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  Closer All the Time

  A NOVEL

  Jim Nichols

  Islandport Press

  PO Box 10

  247 Portland Street

  Yarmouth, Maine 04096

  www.islandportpress.com

  [email protected]

  Portions of this book have been previously published or excerpted in the following magazines: Night Train, Germ, december, Zoetrope ASE, and Enizagam.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jim Nichols

  First Islandport Press edition published March 2015

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-939017-50-5

  Library of Congress Card Number: 2014911175

  Dean L. Lunt, Publisher

  Book jacket design by Karen F. Hoots / Hoots Design

  Book design by Michelle A. Lunt / Islandport Press

  Edited by Genevieve Morgan

  Cover photo from iStock.com

  Once again, for Anne

  “I swore to God I would never turn into you; I’m getting closer all the time.”

  —Nine Inch Nails

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Johnny

  Early

  Tomi

  Mark

  Ted

  Arnold

  Russell

  Roger Jr.

  Larry

  Arnold

  Susan

  Eric

  Johnny and Early

  An Interview with Jim Nichols

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Dean Lunt and the Islandport Press team: Michelle Lunt, Melissa Kim, Holly Eddy, Jennifer Hazard, Shannon Butler, Karen Hoots, Teresa Lagrange, Isabelle Hattan, and the office boss, Penny; special thanks to my editor, Genevieve Morgan, whose very first suggestion led to a much better book, and whose continuing counsel has been invaluable throughout. Thanks also to Melissa Hayes for her line-editing prowess and generous encouragement. And to Monica Wood, Susan Henderson, Ellen Cooney, and John T. Nichols for their early looks and suggestions. And finally I must acknowledge all those who wound up inhabiting these pages: those fumbling, gallant underdogs, those uphill climbers, those hidden-away longers and seekers, who, if the tapping goes on long enough, will sometimes come to the door and tell you a story.

  Johnny

  Johnny Lunden had ridden his old surplus Scout halfway to Portland, filling out applications and angling for interviews. That was always harder than working itself, and by noon he was more than ready to call it a day. But when he got back to Baxter—tired, wind-burned, and thirsty—he saw a HELP WANTED sign in the picture window of the town’s new restaurant, and after throttling back to think about it, he went ahead and pulled the Indian over to the curb. On the sidewalk he ran his hands through his hair and smoothed his mustache.

  What the hell, he thought. One more won’t kill you.

  His reward for that impulse was a painful half hour in a cluttered little office at the back end of the building, listening to Alva Potter expound on modern business philosophy. Alva had it all figured out: You had to be sharp, and you had to compete. Business was like war—to put it in a context that Johnny might appreciate—and he could be thought of as the commander whom the troops must follow.

  “You with me here?” Alva said, chin raised.

  Johnny couldn’t help clicking his heels together lightly and saying, “Sir, yes, sir!” at this point, but the commander was enjoying the sound of his own voice so much that he barely noticed. Johnny managed to restrain himself for the rest of the interview and ultimately walk away with an application in hand and Potter’s man-to-man pledge—Johnny had to bite his tongue here—to give him fair consideration.

  On the way out Johnny swung by the bar to reconnoiter the work space. He liked that it was going to have a sports theme, with an emphasis on fighting, boxing portraits hung on the walls. And the bar itself was set up pretty well, except for the glasses rack directly over the ice sink. As he looked it over, the kitchen door bumped open and a guy his own age came out with a tray of wineglasses. He set the tray down, gave Johnny a nod, and began slipping the glasses stem-first into the rack.

  “Don’t drop one,” Johnny said.

  The bartender shot him a look.

  Johnny held up his hands. “I’ve been there, brother.”

  The bartender grinned. He knew what Johnny was saying: If you dropped a glass it would fall directly into the sink, and after you’d picked out the shards you’d have to replace all the ice. You’d scoop out what you could, and then you’d have to use buckets of hot water. And naturally this would only happen when you were deep in the weeds, with drink orders piled up and waitresses spitting nails.

  “I’m guessing it’s somebody’s own design,” Johnny said.

  “Bingo.” The barkeep carefully put the last glass away. “So how’d it go in there?”

  “I learned that business was like war.”

  The bartender made a face. He reached into the cooler for a bottle of beer, levered the cap off, and set it in front of Johnny. “On him,” he said. Then he took the cork-bottomed tray back to the kitchen.

  Johnny watched little bubbles rise through the ale. He was supposed to be behaving himself. But Sarah was working at the Realty, the boys wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours, and it would be rude to just walk out. It could even affect his job prospects. So he sat down and drank, which obliged him, when the bartender returned, to purchase another so he could leave a little something for a tip. The bartender was Navy—Johnny had seen the anchor tattoo when his sleeve had ridden up—and Johnny always tipped fellow vets.

  “Will he mind me sitting here?” Johnny thought to ask.

  “He’s gone out. Got a big war council or something.”

  Johnny smiled and raised the beer. He’d almost finished it when Early Blake came in, saw his near-empty glass, and ordered him a refill. All right, Johnny thought, just one more, since it’s him. But then you head home.

  He asked Early how things were on the flats, and that led to stories about falling out of skiffs, stepping into honey pots, and dodging the clam cops. The bartender laughed and set them up again.

  It was like a conspiracy, Johnny thought with awe.

  The bartender did a magic trick involving ashtrays and shot glasses, and then Early related how when he was a young fellow he’d run up the river on a foggy day to steal an outboard from a guy who’d owed him for ten pecks of clams for over a year. The deadbeat had had a second outboard, though, and he’d come after Early and actually fired a couple of rounds at him through the murk. Early had to lie low in Preacher’s Cove until the guy gave up.

  It was a long, well-told tale, and by the time it was over they’d switched to Bacardi, but Johnny was careful to dilute each drink by eating the ice at the bottom of the glass. He forgo
t to keep track of the time, though, and later when Early looked at his watch and said, “Lord Almighty, how’d it get to be five o’clock?” Johnny was shocked.

  Then he remembered the school bus and his kids.

  “Yikes,” he said, and got to his feet.

  Early Blake laughed. “Somebody’s in trouble.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Outside Johnny looked in disbelief at the lowering sun. He’d wondered en route to the door about walking home—it wasn’t far, and he wouldn’t have to worry about running into Chief Foss, who was always willing to pull him over—but now he dismissed that idea. He just couldn’t afford the time. Also, he’d have to explain why he hadn’t driven. And there was one other reason: In Baxter people would stop and offer you a ride, and if that happened it would get around that he’d been drinking again.

  So he threw his lanky frame over the bike, jammed three pieces of Juicy Fruit into his mouth, and pulled gently out into the street. He rode past the big Main Street flagpole and leaned around the corner to head slowly down Knox, past the Baptist Church with its high, white steeple and wide, groomed lawn. When he reached the bottom of the hill he was close enough to home to stop worrying about Chief Foss, but that only took his mind back to Sarah. A cold lump formed in his stomach, as if all the Bacardi-flavored ice were somehow reconstituting itself, and he wondered what he was going to tell her this time. He’d already worked late, had a flat tire, met an old friend. He wished to hell he could still joke his way out of trouble.

  He’d been pretty good at that once upon a time. Inspired, even. Once he’d claimed to be an extraterrestrial, stranded on Earth, unable to understand the earthling concept of time. It had been a reference to a bad movie they’d taken the kids to see at the Baxter drive-in, called Mordak from Mars.

  “Mordak sorry!” he’d said, circling Sarah with exaggerated, heavy-gravity steps, his imitation so dead-on that finally she’d had to smirk despite herself.

  Afterward he’d used the routine shamelessly, and eventually it became a family joke. He and the kids would walk like Martians, chanting, “We come in peace!” as they followed Sarah around the house.

  Or they’d be heading to Portland to visit Sarah’s parents and to pass the time he’d tell them Mordak stories. One trip he told them about his escape to Earth in a ship fueled by astro-poop, and the boys made faces from their seats in the back and kicked their feet and said, “Daaaad!” Then he told them how he’d spent 146 years hiding out on the moon, spying down on Earth, looking for the perfect mate, and how he’d finally found their mom.

  “Lucky me, huh?” Sarah had said.

  There’d been a little something in her voice, because it hadn’t been all that long since he’d come home at two in the morning with blood on his knuckles—sometimes he made a lousy human being—but he’d ignored it and pressed on.

  “Mordak happy now!” he’d exclaimed, and they had rolled down Route 1, through small towns, past hayfields, and into stretches of pine woods, and he’d kept at it until everyone in the car was snickering helplessly.

  Johnny squeezed the clutch and coasted quietly down Water Street, wobbling slightly. It was early spring, and the water black and high as it swept through the town and curved toward the bay, carrying bits of broken light from tall streetlights. Their house sat on a high bank looking across the street at the harbor, and for a moment, riding up the driveway, the house dark and still, he was frightened that Sarah had taken the kids and left, as she’d threatened to do more than once. Then he saw light in the kitchen.

  Popping the clutch, he putted around the wagon, heeled down the kickstand, swung off the bike. He spat his wad of gum into the garden to the left of the door, where Sarah’s poppies, closed up with evening, sat blindly at the end of their long necks. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Sarah was standing at the kitchen sink, hand-washing her plate. Her back stiffened as Johnny clicked the door shut. His son Alec looked at him from the table, a book in one hand and his fork in the other.

  “Hey, Smart Alec,” Johnny said.

  “You’re home,” Alec said.

  Sarah turned then and gave him a look. Johnny admired the way her fair hair shone under the ceiling light. He thought she was pretty as anything, and wanted to kiss her and beg forgiveness, but that was another thing he’d done too often. Instead he gave her what he hoped was a chipper smile.

  “I might have found something,” he said. “Alva Potter needs a bartender. I filled out an application and he gave me an interview on the spot.” He tried to breathe shallowly and not slur. But then the house tilted suddenly and he had to put a hand to the wall.

  Sarah dropped her dishcloth and stalked out.

  Johnny pushed off the wall and looked at his younger son. The ice in his gut grew edges and spires.

  “Eric got sent home from school,” Alec said.

  “How come?” Johnny said.

  “He got in another fight.”

  “Perfect,” Johnny said. He reached to ruffle Alec’s shaggy hair, but Alec raised the book to ward him off, so he said, “Sorry” and went into the living room, where Sarah sat with the newspaper, collapsing it to turn the pages in a kind of controlled fury.

  Johnny told her he was sorry he’d come home late, but Potter had asked if he could buy him a beer after the interview, and he’d thought it wise to accept.

  “What time was that, Johnny?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  She crumpled the paper, turned the page.

  “We really didn’t drink that much. Mostly just talked about the job.”

  “Go look in the mirror,” Sarah said.

  They had a long, framed mirror on the wall above the register in the little hallway that led to the front door. Johnny walked over and took a look. A tired and haggard man stared back at him. Okay, he thought.

  Back in the living room he said, “I guess I did it again.”

  Sarah closed the newspaper, captured a page.

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I should have been here.”

  “But you weren’t,” she said.

  “I’ll go up and see him.”

  “Better chew some more gum.”

  Johnny walked over to the stairway, jogged up the stairs. He ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then knocked on Eric’s door. After a moment, he pushed it open. Eric was sitting on his bed, facing the window in the dark. Johnny shuffled over and sat beside him.

  He felt the bedspread under his hands, the little-kid quilt that Eric still used with its bright yellow stars, moons, and planets. Johnny remembered picking it out and missed the boy Eric had been in those days. He could always jostle him out of his moods back then. All he had to do was swoop down on him, crying, “Martian death match!,” and Eric would try to run, but Johnny would catch him and sling him up on his shoulder and spin him around. Finally Eric would laugh despite himself and say, “Stop! I give!” and then he’d be happy, at least for a spell.

  “Don’t you want any dinner?” Johnny said now.

  Eric shook his head, hid his face in the pillow.

  Johnny looked at him helplessly. Then he said, “Heck with it—eating’s for earthlings.”

  Eric didn’t move or speak.

  “Martians don’t need to eat,” Johnny went on. “Martians just synthesize nutrients out of the air. Of course it takes some concentration, and I’ve been living on Earth for quite a while; I’ve gotten used to eating, so maybe it isn’t as easy as it once was, and I suppose if I wait too long there’s the danger I might forget altogether . . .”

  “Shut up, Dad,” Eric said into the pillow.

  Johnny shut up. Outside, cars ripped past their driveway and shot around the corner out of sight. The Baxter Speedway, they called it, because everybody from the far side of the river used their street to cut up to Route 1. They crossed the iron bridge to Water Street, hung a right, and were off to the races.

  Eric sat up, face in his hands
.

  Johnny looked at his incongruously black hair—everybody else’s was some variation of hay-colored—and his lean arms and said, “They pestering you at school again?” This was the third fight he’d heard about, and Eric had also been kicked out for a week for swearing at the principal.

  Eric clenched his fists as if holding onto himself, tight. Then he jumped up, grabbed his jacket off the bedpost, and took off down the stairs.

  Johnny listened to him run out of the house and slam the door and run down the driveway.

  Then he fell back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

  When Johnny walked into the living room, Sarah hadn’t moved. Alec came out of the kitchen with a heaping bowl of ice cream and a glass of milk, the book tucked under his arm. He looked sideways at Johnny and went on up the stairway to his room opposite Eric’s. In a moment the ceiling began to vibrate.

  Johnny grinned weakly at Sarah. “He calls it music.”

  Sarah got purposefully to her feet and marched down to their bedroom off the front hallway. Johnny went back into the kitchen and looked at the chicken and the bowl of peas and the mashed potatoes. None of it was very appetizing. He might as well have been a real Martian, for all the effect that food had on him.

  He looked at his jacket, hanging beside the door.

  It had rained the day before and Johnny could see footprints in the mud. Eric had run all the way down past the mom-and-pop at the corner, and then the impressions changed; now he was walking.

  Johnny imagined ducking into the store and grabbing a beer before continuing the search. But even he couldn’t be that much of a loser. He didn’t need it, anyway; he was still stepping on his own feet. He tracked Eric by streetlight onto the pedestrian footbridge and looked down at the fast swell of the water, the bridge strung sturdily to the other side. He started across, scanning for signs of his son on the opposite bank. Nothing there.

  He turned to walk back, a little worried now; kids had drowned in the Baxter River before.

  He’d almost reached Water Street when he heard the sob. It came again from somewhere low, and he peered over the railing to see his son sitting on a cross-girder, with his back against one of the posts that went down into the cement footings of the bridge. Eric had his head in his hands and the bridge arced over him and the water eddied noisily past just a few feet away.