Having fled the ballfields, Alan sits in his car at a Shell station off Bird Road, not really sure how he got there; in his hand, a beer, a tall can of Budweiser, cold, comforting, paid for with plastic. He’s parked by the outdoor payphones, at the darkest spot on the property, beneath a cluster of cabbage palms, and he lights a cigarette. I’ve done it now, haven’t I? Goddamn. I’ve really freaking done it. At this very instant, Leisel undoubtedly makes a statement to the police—she’ll have surrounded herself with sympathetic witnesses; she’ll take photographs of Eric’s injuries; she’ll use it against Alan in court at their upcoming custody review. I shouldn’t have run. Damnit! I should’ve stayed and defended myself, argued that it was mutual combat. Maybe he should drive back there. Better still, call the police himself, ask them if he can come in and give his own statement.
Combing the Geo’s floorboard, Alan retrieves only one quarter; the phone requires fifty cents. Soon, he’s in the throes of a tantrum, scattering books, pennies, scraps of paper, ball-point pens—a concerned onlooker worries that he may be having a seizure. But Alan eventually stops, holds his breath, sits up and runs both hands through his hair, now reclining his seat, closing tight his eyes.
For two full minutes, he sits motionless, hearing his heart thump, listening, the gradual decrescendo from double-time snare-drum to a slow steady hand on sheepskin. He controls his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, breathe in, breathe out. Opening his eyes, he sees black spots. Control yourself! Do nothing. Say nothing. Feel nothing. Sit here, all night if necessary, until the rancid fever breaks.
He calms himself, a clumsy calm. He loosens the screws of the vice, dulls the migraine. That’s better. What now? Maybe a drive east to the beach, the ocean . . . go for a night-swim, tempt the sharks. That’s worked before. That’s helped.
On the radio, Alan locates a grainy classical station on the AM band playing the Overture to Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde—gorgeous music, perfect music, melodious and dark, lush tone colors—but the adjunct has no tears, even if his sore eyes sting with the salts of dried sweat. The sublime does affect him, however, and he shudders, and the old anger rises again, and an irrepressible longing, and a righteous indignation, and a joy and a sadness; his attempt to feel nothing has failed . . . he feels everything. Everything. But mostly rage and outrage, that old faithful anger. Why aren’t there people out in the streets! Where are they? Why aren’t they out banging drums, starting fires, causing alarm? Where are they! Jesus, how can these fools sleep at night, so quiet and contented, pretending to be satisfied, presuming that all is right in the world? Hypocrites! Would it be so great a sin for Alan Polk to disrupt the domestic tranquility, to cry out at the top of his lungs: “Enough! Enough fraud and greed! Enough sickness, poverty, ignorance! Enough idleness, gluttony, depravity, deceit! This is not how things are supposed to be! Enough! This isn’t how it’s meant to be!” Yet, were he to do this, to shout it, to howl it, wouldn’t he only be saying to the world: I am not happy; I am not happy with myself!
No, walking the streets as the living embodiment of Munch’s The Scream isn’t the answer. While he’s yet young, and strong, and sane, while he has energy and enthusiasm what Alan must do is overcome himself, his outrage, his rage; overcome them. How? Abandon the infectious notion that life has everything to do with personal happiness, or personal justice; no, regain a purpose larger and more rational than yourself—Alan knows this. It’s so obvious, so simple. What to do when all is lost? Start anew. Do good deeds. Be a better man. It’s so simple, and he sees it so clearly now, remembers it, as he sips piss-water beer and smokes mulched tobacco. Overcome and become. Become a better man.
A cool breeze is punctuated by sheet lightning. He rolls down his window, and it’s thirst-quenching, heartening. First, he’ll set his own house in order: bury the hatchet with Leisel, beg Carlos Blanco for that damned job, or find real work that pays real money, yes, then go out and marry Brigitte Chaisson, yes, and make a home for his kids. Fight for the kids, for Abby and Jefferson; they need him now, more than ever; they need him not only as a daddy, but as a counterbalance to Leisel and Eric, to that environment of material excess and giddy self-gratification. He can show his kids another way to live, other things important, that life is adversity, and from adversity comes strength, character, other intangibles. Compassion can be learned, can be taught. Yes.
First things first—settle tonight’s business with Eric. Call him up and apologize and make things right. Eat crow, a gamey slice of magpie.
Scrounging again for another quarter, scraping beneath his seat, Alan brings up a handful of car-interior debris: paper clips, pop tops, cigarette butts, a golden token for the batting cages. He opens his hand, sifts through the sandy contents, uncovers the precious two-bits, Washington’s cold profile reflected in the flickering 5-watt light. Gripping the coin between thumb and forefinger, he brings it up to his face and rotates it to its tail by pushing the round edge with the ringless ring-finger of his left hand—it’s a Delaware, the first and rarest of the state-series quarters; Caesar Rodney, a lone horseman, rides upside down on a sheet of silver, galloping from nowhere to nowhere. Delaware, Alan’s home state; maybe this is a portent, a good omen . . . if one believes in such things.
Outside it drizzles, so the adjunct puts on his baseball cap as he steps up to the payphone. Feeling better now, roused, slaked, he doesn’t dread the task at hand. He’ll contact Eric, through Leisel’s cell-phone, to see if the issuance of an arrest warrant can be averted, and then he’ll drive back over to Brigitte’s, and if she’s home, he’ll talk with her, settle things with her, see if they can come to an understanding (they should) . . . and if not, well, the luscious image of Nicole Newman’s nubility flashes across his mind, but he quickly suppresses it, consigns it to shadow; no, no, no, stay focused and concentrate on what lies ahead. He breathes in through his nose, holds it. Exhales.
Just as the first quarter jingles down the coin-slot, Alan catches something out of the corner of his eye, a vehicle, a familiar red convertible pulling up to the Shell pumps. He turns his head to be sure. Yes, Alan knows the car, a Mazda Miata, Coca-Cola red—it’s Ed Scherer’s.
The driver exits the Mazda, and Alan studies him—the floodlights of the service island, shining straight down, make it difficult for the adjunct to well-discern the driver’s features, yet the silhouette of the man’s physique, decidedly boyish, and the size of the man’s head, excessively cranial, they’re unmistakable: Edwin Scherer!
“It would be you, wouldn’t it?” whispers Alan, his upper lip a-snarl. “God, what a day!”
Having evaded the fresh rains, Ed now closes and locks down the convertible’s leather top before buying some gas. Forty feet away, the adjunct stands with arms folded, and watches, and waits; in Alan’s clenched fist is the second quarter, the Delaware, and he’ll not flip it. Why should he? Why toss the coin, and see it spin and fall, and hear it clank against the concrete, and roll round and round, like water down a sink-drain, until it comes to rest, and so there’s the verdict, the confirmation? What would be the point, when Alan knows what he must do? If nothing else, with all else gone, the adjunct resolves to be a man as good as his word.
“Did you really think there’d be no consequences, Edwin?” Alan murmurs, his eyes now slits.
A flash of lightning, distant, illuminates Ed’s face, the heavy eyebrows, the down-turned mouth, if only for a split-second.
“Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
