Alan Bickel smiles at me and sticks out his hand.
“Mornin’,” I grunt, pushing past him without shaking his hand or making eye contact. The guy’s thirty-five year old, got two kids, and he’s still pumping gas at the Sinclair.
I walk out into the parking lot, climb into our car, start the engine, and light a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs and holding it there with my rage until they both can be contained no longer. I still can’t believe she said it. I exhale loudly, talking to myself:
“‘I’m sorry, Marion, but money’s tight right now. We just haven’t any extra for the building fund.’”
How could she? To Paul and Marion Hudson? And there they go now; every year a new Cadillac. From a dry-cleaning store? The guy must be running something on the side or cooking the books. I bend down and pretend not to see them. The rear door of our car opens and Tad and Todd climb in, then Susan and Katie.
“Dibs on the window,” Tad calls. There’s a big commotion and Tad starts crying. “Dad, Todd hit me and Susan won’t move. I called dibs first.”
“Knock it off back there or I’ll take off my belt!” I yell. “For chrissake, Tad, you’re the oldest. What are you, nine now? And still cryin’ all the time like you was a baby. If you don’t like what Todd and Susan are doin’, then give ‘em one across the mouth; that’s what I used to do to your Uncle Mike when he crossed me. It’s time you started actin’ like a man, son, and I’m tellin’ you right now you’re playin’ football come August. Period. I don’t want to hear another word about playin’ in no fairy marching band.” I take another drag on my cigarette. “You’re playin’, right Todd old boy?”
“You bet, dad,” Todd says. “Mr. Detterbeck says he’s startin’ me at linebacker and quarterback.” Even though he’s a full year younger, Todd stands two inches taller than his brother and weighs at least fifteen pounds more.
“Atta boy,” I tell him.
Claire slides into the passenger seat beside me. “I really don’t understand why you got so upset,” she says.
I’m furious. I throw the cigarette out the window, yank the gear selector into drive, and mash the accelerator before she can close the door. We roar out of the parking lot.
“Toby, for heaven’s sake!” Claire screeches, “I haven’t got the door closed and there’s kids in the car!”
“No!” I holler over the engine, “There’s a bunch of cryin’ ingrates in this car and a woman who embarrasses her family in public and don’t even have the sense to know it.” My chest tightens and I feel the veins in my neck swelling. As usual, when I catch Claire she refuses to respond. “You got nothin’ to say? You ain’t got no idea what I’m talkin’ about?”
“The souls come in through the Urartu passage,” she says, “and wait in Shemaya Station, just like you did, until I come to get them. A presenter is assigned to meet with each postulant before the trial, then they wait in the train station until their case is called and a decision is made. Since they’re not permitted to attend the trial, the presenter must acquire a complete understanding of the choices they’ve made during-”
“What the hell did you just say?” I ask.
“Do what you want, Toby!” Claire yells. “Everyday it’s something. I’ve broken one of the invisible rules in your invisible rule book; you’re swearing in front of the kids on Sunday and driving like a maniac; I have nothing more to say.”
I explode. “‘Money’s tight right now, Marion?’ ‘Toby can’t take care of his family, Marion?’ ‘We barely make ends meet with his job on the railroad, Marion?’ Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Paul Hudson. But you know why I don’t worry? Because there’s no way Paul Hudson would give up what he’s got for big, ugly thighs like yours.”
Claire starts crying. “I hate you, Toby!” she screams. “I hate you! I want you out. Just get out and leave us alone.”
“It’s none of their damn business whether money’s tight!” I yell. “It’s nobody’s business. You got that? Nobody’s. Off they go in their big Caddy to their big country club. I’ll bet they’re Red, too; there’s commies all over the place, Claire, and the niggers are helpin’ ‘em. They’re after regular guys like me; that’s why I ain’t got a good job and never will. Marion Hudson’s laughing at us and you don’t even know it. Don’t you get it? She knows we don’t got extra. That’s why she asked, to hear you say it. That’s how they get their kicks. How can you be so stupid?”
“Mrs. Hudson’s not like that, daddy,” Susan speaks up from the back seat. “When I stay over with Penny, they always ask about you and mommy and they’re real nice.”
“I don’t want you kids over there again!” I holler. “Do you hear me? My God, Claire, they even do it to the kids. I can just hear it now: ‘How’s your mother and father, Susan? My, aren’t your shoes old…and that dress. What, they haven’t taken you shopping in Manhattan? Such a shame.’ And that Penny Hudson: I don’t want her comin’ over to our place anymore either. New bikes. New dresses. She’s always got something new. She’s a spoiled brat.”
I can’t control myself. Embarrassment, jealousy, hatred: they pour out of me as if there’s nothing else inside, as if I am nothing else. I want to give my kids and my wife new things. I want to be respected in the community. I want to live where the Hudsons live and eat where the Hudsons eat. I whip down Greenwood Avenue, barely stopping at the lights.
When we get home, I call Bob to see if he’ll pick me up early, then I go upstairs and start throwing things in my duffel bag for the week: work lights, flares, two pairs of work pants, some t-shirts, and two pairs of work gloves. Claire stays downstairs with the kids, fixing them lunch, trying to keep them quiet. I take off my dress slacks, shirt, and tie and fold them neatly into the bottom of my bag along with a bottle of Aqua Velva. Sheila likes it when I dress up and wear cologne for her. She thinks I’m an important businessman; I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I can’t wait to see her. She’s the only one who understands me. I zip the bag closed and put my Wolverines on top. Claire calls up from the kitchen.
“Do you want any lunch before you go?” Her voice is cold, emotionless. She’s still upset but prides herself on not showing it in front of the kids. She knows damn well Bob’s on his way over but asks anyway.
“No. Bob and I’ll grab something on the way to Princeton Junction.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not ‘til Friday.”
I carry my things down the stairs. “We’re runnin’ empty dump cars up to Scranton and full ones on to Pittsburgh.”
Katie toddles into the living room with a coloring book and crayon, her most prized possessions. She’s just eighteen months old. “Daddy, what happened to your right arm?” she asks. “Did you do it because you were mad at your mommy and daddy?”
“Sure, I’ll color with you, sweetie,” I say, feeling miserable for having yelled and gotten everybody so upset. “Climb up here on my lap.”
“Brek, do you hear me?”
“Luas?”
“Ah, there you are,” he says. “Finally got through, good.”
My personality splinters in two. Half of me carries on a conversation with Toby Bowles’ daughter; the other half carries on a conversation with Luas. I exist simultaneously in two worlds and two lives.
“This is a circle, Katie. Can you say circle?” She looks up at me with wide brown eyes and rosy cheeks, melting my heart.
“Cirsa.”
“Concentrate on your memories,” Luas says, “Bo, Sarah, your job.”
I think of Sarah and her crayons, not much younger than Katie, and of Bo, who sometimes yells at me the way Toby did, and my mom and dad. The distance between selves grows until two distinct lives emerge: mine, which has depth, substance, and nuance; and Toby Bowles’ life, which I know well but only episodically. I feel his emotions and see through his eyes, but I understand now that he is not me even though he’s someone I have experienced more intimately and completely than I’ve ever experienced another person before.