What she did was, she sucked on each one, one at a time. She got one of them in her mouth, and she pulled it into her mouth, and then she ran her tongue over it and sucked on it and pushed it back out, and then she got the other one in there. It was like she was trying to tell me something.
Clearinghouse is what she was saying, but it was her teeth I was looking at. Clearinghouse was in there in her mouth, but it was something else I was trying to see.
She gets me in her mouth and she starts going up and down and up and down, and I keep thinking I should stop her before something goes in her mouth she might not want to have in her mouth. I keep thinking I should tap her on the shoulder. I should tell her something might be getting in her mouth that maybe she thinks is something that should not be a thing that gets into a person’s mouth.
~
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,” I always say.
Or, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.”
Or just, “One, two, three, four.”
Or, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”
One time I said, “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?”
~
There were stretches of several days at a time when I never saw Tutti. I would call her from a donut shop when I was ahead on my run. She would ask me to pick something up. Butter or eggs or milk, and I would put these things in the fridge when I got home.
Sometimes a train would stop directly behind our building. This might happen at four o’clock in the morning. If it was summer, and the windows were open, I would wake up in a fright. No matter how many times this happened, it always felt as though the world was ending.
I understood what Roy meant when he claimed there was some advantage to be had in selling a house that was right next to the railroad tracks.
For seven years I drove a transit bus. Most mornings I had coffee with Roy. Every morning he talked about his house. For seven years he was working on the finishing touches — putting in baseboards, or painting the ceilings. He would do a job and then realize he had done it wrong. Then he would do it over again. He had never built a house before, he told me. He had no idea what he was doing. He was learning from his mistakes.
His intention was to finish the house to a certain point. He would not decorate. He would leave that for the people who bought the house. That would be a point in his favor. That and the railroad tracks. He would find a young couple, newly married, who wanted to decorate their own home, and who wanted to have railroad tracks nearby.
I think there are reasons for wanting to be near the railroad tracks. I think there are places a person can go just sitting by the window, watching the trains. And I think a newly married person might find a need to go to these places.
It has been years now since I drove a bus. I have a job in a library now. Every morning I come in and sit down at my computer terminal. I tap away at the keys. Sometimes I go to meetings. At five o’clock I go home. The other day Roy came to see me. He said he had heard I was working in a library and wanted to come and see how I was doing. I told him I was doing fine. Things were fine, I said. Tutti was fine. Sammy was fine. What else could I tell him?
Roy’s intention, at one time, had been to move up north. He said he wanted to buy a piece of property on a lake and retire up there. Maybe drive a local bus part-time. Maybe cut other people’s grass. Start a landscaping company. He was going to do this as soon as he sold his house.
~
The only time I looked back was one time last summer, just after baseball season. I have felt this sorry feeling ever since. I keep feeling for change in my pockets, and when there isn’t any, I reach inside my shirt and rub the hair on my belly.
I only looked back once, and a guy yells, “Turn back or we’ll blow your nuts off!”
He said, we, as if there were thousands of them.
What do I know? Maybe this whole goddam thing was a mistake. I keep getting this sinking feeling, but all I can do is rub my eyes and go on eating toast.
~
The lady who baby-sits comes out in pink and blue. She could keep on walking, become part of the sunset, never even knowing it was there.
~
One thing was, Tutti was walking slow. I couldn’t stay beside her, she was going so slow. She was driving me crazy, the way she was walking so slow. I tried slowing down until we were side by side, but it only made me madder. So I walked ten feet in front of her. That was okay. I don’t think she wanted me walking beside her anyway.
We got to the beach and she stood at the edge of the water with her shirt on. I went in and swam. I must have swam around for twenty minutes while she stood at the edge of the water with her shirt on.
After twenty minutes I said, “Let’s go.”
On the way home Tutti wore her white sunglasses that make her look like Elton John. I kept saying things. “Look at those horses.” “Look at those cows.” “Look at those pigs.” I even honked my horn at a bunch of cows. Usually this makes the cows look up and Tutti laughs. But today the cows just went on eating grass.
Tutti said, “Don’t honk your horn. Other cars will think you’re honking at them.”
The old lady in the car next to me was wearing those white gloves you see old ladies wear, with lace up to their elbows, and she was looking over at me.
~
Sammy wanted to watch some videos. I told him, “No way. We’re not watching any videos.”
Sometimes he’ll scream when you tell him he can’t watch videos. He’s too short to reach the VCR, so what he does is, he gets the videos and he puts them on top of the stereo. He pushes all the buttons on the stereo, and then he runs over to the couch and gets his blanket.
“Hurry, Daddy,” he calls. “You’re missing it.”
I come into the living room.
“Look, Daddy,” he says. He’s sitting on the floor with his blanket pushed up under his nose. He points at the TV. “It’s Tigger,” he says.
“Hi, Tigger,” I say.
“Hi, Daddy,” Sammy says.
~
At night, when she was in bed, she fell into caverns. These were not dreams she was having. She was falling into her own history, now and then resurfacing long enough to catch her breath.
~
“Three out of twenty people in this room will be dead in the next five years,” she said. “In five years, some of the people in this room will be dead.” She paused to gaze around the classroom, looking each of us directly in the eye. “Five years later, more of you will be dead.” Another pause. “Eventually, all of you will be dead.”
This was grade three. I was getting pretty nervous. I looked around the class to see how other people were taking this. Barton Smiley looked as though he was about to die right now, at his desk. He looked pale, as though he was going to faint. The kids at the back were tipping their chairs back, sniggering together and whispering things.
“Maybe you think I am going to be the first to go,” the teacher said. “But that is not necessarily the case.” She looked straight at the kids at the back. “Some of you will die horrible deaths,” she said. “Not all of you are going to die of natural causes. Some of you will be stricken down by disease. Some of you will die in traffic accidents. Some of you will break out in pustules that will cause you terrible pain and, eventually, kill you.”
I looked over at Barton Smiley. He was slumped down in his chair, his head tipped back, his mouth wide open. His eyes were closed. I looked around the room. The kids at the back were still sniggering. The teacher didn’t seem to notice Barton. I raised my hand.
“Yes, Mr. Sparling,” the teacher said.
“I think Barton is dead,” I said.