My Beautiful Failure Page 4

  “Oh, two or three,” Dad said. He hummed “Barcarolle” and laughed to himself, as if his painting were a friend he had spent the night talking to.

  “I hope you don’t make this a habit,” Mom said. “You’re going to be useless at work today.” She pulled aside the kitchen curtains and checked the traffic going by on the highway on the other side of our fence. “But it’s good to see you so excited about something.”

  “Did you finish your painting?” Linda asked, squeezing an orange on Grandma Pearl’s old juicer. “When are you going to show it to us?”

  “Not for a while,” Dad said. “Billy got a preview, but I had so much fun, I think I’ll squirrel away the paintings for now and show you all of them at once.”

  I thought again about the gray sunset. It was disturbing. What was Dad trying to get at? And why would he spend so much money on different paint colors if he wasn’t going to use them?

  I got up from the table and shook the box of oatmeal squares in his direction. “Bowl of cereal, Dad? How about eating something?”

  “I’m fine with just the coffee.” He hardly saw the Quaker guy on the box. It was overshadowed by the picture in his head.

  “At least a Pop-Tart.” I went to the cabinet for a smaller box. I didn’t like this at all. Last winter began because Dad didn’t eat or sleep. We couldn’t get him into a normal routine again.

  Dad chuckled. “Adele, how did we raise such a bossy child?” He shook his head, shrugged, and laughed again.

  “Maybe he won’t be a psychologist after all,” Mom said. “Maybe he’ll be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.” She started pulling together what she needed for the day: purse, laptop, cell phone, and a briefcase of magazines and papers.

  “No, that’s Linda,” Dad said. Linda found ways to monetize everything. Most of her artwork evolved into a moneymaking scheme. She and Jodie had tried to sell clay cats, hand-pounded wrapping paper, and origami Mother’s Day cards.

  “You are going to work today, aren’t you, Bill?” Mom looked a little worried.

  “Afraid so,” he said, “but I wish I could spend all day painting. I hate to break off what I love doing and spend eight hours on meaningless labor. Why aren’t we rich? Why didn’t I think of that, Adele? Why did you let me forget to become rich?”

  “You’d better get in the shower,” Mom said, putting her bag over her shoulder. “Linda, are you going to need a ride, or will you catch the bus?”

  “Ride.” Linda drank her juice with ice cubes and went to finish getting ready. Mom made a few calls in the living room while she waited.

  “Dad. Pop-Tart.” I unwrapped a strawberry pastry and put it on a paper plate in front of Dad. He nibbled at the corners. My gaze dropped to his abdomen under the paint-spattered T-shirt. Already that little potbelly was flattening out.

  “I’m onto something big,” Dad said.

  “With your sunset?” I shook the plate so he would remember to eat.

  “With my painting in general.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I shouldn’t keep it all to myself.”

  “You’re going to show Mom and Linda after all?” I rinsed my bowl for the dishwasher.

  “That’s not what I mean.” Dad ran his hand over his rough, stubbly face. I wondered if he had been cold in just a T-shirt last night. It was early November, and I had heard the wind rattling. Was he even aware of his physical sensations when he painted?

  “I mean, work like what I’m producing right now has to be seen. I’m going to start contacting museums and galleries and see if someone wants to give me a show, or at least represent me.”

  “That one painting? The gray one? Or are you talking about what you worked on in school?”

  “The new stuff. I don’t care as much about the old stuff. Okay, maybe the old stuff too. But these new paintings I’m going to be working on—someone will want to show them. I’ve got to reactivate my old contacts.”

  Dad had eaten only a quarter of the Pop-Tart. “You know what I’m going to say, right?” I asked. “Before I even say it?” I reached toward him, and he did the high-five. “How about just painting for fun and not worrying about the rest of it?”

  “Because those of us who have special gifts are obligated to share them with others,” he said, as if it were self-explanatory. He leaned closer and whispered again. “We carry the fire, Billy.”

  For a second I thought he meant “we” as in him and me. When I realized he probably didn’t I snorted and didn’t really care. I could take my family in stride today. Tonight I would have my first Listeners shift, manning the phones and saving actual callers from suicide.

  “Bill Senior, you’re still standing in the same spot! You’ve got to get moving!” Mom said as she kissed Dad and not me.

  “Now she thinks she’s my boss too.” Dad laughed and rushed down the hall to take a shower.

  16.

  shift 1, november 4

  I clipped my Listeners photo ID to my shirt pocket and slid my passcard through the electronic reader outside the elevator. Pep had scheduled me on the five-to-nine shift Tuesdays and Fridays with Margaret and Richie. It would be a busy shift because the Incomings who worked all day or went to school would be getting home and ready to talk.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early, as Pep requested, so I had some time to chill with my mates. I felt nervous—but a good, preshow, big-game nervous. Purposeful. I asked Margaret why she had joined Listeners.

  Margaret, it turned out, started with Listeners six months ago. She joined because of her religious beliefs. She didn’t believe in any kind of killing, including suicide, abortion, or capital punishment.

  I asked her if she killed bugs, and she said she tried not to.

  Richie said he wanted to save lives but he was not entirely against suicide. Although Listeners said the most tragic thing about suicide was that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem, Richie believed it was a legitimate choice in some circumstances, such as terminal illness. He said, in fact, that he would consider offing himself if he were terminally ill. I looked closely at Richie, with his new-for-school pencil case and his Ninja Turtles T-shirt. How would he do it—stage a head-on collision in his go-kart?

  Margaret asked why I had joined. She called me Mr. Newcomer. I told her that, like some of the volunteers in the website video, I had a close family member who had been suicidal. As I told her this I placed my hand on the phone, and even though Dad’s heart was in his artwork these days and not in our relationship, I said aloud that I dedicated my service at Listeners to my CFM.

  Margaret announced that it was ten minutes to five, a transitional moment. She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room that was labeled with a brass plaque:

  EMMA P. BRAUMANN

  MEMORIAL SNACK CABINET

  FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE LISTENERS

  IN PERPETUITY FOREVER

  ENJOY!

  Richie told me this cabinet was restocked daily from an endless supply of snacks. The snacks came in handy, especially during the overnight shifts the college-age Listeners were required to man. The selection of food was not great—not microwave nachos or anything—but it was always there.

  Margaret came back with a plastic bag.

  Inside were circus peanuts, that strange food that is pale orange, resembles a bloated peanut, and tastes neither like peanuts nor like anything orange but like marshmallow.

  Richie warned me not to get caught chewing when the phone rang.

  I swallowed the pale orange wad, which no amount of saliva could effectively moisten.

  Two minutes to five. Almost showtime. Richie folded his arms and stared at the phones, a very old-fashioned kind that you would think was too obsolete to work—beige plastic, the receiver attached to the base with a squiggly coil. I took a deep breath. Any Incomings would go automatically to Margaret, the veteran, on line 1. If her line was busy, the call would bounce to Richie on line 2. Manning line 3, I’d get the fewest calls.

  Line 1 ra
ng, and Margaret pressed the button.

  Soon both Margaret and Richie were talking to Incomings. Their listening, though professional, had a different quality from what I’d witnessed with Dad’s therapist, Dr. Fritz. Fritz was hugely into eye contact. Here, Margaret doodled. Richie arranged circus peanuts end to end. His voice seemed different on the phone: low, sincere, and commiserative, it might make Incomings believe he was my age. On a scrap of paper I wrote a song title: “Check In Before You Check Out.” Then, holy cripes, my phone lit. Line 3 was ringing. Someone needed me. Someone was in trouble, and I was going to save them. Margaret and Richie dropped their listening faces and glanced at me with big, encouraging eyes. For a second I felt overwhelmed. I hesitated. Richie covered his mouthpiece with one hand and motioned at me to pick up.

  I grabbed the receiver.

  17.

  call 1

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  Yeah. How’s it going?

  “Not bad. How’s it going with you?”

  All right.

  “What’s happening?”

  Not much. Have you seen Mineral Man?

  “Why, is it good?”

  So you haven’t seen it?

  “Have you seen it?”

  I saw it last night! The special effects were incredible! There was a scene where Mineral Man turned an entire city into a white mineral—the buildings, the people, the cars, even the food—and it sparkled so much that even though it was nighttime it looked like the middle of the day.

  “Sounds like you really enjoyed it. My name’s Billy, by the way.”

  Do you read any comics?

  “I don’t know.”

  You don’t know?

  Oh, cripes. I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about myself, but what kind of idiot doesn’t know whether he reads comics or not? Not very convincing. I had to get the hang of that.

  “I mean, I’ve looked at them, sure, but I don’t know much about them. Is Mineral Man your favorite?”

  Well, some people are upset that the movie is a complete departure from the comic, but I think it completely adds to the comic. When I go to a movie I like to see the character be fairly complex, with both a dark side and a light side, you know? And in this one we get to see Seth’s dark side in a way we’ve never seen it before. I really don’t understand why anyone would be trashing it. And it’s the same director who did Varga. I think, in a way, it upsets the public for the director to do something different than he did before. To have a different style or whatever.

  “Yep.”

  Well, what do you think? Do you agree?

  “It sounds like you have really strong feelings about movies.”

  It really ticks me off when people go to a movie just expecting to be entertained.

  “You seem a little angry.”

  What? Not really. I guess I’m just intense. Or passionate. Passionate about movies.

  “So you’re not upset?”

  No. I’m having fun with this. This is cool.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but—are you feeling suicidal?”

  It was awkward to bring this up out of nowhere. But kind of a thrill, too. What if he said yes?

  No.

  “Okay, we ask everyone that.”

  I know. And the answer is no.

  “Do you want to tell me your first name?”

  I’m Carl.

  “Okay, Carl, do you want to get back to what you were saying?”

  With a little probing, Carl outlined Books 1, 2, and 3 of the Mineral Man saga. I started to realize one of the benefits of open-ended questions: I could probe forever without making a statement that would reveal I had no idea what I was talking about. And Carl loved to explain, so it worked for us both.

  Margaret tapped her watch. My booklet said to limit most calls to five minutes.

  “I should go. But it’s been great talking with you. Learning about . . . Seth and everyone.”

  My pleasure, dude.

  18.

  splashdown

  I waited for Margaret and Richie to finish their calls. Margaret put her line on hold and told Richie and me to do the same. Then she touched my shoulder and asked if I was okay.

  Richie bumped my fist and said I was initiated. He asked how I liked my call from the Carl Planet. It had been awkward, I told him, because I was never into comics the way Carl was. And the call hadn’t been what I expected, because Carl wasn’t upset or suicidal. He wasn’t even slightly sad.

  Richie said the important thing was that I had listened.

  I told them the video had made me think everyone who called would be suicidal.

  Hold on there, Margaret cautioned me. She said newbies often came in thinking they were Superman, but they rarely got to save anyone the first night. Or even the first month. Some people got a Likely the first day, she explained, and others worked at Listeners for years without a single Likely.

  Margaret was right, Richie added. We couldn’t come in to work and only value the Likelies. We had to think of each Incoming as equally important, even if they called just to talk about the weather.

  I asked him why, if an Incoming wanted to talk about the weather, he or she called us and not someone else.

  Maybe there was no one else, Richie said. Maybe they were lonely and isolated.

  Or maybe they were tired of putting up a front for other people, Margaret suggested. Maybe Listeners was the only place these Incomings could be themselves.

  I said nothing for a minute. I was beginning to feel like I had made a bad decision. Should I have started a band with Gordy after all?

  Keep plugging, my ListMates told me. I would get a feel for it after a while. I should keep listening, they said. If not for the callers, then for my CFM. I thought of Dad then. Dad was at home, painting industriously, having the time of his life. How had it worked out that he was happy with what he was doing and I wasn’t?

  Margaret opened her line and we started again.

  19.

  call 2

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  How old are you?

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give out personal information. Anyway, I’d rather hear what’s going on with you.”

  You’re just a kid, aren’t you?

  A man’s voice—smooth, like a radio announcer.

  “How are things going?”

  You sound really young.

  “My name’s Billy. Would you like to tell me your first name?”

  Are you wearing boxers or briefs?

  My hand went instinctively to my thigh. “I’m sorry?”

  Right now. Do you have on boxers or briefs?

  “Do I . . . ?”

  You know what I’m talking about.

  “I have to go.” Click.

  20.

  lowered expectations

  I continued for a few more calls. The handbook said I should get people to discuss their feelings, but two Incomings refused to name a single feeling, and I wasn’t sure they even had any. One said his major feeling was discomfort because he had never talked to me before. Another asked if she could talk to Margaret or Richie instead. When I finished that call, I looked at the clock. Eight forty-five. My phone rang.

  21.

  call 12

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  Yep. It’s Jenney. I had a really tough day today.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I walked past Hawthorne State and I started thinking about all that stuff again, about everything I’m missing.

  “Everything you’re missing?”

  Yeah, the fact that I’m supposed to be in school now and I’m not. I just can’t face school in the condition I’m in. But I saw all these Staties on their way to a game or a rally or something, and they have big groups of friends and lots of ways to fill their time. They have everything I was supposed to have, everything I was going to have, but . . . My future got taken away from me.

  I heard a soft clicking sound, like the feet of a
cat on a hardwood floor.

  “Jenney, are you crying?”

  Yes . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m such a mess. Just give me a sec to pull myself together.

  “Take your time. Don’t worry about crying. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Okay. A little better now.

  “Jenney, are you thinking about suicide?”

  Oh, God—no. You don’t have to ask me that. Suicide is for weaklings. I’m a fighter, you know.

  “That’s great. You sound like a really strong person.”

  I really am strong, I think. I would have to be strong to go through what I’m going through.

  “You should be proud of that, Jenney.”

  I am.

  “So, do you want to tell me what’s going on? What happened with school? You seem disappointed about the school situation.”

  Because of all the stuff that happened with my parents, I didn’t—

  “I’m sorry, what happened with your parents?”

  You don’t know?

  “No, I don’t.”

  You must know. Everybody at Listeners knows what happened with my parents.

  “Well, I don’t. I’m sorry to interrupt you, because you’re obviously upset, but I’d like to get more background if you want to tell me.

  Wait a minute . . . are you new?

  “Yes, I am. This is my first day, actually. My name is Billy, by the way.”

  I can’t believe it. You’re great at this!

  “I am?”

  Yeah, I would never have thought this was your first day. I feel so comfortable talking to you.

  “Really?”

  I feel like I could tell you anything.

  “Well, thanks.”

  Margaret cleared her throat. I realized I was breaking one of the rules.

  “It’s great of you to say so, but I’m not here to talk about myself. I’d much rather hear about you and school and everything.” Margaret nodded. She returned to her doodles and her Incoming.