Ziggy, Stardust and Me Page 16

  “Hey, Chester,” I say.

  “Heya, kid,” he grumbles. Not because he’s mean, but because he’s a hundred and eleven years old. Give or take. “How’s it goin’ these days?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re early,” says Dad in the corner.

  “I was bored. Take your time.”

  “Man . . . ohman . . . Chesler . . . He sure looks like his momma . . . you know that?”

  Chester ignores him. “You feelin’ alright, kiddo? Your dad says he’s not feelin’ too hot.” Chester’s a cross between the Godfather and Clarence—that angel still trying to get his wings—always in a perfectly pressed white button-down and black pants. Sometimes you have to look really hard through the furrowed relief map of wrinkles all over his face to see even a hint of a smile, but still, he’s one gooey mess of goodness. If he likes you.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Make it a double,” I say, slapping the bar with my hand.

  “Comin’ right up.” He starts to make my Shirley Temple.

  I wave to Alma, who’s already setting up the dartboard for us to play. Good. She doesn’t talk much either.

  “So, what do I owe ya, my main man?” a voice calls from the other end of the bar. When I turn to see who it is, my heart splashes down the counter and lands right in front of the guy who was playing pool.

  My first thought: Web.

  My second thought: No. It’s not. I’m imagining again. But man, this guy sure looks like Web, so I’m not too far off my rocker. Yet. Same long black hair, same white T-shirt, but definitely older and thicker. And he’s staring at me. Smiling.

  “Can’t get you another?” Chester asks him.

  “Thanks. Two’s my limit. Closing out for the night,” Web Doppelganger says.

  “You got it,” Chester says.

  I smile back. I think. I’m hoping my face contorted to a smile and someone picked my jaw off the floor.

  “Cool shirt,” he says.

  I try to say, “Thanks, The Dark Side of the Moon’s one of my personal favorites.” Instead, I say nothing. I can’t speak. My mouth is wired shut. God.

  “I have the same one. Such a boss album,” he says.

  SAY SOMETHING. Nope. Instead, I nod like a rabid chipmunk. He laughs. Chester walks back with his check.

  “Thanks again,” he says to Chester, laying a few bucks on the bar.

  “Anytime. You’re welcome here anytime, friend.”

  The guy looks back at me, nods, knocks the bar with his knuckles twice, and walks out the back door.

  I need to sit down. I’m being haunted now. This is decidedly not good. Not good at all.

  Chester slides the Shirley Temple down the bar. “You sure you’re okay, kid? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  Before I can reply, or find out who that was, Dad’s voice pummels through. “GOTDAMNED CROOK. I voted fer him, Chesler, thought he was a goodun! Ended that damn Vietnam War a few months ago, ya’know, and—Chesler! Did you vote fer him?”

  Chester shakes his head. Dad slumps in his stool for the rest of the night while I play darts with Alma in silence. (I beat her 9–4.) Sometimes words are so overrated.

  * * *

  —

  When Chester’s closing up, he waves me over to help him uproot Dad. Man. This is the most drunk I’ve seen him in a long time. No doubt because of me. Because of what Dr. Evelyn told him earlier. I try to fling his arm over my shoulder, but it’s so heavy it knocks me down. Alma runs over to help. They drag him to the Caddy through the back door and slump him in the passenger seat.

  “You’re a helluva kid,” Chester says as I roll down the passenger window.

  He’s standing under the bug zapper, the only light in the parking lot. Every few seconds a sizzle pierces the stillness.

  “You know, I could . . . I mean if you . . .” He scratches the back of his head with his towel. “Look, what I’m trying to say is, I got this brother. He’s a cop here in town. One of the good ones. One you can really trust . . .”

  We’re looking at each other.

  “He can help you, is all I’m sayin’. You don’t need to do this alone, kid. He can help your dad find—”

  “Don’t worry, Chester. I got it.”

  “Yeah.” He looks down. “Just, you know, if you ever change your mind . . . if you ever need anything at all . . .”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay.” He folds his arms over his chest. The towel dangles in front like a surrender flag. “See you tomorrow, then?”

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

  My life.

  30.

  THREE RULES FOR DRIVING Dad home:

  1) No talking

  2) No music

  3) Drive slow

  Usually he sleeps, and I’m a lonely astronaut navigating the fields of space: discovering new stars, protecting the Earth from alien attacks, you know. Anything to escape here.

  Can’t do that tonight, though. Tonight, he’s belching and burrowing in the velour like an angry warthog. Have to lift my shirt over my nose to cover his rotten liquor puke stench because there’s no frigging breeze: It smells rusty and stretches like taffy, a percolating thunderstorm.

  I hum “Moonage Daydream” and drum my fingers on the wheel and try to breathe, but—

  “Are you happy?” It speaks. More like alien hieroglyph drunk-talk, but over the years I’ve learned to translate.

  I glance over. He’s curled up in a fetal position against the door, looking out the window, unmoving. I’m sure I imagined it. Or he’s talking to some ghost of his own history. I keep humming and drumming.

  “HEY. Are you HAPPY?” Nope, it’s him, wobbling and snorting in my general direction.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Cuz, you know, Jesus Christ, son—” He laughs. Crazy-killer-clown-in-the-car laughter. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how—” He starts crying. Not crying, sobbing. God, he’s drunker than I thought.

  “I’m happy,” I say. “I’m happy.”

  “Good,” he says. “Goodgoodgoodgoodgood. Cuz, you know, as long as YOU’RE happy. As long as YOU’RE happy . . .” He’s back to crazy-killer-clown laughing. What’s going on here? What exactly is he talking about?

  “Are you happy?” I ask. The worst possible question, but it’s all my brain can think.

  “Happy,” he says. “Ha . . . paaayyyy . . . Happy happy hap hap happyyyyy . . .” He grips his hair like he’s about to pull the last few strands out. “I tried to stop them. I said, ‘No, can’t we do something? We have to save them both . . . we have to . . .’” He’s flailing his arms, lost in the blackness. Not again. Not now. He’s teleported back to that hospital room, back to the day I was born.

  “And I thought long and hard. Long and hard, you hear me? And no one. NO ONE should have to make a decision like that. Ever.” He’s staring out the window. My stomach’s twisting tighter with each word. “But I did. I had to. And I chose you. Because you’re my son. Because that’s what she would’ve wanted. She never would’ve forgiven me if she’d woken up and realized—”

  He thrusts his head out the window. I swerve to the right, reaching for him. He pushes me away, punches the air between us. “NoNONO. You listen to me!” I clench the steering wheel and keep driving.

  “I prayed and prayed and prayed, you hear me? I was right there when it happened. I’ll never forget—all that blood. I kept mopping her forehead with a cloth. Didn’t know what else to do. And there you were, screaming and kicking. She sees you and smiles, and they rush you away, and then . . . she was gone. And I sat there alone, thinking, ‘I just killed my best friend.’ I killed . . . my best friend . . . I killed my—” He looks out the window, crying again.

  My hands clutch the wheel so tight I may rip it from the dash. Thunder tears through the clouds. Rain
rips down. Wipers skip across the windshield but barely clear the glass.

  “I don’t know . . .” he says. “I just don’t . . . know . . .” And he’s gone again. Passed out.

  I pull into our driveway and run inside, slamming my bedroom door. I fling open my window, lean out as far as I can—bolts of lightning crackle; thunder rockets; rain pelts the trees—Ohmanohman it feels SO GOOD. I am drenched.

  I close my eyes, picture Web and me on the window’s ledge, screaming into the sky as we hold each other and the wind whips around us. “You gotta feel the rain, man!” he screams. We laugh. “Yeahyeahyeah!”

  And then it stops. Just like that. Poof. The blinding rain turns to a soft drizzle, then to silence.

  I look around. Everything cries. Except me.

  Dad sleeps, curled up in the front seat of the car. I want to scream out the window, “I know you chose me over Mom! That’s one of the reasons I’ve tried so hard to fix it. I don’t want your choice to be for nothing!”

  Instead, I close my window.

  The storm has passed.

  My heart, though, still feels the thunder.

  31.

  Friday, June 29, 1973

  THE NEXT MORNING, I peek through the curtains. Everything’s extra-sparkly from the rain. Except Dad, who’s still asleep in the car. I grab the Aladdin Sane album from my desk and lie back on my bed.

  “Hey, Zig, you around?”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Zig? You there? I know I haven’t seen you in a while, but—”

  Ziggy lifts his eyes, smiles. “Hey, little Starman, you’re hunky-dory in my heart just as you are.”

  “Uh-huh . . . Where have you been?”

  “Here. There. Everywhere. Didn’t think you needed me anymore . . .”

  “I need you now more than ever.”

  “You’re not alone, Jonathan. I’m always dancing in your heart. You know that, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Oh, come on, beautiful boy, let’s boogie,” he says.

  And for the rest of the morning, we pray. I still don’t cry. I can’t. Maybe the treatments dried up all my tears.

  * * *

  —

  A few hours later I’m downstairs. Coffee’s finished percolating. I pour a cup and sit at the kitchen table. Dad’s still sleeping in the passenger seat. (I wrapped him in one of Grandma’s afghans, but he barely stirred.)

  Anyway. Trying to read more of Einstein’s Relativity. Thinking maybe the electric shocks stimulated some new brain cells, ignited some new synapses to make me a genius. No such luck. It takes me ten minutes to read one sentence, I swear. But I power on, determined to understand. Anything to help me get out of here.

  I’m stuck on this sentence about a flying raven traveling the velocity of yabbadabbadoo when—

  The screen door creaks open: A zombie from Night of the Living Dead stumbles in. His T-shirt’s flung over his shoulder and his big, furry belly is just as pale.

  “Coffee?” I ask. He nods, wipes his face. Like he’s trying to erase his life.

  I look up. Grandma stands with her hands on her hips in the painting. Oh man, is she pissed. She hates when he drinks. When Dad built the bar in our living room she called it The Devil’s Den.

  He clears his throat, mumbles something.

  “What?” I say, matching Grandma’s impatiently tapping heels.

  He clears his throat again, stares into his mug. “I miss her all the time, you know. The only woman I ever loved.” He’s holding the mug like he’s holding her hands again. “She knew something was different. She’d tell me all the time—” He looks at me. “You were different. You were special. You were going to change lives.”

  Oh. Not what I expected.

  We sit in silence.

  “She said she loved you more than anything,” he says. “Said she always would no matter what. Asked me to promise her to do the same.” He looks back down to the mug, her hands. “I don’t know what else to do, son. Your doctor says . . . I’ve done all I can to help—”

  I snap out of the spell he’s somehow put me under. I knew it. Dr. Evelyn. That’s why he’s losing his mind: their conversation yesterday. Grandma leans in, straining to hear. “What do you mean?”

  He’s shaking his head, but he’s not saying anything. This could mean a thousand things. I suddenly feel like we’re at the cliff-hanger of a Batman episode: Is Jonathan’s father sending him to prison? Is he going to say he isn’t his real father? What’s going to happen to Jonathan Collins? Tune in next week. Same Bat-time. Same Bat—

  “We’re going to the lake.”

  “What?”

  “For a week.”

  “What!” Oh no. Nope. No way. Uh-uh. I’m off to the races. “I don’t need to go. You go. You should go. Get some fresh air, get away, you’ve been cooped up here with me for a couple weeks, you need some time alone with Heather or whatever, but I’m good, I’ll be fine, I can take care of myself, I can—” I’m spinning. I can’t catch my breath. There aren’t enough words to fill the room.

  He stands. “I don’t have a choice. Neither do you. Doctor’s orders! Guess we need some ‘father-son bonding time.’”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not fixed.”

  Each word impales my heart. “How does that even help?”

  “How the hell should I know? She did some fancy research. Guess it’s all my fault now—” He starts to pour more coffee.

  “What? That’s not—”

  “Said something about you not having a momma, and me being too distant from you, and BAM, you are who you are. Now that’s some shit right there.” He puts the percolator back on the counter. “So we gotta go someplace for you to step deeper into your masculine energy—she actually said that, your masculine energy—and some other hippie-dippie New Age crap I don’t know . . .”

  “What—but I don’t—why the lake?”

  “It’s the only place I could think of!”

  “I don’t want to go.” I can’t go. I won’t go.

  He laughs. “Think I do? It’s not up for debate. I ain’t gonna be the one to blame for your mess. Not after all this time. And I already talked to Heather.”

  “What? You did? When? What did she say?” I know I’m sounding more and more frantic. I can hear it. But it’s like being stoned to death with each new thing he says.

  “She don’t know why we’re going. She just thinks you want to spend time with her. Got it? We’re going to the lake. We’re going to have a good time. Because if we don’t, and this damn bonding thing don’t work?” He shakes his head again. “Well, I don’t know what. Just pack your bags. We’re leaving in a few hours.”

  “What? Today? Now? We’re going now?”

  “You got big plans or something? Yeah, now. You gotta get out of that crazy head of yours all cooped up in that crazy room. Get up there and pack your bags.”

  He fails to realize my crazy room is the only place I actually feel sane in this world.

  This is what Dr. Evelyn meant by helping me?

  Some help.

  I’d rather do a thousand more treatments.

  32.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, my bags are packed and I’m waiting in my closet. I’m a jittery mess. Maybe had one too many PeterPaulandMary poofs since the conversation with Dad. I click on my tape recorder to record this moment, should it be my last:

  “Good afternoon. This is Jonathan Collins coming to you live from my closet. Today is Friday, June 29, 1973. It is 3:27. Dr. Evelyn says I am not fixed—which is a news flash to no one—and I’m being sentenced to death by means of Creve Coeur Lake. Should I not return, please give all my albums to Starla.” I click it off. Then click it back on. “Oh, and please tell Web I am sorry.” Click.

  God. I should’ve run off with Starla while I had th
e chance.

  It’s quiet in my closet. Like everyone’s just as shocked as me. Ziggy’s eyes don’t blink and sing. The National Geographic pages don’t sway. Even Mom’s portrait is silent. It’s the only picture left of her in existence: an 8x10 painting from her senior year. Saved it from the Massacre of 1966. (A few days after Grandma died, Dad got so drunk he decided to burn everything of Mom’s. No explanation. He just screamed “No more, no more, no more . . .” while he torched everything in the fireplace. I grabbed this portrait when he wasn’t looking.)

  “Listen. I need your help,” I say, holding her in my hand. “I know it’s only a week, but still, I need you to protect me and hide me. From everyone, but especially Web. If he’s even there. He could be gone; he’s probably gone; I hope he’s gone—no I don’t. If I could just see him once I would— No— Aggghhh I don’t know! I just need to get through this, I NEED to, okay? To make Dad and Dr. Evelyn think I’m forever fixed so they’ll leave me alone for good. Please.”

  “You’ll be fine, Beetlebug.” Mom winks, lifts a smile.

  “There you are! How can you be so sure?”

  “A mother always know these things . . .” Her voice a cross between a melodic angel and a cooing dove. And she looks like she gave Marilyn Monroe a run for her money. “So, off to the lake, are you? To spend some quality time with Dad?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “He wasn’t always this way, you know. I would’ve never fallen in love with him if he was.”

  “Why did you fall in love with him?”

  “Are you kidding?” She leans in and whispers, as if other girls around her might hear, “He was dreamier than Dean and Brando and Clift combined. Everybody loved him. And I was the lucky girl who got him.” She winks and sits back.

  “What happened to him?”