74 comments/ 43635 views/ 22 favorites Simple Math Ch. 01 By: TheUnoriginalist 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. Simple Math Ch. 01 You tried to talk to her, tried to figure out what was happening, but she just snapped at you and acted like you did it all on purpose. Whatever 'it' was at the time. You kept at her, until she finally blurted out some dumb thing or other and stormed off. It was short, cold, and to the point. What was it? Oh, yes. "Even Mikey seems to care more about what happens to this family than you do!" And then she'd ran out of the room, leaving you looking at that empty doorway and wondering if maybe, just maybe, a dragon was going to come flying out of it next. One didn't, thank god. We have problems enough in this world, without dragons. Instead it was her that appeared, rushing back in your arms and sobbing apologies for being so "moody." And, in its way, that seemed just as unexpected. When do women ever admit to guilt? Oh, take that look off your face. Half of me is kidding, and the other half is right. Anyway, there was the old reconciling thing after that. You talked, you consoled each other some, and then you agreed: you both needed to put more effort into the marriage. And no, since you brought it up, she really wasn't jealous of your job. It had just sounded that way for a minute. She was proud of you. Really. Now, did she tense a little when you suggested that it was time for Michael to find his own place? Maybe. Those types of memories are unreliable. And when you mentioned starting a family? Was her reply just a little too slow in coming? It's hard to say. You weren't watching for that kind of thing, back then. But she did agree, and Michael did get an apartment. And things got a lot better after that. Didn't they? - I thought so, at the time. But here I am. Right, Dad? Pretty hard to draw a straight line from "getting a lot better" to "deep and ominous distrust." Or, it should be, anyway. I slip into the house, and sure enough all the lights on the main level are off. A faint sound drifts down from the upstairs region, almost certainly a voice but indistinguishable, and it occurs to me that something as simple as a decision to get a glass of water could ruin my whole plan. So I slip along into the hallway quickly, noting potential hiding places as I go, and when another voice comes from upstairs I hesitate and try to concentrate on it. Impossible. It's Sally, but she could be saying or doing anything. I simply don't hear her well enough to know anything other than that she's there. It's like lying in bed at night and thinking you hear an intruder. The harder you focus on the sound, the less clear and more mysterious it becomes. I am the intruder here, though, and I am oh so quiet. Sally's keys are on the counter, right alongside Michael's. His chain is unremarkable, lean and unburdened. Hers are weighed down by marriage, a tangle of various keys with the blue sand dolphin I bought her in Florida dangling off the end. Florida. Wow. What a trip that was. Six perfect days and five heavenly nights. Sally was so loving, so delightfully eager to be...really be...with me, that I never even noticed for the longest time afterwards that our bedroom life never returned to its pre-Michael ways. There was something else, too. She been... Bald... On that trip. And as exciting as that had been for me, it was also incredibly incongruent with the woman I'd been married you all this time. It had caught me by surprise, excited me, and then...Become a sort of mystery that lingered at the back of my mind. - I remember that. Not one of the times a father wants to be reading his son's thoughts, mind you. But it wasn't that you were worried, I don't think. Or even suspicious, yet. It just struck you as...wrong, somehow. Not right. Foreign. - Interesting. Foreign is a good word. Someone or something that does not belong. That has no history. The sight of her that way both titillated and upset me, the way something can when it suddenly pops up and suggests to you that your spouse...a person you think you know and understand as well as you understand yourself...might in some small way still be a bit of a stranger. It is intoxicating, and alarming, to imagine that they might be having thoughts that you aren't privy to. Might be nurturing something new in their mind, or in their heart. It eats away at a man. There's a thud from upstairs, followed by a playful squeal. It doesn't sound sexual, exactly... ...but then it doesn't actually have to be sex, does it? People find so many ways to tear each other down. I'm standing at the bottom of the steps. Voices. Plural. Indecipherable. I guess it's time. So I move, sending myself little reminders as I go. Remember to avoid the squeaky third step. Keep to the left side of step seven, or it groans. Don't grab the railing. There's a looseness to it lately, and it emits a noise that might draw attention. Pity the poor fool who invades someone else's home. They've got it all backwards. They don't even know where the danger lies. Warning signs... - Was it really just that look...that simple, silent moment you saw pass between them...that did it? Or did you already suspect on some level, and just hadn't admitted it to yourself? You'd like to think that you did, I'll bet. We all enjoy rewriting history in that way. But nobody ever really suspects, Joey, because nobody ever wants to. Hell, you're not even supposed to. That's part of being in love. - Maybe. But there were hints. Plenty of them. I see that now. And even if I didn't pick up on them then, it didn't really matter. In the end, Michael just couldn't miss the chance to brag about a great conquest, could he? He played it off pretty well at first, sort of teasing me with bits and pieces of information. He was seeing "a girl," she was "a little older, but great." I'd "really like her." But, no, I couldn't meet her. It "wasn't like that." See, she was married, and her husband "couldn't get the job done." The old guy just didn't rev her up the way she needed (was there a smirk, there?), so Michael had been plowing away at her three, four times a week (so he said). And, he added, I could just take that goddamn disapproving look off my face and go judge some other idiot instead. I'd do it, too (he got real in my face as he said it), if I ever found a girl who was willing to do some of the things this woman does for him. And then he'd listed some of those things, until it got to be too much for me and I asked him to quit. I mean, I couldn't even imagine. I'd never met a girl who did most of those things. Some of them I don't think that I would have even wanted to, to be honest. Others... But you should have seen his eyes, Dad. They were lit up. Amused. Full of malevolence and power. Dilated, fearsome, and soulless. Just like when he used to get high. He even asked me to keep it private. I bet he thought that was hilarious. Me, keeping a secret about my wife's own infidelity. Hush hush, don't rock the boat, and he'll mount her again tomorrow. Above all, power. Over all trembling creation and all the antheap. That's the goal, remember that. That's my farewell message. So the book goes. But one night, as Sally was arriving home with groceries, I told her that Michael was dating what I very gently called "a real nice girl." And she acted surprised, perhaps vaguely happy. But she also shot him a dangerous look that I couldn't quite read. It seemed to have an awful lot to say, that look. Paragraphs. Speeches. But what exactly might have been communicated, there in the space between their darting irises, I was not able to say. And then...just in case I hadn't yet gotten the hint...he responded to her look with a playful wink. And that was it. As simple as that, all of those unrelated, distantly spread events coalesced into one great, terrible suspicion. There hadn't really been anything remarkable about that wink. I mean, it's not like it was suggestive. Or...I don't know, sexual. It was just a friendly gesture. And it's one that Michael is kind of prone to tossing out there, anyway. But for whatever reason, or because of some tiny unacknowledged detail that had crept into my subconscious and taken up residence...suddenly I had my grave doubts about my wife and my brother. And the thing is that, once I got to thinking about it...I found that I couldn't stop. It would be so easy for them, wouldn't it? My new job kept me away one or two evenings a week during the school year, and put me in the building all through the summer workdays. Sally, meanwhile, worked part time at a knitting store. It was a job for bored housewifes. She was always home by 1:30. Michael? Evenings and weekends as a bartender. I reach the top of the stairs. I hear that thumping noise again. This time I recognize it. It's my headboard, bouncing rhythmically against the wall. And there's something else, too. It's not nearly as obvious, but it's more than loud enough. I must've picked up on it before now. Why didn't it register? It's an absolutely terrible sound. A persistent, plunging knife of a sound. Two bodies, slapping together, hungry and happy and wet. My stomach turns. I double over. Inside the bedroom, I can suddenly hear everything. My wife's moans. Her determined, savage grunts. My brother's belaboured breath. The squeak of the bed. Christ. Was it really there all along, Dad? Did I just refuse to hear it? Dad? Goddamn you. You're always leaving me when I need you the most. I reach the open door, touch the knob, and calm my shaking hands. Then I lean right, tilt my head, and bear witness to the truth: Sally. Michael. Wife and brother. Monsters. She's standing, naked save for some unfamiliar white stockings, bent over at the waist with her feet sent outwards in a wide-legged stance. Her shoulder is pressed to the post at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around it like it's saving her life, and she's yelping like a goddamn puppy. Even from this odd angle, I can see the flush on her cheeks, the wetness of her open mouth. The moment when her eyes roll back in her head. Michael, ten years her junior, looks all the younger for standing behind this fully formed woman of thirty-one. He's a little on the short side and narrow all over. Just skin, really, stretched over undernourished bone. And he's got his goddamn hands on my goddamn wife's hips for leverage, as he pushes into her body over and over again. What is she, Mikey? A stand-in for mom? One thing's for certain: she's not opposed to it. She's loving every minute, letting the world know all about her impending rapturous joy. Her cries increase in frequency, her free hand reaching back for him, fingertips tracing along his flexing stomach. As though the physical contact they already shared wasn't enough. As though no amount of connection between them could ever be enough. It's been three and a half seconds. In that time, fifteen thousand unlived happy days have died. Each accepted its execution quietly, surrendering long before I could ever see it through. Those were days that were supposed to involve love, serenity, family, and Sally. They were days where I had a brother, where blood was still binding. The two people who mattered most have stolen more time from my future then I currently have tucked away in my past. I'm more than half-dead. And they did it just because they could, like careless children tearing at scrap paper. It feels like murder, Dad. It feels like watching you die all over again. You didn't know that I saw that, did you? My hands are numb and I can't see straight, but I do manage to make sure the recorder is running. What a stupid and insubstantial plan this was. Is that really all I brought? What did I think I was doing? Suddenly, Michael slaps her ass like property. Then he growls out an, "Uhh, fuck." How mundane. How puerile. How adolescently stupid. But she giggles around her newest moan like she's proud, or something... ...and suddenly, I'm surprised to find that I've hit the bastard. I hit him hard, too, just below the base of the neck and with all the momentum that carried me into the room. He pitches forward onto her, knocking her shoulder into the post, then tumbles down onto the floor. Sally lets out a cartoony "Oomph," as her shoulder slams into the wooden slab, then struggles to stay upright as her lover tumbles away from her. She's still clinging to the post, trying to maintain her balance against all odds. The act leaves her sort of twitching and wiggling, as her socks slide this way and that on our laminate floor. What a pathetic sight they are. The naked little man rolling around on the floor, cursing, while his woman remains bent over and on full display, convulsing like an idiot clown. Something in the crack of her ass is glistening. Is it saliva? Lube? Just stop it, goddamn you. She does that nose breathing thing, pushes off the post to come upright, and says, "What the FUCK, Mikey? Was that some kind of punishment for not-AIIEE!!" She screams at the sight of me standing over her lover, or maybe at the sight of him rolling around on the floor in pain. Either way, she doesn't run away and she doesn't hurry over to protect him. She just sort of half covers herself, shrinks, and starts to whimper. No words, no retreat...just looking right into my eyes and shaking like I'm the devil in the story. I glance at Michael, then back up at my wife. "I only hit him once." But I'm speaking to no one, and I don't know why. She gives a little shake of her head, eyes wide like Old Hollywood insanity, and swallows. Michael is climbing to his feet, cursing. He scowls at me like I've wronged him. "Fuck you!" He's swaying back-and-forth like it's all he can do to keep from falling back down...or maybe from jumping right at me. It's hard to say which is more true. "You wanna fight me? Eh? You want to fucking fight, Joey?!" he sways a bit in my direction, this time to intimidate. And the truth is, I do. I really, really do. But I'm recording this, so instead I say, "No. I want you to leave." "Fuck you!" He sneers. "YOU leave! We're in love." He puts his arm around Sally's waist and pulls her to him. She doesn't fight it. Goddamn, kid. She's even taller than you are. "This is going to be MY house! When she's done with you, you won't have shit." She doesn't lean into him, still staring at me. Her arm continues to protectively cover her chest, but her boob has slipped down and is clearly visible. Her lower lip quivers. She looks hurt. Jesus Christ. She doesn't even know whose side she's on. So I goad her. "Is it true, Sally?" I ask. "Is what he's saying true?" She just shakes, like I'm pointing a gun at her, and doesn't speak. "Of course it's true!" He squeezes her tighter, chin up. He's manic, gleeful. Victorious. A hungry dog about to be fed. But there's something else, too. He's angry. Incredibly angry. Far angrier than a single punch and a bit of coitus interruptus could possibly warrant. It's like he's trying to punish me for something, and I'm not giving him the reaction he wants. Punish me for what, Mickey? Or maybe the real question is, punish who? He must misread my confusion as distraction, because he pushes himself off Sally and launches himself at me. She screams, falling onto her ass as he gets one good-but-inconsequential shot to my face in. She screams again a second later, when he gets thrown to the floor and summarily kicked. Things start happening fast after that. He starts climbing up. I kick him down. He coughs, pushes. I kick again. He tries catching my foot, but ends up cradling his injured arm. He curses. Sally goes for the phone, panic obvious. She yells at me to stop. Looks like she decided whose side she's on, after all. "I wouldn't call the police, if I were you," I kick him one last time, and hold up the recorder. "All of this is being recorded. All of it. In my house." I let the sink in, and we all hang motionless for the stretch of a moment. - Good move, son. They don't know any better than you how the law works in a situation like this. Would you get arrested? Maybe. Would Michael? Who knows. He did refuse to leave, and then attack you. That's on tape. Would you all just get a warning, and all that will have happened is that their infidelity and belligerence will be that much better documented? Say...isn't Sally's friend Amanda married to a cop? That brings a whole other set of questions to mind. Too many to process, in a moment this thin. Emotions being what they are. Anyway, Michael's got a history. He can't afford to throw dice on the chance that he'd be the one to get in trouble. Sally...well, who the hell knows what she's thinking? But no woman wants to let a stranger listen to a recording of her whooping it up in the bedroom, now, do they? - Maybe. Maybe not. Where the hell were you? I needed you. - That's not true. I'm always here when you need me. The simple truth is that you didn't, just now. And, generally speaking, you don't need me nearly as much as you want to think you do. Part of being a good father is stepping back. Part of being a good father is letting go. - If only you knew. "Well?!?" Michael snaps from his place on the floor. "What are you going to do? She doesn't WANT you, asshole." He sneers through a split lip. "Nobody here wants you." I look at Sally. She just stares back at me. That expressionless silence is driving me crazy. Fuck it. My shoulders start to feel a little heavier, and I say, "I suppose you'd better take her back to your apartment with you. I see no reason for either of you to stick around here." "Fuck you," he says again, stumbling to his feet. "This is my house, now! This is my-" "Mikey," she says quietly, walking over and rubbing his arm, "let's just go. I don't want to sleep here tonight, anyway." He wrinkles up his nose. "I'm not gonna let this asshole-" "Please, baby." She kisses him on the cheek, tender and easy. "Not for him. For me." Then she turns to look at me, and once again her expression turns unreadable. "Will you let us have some time? I need to pack some things." I can't believe it. She's dismissing me. I show her my disgust, notice that it makes her blush, and then turn and walk away. There is some animated discussion in the bedroom after that, but I can't make most of it out. I don't really know that I care. I just go down to the kitchen, sit down, and pour myself a tall scotch. It should burn the inside of my mouth. The first sip always burns, at least a little. Tonight, I don't feel a thing. I don't taste a thing. I don't even know why I'm drinking. The house falls quiet; the prophecy is fulfilled. When they leave, about an hour later, they leave out the front door. She doesn't even bother to say goodbye. Simple Math Ch. 02 "Sometimes things happen, Joey. You have to be able to let them go. I know that it's hard for you to hear right now, but you just can't spend your whole life obsessing over the past." Christ. Here we go again. "Of course I can. Who do you think you're talking to?" "Well, then you shouldn't. I raised you better than that. Please. Don't be stubborn to the point of foolishness." I close my eyes, letting the moment hang itself while I search for much needed calm. It's no use; I come up with nothing. "Are we really doing this again, Mom? You know how it's going to end." "Don't you 'again' me! And the least you can do is listen!" She huffs a bit into the phone, even manages to sound like she's being patient with me. As if. "If you just let them explain, you'll see that this is f-" "Stop. Just stop it, Mom. I have no interest in anything they have to tell me. Change the subject." "No!" she sounds shrill, frantic. You'd almost think this was the first time we'd talked about it. You'd almost think she still had hope. "You need to listen to me, Joey! Bad things happen! They happen all the time! We don't plan them, and we don't w...want them...but we do have to live with the fact that they happened." She pauses for effect and, in a voice that is suddenly stern and matronly, insists, "We have to learn to forgive what we don't want to forgive. It's not fun. But if you get it over with and done, you can start to move on and be...happy. This is one of those times, honey." I wonder, for one ugly moment, just how much she'd really be able to forgive. And it would be such an easy thing for me to test... No. Instead, I rub my thumb across my forehead. There's no reason for me to argue with her. She won't hear it, and I won't feel any better for having tried. "Mom, you know I'm not interested in talking about this." "What I know is that you've got your stupid head in the stupid, stupid sand." "Maybe. But you know what? I know where you've got yours, too. And I bet mine smells better." "Joey!" "Look, let's just...let's talk about something else." "Sometimes you just have to accept the loss," she grumbles bitterly. "If anything, we should be better at it than most." Well, that strikes a chord, doesn't it? "Maybe we are, Mom. We learned to live without Dad, after all...and now I'm learning to live without Sally and Michael. That's what I'm living with. And if that's something you can't accept, then maybe it's time you and I learn to live without each other, as well." She sucks in air. "He's your BROTHER!" "IS he?" I snap. "Was he my brother when...no. God. Why am I doing this? It's never going to change." I take a breath. "Goodbye, Mom." "Jo-" That's as far as she gets before I hit the red button, terminating the call. It won't end there, of course. She's getting used to being hung up on. It's probably a part of her strategy. She'll stew for a few days, figure I'm doing the same, find a reason to call back, and start all over again. What the end game is, I can't begin to imagine. There's a glass sitting on the kitchen counter, and it's just begging for the sting of some cheap, cheap whisky. Who am I to refuse? Once the beverage is acquired, I let myself sink into the living room couch and contemplate the empty wall in front of me. Cheap apartment paint, so thin it looks like primer. Probably is. And it's ugly, too...like, genuinely ugly. That's something of an accomplishment, when you're working in pale monochroma. Maybe I should buy something. A clock. Band posters. I don't know. Whatever it is that people in their mid-30's put on their walls, when they don't have a family to put photos up of. Tits, probably. All the alcohol seems to have left my glass. Isn't that just another little bit of shit news? I don't have the heart to get up and get more, so the glass gets relegated to the floor. Sorry, old chum. You're out of the fight. I let a sigh come in real slowly, and then sweep right back out. What a day. What a week. What a life. My cell vibrates again. I almost don't bother, but morbid curiosity is still a curiosity, isn't it? So I heft it up and take a look. It's a text...received from one Peter Bertolini, of Bertolini, Shulman, and Watt. There's a picture there, of some very legal-looking paper or other. Jesus Christ. What now? Another delay? Tap. Zoom. Read. And to my very real surprise, I find that I actually have a reason to laugh. "Dear Mr. Blah the parties of blah blah do hereby willingly acknowledge and blah blah blah the most recent valuation of the marital home blah consider any future negotiations blah." Amazing. Simply amazing. I wonder what precipitated that? I lean back and try to imagine how Michael feels. First, the poor dear had to come to terms with the disconnect between his realities and dreams. Bartending part time doesn't exactly make one a bacon-bringer, you see, so Dad's 'simple math' choked off his hopes of being able to afford the marital home-to-be. And now, he finds out he can't even use the damn thing to rob me blind. Not that the two of them didn't try. I'll give them that. They fought like hell. "Brand new fence" was a particularly good one. Even I had to laugh, Mikey. I really did. Now, Mr. Bertolini and me, we have ourselves a little system. He sends me notes and pictures, and I only call him back if I feel the need. It's a good system. Saves us both a lot of effort. Got any questions? A need for advice? Updates to share? No? Good...no communication necessary. I'm sure Bert appreciates it. I don't get the impression the old guy is having much fun with this case, anymore, and I'm not exactly sociable these days...so silence works well for both of us. Oh, don't get me wrong. This divorce was hot to the touch, at the start. Everyone was out for blood. Jesus wept. Etc. But the novelty wore off, the blood's all been claimed, and Jesus moved on to quieter pastures...so the participants are now moody and distracted. Nobody's getting any pleasure out of this thing. Except, maybe, Sally. And even that, I don't know. I just wonder. I mean, it must be fun, right? Or...Christ, something. Otherwise she'd just let it end and move on with her life. Wouldn't she? In any case, that's all conjecture. And on this particular occasion, I do feel the need to call my lawyer and check in. Bertolini, natch, picks up right away. "I thought I might hear from you today," he says by way of greeting. "Congratulations on a small but decisively landmark victory." "Yeah, I'm the king of the world over here," I droll. "Does this mean that they're finally ready to move forward? Are we actually looking at the light at the end of the tunnel?" The moment of silence before he responds tastes a lot like that cheap-ass whisky. "Well," he draws it out like he's actually thinking about it. Right. "I'd say that it's a little unclear at this point. Unless maybe...you've heard anything from her?" I don't respond. "Yeah, I didn't figure. Her lawyer isn't talking, either. So all we really know...literally all we know...is that they've agreed not to contest the valuation of the house. We don't know the why of it. We don't know what predicated such a sudden change. We don't know if this is them setting us up for something else, or giving a little bit back before another big rush to take take take...and frankly," he sighs, "...we don't know how the judge will perceive it, either." I close my eyes. I should be used to this by now. Every answer to every question you'll ever ask is 'we don't know.' We. Like we're in this together. Like we're both getting paid. "I understand what you're saying," I tell him, "but the whole reason they were able to get away with the last postponement was that they were contesting the valuation. Surely this acceptance eliminates that 'need.'" "It does," he admits, "but with a set of fresh-as-fruit addendums. First of all, this action shows a reasonable and diligent effort on their part to move the whole thing toward conclusion. So if they were to get up a week from now and ask for more time the judge would probably give it to them, precisely because of this declaration right here. If he sees good faith, he's gonna grant more freedom. That's just what it is." "Ridiculous." "Maybe. But I'll tell you something: every judge's secret fantasy is that, if he can stay out of a divorce action long enough, the parties will magically reach amicable conclusion without him. Gavel-hammerers hate dealing divorces almost as much as they hate judging white collar criminal cases. They'll almost always err on the side of uninvolvement." "Fuck them. They're involved. They're the goddamn system." "Yup." Ok. Snit fit over. "What do we do?" He sniffs. "We offer dates. Again. We see what happens. Again. We hope they don't bring up some new surprise action or request. Our heads stay down, our shoulders locked firm, and our backs to the wind." That's a good one. Almost makes self-inflicted torture sound heroic. I bet he uses it all the time. "Okay." "Anything else?" Yeah. My head hurts, my shoulders ache, and my back is giving out. "Why is she doing this?" I immediately wish I could retract. I feel like an idiot for even asking something like that. Who knows what kind of shotgun answer is hidden in the ether, just waiting for the right trigger finger to come along and reflexively pull. And I asked a fucking lawyer. Surprisingly, though, his response is not in the form of 'I don't know.' "Your ex-wife's attorney is a friend of your mother's," he tells me. "He's working pro-bono, so she's not actually paying a dime for any of this. My guess is, right now she thinks she hates you, and it's making her feel real good to know that she can control you...that you can't do a goddamn thing to stop her." He pauses. "I do wish you hadn't asked." "How do you know all this?" "I don't exactly know. I just think. But I have to tell you that I am...acquainted with your ex-wife's attorney." He suddenly sounds like he's choosing his words entirely too carefully. Fuck lawyers. "We're not friends, but...well, I know him. And his wife, actually. After the third postponement we ran into each other at a party. You know how it is." No, I don't, but okay. "Anyway, he told me he's doing your mother a favor, but that he's wishing he'd never gotten involved. He initially expected it would be an open-shut deal, since your ex and your brother were so obviously in love-" "Obviously," I snort. This earns me a very hefty sigh. "What do you want? Grit? It's love. It happens. And from what I hear, they make sure anybody who goes near them can see it for themselves." Ouch. That one hurts. "Okay." He turns sympathetic, or fakes it. "Look, it's not like you want her back anyway. And the whole point to the story is, women who have someone new don't usually want the divorce to linger on like this one has. Not unless they're angry, or...uh...scorned, or what-have-you." There's a pause. "To be honest, I don't usually see this level of vitriol, except in cases where the husband was a serial philanderer." I frown. "If you're sugge-" "Of course I'm not. I've been here the whole time, chief. Remember? If she'd caught you in the saddle, she would have thrown it in your face by now. And mine. And in any face that had the face to face her at the wrong time. Shit, she'd have brought it up any time there were people in the same room as her. And if those people happened to move into the next room over, she'd just have said it a little bit louder. That's how some women react. Women like her. She hasn't said it, so she didn't see it. And that's what makes the rest of this so confusing. I honestly don't know why she's so...whatever it is that she is." What's left to say? It started out interesting, but came back to 'I don't know,' after all. "Neither do I," I admit. "Just hang in there. And don't forget that this was a victory. We won a little bit of the war, today, Joey." "Yeah. Big win. Hooray for the good guys." He grunts. "Hooray for the good guys." There's an awkward pause, and neither of us has anything else to say. He breaks it. "Take care." And then he hangs up. Hooray for the good guys. - The heart aches, tedium serves, and time may yet be the healer. I'll let you know. It's almost a week before Mom gets the dander up to try calling me again. So that's a nice little surprise. "I miss you," she says by way of greeting. And, Dad, you'd be impressed. She has now mastered tones so gloriously pathetic, they're almost beyond the range of human hearing. "We all do. We miss you so much." "I believe the first part," I admit. "If that's any consolation." "You know, Joey, Michael and Sally are really hurt that you won't even lis-" "Goodbye, Mom." "Now wait a minute! Just a goddamn minute!" From miserable to raging in .5 seconds. Classic. "I'm tired of this...this rift...tearing up my two boys. I can't deal with it anymore! You need to forgive him, Joey! Forgive Michael, so that we can all begin to heal." Her breath distorts into the phone. "He's out of my life, Mom. Forever. Accept it." "Please," she whispers, so close to the mouthpiece now that it sounds like she's eaten it. "Do this for me." And why is that the end? Who knows. But it is. 'Do this for me' is the nugget that tips the scale for good. "Mom?" I tighten my stomach in an effort to control my voice. "Yes, dear?" Hopefulness. Whispers of victory. "I love you. But goodbye." Exasperation. Anger. "Oh, for the love of Pete, Joey! Stop hanging up on me like a goddamn angry child every t-" "I intend to. Goodbye, Mom." Fear. Uncertainty. "Joey?" It's not an affectation this time. It's a wounded, unspoken confession that I've heard from her before. Michael wouldn't remember. This time, she hears me. This time, she knows what 'goodbye' means. This time, she knows that it's forever. Hesitation. Heartbreak. "Joey?" I hang up the phone, and stare at the back of my hand as it clutches the device. "Goodbye, Mom." - "What did I do wrong?" That's the most obvious one, if you're wondering. The most obvious, and also the most common. There are plenty of other questions, of course...hundreds of them. But that's the one that seems to pop into your head over and over again, usually at the least-expected moments. It's like some prankish asshole pouring cold ice water down your back whenever you finally relax and stop looking for it. Sometimes it brings a cousin named, "What's wrong with me?" That one gets ugly, especially if you've been drinking. But most of the time, you can just swerve it back around to the big one, like a school of fish following a whale. "What did I do wrong? For fuck's sake, what did I do wrong?" You can't help wanting there to be something, you know? Life would be much easier, if there were some specific thing or definable behavior that you could recognize and change. Some simple step that would protect you from not knowing what went wrong. Here's the real kicker, though: I don't think that I did do anything wrong. Oh, maybe my job screwed us up a bit. What job doesn't, really? And maybe I didn't try as hard as I should have to let her know I still cared. But she was with me on the career thing one hundred percent, and it's not like I just became an absent husband. I did still try. I did still let her see that I loved her. She just didn't care enough back, in the end. I guess it's possible that she lost her side of the spark, somewhere along the line. I can understand how that can happen. But that only justifies the leaving. Not the betrayal. Not the cruelty. Or the lies, or the indifference. Nothing can justify that. - I agree with you, Son. The route was worse than the destination, if that's the way you want to say it. And I always thought she was better than that. - So did I, Dad, or I wouldn't have married her. I wouldn't even have spoken to her. I would have turned and run right the hell in the other direction. - Maybe. You can never really know. To tell you the truth, it's the days leading up to the end that confound me. Was she acting? Pretending to care? I just can't figure what that would have gained her. There's no simple math that adds up, here, no matter what I do. - Honestly? I think simple math was just your idea. It wasn't ever anything to do with the world. It wasn't anything to do with people. It was just a novel tick...one of your many quirks. - Oh, no, Joey. You're wrong, and it sounds to me like maybe you've missed the point. Simple math was never supposed to be an explanation. Simple math was a philosophy. A way of seeing through to the best way forward...a way to keep from ever becoming one of the bad guys. Even if she went off the rails, I always thought Sally had some of that in her blood. Simple math was about remembering how simple decency can be, in a world of complicated evil. It was about refusing to disbelieve. It was about refusing to adapt to sin. I hope, and have hoped, that I instilled some of that in you. The world is a cruel and forgiving place, my son. Whatever you do, you must never, never be like the world. - If only you knew... But maybe you're right. Maybe the best thing we can know is how simple the right thing always ends up being. I just wish Sally had known. - And I wish you would have talked to her...just to learn what she was thinking. It might have helped you move on. - Maybe. But here's the thing: while I don't think I did anything wrong, I also don't think anybody ever thinks they were the bad guy. Nobody. Not even her. So talking wouldn't have done us any good. Nothing would have been learned. We would just have gone back and forth hurling accusations and getting upset. In the end, it probably would have helped her vindicate her own flawed logic to herself. No thanks. The question does keep coming up, though. Over and over again. Sort of like the memory of your voice, Dad. And especially at times like this, when I'm listening to the traffic outside my window and trying to fall asleep. - Ahh, good old Mr. Bertolini. I am so glad to hear from you today. You are my family, now. "Congratulations," he drawls down the line, sounding exactly as fat as he actually is. "Everything is officially filed and done. You're a free man." "Thank you," I say. But 'congratulations' seems like the wrong word. How about 'surprise?' Or 'oh, shit?' "So, now, what will you do with all this newfound freedom?" He's expecting light-hearted banter. "I don't really know. Didn't someone once say that freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose?" "Sure. But that someone was a drunk, and she went and died right after singing that stupid little song." He sniffs again. Christ, save me from all the sniffing. "That just goes to show you how much she knew about these things." Well played, Mr. Bertolini. Here...have a humorless chuckle. You seem to be collecting them. "Well, anyway, it's been real and it's been fun...but I'm afraid I've recently run out of money to send you. And I'd wager you've run out of ways to bill me for nonexistent accomplishments, too, so we've come to something of a stalemate." I let him laugh at that. Maybe he means it. "I can find some new ways. Just give me time." "Don't worry. I'm sure that the next time I get divorced, I'll end up looking you up." Simple Math Ch. 02 "Then the odds are in my favor," his voice is a smile. "And, as a word of advice, next time marry just a little bit crazier. This one wasn't bonkers enough." Okay. That one gets a laugh. A real laugh...one that feels good and warm and tickles at my soul. Like pee in your pants on a cold, cold day. "I promise to do my best." It feels like there should be something more to say, like I'm saying goodbye to an old friend or something. But there isn't, so, "Bye, I guess." "You take it easy. Every day is going to be a little better than the last. I promise." Said the lawyer to the fool. - Final report: time is not the healer. But it is, as an alternative, very practiced at distraction. It's nearly two years since I broke into my own house, drunk with the suspicion that my wife was betraying me, and I'm at Target buying a new head for my electric toothbrush. For a few blissful moments, I have forgotten all about it. And because fate sucks, that's when I happen to see them. Actually, I'm not being entirely honest. I am here to shop, but in the moments before I see my worst enemies I'm just standing like an idiot, tracking a really great pair of stretch pants as they walk by and wondering how it's possible that every woman in the world got married right before I got divorced. Anyway, that's when I register their presence. The whole group. All three stooges. Ha fucking ha. Mom is the one who draws my attention, talking animatedly and waving her arms in that not-quite fidgety way she always does when she's trying to run a show that she knows isn't hers to run. Michael is laid back, just letting her go and cracking little jokes in response. He pulls his favorite girl in close, smiles broadly, and looks...healthy, I guess. Skinny, but fit. They're picking through women's clothing, the whole lot of them, and they couldn't possibly look any more like a family. I haven't seen Sally in a long time, now that I think on it. She's been an arctic wind rolling across my world for many months: she never goes away, she makes every moment miserable, and she ruins my days and nights...but I never actually SEE her. So I can't really be blamed for pausing and peering, just to consider my wife. Can I? And, uh, ex-wife. Sorry. I look. And mostly, I'm just struck by how different she looks. I don't know how, exactly, or why, but I'm immediately certain that she's changed...and in a big way. I can't really define the change, but it's definitely there. I squint, come up with nothing, and squint again. Yeah, that'll make it happen. I suppose the crux of the situation is, someone else is taking her place. A doppelganger. A bizarro. Give them enough time, and she'll be completely gone. All that will remain is the memory. Close your eyes. Shake it off. It's a sad thing to think about, and it doesn't do you any good. Yeah. I know. But the woman I loved is melting away. Or maybe the whole thing is imagined. Maybe I'm just forcing the assumption because I want to believe that she's someone else. Or it could even be that I've only just now stopped imagining, and let go of a pretend woman who was never there at all. It would almost be worth it to go over there and say hello, just to find out. Whose voice would it be, my dear? Whose words would you use? As I consider the question they step out into the aisle, Mom waddling cheerfully and pushing a cart that is precipitously full of all manner of clothes and colorful boxes. And then it hits me. Electronic pumps. Books. Diapers. Maternity wear. Sally is laughing at something Michael just said. He rubs the slight bulge that is her belly, proud as a... Yeah. I sidestep back into the dental area, my breath refusing to be released. Suddenly, so many things make sense. Why they suddenly stopped playing games with the divorce. Why Mom stopped calling to pester me. Why their lawyer was suddenly worried about his pro bono case becoming a disaster. In my head...or maybe in my heart...I hear the excitement and joy that must have flooded her voice as she told Michael the big news. A father. A creator of life. A daddy. And he must have stared for a moment, an impossible grin spreading across his face, and then grabbed her up in a loving hug and kiss. Like in a movie. A movie I'm not in. And that's what really gets me, I guess. My identity has been stolen. My future assumed. It was all supposed to be mine: the big news, the hug. All of it. I spent...God, years waiting for it. Waiting for her to be ready. What did he ever wait for? What did he do to earn that right? Hell. Maybe she was just never going to be ready for me. Maybe she was just waiting, putting up with the idiot school teacher until the right man came along. But then why did she stay for so long? Why wouldn't she let me go off and find my own? Why did she use up the energetic youth that my children could have benefitted from? That I wanted so badly to share with them? Why would she do that to me? Give it up. It doesn't matter. It's nothing to do with you anymore. Somebody else is going to be a daddy. Tough shit. Buy your goddamn toothbrush and go home. They have to walk past me to get to the checkouts. I try to make myself unnoticeable. Thankfully, nobody looks my way. There's something else, too, now that they're closer. Michael is tan and fit, like I saw before, but he's also thinner than ever before. He rubs at his right arm over and over again, his head bobbing to a song that's not playing on the intercom as he walks by...a tiny little motion set, written entirely in anxiety's jagged hand. Anxiety about what? Is he impatient to get out of here and get back to that other love of his life? Does some terrible danger linger in this happy family's approaching future? Or am I just seeing what I want to see? Something else that could be nothing at all, but which refuses to leave my mind for the rest of the night: there's a small faded bruise peeking out from underneath Sally's sleeve. That old irreproducible smear of purple fading into yellow, dancing underneath the fabric of her clothes. Forming there, like a question...like a warning. Like the simplest of truths. - Hey. You know what's weirder than weird? The first time you let someone new in. The first time you let them touch you, see your body, or just get physically near enough to invade your personal space. Everything leading up to that moment is actually pretty standard, so it's easy. You meet, you smile, you find a reason to talk, and then you meet again. Hell, you've been doing that kind of shit for years. Even married folks dance that little dance...with colleagues, with friends, even with their pharmacist, if they see them regularly enough. We are a social species. We sustain ourselves in such ways. So this time you just...let it go a little further. That's all. And it's not until you're in the bedroom that it suddenly takes on another face. One moment it's an enjoyable step-action rumba, the next it becomes an awkward waltz with uncertainty. Consider: the last time you exposed yourself to anyone in this way was years ago. Maybe decades. And you were young, then, with a young person's body and a young person's blind physical ambitions. Now you're a bona fide adult. The differences are significant. The hair, the way the body holds together, the best movements and best paces and best angles. Everything has changed. Everything is just a little less best than it used to be. This is a completely different body, is what I'm saying, and the only person who's ever SEEN it before now was married to it. So it's sort of an unknown. Long story short, though, it's not a terrible experience. It's just not something you're ready for. Sort of like the first time you stepped out in your bathing suit at a public pool, following the onset of puberty. Sort of, "Oh, hello. It seems I'm not really prepared for this." And then you're in the pool and splashing around and it turns out everything is fine. A few weeks after the incident at Target I meet someone, and one thing leads to another. I get back in the pool, you know? And everything is fine, and we have a good time, and now I'm thinking I'd like to keep going back to the pool whenever possible. Shit. Who wouldn't? She's a neat lady, if you're wondering. Got a smile that makes me think of Greece and a love of long, flowing skirts I could really learn to adore. Another thing I'll tell you: she likes to swim. Life is actually looking pretty good, with that issue laid to rest. And I'm lying in bed the morning after our fifth or sixth date, just listening to her breath and appreciating the simple glory of waking up next to a woman, when the phone rings. Now, I don't get many calls these days, so maybe it's the surprise that causes me to pick it up without looking at the display. Rookie mistake. "Hello?" My voice is graveled and deepened by the morning. Maybe I should wake my new friend up so she can hear it before it clears. You never know what might get you in there... But then there's a sound in my ear, and the good humor leaves me in an instant. I can tell you who is on the other end of this call just from the little mewling sounds she makes when she cries. "Joey," Sally gasps. "Help." "Uh." And I hang up. I know. Pretty fucking slick. I've been imagining telling that bitch off for two years, now. In my mind, my performance was epic. It was fierce. It was murder by infallible oration. And now that I finally get the chance? When she's calling and crying and pleading and gurgling my name? What do I say to that? 'Uh.' Awesome. Immediately, I'm sitting up and rubbing my face like the last 5 seconds of my life might flake off. Oh, and also wondering 'what the fuck?' Why would Sally call me...ME, of all people...to ask for help? Why would I ever want to h- The phone rings again. This time I check first. It's a local number, but one I don't recognize. I pick up. "Hello?" "Hi, I'm looking for Joseph Lindahl?" Ahh. That's not actually a question, mister telemarketer. "I'm with the Herald," he persists. "I'm trying to reach-" I hang up. 'With the Herald.' No subscription here, thanks. It rings again. Same number. Take the hint, buddy. Then another comes in. Mom. Nope, definitely not answering that one. But this is interesting, isn't it? Greek Swimmer rolls over and looks at me from underneath a dark splashing of promising hair. I lean in for a kiss, and our lips meet just as the call goes to machine. "Joey? Joey, this is your mother! Pick up! I don't know what you've heard, but Michael is okay. He's okay. It just grazed him, is all. They're ke-" she disappears for a second, then comes back to say, "Oh, it's your uncle calling. I have to go. Call me back!" Now we're both looking at the machine, like it might answer a question nobody's bothered to ask. Swimmy glances over at me. "What was that about?" "I don't know. I don't know why she's even calling." Then, as if I need to explain myself. "We don't have a relationship." The phone rings yet again. It's Sally. Again. No message. Now Swimmy's getting worried. "Something's wrong," she insists. I shrug, climbing out of bed. "Maybe. But whatever it is, it's not my problem. They're not my problem." My voice sounds normal again. Damn it. "She said someone got hurt." I hop out of bed and pull on a t-shirt, flicking on the TV as I pass by on my way to the kitchen. Mostly, I do this to avoid having to consider whether or not I care. "-reports out of Kansas today, where police say two officers were shot and killed in a drug bust gone wrong. Authorities say that a firefight erupted as-" No. I'm sure I turn around at normal speed, or maybe even a little faster than that...but it feels like the slowest movement in the world. And there on the screen, for all the world to see, is my brother's sullen, pock-marked face. It's his mug shot from a previous arrest. He scowls out at me in youthful, too-familiar fashion. Only this time there are two oh-so final-sounding words tucked in right beneath his name: "Michael Lindahl: Cop Killer." I stare. A pair of arms wrap around me from behind. "Do you know that man?" she leans her face into my shoulder blade. "He's my brother." The face pulls immediately away. "Oh." The arms disappear. "Oh my god." "Yeah." "Oh my god." She steps backward. The phone rings again. Footsteps, moving quickly away. "I'm sorry." But she shouldn't be. It's understandable. She barely knows me. "You should go," I say, offering her a way out that she's already begun to take. "I'll call you." - Mom holds on so tight, I finally have to push her away. It takes her a long time to be capable of speech. Once she is, though, she lets loose. "I don't understand!" She whines. "He wasn't even using! Why was he there? Why was he hanging around with those...those people?" She sneers out the word. "Why did they do this to my boy? He's going to be a father!" I think about what I saw at Target, months ago. "I'm pretty sure he was using, Mom." "Oh, how would you know?" she snarls, happy to have a target of her own. "You weren't even here!" Yeah. I know. It was great. "Have you talked to him?" She nods, turning pitiable again. "They let me visit him when he was in the hospital. Before they...before they moved him." "Did he do it? Did he really shoot those cops?" A scowl. "Of course not!" "Did he tell you that?" She fidgets. "We didn't talk about it." Her face darkens. "But we didn't have to! My boy would never..." she trails off, and the crying starts all over again. "He wouldn't," she wails. "He wouldn't!" Oh, shit. He did it. He really did it. Even his mother knows. I shake my head. "Give me his lawyer's name. And his information. I want to go and see him." She nods, searching for a pen and wiping mucus off her upper lip. Halfway through writing, she suddenly looks up. "Have you talked to Sally?" I don't answer. "She'll be here this afternoon, you know." Another sniffle. "She misses you. She just had to talk to her folks before-" "Do you have that number written down yet, Mom?" - Michael looks tiny, sitting on the other side of the glass. And he should. He's a memory...one that's already begun slipping away. "I didn't expect to see you here." He says it without malice. "I could say the same thing," I force a smile. No response. He's shaking. "I didn't mean for it to happen." His eyes scan the room as he scratches at that arm. I nod. "I know that." "If that fucker Ibrahim hadn't...I mean, if..." The shaking is getting worse. Then, he gives up and just falls into himself. "What's going to happen to me?" he asks in a voice an octave too high. Suddenly he's a little boy again, scared and crying and asking why Daddy isn't coming home. I open my mouth to answer. If I'm being honest, quite a few cruel quips come to mind. But I reject them all as petty, or as beneath my moral standing. Not everyone registers this decision. - Careful, now, son. This is not the time to abandon your soul. Your brother is lost. He's doomed. You just let him be. - Dad? What are you doing here? Believe me, you aren't needed. - I'm stopping a mistake that you'll regret the rest of your life. It's simple math, Joey. Michael is a broken man. He simply can't sink any lower. You don't have to hit him anymore, son. - Jesus. If that's why you're here, then you can just go back the way you came. I didn't come to this place to kick a cripple, and I didn't come to gloat. I don't trade in moments like this, Dad, and there isn't anything out there that I'm owed. Do you even know how often you underestimate me? "Joey?" Michael asks, real concern on his face. "Sorry. I was just thinking." "I'm scared, Joey." He is, too. He's a dead man, and everybody knows it. "I need help." I think about that a moment. "Do you remember when Dad died, Mikey?" The dam bursts again, and he starts sobbing. "Okay. You remember. Do you remember asking me why I wasn't crying? At the funeral?" He nods, clutching the phone to his head. "I...remember...that." "Really? Wow. You were so little..." I shake my head. "What did I tell you, then?" "That...Dad...is..." he is really falling apart, now, "That Dad is here..." he tapped his chest. I give a nod. Right gesture, wrong chest. "That's right. He's not gone. He had two sons, and we had the ability to carry him with us." One of us did, anyway. "You have a child, Mikey. Now, they are gonna kill you for this...but you don't have to be gone, either. That baby is important to your future. So you just toughen up, keep breathing, and smile extra big whenever your wife brings the tubby little thing in to see you. You understand?" I lean in. "You make sure that your baby remembers that smile." He nods, voiceless. I shrug. "It takes years to execute someone. Behave, and play act like everything's fine. If you're real lucky, that kid will remember you. Maybe even carry you along." I wait while he calms down a bit. When that finally happens, he turns sheepish. "I'm real sorry about what happened, Joe," he mumbles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I don't know why I got so..." he shrugs. "I don't know why I do half the things I do." I do. "Doesn't matter." "Joe?" He leans forward. "Would you...would you look after my baby for me? I'd be real glad to have-" "No." "You'd be a real good daddy." He's talking fast. "I never woulda been, even if. And Sally...I think sh-" "No." "Please!" He's desperate, yelling into the phone. "Please! Just...just..." He sags. "For my baby. Not for me. For my child." A hand on the glass. "My poor, poor baby." "I'm sorry, Mikey. I won't do it. But if it's any consolation, you're wrong." I check the time. Maybe one minute left. "What you just tried to do...that was something a good father would do." He stares at the countertop. I find that I'm choking up, too. How odd. "This is goodbye, Mikey. I, ahh...I love you. Okay?" He nods. "Goodbye, Joe." The guard comes into the room to get him. "I lov-" But the audio cuts out before he can finish the thought. And I didn't really want to hear it, anyway. - That's the end of the story, believe it or not. With one addendum, I suppose, that happens much later but is still worth mentioning. It's two years after I say goodbye to Michael, when Sally finally has the gumption to come looking for help. And by then it sort of feels like a different story, but I'll tell it to you here, anyway. You had to figure, right? I'd like to say that I saw the visit coming. But the truth is, after a few weeks of following events in the news and avoiding Mom's newly-frantic calls, I really thought I'd finally escaped. 'Escaped' isn't the word. Maybe, 'divorced.' Eventually, everything just sort of...ended. Michael hung himself in his cell halfway through his trial. Which was disappointing, if only because it meant he chose himself over his child. Surprise, surprise, I know. He left two suicide notes, one ostensibly for Mom but aimed more at public forgiveness, and the other addressed to me. I keep it in my breast pocket. I haven't read it. I don't know if I ever will. Sally? She looks like shit, if you're wondering. I mean I would have, at one point. And she stands in the threshold like a display on the effects of age, weight, and exhaustion. Her clothes don't fit right. Her eyes look inhumanly dull. Her baby (is it a toddler yet? I don't actually know where that line gets drawn) has odd-looking proportions and a visible ribcage. Simple Math Ch. 02 Poor little girl. We all get punished for our parents' mistakes, though, don't we? "Hi," Sally croaks. I nod. I don't really have a lot to say. She glances past, observing the room within and not hiding her obvious exhaustion. "Can I come in?" Well, the obvious answer is 'no.' But it's raining, and the baby does look cold. So... Once she's inside, she sets the girl down, and she doesn't so much as glance at the top-heavy little diaper-wearer for at least fifteen long minutes. No sign of worry, no fretting that the baby's gone out of sight, no flinching as her daughter nearly knocks a potted plant over on my nice, white carpet. Nothing. She also seems to be in no hurry to get to the point. "Wow, Joey," she says after some directionless small talk. "This is a nice place." She tries delivering it casually, without affectation, but immediately reveals herself with the addition of, "A lot nicer than we ever had." I admit it: I enjoy the moment. "Yeah, well. I quit the school system." She turns, surprised, and I wave it off. "Mikey's trial became sort of a burden for me, there. Now I manage training for a company that contracts with the army. Turns out private sector is a lot less work and a lot more pay. Go figure." The mention of her husband's name draws a sorrowful look, and she glosses over the rest to say, "I'm sorry that our problems affected you that way." "It all turned out for the better." I immediately feel stupid for saying this, and my embarrassment becomes irritation. "Sally, why are you here?" She winces. "Joe, I...I don't know where else to turn. My parents are both in a home. Most of my friends are in the process of blowing me off. Your mom needs even more caring-for than little Linda does, these days. I know..." she steps forward, made bold by hunger, "...I know this will be hard for you to hear. I wouldn't believe me, either, if I were in your shoes. But I do sti-" "Don't." "Just let me say it, please. And then, if you still fee-" "I fucking hate you, Sally." Chew on that. Her voice falters and fades. She looks shocked, then irritated, like I'm being childishly stubborn by not playing along. After a moment, she looks at the floor to hide her emotions. "I guess I just thought that if..." she glances up at my face, doesn't find what she's looking for there, and goes back to staring at the floor. "It wasn't you, Joey. I want you to know that, at least. It had nothing to do with you." "The end of my marriage was nothing to do with me?" I laugh. "Next you'll tell me that I wasn't even there." A shrug. I shake my head. "It's a two-person gig. Neither of us existed in a vacuum. It was a part of me, for Christ's sake. A part of who I was. A part of who I wanted to always be." I tap my chest. "It was here, and it died. So don't tell me it was nothing to do with me." She finally cranes her head to check on the kid, then hugs herself and says, "I'm sorry, Joey. Michael was just...it was like..." she traces the leather of the sofa with her fingertip, and sighs. "You were working long hours, and you never were very good about talking about our problems. You just wanted to fix everything. Then, you got so damned proud of your new position, I didn't even know how to reach you. I didn't know how to fix us." Amazing. She doesn't even blush as she says it. "There," I say, "see? I knew I was in there somewhere." But she's lost in the storytelling of it, now. "By the time you caught us, I honestly didn't know what I felt anymore. On the one hand, you were part of what was keeping me from having it all. On the other, I wanted you to swoop in and put me in my place, save me from myself. Be my protector. You didn't do that. You just turned right around and walked away, like you didn't even care." A theatrical shiver. "I couldn't believe that you would do that to us! So I kept delaying things, preventing the divorce, waiting for you to realize that it was your job to fight for me. To fight for us." She looks around the room again, and makes a sour face. "I kept waiting for you to help me fix us, and now I see that you were too damned busy fixing things for yourself." "We were over, Sally. You saw to that. Christ...you've changed so much, I don't even recognize you anymore. Why would I want to fight for someone like that?" "I didn't change. I just got tired of being bored all the time. Tired of a life without adventure, without passion and danger and desire." "So you were happier after leaving." "Yes, dammit. I was." "And yet you still thought that I should have to save you." "You're such an asshole," she hears a noise, glances around, locates the kid, then looks back at me. "You didn't give a shit about me." "You know better than that. You were my whole world." I decide to change the subject. "I was relieved when you finally stopped slowing the divorce, by the way. But I admit it took me a while..." I glance pointedly at the kid, "...to figure out why." For the first time since she's arrived, I see real remorse in her face. "After I discovered I was pregnant, things got...complicated. And Michael..." she rubs her arm. "He could be so sweet, most of the time. But then he'd get angry, and he'd...I mean, I never expected him to be so..." She glances over at her daughter. "Poor Linda. She'll never even know her Daddy." I nod. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you. But you should go." She bites her lip. "She's your niece, you know. Never mind me. You should know her." "No I shouldn't." "She's family, Joey." Ahh, family. The last ugly weapon of all truly manipulative people. "Sorry," I tell her, "but she isn't. 'Family' is a word that exists only in my future...not my past." Of course she starts crying. Great. Another of the goddamn stooges crying in my goddamn face. Does it ever end? "Please," she begs. "I don't have ANYONE!" Funny how suddenly it's not about Linda, anymore. I doubt that it ever really will be, for her. "Maybe not," I shrug. "But I do." And it's true, by the way. Oh, it's not Greek Swimmer...she's been gone a long time. But it's someone even better...someone so remarkable, and so impeccably pure, that I'll not defile her by putting her in a story as sordid as this one. "I'm married, now, and we're working on a family of our own. I've decided that I won't be putting my children at risk by exposing them to people like you. Or my mother, for that matter, or the people who surround you. I won't go around pretending that blood is a binding agent." I wave my arm towards the door. "Blood is just something that soaks into the ground. Go home, Sally." "How can you say that?" She's busy gathering up her little one, playing her indignance to the hilt. "How can you be so cold-hearted?" "Didn't you know?" I ask as she storms out the door. "I'm the man who killed his own father." - That's ugly, son. You shouldn't talk that way. Not even when you're mad. - Ahh, but it's true, Dad. Do you wanna know how? - No. And you need to stop this. Now. - You were coming over the hill on your bike. Remember? You were always so proud of yourself for biking to work every day. 'Fit as a fiddle,' you'd say. "Fit as a fiddle 'till the day I die.' And what a premonition it turned out to be. I was home early from school, by the way. And I was bored...playing in the basement to pass the time, just goofing around and generally being a kid. Looking for kicks wherever they may be found. Then I found that Halloween costume, and I decided it would be fun to surprise you. You're awfully silent, all of the sudden. You must remember that costume, Dad. You helped me make it, after all. I was a wolf. So I hid in the bushes by the Sunderson place, and I watched and I watched...until I could see you just beginning to crest the hill. I was so singularly fixated on surprising you, that I never even looked in any other direction. I just leapt right out, and scurried up to the curb on all fours, howling like a child thinks a wolf probably howls... ...and scared the living shit out of that stupid drunk in the pickup. He swerved. You went under. I ran inside. You can take the story from there. I never said a word to anyone, you know. Not when we cried at your funeral, not when the drunk claimed he'd seen a wolf coming at his cab, not when they called him a liar or when he went to prison or when Mom had me go see the counsellor because I'd stopped talking about anything to anyone at all. I took the costume down to the river a few nights after the funeral, when everyone was asleep. I almost stepped in it myself. I was a scared little boy, with the worst secret in the world. I'd killed my father, and let someone else take the blame. Mom was broken, Michael was broken, the world was broken, and I was broken. Tell me, how does a child own up to something like that? So now you know, Dad. You know why I've carried you around and invited your opinions for all these years. It's been my job to keep some part of you connected to this world, because I'm the one who threw you out of it. It was a penance I could stand...up until now. Hell, I might have lived with it forever, if circumstances had allowed. But I'm ready to be a father, now, and I can't have you muddying up my mind or heart anymore. I need to be a better man than carrying you around allows me to be. What was it you said at the start of this whole mess? Part of being a good father is letting go? I'm going to take that advice. I'm going to care for my children, and love them, and protect them from everything that has ever come before. I'm going to take these things that we have done, and I am going to let them go. I'm going to let you go. What do you think, Dad? How does it feel to know the answer to the only question that's left worth answering? How does it feel to know what I really am to you, and what you really are to me? Dad?