The Other Mr. Bax (32 page)

T
aking a final tour of the house,
Dana satisfied herself that all was as neat and clean as it had ever been. She’d even tidied up Roland’s studio. The painting he had left on the easel was about the only thing she left untouched. She stopped before it and studied it in the dim light coming in from the living room and the kitchen. The scattered boulder-like shapes were partially hidden in fog, as though they might represent retreating memories, or a viewpoint other than what in fact was real. She switched on one of the drawing lamps. The instant the light struck the painting, the telephone mounted to the wall behind her rang. She swung around and quickly snatched it from its cradle before it had a chance to ring a second time.

“Hello?”

“Dana, it’s Ed.”

A call from her brother-in-law was the last thing she would’ve expected, at any time. “Yeah?”

“I’m at the Uni-Mart. I would have called sooner, but some dolt was hogging the phone here.” He hesitated, then, “I just bumped into Roland.” He paused as though allowing time for the news to sink in. “He was—”

“Just now?” she said.

“Maybe five minutes ago. He was here buying gas. Did you know he was around?”

“Yeah, I knew. I’m expecting him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t tell anyone.” The dull thud of a car door came from the street outside. She glanced toward the front door. “I just didn’t.”

“Anyway, he’s acting like a complete fruitcake, Dana. I don’t know that it’d be a good idea having him there… by yourself. There’s something creepy… I’m telling you, the guy’s about two donuts shy of a dozen.”

“Ed, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“I probably should have followed him. I didn’t expect… I can be there in a few minutes.”

A knock came from the front door.

“He’s not going to hurt anyone, believe me. Really, don’t worry about it.”

“I should stop by.”

“I’ll be fine, Ed. I’ve got to go.” Another knock came from the front door. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

“Well, listen… Call Mary in ten minutes, okay?”

“Bye, Ed.”

“If we don’t hear from you…”

Another knock.

“I’ll call Mary in ten minutes. Bye now.”

“Don’t forget—”

She hung the phone up and rushed to the front door.

T
he park, which Roland’s brother
had told him to look for, was on the left. To the other side of the street, just a short way farther, was a sign that read, “Grey Funeral Home.” He pulled up to the curb in front of the house before the funeral home and turned off the engine. Then, after sitting there for another moment, consoling his retreating nerve, he pushed the door open, climbed out, and walked up the short length of sidewalk leading to a tiny, dark porch.

The front door was large, solid-looking, no windows—Roland searched along the jam to the right—and no doorbell. He tapped on the door with his knuckles—like taping on a brick wall.

A car pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street. A young lady jumped out and dashed around to a bulky, blue, mail drop, mounted to the sidewalk in front of the post office. The metal gate squawked as she pulled it down to drop in a letter, then banged shut as she turned and rushed back to her waiting car. Again Roland knocked—this time, harder—
thump thump thump
. A glow came from around the edges of the window to the right of the porch. The blind was pulled. He wondered if he’d caught her in the bathroom… or suffering a fit of paranoia. He knocked a third time, stepped back a few feet, then turned away and stepped off the porch. The click of a deadbolt came from behind. Light fell across the steps of the porch as the door opened. A woman wearing a white sweater and black slacks stood in the doorway. Her long, dark, frizzy hair caught the light coming from behind her.

“Roland?”

He stumbled, but then quickly regained his balance. “I was about to—”

“Sorry, I got a phone call just a minute ago. Had a hard time getting away.” She glanced toward his car, then him. “You going to come in?” She took a step back into the house.

He stepped in past Dana, then turned as she closed the door. They looked at each other—just three feet between them. For Dana, the moment was reminiscent of another reunion, some years before. She and Roland had just ended a year of separation. Roland had rented a cabin near the Blue Ridge Parkway. She recalled the joy of finding him there, a big smile on his face as she approached the front porch of the cabin where he had been waiting for her. And now, nearly ten years later, the urge to return that smile was back. “Remember the cabin in North Carolina?”

Roland forced a smile to his lips and nodded.

She stepped into the living room and leaned back against the arm of a loveseat. “I haven’t thought about that in so long.” She tried to recall the “thing” that had pushed them apart, but there was no “thing,” just a vague dissatisfaction with life, followed by a miserable decision. That year of separation was like a death and then a rebirth. They had destroyed whatever it was they had become in order to rediscover the truths about who they were and what they wanted. In the end everything seemed clean and fresh. More importantly, they had become friends. But now, looking at him, she realized how curiously ill at ease he seemed—unlike that other time, unlike any time.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not in a while, no. Have you?”

“No.” She noticed his feet doing their nervous dance—the right heel bouncing up and down. “Want some anchovy pizza and beer?”

“Really? You like anchovies?”

She gave him a curious glance. “The rolls Mom and I make.”

“The rolls…” He lowered himself onto the sofa immediately behind him.

“You know, the anchovy rolls. There’s some in the freezer.”

He studied her eyes, as if the mystery of her might unravel there, but then caught himself staring. After seeing photographs of her, he’d asked about her age, as she looked somewhat younger than him, and learned that she was in fact older. But now, standing before her, he found that hard to believe. “Anchovies?” He smiled. “Okay… I’ll give it try.”

She searched his face for a clue.
Why are you doing this
? He had, in the past, made it abundantly clear that her anchovy rolls were among his favorites.
Do you really not see how hurtful that is
? She was determined to avoid being baited into another pointless confrontation.
Not now
. She had leaned, all along, toward believing that his alternate reality stories were like some crazy, twisted act of aggression, though perplexingly out of character. And the motive? Another mystery. If there was one, it was likely too subtle and too complex to be pinned down. She had at one time, though only briefly, considered the possibility that Roland was suffering a breakdown, which of course he would have no control over—an idea, which now seemed to warrant further consideration.

“Well, okay then”—she forced a smile to her lips—“I’ll heat up a pizza. I think you’ll like it. If you don’t, no problem, I can make you something else. Would you like a beer?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She disappeared into the next room. A light came on. Roland heard a squeaky hinge, and then footsteps on creaking stairs. The room in which he waited had an abundance of art on the walls, much like his home in Arizona, though from an entirely different set of artists. He’d noticed the pair of paintings on the wall behind Dana as they were talking, just minutes before. There were a few striking similarities between the two paintings.
Were they done by the same artist
? He got up from the sofa and stepped closer. Dana, carrying a small bundle wrapped in aluminum foil, walked past the archway at his right, glanced his way, then stepped into the kitchen.

She set the pizza roll on the countertop by the stove and turned the oven on. It was simply heating a frozen dish. Still, there was something inherently pleasing in the act—a routine domestic activity, preparing a meal for someone other than oneself—relaxing, and oddly enough, disarming. For the moment, her life felt as if it had returned to normal. Perhaps contrast played a part in that. She removed a mug from the freezer, filled it with beer, then took it into the living room, where she found Roland standing before the same painting, studying it as though it was new to him.

“It’ll be just a minute.” She handed him the mug.

“Thank you.”

Again she left the room. Roland turned to the opposite wall, where a glossy black, console piano stood. Above it hung another work of art. He stepped in close for a better look—a loosely stylized representation of a face, a strangely comical head with two dots for eyes, a wide nose, a mouth that resembled a football, and a comical little hat that stuck up from the top of the character’s head like a smoke stack. The piece was signed by one of his favorite artists—no longer unfamiliar, but all at once looking like what it was, a Miró.

“How was the drive?” Dana said, entering the room, and then taking a seat on the couch.

“Mm… okay.” He pointed to the Miró. “What’s H.C.? At the bottom of the drawing.”

Dana gave him a puzzled look. He knew the art in the house far better than she. He’d once informed her of the meaning of the letters H.C., but she’d long since forgotten. She had not, however, forgotten that the piece he was referring to was a lithograph, and not a drawing.

“Why don’t you tell
me
?” she said.

He turned back to the Miró. It then dawned on him, what was happening. He turned toward Dana and said, “Howard Coots?”

She smiled. The smile spread from her lips to her eyes, and then stretched into a grin.

“No, really, I don’t know. I can see it’s a…” He placed his hands on top of the piano and leaned in closer to the image. “Is it a lithograph?”

“Are you playing with me?” she said.

“It
is
a lithograph,” he said. “Well, it looks almost like a drawing.”

“If you’re playing with me, please… stop.”

“I’m not. Seriously, I wouldn’t do that.” He sighed. “I really didn’t know.”

Her eyes, full of questions, were fixed on him as though he was performing magic tricks and she might catch his slight-of-hand. He stepped back to the couch and sat not far from her.

The phone rang.

Dana’s head twisted toward the next room.

A second ring.

She jumped up and went to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Dana?”

“Oh, I completely forgot.”

“Is everything okay?” her sister said.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. We’re just getting ready to have dinner. I’m sorry if I worried anyone.”

“Well, I just called to make sure you were okay. Ed told me he ran into Roland at the Uni-Mart. He said he was acting weird. It spooked him, I think. He’s there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jesus, Dana, be careful. Is he acting weird?”

Her eyes shifted toward the living room. Roland, still seated on the sofa holding a half-f mug of beer, was staring at the wall opposite him. “No, Mary. Everything’s fine here. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay. Just checking. We’ll talk later then.”

She hung up the receiver.

“That was Mary. I promised Ed I’d call her, and then forgot.”

Roland simply nodded.

Dana returned to the front room, and stood in the middle. The fact that Roland had offered nothing about his encounter with Ed baffled her. She stared at Roland—her brow heavy with creases. “Do you even know who I’m talking about?”

He shook his head.

“You didn’t know who that was at the gas station?”

“Oh… him. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.” He closed an eye and peered at Dana with the other. “So that was Ed. And Mary’s your sister?”

“Yes, my sister.” She frowned.

“He was a bit scary,” Roland raised his eyebrows.

Dana squinted at him. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”

He looked at Dana, grateful that he at least wasn’t being accused of acting out some ridiculous hoax. “I’ve seen pictures. Brian has pictures of us.” His focus drifted inward. “I don’t have those memories though; I have other ones.”

“And just how did that happen?”

An image of his kitchen came to mind, him standing there over the food prep island, slicing a red bell pepper.
“I don’t know.”

An alarm went off in Dana’s kitchen… followed by silence. “Well”—she sighed—“dinner’s ready.”

“May I use your bathroom?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “My bathroom?” She let out a huff, then left the room.

Assuming she was showing him to the bathroom, he followed. It quickly became clear that she wasn’t.

She stepped into the kitchen, pulled open a cabinet drawer and dug out an oven mitt, then turned and caught a glimpse of Roland as he left the room in search of the bathroom. “The opposite corner, then right.” She gazed toward the mitt in her hand, wondering who it was she was talking to.

A few minutes later, he was back. Dana pointed to the place she’d set for him at the table. “More beer?”

“Oh, I left it in the other room.” He hurried back into the living room, grabbed his beer-mug, then returned to his seat at the table. “Okay,” he said, smiling, “Ready. You ready?”

“I sneaked a few bites while you were running around looking for your beer.” She faked a grin, then watched as he lifted a slice of the anchovy pizza roll to his mouth and took a bite.

He chewed, nodded, then took another bite. “I like this. I’ve never had anything like…” He stopped.

“Come on. You really don’t remember having this before?”

He shrugged then took another bite.

“It’s always been one of your favorites.”

He’d anticipated moments like this on his way there, but came to no conclusions as to how he would manage them. Resisting a sigh, he swallowed. “Mmm… I can see why. It’s good.” Her eyes were fixed on his. He gazed off into the corner, to Dana’s left, where the wood paneling met the plaster ceiling. It appeared the room was added on as an afterthought. He turned, taking in the art hanging on the walls. “You have some nice art.”

Dana glanced about the room, and then at Roland, pausing for a moment before speaking. “What exactly
do
you remember?”

Memories… It was one of the few things he’d gotten clear about while on the way there. He wasn’t going to talk about his past—not with Dana, not until she knew him better. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that what I remember is important. I have memories, no less than I ever did, but… I don’t know, there’s something… I don’t know if I can even describe it. It’s like my memories have a different color to them now.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not really answering your question. I remember a lot, but they’re just memories. Perhaps that’s
all
they’ve ever been.”