“You only turn thirty-one once! Let’s celebrate!” they said.
Celebrations are reserved for other people, people who deserve them. That’s what Nina thinks.
I boldly tell her she’s wrong, that she deserves to celebrate just as much as anyone else. I also add that I think she should find someone else to celebrate with, like Toby, but she ignores me.
In the end, she gives in to their pleas. She always gives in.
The bar is full when they arrive, bustling with the excitement of a Friday night and the possibility of…well, that depends on the person, I suppose. The prospects are varied and endlessly abundant though. Some safe, some not. Some smart, some not. I cringe, bite my tongue, and wait for Nina to decide. I’m endlessly patient. Until I’m not. I’m reaching my limit as my nerves burn down like a fuse on a stick of dynamite. Situations like this always put me on edge with Nina. There are too many choices. Too many things could potentially go wrong.
Two drinks turn into four drinks. The women dance until they’re sweaty, and as hard as Nina fought coming out tonight, she’s beginning to enjoy it.
By drink number six, she starts to believe that maybe she does deserve to celebrate. The music is loud in her ears. The lights flicker over the dance floor, the strobe of it adding to the dizzying effect of the alcohol thrumming through her veins. It’s at this moment that I see something I haven’t seen in her in a very, very long time. I see happiness. Not the fake smile she slaps on at work to get through her shift because customer service requires it—and because she, in turn, requires a paycheck. And not the half smile she conjures for her friends, that one’s forced and only masks the dull ache she houses inside. No, the happiness she’s allowing herself to feel right now is rare. It radiates out of her like sunshine. So stunning, I’m in awe.
So in awe, that I don’t notice the body brushing against the back of hers at first. But when I do, I’m on guard again. I’m suspicious. It’s a good thing I don’t work in law, because my motto would beguilty before proven innocent.
But he’s moving cautiously. When she turns to face him, she gasps quietly. It’s the quiet gasp of surprise and appreciation. There’s mutual attraction, no doubt. I can see it spark in both their eyes. It’s fascinating to watch, the tennis match of flirtation. They dance an entire song playing cat and mouse with their glances, locking gazes for microseconds before smiling sheepishly and darting eyes away. By the second song he leans in, his lips brushing the hair covering her ear, and introduces himself—Ken. I watch her shiver with pleasure at the contact and the rumble of his voice and I sigh dazedly…and smile…and tell myself that he’s different. Ken is different.
There’s only a moment’s hesitation when I ask myself,He’ll be good to her, right?
And then I look at her face, so unnaturally happy. The kind of happy I’ve waited years to see and I stand down and answer my own question.He’ll be good to her. Ken is different.
Chapter Eight
Present,March 1987
Toby
Johnny holdingthe base of the ladder does little to quiet the voice in my head reminding me second by second that this ladder is ancient and the ground is thirty feet down. My threshold on this ladder before my brain intervenes, says,What in the hell do you think you’re doing?and starts locking down muscular cooperation, is around twenty feet. Ten feet aboveHell, noheight is not a good time, it’s rebellion between body, mind, and pride. There is no way I’m ever going to tell Johnny I’m afraid of this sketchy ladder, or heights, orwhatever, because I try not to give him ammunition to further judge me. Unfortunately, he already knows I feel responsible for Nina’s death. I keep all the rest to myself. I bury it where the outside world can’t see.
“Is the bracket broken? Or is the wood rotten?” Johnny yells from below. He’s looking up with one hand on the ladder and the other now shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun directly overhead.
Two hands, chief!I want to scream, but instead I level my voice so I don’t sound like a frightened five-year-old, and respond with a simple, “Yes.”
“Yes? Which is it?” he asks, still with a single hand affixed nonchalantly to the stairway to my paranoia.
“Both,” I answer, as I remove the screwdriver from my back pocket and begin to unscrew the half of the bracket that’s still attached to the house. It’s mangled. Last night the wind kicked up and rattled this stretch of downspout unmercifully, until the old bracket and the old house decided to part ways. The downspout clanged against the house for hours, I heard it, but it was the middle of the night, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near this ladder in that wind. Bracket loose, I stick it in my back pocket with the screwdriver and screw then make my way down to solid ground.
Three rungs from the bottom, I beat him to the question I know he’ll ask. “I’ll make a new bracket and reattach it a foot lower where the wood isn’t as rotten.”
Johnny nods and the quiet draws my eyes to his, which I rarely do. They look tired, which isn’t new. And a little irritated, which isn’t new either. But they also look clear, no bloodshot weaving through the whites, and sober. It’s rare he goes hours at a stretch without a drink. They also look haunted in an entirely new way, like whatever tortured him from within is no longer muted. It’s at the surface and it’s intense.
I want to ask him how long he’s been without a drink. Ask him if the war broke him like I suspect it did. Ask him if he thinks he’ll ever get over it. Ask him about his biggest regrets. But I don’t because giving our demons a voice, acknowledging them, isn’t something we do. I walk back around the house, in through the front door and into the basement, and try to ignore the tremor I saw in his hands and the fact that he’s sweating buckets.
The new bracket takes thirty minutes to make and when I return to the backyard and my vertical nemesis, I don’t expect that he’ll be there. I expect him to be gone, like he always is. Disappeared to Dan’s Tavern or wherever he goes these days to escape this old house. Cliff. Me. His life. Wherever he goes to still the tremors and sate his addiction’s need.
But he’s still standing in the same spot next to the ladder like he hasn’t moved. The closer I get, I hear it. The raised voices coming from up above. We’re both good at ignoring chaos; it’s part of living in this house. Sometimes tenants are quiet like Mrs. Bennett and Chantal. And sometimes tenants verbally spar like it’s their full-time job. We do our best to tune it out, unless it gets physical, then we call the cops and Johnny usually evicts them. He doesn’t tolerate violence.
Johnny isn’t looking up, but I can tell he’s eavesdropping, or trying to. When I’m up the ladder seven or eight feet, he steps into place and holds it with two hands as I ascend. The aggression seeping out of the house gets louder and thicker the higher I climb. Three distinct voices: One female bellowing self-righteously about knowing what’s right (Which makes me skeptical. If you’re right, you don’t yell about it until you’re red in the face and someone believes you. Volume doesn’t change minds, it closes them.), one male infuriatingly challenging that maybe she doesn’t (His is a tired, but fiery fight. It sounds a decade old, like it’s on a loop, defense more than offense.), and Alice (Louder than normal, a pleading roar to be heard. The passion is pure and distilled—her hope rivaling the bellowing cynicism.).
Cynicism doesn’t hear hope.
Cynicism doesn’t consider hope.
Cynicism just yells louder.
Because maybe if it yells loud enough, hope will fade away.
When I reach maximum height, I’m near a window in their apartment and the words are clear. It’s a distraction from my own fear, but I’d gladly trade it back for Alice’s sake. I hurriedly install the new bracket while I try to ignore the argument that I can’t.
