Day Sixty: A (Mostly) Unedited Draft Without and Ending

by Tom Noonan

We were watching Larry fire off that pellet gun in his backyard when Pat told me about a story he’d been working on.  It was about this guy, around 30 years old, white, and tall, with small features, who lived with all different families most of his life.  Not like a foster child or some romantic shit like that.  This guy would pay the families, just show up at their doorstep with a checkbook, and they would take him in for the night.  That’s all it ever was, too, just a night.  Pat said it wasn’t about the food or the shower or the bed.  The guy just wanted to move through lives.  He thought it was like moving through time or something close to that, changing everything so drastically, what religion he was, what food he ate, where he worked, who he voted for.  He never wanted to be any one thing.  Pat said this guy wanted to be everything.

“Would he pretend to be their brother or uncle or what?” I asked.

“It would change every time, but he wouldn’t pretend or act.  When he was there, he was who he said he was.  He just told them to be friendly and treat him like family.  And he’d pay them for it, whatever they needed or whatever they asked for.”

“How’d he get the money?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.  Maybe his family died, and he keeps getting life insurance checks or something.  But I don’t want it to be sitcom-y.  I don’t want it to be fucking Oliver either.”

“What happens to him?”

“One night, when he’s staying with an Irish family somewhere outside Philadelphia, the guy falls in love with their fifteen year old daughter, and he fucks her.”

“The fifteen year old?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s fucked up right?  But they love each other.  It’s real love, like this explosive, hideous love that they both can’t shake.  This kind of love that burrows underneath their fingernails, shoots into their veins, and fills out their bodies, making it always feel like everything might burst.  So he can’t leave, and they become dependent on it like a drug, like a real potent, destructive drug.  And their teeth start falling out and their skin peels and they age quicker than everyone else.  The family just lets it happen because of the money, he keeps paying them, and the girl drops out of high school.  By the end they’re both just these two violently dependent addicts, just these two skeletons fucking and crying and praying that they die before the other one.  They have kids and move out into an apartment in the city.”

“Who dies first?”

“Neither.  One day it just stops.  They just don’t feel it anymore, that awful love.  So he leaves, and somehow they both recover completely.  She gives up the kids and goes back to school.  He moves out to L.A. and works in production.  She calls herself Karen, and he goes by Steve.  They make up new stories.  They won’t see each other again but will also never feel anything like that rupturing love.  They sit light, always, and both die on the same day, December 11th, two years apart.”

I noticed that Larry had hit something.  A rabbit limped from his backyard, small stripes of blood streaking down its leg, parting white fur as they moved.  Larry hadn’t reacted.  He always seemed like he was waiting for the animals to scream back at him, to let him know what he’d done.  The pellet gun sat still in his lap, aimed towards the area of fence-less perimeter that had been pulled apart a couple of months ago during Irene.  When his brother had come over after the storm with a truck full of supplies, offering to put another stretch of fence up to keep the garden enclosed from the fields of wild grass that stretched for miles behind it, Larry kept his eyes on the busted fence and said, “Ah, I don’t mind.”

A few weeks later, Larry’s brother came by again.  He heard his brother had just been sitting out there, shooting at these animals, and the cops were finding all kinds of corpses along the roads out of town, rabbits, raccoons, groundhogs, their infected pellet wounds smelling horribly.  Larry’s brother said he’d smelled them, too, the dead animals, and it still lingered in his car.  It was a staining smell, he said, something that you just couldn’t get to go away.  So he just started fixing the fence anyway, assuming it would put a stop to everything, the dead animals, Larry’s stare, all the questions, but when he started digging out the holes, Larry shot, hitting the dirt next to him.

“Fucking prick,” his brother yelled across the garden.  “Put the god damn gun down.”

Larry didn’t move, just stared at his brother, eyes sunken, hiding from the peripheries he couldn’t imagine.  Ever since the accident, everything Larry saw, everything that sunk in, was straight ahead, on a line segment, slowly moving, none of it connected, each piece of the world standing on its own.  When he stared at something, he’d focus until he destroyed it, till he stripped away what it could have been and knew what was it was in totality.

His brother tried to go back to digging, and Larry shot at him again, grazing his leg.  Twitching quickly, and charging through a bed of azaleas, leaves tearing under his boots, Larry’s brother howled at his brother, “You’re lucky you ain’t right, cocksucker, or I’d break your neck right now.  Shooting that gun at me?  Shooting me in the fucking leg?”

“I don’t want a fence.”

“You’re getting a fucking fence.  You can sit there the rest of your life, it won’t bother me none, but I’m not hearing about you killing those animals anymore.”

“I’ll take it down.  If you put one up, I’ll take it down.”

“With what?  You can’t shoot down a fence with a pellet gun.”

“I’ll take it down,” Larry was shaking now, his head trying to roll from his neck, to escape the situation.  “I’ll take it d…”

His brother took a swing, landing it on the corner of Larry’s right eye.  The chair tipped, and he hit the ground, letting out a whimper that sounded like something a dog might yell at night.  His brother looked around, making sure no one was watching and seeing no one, missing me standing at my kitchen window, he gave Larry a few kicks to the chest.  Now Larry was silent, his arm slumped over his eyes, blocking out his brother’s shadow.

“The town wants to put you away, I’m not fighting ‘em.  You ain’t in there no more.  There ain’t no person in that body.”

After his brother left, I brought a towel over and helped Larry clean up.  There was already a small swell of fluid forming under his eye, and a few inadvertent tears rolled along the wrinkles lining his face.

Larry fell out of that pick-up truck on a Friday about ten years.  He’d been drinking and playing poker with some other townies who usually just soak up dust in a bar on Chestnut.  Some kids were messing with powders on the pool table next to them, and Larry threw a punch, breaking off the top of one kid’s tooth.  They said he was standing in a townie’s truck bed driving away from the bar and singing a Bob Dylan song when he was thrown into a guard rail, his head suffering initial impact. The paramedics found a piece of his skull on the pavement.  It took him three weeks to come out of the coma.

A few months later, Larry’s wife found him with a shotgun in his mouth.  It was around then that she left, citing that incident, but Larry held that she felt like she was living with a ghost.  “She wouldn’t even talk to me before she left,” he said one night when Pat and I had him over for dinner.  “I’d just move around the house, talking to her, telling her I was sorry, hoping she might be listening.”

Larry came over for dinner almost every night back then, before he got worse.  When Pat and I had Rebecca, she grew up calling him, “Uncle Larry”, like the title might heal him.  He never held her, but he did love to look at Rebecca back when she couldn’t really move.  When she started crawling, he’d follow her around the living room, both of them silent.

Then, earlier this year, around the day Rebecca ended her first year of school, Larry heard that his wife had died down in Florida.  She’d drowned in a resort pool one night after taking a handful of Oleptro and trying to swim off her feelings, a therapy method she’d picked up after jumping around from counselor to counselor and failing to find any use in her sessions.  I was with Larry unloading groceries when he got the call explaining all that had happened.  I could feel him trying to focus on it, to destroy it, but he couldn’t.  That was the last night he ate dinner with us.  The next morning he was in the garden.

The garden was something his wife had kept, a small plot behind their house, covered with different breeds of flowers laid out in rows.  She wore a white hat when she worked back there, almost everyday, that had a small brownish ring around the top, residue from dedicated labor.  When she left, Larry let it go untended, but most of the flowers still bloomed, and Larry would pull out a chair every spring to sit and stare into the buds.  On those nights, when he would come over for dinner, his face was freckled with pollen.

After his wife died, he spent everyday in the garden, watching the plants sway in the wind.  He lost weight rapidly, his once friendly beer gut receding, leaving all his shirts with plenty of stretched, unused fabric that hung down below his crotch.  By the time Irene hit, Larry was more shirt than man.  I could barely make him out under it all.

During the storm Pat kept talking about religion in the future, when the ocean starts to eat our cities.  “People won’t have these shells anymore, the ones we do, these conglomerations of muscle and fat that keep heat in.  They won’t look like us.  They’ll soak through.  They’ll be all water, all ocean.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they will have no reason to believe that God is not in the ocean.  It’s the one thing on earth that we can’t control, this force that is always moving, waves crashing into land.  To a certain distance, the tide will pull you back in, but past that, past where we can see, it pulls you away and down until you sink, without resistance, into absolute darkness.  That’s what most of the ocean is, a place where we would exist only as a consciousness, where shape and color doesn’t matter.

“So God is a collection of consciousness?”

“No, God is the ability to isolate our consciousness from our body.”

“Then why not worship the blackest corner of space?  Couldn’t God be there, in that darkness?  Shouldn’t we worship that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can touch the ocean.”

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