Hi, this is Richard Drake. I’m either not home, or I’m busy creating some ingenious piece of software. So leave a message at the tone, and I’ll get back to you—honest.
“Richard, are you there? Are you there?” It’s Gwen. She has a new voice these days, high-pitched and loud, an even worse teeth-grinder than her old one. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” At the word “important,” I reach for the phone. Then I remember that there’s nothing important left to tell, and I relax back in my chair. “Richard. If you’re there and you’re not picking up...” Dead air. The machine clicks off. Maybe I’ll call her later. It doesn’t really matter. She’ll call back if I don’t.
Whatever her pretext is, she’ll only end up asking one more time what I remember about that weekend. It’s always the same questions. What did he do? What did he say? Did he act depressed? Where could he have gotten the gun? And I answer the same way every time. “I don’t remember,” or “I don’t know.”
Sometimes I think she likes hearing just that. “I don’t know.” It’s how she hammers home that I was wasn’t clued in to what was going on around me. One of her big gripes when we were still married. Because, otherwise, what’s the point? It can’t change anything. But then, rehashing the past has always been one of Gwen’s favorite pastimes, especially when it involves some great wrong I’ve done.
Shit, I was on the verge of a breakthrough here, and now my mind’s all over the place. Even without living here, Gwen still manages to break in at the worst times and destroy my train of thought.
I close my eyes. That picture flashes behind my lids, and I snap open my eyes before it goes any further. Rolled up on the sofa are the pillow and blanket I got the last time I forced myself to go upstairs. It looks inviting, but instead I go to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee. The place stinks of garbage and wet coffee grounds. They’re all over the counters and running down the sides of the sink. Some might even be little brown ants. Best not to look too closely. I turn my back and lean on the counter, sipping lukewarm coffee.
Okay, sure, maybe I did miss some clues that weekend. But Gwen was the one on the ski weekend with her boyfriend. I was right here in same house, working. Consulting isn’t a nine-to-five job. You work days. You work nights. You work weekends. Nobody cares if your kid is sick or it’s your anniversary. A deadline’s a deadline. Gwen never got that.
And I can’t say I noticed anything different about him. Nothing out of the ordinary. I never kidded myself. He hated spending time at my place. He was a teenager, for chrissake. He wanted to be out skateboarding with his friends. Here, he’d sit in front of the TV all day playing one of his video games or texting his friends. I tried playing those games with him a couple of times, but he destroyed me. I have no eye-hand coordination.
He didn’t even like the same computer games I did. I bought him a great one where you find your way off this island by solving intricate puzzles. Apparently, he wanted the one where some jarhead saves the world by blasting weird-looking mummies that get in his way––all reaction time. No brainwork.
I light up another cigarette. The pack’s already almost empty. Last night I went out to buy some basics, like milk and eggs and bread. I remembered the milk, and then, on the way out, I asked for this pack of cigarettes—just like that. Just like it hadn’t been ten years since I’d bought the last one. I’m drinking too much coffee, too. It’s past keeping me awake, but I feel a hole burning in my stomach. It would probably help if I ate something with it. I haven’t had more than one meal a day for weeks, if you can call a slice of dried up cheese rolled in piece of bread a meal. Funny, though, it hasn’t affected my paunch any. Even without nurturing, it clings like a needy woman.
The menu of items in my cabinets is meager, and nothing really appeals to me. Then I remember the cereal. Dry cereal is what my Mom always gave me when I felt sick and couldn’t keep anything else down.
I open the cabinet and the first thing I see is that cookie cereal. His cereal.
Why am I surprised? I’ve been buying it for years. On the front is a little man with skinny legs and a cookie body. On the back is a puzzle game a two-year-old could solve. When he was a little guy, he refused to eat breakfast, until, on one of my weekends, I pointed this one out at the grocery store. He liked the picture. Only he still wouldn’t eat it unless I ate it too. Gwen proclaimed it “crap” and wouldn’t let him have it at home. But I always kept it here, next to my raisin bran, for when he came to visit, and I still ate it every weekend, until––
I swallow hard and take a deep breath and another sip of the acid coffee. I don’t really know if he even ate the stuff himself anymore. Ever since he got to the age where he slept in, he’d get his own breakfast and eat in front of the TV while I worked. Maybe I was the only one eating it on weekends. Maybe I was buying it for myself.
I pop one of the miniature cookies into my mouth. Actually, it’s not bad without milk, kind of like a hard chocolate chip. I dribble the last bit of the coffee into my cup and lean against the counter, popping little cookies and washing them down with bitter coffee.
How old could he have been when Gwen left me—five, maybe six? I came home from a business trip and found her packing. He sat on the bed next to the suitcase, staring down at the floor. When I asked what was going on, she said I wouldn’t understand. She got that right. I didn’t understand. I still don’t. I know she griped about how I didn’t spend enough time with them, but I wasn’t clairvoyant. I told her, plenty of times, if you think I’m spending too much time in front of my computer, just tell me, and I’ll stop. But saying that only made her madder.
Sometimes I wanted to ask my son if he understood. And sometimes when Gwen had another new guy at the house when I picked him up, I wanted to ask him about that, too. I wanted to know if these guys really did all the things she said I didn’t do. But, then, what would have been the point? She made the decision to go, so it must have been what she wanted. My son never said it bothered him. So why ask?
When I dig to the bottom for another cookie, there’s only a grainy pile left in the corner of the box. I shake it up and feel around hoping there’s at least one more whole one hiding somewhere down there, but all I get is sugary crumbs stuck to my fingers. I slide a bowl from the pile in the sink, rinse it a little, and dump out the sandy cereal remains, tapping the box to get every last bit. With just enough milk, it turns to grainy paste. I sit down in one of my scratched up captain’s chairs, careful not to lean on the loose arm, and rub the scratchy concoction between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, savoring the sweetness of each mouthful before I swallow.
The phone rings again. The machine in my office clicks off right after the greeting. It has to be Gwen. She must be desperate to talk to me. I guess there are some needs that boyfriend of hers can’t meet.
The sugar and coffee have started to kick in. It’s only ten o’clock. If I can just get enough done to make it through that demo tomorrow, maybe I can quit early and tackle that stack of overdue bills.
Only, when I drop the bowl in the sink, I’m still not satisfied.
What else can I eat? There’s my raisin bran, of course, but that doesn’t appeal to me right now. The rest of my cabinets are pretty bare. Most of the milk is used up, and I don’t even want to check the date on those eggs. All I can find is a little peanut butter. I scrape a knife across the thin film on the bottom of the jar, then toss the knife in the sink without tasting it. I don’t want peanut butter, or raisin bran. What I want is more cookie cereal.
It takes me a while to find my keys between the cushions of the sofa and my wallet under a pile of to-do lists. My hair’s sticking out in all directions, but, hell, it looks like rain anyway. I don’t even bother to grab a jacket, though it’s chilly.
I head out for the Q-mart.
The car radio is on, set to my usual NPR station. Some guy droning on about the inspiration for a novel I haven’t read. I hit the scan button. Little snips of music flash by, interrupted by voices or static. But one tune does catch my ear. It’s one of those elevator-music instrumentals of an old pop song that, for some reason, seems significant, though I can’t remember why. The words float around somewhere at the back of my brain, but they won’t come to me. They’re connected with something I should remember––something from when Gwen and I dated maybe?
I can do dum dum now the dum—no, wait... yeah. Something about seeing clearly after the rain has gone... I can see all Popsicles on the tray.
All Popsicles on the tray? That can’t be right. What was it, some dumb commercial jingle? But now that stupid line is stuck in my head, since I can’t remember the rest of the words, and along with the repetition, a memory seeps in. Actually, it’s more of a feeling. It’s the feeling of riding in that Mustang convertible, with the wind pounding around my ears. I can smell the leather seats and another scent… the scent of little boy. The scent of the sun beating down on his shiny black hair, like the smell of newly ironed clothes. Now I remember. Gwen did sing that a lot for some reason, but the “Popsicle” part was his. I can hear that high-pitched little boy voice singing at the top of his lungs, back when he didn’t care if people were looking, and I’d sing it too, with his misunderstood words.
I guess we did have fun together sometimes—probably before the divorce. But I got that Mustang after Gwen left, one of the perks of being single…when did things change? When did we stop being silly together? When did he become the kid who ended up doing what he did?
There are no other cars at the Q-mart. I park right next to the handicapped spot. A fine drizzle is falling now, so I hoof it into the store, which is empty except for a skinny kid behind the counter who continues talking on his cell phone. I can see practically the entire inventory from the entrance, and I spot the cereals right away. Unfortunately, they don’t include my cookie cereal. Still, unwilling to give up so soon, I approach the counter.
After several minutes, the kid decides to acknowledge me. “Help you with somethin’?” There’s no inflection in the voice.
“Yeah, I’m looking for that cookie cereal.”
“Got a name?”
“Yeah, I’m—oh, you mean the cereal.” How many years have I been buying it now, and I still don’t know the name. I would know it if I saw it. “Uh, it’s like little chocolate chip cookies. Only it’s a cereal.”
“That’s all the cereal we got.” He returns to his conversation.
“Gee, thanks,” I say as I shove the door. What a moron. Did it ever occur to him that if he tried a little he might do better than spending his life behind the counter of a Q-Mart making minimum wage? What is it with these kids today? They’re either on a phone or on a skateboard––preferably both. God forbid they should use their brains once in a while.
I hang in the parking lot entrance for a while trying to decide my next move. Was it really worth all this just to get some goddamn cereal? I’ll be lucky if I’m ready for my meeting tomorrow, let alone get around to anything else.
But, hell, I’m out now. I’ll take the route past the supermarket.
As soon as I make the first turn, I’m stuck in traffic.
I dig a cigarette from the pack and try to figure out where the lighter and ashtray are in this car. I reach toward the radio, but then change my mind. That song is still going in my head, and the words come out to the rhythm of the windshield wipers.
Some-thing-some-thing-now-the-rain-is-gone.
We did have fun that day we bought the mountain bike for his birthday. I couldn’t surprise him with it. I wouldn’t know the first thing about buying a mountain bike, but I asked him what he wanted and that’s what he said, so I took him to the store and let him pick it out. After, I thought that maybe I should have set a price limit, but he was so excited, I couldn’t refuse him the one he wanted.
He was intent on showing me all the features, too. He went over them with me as we stood on the hot driveway. I feigned interest, though, since I really don’t find bicycles all that exciting, and I needed to get a lot done that weekend. He took it out for a while, and when he came back, he made me come outside again so he could show me some more features he’d discovered and tell me how it performed. He offered to let me try it, but I declined. Then he said how he was planning a bike trip with Sean or Sven, or whatever the hell his name is—Gwen’s boyfriend.
For some reason, that kind of bugged me. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to go instead. I don’t think I could ride one of those things on flat ground, let alone up a mountain. I guess it was that I had spent all that money and all, and taken all that time out to get it—I guess that was it. Of course, I didn’t tell him any of that. What would have been the point?
I think about turning around and going home. But it looks as bad in the other direction, and I can make out the sign for the supermarket a couple of blocks up. If I don’t get the goddamn cereal, I’ll have wasted all this time for nothing.
By now, the drops are running down my windshield. I speed up the wipers, and that song speeds up in my head.
I can see all Popsicles on the tray....
That was well over a year ago now, when we got the bike. I wonder if those two ever did go on that trip. He never said anything about it. But then, we didn’t have long conversations.
He seemed like a pretty nice guy, that Sean... Sven? He came at the end of a long string of boyfriends, and he was a good bit younger than Gwen was. I always figured that’s why she hung on to him so much longer than the rest. But he was good with the boy, and maybe that was the real reason. Maybe, in her mother’s way, she was testing out guys for the one who would make the best father.
He sure had me beat. For one thing, he liked doing kid things, not like me. I didn’t like doing kid things even when I was a kid. And the times I’d seen him at Gwen’s, when I’d go to pick up the boy, he didn’t act like the other guys she dated, anxious to boot the kid out the door. He’d pat him on the shoulder or muss his hair.
That’s another thing Gwen always accused me of. She said I wasn’t “demonstrative” enough. She was big on those pop psychology analyses. She claimed it had something to do with my inability to “connect” with people. According to her, I never “connected.”
The supermarket lot is crowded. You’ve got to wonder why anyone else would pick such a lousy day to do their shopping. By the time I get inside, I’m shivering and my hair is dripping in my eyes. It’s one of those mega-markets that sells everything from fruit to mortgages, and even after three years, I still have to check the signs at the head of the aisles to find what I want. And, of course, the cereal is way at the other end of the store.
I search up and down the shelves. It would help to remember who makes it. Finally, yes, there it is, on the bottom shelf.
I pick up a box. Then I replace it and take the jumbo size instead. I grab another box and another. Hugging the three boxes to my chest like a girlfriend’s schoolbooks, I head over to the dairy aisle. With all this cereal, I’ll need plenty of milk.
It’s a tough act balancing the milk on top of the cereal. The cashier gives me a funny look.
“Cash?”
“No, debit.”
“Exact?”
“No, give me an extra twenty, and I’ll need a pack of Lites.”
She cocks her head toward the service desk. “You get them on your way out.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“Have a nice day,” she says, handing me the receipt. For some reason the words don’t quite register, and for a second, I stand there and look at her. She half-shrugs. I move on.
In the car, I drop the wet plastic bags on the passenger seat then, just as I put the key in the ignition, I catch sight of a woman running her cart through the rain. A little boy sits in it, swinging his legs and babbling as though it were any other sunny day. She pulls up the hood of his slicker and kisses the top of his head.
I swallow hard again and again and again.
I will not do this. I will not sit here in this fishbowl of a car and let that woman see me cry. She will feel sorry for me. Her heart will go out to me, and I do not deserve her sorrow.
I’m not like her. I never even really knew my boy. No matter how I strain, I cannot remember one thing he did or said that last weekend. His last birthday––his very last birthday––all I could think of was how much money I spent and how much work I was missing. How would I know what made him sad, when I didn’t even know what made him happy? Gwen was right. I don’t connect. He was at my house every other weekend for nine years, and all I have is a song I don’t know the words to and a cereal he probably didn’t even eat anymore.
Have a nice day?
The hell I will. I will never, ever have a nice day again.
I ram the key into the ignition, the wheels squealing as I pull out of the lot. This time I tune the radio to a talk show and hold that song out of my brain, while I swipe the tears with the back of my hand and hope no one in the other cars will notice.
Whatever caused the traffic jam is gone, and the rain is letting up. I’ll be glad to get home. Women are wrong. It doesn’t feel better to cry. My eyes sting and my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. All I want is to close my eyes and sleep for hours and hours.
By the time I reach my driveway, some patches of blue are showing between the clouds and small columns of steam rise up where the rays of sun hit. I no sooner unlock my door than the phone starts again. The last thing I want is to talk to Gwen. My head is pounding. But she’ll only keep calling and hanging up all day. I toss the grocery bags onto the counter and tuck the receiver under my jaw so I can light a cigarette.
“Yeah, hello.”
“Richard, is that you? Did you pick up? Hello?”
“Yeah, Gwen, I’m here. I’m here.”
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling. Didn’t you get my message that I had something important to tell you?”
What? Are you calling to tell me it was all a joke? The kid’s really been hiding out somewhere. It was just one of those gory masks they sell at Halloween. But that’s too mean even to say to Gwen. I tell her I went to the office. “So what’s so important?”
“I thought you ought to know... I’m getting married. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.” For some reason my stomach sinks. “Richard, are you still there... hello?”
“Yes, I’m here. Congratulations, and the same to—what’s his name?”
“Robert.”
“Robert? I thought his name was Sean or Sven or something with an ‘s’.”
“Sean? I broke up with him months ago.”
“You did? Why would you break up with him? I really liked him.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you didn’t even know him. Besides, you met Robert at the funeral. As usual, you...” I wait for her to continue, but she says, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Robert and I are getting married two weeks from Saturday.”
“That soon?”
“Well, there’s no sense in waiting. I’m sure he’s the one. It was almost like fate. I met him a couple of months before––he’s a psychologist, and when everything happened, it was so helpful that he was there.”
“He wasn’t there. I was there.” I realize immediately what she meant, but it’s too late.
“There for me. You’re so literal.”
I wait for her to continue. Surely she will recite my other faults, too. Certainly she will tell me how I fell down on the job at that most critical time. She will at least ask the questions again. But on the other end, there is silence, and that quick shallow breathing she has now.
“Richard? Are you there?”
“Yeah, I just––I thought you were going to say something else. Is there anything else?”
“Well, no––unless––you don’t want to come, do you?”
“To the wedding? Oh, no.”
“I didn’t think so. Well, then... I guess... good-bye.”
“Yeah, wait, Gwen? One thing. You said this guy was a psychologist, that you knew him, you know, before... what has he told you? Did he notice anything? Were there any clues?”
“What? Well, he said some things, in retrospect, but––well––obviously he didn’t say anything before or I would have... they really didn’t talk all that much, and anyway. Why would you ask that? What’s the point?” The word “point” comes out like a squeal.
“Yeah,” I say, “exactly.”
We say our goodbyes, actually a couple of times. Then I click off the phone.
I guess that’s it. I won’t have any reason to see Gwen anymore or talk to her. I should be relieved, but it feels odd.
So she and Sean broke up. That’s too bad. He seemed like a nice guy, and I think the boy really liked him. Then she picked up with this psychologist. I swear I don’t remember seeing him. She said it was fate. Whose fate? Her fate, I guess. It certainly didn’t change anything for anyone else.
Did Sean know, I wonder, about the boy? Did Gwen bother to tell him? Did I see him at the funeral too? I can’t remember.
It occurs to me that it might be kind of nice to talk to Sean. To tell him what happened, if he doesn’t already know... to tell him what I think of this psychologist guy Gwen plans to marry, and to find out if he ever did go on that bike trip with... Kevin... and if they enjoyed it. And maybe to tell him how much it meant to me that he was so kind to my son, and that it really wouldn’t bother me that they had fun together. In fact, I’d like to hear it.
But how would I find the number? I’d have to call Gwen back, and that would be awkward.
I stump out my cigarette and grab one of the cereal boxes out of the bag. The front looks the same as always, with the running cookie man, but this time I notice the side panel, where they list all the nutritional information. I never really checked that out before. It says here that one serving contains ten percent of my daily requirement of vitamins A and C, and twenty-five percent of a whole bunch of other stuff including important things like iron and niacin. A serving amounts to just one cup. That’s not much. So, according to this, only four cups of this cereal with milk could fulfill all my nutritional requirements for an entire day.
Gwen was wrong. It isn’t crap.
I take my three boxes and place them in the cabinet, next to my raisin bran.
