The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 05

"Where did you go?"

"Ha Long Bay in Little Saigon. He had asked me beforehand if I liked anything besides western food. I told him of course I did, but it turned out I had no idea what I was talking about."

"They didn't have Vietnamese food in Idaho?"

Lydia laughed. "No, not at the time. Even now, it's hard to come by. That's one of the reasons Eddie can't stand visiting. But we have to. My father will live there until he dies."

Gabe's mother hated traveling, and his father preferred to travel alone. He could not imagine the place Lydia was describing. None of the books he had read were set there, nor any movies he had seen. "Does it ever snow there?"

"In some parts of the state, yes, it snows a lot."

If for nothing else, Gabe thought he would like to visit to see the snow. Actual, real-life snow. He had read about it so many times that he could almost swear he had felt it before, had brushed his fingertips through it on some frigid morning...but it wasn't possible. What among nature's gifts had stoked more imaginations than snow? It had become the ultimate metaphor, the ideal symbol when no other would do. That was right—even for the drug. The consistency and luster of that powder around which his father had built a life was, in actuality, much closer to that of finely-ground salt, or even powdered sugar...but it had been named after neither. Instead: Snow dox.

"I was twenty-four then," Lydia continued. "I'd just graduated law school in the northern part of the state. It was a rough time for me. He was already making quite a bit of money then, working for your father. I remember walking into this loft he rented in Old Town. Such a gorgeous little place. It's embarrassing, but I immediately started to imagine myself living there instead of my mother's spare bedroom. Of course, those things take time."

"I'm glad you were able to find each other," said Gabe. He looked for Eddie and the kids, spotting them about twenty feet south of their former post. Eddie removed his t-shirt and wadded it into one hand. He reached down into the silt, dug out a clamshell and broke it in two, handing one half to each of the boys. When one dropped his, Eddie went running down the receding surf to retrieve it. Gabe had never seen Eddie without a shirt before. As he bent down a second time, Gabe followed, with a slight rush, the complicated movement of the muscles in his back. That was when he first noticed it: the thick, fleshy tract of a scar, starting at the base of his right shoulder blade, running diagonally across his spine, all the way down, ending just short of the waistband of his red swim suit. It glowed white in the sun like marbling on a slab of butchered meat.

Gabe and Lydia had both been watching in silence. Gabe turned to her, fully intending to bring it up, but something stopped him.

Lydia looked right at him. "You've never seen it before?"

"No."

"He says he was exploring an abandoned house went he was a kid and fell through the floor."

"Oh."

Gabby, finally tiring of the sun, crawled in under the umbrella and wormed her way beneath Lydia's steepled legs.

"...Still, I can't imagine what kind of fall could cause that. I guess something dug in as he went through."

"Daddy is from Vietnam," interjected Gabby, lifting her head off the towel.

"That's right," said Lydia. "And you know who else was from Vietnam?"

Gabby looked back and forth between Gabe and her mother. She sighed, laying her head back down. "I don't know."

"Gabe's mom," Lydia said, running her fingers through her daughter's hair. "Gabe's mom was from Vietnam, too."

Feeling brave, Gabe said, "You don't think that's how it happened, do you? The scar, I mean."

Lydia eyed her daughter carefully. "I think that for some people, certain things must be remembered in a particular way, in order to move forward."

Eddie returned holding his sons, dripping wet, in each arm. His shirt was back on. Lydia rose to take one of them—Gabe still couldn't tell them apart—and they all settled in close beneath the umbrella. Too close. Gabe quickly began to feel that everything was too close. He tried focusing on the ocean, which seemed to move beneath all of them now as an irrefutable current, a driving force, whether for good or evil, Gabe didn't know, nor did he care. He wished it could sweep him away. Only him—leave the rest of them alone.

Without saying anything, he stood up and began trudging toward the water, weaving in between the calamity of beachgoers. Upon reaching the shore he turned right. There was a spot up the beach where the crowd thinned. It would be quieter there. Stepping over the wet, hard sand, he wondered about his dead mother. Could it be that everything she had believed was true? Maybe she really had found her place at his father's side once again, and they stood together now, watching him from somewhere he could never know. In that moment, these were the things he wanted so badly to be true. But he was not foolish enough to be certain of anything.

"Everything alright?" Eddie's voice cracked through the surf behind him.

Gabe felt the heavy footsteps of his boss thud through the earth, waiting for him to catch up before saying, "It got too crowded."

"I'm sorry," said Eddie. "We should've given you space."

"You have already given me so much."

"Not enough."

Gabe made up his mind that he would not argue the point further, no matter how wrong the man was. The truth was that Eddie had given him everything.

"Let's go for a walk," said Eddie. "Or would you rather be alone?"

Gabe shrugged.

They walked down the beach together in silence. Once no one was around, Eddie turned to him. "Have you talked to Miguel yet?"

"The night before last," said Gabe.

"How did he take the news?"

"He was really surprised. I think it took him a while to get over it. He kept saying I reminded him of my father. I just don't see how that could be true."

Eddie shrugged. "Do you feel like you're getting to know him better?"

"I guess so."

"What do you think of him?"

Gabe looked up at Eddie. It seemed like an impossibly big question. "I guess he can be a little self-involved."

"You think so?"

"I don't know. Not any more than most people."

Eddie cleared his throat. "It's really important to me that you and him get along. You'll be working more closely with him in the coming months, and I don't want any bad blood."

His mind flooded with their recent interactions...that haughty temperament which had at first infuriated Gabe, but that later on made him hard...Miguel promising he would be there for Gabe...and finally, the fearless, unblinking confessions Miguel had made regarding his faults, his past mistakes. Maybe the young man his father once described as golden really was that good. At the very least, Gabe could feel confident in his reply to Eddie: "You don't have to worry about that."

Eddie chuckled to himself. "He is talkative, though, isn't he?"

"He reminds me of my father a little. It seems like he has something to say about everything."

"Your dad was like that." Eddie paused. "Miguel looked up to him so much."

"I know he did. And I tried to tell that I'm nothing like the man he remembers. I think he really wanted to believe I was."

Eddie nodded. "The son of every man also has a mother."

It took Gabe a moment to realize what the words meant. "Sometimes I think I am much more like her."

Eddie picked up a half-buried sand dollar, saw that a piece was missing and discarded it. "If you ask me, you're like both of them in equal measure."

Gabe sighed. Maybe it was true. Either way, he didn't want to talk about himself anymore. And yet, so many conversations he'd been having lately seemed to veer in that direction. He had called Miguel self-involved, but perhaps he was no different. The thing was, right now, he would much rather talk about Eddie. Gabe had so much to ask the man. If the moment had been different, if he had not still slogged through the fallout of his mother's death, maybe he would have found the strength and the courage to utter the words, which sounded to him now like the middle line in a strange haiku: I know how you got the scar.

—

Of course it would show up on a Saturday night, when he was trapped at home. It was out there now, he knew, perched on the rail like some horrific, wingless bird. Gabe had arrived home from the beach hours ago, slightly sunburnt but admittedly better off for having gone. He had walked in feeling mostly at ease, calmed by the sun and the water. That was why it surprised him so much when the foul, stacked vertebrae appeared around nine in the evening, fading in below the back of its skull, glowing like a tiny moon over the balcony floor. Gabe had propped a pillow against the wall and lay reading, but when it appeared, he rose instantly to his feet.

"Turn around," he dared it.

It presented itself in such a earthly way this time that he could not see its face. Not unless it turned to face him.

The thing barely flinched when Gabe spoke. Then its own voice came, prying directly into Gabe's brain. "That night, out in the desert—he raped you."

Gabe dropped his book to the floor. "Turn the fuck around." He wanted to see it, as it could clearly see him.

"You were raped."

"I wanted it, too. Don't you see that?" Gabe realized he was yelling. "I wanted him."

"Do you think he believed that?"

It sat there just as a human would. It occupied the same physical space as Gabe did. He wondered what might happen if he stormed out, if he confronted it. What if he pressed against that bare white shoulder blade, tried to shove it off the edge? "Leave me alone," he demanded.

"You think he actually knew what you wanted?"

"Yes. Now go," Gabe pleaded, eyes welling. "Get out." He fell back to the carpet, squeezing his eyes shut. When he reopened them and looked through the balcony door, the bare metal of the balcony railing gleamed in the moonlight. He was alone again. A few minutes went by, during which he came to realize just how badly he needed company. Being alone was no longer an option. He went over to the phone and called Eddie. Gabe wouldn't take the man from his family—not after everything he had already done—but Eddie would know how to contact Miguel.

His boss picked up with a gritty hello. Gabe was slowly learning to mine that voice for its obscure tenderness. "I was wondering," he asked, "do you have Miguel's phone number? I never got it from him."

Eddie told him, and he scrawled it across a yellow notepad stuck to the receiver. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Gabe. Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine."

Eddie said goodbye and hung up.

Gabe hesitated for a moment before calling Miguel. Was there still a surcharge on the northern area codes? Probably not. But maybe it was it too late to call. He sighed. What was he doing making excuses? He held his breath, dialed slowly. The rings added up, and Gabe soon decided Miguel must not have an answering machine. But right as he was about to hang up, the message clicked on. Miguel's cheery, tongue-in-cheek greeting made him smile. He hated that the young man's voice soothed him so much. He became so swept up in it that he was caught off guard when the beep sounded. It was too late to hang up. Say something. Say something now. "Hi, I was just wondering—this is Gabe, by the way—just wondering if you were home tonight...and if so maybe I could come over. Or maybe you want to come over here. Anyway, don't worry about it, if you get this late." No, that wasn't assertive enough. He did not want to be alone. "I'm...uh...I'm just having a bad night," he added. He listed his phone number, then said, "Okay, goodbye."

He hung up. His heart pounded furiously in his chest. He supposed it wasn't the worst message he had ever left on someone's machine. He sank to the floor below the phone, then crawled slowly back over to his book.

No more than ten seconds passed before the phone rang, startling him so much that he bumped his head against the wall. He drifted slowly toward it, as if to convince himself that the call was not something he urgently needed. As he pressed the phone against his ear, Gabe couldn't help but feel as if he were passing through a one-way door. He could no longer feign indifference toward Miguel's presence—not when he had been the one to summon it. Not as he had just made it clear that he sought comfort, that he trusted in Miguel to provide it.

"Hello?" Miguel's voice probed the fuzzy silence of the telephone line. It was softer now than it had been on the machine, and more serious.

Gabe was so flustered he had said nothing after picking up the phone. "Hi. Sorry."

The line fell silent again. "Hey, so why don't I come over there—if you're having a bad night, at least you'll still be in a familiar place."

"Alright," said Gabe. "That sounds good."

"How do I get there?"

"Just transfer to Emerald at Central," said Gabe.

"I don't remember your station."

"Market South," Gabe told him. "Look for the stairs leading up to San Carlos. I'll meet you at the top."

"Okay," Miguel replied softly before adding, "Glad you called."

"Yeah."

"See you in an hour or so."

"See you."

Miguel hung up.

Gabe scanned the dim room. Once again, he would be welcoming Miguel into this sad, empty house. There was nothing for them to do here. He wished he had suggested going to Miguel's place instead. He didn't care that it was less familiar. In fact, this place was probably worse in that regard; too many memories still hung in the air, drifting at will among the particles of dust. He even thought about calling Miguel once more to change plans, but decided against it. Miguel had probably already left.

Gabe had put off emptying the linen closet; he found it stuffed with spare blankets and pillows, which he dragged out and stacked in a messy pile at the edge of the living room. He sat back down against the wall and resumed reading until he could bear it no more and left for the station.

As he walked, he felt reasonably sure the thing crept along a parallel trajectory. Should he dare glance down a connecting alley, it was certain to reveal its sickly grin, bound to bare the faint blue light from deep in those empty sockets, ready to close the gap between itself and Gabe without an instant of hesitation. So Gabe did not allow himself to look.

He waited for over twenty minutes at the station, braced against a stained brick wall at the top of the stairs. He had left hopelessly early, had walked far too quickly. What a shame it would be if Miguel were the one waiting on him, he had reasoned. But Miguel's estimated travel time had been casually optimistic. Gabe wasn't fooling anyone but himself. He sat cross-legged on the concrete with his back against the wall for a while, then stood again and dusted the backside of his black jeans. At this hour, people came and went from the station in droves, and if the thing still crept around, haunting him from the shadows below shop awnings, he didn't care. You don't scare me, he had whispered sharply, several times over, until he forgot about it completely.

He anticipated Miguel's presence like a gift he hardly deserved. A flutter of anxiety swirled up from the pit of his stomach. It was the first time the young man had elicited such a nervous response in him. Of course, telling Miguel about his father had also made him nervous, but at least then he had been backed by a purpose, was still operating via external command. Tonight, his request for Miguel's attention had come from within. It was a personal invitation, one he couldn't put on Eddie, not this time. When Miguel arrived, Gabe would have to answer for it.

And he wanted to. He longed to own these feelings, but the thought of doing so left him terrified.

Finally, Miguel bounded up the stairs, locking eyes with Gabe, closing in fast. Gabe's muscles tensed at first, then released. Clearly Miguel was happy to see him. He should not have been worried.

"Fancy seeing you on a Saturday night." His voice bounded brightly over the concrete.

Gabe said a silent prayer of thanks to someone—anyone—as he was pulled into a tight hug. Even the faint smell of cigarettes was a comfort. "Thanks for coming," he said to Miguel.

"I wouldn't dare leave my favorite work buddy out in the cold during his time of need."

Gabe led Miguel toward home.

They walked a half-block north and then Miguel said, "So, what's going on with you?"

Gabe turned to him. "Could we head down to the boardwalk instead?"

"Lead the way," said Miguel.

They took bracing steps down the street, plunging steeply toward the ocean. As they waited to cross Belmont, Gabe tried to dispel the tension. There was no sense in making Miguel wait. "Yeah, so I was having a pretty bad night."

"That's what you said on your message."

"Things get weird when I spend too much time alone." Gabe knew it was now or never. He couldn't keep it to himself forever. "I start seeing things."

"Things like what?"

They descended from he street onto the worn planks of the boardwalk. They began walking south over the bubbling holes where millions of tiny crabs made their homes. Far in the distance, a stone jetty thrust out from shore. At the end, a green light pulsed, its enormous filament illuminating and extinguishing so lazily that it never seemed to arrive fully at either state. The sight had long captured Gabe's imagination. On darker nights, alone, Gabe had walked all the way out to it, only to witness the magic fading as he got too close.

He knew it was time to tell Miguel. They trudged along slowly, side by side. Gabe looked up into the face of his companion. A rush of confidence came to him. "Have you ever heard of the Willow Man?"

Miguel hesitated. "The skeleton thing from the desert?"

"Yeah."

"Sure I have."

"Okay, good."

After a few seconds of silence, Miguel turned to him, laughing. "Is that all you have to say? Yes, I've heard of him. Go on."

Gabe hoped he wasn't laughing at the absurdity of the subject, but at Gabe's frustrating inability to fill the gaps in conversation. "Did you know that some people think he's real? Even my neighbor does. She's this crazy old lady who always tells me to watch out for him. She says he'll come for me. I think she believes he came for my mother."

"And you've seen him, too?"

Gabe paused. "I don't know."

"You said you start seeing things." His tone grew suspicious. "And then you brought up the Willow Man. So you've seen him, right?"

Gabe sighed. He wanted to object, but there was nothing to object to. No part of Miguel's assertion was false. "Yes."

"Huh." Miguel glanced over. "Doesn't sound so strange to me."

Gabe looked at him skeptically. "Don't say that to try and put me at ease. I know how weird it is."

"I just mean a lot of people see things other people don't. People believe in all kinds of things that can't be proven."

"Except I know what I'm seeing isn't real."

Miguel shrugged. "You still see it, though."

It was true. The logic bridges he had slowly erected in his mind collapsed as they were exposed to the warm, misty air of the night. "I wish I could explain it better."

"How often does it happen?"

"Not that often. It's just that tonight, it felt so real, like he was there...right there in the same space I was. Like I was being confronted."

"Have you tried confronting him back?"

Gabe paused. "I tried," he said. "I raised my voice—I told him I wanted to be left alone."

"Maybe you should keep doing that," Miguel suggested. "Whenever you're confronted, just do everything you can to fight back. See what happens. Maybe you'll scare him off forever."

Why was Miguel indulging him like this? He had expected to be put in his place. No reasonable adult took stock in any of the stories. Maybe it was time to see someone. A professional. Wasn't that what he really needed to be told? Gabe felt on the verge of breaking down, of throwing a shoulder against the wooden planks they walked on, rolling onto his back, crying up at the night sky.