My Beautiful Failure Read online

  “You didn’t know what your old man had in him.”

  “It—”

  “So instead of being fer him, you chose to be agin him.”

  “Not against you, Dad.”

  “Agin the show?”

  “Against you wearing yourself out.”

  “You should be fer me, Billymelad. I was always fer you, right, Billaby? Linda’s fer me, but not you. You decided to cut the umbillycal cord. Where is your filament, son?”

  We were alone on a nighttime island, in a quiet broken by the lamp’s tink and the rivery rush of traffic. I had nowhere to look but at him and his paintings, and despite what the rest of the family said I knew something was very wrong. I didn’t want to stick around and watch this whole thing fall apart. I was glad I had somewhere else to go.

  60.

  last winter: useless

  After Dad wakes up screaming, Mom stops Dad’s antidepressants. She even stops his therapy appointments, although Dr. Fritz seems to be a pretty good guy and harmless. When I see Mom cancel the appointments and ignore the ringing phone, I know she is thinking about Grandma Pearl, her own mother, who had died of cancer, and who was sliced and burned and filled with poisons by doctors long after she should have been left alone.

  “No more doctors,” Mom tells Linda and me. “We’re going to take care of Dad ourselves. Billy, I want you to come home directly after school every day and keep your dad company. No friends, no meetings, no movies. Play cards or board games with him or whatever you think will pass the time.”

  That’s right. Mom asks me to babysit my own father.

  Dad starts watching Painting with the Light-Teacher on public TV. Dad used to revile the Light-Teacher and say he was a complete fraud. Now he follows every brushstroke as if this cheesy guy’s some kind of hero.

  Dad watches the Light-Teacher paint a bouquet of sunflowers. Then he looks down at his own hands.

  “Useless, useless, useless,” he says.

  61.

  shift 7, november 25. call 19

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  Yeah.

  “How’re you doing this evening?”

  Not too good.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. My name’s Billy. Do you want to tell me your name?”

  Kevin.

  “I’m glad you called, Kevin. So, what’s going on?”

  I have a lot of guilt.

  “About what?”

  I stole money from my mom to buy cigarettes.

  “And you feel guilty about that.”

  Yeah. She doesn’t have much money.

  “It sounds like honesty is really important to you, Kevin. I admire that.”

  No, it isn’t. In fact, my name isn’t really Kevin.

  62.

  call 43

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  Hi, Billy.

  It’s after nine o’clock, and no one else should be around. Still, I close the door between the teen room and the Statie room.

  “Jenney—what’s going on?”

  I just had one of the worst days of my life.

  “Are you okay?”

  I hate to drag anybody down.

  “Drag me wherever you want. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Okay, my two supposed best friends from high school who are both at Hawthorne State and who I haven’t hung out with in weeks were supposed to take me to a party at the dorm and I was looking forward to it all week and we were going to meet at this one friend’s house and leave together from there. Then they called and said the party was canceled because one of the people throwing the party decided to go home for Thanksgiving and wasn’t going to be around. My friends were staying home, so I said I was psyched about getting together with them, so why don’t we do something else just to get together, because I haven’t seen them for weeks?

  “Mm-hmm.”

  They said let’s talk later and I didn’t hear back. So I called them both and left messages and said let’s just order takeout and play a board game or something—why? because I’m a dork—and we’ll chill and catch up the way we used to. So I left a message saying I would pick up the food and treat everybody, and I went to my friend’s house—she still lives with her parents—and I’m carrying my board game. Oh my God, I’m talking so fast. You can guess what happened.

  “No, I can’t. You have to tell me.”

  My friend wasn’t there. Because they went to the party. It wasn’t canceled.

  “How did you know?”

  Stacey’s parents were home. They told me Stacey and Rebecca went to a party at the college and they, the parents, were sorry I hadn’t been able to go. They looked sorry for me, which was uncalled for, and I said don’t give it another thought it’s just bad timing and when I carried my Scrabble to the car my hands shook and you could hear the letter tiles rattling.

  “I wish I could make it better.”

  Don’t pity me, Hallmark.

  “You don’t want people feeling sorry for you. You have pride. I admire that.”

  I drove past the campus and saw Stacey and Rebecca walking through the main parking lot with a couple of nice-looking guys and they were all laughing together.

  “Mm.”

  But worst of all, they looked up and saw me and they looked the other way as if they didn’t even want to acknowledge me.

  “That can’t be true.”

  How do you know it’s not true?

  “I hope it’s not true. Isn’t Stacey the one who got you that job?”

  But that’s different.

  “Take a minute, Jenney. Breathe in and out.”

  I guess I’m just not fun anymore. I never intended to be this person.

  “Maybe they didn’t even see you in your car.”

  You think I imagined it?

  “Maybe there’s some other explanation for why they didn’t call you.”

  What could it be, then?

  “Jenney, are you feeling suicidal?”

  Not really.

  “What does that mean?”

  I would say that the distance between what I thought my life would be like two years ago and what it’s like right now is so huge, I don’t think I could ever cross it. Not ever.

  “Not ever?”

  No.

  “No way, no how?”

  No.

  “Not even in a hot-air balloon? Or the space shuttle?”

  No. And no.

  “Sorry. I was trying to make you laugh.”

  I admire you for that.

  “Ouch. Remember that you have someone.”

  I do, don’t I.

  “You have us. You have the Listeners.”

  That’s what you meant?

  “No. I meant you have me.”

  I thought you meant that. How’s your dad doing? I’ve been worried about you.

  “He’s still going ahead with it. He’s staying up part of the night painting. He churns out a painting every day, or tries to.”

  What kind of stuff does he paint?

  “Still lifes with a heavy political message no one else would understand. Most of them are sort of grotesque. I think Dad’s art might actually be bad. He’s operating in a vacuum. He isn’t getting any perspective from anyone else, and I’m afraid that when he finally gets a reaction on the day of his show he’s going to be in for a surprise. Schlock shock.”

  That’s funny.

  “But I’m not laughing.”

  Me either. I guess I’ve been in too many situations where I got my hopes up and was disappointed. I completely relate to how your father might feel that day.

  “Like, ‘We all know something you don’t know. And now that you know it too, don’t you feel like a jerk?’”

  It sounds like if your dad gets embarrassed, you’re going to be embarrassed too.

  “I am. This event is going to be huge. He’s talking about sending out press releases and calling the TV stations. Maybe I’ll disappear on an all-day bike ride the day of the show. I’d be
glad to miss the whole thing.”

  You know, if he’s humiliated, it doesn’t really rub off on you. That’s like my mom thinking that every time I fail, it’s a reflection on her. She should live for herself, not through me. You should live for yourself too.

  “You’re right. I need to live for myself. You’re really good at this, you know that? I can’t believe how well you understand me.”

  Just returning the favor, Hallmark.

  Line 2 lit up again. I had ignored it a few minutes ago. “Will you call back later? I’m here by myself until eleven from now on.”

  Sure. Maybe I’ll eat this takeout. Practice my Scrabble—ha, ha.

  “Take care, Jenney.”

  Bye.

  63.

  refreshing

  In the next hour or so, I got three brand-new Incomings.

  One, Marie, was obsessed with the death of a supermodel who had a reality show. Marie actually broke down talking about her, as if they’d been friends. “It sounds like this is going to leave a big hole in your life,” I heard myself saying.

  Another, Paul, felt guilty because he frequently spied on a fellow student when she got dressed. He had drilled a hole in the dormitory wall and everything.

  I’m trying and trying and trying not to look, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.

  “You’re a good person, Paul,” I said. “You obviously have a lot of concern for that girl’s privacy.” Had I gotten so far into the realities of my Incomings that I could flip things around like that?

  He vowed to wait at least twenty-four hours before giving in to the urge to peep again.

  My third new person was afraid to tell his wife that he had lost his high-paying job. Therefore he dressed in a suit and tie every morning and drove to a truck stop two towns away, where he lingered over breakfast. Then he spent the afternoon talking to the owner of a model-train shop.

  “You have a lot of dignity, Salvatore.”

  I’m trying, Billy. I’m trying.

  Trying is the main thing my Incomings have in common.

  But one of these days it’s going to catch up with me.

  “And what will you do then?”

  I’ll call you.

  Salvatore hung up sounding cheerful. If I wasn’t the best one at Listeners, was I at least one of the best?

  64.

  call 61

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  It’s me.

  “Oh, good.”

  I took a nap and I feel much better.

  “Great.”

  I’m curious about you. Did you do well in school?

  “When I wanted to.”

  Me too. I was a superstar among some people who follow academics and swimming. But it’s hard to get started again.

  “Do you miss school?”

  In some ways. I miss being busy. Hey, maybe I could do what you’re doing.

  “What?”

  I could be a Listener as a second job. Although I bet it doesn’t pay.

  “It’s strictly volunteer. Not sure I was supposed to tell you that.”

  I wouldn’t care. I’d like to volunteer at something. Maybe when I’m feeling better. When I’m back in school again.

  “You’d be great at this. There’s an empty chair here waiting for you.”

  There is?

  “For when you decide to come and volunteer. Right next to me.”

  That’s sweet. I need to make a plan. And I need to just generally do better. Starting tomorrow. Not sleep so much. Not focus so much on what’s missing but on what I am and what I have. I know there’s a better person inside me, someone I was once or was starting to be, and I need to get back to her. Even if the circumstances are difficult.

  There’s an empty chair here waiting for you. Right next to me. That’s the most suave thing I’ve ever said. Yet it came out so easily. What could I say next? We can take Incomings for an hour, then get coffee downstairs, jostling the Staties who push ahead in line. I’ll buy you a cup, then we’ll look in the snack cabinet. We’ll eat the last bag of Doritos, one for you and one for me.

  First I need to make a picture of that girl in my mind and change myself to get to that. Not just for myself, but for us.

  “For us?”

  For my two friends, too. They don’t want to see me the way I am now. I can see why they get uncomfortable. They probably don’t know what to talk to me about. If I was back in school, I would seem more normal.

  “The board-game thing?”

  Burned into my memory, as the saying goes.

  “It really bothered you.”

  I felt better after we talked.

  “That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

  I didn’t call to get your pity, you know.

  “I know.”

  I called because it’s ten thirty and everyone else my age is doing something fun.

  “Everyone but you and me.”

  So why are you there?

  “Because I don’t want to go home.”

  Because of your dad, right? It doesn’t bug you to listen to people’s problems on a Friday night?

  “No. Does it bug you to be telling someone your problems on a Friday night? Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  I know. Actually, I’d rather be at that party. It’s supposed to take up an entire floor in the dorm. But it probably isn’t as good as I imagined.

  “Most things aren’t.”

  Anyway, what college guy is going to be interested in someone with my problems?

  “I think a lot of guys would like you.”

  I don’t have my act together right now.

  “So what?”

  Hey, do you go to Hawthorne State?

  “I’m sorry, I can’t answer that question.”

  Doesn’t matter.

  “I hope you find someone you like. Because you deserve someone great. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

  It’s getting late.

  “Yep, I should go. I’m here alone right now, and every phone on the table is lit up.”

  So you’re going to save my chair for me?

  “Yes, and I’m going to put a cushion on it so you can be nice and comfy.”

  What do you look like?

  “Does it matter?”

  I have a mental picture of you. I see it every time we talk.

  “What’s that?”

  You’re the Listener, right? You’re Big Ears. A huge pair of ears on two legs.

  “I’m flattered.”

  Really?

  “No. Can we get back to talking about you?”

  Want to know what I look like?

  “No.”

  Sure?

  “No. I mean yes.”

  I never knew it was possible to hear someone blush over the phone.

  “There was a topic thread here, but we seem to have lost it.”

  I wonder if we knew each other in high school.

  “Can you ever really know another person?”

  That’s deep.

  I heard Jenney sip from something. Herbal tea, I figured. Or spring water.

  Or maybe you’re one Big Ear, shaped like a horn, like one of those old-fashioned record players. Phonographs.

  “Victrolas.”

  Smart boy.

  “Smart girl. I have to go. Will you be okay?”

  Yeah. Down but not out. I’ll handle it. I always do.

  “I ad—”

  —mire that about you. Good luck with your dad and his crazy pictures. I’ll be thinking of you.

  “Thanks.”

  Good night, sweet Hallmark prince.

  65.

  running

  On Saturday, Gordon ran past the mansions of the Back Shore while I rode my bike in loops around him. It was almost sunset, and the clouds and sky were reflected in the fingerprint-like puddles of dead low tide. Out in Hawthorne Harbor a real schooner floated by, its sails bellowing gracefully in and out like the dome of a jellyfish.

&n
bsp; My tires hissed in the wisps of sand along the road. I looped back to my friend with a purpose in mind.

  “Gordon, have you ever been in love?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. He took a draw from a water bottle I held out.

  “I’ve liked people a whole lot, but not love.”

  “You’re not in love with Brenda?”

  “No. What is this all about?”

  I rode as slowly as he ran, making myself balance on the skinny tires.

  “I’ve met someone,” I said. “I can’t say where. I think I’ve found my soul mate.”

  “What is she like?”

  “She’s exceptional. She has it all. Brains, music, athletic ability. She’s a swimmer and she plays clarinet. And she makes me laugh.” The twin lighthouses of Makepeace Island emerged as we turned a bend. I thought how great it was that they had stood so long together.

  “Is she pretty?” Gordy asked.

  “She’s amazing. In every way imaginable.”

  Gordy smiled and bumped my fist. “I knew she would be,” he said.

  66.

  all-state

  Looking at all this information,” Gordy asked, “what do you think is most interesting?”

  We were in Gordy’s living room, which had dark green walls, a grandfather clock, and glass-fronted bookcases filled with old books. Through the open windows came the fresh, cool smell of salt water and the begging of gulls that followed lobster boats. We had printed a lot of info off the Internet as a starting point, then highlighted some pages and laid them out on the coffee table.

  “The two things that jump out at me are that the harmonica was invented by a sixteen-year-old and that in some countries it’s called a mouth organ. But I wouldn’t necessarily want to say ‘mouth organ’ in front of Shelley Dietrich or Dani Solomon. Or Brenda.” If I said anything remotely sexual, I turned bright red, in a way that probably revealed that I had never had a girlfriend.