Читать книгу The Hard Way Back to Heaven - Karl Dehmelt - Страница 11

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Michael McGregor stands on the wooden deck looking out over his front lawn, leaning against the railing, the sun beating on his head. A lit cigarette is sandwiched between his right index finger and middle finger. The smoke drifts up over his head and trails off into the sky to go and choke some member of the avian population. Michael has been smoking since the age of nine, meaning it will be 38 years come September. Michael brushes his teeth exceptionally hard, but they still yellow. He’s smoked a lot recently. He smells the lovely, fresh air of the day as he takes another drag.

He stands atop everything he’s ever desired. He’s cast in the shadow of a house, a Palace with 13 rooms. He has a wife for whom his love is boundless, and a son who he will die to raise. The three possess loving family on all sides. They take vacations together. Gossip about the family stands nonexistent in the local community, and in all the pictures, everyone always smiles.

Michael does not consider the depth of his happiness. Not today. It’s already been a week since Lauren moved back in. Thus, the beauty of his foundation shines once more, like how the cigarette casts a little light as Michael lifts it to his mouth.

Lauren. He recalls the first time they met. The two had worked in the marketing section of a small business. It had been raining. She had been walking, and Michael had offered her a ride. She’d politely declined. The following day, it rained again, and Lauren had decided to trust him. The two married a year later. The world behind Lauren’s eyes had become Michael’s, and their planets collided. The two bought the house together, and their child came five years later. Lauren nearly died from preeclampsia. God decided it would be the three of them and the dog, Roxy, the Corgi who is nestled against Alex’s legs. One Big Happy Family, Version 2000, batteries included, white picket fence sold separately.

Lauren and Michael don’t talk like that anymore. Her eyes, once misty, are muddled and tepid. Once people live together long enough, they learn how to talk without speaking. After bringing Alex home on that day long ago, no oration had been needed. After Michael’s sister, Eve, had moved to California and cut ties with her family, no eulogy was delivered. Nothing has been said between Michael and Eve for seven years.

After Lauren’s brother Jim committed suicide by locking himself in a garage and passing out inside his Cadillac Escalade, a whole lot had been said, but none of it made any noise.

Even if the owner keeps the packaging, nobody can guarantee, once the family set is broken, that there are instructions for placing it back together.

Jim had been a man of small sayings. He did not act in the weakness of words. Lauren has become less of herself and more like Jim since August 17, 2004. No amount of money Michael makes can fill the holes in her soul. Michael does a lot to hold their Palace up; he’s Coopersburg’s version of Atlas. Using emergency money to try to pay credit debt while lying to his parents about the source hadn’t lightened the burden. Each dollar bill seemed to scoff at him, for as he works, it leaves his hands. The Palace is a hungry beast, and when Michael can’t feed it money, it likes to eat the lining of his soul. Mortgage refinancing. A shitty septic system. Lauren and he had fallen in love with the place, and with the area, so his soul pays the price for the affection. Now, Michael considers the merits of taking a blowtorch to the red paneling, mixed with gasoline and combustibles, sending the Palace up in flames like the lit end of his handheld stress managers.

The credit incident, the emotional embargos. Michael teaches his son about trust, the lies rolling off his own lips as sweet venom. He wonders at the possibility of obtaining the integrity he tells his son to value.

One time, he and Lauren argued about who was going to buy meat for a grill. Lauren compared Michael to other men, how he wasn’t a traditional father with a golden retriever and a can of baked beans on ESPN. Michael yelled about her silence, and his verbal blows rooted themselves in her disconnection. Michael complained how he worked all the time, and how Lauren did nothing but stay at home and watch the child instead of parenting, and Lauren bit back and tore parts of Michael’s person away with remarks regarding his past.

Lauren always starts with raindrops, and Michael knows they’re the preludes to hurricanes.

Alex is the miniature mediator. Ever since the age of seven, he’s engrained himself in his parents’ idiocy. Michael tells him how the repeated involvement isn’t normal, typically after yelling for hours on end for the 2nd time in as many months. Alex is usually the sanest one involved. He selflessly tries to make sense of their language of volume, trying to decipher words from emotional static.

Nobody in the family speaks of those arguments, except when Michael talks to Alex. Michael preaches how his points in the war are correct and Lauren’s are misguided and misfired instead of misunderstood. Her medication is another detriment to the funds of the home. His is a necessity. Alex has no medication.

He’s fine.

The landscape of the front yard hasn’t changed in a decade. The sun shines. The television breathes its nonsense, and Alex laughs along. Michael sighs, and then coughs hard. He’s probably developing a cold, and for a second he looks at the cigarette in his hands. He clutches it tighter and raises it to his lips. Taking one more lengthy drag, he puts it in a bottle of Poland Spring next to him, the water murky and brown from the residue of the cigarettes, dead bodies in a well.

Harlan’s old, beautiful car coasts into the driveway. It seems to meet the pavement as a familiar friend, moving into the spot next to Michael’s 2001 platinum Buick LeSabre. The silver and crimson gently play a contrast as they sit in front of the cluttered shed, the shelter of aborted home improvement projects. Lauren’s car, a 2005 dark blue Toyota Corolla, sits diagonally to the other cars, with direct access to the rest of the driveway.

Harlan and Cynthia emerge from the Impala, with Cynthia leaving her book on the passenger seat and Harlan turning the radio off. Harlan’s boots carry him over the short distance between the pavement and the main sidewalk. What could be a garden sits next to this entryway; it’s only resident is a small, ethereal light which only works half the time at night, protected by a short wall of stones. A large tree Lauren and Michael planted together stands guard on the other side of the yard, towering to the sky. The kitchen door hides behind a white fence which lines the path to the front door, and three bushes huddle together under three windows which peer into the kitchen of the home. Harlan walks deliberately; Cynthia follows his footsteps closely.

Lauren always walks separately from Alex and Michael for some reason, as if she does not want to taint their steps.

“Good afternoon,” Michael greets warmly from atop the stairs. He smiles as his father draws closer.

“Good afternoon to you too,” Harlan says. One clunk, two clunk, three clunks, four. Now the two stand only a couple of feet apart.

The two shake hands, and then hug. Michael feels the familiar roughness of his father’s embrace bringing him closer to home.

Harlan sniffs.

“You’re telling me you still haven’t quit?” Harlan lets a smile crease his lips.

“I’m working on it.”

“Still?”

“That’s bad for your health, you know.” Cynthia adds. She hugs her son while looking up at him. She’s short, but her husband has allowed her to stand tall since Michael was a child.

They bask in each other’s presence for a moment.

“So,” Harlan says.

“How’ve things been with you and Lauren?”

Michael looks away, nodding. “We’ve been alright.”

Cynthia shoots Harlan a look.

“You sure about that?” Harlan presses.

“Yeah, it’s been a little awkward, but we’re all here, aren’t we?” Michael replies. His fingers twitch towards the pack of cigarettes.

Harlan nods, chewing the response slowly.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Harlan asks.

Michael’s smile fades. “We’ll wait and see.”

“Have the two of you considered going to see somebody?”

“Harlan,” Cynthia quips. He’s acting like a bastard, once again.

“I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind the extra money.” Michael opines. Lauren never joins him when he goes to see Jack.

“It’s just a suggestion.” Harlan says, meeting Cynthia’s steeled gaze with one of titanium concern.

I’m trying to help. Harlan’s eyes sparkle.

I’m scared. Cynthia blinks.

“We’re just going to see how it goes for the future. We’ve just got to take it one day at a time, and then –”

The front door opens. The three turn. There stands Alex, a smile on his face similar to the one shared by his father and grandfather. He’s already taller than his mother and inching up on his father. He’s going into eighth grade, yet he could be mistaken easily for a Sophomore. Harlan knows he’s a growing boy, and he’ll streamline out in puberty. Acne is starting to dot his face, along with the regular facial expressions of concern which affect all middle school kids. The blue eyes shine behind his version of the McGregor glasses.

“There he is!” Harlan steps forward to shake his grandson’s hand as Alex walks past the screen door.

Cynthia follows to give Alex a hug, and a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

“Hi Grandmom,” Alex says, wincing slightly.

“Hello Alex. You know I’m only going to be able to do that for a couple more years, until you’ve got some girl doing it for me.”

Michael rolls his eyes. Alex lets out a chuckle.

“You hear that, kid?” Harlan asks. “One of these days you’re gonna like having that happen.”

“Of course I will, Grandpa.”

“Are you ready to be an eighth grader?” Cynthia is starting the process. The subconscious grandmother checklist, similar to the mother inspection checklist Lauren had used the day of Alex’s accident, begins.

Kiss? Check.

Hug? Check.

Harlan chides him about girls? Check.

School? In progress.

Friends? Up next.

Talking about how his parents are messing up his life by being irresponsible, and are damaging him like a family heirloom in a fireplace?

That’s Harlan’s inquiry.

“I think I’m ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve got most of my work done already.”

“What did you have to do?” Harlan asks.

“Read some summer reading books.”

“When I was your age, I was working, not doing reading assignments.” Harlan remarks, looking at Michael.

“Really?” Michael interjects skeptically, smiling. “You were working at the age of 13?”

“Of course!” Harlan says. “I was cutting grass for an older man who lived down the street! His name was Mr. Richard Collins. Ex-military, and he paid me three dollars every time I cut his lawn.”

Michael senses a story from Harlan. He interjects in the name of preventing sunburn.

“Alright, so I’ll just send Alex here three miles down the street to the next house and expect him to get paid, most likely in either apples or horses, like the olden days.” The nearest house is only a few feet down the road.

Harlan frowns. “He’s gonna have to learn someday, Michael.”

“I still haven’t.” Michael takes another cigarette out of his pack.

“You’re telling me.” Cynthia chimes.

“Hey now,” Harlan says, turning to her. Cynthia laughs.

A tapping comes from the glass door, snaring their attention.

Lauren wears a shy smile on her face, her black tee shirt bearing spots from her work on the day’s lunch, her jeans and bare feet comfortable on the floor of her home. Her hair descends in waves to her shoulders. Michael never understands why she makes herself look so good for his parents. A collision of emotions rocks him: there’s his wife, age not having done much to her over the 42 years it has held her in its grasp. How much effort does it take to construct her smile?

“If you don’t mind me interrupting, lunch is ready.” Lauren says, stepping outside.

She moves past Michael, giving him just a glance out of the corner of her eye.

Cynthia embraces her.

“Hello, darling.” Cynthia never fights with Lauren.

Cynthia has always been a freelance therapist, no degree or title required. She had taken a 16-year-old boy and helped turn him into the man who stands before her today. She has no biological children. Michael, and his sister Eve’s, birth mother had been a woman named Janice, who loved her bottles of liquor in the basement to resolve her problems. She had passed away from heart failure on a cold October night long ago, but Harlan and Michael had both made their peace with her. Janice’s words of wisdom, delivered from her occasional pulpit of sobriety, still float to Michael occasionally. The radiance and love of Cynthia’s guidance has been his lighthouse on the distant shore, the smoke on the horizon in the wilderness.

Harlan hugs Lauren next, ensuring his arms do not squeeze.

Harlan knows his son can be a manipulative bastard at times, but he loves him and doesn’t care for the baggage. Harlan knows his son’s dreams rest in the woman he’s embracing, and that she is aware of her power.

“Thank you for hosting us today, Lauren.” Harlan says, the summer air in his voice.

“You’re very welcome! We always love having you here.” Lauren replies.

“Hey, let’s not say our goodbyes, they just got here.” Michael puts an arm around Lauren’s shoulders. She smiles at his touch and looks to him. Alex lights up.

The moment, with Michael’s arm around Lauren, Michael’s parents peering at them reservedly, Alex standing to the side smiling at the boards of the porch, would be worthy of a camera. A picture should’ve been taken and prominently framed in a McGregor museum, as an eternal landmark in all of their lives, one where a fleeting second holds happiness.

Soon it shall be gone forever.