And Yet
by Michael Howard
Something was off. Thao sensed this. He’d been out on the balcony, on the phone, for about thirty minutes. Speaking quietly. Smoke from his cigarette fell through the open door and rose to the ceiling and disappeared. He typically only smoked when he was out drinking—and then usually only after five or six bottles of beer. Thao stood up from the sofa and stepped forward and peered out and saw him leaning on the railing. For a few moments she watched him. He brought the cigarette to his lips, straightened his posture; then he sent the cigarette tumbling over the edge and murmured something and took his phone from his ear. The conversation was over. Thao scurried back to the sofa, twirled her hair around her finger, pretended to watch TV. Some football match.
After a minute he came in. He was still wearing his work clothes, though his shirt was untucked and his tie hung loose around his neck. His feet were bare. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows, gave a muted smile, as he moved to the fridge—a habitual gesture meant to communicate amiability. Thao felt he overused it, but she would never tell him that. He took a can of Saigon Special from the door and snapped it open and sat down next to her without a word. He smelled of cigarettes. They stared at the TV without watching it. Outside a dog barked and motorbikes drove by at regular intervals. Thao crossed her legs and uncrossed them, inspected her nails, swatted at a mosquito. Caleb sat still. Thao said:
“Good class tonight?”
“My grandfather died,” he said neutrally.
“Oh no,” was her knee-jerk response. She looked at him and, hesitating, asked, “Which one?”
“That one.”
“Oh …”
There was a period of silence.
“That was your mom?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her and grinned ironically. “You didn’t kill him,” he said, and then he turned away and added, with a shrug, “Anyway—you know.”
“Yeah.”
Thao’s tongue was in a knot. She had a knack for saying the right things. People tended to turn to her in bothersome moments, even people she didn’t know very well, and she was always able to advise them with eloquence and conviction and perfect tact. It came naturally to her—she was good at it. At least in Vietnamese. Maybe that was the trouble here. Commiserating in a second language. But this was also a special circumstance, to say the least. Recognizing it was hopeless, Thao gave up trying to think of something to say. She sat there feeling tense. Caleb finished his beer and said:
“There’s a funeral.”
“When’s that?”
“Next week.”
“Will you—”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have to think about it. It’s an expensive flight.”
Thao couldn’t tell if that was another wry joke or a genuine concern; Caleb didn’t appear to know either. He kept staring at the TV with no expression on his face, the empty beer can in his hand. Thao’s phone buzzed against the coffee table incessantly. She wished it would stop, cursed her friends for being so impertinent. Finally she got up the nerve to ask whether he still wanted to go for dinner. A change of subject seemed best. It was after ten o’clock.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, breaking from his trance. “Let me get changed.”
Thao was, according to Caleb, the only person he’d ever told. It came out during a drunken quarrel that began at a quán nhậu in District 5—they’d gone out with a few of his friends, whose company Thao disliked—and climaxed after they got back home and Caleb continued drinking. When he finally came to bed she jumped on him and he shoved her off, and she lit into him with charges that he’d been screwing around again. She told him through tears that he was abusive. “You don’t know what abuse is,” he said with scorn. She demanded to know what that was supposed to mean and in that moment he was drunk enough, and irritated enough, to spell it out for her. Then the row was over, and Thao began crying for a different reason. They spoke about it once more, the next day. He asked her not to tell anyone. She didn’t. To her knowledge a total of three people were privy to the pitch-black secret. Now there were only two.
“Want me to go with you?” Thao asked. It was two days later and Caleb was stuffing some things into a small suitcase. The rain lashed down with violence. They were officially into the rainy season.
“To the airport?”
Thao nodded.
“Up to you.”
“I want to.”
“Alright.”
The last two days had been trying. Caleb was more or less himself, but then he always was. Thao had no notion about what, if anything, was going on beneath the placid surface. Emotionally Caleb was an elaborate code—one that you weren’t permitted to try and crack. His basic feelings were implied, expressed by omission, never talked about. It took over a year, and numerous abortive discussions, for Thao to accept this reality, and nearly another one to convince herself that he liked her half as much as she liked him. It wasn’t until they moved in together that she began to feel secure. Presently she felt secure enough to look forward to telling him the news that, by a perverse coincidence, his grandfather’s death had forced her to postpone. Thao didn’t know how much longer she could sit on it. She hadn’t even told her mother yet.
“Should probably leave around five,” Caleb said.
“Okay. Don’t forget your phone charger.”
“No use in the States.”
“Oh, right.” She was going to apologize but caught herself.
___
Caleb took a cab from the Buffalo airport to his mother’s house in Williamsville, a vague pain settling in behind his eyes. He hadn’t been home since leaving for Vietnam five years prior. His mother and younger sister, Tonya, had come to see him in Saigon once, and from there the three of them traveled together to Dalat and Nha Trang. Tonya enjoyed herself but Caleb’s mother didn’t seem able to relax—she radiated nervous energy and Caleb could see that she was relieved when the trip came to an end. That was almost three years ago. Now, looking out the window of the taxi and seeing the streets and buildings and public spaces that had been the topography of his life for more than twenty years, Caleb felt an acute sense of displacement—this was no longer his home. Had it ever really been?
It was a little after nine when the cab turned onto his old street and pulled up to the curb and hit the brakes.
“No, it’s a few houses up,” Caleb said, squinting into the harsh, clean light of the morning.
The cab lurched forward until Caleb told the driver to stop. The driver told him what he owed.
“What?” Caleb was incredulous.
“Forty-two eighty-five.”
“Forty-two eighty-five?”
“That’s what I said,” the driver said, pointing at the meter.
Five years in Vietnam had spoiled him. He was accustomed to four-dollar meals, eighty-five-cent beers, a ride across the city for less than ten bucks—or less than three on the back of a motorbike. Forty dollars was an outrage. He gave the driver a hundred and took the change and was almost out of the car before he remembered that he was expected to leave a tip. America was already into him for almost fifty dollars.
Caleb’s mother greeted him on the porch with a big smile. They embraced. How was his flight? Long, uncomfortable, sleepless. Otherwise a lot of fun. He remarked that it was nice outside. She said they were in the middle of a heat wave but that it probably wouldn’t bother him considering he lived in Vietnam. Caleb said he supposed she was right. Moments later Bob joined them. He shook Caleb’s hand and pulled him in for a hug. He said:
“Welcome home, Cay. How long’s it been now?”
“About five years.”
“Too long,” Bob smiled. “Anyway it’s great to see you.”
“Likewise, Bob.” Caleb looked at his stepfather. He was, naturally enough, fatter and balder than he’d been when he saw Caleb off. Caleb thought for a moment how old Bob was. He was four or five years older than his mother and his mother was now … he really couldn’t remember. He knew what year she was born but his brain was too frazzled to do any basic arithmetic. At any rate Bob must have been pushing sixty. At any rate he looked like he was.
“How’s Vietnam?” Bob asked.
“Rainy.”
“It’s been hotter than hell here.”
Caleb nodded. “I heard.”
They moved inside. Bob carried Caleb’s things upstairs and into his old bedroom while his mother made coffee. She asked Caleb whether he was hungry and he said that he wasn’t. She made eggs and sausage for Bob, who wolfed them down in his customary manner and then announced he had to go into work for a few hours. Bye. So long. See you later. Have a nice day. Can’t wait to catch up. The purpose of Caleb’s return, unmentioned, seemed miles away.
“Where’s Keats?” Caleb asked his mother.
“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Probably sleeping upstairs. He likes to sleep on your bed.”
“How old is he now?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow.”
“I know. But he’s doing really good.”
The house looked very different. The kitchen and dining room had been torn apart and remodeled. The family room had been repainted and rearranged with all new furniture. A massive flat screen TV was mounted on the wall. There were flowers and plants all over the place. Every window in the house looked to be open—the air that swept through them was sharp and pure and Caleb felt at ease. He asked when Tonya was coming.
“This afternoon. She’s driving up with her boyfriend.”
“I see.”
“You must be tired.”
“I feel more dirty than tired.”
On that note she led him upstairs and showed him where the bath towels were—the second story had been reconfigured as well. She told him she was going to the store to buy something to cook for dinner that night. Was there anything he wanted or needed? Anything at all? He didn’t think so. Did he still drink whiskey? Yes. What kind? J&B or Chivas would be fine. What about some wine? Okay. Pinot? Sure. Pita bread? Naan? If you want. Hummus? Whatever!
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” his mother said. That meant an hour, possibly two.
Caleb took a shower and combed his hair which was getting too long. Maybe he’d get a haircut while he was here, if he didn’t mind spending twenty dollars or whatever it was American barbers charged these days. He went into his room to get his shaving gear—Keats was there all right, sprawled on the bed; he purred loudly as Caleb scratched his head—and found that he’d forgotten it. Naturally. He sent his mother a message asking her to pick up some disposable razors and a small can of shaving cream. His phone was almost dead. He found a charger in one of the other rooms and took it into his own, messaged Thao letting her know he’d arrived, lay down on the bed and passed out.
“So how’s Vietnam?”
“Wet,” Caleb told his sister. “How’s Cleveland?”
“It’s okay,” Tonya said. “I don’t think we’ll stay there for long. After he finishes.” She looked at her boyfriend, Ian, admiringly.
“Right?”
“That’s right,” Ian said, crossing his legs. “We’re thinking we want to go west.”
“California?”
“Possibly.” Ian glanced back and forth between Tonya and Caleb. “It all depends on where I can find work.”
“Sure,” Caleb said. “Well, it must help to do your residency at the Cleveland Clinic.”
Ian nodded as he took a sip of his wine. “Certainly.”
The three of them sat together on the patio while Bob and Caleb’s mother cleaned up in the kitchen. Caleb had woken up from his nap, sweaty and confused, around five; then he was in and out of sleep for a couple more hours until his mother knocked on the door and told him they were getting ready to eat. He showered again and went downstairs and found the four of them in the kitchen, chatting over red wine and cheese and crackers. Tonya introduced him to Ian who he hadn’t met before and who struck him as likable in spite of his affected formal demeanor. They had a pleasant dinner. Caleb ate heartily.
The sun reclined in the sky as it approached nine o’clock. This was off-putting—there was never any daylight past six thirty in Saigon. Caleb yawned. He still hadn’t fully emerged from the fog of his long, dreamless sleep. He badly wanted a cigarette but refrained from lighting one as Ian’s presence made him feel self-conscious about the habit; even mildly ashamed of it. Tonya asked him if he liked teaching and Caleb said that he didn’t. He gave the same answer when she asked if he missed living in the US. Perceiving that he was coming across as brusque and cynical, he explained that he enjoyed the lifestyle Vietnam allowed for: he had plenty of free time and traveling around Southeast Asia was extraordinarily cheap. He neglected to mention Thao.
“It’s a fine place to live,” he said decisively.
Before long the sky was dark. The conversation followed suit.
“I feel so bad for mom,” Tonya said.
“I know,” Caleb said.
Then his sister looked at the house and, leaning forward, mouthed the words: “I can’t believe he shot himself.”
Caleb took a breath and shook his head. Ian drank his wine stiffly.
“He was always, like, the happiest guy,” Tonya whispered.
Caleb opened his mouth to speak but his sister cut him off, motioning to the house with a subtle jerk of her head and then quickly looking down. Their mother walked outside seconds later, trailed by Bob, Tonya’s father. Caleb and Tonya were half-siblings.
“What a nice night,” their mother said.
___
Old photographs, taken from the two large boxes that had been brought down from an upstairs closet, lay scattered over the dining room table, around which sat Caleb, his mother, Bob, Tonya and Ian. The funeral had been a small, modest affair, no more than twenty people in attendance. Caleb’s mother’s only sibling, an older brother, had died as a child, so he had no aunts, uncles or cousins on that side, apart from a great aunt—his grandfather’s sister, to whom he spoke briefly—and her children, his second cousins, to whom he did not speak. Nor did he have a grandmother—she’d died when Caleb was small. The experience was, from Caleb’s perspective, unremarkable. He felt nothing in particular as his grandfather’s memory was honored; nothing when the casket was lowered into the earth. It was as if he was attending the funeral of a perfect stranger. He was even able to appreciate the grim irony of the ceremony being held in a Catholic church. Things may have been different, would almost certainly have been different, had he been forced to stand over his grandfather’s corpse and look on his lifeless face, but the gunshot had taken care of that.
Now he was dutifully pretending to share his mother’s and sister’s nostalgia for the days when his grandfather was still around and very much a part of their lives. At first it was easy: he would glance at a photo, smile and pass it along or toss it back into the pile. But they’d been doing this for over an hour now—“remember this” and “remember that”—and he was starting to feel restless and irritable. Maintaining the façade was becoming increasingly difficult. He tried repeatedly to strike up unrelated conversations with Bob or Ian but every other minute his mother or sister would interrupt him with another picture, another memory. Feelings of resentment and disgust were simmering and threatening to boil over. He wanted to get away. Had to.
“How old was grandpa again?” Tonya asked.
“Seventy-six,” his mother said.
Caleb turned to Bob. “So you’re gonna sell the house, huh?”
“Once I retire,” Bob said.
“Then what?”
“We’re not exactly sure yet. We figure we’ll split time between—”
“Oh, Caleb,” his mother broke in, “look at this one.”
Smiling she handed him a photo. It showed Caleb, aged four or five, sitting with his grandfather on a rocking chair. He nodded his head and put the photo down, and suddenly felt sick.
“Excuse me.”
Upstairs he vomited into the toilet. It happened all at once. When he stood up the objects in the bathroom began to tilt and swirl. Using the walls for support he dizzily made for his bedroom. Then he was sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trembling, sweating, panting, dying. This went on for thirty or forty minutes. Afterwards Caleb lay sprawled on his back, shaking his head and sighing and saying “Jesus Christ” over and over again, as though the words were pressed onto a record that turned slowly round and round in his mind. It was the first attack he’d had in more than five years—he’d forgotten how savage they could be. “Jesus Christ.” He needed something. A pill. But he didn’t have anything. He lay motionless and concentrated on his breathing. His arms and legs were still tingling. “Jesus Christ.”
His mother knocked on the door and asked if he was alright. He told her he was fine—just a little tired. He’d be down in a minute. She told him to let her know if he needed anything and he said that he would. She went away and he went back to shaking his head and sighing. Once the crisis was finally past he reached for his phone and sent a message to Dave, his old friend from high school: I’m in town. What are you doing tonight?
___
Dave had changed. Like Bob, he’d gained weight and lost hair. When he leaned forward his stomach folded over the waist of his pants; a bald patch was taking shape on the crown of his head. He wore glasses and a beard that he shaved off at the jawline—a regrettable trend that somehow had yet to fade out. Or maybe it had and Dave just didn’t know. He ordered an IPA and drank it slowly. By the time he was finished with his first Caleb had had three Heinekens. They had little to talk about and almost nothing in common; Caleb wondered how they’d ever become friends. Dave asked him when he was going to move back to the States.
“I dunno.”
“Are you just gonna stay over there forever?”
“I dunno,” Caleb said again. “Maybe. Although for some reason I think it would be wrong to die in Vietnam. I feel obligated to die here. If you know what I mean.”
“But you don’t feel obligated to live here?”
“No.”
“Got a girl out there?”
“Sort of.”
“Bring her back here,” Dave suggested, politely sipping his IPA.
That was a pointless statement and Caleb didn’t respond. He ordered another beer, looked to his right and his left. It was relatively early—nine thirty or so—and the bar hadn’t filled out yet. Caleb felt edgy. He tapped his fingers on the counter, checked his phone. There was a message from Thao. Caleb ignored it. Dave said something.
“What?”
“I’m still with Courtney.”
“That’s cool.”
“We live together.”
“Nice.”
“We’re expecting.”
“Expecting what.”
Dave chuckled. Caleb set his beer down and frowned at him. Dave gestured wildly with his hands and said:
“Expecting.”
“Pregnant?”
Dave nodded. “She’s due in January.”
“Oh,” was all that Caleb could think to say. At length he asked whether it was planned.
“No. But we’re both pretty happy about it.”
“That’s good,” Caleb said flatly. He slugged his beer and ordered another.
Dave, in spite of Caleb’s surly demands that he have “one more,” left for home around eleven thirty, at which point Caleb closed his tab and walked to another bar. It was crowded but Caleb managed to find an empty stool. One of the bartenders was young and attractive, and Caleb smiled as he told her through the room’s cacophony that he would have a double scotch, neat. He smiled again when she put the drink down in front of him. She gave him a cordial nod and went about her business. This wouldn’t do, Caleb thought. Wouldn’t do at all. He ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he wanted something. He sipped his whiskey and looked at his phone and then promised himself that he wouldn’t look at his phone again for the rest of the night.
An hour passed uneventfully. Caleb went outside for a cigarette. The night was warm and clear and the sky looked more blue than black, littered all over with stars. Scores of young people, students from the local state college, shuffled around in small groups, whizzed by on bicycles, queued up beside a taco truck. For a few moments time stood still, and Caleb was overcome by a terrible sadness; he thought he might cry. It was at this point that the bartender at whom he’d smiled twice came out and asked him if he had a lighter. He lent her his and she lit a Camel. Caleb watched the smoke spill thickly from her lips and cascade upward. She asked him his name; they began talking. He explained that he was in town from Cleveland where he was doing his medical residency.
“At the Cleveland Clinic,” he specified.
“Hypocrite,” she said.
Caleb frowned. “Why?”
“You’re smoking.”
He laughed and told her she’d be surprised how many of his doctor acquaintances smoked. “Mostly cigars, though,” he added, inflecting his voice like Ian did, “which are just as bad for you.” With that she said she had to get back to work and, his normal inhibitions stripped away, Caleb asked what time she got off.
“Two o’clock.”
“Doing anything after?”
“Well, me and some of the other staff are going to The Fig Leaf. We know the owner. You should come. You’ll get some free drinks at least.”
At least. Caleb pretended to deliberate. “The Fig Leaf?”
“Sorry,” she said, “I forgot you’re from Cleveland. Yeah, so, it’s just down that way. Cross Elmwood Avenue and walk five minutes and it’s there on the left.”
“Yes. Yes, I see.”
“No pressure, Doc,” she smiled, crushing her cigarette end into the pavement. “Just throwing it out there.”
Caleb lingered on the sidewalk a minute before following her inside and sitting back down at the bar. It was a quarter to one. He didn’t feel sad anymore. The question now was twofold: when to leave this place and when to show up at the other one. He decided not to stay any longer—it was awkward sitting there by himself after his successful conversation with the bartender who had become aloof again. And he figured it was best to already be at this Fig Leaf joint when she and her friends arrived; that way he was spared the embarrassing task of finding and accosting them. Presently he accosted her and asked to close his tab. She smiled when he handed her the money, which included a nice tip, and, friendly again, said, “See ya later maybe?”
“Maybe,” Caleb said coyly, and he left.
___
A gloomy looking young man sat brooding over a rye Manhattan at a small dive bar on the edge of Allentown. This small dive bar was called The Fig Leaf. At the moment there were a total of two patrons, including the young man just described. Next to him sat another young man who drank craft beer and talked interminably. He worked in the kitchen of a nearby restaurant and spoke of this with evident pride. The bartender—who wore a waistcoat and a bow tie and whom the line cook addressed waggishly as “Barkeep”—stood off to the side with his arms folded across his chest. It was just after three o’clock and he wasn’t allowed to close the door until four. He looked weary and exasperated. Suspended from the ceiling over the shelves of glowing liquor bottles was a television screen. Currently it showed, without any sound, The Godfather Part II. Every so often the line cook amused himself by reciting a line of dialogue from memory as it was mouthed by one of the characters.
“Here it is,” he said eagerly. “Watch.” He cleared his throat and cried out: “Why can’t you give me a straight answer anymore? Was it a boy!” He laughed and turned to the first young man. “Hey—you wanna see a real film? Watch Five Easy Pieces. I mean it. When you get home tonight, download Five Easy Pieces. You owe it to yourself to see that film.”
“I’ve seen it,” Caleb mumbled.
“It’s better the second time,” the line cook said.
Caleb drained his cocktail glass, got up and staggered to the bathroom. A jumble of emotions swirled around inside of him, clamoring to be discharged. Most of them he couldn’t even identify, but rage was quickly asserting itself as dominant. It didn’t matter whether that bartender had played a malicious prank on him or been hit by a bus on her way over: Caleb’s circumstance was the same in any case—he was alone, at the end of his rope. Returning to the bar he ordered another Manhattan. When he was finished with that one he would order another.
“I think you’ve had enough, boss,” the bartender said.
Caleb slapped the counter. “One more.”
“Why don’t you call it a night, chief.”
“I don’t wanna call it a night,” Caleb snapped. “I want ’nother drink.”
“I’m not serving you, guy.”
“Why not?”
“Barkeep,” the line cook interjected, “I’ll see that he gets back alright. I’ll guarantee it. What do you say?”
The bartender seemed ready to yield when Caleb turned on the line cook.
“You,” he said, “can shut the fuck up.”
“Hey now,” said the line cook, raising his hands defensively. “I’m only trying to keep the peace here. No call for that kind of language.”
“Here’s your bill, pal,” the bartender announced. “Now go home and sleep it off.”
Caleb glared at him. Then he reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of crumpled bills on the counter. He watched as the bartender straightened them out and counted them up. “I want exact change,” he demanded. The bartender obliged him and Caleb stormed off without another word.
“Five Easy Pieces!” the line cook called after him.
It had begun to drizzle outside—dim orange light thrown down by lamp posts reflected hazily off the wet pavement. Caleb wandered aimlessly down the street in a near fugue state. He was so overwrought that he could hardly think. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. Part of him had a mind to curl up in the gutter and go to sleep; another wanted to run laps around the city until he dropped. For a moment he fantasized about stealing one of the cars parked along the curb, maybe driving it into a wall. Then he heard voices in the distance and automatically moved in their direction. They belonged to a knot of men loitering outside a bar that had just closed for the night. The men, not yet adapted to their new environment, were talking and laughing raucously. One hopped onto a crotch rocket and tore away with an explosion of sound that echoed through the barren city streets. Three men remained when Caleb approached and came to a stop. It was raining more steadily now.
“Got a light?” he asked.
One of the men handed him a lighter. Caleb thanked him and lit his last cigarette. A mad impulse gripped him.
“Nice tattoo,” he said to the one nearest him. Then, leaning in as though to get a better look, he pressed the burning end of his cigarette into the man’s arm. There were shouts and a moment of general confusion, and then Caleb was engulfed in a flurry of flying fists and forearms and elbows. When he fell to the ground they started kicking him. Caleb coiled into the fetal position and wondered how long it would take before he lost consciousness. He’d never been in a fight before. The one whose arm he had seared suggested that they kill him. The others had to pull him away. “You’re on parole, man,” one of them said. “Come on—let’s go.” The man kicked Caleb twice more and spit on him and called him every filthy name he could think of. Then they left.
Fat, heavy raindrops smacked Caleb in the face, watering down the blood, as he lay flat on his back. A blurry sky beheld him with indifference. He saw everything twice. There was no pain—either the glut of alcohol masked it or they hadn’t managed to land any significant blows. He didn’t care anyway. The experience had successfully conveyed him, at least momentarily, back to his adolescent self, when he had cared for nothing and hated everything. Inwardly he hit out at bartenders and line cooks the world over. He cursed Dave. IPAs. Cab drivers. Buffalo. America. Old bedrooms. Renovated houses. Funerals. Churches. Photographs. Memories. He cursed his mother for not knowing, himself for not having the heart to tell her, and he bitterly cursed, as he had so many times in the past, his father—his father for not being alive—for dying—for not being there to protect him like fathers are supposed to do—for leaving him alone—exposed—to face the world by himself—a mere child--
Tears of self-pity—the worst kind—were mixing with the blood and the rain. At length Caleb dragged his dripping, pummeled body over to the face of the closest building and sat up against the bricks. His whole head pulsated now; a smart pain stabbed at his ribs when he breathed in. He closed his eyes and took stock of his feelings. It had been one of the worst days of his life, if not the worst, and that was surely saying something, and yet—yet, yet, yet—something stood immovably between himself and the utter despair, the oblivion he’d been unconsciously hunting for. Somewhere a light glowed, stubbornly, dull but constant.
Caleb wiped water and blood from his eyes with his hand and dug in his pocket for his phone. He brought up his conversation with Thao. Finally responding to her message he wrote: Miss you too.
___
“Oh my God.” Thao sat up with alarm. “What happened?”
“Where are we going for dinner?” Caleb set his bag down and moved gingerly over to where Thao sat on the sofa. She’d been watching TV and hadn’t heard Caleb come in. Now she stood up and looked at him with horror in her dark brown eyes. She traced the marks on his forehead with her fingers.
“What happened to your face?”
“That? That’s nothing.”
“It’s all bruises—and your lip.”
“Just a little scrimmage.”
“A what?”
“A scrap,” Caleb said. “A little roughhouse.”
“What’s that mean? You had a fight?”
“Sort of.”
“Trời ơi,” she pouted. “Are you okay?”
He thought for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. I am now.”
Thao started sobbing. They sat down and she pressed her face into Caleb’s chest. Five minutes later his t-shirt was soaked with tears and streaked with makeup.
“Cheer up,” he said at length. He handed her a tissue; she dabbed her eyes with it. “Everything’s fine. Really. What’s this,” he said, indicating the TV, “Korean soap opera?”
Thao nodded.
“Are you hungry?”
She sniffled and said she wasn’t sure.
“Had dinner?”
She shook her head.
“Well we can’t let you starve now, can we? Come on,” he said, “I’ll take a shower and you pick someplace for dinner. Alright?”
Thao nodded and watched Caleb limp up the stairs with his suitcase. She grabbed another tissue and finished drying her eyes. She heard the shower go on. New tears were beginning to form but she held them back. Never had she felt so strongly for another person. Now, Caleb’s well-being was her well-being. Seeing him standing there like that, bruised and cut up, was too much. She didn’t want to go to dinner, or anywhere else. She wanted to stay in. She wanted to lie in bed with him. She wanted to take care of him. A maternal instinct swelled up inside of her. She still hadn’t told anyone—he had to be the first to know and the timing had to be right.
Twenty minutes later Thao decided that the timing was right.
“Caleb?” she called, moving into their bedroom. “I need to tell you something—”
She found him fast asleep with his arms spread out and one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress. He was still wearing his towel—brownish-purple spots of varying shapes and sizes marked his left flank. Thao looked away and flicked off the light. She lifted his leg onto the bed and lay down beside him, shut her eyes and gradually dropped off to the tapping of a light rain. At some point during the night Caleb turned over and stretched his arm across her waist. Half asleep, Thao took his hand and put it on her stomach. She held it there firmly.
After a minute he came in. He was still wearing his work clothes, though his shirt was untucked and his tie hung loose around his neck. His feet were bare. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows, gave a muted smile, as he moved to the fridge—a habitual gesture meant to communicate amiability. Thao felt he overused it, but she would never tell him that. He took a can of Saigon Special from the door and snapped it open and sat down next to her without a word. He smelled of cigarettes. They stared at the TV without watching it. Outside a dog barked and motorbikes drove by at regular intervals. Thao crossed her legs and uncrossed them, inspected her nails, swatted at a mosquito. Caleb sat still. Thao said:
“Good class tonight?”
“My grandfather died,” he said neutrally.
“Oh no,” was her knee-jerk response. She looked at him and, hesitating, asked, “Which one?”
“That one.”
“Oh …”
There was a period of silence.
“That was your mom?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her and grinned ironically. “You didn’t kill him,” he said, and then he turned away and added, with a shrug, “Anyway—you know.”
“Yeah.”
Thao’s tongue was in a knot. She had a knack for saying the right things. People tended to turn to her in bothersome moments, even people she didn’t know very well, and she was always able to advise them with eloquence and conviction and perfect tact. It came naturally to her—she was good at it. At least in Vietnamese. Maybe that was the trouble here. Commiserating in a second language. But this was also a special circumstance, to say the least. Recognizing it was hopeless, Thao gave up trying to think of something to say. She sat there feeling tense. Caleb finished his beer and said:
“There’s a funeral.”
“When’s that?”
“Next week.”
“Will you—”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have to think about it. It’s an expensive flight.”
Thao couldn’t tell if that was another wry joke or a genuine concern; Caleb didn’t appear to know either. He kept staring at the TV with no expression on his face, the empty beer can in his hand. Thao’s phone buzzed against the coffee table incessantly. She wished it would stop, cursed her friends for being so impertinent. Finally she got up the nerve to ask whether he still wanted to go for dinner. A change of subject seemed best. It was after ten o’clock.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, breaking from his trance. “Let me get changed.”
Thao was, according to Caleb, the only person he’d ever told. It came out during a drunken quarrel that began at a quán nhậu in District 5—they’d gone out with a few of his friends, whose company Thao disliked—and climaxed after they got back home and Caleb continued drinking. When he finally came to bed she jumped on him and he shoved her off, and she lit into him with charges that he’d been screwing around again. She told him through tears that he was abusive. “You don’t know what abuse is,” he said with scorn. She demanded to know what that was supposed to mean and in that moment he was drunk enough, and irritated enough, to spell it out for her. Then the row was over, and Thao began crying for a different reason. They spoke about it once more, the next day. He asked her not to tell anyone. She didn’t. To her knowledge a total of three people were privy to the pitch-black secret. Now there were only two.
“Want me to go with you?” Thao asked. It was two days later and Caleb was stuffing some things into a small suitcase. The rain lashed down with violence. They were officially into the rainy season.
“To the airport?”
Thao nodded.
“Up to you.”
“I want to.”
“Alright.”
The last two days had been trying. Caleb was more or less himself, but then he always was. Thao had no notion about what, if anything, was going on beneath the placid surface. Emotionally Caleb was an elaborate code—one that you weren’t permitted to try and crack. His basic feelings were implied, expressed by omission, never talked about. It took over a year, and numerous abortive discussions, for Thao to accept this reality, and nearly another one to convince herself that he liked her half as much as she liked him. It wasn’t until they moved in together that she began to feel secure. Presently she felt secure enough to look forward to telling him the news that, by a perverse coincidence, his grandfather’s death had forced her to postpone. Thao didn’t know how much longer she could sit on it. She hadn’t even told her mother yet.
“Should probably leave around five,” Caleb said.
“Okay. Don’t forget your phone charger.”
“No use in the States.”
“Oh, right.” She was going to apologize but caught herself.
___
Caleb took a cab from the Buffalo airport to his mother’s house in Williamsville, a vague pain settling in behind his eyes. He hadn’t been home since leaving for Vietnam five years prior. His mother and younger sister, Tonya, had come to see him in Saigon once, and from there the three of them traveled together to Dalat and Nha Trang. Tonya enjoyed herself but Caleb’s mother didn’t seem able to relax—she radiated nervous energy and Caleb could see that she was relieved when the trip came to an end. That was almost three years ago. Now, looking out the window of the taxi and seeing the streets and buildings and public spaces that had been the topography of his life for more than twenty years, Caleb felt an acute sense of displacement—this was no longer his home. Had it ever really been?
It was a little after nine when the cab turned onto his old street and pulled up to the curb and hit the brakes.
“No, it’s a few houses up,” Caleb said, squinting into the harsh, clean light of the morning.
The cab lurched forward until Caleb told the driver to stop. The driver told him what he owed.
“What?” Caleb was incredulous.
“Forty-two eighty-five.”
“Forty-two eighty-five?”
“That’s what I said,” the driver said, pointing at the meter.
Five years in Vietnam had spoiled him. He was accustomed to four-dollar meals, eighty-five-cent beers, a ride across the city for less than ten bucks—or less than three on the back of a motorbike. Forty dollars was an outrage. He gave the driver a hundred and took the change and was almost out of the car before he remembered that he was expected to leave a tip. America was already into him for almost fifty dollars.
Caleb’s mother greeted him on the porch with a big smile. They embraced. How was his flight? Long, uncomfortable, sleepless. Otherwise a lot of fun. He remarked that it was nice outside. She said they were in the middle of a heat wave but that it probably wouldn’t bother him considering he lived in Vietnam. Caleb said he supposed she was right. Moments later Bob joined them. He shook Caleb’s hand and pulled him in for a hug. He said:
“Welcome home, Cay. How long’s it been now?”
“About five years.”
“Too long,” Bob smiled. “Anyway it’s great to see you.”
“Likewise, Bob.” Caleb looked at his stepfather. He was, naturally enough, fatter and balder than he’d been when he saw Caleb off. Caleb thought for a moment how old Bob was. He was four or five years older than his mother and his mother was now … he really couldn’t remember. He knew what year she was born but his brain was too frazzled to do any basic arithmetic. At any rate Bob must have been pushing sixty. At any rate he looked like he was.
“How’s Vietnam?” Bob asked.
“Rainy.”
“It’s been hotter than hell here.”
Caleb nodded. “I heard.”
They moved inside. Bob carried Caleb’s things upstairs and into his old bedroom while his mother made coffee. She asked Caleb whether he was hungry and he said that he wasn’t. She made eggs and sausage for Bob, who wolfed them down in his customary manner and then announced he had to go into work for a few hours. Bye. So long. See you later. Have a nice day. Can’t wait to catch up. The purpose of Caleb’s return, unmentioned, seemed miles away.
“Where’s Keats?” Caleb asked his mother.
“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Probably sleeping upstairs. He likes to sleep on your bed.”
“How old is he now?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow.”
“I know. But he’s doing really good.”
The house looked very different. The kitchen and dining room had been torn apart and remodeled. The family room had been repainted and rearranged with all new furniture. A massive flat screen TV was mounted on the wall. There were flowers and plants all over the place. Every window in the house looked to be open—the air that swept through them was sharp and pure and Caleb felt at ease. He asked when Tonya was coming.
“This afternoon. She’s driving up with her boyfriend.”
“I see.”
“You must be tired.”
“I feel more dirty than tired.”
On that note she led him upstairs and showed him where the bath towels were—the second story had been reconfigured as well. She told him she was going to the store to buy something to cook for dinner that night. Was there anything he wanted or needed? Anything at all? He didn’t think so. Did he still drink whiskey? Yes. What kind? J&B or Chivas would be fine. What about some wine? Okay. Pinot? Sure. Pita bread? Naan? If you want. Hummus? Whatever!
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” his mother said. That meant an hour, possibly two.
Caleb took a shower and combed his hair which was getting too long. Maybe he’d get a haircut while he was here, if he didn’t mind spending twenty dollars or whatever it was American barbers charged these days. He went into his room to get his shaving gear—Keats was there all right, sprawled on the bed; he purred loudly as Caleb scratched his head—and found that he’d forgotten it. Naturally. He sent his mother a message asking her to pick up some disposable razors and a small can of shaving cream. His phone was almost dead. He found a charger in one of the other rooms and took it into his own, messaged Thao letting her know he’d arrived, lay down on the bed and passed out.
“So how’s Vietnam?”
“Wet,” Caleb told his sister. “How’s Cleveland?”
“It’s okay,” Tonya said. “I don’t think we’ll stay there for long. After he finishes.” She looked at her boyfriend, Ian, admiringly.
“Right?”
“That’s right,” Ian said, crossing his legs. “We’re thinking we want to go west.”
“California?”
“Possibly.” Ian glanced back and forth between Tonya and Caleb. “It all depends on where I can find work.”
“Sure,” Caleb said. “Well, it must help to do your residency at the Cleveland Clinic.”
Ian nodded as he took a sip of his wine. “Certainly.”
The three of them sat together on the patio while Bob and Caleb’s mother cleaned up in the kitchen. Caleb had woken up from his nap, sweaty and confused, around five; then he was in and out of sleep for a couple more hours until his mother knocked on the door and told him they were getting ready to eat. He showered again and went downstairs and found the four of them in the kitchen, chatting over red wine and cheese and crackers. Tonya introduced him to Ian who he hadn’t met before and who struck him as likable in spite of his affected formal demeanor. They had a pleasant dinner. Caleb ate heartily.
The sun reclined in the sky as it approached nine o’clock. This was off-putting—there was never any daylight past six thirty in Saigon. Caleb yawned. He still hadn’t fully emerged from the fog of his long, dreamless sleep. He badly wanted a cigarette but refrained from lighting one as Ian’s presence made him feel self-conscious about the habit; even mildly ashamed of it. Tonya asked him if he liked teaching and Caleb said that he didn’t. He gave the same answer when she asked if he missed living in the US. Perceiving that he was coming across as brusque and cynical, he explained that he enjoyed the lifestyle Vietnam allowed for: he had plenty of free time and traveling around Southeast Asia was extraordinarily cheap. He neglected to mention Thao.
“It’s a fine place to live,” he said decisively.
Before long the sky was dark. The conversation followed suit.
“I feel so bad for mom,” Tonya said.
“I know,” Caleb said.
Then his sister looked at the house and, leaning forward, mouthed the words: “I can’t believe he shot himself.”
Caleb took a breath and shook his head. Ian drank his wine stiffly.
“He was always, like, the happiest guy,” Tonya whispered.
Caleb opened his mouth to speak but his sister cut him off, motioning to the house with a subtle jerk of her head and then quickly looking down. Their mother walked outside seconds later, trailed by Bob, Tonya’s father. Caleb and Tonya were half-siblings.
“What a nice night,” their mother said.
___
Old photographs, taken from the two large boxes that had been brought down from an upstairs closet, lay scattered over the dining room table, around which sat Caleb, his mother, Bob, Tonya and Ian. The funeral had been a small, modest affair, no more than twenty people in attendance. Caleb’s mother’s only sibling, an older brother, had died as a child, so he had no aunts, uncles or cousins on that side, apart from a great aunt—his grandfather’s sister, to whom he spoke briefly—and her children, his second cousins, to whom he did not speak. Nor did he have a grandmother—she’d died when Caleb was small. The experience was, from Caleb’s perspective, unremarkable. He felt nothing in particular as his grandfather’s memory was honored; nothing when the casket was lowered into the earth. It was as if he was attending the funeral of a perfect stranger. He was even able to appreciate the grim irony of the ceremony being held in a Catholic church. Things may have been different, would almost certainly have been different, had he been forced to stand over his grandfather’s corpse and look on his lifeless face, but the gunshot had taken care of that.
Now he was dutifully pretending to share his mother’s and sister’s nostalgia for the days when his grandfather was still around and very much a part of their lives. At first it was easy: he would glance at a photo, smile and pass it along or toss it back into the pile. But they’d been doing this for over an hour now—“remember this” and “remember that”—and he was starting to feel restless and irritable. Maintaining the façade was becoming increasingly difficult. He tried repeatedly to strike up unrelated conversations with Bob or Ian but every other minute his mother or sister would interrupt him with another picture, another memory. Feelings of resentment and disgust were simmering and threatening to boil over. He wanted to get away. Had to.
“How old was grandpa again?” Tonya asked.
“Seventy-six,” his mother said.
Caleb turned to Bob. “So you’re gonna sell the house, huh?”
“Once I retire,” Bob said.
“Then what?”
“We’re not exactly sure yet. We figure we’ll split time between—”
“Oh, Caleb,” his mother broke in, “look at this one.”
Smiling she handed him a photo. It showed Caleb, aged four or five, sitting with his grandfather on a rocking chair. He nodded his head and put the photo down, and suddenly felt sick.
“Excuse me.”
Upstairs he vomited into the toilet. It happened all at once. When he stood up the objects in the bathroom began to tilt and swirl. Using the walls for support he dizzily made for his bedroom. Then he was sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trembling, sweating, panting, dying. This went on for thirty or forty minutes. Afterwards Caleb lay sprawled on his back, shaking his head and sighing and saying “Jesus Christ” over and over again, as though the words were pressed onto a record that turned slowly round and round in his mind. It was the first attack he’d had in more than five years—he’d forgotten how savage they could be. “Jesus Christ.” He needed something. A pill. But he didn’t have anything. He lay motionless and concentrated on his breathing. His arms and legs were still tingling. “Jesus Christ.”
His mother knocked on the door and asked if he was alright. He told her he was fine—just a little tired. He’d be down in a minute. She told him to let her know if he needed anything and he said that he would. She went away and he went back to shaking his head and sighing. Once the crisis was finally past he reached for his phone and sent a message to Dave, his old friend from high school: I’m in town. What are you doing tonight?
___
Dave had changed. Like Bob, he’d gained weight and lost hair. When he leaned forward his stomach folded over the waist of his pants; a bald patch was taking shape on the crown of his head. He wore glasses and a beard that he shaved off at the jawline—a regrettable trend that somehow had yet to fade out. Or maybe it had and Dave just didn’t know. He ordered an IPA and drank it slowly. By the time he was finished with his first Caleb had had three Heinekens. They had little to talk about and almost nothing in common; Caleb wondered how they’d ever become friends. Dave asked him when he was going to move back to the States.
“I dunno.”
“Are you just gonna stay over there forever?”
“I dunno,” Caleb said again. “Maybe. Although for some reason I think it would be wrong to die in Vietnam. I feel obligated to die here. If you know what I mean.”
“But you don’t feel obligated to live here?”
“No.”
“Got a girl out there?”
“Sort of.”
“Bring her back here,” Dave suggested, politely sipping his IPA.
That was a pointless statement and Caleb didn’t respond. He ordered another beer, looked to his right and his left. It was relatively early—nine thirty or so—and the bar hadn’t filled out yet. Caleb felt edgy. He tapped his fingers on the counter, checked his phone. There was a message from Thao. Caleb ignored it. Dave said something.
“What?”
“I’m still with Courtney.”
“That’s cool.”
“We live together.”
“Nice.”
“We’re expecting.”
“Expecting what.”
Dave chuckled. Caleb set his beer down and frowned at him. Dave gestured wildly with his hands and said:
“Expecting.”
“Pregnant?”
Dave nodded. “She’s due in January.”
“Oh,” was all that Caleb could think to say. At length he asked whether it was planned.
“No. But we’re both pretty happy about it.”
“That’s good,” Caleb said flatly. He slugged his beer and ordered another.
Dave, in spite of Caleb’s surly demands that he have “one more,” left for home around eleven thirty, at which point Caleb closed his tab and walked to another bar. It was crowded but Caleb managed to find an empty stool. One of the bartenders was young and attractive, and Caleb smiled as he told her through the room’s cacophony that he would have a double scotch, neat. He smiled again when she put the drink down in front of him. She gave him a cordial nod and went about her business. This wouldn’t do, Caleb thought. Wouldn’t do at all. He ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know what he wanted, only that he wanted something. He sipped his whiskey and looked at his phone and then promised himself that he wouldn’t look at his phone again for the rest of the night.
An hour passed uneventfully. Caleb went outside for a cigarette. The night was warm and clear and the sky looked more blue than black, littered all over with stars. Scores of young people, students from the local state college, shuffled around in small groups, whizzed by on bicycles, queued up beside a taco truck. For a few moments time stood still, and Caleb was overcome by a terrible sadness; he thought he might cry. It was at this point that the bartender at whom he’d smiled twice came out and asked him if he had a lighter. He lent her his and she lit a Camel. Caleb watched the smoke spill thickly from her lips and cascade upward. She asked him his name; they began talking. He explained that he was in town from Cleveland where he was doing his medical residency.
“At the Cleveland Clinic,” he specified.
“Hypocrite,” she said.
Caleb frowned. “Why?”
“You’re smoking.”
He laughed and told her she’d be surprised how many of his doctor acquaintances smoked. “Mostly cigars, though,” he added, inflecting his voice like Ian did, “which are just as bad for you.” With that she said she had to get back to work and, his normal inhibitions stripped away, Caleb asked what time she got off.
“Two o’clock.”
“Doing anything after?”
“Well, me and some of the other staff are going to The Fig Leaf. We know the owner. You should come. You’ll get some free drinks at least.”
At least. Caleb pretended to deliberate. “The Fig Leaf?”
“Sorry,” she said, “I forgot you’re from Cleveland. Yeah, so, it’s just down that way. Cross Elmwood Avenue and walk five minutes and it’s there on the left.”
“Yes. Yes, I see.”
“No pressure, Doc,” she smiled, crushing her cigarette end into the pavement. “Just throwing it out there.”
Caleb lingered on the sidewalk a minute before following her inside and sitting back down at the bar. It was a quarter to one. He didn’t feel sad anymore. The question now was twofold: when to leave this place and when to show up at the other one. He decided not to stay any longer—it was awkward sitting there by himself after his successful conversation with the bartender who had become aloof again. And he figured it was best to already be at this Fig Leaf joint when she and her friends arrived; that way he was spared the embarrassing task of finding and accosting them. Presently he accosted her and asked to close his tab. She smiled when he handed her the money, which included a nice tip, and, friendly again, said, “See ya later maybe?”
“Maybe,” Caleb said coyly, and he left.
___
A gloomy looking young man sat brooding over a rye Manhattan at a small dive bar on the edge of Allentown. This small dive bar was called The Fig Leaf. At the moment there were a total of two patrons, including the young man just described. Next to him sat another young man who drank craft beer and talked interminably. He worked in the kitchen of a nearby restaurant and spoke of this with evident pride. The bartender—who wore a waistcoat and a bow tie and whom the line cook addressed waggishly as “Barkeep”—stood off to the side with his arms folded across his chest. It was just after three o’clock and he wasn’t allowed to close the door until four. He looked weary and exasperated. Suspended from the ceiling over the shelves of glowing liquor bottles was a television screen. Currently it showed, without any sound, The Godfather Part II. Every so often the line cook amused himself by reciting a line of dialogue from memory as it was mouthed by one of the characters.
“Here it is,” he said eagerly. “Watch.” He cleared his throat and cried out: “Why can’t you give me a straight answer anymore? Was it a boy!” He laughed and turned to the first young man. “Hey—you wanna see a real film? Watch Five Easy Pieces. I mean it. When you get home tonight, download Five Easy Pieces. You owe it to yourself to see that film.”
“I’ve seen it,” Caleb mumbled.
“It’s better the second time,” the line cook said.
Caleb drained his cocktail glass, got up and staggered to the bathroom. A jumble of emotions swirled around inside of him, clamoring to be discharged. Most of them he couldn’t even identify, but rage was quickly asserting itself as dominant. It didn’t matter whether that bartender had played a malicious prank on him or been hit by a bus on her way over: Caleb’s circumstance was the same in any case—he was alone, at the end of his rope. Returning to the bar he ordered another Manhattan. When he was finished with that one he would order another.
“I think you’ve had enough, boss,” the bartender said.
Caleb slapped the counter. “One more.”
“Why don’t you call it a night, chief.”
“I don’t wanna call it a night,” Caleb snapped. “I want ’nother drink.”
“I’m not serving you, guy.”
“Why not?”
“Barkeep,” the line cook interjected, “I’ll see that he gets back alright. I’ll guarantee it. What do you say?”
The bartender seemed ready to yield when Caleb turned on the line cook.
“You,” he said, “can shut the fuck up.”
“Hey now,” said the line cook, raising his hands defensively. “I’m only trying to keep the peace here. No call for that kind of language.”
“Here’s your bill, pal,” the bartender announced. “Now go home and sleep it off.”
Caleb glared at him. Then he reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of crumpled bills on the counter. He watched as the bartender straightened them out and counted them up. “I want exact change,” he demanded. The bartender obliged him and Caleb stormed off without another word.
“Five Easy Pieces!” the line cook called after him.
It had begun to drizzle outside—dim orange light thrown down by lamp posts reflected hazily off the wet pavement. Caleb wandered aimlessly down the street in a near fugue state. He was so overwrought that he could hardly think. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. Part of him had a mind to curl up in the gutter and go to sleep; another wanted to run laps around the city until he dropped. For a moment he fantasized about stealing one of the cars parked along the curb, maybe driving it into a wall. Then he heard voices in the distance and automatically moved in their direction. They belonged to a knot of men loitering outside a bar that had just closed for the night. The men, not yet adapted to their new environment, were talking and laughing raucously. One hopped onto a crotch rocket and tore away with an explosion of sound that echoed through the barren city streets. Three men remained when Caleb approached and came to a stop. It was raining more steadily now.
“Got a light?” he asked.
One of the men handed him a lighter. Caleb thanked him and lit his last cigarette. A mad impulse gripped him.
“Nice tattoo,” he said to the one nearest him. Then, leaning in as though to get a better look, he pressed the burning end of his cigarette into the man’s arm. There were shouts and a moment of general confusion, and then Caleb was engulfed in a flurry of flying fists and forearms and elbows. When he fell to the ground they started kicking him. Caleb coiled into the fetal position and wondered how long it would take before he lost consciousness. He’d never been in a fight before. The one whose arm he had seared suggested that they kill him. The others had to pull him away. “You’re on parole, man,” one of them said. “Come on—let’s go.” The man kicked Caleb twice more and spit on him and called him every filthy name he could think of. Then they left.
Fat, heavy raindrops smacked Caleb in the face, watering down the blood, as he lay flat on his back. A blurry sky beheld him with indifference. He saw everything twice. There was no pain—either the glut of alcohol masked it or they hadn’t managed to land any significant blows. He didn’t care anyway. The experience had successfully conveyed him, at least momentarily, back to his adolescent self, when he had cared for nothing and hated everything. Inwardly he hit out at bartenders and line cooks the world over. He cursed Dave. IPAs. Cab drivers. Buffalo. America. Old bedrooms. Renovated houses. Funerals. Churches. Photographs. Memories. He cursed his mother for not knowing, himself for not having the heart to tell her, and he bitterly cursed, as he had so many times in the past, his father—his father for not being alive—for dying—for not being there to protect him like fathers are supposed to do—for leaving him alone—exposed—to face the world by himself—a mere child--
Tears of self-pity—the worst kind—were mixing with the blood and the rain. At length Caleb dragged his dripping, pummeled body over to the face of the closest building and sat up against the bricks. His whole head pulsated now; a smart pain stabbed at his ribs when he breathed in. He closed his eyes and took stock of his feelings. It had been one of the worst days of his life, if not the worst, and that was surely saying something, and yet—yet, yet, yet—something stood immovably between himself and the utter despair, the oblivion he’d been unconsciously hunting for. Somewhere a light glowed, stubbornly, dull but constant.
Caleb wiped water and blood from his eyes with his hand and dug in his pocket for his phone. He brought up his conversation with Thao. Finally responding to her message he wrote: Miss you too.
___
“Oh my God.” Thao sat up with alarm. “What happened?”
“Where are we going for dinner?” Caleb set his bag down and moved gingerly over to where Thao sat on the sofa. She’d been watching TV and hadn’t heard Caleb come in. Now she stood up and looked at him with horror in her dark brown eyes. She traced the marks on his forehead with her fingers.
“What happened to your face?”
“That? That’s nothing.”
“It’s all bruises—and your lip.”
“Just a little scrimmage.”
“A what?”
“A scrap,” Caleb said. “A little roughhouse.”
“What’s that mean? You had a fight?”
“Sort of.”
“Trời ơi,” she pouted. “Are you okay?”
He thought for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. I am now.”
Thao started sobbing. They sat down and she pressed her face into Caleb’s chest. Five minutes later his t-shirt was soaked with tears and streaked with makeup.
“Cheer up,” he said at length. He handed her a tissue; she dabbed her eyes with it. “Everything’s fine. Really. What’s this,” he said, indicating the TV, “Korean soap opera?”
Thao nodded.
“Are you hungry?”
She sniffled and said she wasn’t sure.
“Had dinner?”
She shook her head.
“Well we can’t let you starve now, can we? Come on,” he said, “I’ll take a shower and you pick someplace for dinner. Alright?”
Thao nodded and watched Caleb limp up the stairs with his suitcase. She grabbed another tissue and finished drying her eyes. She heard the shower go on. New tears were beginning to form but she held them back. Never had she felt so strongly for another person. Now, Caleb’s well-being was her well-being. Seeing him standing there like that, bruised and cut up, was too much. She didn’t want to go to dinner, or anywhere else. She wanted to stay in. She wanted to lie in bed with him. She wanted to take care of him. A maternal instinct swelled up inside of her. She still hadn’t told anyone—he had to be the first to know and the timing had to be right.
Twenty minutes later Thao decided that the timing was right.
“Caleb?” she called, moving into their bedroom. “I need to tell you something—”
She found him fast asleep with his arms spread out and one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress. He was still wearing his towel—brownish-purple spots of varying shapes and sizes marked his left flank. Thao looked away and flicked off the light. She lifted his leg onto the bed and lay down beside him, shut her eyes and gradually dropped off to the tapping of a light rain. At some point during the night Caleb turned over and stretched his arm across her waist. Half asleep, Thao took his hand and put it on her stomach. She held it there firmly.
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Michael Howard's essays and short stories have appeared in a variety of print and digital publications including Mekong Review, New World Writing, Paste Magazine, Creative Loafing, The Forge and Hypertext Magazine. He lives in Vietnam.
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