Chapter One: Falling Apart
In the den is a group photo from the last family reunion we held before Dad passed away. You can tell in the photo that he's in decline. He's sitting in a lawn chair and smiling with the rest of us, but no one who was there could understand how he made it through the day. If you look closely, it's clear that he's straining to hold himself up and the hands that grasp the chair are far too big for his body. We'd planned this vacation at almost the last minute, to have one last time with Dad at his favorite campsite in the Smokies, and we almost didn't make it.
The photo isn't some sepia-colored print from a long-ago time. It has all the colors and sharpness of a high-quality digital shot, filled with beautiful details of trees and mountains and faces. Our little family group is on one side. I'm kneeling. Kaetlyn is riding on my shoulders, and I'm pointing to the camera so she'll look at it. Ruth is half kneeling beside us. She rests a hand on my arm. Bill is standing behind Ruth, holding William, who was just a baby then, moving Will's hand to make it look like he's waving. I don't know how Bill came to be holding Will, or why he's standing apart from Jolene, but he's our children's favorite uncle.
That evening, once the kids were asleep, Ruth let her feelings out. "It's so sad, John. It's just so sad." I thought she might cry, but Ruth doesn't cry easily. She put her face to my chest and hugged me, and of course I hugged her back. God I loved her. I love that memory of her. We held each other for the longest time in the dark cabin, her face to my chest, my face to her hair. I wanted to take her clothes off her and hold her every way there is. My Ruth. After awhile, without lifting her face, she said, "Don't ever leave me. I couldn't stand it."
"You know I'd never leave my girl."
"I couldn't stand it, John. Really. You have to promise."
"I'll be here forever."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
We did make love that night. It was sweet and warm and sad. While I petted Ruth, I had floating above me thoughts of all the drugs Dad needed in order to sleep. I stroked her breasts and her belly with the backs of my fingers, then moved my fingernails along that skin, to her mound, the insides of her thighs, her puss, and I wondered how long it had been since Dad and Mom had made love. It seemed important. When would our last time be? When I entered Ruth I held myself still, so we could kiss and keep it going, to maintain as much contact as possible, as long as I could. When would the last time be? We probably did it to comfort each other as much as for the pleasure, to hold the emptiness of everything at bay. Then, sometime during the night, Kaetlyn crawled into bed between us. She was there when I awoke the next morning. She made it easy to believe everything would turn out okay.
I look at that photo, sometimes, and think about the reunion. As bad as the day was, we maintained a kind of unity in the face of it. Together we would see things through. Family. Partners. Lovers. I wish we could go back. What I've found is that family can be as fragile as Dad was. It doesn't die exactly like people do, but it can fall apart, which amounts to the same thing.
I found it out tonight.
In our case the cause was Bill. And Ruth. My Ruth. It wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't my brother. It would have been awful no matter what, but he's my brother, so break out the multiplication tables. The destructive energy is equal to the masses of their two bodies together, times the square of the speed of the light that brings their images to the husband.
I know. I'm trying too hard. I just wish the light had never reached me.
*****
I don't want there to be any surprises.
There's been the one, big surprise. I don't know what will happen now. I guess there won't be any particular hurry to how things unfold, because that would be too easy. I've imagined several possibilities, but none seems to lead the pack, so even though things might not progress just
so
, you can probably predict the options as well as I can. They will be as bland and unimaginative and tawdry as the unfoldings in any other crippled lives. How else could it be?
But: the surprise. How did it happen? We've seen Bill a few times a year. Were there chances before? When would they have been? Of course there were the reunions, though Jolene would have been there and I just can't see Ruth and Bill having had any real time together. Then there were business trips when he'd stop by. It had to be the business trips. Had they done things before? Is there a history?
It doesn't all make sense to me. Ruth didn't seem particularly pleased that Bill was going to visit. She was too tired to play hostess, she said, though it wasn't much of a complaint. When he arrived, the three of us had beers and sat around until it was time for me to grill some burgers, then, when the meat was about half charred, Bill came rushing out, carrying Will on his shoulders, growling and laughing back at Kaetlyn, who was chasing them close behind with a wiffle-ball bat.
Ruth joined in and it was a good evening. "Hah!" you say. But it was. I thought it was wonderful. We got the kids settled and had some adult conversation. Ruth poured cordials. Eventually I had to go to bed, but Bill was on West Coast time. "I'll be a while," said Ruth, warming to the hostess role. Everything was as it should be.
*****
What time did I awake? I remember there was a dream, and I was disoriented and at first thought it must be morning. I'm not used to an empty bed, but I must have crashed. And Ruth wasn't there. 12:34 a.m. Where was she? Not a creature was stirring. Everyone should be asleep.
I thought I should find her. She would in bed with one of the kids. I've done that. One of them wakes and is fussing, so you lie down to give comfort, but you forget to stay awake. I lay there and thought about it for a few minutes.
Up you go, John!
I staggered down the hall and almost hit a wall because I was still zonked. There's some illumination out there, from the night-light in the bathroom, enough so that when I passed the kids' rooms I could peek in to see who Ruth was sleeping with, but the answer was 'neither.' Kaetlyn and Will were alone except for dolls and stuffed animals.
Ideas can steal over you sometimes, especially at night. Is that when I started going so quietly? Yes, but right away I discovered why I hadn't heard anything. The sliding door to the den was closed. Mystery solved – except that it wasn't. I stopped short. There was a problem.
The problem was that I heard murmurings, but they were far too quiet. They were barely more than whispers, the mutterings of people who were working hard not to be overheard. I couldn't make out what they were actually saying, but their tones were all wrong, and there was no stream of conversation. There were gaps, periods with no voices at all, then a few words in Bill's voice, or in Ruth's.
Ruth said something a little louder, something that stood out only because everything else had been so soft. It was a single word, followed by a sentence. I could tell the word was "no."
Then Bill. His voice was deeper than usual. Huskier. That's how I heard it. Then, still another silence, and by that time I was first beginning to think something I didn't want to believe. Ruth murmured again. This time she didn't use the word "no."
It couldn't be that. It wasn't possible. I can almost laugh at myself, at the myself in my memory. How naïve! Not possible? Improbable? Likely. Done! I'd laugh if there was anything at all worth laughing about. I thought the nighttime was affecting my judgment. So why didn't I just slide the door open and say "hi, guys" and maybe remind Ruth what time she had to get up? I'll tell you why: because of the possibility.
I crept away from the door, to my right, through the living and dining rooms, to the kitchen.
Be careful of the furniture, John.
Fourteen steps, then left, into the kitchen. Fourteen steps! How do I remember that when, the entire time, this is what was going through my mind:
Don't be stupid! This is ridiculous!
It didn't seem so ridiculous when I found the sliding door between the kitchen and den was closed, too. Why would it be closed?
Think, John, think. For silence.
I slid past it, past the oven, to the pass-through, took another breath so I could be still for a moment, then peeked carefully.
What I saw didn't make any sense. Though I had just heard Ruth, she wasn't in the den. It couldn't have been more than a minute, could it? Where was she? The only light was a single torchiere lamp in a corner, so there were shadows, and with the dark paneling the light was rusty and dim, but the shadows couldn't hide a person. Bill was alone on the couch, his back to the kitchen, facing a TV that wasn't on, and he was looking downward. Could Ruth have left while I was sneaking into the kitchen? Was he contemplating something? His shoulders were moving. What was he looking at? He inhaled loudly, and I thought for a minute, only a moment, that he was jerking himself off, but he wasn't moving anything fast enough.
Then Ruth appeared. Her hand rose from somewhere down below, moving up above the top of the couch, to Bill's shoulder, and her head followed, first the back of it, then her face.
