Page 29 - Demo

landlines—and he watched as the man turned to answer his phone. There was something about the back of the man’s neck: thick, knotty, not a stray hair to disturb its symmetry or its place on those square heavy shoulders. Not quite military, but indicative of an unwavering, plow-on-ahead and get’r done qual- ity. Kelly blinked and steadied himself on the cart.
Arnie had abruptly announced, an hour after hanging his ‘Danger—Man At Work’ sign on the finished build- ing, that the car would stay where it was, as the new space was to be for his projects. Joan asked, stiffly,
“Can I drive you to the hospital, sir? Maybe you should have that looked at.”
to which projects he was referring, and Arnie had simply answered, “House projects. To make things better.”
The man turned, waved him away with a smile. Again, his father. A wave that meant, I don’t need your help. I don’t need you.
That night Kelly found it the same. Burgundy paint flaked off the wooden siding and the Danger sign still hung over the entrance. He stepped into the house and his mother appeared, dressed as always: a long skirt with flower patterns, a buttoned wool sweater, and the ever-present red apron. Her wide smile and ironclad cheer bothered him particularly tonight, as if the responsibility of what he was going to say lay with her.
Later, during a relaxed dinner at the clubhouse, Kelly told Gil about the man. How he reminded him of Arnie. Gil held up his glass.
“Dinner?” she asked.
“To Dads,” he said, drinking long. “Wherever they
are.”
“Wherever they are,” said Kelly.
He shook his head. Something heavy swirled and flustered inside him and he felt called to an unspoken challenge. A duty. “Is he around?”
~
“He’s watching the game,” she said, indicating the liv- ing room with a nod. She looked at him for a moment. “If you’re hungry, let me know.”
In the parking lot at Pine Valley, after leaving Gil to call his wife for a ride, Kelly felt the real silence of
a golf course at night. The heavy drinkers—those who had lingered, seemingly avoiding going home as long as possible—had been shuttled home and the dark night fell like a disappointment. He couldn’t get the image of the man out of his mind. He kept see- ing the ball drop—it had been his finest drive—and sink faster and faster and the man didn’t move—he wouldn’t—and that moment when Kelly’s stomach did a somersault and the man clutched his hand to his head. That gesture, and the expression of pain that Kelly imagined the man to produce, threatened to take over his field of vision as he drove away. Why, he thought. Why? He turned off the main road and found himself meandering, taking side streets and quiet lanes until – the unexplained happens all the time – he arrived at his parent’s house.
Arnie was sitting with his feet up, a mixed drink on the lamp table beside him. The older man raised a hand in his direction but kept his attention on the game.
Theirs was the only house on Juniper Street that had a garage. The small, tree-covered backstreet a few blocks from the city center sported small, brick-lined bungalows with tiny plots of grass and narrow drive- ways. All the other houses had carports: they were used for everything except parking family vehicles. Kelly’s father had ripped out theirs when he was five. His mother Joan had hoped for the elegance of owning a car but having it out of sight and Kelly had hoped for a basketball net. Neither got their wish;
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The tenderness Kelly had expected to feel, as he had with the man on the golf course, dissipated in his father’s presence: all he found were nerves.
“Have a drink,” Arnie said, pointing to the bar, but Kelly raised a hand and sat down. He knew he had come for something, but what had been so clear
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