3 October 1978
Inherent
Nat stood outside — behind no walls of any kind — in the cool afternoon, next to the old man’s station wagon. He waited for the old guy to open the passenger-side door. The guy had gotten a new station wagon, but it was just like the old one. Same make and model of Chevrolet, just a few years more recent. It was even the same dull color of root-beer brown. Nat briefly wondered what it would feel like to enjoy that level of sameness.
Especially today, when everything was changing.
Nat resisted the temptation to squint his eyes against the sun, because, he told himself, the urge was silly and unreal. After all, that same sun had shone into the exercise yard for three years. Yet it seemed different somehow, outside the horrible walls.
Probably only his imagination.
The old man reached over from inside the car and lifted the lock button. Nat opened the door and climbed in. Stared through the windshield of a car for the first time in three years.
It took him a minute to wonder why the old guy wasn’t shifting into gear and driving.
Nat glanced over at him.
“As soon as you get your seat belt secured, we’ll go home,” the old man said.
Nat had to admit, if only to himself, that the word “home” had a nice ring to it. Even if he’d only ever lived there for a couple of days. Even if some lady he’d only met once lived there, too.
He put on his seat belt. The man shifted the car into gear and they were off, travelling at a speed Nat had only vaguely remembered in his dreams. In prison you go only as fast as your feet can carry you.
At first, silence.
Then the old guy said, “How does it feel to be a free man?”
“Hmm,” Nat said. “I thought it would feel great. And it sort of does. But it also … it feels like a lot of things at once.”
In the brief silence that followed, it struck Nat that he had just been called a man. He had only been eighteen for a few days, and no one had taken the time to congratulate him on his new status. It added another whole layer to the complicated web of what he was feeling.
“Most big life events are like that. You think they’ll be emotionally one-sided, but when you actually get into them, it’s always more complex.”
“I didn’t know that,” Nat said. He really meant he hadn’t known other people experienced life in a way he would recognize. That his responses were shared by other human beings. But he couldn’t find the words for all that, so he didn’t elaborate. “I thought maybe you’d bring Feathers,” Nat said instead, glancing into the back seat as though he might just have missed seeing him.
“I thought of it. But then Maggie would have insisted on coming, and I thought it might be too chaotic.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll see him as soon as we get home.”
“OK.”
Silence. For a mile or more.
They were out on the Interstate now, and Nat watched the farmland flash by, and had a sudden vivid memory of seeing the world through a gap in the door of a freight wagon. It wasn’t only the world that seemed to match that memory, but the feeling associated with it. Freedom.
When the feeling had faded some and he’d grown tired of watching, Nat said, “I also thought maybe you’d bring … I’m sorry. What’s her name again? Your wife.”
“Eleanor.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“She’s home making dinner. She thought you might want a really good home-cooked meal on your first night home. I told her what you said about the food you’ve been eating. She’s making a baked ham with all the trimmings.”
“Really? That was nice of her. Especially after I was such a …” He chose not to finish the thought. “So … Um … What do I call her?”
“Eleanor will do.”
“OK.” Another long pause. “Well, then … what do I call you?”
“How about Nathan? After all, it’s my name.”
Another long silence. Two or three miles’ worth.
Nat said, “It’s kind of weird. Isn’t it? That I’ve seen you three times a week for the past three years, and I’m going home to live with you, and I just now got around to asking what I’m supposed to call you? It just seems weird.”
The old man mulled that over for a moment, then said, “There are some differences … some … complications … inherent in our odd situation.”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
“Inherent?”
“Yeah.”
“It means built in.”
“Oh. Sorry to sound stupid.”
“You didn’t. Not at all. It’s a sign of intelligence to ask the meaning of a word if you don’t know it.”
“Oh,” Nat said. “I didn’t know that.” Then he immediately felt stupid again. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. But I …” He stumbled, floundered. Restarted. “Not that I’m complaining if the answer is yes, but … am I going to have to, like, sleep on the couch or something?”
“No, you’ll get your same room back.”
“Oh. Good.”
Nat breathed a sigh. Sat back and watched the world some more. It hadn’t changed. Long stands of trees. Plowed fields. Black and white cows grazing.
Then he said, “So you two sleep in the same room.”
The old man didn’t answer, but shot Nat a sideways glance that showed he was displeased. It said, as clearly as if in words, “Go no further.”
“You know what? I really, really, really didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I absolutely was not trying to pry into your personal stuff. Really. I didn’t mean it that way at all. It’s none of my business. All I meant was … well, I know I was a real jerk about it when you first told me. But all I’m trying to say is, it sounds like you’re happy. That very first day when I came to your house, and you told me about you and your other wife, and how she had her own room, it sounded sad. But this sounds happier. And I was just trying to say … if that’s true … and you’re happy … then I’m glad. That you’re happy.”
“My goodness,” the old man said. “I think that’s more words than you’ve said to me in the past three years all put together.”
Well, Nat thought, today there’s more to say. What was there to talk about day after day in that hole? Besides, he was excited and a little scared. And his excitement was spilling out in words. But he couldn’t quite put a voice to that.
So he just said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chatter.”
“It wasn’t a complaint,” the old man said. “Thank you for your thoughtful congratulations on my marriage. I am happy. And I appreciate that you can be happy for me.”
That seemed like a good opening, but it wasn’t. It struck Nat that this unusually successful exchange could be a jumping-off point for almost anything. But the jump felt too hugely intimidating. In fact, that’s just what it felt like. A jump. Like standing at the edge of a several-thousand-foot cliff, preparing to take a step.
It alarmed Nat so completely that he clammed up and said nothing more for the rest of the drive.
? ? ?
The old guy opened the dog run and let both dogs out into the yard.
Nat waited for Feathers to run greet him. But he never did. He just circled around and around the old man, jumping straight up into the air, but never hitting him with his paws.
“Hey, Feathers!” Nat called out. “Feathers, old boy. You’re my dog. I’m your person. Come say hi.”
The old man led both dogs over. Maggie licked Nat’s hand enthusiastically, but Feathers just sniffed it once and then stood close to the old man, partly hidden behind his legs.
“He doesn’t like me,” Nat said.
“You have to give him time. I know he’s your dog, and you know it, but he doesn’t know that yet. How can he know? I’ve been the one taking care of him for three years.”
“So he really isn’t my dog.”
“Of course he is.”
“Not according to him.”
“Give him time, Nat. Play with him. Take him for walks. And you should be the one to feed him from this point on. He’ll get the idea.”
“Can I bring him inside?”
“Only until dinner is served. And keep a low profile. Eleanor has mixed feelings about dogs in the house. I bring them in at least once every day. But just make sure everybody’s on his best behavior.”
Nat wasn’t sure if he was part of everybody. And he didn’t ask.
? ? ?
It was almost a nice scene, Nat thought. Like you see in a movie or a TV show about a family. The wife in the kitchen, cooking. All those good smells wafting out into the living room. The husband sitting on the couch reading the paper. And the son — who admittedly in the movies had not just been sprung from Juvie after serving a term for armed robbery — playing with the dog, running back and forth from living room to dining room. The dog chasing him and trying to get the toy he held: a short length of rope with a knot on each end that Nat had picked up from the dog run.
He noted on each trip that the table seemed more and more nicely set. First dishes were added on while he was in the living room. Then candles in silver holders.
Then a white porcelain bud vase edged in gold, with a single red flower.
“Please be careful,” Eleanor came into the dining room to say, as Nat chased Feathers in a wide arc around the table.
By the time Nat got back to the living room, the old guy was standing with his arms crossed. Blocking their way.
“Maybe it’s time for Feathers to go outside now.”
“Why? We were just playing.”
“I just don’t want any problems.”
“It’s just a piece of rope,” Nat said. “It really wouldn’t break anything.”
As he said this, Feathers, who couldn’t understand not being chased, dropped the rope on to Nat’s foot. Nat picked it up, and, as if to prove his point, lofted it into the dining room.
Eleanor stuck her head in from the kitchen. Nat and the old man watched from the living room. Feathers took off after it, skidded on the hardwood floor. Banged into one leg of the table with a solid thunk.
The white porcelain vase teetered once, twice. Time seemed to freeze for one extra moment. Then it fell on to its side and broke into three pieces. The water it had contained seeped into the bone-colored lace tablecloth.
Nat stood frozen, watching Eleanor’s face. It seemed to grow whiter with every passing second. At first he thought it was his imagination. But it wasn’t. All the blood was draining from her face. Every drop, from the look of it.
Feathers brought the rope back and set it again on Nat’s foot.
“Take the dog outside,” the old man said. “Now.”
Then he went to comfort his wife, who looked for all the world like she was crying. Which might have been Nat’s imagination. After all, nobody cries over a little bud vase.
Do they?
? ? ?