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.