We All Fall Down Read online

  No missing mustache now, only her father looking forlorn and lonely at three in the morning. Hair disheveled, eyes dull, listless. Needing a shave. A faintly familiar tone to his voice when he spoke, disturbing to her. Where had she heard that voice before? Then remembered. The voice in which he answered the detective who had asked if he had any enemies. A small boy’s voice. Not really her father. Jane got the shivers again as she had that day but worse now. Middle-of-the-night worse. She shivered, not from the cold, but from a sense of dread. She remembered a poem from school: “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.” Her family falling apart and her father, at the center. Could he hold them together? If he couldn’t, who could?

  “How about you, Jane? What are you doing up at this crazy hour?”

  “I heard you come downstairs and wondered if you were okay, not sick or anything.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Just restless.”

  Her father startled her with his next words.

  “Actually, I had a bad dream,” he said. “I’ve been having bad dreams lately. At least, I think they’re bad dreams. They wake me up and I’m in a sweat but I can’t remember the dreams, only the feeling of them, their aura. Like a black cloud, although the dreams aren’t about black clouds. Just a feeling of something dark and menacing …”

  Oh, Dad, don’t say that. Fathers aren’t supposed to have dreams like that. Kids run to their fathers in the middle of the night when the kids have bad dreams, Fathers are supposed to soothe them and say: It’s only a dream, only a dream.

  “Do you think the dream is about Karen? Because she’s in kind of a black cloud?”

  He glanced at her sharply.

  “You think so?”

  She shrugged. Tried to appear calm although panic whistled through her veins. He was supposed to know the answers.

  “I worry about her, of course,” he said. “We all do. I guess what’s especially bad is the sense of helplessness. We can’t do anything to help her …”

  “Maybe she knows, Dad,” Jane offered. “Maybe she does hear us when we visit and talk to her, like the doctor says. Knows we’re there.” She wasn’t sure she believed this but needed to offer him comfort of some kind.

  Silence for a while. Nighttime silence different from morning or afternoon. No cars passing, no shouts from kids outside. No lawn mowers. Not even the sounds of nature, birds, dogs, or cats.

  Her father’s jaw tightened, a pulse throbbing at his temples, lips pressed tight. “Another thing,” he said, and the simmering anger again. “Helpless against who did this thing to her, to us. If I could get my hands on them …” He looked up at her sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said. “This is middle-of-the-night talk, that’s all.” Rousing himself, pushing himself up from the table. “Let’s go to bed, Jane. Sleep, the best medicine …”

  Jane did not fall asleep for a long time. Tossed and turned. Got all mixed up between sheet and blankets. Punched the pillow. Could not get comfortable. Remembering that look on her father’s face. The anger below the surface. The helplessness as he clenched his jaw. If I could get my hands on them.

  She was suddenly afraid for her father. And almost hoped that the trashers would never be found.

  Buddy reached into the pile of rags, probing for the familiar touch of the paper bag and the bottle it contained. Felt—nothing. He groped further, to the left and right, mildly puzzled but not really concerned. Frowning, he cleared the shelf of the accumulation of rags, tools, old paint cans, placing them on the floor next to the workbench. Still not there. He looked under the shelf, scanned the floor. Even checked the old tin wastebasket next to the bench and the hanging shelf above the bench. No bag and no bottle.

  Breathing a bit heavily, perspiration bubbling on his forehead, he leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He had heard that one of the bad effects of drinking was blackout. Had he somehow blacked out and couldn’t remember where he’d placed the bottle? Ridiculous. His memory was sometimes hazy the day after a wild night but he had never drawn a blank.

  “This what you’re looking for?”

  Turning, he saw Addy in the doorway, holding the bottle, her nose wrinkled as if a foul odor came from it.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Buddy asked, holding back an impulse to grab the bottle out of her hands.

  “I’m trying to save your life.”

  “Save your own life,” he said, walking toward her reaching out for the bottle.

  She stepped back, moving the bottle away from him.

  “My life’s not in danger,” she said. “I’m not in danger of becoming an alcoholic.”

  Buddy shook his head in disgust. “Look, there are plenty of other bottles I can put my hands on,” he said. “Keep the goddam thing. Have a drink or two yourself. Maybe it’ll make you more human.”

  “Is that what you think it does? Make you more human? Let me tell you something Buddy. It does just the opposite. Makes you a monster. A silly-looking monster. Ever look into the mirror when you’re so stupidly drunk? You ought to see yourself. That silly look on your face, like a moron. And you ought to see yourself at the dinner table. That stupid grin of yours. Mom won’t admit it. She’s so wrapped up in her own worries that she doesn’t see anything, not even how stupid you look and act.”

  Silly, stupid. Didn’t she know any other words?

  “So you think you can stop me from being stupid and silly by taking my bottles?”

  “Now you’re being stupid and silly when you’re sober. Bad enough when you’re drunk but absolutely ridiculous when you’re sober. I assume you’re sober, anyway. So, no, I don’t think taking this bottle will stop you from drinking.”

  “So what’s this all about?”

  “I’m simply trying to get your attention.”

  “Why do you need my attention? I don’t need yours. Don’t want yours.”

  “Because …” Now she faltered and the bottle in her hand seemed ludicrous.

  “Because why?” Challenging her. Okay, here I am, you have my attention. Now tell me why you need it

  “Because we have to talk. I can’t stand this any longer. Mom going around in a permanent daze, like she’s sleepwalking. You drunk most of the time. Your father out there with that woman, that girl.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to do?” he asked, but not really interested because there was nothing they could do.

  Which, he decided, he ought to tell her: “There is nothing we can do.”

  She heaved the bottle as if throwing a football and it struck the stucco wall, breaking into a thousand pieces, the neck flying away while the rest of the bottle and the precious liquid dropped to the floor.

  “Christ,” he said.

  “See? There’s always something that can be done.”

  “And you think you’ve been acting like a sane person?”

  Which made it a draw, as he turned to look at the soggy mess on the floor.

  “Look,” she said, conciliatory. “All I want to do is talk. Is that asking too much? And I’ve got a present for you. In my room.” She took a step toward the hallway. “Please,” she said, her voice cracking forlornly.

  Reluctant but curious he followed as she led him upstairs to her room, opened the door and gestured him inside. She pointed to the bureau where a gleaming bottle of gin stood, a glass beside it.

  “Help yourself,” she said. “From me to you,”

  His first reaction was to think that Addy was a boozer, too, with her own secrets but a moment later realized that this was not possible. Not Addy, of all people.

  “No, the bottle’s not mine,” she said. “I wouldn’t drink this stuff for anything in the world. And never mind how I got it. It involved bribes, from the friend of a friend. But I got it for you and this is another bribe. So that we’d talk. If you have to drink, then do it with me. Not alone. I can’t stand being alone in this house anymore.”

  Suddenly, he did not want a drink. His eyes became ridiculously wet and he fumbled in his
pocket for a stray piece of Kleenex. Saw how pathetic they’d become, brother and sister: the brother a drunk, the sister abandoned, tracking down a bottle of gin in order to make contact.

  “We’ve got to do something, Buddy,” she said. “We can’t keep on like this. Remember the sins of omission?”

  Buddy shook his head, didn’t remember. He remembered only vaguely those religion classes on Monday nights in the basement of St. Dymphna’s church. Old Father O’Brien conducted the classes, explaining the Bible and the Ten Commandments and other stuff. Buddy had paid scant attention. Monday nights were ridiculous nights for religion classes. Kids were already loaded up with regular homework. His mother insisted that he and Addy attend the classes. “Her conscience bothering her,” Addy surmised. Their mother was Roman Catholic and their father a Presbyterian if he was anything at all. He seldom bothered going to church. Their mother herded them to Sunday masses and Christian Doctrine classes on Monday evenings. Until the last two or three years when she seemed to give up on the classes although she made Buddy and Addy sit through interminable services on Sunday morning, or sometimes Saturday evenings. Saturday evenings were even worse than Sunday mornings.

  “The sins of omission are the sins of doing nothing,” Addy said now in her smart-alecky way. “Like, I think wars get declared because somebody somewhere does nothing to stop them. And we’re doing nothing to stop what’s going on with Mom and Dad.”

  “But what can we do?” he asked, still not looking at her, his eyes remaining moist, concentrating on the window and the yellow plastic butterfly she’d installed to cover a hole in the screen.

  “I don’t know. But let’s talk about it. About the possibilities.”

  Which made him realize that Addy dreamed of possibilities when she was sober and he only indulged in them when he was on the booze. “Okay, let’s talk …”

  “Do you need a drink first?” she asked.

  The word need stung him, made him flinch. Was she being sarcastic? Saw her face and decided she was sincere.

  “No,” he said, glad to be saying no. “Let’s hear about these possibilities.”

  Addy flung herself on the bed, cupped hands holding her chin, while Buddy went to the window, stared at the backyard where the old picnic table needed paint and the barbecue grill rusted away. The family suppers out there were only dim memories now.

  “Maybe,” Addy said, “we ought to have plans.”

  “What kind of plans?” Speaking almost absently, still staring into the yard.

  “Plans to end this crazy stuff between Mom and Dad. Maybe we can do something to get them together again. At least to talk …” She launched into a series of plots-arranging a meeting between them on “neutral ground,” like in a restaurant. Approaching that woman, that girl as Addy always described her scornfully, and trying to reason with her. “If she sees us, his son and daughter, she probably will see him in a different light.”

  All of it impossible, of course. Which he tried to tell her without hurting her feelings or fracturing this sudden intimacy. “Addy, this is dream stuff. Sounds beautiful but I don’t think it can work. That woman, that girl—you can bet your life she’s already seen us, she knows who we are. And getting Mom and Dad together—do you think that can really work out? This thing just didn’t happen overnight. Who knows when it began? Maybe Mom and Dad began falling apart long before that woman came along.…”

  “Maybe we could sue them,” she said, brightly, the kind of brightness that flashes just before tears.

  They both laughed, brittle laughter ringing hollowly in the bedroom and as they looked at each other Buddy saw that they had accomplished something, at least, a sort of bond, not exactly friendship but a kind of alliance.

  “Know what we are, Buddy?” Addy asked, voice rueful.

  “What?” Buddy replied warily, a bit unsure of himself with this new Addy.

  “Victims. Victims of child abuse.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Mom and Dad never laid a hand on us.” Frowning, suddenly aghast: “Did something happen to you? Did Dad ever …”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she scoffed, and for a moment she was the old Addy again, the pain-in-the-ass kid sister. “Not sexual abuse or even physical abuse. But just as bad in its own way. Divorce. A family breaking up. Mothers and fathers too selfish about themselves and ignoring their children …”

  “They haven’t ignored us,” Buddy said, not certain why he was defending them. “Mom’s here. Dad keeps in touch.” That twenty-five-dollar check each week.

  “That’s not what I mean by ignoring. I mean, ignoring the hurt, the invisible stuff that happens to kids. What’s happening to us.”

  Buddy hated arguments, confrontations, did not like to articulate feelings, as if feeling would go away or would not have any existence at all if they were not put into words. He did not comment. In fact, he wanted to end this conversation, get out of here.

  “Listen, Buddy, when I fell out of the tree that time I was nine years old and broke my arm, I didn’t cry. It hurt like hell but I didn’t cry. But I’ve cried three times since Dad left. Middle-of-the-night crying.”

  Tears gathered now in her eyes and she turned away, smacking her hands together the way a pitcher does before throwing the ball to a batter. His little sister in this pathetic parody of a ball player simply because she was trying to hide her tears.

  “I hate them, I hate them,” she muttered, still turned away, still smacking her hands together.

  He looked at the bottle on the bureau, the glass beside it. Reached out to touch her shoulder but unable, again, to do it. Reached out toward the bottle but stayed his hand.

  “Don’t hate them, Addy,” he said. “Anyway, Mom’s still here. Dad was the one who left.”

  “But he wouldn’t have left, wouldn’t have been attracted to someone else if everything had been fine with them.” Turning to him again: “Why doesn’t she fight back?”

  That’s the difference between us, Buddy thought. Addy was a fighter, his mother wasn’t. Neither was he. He drifted, let others do the leading. Like with Harry Flowers. Following him in his exploits, into that house and the terrible things they did. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling useless.

  “Poor Buddy.” Almost whispering, her voice sad and wistful.

  He went to the door, unable to say any more. He did not want her pity. Did not want her bottle. Did not completely trust her yet. Maybe later. All he knew now was that he wanted to get out of the house, wanted to get downtown where Crumbs would supply him with the stuff that would take away all the lousy things in his life.

  The Avenger hated the Mall.

  He hated the crowds and the white lights and the music coming from the loudspeakers. He felt lost and alone, not like an Avenger at all, his head aching from all the sights and sounds, his eyes sore from all the searching and looking. He was surprised to find so many old people in the Mall, looking sad and abandoned, lingering on the benches, some of them staring into space, others napping, eyes closed, mouths open.

  The teenagers were everywhere. Moving, always on the go. Alone and in groups. Laughing and calling to each other. The guys pushing and shoving sometimes. Flirting with the girls and the girls flirting back, sidelong glances, secret smiles. Eating hot dogs and pizzas and big crazy sandwiches. Gulping Coke, 7-Up, other stuff.

  Although he hated the Mall, he went there every day when the schools let out, having decided, through a process of elimination, that the Mall was the most likely place to find the trashers. He had reached this conclusion one day in his shed, where he had put his thinking cap on. Whenever he came across a tough problem, his mother always said: Put your thinking cap on. So that’s what he did. In his mind, he made out a list. He was good at picturing things in his mind. On one side, he saw the questions. On the other side, the answers. Like: What do you know about the trashers? Answer: They are young guys, all dressed up, teenagers. To find them you have to go where teenagers hang out, right? Right
. And where do teenagers hang out? At the schools, high schools. Do teenagers really hang out at schools? Don’t they get out of the schools as fast as possible when the last bell rings? Right. Where do they go? Home, to part-time jobs at places like McDonald’s, the stores downtown or at the Mall.

  The Mall. Right.

  Sooner or later, everybody went to the Mall. To work in the stores or to hang out.

  The Avenger sighed, dreading the prospect of going to the Mall every day but knowing that he had no other choice.

  For the next three weeks, he went to the Mall almost every afternoon that his chores permitted him to go. He stationed himself for periods of time at the entrance, then walked through the place, looking, always looking, but acting as if he was not looking, trying not to act suspicious. But how do you do that? He figured that it was best to look natural, not to lurk behind the fake birches or the huge ferns placed here and there in the Mall. He did not stay in one spot too long, either, and whistled softly, looking at his watch occasionally, as if he were waiting for someone. Meanwhile, his eyes were like secret cameras, taking pictures of the guys going by or standing around in groups, his eyes darting here, there, and everywhere.

  He learned to avoid the security guards, although they were not a problem. Even though they wore impressive uniforms, they were old, weary-looking, retired police officers, maybe. But The Avenger still avoided them, moving on if one of them approached. Meanwhile, he kept looking, searching, ignoring his aching head, his sore eyes.