Dysphoria Read online

  "I am sorry about your boy," Larry said. His voice took on a lower tone, more baritone than before. "It hurts me, too, Mr. Shannon. I was Dave's best friend.'

  William turned to Larry then, stared at him the way Paul thought he might have stared at a pesky radiator on the blink years before on the job. "Yes, David could have used more friends, but none as much as here lately. It seems the ones he did have just had other things to do for the past twenty years.” He threw his arms up in the air, signifying all the other things there must have been to do. "Where exactly have you been all this time, Larry? Why haven't you came to see David or Eve or me? Lord knows we kept you like our own child while your daddy…” He trailed off, catching his tongue with some effort. "Anyway, it's good to see you, now."

  Paul wasn't surprised that his grandfather didn't mention his father's death.

  "Let's eat," William said. "Can you still put down a stack of hotcakes a foot high?"

  Larry nodded absently. He was picking at his elbow and his eyes were scanning the table cloth. He noticed the others watching him, Paul with his gaze trying to figure out a piece of family folklore now suddenly manifest, Eve cooking contently, lost in her work, and then William sitting across from him at the table with his hands crossed in a familiar praying position, and for all Larry knew he could be praying. He had seen Dave and Hill prayed over many evenings while staying overnight and letting things cool off at home. But now he was just worried if they noticed him counting the corners of the table, or the ragged corners of the sunflower pattern placemats at five different locations on the kitchen table.

  He looked at each place mat. Five, he counted. One, two, three, four, five. I will not count the corners, he thought to himself, and was then hit by the fear that he had mumbled the words out loud. He glanced around the room while scratching the lengths of his calves and around his ankles. It seemed that no one had noticed. He looked again at the place mat, scratched the lengths of both his calves again, digging in good and hard with his fingernails. He glanced first at the top right corner and said in his mind: one. He stopped then and looked around at Eve. She smiled and he smiled back. William was talking about his hummingbird feeders. He looked again at the mat, this time at the bottom right corner: two. Inside his head, he called himself terrible names, most of which he pulled from memories of arguments between his mother and father.

  Paul noticed Larry jerk a little in his seat. He looked at the big man's face and saw something there which seemed out of place for someone just invited to an impromptu grieving meal. It looked clearly like frustration. Larry's eyes narrowed and his mouth, tiny when concentrating, had peeled back into a single line across the bottom half of his face. And he seemed to be studying the top of the kitchen table with an odd intensity. But Paul didn't speak up until he saw Larry's lips become relaxed and begin to move, forming words, talking to himself, and apparently not all too happy.

  The charade was broken by William, who had also noticed Larry. "What in the world are you doing?"

  Larry stopped, his eyes still fixed on the third corner of the third place mat.

  "Huh?” His voice came from far away and he kept his gaze fixed.

  "I said are you all right?"

  Paul broke in, saying that he was probably just hungry, a long drive, and then whispered that the news was probably just sinking in. But he knew, and William knew, that something else was wrong. Paul couldn't have known the extent of how different Larry seemed, but William could tell. He had known Larry Fenner, the man who had once pulled a mid-sized utility pole from the ground in front of the county courthouse because his buddies had put him to a dare. Larry Fenner, the man who had streaked the Strand singing, "Oh Susanna" and then the same guy who sang his way out of jail three hours later.

  Eve, who had been concentrating on not burning the last three pancakes and mostly oblivious to the small drama which had unfolded behind her, turned just as William was about to go into his theory of Larry's new transformation. She held two dinner plates full of pancakes. She placed them on the table and then went to the sink and drew out four more plates. William and Paul were both reaching for a fresh stick of butter when Larry brought the house completely down.

  "Do these have crabs on them?” Larry asked, scanning the cinnamon brown surface of his stack of pancakes. He took his fork and picked each one off the next, lifting first one then another.

  "What?” Eve asked.

  "Can I catch the crabs off these?” Larry asked again, still picking at them with his fork. "You know, jumping crabs.”

  7

  Paul shivered under the covers. He was wet and the towels he had taken from the bathroom to spread across the mattress in the middle of the night were no longer dry and warm. The urine had soaked through now and both of the large beach towels were as wet and smelled just as strongly as the bed.

  He was naked under the covers and his particulars were the coldest part. He had grabbed an old blanket from the closet when he found the two towels during the night and had been using it in place of the other, which, like the mattress, was soaked yellow. Now he pulled the guest blanket up around his chin and tried not to think about being cold there. He watched the window and waited to see daylight.

  But before there was daylight, and while the sky outside the window was still mockingly dark, Paul heard someone in the kitchen moving dishes and opening cabinet doors. A wash of artificial light came from the kitchen doorway as someone opened the refrigerator door. He knew it must be his dad and immediately ran a possible way of telling him about what had happened through his mind, but shoved it aside. It was something his mom would have understood, she had been dealing with his bedwetting since he was four. That was nearly four years of sheet changes in the middle of the night at least three nights a week — a lot for a mother to have to deal with. But it was no day at the park for Paul either.

  He thought about this while watching the artificial glow from the refrigerator crawl the walls of his bedroom and then disappear, only to reappear in two or three seconds. It was his dad, standing at the door opening and shutting it and trying to figure out why he couldn't go to sleep. He wasn't even sure if his dad knew about the bedwetting.

  For what seemed like a long time, Paul watched for daylight through the window and listened to his dad in the kitchen until finally he began to make out a mountain top in the darkness. The sky was no longer black and riddled with stars, but was beginning to show gray-blue signs of morning. It would only be a short wait before he could get out of bed and then later on take a nap or something to catch up on his sleep.

  It seemed that morning would take forever to break. The room stayed at that half glow for what seemed like hours, until Paul couldn't wait any longer. He pulled himself slowly upright and only then noticed that the wetness from the bed had crept up his back, nearly between his shoulders. If he were to take a shower this early, his dad would almost certainly hear and then be outside the bathroom door, banging away, but he could smell himself and the scent was making him sick.

  He moved with the shadows through the hallway leading to the bathroom door, wearing only his underwear and stained yellow and wet and cold, soaked and sticking to his skin. At last his hand was on the doorknob and then there was a sound from behind him so he turned the knob and pushed in one motion and nearly landed in his dad's lap.

  There was David Shannon, bleak-eyed and unshaven, sitting on the toilet. In his lap was an open algebra textbook and on the floor beside him was a notebook covered in spiking hieroglyphics tossed onto the page in bold blue and black ink.

  "I believe if I'd had a good teacher in high school I could have learned this," he said, still looking down at the book. No attempt to close the door back or a yell telling anybody he was in the can. "It's hard trying to teach yourself.” He broke off as he raised his head and saw Paul was still standing in the door, unable to move away. He was glad that his father would finally know. "What the hell?"

  At once he was self-conscious again, no mor
e glad feelings. His dad was now standing and looking directly at his son's underwear. "Did you piss just now? Why'd you do that?"

  Paul didn't' say anything. He pressed his thighs together and covered himself as best as he could.

  "Well, don't just stand there. Close the door and I'll get out of here so you can clean yourself up. Jesus Christ."

  Paul understood fast that he was going to be able to get around his problem of explaining to his father that he was a bedwetter. But then did he want to dance around it? It was eventually going to come to the surface. No need in taking more time with it than he needed to.

  He closed the door and listened as his dad gathered papers up from the floor. Finally he heard the textbook smack together and then the door was opening. He stepped back and made up his mind.

  "I peed in the bed, Daddy."

  "What?"

  "I peed in the bed. It happens sometimes.” He was still holding to the front of his underwear and now his legs were shaking. They felt like slabs of cooler meat.

  "You pee in the bed sometimes?"

  It was strange to see an adult so confused. His dad stood with his free arm dangling at his side and the other clutching his books and papers. He looked like a freshman hunting for homeroom the first day of class.

  Paul started to sidestep past him to search for a dry towel or sheet to stretch over the bed for the next couple of hours when he felt thick, square fingers bite into his upper arm.

  "Not a problem,” his dad said. “How long had your mom known about this? It doesn't matter, I know what to do."

  He led Paul back through the hallway, past his grandparents' bedroom and into the kitchen. In the kitchen was a closet area that opened into a large space where the washer and dryer was kept. Above the washer and dryer there was a shelf full of cleaning utensils, powders and bleach. David grabbed a box of powders down from the shelf and plopped up on top of the dryer. He flung open the washer door and saw there was nothing inside. He turned to Paul, who was still standing behind him, now nearly crossing his legs.

  "Go get your covers and sheets."

  Paul didn't ask questions; he did as he was told.

  "Now take those and put them in here," he pointed to the washer. "See that dial. You put that on warm wash. Come here.” He grabbed Paul's arm and pulled it to him, winced at the smell that came from his body and put his hand on top of the washer. "Put them in. Now take that box of powders and pour out a full cup. Make sure it's a full cup. That smells like a latrine."

  When everything was ready, he showed Paul how to turn the flat knob to the right to get things started. "From now on, when this happens, don't go get more clean sheets to put over it or towels either. Somebody has to wash that. Your grandmother ain't able to do that."

  A week later at some dark hour of morning while Paul stood in the small space provided for standing in the washroom, he thought about how his grandmother couldn't manage to keep this cleaned up. And that's what kept him going. He didn't want to look at the clock. He was worried he only had a couple hours before daylight. He was sure clothes took forever to dry.

  8

  Going to Hill’s was still the biggest priority, but it was nightfall now and Paul had, it seemed, a permanent traveling partner all of a sudden. Larry followed him across the street. Cramer's gas station was the only place to get a sandwich or something cold to drink after eight in the evening. To out-of-towners, Cramer's closed along with the other businesses in Red Knife at about eight in the evening, but Josh Cramer stayed around for awhile, talking and drinking, usually until about ten and then stumbled the mile and a half to his one-bedroom apartment in Beefhide.

  His grandparents had gone to bed early. This left Paul to talk with Larry about any number of things other than his dead father. And now, long after their conversations had started, Larry busied himself with telling Paul stories about when they were all younger. When the two of them stopped just inside the gas station door Cramer peered out from behind his coal stove in the far corner. They had stopped after stepping in to shake off the fall air and now Cramer was squinting his eyes and looking closely at Larry.

  "Dave just asked point blank if they had his mannequin," Larry said, still not taking notice of Cramer staring at him from the corner. "He said, 'I have a missing person complaint,' Just like that. A missing person.” Larry smiled and then started laughing. He held his stomach. "Like it was real or something. And he was serious as a heart attack, too."

  "Larry Fenner?"

  The muscles in Larry's face jerked a little and his nervous eye jittered inside his skull at a faster pace than normal. Cramer was now sitting up straight in his oil-smeared chair. His body was bent. He was quite old and his sight was failing.

  "Larry Fenner?" he said again.

  "Hello, Mr. Cramer," Larry said.

  "Jesus, boy. Where have you been?"

  Larry's voice went down a notch or two, the baritone that had crept out while he was telling his mannequin story was now drawing back into his massive chest. He became a paradox, a large body, small approach. Almost apprehensive.

  "I've been around," he said quietly. "I came in to see Dave, but, well."

  "Yes, I know," Cramer said. he shuffled his feet across the gritty, concrete floor and turned to Paul. "Sorry as hell about your dad, son.” He stopped and pulled at the brim of his cap a few times, three tugs and then a pause. "There is a little something I should bring up. I know it's not the right time and all, but you know how it is."

  Paul was sure he didn't know how it was, or what it was for that matter. "What?” he asked. He tried not to sound defensive. Reacting to different comments since his father's death had become his forte, his own Shakespearean opus, and, although he was growing tired of the constant pressure connected with each encounter, he was beginning to learn how to spin each into whichever direction he found would provide him the quickest escape.

  "David had a pretty good size charge account," Cramer continued. He allowed the words to settle in the air, dead and inappropriate. "It peaked at just over six-hundred last month and he paid it down some. I think to about four-fifty or somewhere around there."

  Cramer walked with a noticeable limp since the back tire of a Ford Pinto had dropped across the bottom half of his leg during an oil change in 1972. He shuffled across to where Larry and Paul stood at the front door. Larry moved with him, passing him and continuing to the snack counter where he pretended to struggle with whether to take a fudge round or a raisin cake. This left Paul and Cramer alone at the front.

  Paul had just received a raise three months before, but had taken the bonus that accompanied the pay increase and deposited it in a savings account. As Cramer stood in front of him, leaning on his good leg, Paul remembered the money Hill gave him at the funeral. It was still inside the Mason jar in his father's old room. If he remembered correctly, it had been about two-hundred dollars.

  "I have some I can put on it now, but I'll need some time on the rest," he said.

  Cramer nodded. Good enough for now, the nod said.

  "Here, that'll about do it, won't it?” Larry said. He had come up behind Paul and poked his hand around in front of his chest. Paul looked down and saw five one-hundred dollar bills sitting neatly in the palm of Larry's outstretched hand. "That'll make it even won't it?"

  Paul was stunned. Before he could manage to decline the offer, Cramer swept the bills into his hand. "Yeah, that covers it. Now, what can I do for you boys?” He smiled at them then touched his bearded chin and looked again to Larry. "I remember that time up there at Harper's Tipple, you know that, Larry. You remember that summer?"

  Paul, who was still thinking of how to thank Larry for paying his father's old gas station tab, caught the name Cramer had mentioned and forgot, for the moment, about how to settle up.

  "Harper?” he asked, feeling the name with his ear, trying to figure why it was familiar. "What's Harper's Tipple?"

  "Now that's a story Larry here might not be so happy about relating," Cr
amer said. "But I guess you ain't the one exactly asking about the story are you?” He glanced at Larry who had turned away from them and was counting square designs across the front desk that years of waiting customers had scrawled out in blue and black ink while their oil was being changed. He had his head ducked far below the rise of his chest the way a pigeon might or a duck or maybe an ostrich.

  "Harper's Tipple is just up the road a piece here. I can't believe that all the years you spent here with your dad that you never went up there. It's just about two miles past the mile marker.” Cramer paused and wandered back to his place beside the coal stove. "Your dad and uncle and that boy who used to live up around the Pines. What was his name?"

  "Tom Spencer," Larry said, even more quietly than before, nearly whispering.

  "Yeah, Tommy Spencer, Stanton Spencer's boy. Your dad, your uncle Hill and that Spencer boy would take bootleg liquor up there and get stone drunk.” He stopped and laughed, clearly pleased with this memory, which had probably been buried for many years amid mental notes for various car repairs, payment priorities and customer phone numbers. "Sometimes they'd even take old Larry here. Anyway, the tipple is just part of the old Harper mine, but I guess it's about the most recognizable thing about it now that the house is about gone. The Harpers used to live there, surprise, surprise.” Cramer stopped and laughed again at his joke. "Big family, lots of money, but good people anyway, you know."

  "What were their names?"

  "Who?"

  "The Harpers."

  Cramer rubbed his gritty chin again. "Oh, let’s see, there was the old man, George, hell of a businessman, and then Mother Harper and I remember the oldest boy's name, the one that was killed with George in the wreck, that was Matt Harper. And George had another son, the youngest, either John or Joe, I'm thinking."