ketchup on macaroni and cheese.”
“Love is blind.” She laughs.
“It’s not what you think.”
The reflex is still there, the need to disavow the blatantly apparent.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” she asks.
“For the same reason you always know what I’m thinking.”