The Mourning After (12 page)

What would Mr. G. make of the latest “coincidence”?  How he ended up with the urge to pee at the exact moment his father was succumbing to a show of grief with a woman other than his mother? 

“You hungry?” his father asks, interrupting Levon’s meditation on a higher power, an infinite universe.  He has returned to his office, absent any sign of the emotion he has just poured out down the hall.  Maybe Levon was seeing things.  Perhaps, his ability to decipher truth and fiction had been compromised in the accident.  Or, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal that his father found someone to talk to.

Consider the possibilities
! Mr. G.’s voice was saying, one finger pointing to the sky.

Levon nods and grabs his notebook from off the desk, hugging it close to his chest.

“Is something wrong?” his father asks.

A period of mourning, like chronic disease, is not the most advantageous time to ask someone if something’s wrong. Did Craig Keller expect his son to respond with the truth?

“I’ll have Jane get us something to eat.  Anything in particular you want?”

Roast beef on rye with deli mustard and a pickle.  A Sabrett hot dog.  French dip.  Two burritos.

The secretary waltzes into the office twenty minutes later with two healthy turkey sandwiches and diet cokes.  By then, Levon is challenging himself to a diabolically difficult game of Sudoku on the Internet while his dad is reading through the last of the mail.  This is anything but comfortable silence, more like a deafening herd of stampeding feelings, halting abruptly at the cage door that holds father and son captive.

Like so many meals before, they eat in silence with a pitiful number of interruptions.  Levon takes careful note of each of his father’s bites into the oversized sandwich.  He does not want to finish before him.  He does not want his dad to see how ravenous he has become. 

They eventually discuss the future—bypassing what’s painful—the immediate weeks that include Thanksgiving and Chanukah.  Long-range plans are more tolerable—
Does Levon have any interest in architecture or real estate?  Has he given thought to college?
  His grades are decent, though they never came easily.  David rarely picked up a textbook; his intelligence was innate.  Levon, on the other hand, spends hours a day studying.  Levon is a visual learner; reading explanations and facts ingrained the information into memory, which was probably why he enjoyed Mr. G.’s class so much.  David was an auditory learner.  He listened to NPR every morning and could recite to the family, verbatim, the details of the war in Iraq—naming the principals, the number of casualties, and the differing policies of world leaders.  He was a great debater, prompting a number of family arguments fueled by diehard libertarian beliefs, which opposed his father’s conservative, Republican perspective.  Too young to be a card-carrying Democrat, David had looked forward to voting in the 2008 presidential election.  Levon had trouble following the hostile milieu of war and politics.  Despite his bewilderment on the subject, he was ready for change.

“Out of state is a good option,” his father says when Levon tells him he’s always wanted to go to the University of Miami like his parents.  “Not because I want you far away, Levon.  It’s a great opportunity for you to see beyond the four walls of Florida, to expose yourself to a different part of the country.”

Levon is bowled over that he’s even considering sending him to college.  He was convinced they would send him to a local university and keep him under lock and key on La Gorce Drive until he was thirty.  The discussion is somewhat premature since he is only fifteen, though maybe talking about a future for his living son lessens the other loss.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Levon says, which translates negatively to his successful, goal-oriented father.

“You have to start thinking about these things.  A career isn’t going to happen for you; you have to make it happen.  There must be something you’re interested in.”

He loves to write.  He thinks that is obvious.

“Craig?” a voice interrupts, and the two Keller men look up to a nice-looking sinewy figure with a cascade of auburn curls.  She is unsure of herself—hands fiddling with a folder in her nervous fingers—and the indecision leaves her stranded in the doorway, uncertain if she should enter.

“Levon, this is Olivia; Olivia, my son, Levon.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, remaining in the doorway.

“Olivia is one of our talented, new architects,” he explains at the same time she blurts out, “I’m so sorry about your brother, Levon.”

Levon thanks her because he doesn’t know what else to say. 
Me too?
  It’s not like a person sneezing, and you know to say
bless you
.  There’s no script for condolences.

“You left this in my office,” she says to Levon’s dad, offering him the green folder that, up until this point, was holding her upright.  “I thought you might need it…I’m sorry if this is a bad time.”

“Thank you,” his father says.  “We’re finishing up here.  Why don’t you give the file to Jane.  She’ll know what to do with it.”

Is it irritation that Levon hears in his father’s voice?

Or is he afraid that his son might suspect that the two of them were wrapped around each other in a corner office down the hall, which gave credence to Mr. G.’s theory of nothing happens by chance?

Levon thinks that maybe the interruption will lead them off the subject of college and his future—it does not.  His father bombards him with questions and ideas.  Levon senses he is being
helpful
more to distract himself than out of interest in his son’s future. Levon, though, is not one to toss back attention being thrown his way.  When the subject of writing comes up, Levon’s dad asks to read some of his work.

“You’ve seen the articles I’ve written for the newspaper,” Levon half asks, half tells.

There is no mistaking he has not. “I’d like to read them sometime,” he says.

The excitement tricks Levon into thinking his writing means something to his dad.  There’s so much he wants to share with him.  He sees this as a window to fly through.  Maybe he can talk to his father about the magnificent mystery of girls.  He would tell him how he’s never actually kissed one, and he would ask him what it’s like, what he’s supposed to do to ensure that it’s memorable.  Maybe they will go fishing together or to Heat games, like other kids his age with their dads.  Maybe this tiny opening will expand into something fuller; they will grow close and have a special bond.  Levon assumes his father can read the thunderous claps in the air around them.  But his dad is licking his lips and crumbling the paper that had covered their sandwiches. He deflates when he sees that his dad is giving the wadded up wrappers the same amount of attention he’s giving him.

Lucy Bell is walking George when they arrive at the house.  Since she does this every day at the same time, Levon is not going to record it in his series of strange and unusual events.  Though she is holding on to the gawky beast’s green leash, the dog is clearly in charge, tugging Lucy across the lawn.

“Hey, Levon,” she calls out, pulling George’s collar and shouting
heel
toward the dog’s deaf ears.  “This dog obedience thing isn’t working out for us,” she says.

“Having trouble keeping up with your own life’s instructions?” Levon asks with a smile.

“They did say it would teach you and your dog a lot.  The only thing I’m learning, though, is impatience.  Hey, is this your dad?” she asks, already extending her skinny arm to Levon’s father who is making his way to the other side of the car.

“I’m Lucy Bell,” she says with a smile, “the new neighbor.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucy Bell.  How are you enjoying the house?”

“It’s awesome,” she says, stroking George along his back.  It is his reward for sitting still by her feet.  “Right, Georgie?”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says with genuine pleasure.  “It’s one of my favorites.  Which room is yours, the one with the spiral staircase and the loft?”

“How did you know?” she asks.

“We created the room with a teenager in mind.”

Lucy turns to Levon. 

“He’s a developer,” he tells her.  “He built your house.”

The afternoon sun is peeking over her shoulder.  Lucy frees one of her hands from the leash to shade her eyes from the sun.  “We plan on staying for a while,” she says.  “The house is perfect, better than perfect.  I love every inch of it.”

Levon’s dad thanks her with a warmth and generosity Levon hasn’t seen in weeks.  “It really is a special one,” he adds, and instead of turning to leave them alone and head up the circular driveway, he initiates amiable conversation with Lucy about Miami Beach history and architecture and the bricks and mortar that inspired the Italian-style home with French finishes.  Levon detects the change in his father, however slight, and it renders him speechless.  His work is his passion.  The ease with which he explains the evolutionary changes in real estate clearly fascinate Lucy, and have apparently bored poor old George who has given up on chasing the birds flying overhead and plunked his lithe body onto the cool grass for an afternoon snooze.

Levon observes his dad and Lucy Bell with mindful indecision.  Lucy is a mystery of multiple proportions.  His dad towers over Lucy, and it’s the first time Levon realizes she’s not wearing shoes.  She would later tell him about the tickle between her toes when she runs through the grass, how it is a guilty pleasure.  Levon has many guilty pleasures, none of which involve naked toes.

She is saying something to his dad, and Levon hopes it isn’t one of her silly games or quotes of the days.  His parents are fragile; Lucy’s uncensored breeziness may not be welcome.  It was one thing for them to discuss his father’s work, something that lives on and endures in time and hopefully through a few Florida hurricanes, but if she brings up David, which Levon fears, who knows how his father might react.

“I’d like to see what you’ve done with the place,” he says to Lucy, appreciatively.

“My parents would like that.”

“It’s nice to meet you Lucy Bell.”

“You too, Mr. Keller.”

After Levon’s father’s departs, George is rolling onto his back, flexing his legs, with an invitation for one of the two-legged, less hairy creatures to tickle his tummy.  He is whimpering, demanding Levon’s attention.  Simultaneously, the front door opens and like a jack-in-the-box, out shoots Chloe, shouting, “Puppy dog!”  George, startled by the commotion, stands up on all fours and runs toward the miniature doll that closely resembles one of his tug toys.  Levon, grabbing the leash of the unwieldy beast with both hands, is throttled forward at full speed across the drive and lands face down at his sister’s feet.  George is licking her from head to toe, and she erupts in giggles, falling to the grass.  George has found a new playmate. 

“Levon!” Lucy shouts.

Chloe is stretched out flat on her back and the pooch is mounted atop of her, licking cheeks and remnants of lunch. His paws are tickling her tummy and she is laughing, irrefutably happy. The earlier signs of any frailty have all but vanished.  Levon, still holding on to the mechanical bull named George, pulls himself together, wipes the dirt and grass from his jeans and stands upright.

“Come on, George,” Lucy says, taking the leash from Levon, giving it a tug.  “Gentle,” she orders, but George is having too much fun with his new pal. To George, Chloe is another one of his toys, although with cooler sound effects.

“What is that?” Lucy stops, giving George one aggressive tug.  Chloe is having the time of her life, wiggling and jiggling, while George nips and paws and licks. 

“What?” asks Levon, moving forward to take a closer look.

“
That
!” she exclaims, pointing to a blotch of red that is staining the front of Chloe’s
Life is Good
T-shirt and leaking down the skin along her side. 

“George, off!” Lucy screams. “Off.” 

Somehow, whatever is wrong, is going to be his fault. 

With George by Lucy’s side, Chloe is able to survey the damage, and at the sight of the crimson river pooling in her belly, she begins to panic.

“Levon, what is it?”

George, with his animal instinct, begins to pace back and forth, and it is then that Levon sees the object that’s lodged between the dog’s gnarly jaws.  When Chloe begins to sob, he drops it to the floor and unleashes a high-pitched howl.  How is the innocent pup supposed to know that the plastic device hanging from his mouth is not a snack?

“Levon!” Chloe is hollering his name while swatting at the protruding mass of skin and tissue surrounding her upper right abdomen. Her eyes are tricked into thinking she can swat away the gushing blood like a bug.

“What can I do?” begs Lucy, gripping George, unaware that what he had in his teeth came from Chloe’s stomach.  “What the heck is that?”

The scene brings the accident to the forefront of Levon’s mind.  Decisions have to be made in order of importance—life, death, protecting the gift—and this is not the time for Levon to remind himself that his hasty, altruistic response has failed him in the past.  Levon reaches for the feeding tube and lifts his sister off the ground.  Chloe’s animal-like screams have prompted his father to bound out the front door and run toward them.  “What’s wrong?” he shouts.  Reactive and unable to wait for a reply, Craig sees the blood and steals Chloe from her brother’s arms, throwing her into his parked car.  Levon realizes when they are halfway down the driveway that he is still holding the tube.

“Dad, wait!” he yells, running after the car, but they are gone, a streak of black and silver careening down the street to Mt. Sinai Hospital.

“Levon, I’m so sorry…so sorry…”  George is whimpering and resting apologetically at Lucy’s feet.  Chloe’s blood has painted the fur of his paws.

It had all come to pass with excruciating speed.  “What was that thing in her stomach?” Lucy repeated while Levon flipped back through the pages of his mind.  Something so innocent, so unforeseeable, was bound to lead to questions and varying degrees of blame.