They're Calling You Home

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen In the morning, while Browder snores, the rich coffee brewing downstairs wafting up into the attic, I sit at the desk and open my laptop. It’s strange to be writing again, or rather thinking about writing again. I find Ike’s Wi-Fi signal and log on, check my e-mail. Michael has sent me a message, asking if I’ve made it to hoosier land okay, and did I see gene hackman coaching high school boys already in their midtwenties. he adds a line at the bottom of the e-mail: “I need a draft of the new prologue to the memoir soon. Shoot for around three thousand words and zip it over to me. I can read and provide feedback PronTo!” My fingers are loose on the keyboard, the tips clammy, almost hot, as I enter a kind of meditative zone. a memory comes back to me, the sound of leaves fluttering in the breeze, the smell of earth and cold, rust-colored fields and lawns of dark green at the periphery of my vision. I’m writing, and it feels good, medicinal, promising. For the next half hour time slips into the closet, hiding, unable to move without me, unless I give it permission on the computer screen. Writing the prologue feels like hiding contraband, marijuana joints under a mattress or a vodka bottle tucked under a floorboard. Ike calls up to us, saying breakfast is ready, but he sounds hung over, hoarse. Finally, when he starts to climb the attic steps, I rush to finish two lines, knowing Ike would consider what I’m doing blasphemy. The screen fades to a light sky blue, then vapid gray, and I close the laptop just in time. Behind me I can hear footsteps, and it’s not until I really listen that I hear the sound of women’s heels. I turn slowly in the chair, and my breath comes out in a deflated exhale as Susana stands five feet away, dressed up, and looking every bit as beautiful as They’re Calling You Home 105 fifteen years ago. her hands are in front of her, cupped at her waist. She has on an emerald-green dress and the heels I heard, gold loops at her ears. “hey. good morning,” I say, my voice hitched. “he’s not going in today, gabe. he’s sick. he tried, but he vomited in the kitchen sink.” She clip-clops closer and smiles when she notices Browder still sleeping. Susana sits down on my bed and crosses her legs. “It’s getting worse. I thought having you here might help, but last night is pretty much the way it always is now. he drinks as soon as he gets home, and I know he’s been drinking during the day, too. he’s always been a drinker, socially, sometimes on the weekends when we cook dinner, have people over, but never like this.” She lets one shoe dangle from her foot. “you know what he did last week? he started drinking beer at noon during a cookout, then switched to wine, and then gin after it got later. I found him after our guests left. he was passed out up here. I thought he was dead. he had a picture of you and your dad and him when you went to Michigan to ski and sled. The funny thing is he had taken it out of the frame and rolled it up and was clutching it. I don’t think he’s going to get better, gabe.” “Is there a reason he’s drinking more? Maybe it’s this thing about running for mayor.” even when I hear myself saying these things, I can hear the denial, the absurdity of my own obvious disconnection. Susana smiles weakly as outside in the street a school bus pulls up with a moan and a grind. She seems grateful that I’m trying to figure out Ike’s motivation, even though we both know the answer. Browder’s snoring has reduced itself to a series of tiny clicks. he has his camera around his neck. “no,” says Susana, sounding like a confident but soft-spoken prosecutor. “I think it’s what has caught up with him if you want to know the truth.” Then she squints at me, and her face softens even more. of all the things that have changed in Smallwood, maybe Susana’s personality has been the biggest...