Exley, p.10
Exley, page 10
“Keep an eye on him?” H. says, looking at the card. I realize, too late, that the card identifies me as a mental health professional whose name is not Horatio Pahnee; but perhaps H. won’t realize the difference in names, or that I’m M.’s mental health professional. Perhaps H. doesn’t even know that M. is in need of a mental health professional. This is one of the most curious qualities of the juvenile mind: it is able to hide its illness from other juvenile minds. This is not to say that all juvenile minds are ill, but merely that they are not as well as the adult minds trained to diagnose and heal the sickest among them.
“Yes,” I say. “In particular, if you could let me know if he ever finds, or tries to find, a man named Exley.” H. touches his lip again at the name Exley, and in that way I surmise who has given him the wound. “Why would I want to do that?” H. asks.
I consider saying, Because you’re M.’s friend. But then again, if being M.’s friend has gotten H.’s lip bloodied, it’s probably not the best approach. As I say to all my patients, it’s a complicated bit of business, having friends: perhaps that’s why I’ve had so few of them. I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, hand it to H., and say, “That’s why.”
Then I turn and run toward the Public Square. As I reach the center of the Square, I see M. standing on the sidewalk on the far side, talking to an adult male reclined on that sidewalk. I hide behind the statue honoring our local soldiers and sailors and watch as M. pulls back his foot, and I think, Surely, M. wouldn’t kick this man! And then M. does kick him, quite solidly, in the rib region. Surely, I think, M. would not kick this man again! And then M. pulls back his foot to kick this man again; this time, however, his foot appears to be destined to strike the man’s face. But then M. does not kick. Perhaps because he regrets what he’s done. Or perhaps because the man is laughing, loudly and carelessly, as though being kicked was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him.
This reminds me of the time when I accepted an offer to join a practice in Watertown. I was just completing my graduate education in Rochester. The mental health professional who ran the practice, and who was its sole practitioner, promised he would retire in one year and then the practice would be mine (he kept his word), and he also promised I would never want for patients (I haven’t). So I accepted the offer, which was, in the spirit of full disclosure, my only offer. When I told my graduate adviser (who, it transpires, was a native Watertownian) of my decision, he said — barked, rather — “Watertown!”
“Yes,” I said. “Have you ever heard of it?”
“‘Have I ever heard of Watertown? That’s where the goddamn animals are.’” His words were angry, but he was smiling when he said them, the way Exley seems to enjoy M.’s kicking him in the ribs. The way M. loves his father — and the way M.’s father (and M. himself?) love this Exley and his book — for all the reasons the father and the book and its author seem to me to be unlovable. Perhaps this is what it means to be from Watertown: to take pleasure in something that should give you pain. Perhaps this is why I’ve never felt at home here.
In any case, M. considers the man for an additional moment or two and then walks into the Crystal Restaurant. Once the door has closed behind him, I creep across the Square and approach the man. The man is no longer laughing or even conscious: he appears to be asleep, but as I get closer I can hear him muttering the most inappropriate things imaginable. I will not sully you, Notes, by including those words here, but I will say that much of the invective is, for a creative writer, surprisingly uncreative. Which leads me to believe that this man, whoever he is, and although he appears to be inebriated, as Exley apparently often is, and filthy, as drunks often are, is not Exley. But how to be sure? Resting on the sidewalk, to the right of the man, is a backpack of apparently military origin. The top is cinched, and I bend over, uncinch it gently, quietly. Then I reach inside, all the while keeping my eye on the man, in case he starts to awake. First, I pull out a paintbrush, then a piece of rope, then several screwdrivers of various lengths; in this way I determine that the man is a laborer — a laborer and, indeed, a manual laborer. Finally, though, I find something of use to someone like me, who is, after all, not a manual laborer: a wallet. I open it. There are no bills in the billfold, but there is a driver’s license. It is expired, twice over. But no matter, because I find on the license what I’m looking for: the man’s name is U.L.B. Not Exley, in other words. I look up at the man, and — gasp! — he’s looking at me with a queasy, slightly unfocused expression on his face. He belches, considers his wallet in my hand, then spits out (oh, forgive me, Notes!), “You fucking fuck.”
“You dropped this,” I say. Then slowly I pull my wallet out of my jacket packet, withdraw a twenty-dollar bill, hold it up so that U.L.B. can see it, place the currency in his wallet, close the wallet, and return it to his backpack. I even give the pack a good cinching before handing it to him. He doesn’t take it, not at first: instead, he looks at me with a marked surliness, and I remember H.’s lip and think, Please don’t hit me. And then he takes the backpack, opens it, withdraws the wallet, and opens it, and I remember the twenty I gave H. earlier and think, It is expensive being a detective. And then U.L.B., accompanied by a symphony of curses and grunts, gets to his feet and staggers away.
Once he is out of sight, I turn and look into the Crystal’s front window. I see M. standing next to the “bar” area, talking to four adult males. He has a book in his hand, and although I cannot see the cover, I feel certain it is A Fan’s Notes. One by one, he hands them the book; one by one, they read the back cover, then hand the book back to M. I can see the expressions on M.’s face. Each time a man hands the book back to M., he looks disappointed; but then he looks at the book itself and his expression changes, and in it I can see a little bit of pride, a little bit of hope, and so much love. I wonder if M.’s father and mother have looked at M. the way M. looks at A Fan’s Notes. I wonder if there’s a way M.’s mother can be convinced to look at me the way her son looks at Exley’s book. The best way, of course, is to heal her son. But in order to heal him, I first must know the extent of his illness. And if I am to know the extent of his illness, then M. must not know I am spying on him. Not yet.
Just then, one of the men points in my direction, and I “duck” and then flee.
Inside the Crystal
The usual scene at the Crystal. I knew it was the usual scene because I used to go there with my dad, every Sunday morning before he left for Iraq. I hadn’t been there since he’d left. And I don’t think I’d ever been there at one in the afternoon on a Monday. But it was the same as it was on Sunday morning. The air was full of the smells and sounds of the griddle. On the griddle, I could see the eggs bleeding over into the circles of pancake batter. As a little kid I’d called it pancake “better,” which was, in fact, what the bleeding eggs were making it. The big twelve-slice toasters were being loaded, fired, reloaded. The tables were filled with men and women on lunch break from the banks or the county offices. The men had tucked their ties into the middle of their shirts; the women were leaning way over their plates, so whatever fell from their mouths wouldn’t fall on their clothes. All of them were eating quietly. It was probably the very end of their lunch hour. Whatever they’d missed with their forks, they were now mopping up with their toast. I saw one guy who’d already eaten his toast dip his index finger into a puddle of syrup and yolk. He stuck the finger in his mouth, then pulled it out with a wet, sucking pop. At the bar were four guys who had just woken up from the night before. They were standing, because no one ever sat at the bar, because there were no seats. Their hair was wet; I could see the comb marks. Their faces were red, like they’d been scoured. These guys were drinking beer, but slowly, eyes on the newspapers in front of them. I started with these guys, maybe because they looked familiar — I don’t think I’d ever seen or met them, but they looked like the type of guy whom my dad might have known, or who might have known him. Anyway, I showed them the picture of Exley on the back of the book, and then I asked if they recognized him or his name and if they knew where I could find him. Here’s what they told me:
GUY 1: Never seen him.
GUY 2: Never heard of him.
GUY 3: Never heard of him or seen him.
GUY 4: Never . . . wait a minute, is he that guy who also takes the newspaper with him into the john? I hate that guy.
GUY 2: What’s wrong with taking the newspaper into the bathroom with you?
GUY 4: It’s disgusting. It’s not even his newspaper. It’s the Crystal’s. It’s for all of us.
GUY 1: Would it be OK if it were his paper, Miss Manners?
GUY 4: There’s still something very troubling about watching a guy walking into a bathroom with a newspaper. Like he’s announcing to everyone, Hey, I’m going to need something to read because this is going to take a while because I’m a disgusting animal.
GUY 3: An animal who can read the newspaper, apparently.
GUY 1: Miss Fucking Manners.
GUY 4: Anyway, kid, I don’t think I’ve ever seen or heard of him.
M.: Are you sure?
GUY 4: Yeah, I’m sure.
M.: Because just now you said you didn’t think you’d ever seen or heard of him. You didn’t think you had. That didn’t sound like you were sure.
GUY 4: (Long pause.) Wait! I just saw him.
M.: What! Where?
GUY 4: Right outside the window. Quick, I think you can catch him if you hurry up. I’m sure you can.
I ran outside. There was no one out there, not even the guy who’d been sitting on the sidewalk and who’d hit Harold. I walked back inside. The guy who’d told me he’d seen Exley wasn’t there anymore. The other three guys were back to reading the newspaper. I told them I didn’t see Exley or anyone else outside. Not even the guy who was sitting on the sidewalk earlier. Was that the guy their friend was talking about?
GUY 2: Go ask him yourself. He’s in the bathroom.
GUY 1: No, kid. That guy isn’t the guy you’re looking for. That guy’s a bum named U.
GUY 2: U. isn’t a bum. He pumped out my girlfriend’s cellar just last week.
GUY 1: At least someone’s pumping out your girlfriend’s cellar.
GUY 2: What’s that supposed to mean?
GUY 1: Nothing.
GUY 2: No, seriously, what’s that supposed to mean?
GUY 1: (Silence.)
GUY 2: No, seriously.
GUY 1: (Silence.)
GUY 2: No, seriously.
GUY 3: Jesus Christ, it means that at least someone is fucking your girlfriend, because you aren’t. In this particular equation, someone pumping out your girlfriend’s cellar equals someone who is not you fucking your girlfriend.
GUY 2: (Long pause.) In the cellar?
GUY 3: Hey, kid, let me see that book again. (Pause.) You know who he does look like?
GUY 1: Who?
GUY 3: That crazy bastard with the birds. The one at the end of Oak Street.
GUY 2: Hey, wait a second . . .
GUY 3: (To Guy 2.) Shut up. (To me.) I bet that’s the same guy. Just go all the way to the end of Oak Street until you can’t go anymore. That’s where you’ll find him. Tell him V. sent you.
GUY 5: Miller, your parents know you aren’t in school right now?
I turned around, and there was Mr. D., looking down at me. Mr. D. owned and ran the Crystal. He was friends with my dad, and he knew Mother, too. Mr. D. looked stern, like a judge, with his white apron instead of a black robe and a spatula instead of a gavel.
“Hey, Mr. D.,” I said. I took my book back from Guy 3. “I’m going back to school right now.”
“Good,” he said, and lowered his spatula a little. “Hey, where’s your old man been? Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“He’s in the hospital,” I said.
“Jeez,” Mr. D. said. “Is he all right?”
“I think he’s getting better,” I said.
“Good,” Mr. D. said. “I’ll go visit him.”
“He’d like that,” I said. “He’s in the VA hospital.”
Mr. D. frowned and seemed like he was about to say something when Guy 4 came walking up, flapping his hands. He sat down on the stool and said, “Jesus, there’s no paper towels in the john.”
“That’s because everyone just uses the newspaper,” Mr. D. said, pointing at the section the guy had just picked up. They started arguing about that and I turned to leave. When I did, Mr. D. said, “Next time I see you in here, Miller, I’m going to have to tell your mom.” I told him that I understood. But before I walked out the door, I heard one of the guys ask Mr. D., “Who’s that kid’s father?” Mr. D. told him, and the guy said, “You’re kiddin’ me. That crazy bastard was in the army?”
Knock, Knock
It was after three o’clock by the time I left the Crystal. School was over at quarter of three. I had missed chemistry and Spanish, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it right then. So I decided to go visit my dad.
I didn’t have any trouble finding the VA hospital this time. But something surprising did happen as I walked down the mossy brick walk toward the automatic doors. Someone called my name. I turned around and saw that it was J., the girl from my class. The one with the zipper scar on her cheek. She had her backpack on. I didn’t have mine. I’d left it at school, in my locker. I felt weird without it. It was like I was naked and J. wasn’t. Maybe that’s why, when J. asked what I was doing there, I told her the truth: “I’m here to see my dad.”
“Me, too,” she said.
After that, we didn’t seem to know what to say. On the first day of class, after we’d told Mrs. T. what we’d read over the summer, we were supposed to say something interesting about ourselves. Half of the class, including J., had said that their dads, or mothers, were in Iraq. When it was my turn, I said that my dad was in Iraq, too. “So what division?” L. wanted to know. It was a dumb question. Everyone knew that Fort Drum was the Mountain Division. “Mountain Division,” I said. “So what number?” L. asked. That, I didn’t know, because my dad had written——in his letter where the number should have been. But I knew L. wouldn’t understand that if I tried to explain it to him (“So what do you mean, ——?”). So I just sat there, trying to think of a good number (I couldn’t: this is why I’m in advanced reading but not advanced math), until J., who was sitting next to me, started writing something on her desk. I could hear the dig of pen on wood. I peeked over and saw that she’d written, “Tenth.” “Tenth,” I said. That shut L. up, until it was R.’s turn to talk about himself. R. said his dad was in Afghanistan. He was the only student in the class whose dad was in Afghanistan, not Iraq.
“So,” L. said, “what’s he doing in Afghanistan?”
“He’s fighting the war,” R. said.
“So,” L. said, “the war is in Iraq.”
“It’s in Afghanistan, too,” R. said. His face was red and he looked like he was so mad he might cry. R. looked to Mrs. T. to see if she would make L. stop. But Mrs. T. believed that students should speak their mine-duhs. That was one of the first things she’d told us. Already, I could tell that L. was going to be her favorite, because he spoke his so often.
“So I don’t think so,” L. said. “I think you’re confused. I think you’re thinking of Iraq. That’s where the war is. I think they make blankets or something in Afghanistan.”
Anyway, I was talking about J., not L. J. was nice. She wasn’t like K. or Mother. But she was nice.
We walked through the sliding glass doors together. The same woman was sitting at her desk, staring at her computer. She looked up when she heard the doors close. She saw me first and squinted. “Your . . . ,” she started to say to me, but then she noticed J. and said, “Hello, J.”
“Hi, Mrs. C.,” J. said.
“Hi,” I said. “How’s my dad doing?”
“Oh, he’s still kicking!” Mrs. C. said, but she was back looking at her computer screen.
The swinging doors were in front of us. I pointed at them and said to J., “My dad’s room is through there.”
“Well, my father is on the second floor,” J. said, and started walking toward the elevator. The way she emphasized the word “second” made me think the patients on the second floor were different from the patients on the first, and that made me wonder: How bad off was my dad? Was he better or worse than the other patients?
“Hey,” I said. “Can I come with you?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I tried to come up with a reason. “I just don’t think I’ve ever met your dad before,” I finally said.
“I’m pretty sure you haven’t,” J. said. She pushed the Up button and waited. The elevator doors opened. She walked in the elevator and then turned to face me. She was touching her scar again, but she was also smiling. “I guess that’d be OK,” she finally said. The doors started closing. She put her hand in between them; they stopped, then reopened, and I got in.
The elevator door opened and we got out and walked down the hall. It was full of patients. They were getting their exercise. The patients with two legs were walking on their own or with their arms hooked through the arms of nurses, or wives, or husbands, or physical therapists. I saw a lady on crutches; she had one leg. That leg was on the floor, obviously, or at least its foot was. The other leg was almost completely gone: the leg of her pajamas was folded up to the middle of her thigh and pinned there. When she swung on the crutches, the pinned pajama leg flared to the side. Her pajamas were pink with flowers; there were towels folded at the top of each crutch, over the rubber part that went under the armpit. The towels were pink, too. There was a man next to her. He was using a walker, although he had two legs. I wondered what was wrong with him, until I noticed there was a tube running out of his stomach, into a clear sack attached to his walker. The tube was very wide and the sack was very big and both were filled with something that was the color of mud. It looked too brown and murky to be blood, but I didn’t know what else it could be. The man was doubled over a little, and every time he moved the walker, the tube swung and the man made a hissing sound behind his teeth. The man and the woman were standing really close to each other, even though the sack was on the woman’s side of the walker. My first thought was that she must have been really in love with him to be standing that close to the sack. But maybe they were only standing so close to each other because the hall was so crowded.
