“Tomorrow?” I said.
“Would that be okay for you?” he said. “After I get home from work?”
I saw we’d agreed to play it reasonable. One way we were playing it reasonable was saying everything like a question.
“Around six?” I said.
“Does six work for you?” he said.
The weird part was I’d never actually seen the two of them together. The wife back there in his bed could have been someone else entirely.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he said.
“You fucked me,” I said.
“I would respectfully disagree with that,” he said.
“No doubt,” I said.
“I didn’t fuck you and she didn’t,” he said. “It was a challenging circumstance for all involved.”
“More challenging for some than for others,” I said. “Would you give me that much?”
“Are we being honest?” he said. “Or tiptoeing around conflict?”
“Honest,” I said, and his face did this thing that, for a minute, made me like him again.
“It was hard for me because I felt like a shit,” he said. “It was hard for her because she felt like a shit. It was hard for us because while feeling like shits we were also feeling all the other things we were feeling, which, I assure you, were and are as real as anything, a total blessing, if I can say it that way.”
At that point, I started feeling like a chump, like I was being held down by a bunch of guys so another guy could come over and put his New Age fist up my ass while explaining that having his fist up my ass was far from his first choice and was actually making him feel conflicted.
“Six o’clock,” I said.
“Six o’clock’s perfect,” he said. “Luckily, I’m on flextime.”
“You don’t need to be here,” I said.
“If you were me and I was you, would you maybe feel you might somewhat need to be here?” he said.
One car was a Saab and one an Escalade and the third a newer Saab, with two baby seats in it and a stuffed clown I was not familiar with.
Three cars for two grown-ups, I thought. What a country. What a couple selfish dicks my wife and her new husband were. I could see that, over the years, my babies would slowly transform into selfish-dick babies, then selfish-dick toddlers, kids, teenagers, and adults, with me all that time skulking around like some unclean suspect uncle.
That part of town was full of castles. Inside one was a couple embracing. Inside another a woman had like nine million little Christmas houses out on a table, like she was taking inventory. Across the river the castles got smaller. By our part of town, the houses were like peasant huts. Inside one peasant hut were five kids standing perfectly still on the back of a couch. Then they all leapt off at once and their dogs went crazy.
9
Ma’s house was empty. Ma and Harris were sitting on the floor in the living room, making phone calls, trying to find somewhere to go.
“What time is it?” I said.
Ma looked up at where the clock used to be.
“The clock’s on the sidewalk,” she said.
I went out. The clock was under a coat. It was ten. Evan had fucked me. I considered going back, demanding to see the kids, but by the time I got there it would be eleven and he’d still have a decent point re the lateness of the hour.
The sheriff walked in.
“Don’t get up,” he said to Ma.
Ma got up.
“Get up,” he said to me.
I stayed sitting.
“You the one who threw down Mr. Klees?” the sheriff said.
“He’s just back from the war,” Ma said.
“Thank you for your service,” the sheriff said. “Might I ask you to refrain from throwing people down in the future?”
“He also threw me down,” Harris said.
“My thing is I don’t want to go around arresting veterans,” the sheriff said. “I myself am a veteran. So if you help me, by not throwing anyone else down, I’ll help you. By not arresting you. Deal?”
“He was also going to burn the house down,” Ma said.
“I wouldn’t recommend burning anything down,” the sheriff said.
“He ain’t himself,” Ma said. “I mean, look at him.”
The sheriff had never seen me before, but it was like admitting he had no basis for assessing how I looked would have been a professional embarrassment.
“He does look tired,” the sheriff said.
“Plenty strong, though,” Harris said. “Threw me right down.”
“Where are you folks off to tomorrow?” the sheriff said.
“Suggestions?” Ma said.
“A friend, a family member?” the sheriff said.
“Renee’s,” I said.
“Failing that, the shelter on Fristen?” the sheriff said.
“One thing I am not doing is going to Renee’s,” Ma said. “Everyone in that house is too high and mighty. They already think of us as low.”
“Well, we are low,” said Harris. “Compared to them.”
“The other thing I’m not doing is going to any beeping shelter,” Ma said. “They got crabs at shelters.”
“When we first started dating I had crabs from that shelter,” Harris said helpfully.
“I’m sorry this is happening,” the sheriff said. “Everything’s backward and inverted.”
“I’ll say,” Ma said. “Here I work for a church and my son’s a hero. With a Silver Star. Dragged a marine out by the beeping foot. We got the letter. And where am I? Out on the street.”
The sheriff had switched off and was waiting to make his break for the door and get back to whatever was real to him.
“Find someplace to live, folks,” he advised genially as he left.
Harris and I dragged two mattresses back in. They still had the sheets and blankets on and all. But the sheet on their mattress had grass stains on one edge and the pillows smelled like mud.
Then we spent a long night in the bare house.
10
In the morning Ma called some ladies she’d known as a young mother, but one had a disk out and another had cancer and a third had twins who’d both just been diagnosed manic-depressive.
In the light of day Harris braved up again.
“So this court-martial thing,” he said. “Was that the worst thing you ever did? Or was there worse things, which you did but just didn’t get caught?”
“They cleared him of that,” Ma said tersely.
“Well, they cleared me of breaking and entering that time,” Harris said.
“Anyways, how is this any of your business?” Ma said.
“Probably he wants to talk,” Harris said. “Get some air in there. Good for the soul.”
“Look at his face, Har,” Ma said.
Harris looked at my face.
“Sorry I mentioned it,” he said.
Then the sheriff was back. He made me and Harris drag the mattresses out. On the porch we watched him padlock the door.
“Eighteen years you have been my dear home,” Ma said, possibly imitating some Sioux from a movie.
“You’re going to want to get a van over here,” the sheriff said.
“My son served in the war,” Ma said. “And look how you’re doing me.”
“I’m the same guy that was here yesterday,” the sheriff said, and for some reason framed his face with his hands. “Remember me? You told me that already. I thanked him for his service. Call a van. Or your shit’s going to the dump.”
“See how they treat a lady works at a church,” Ma said.
Ma and Harris picked through their crap, found a suitcase, filled the suitcase with clothes.
Then we drove to Renee’s.
My feeling was, Oh, this will be funny.