A few years later, his father had awakened him in the middle of the night, shaking him and whispering, "Get up, Gerald," he said. "Wake up. I need you to help me."
In ten minutes they were in the car. The road south stood empty but bright in the glare of the headlights, the towns off the highway more than strings of streetlights against the darkness. It was already after two, and they were riding in almost perfect silence, no wind and no radio, in his father's '64 Chevy, the only car his father had ever ordered new from a dealer.
"You going to tell me what we're up to?" Gerald asked, holding the wheel in one hand at the bottom as if all the car was asking for was some loving touch.
"Your Uncle Ed needs us," his father said.
Ed wasn't his uncle really, even though throughout Gerald's childhood Ed always wanted the kids to call him Uncle Ed.
"What's he into?" Gerald had asked.
"He's drunk somewhere. He called again," his father said.
That he was drunk was not news.
"You need me?" Gerald asked.
His father told him he did. He said, "Your mother's had enough of Uncle Ed."
Down the nearly abandoned freeway, the streetlights formed a tunnel over silence so deep he wondered whether or not the city had left for somewhere. His father had been born and reared in a small town on the state line, the same place where Uncle Ed once owned a filling station, a little red‑star Texaco that all but dried up once State 20 veered north of town on a flat new highway.
But no one really knows why people go bad finally, Gerald figured. Maybe in Uncle Ed's case it was a dead business, maybe it was the marriage that never should have been, maybe it was, in fact, whatever Uncle Ed had had scribbled somewhere on his DNA. Whatever or whoever is at fault for such things, Uncle Ed's wife divorced him later on when he lost every ounce of dignity he'd ever had.
Ed was alone that night, watching television, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in another, his feet up on a hassock not more than a foot from the screen, in a kind of drunk that Gerald had never seen before. He'd seen guys passed out, he'd seen wobbly people on dance floors, and he'd seen anger and violence; but he'd never seen Uncle Ed's scarecrow weakness.
"Why'd you bring Gerald along, Marv?" he said, and then he twisted his head down into his lap like a bird with its beak in its feathers. "I'm just wasted," he said.
It was almost three. His father didn't say a thing.
The apartment had no bed, simply a cot against the wall. A sink stood in the corner of the room, full of dishes and aluminum trays and empty hamburger wrappers. Above it, a door was swung open to empty bottles, a piece of masking tape beneath them stuck on the shelf, some message on it.
What Gerald remembered best about Ed that night was his asking about Evie, Gerald's mother. "I'm really sorry," he said, sniffing, always sniffing. "I suppose Evie hates me now?‑‑" sniffing some more, always sniffing, then drinking again, one more mouthful. "I got to get sober," he said, looking at his drink. "I need one more drink to sober up."
The two of them took Ed into the Veterans’ Hospital, where he couldn't get his mouth around another bottle. All the way down there he cried about how bad everything was, but the whole time he was chain‑ smoking and spilling his drink all over his lap so that when he got there his crotch was soaked. He didn't fight or swear. He just cried.
Once they'd wheeled him away, the man at the admitting desk took their names. "Who's this?" he said, pointing up at Gerald. The man wore a pair of glasses on a string around his neck, but they fell low enough on his nose that his eyes could search up over the rims.
"This is my son," his father said.
The man looked back down at this clipboard and flashed his pen over it to make sure everything was right. "We'd have a whole lot better world if some people brought their kids down to see the crap that goes on in a place like this," he said, nodding as if he were his own audience.
Before they left, they went back to Ed's apartment because his father wanted to empty all the bottles. None of those in the cupboard were full, so they turned the place inside out.
"Your mother says I've done too much already. We got to let him hang himself or save himself, is what people say."
"They say I'm doing this wrong, Gerald," his father said. "They say I'm enabling him to do it again. Know what that means? They say I shouldn't go get him when he asks because then he's always got me to rely on and that's no good. You're still helping him, they say." He reached down beneath the chair and came up with a handful of skin magazines.
"They tell me I shouldn't be here‑‑even your mother says it now, Gerald." He wiped his hands off on his trousers.
"I don't get it," Gerald told him.
"The guy's got to bottom out, they say. He's got to be something himself, and it doesn't help when somebody like me gets in the way. Your mother says I've done too much already. We got to let him hang himself or save himself, is what people say."
"You going to tell me what we're up to?" Gerald asked, holding the wheel in one hand at the bottom as if all the car was asking for was some loving touch.
"Your Uncle Ed needs us," his father said.
Ed wasn't his uncle really, even though throughout Gerald's childhood Ed always wanted the kids to call him Uncle Ed.
"What's he into?" Gerald had asked.
"He's drunk somewhere. He called again," his father said.
That he was drunk was not news.
"You need me?" Gerald asked.
His father told him he did. He said, "Your mother's had enough of Uncle Ed."
Down the nearly abandoned freeway, the streetlights formed a tunnel over silence so deep he wondered whether or not the city had left for somewhere. His father had been born and reared in a small town on the state line, the same place where Uncle Ed once owned a filling station, a little red‑star Texaco that all but dried up once State 20 veered north of town on a flat new highway.
But no one really knows why people go bad finally, Gerald figured. Maybe in Uncle Ed's case it was a dead business, maybe it was the marriage that never should have been, maybe it was, in fact, whatever Uncle Ed had had scribbled somewhere on his DNA. Whatever or whoever is at fault for such things, Uncle Ed's wife divorced him later on when he lost every ounce of dignity he'd ever had.
Ed was alone that night, watching television, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in another, his feet up on a hassock not more than a foot from the screen, in a kind of drunk that Gerald had never seen before. He'd seen guys passed out, he'd seen wobbly people on dance floors, and he'd seen anger and violence; but he'd never seen Uncle Ed's scarecrow weakness.
"Why'd you bring Gerald along, Marv?" he said, and then he twisted his head down into his lap like a bird with its beak in its feathers. "I'm just wasted," he said.
It was almost three. His father didn't say a thing.
The apartment had no bed, simply a cot against the wall. A sink stood in the corner of the room, full of dishes and aluminum trays and empty hamburger wrappers. Above it, a door was swung open to empty bottles, a piece of masking tape beneath them stuck on the shelf, some message on it.
What Gerald remembered best about Ed that night was his asking about Evie, Gerald's mother. "I'm really sorry," he said, sniffing, always sniffing. "I suppose Evie hates me now?‑‑" sniffing some more, always sniffing, then drinking again, one more mouthful. "I got to get sober," he said, looking at his drink. "I need one more drink to sober up."
The two of them took Ed into the Veterans’ Hospital, where he couldn't get his mouth around another bottle. All the way down there he cried about how bad everything was, but the whole time he was chain‑ smoking and spilling his drink all over his lap so that when he got there his crotch was soaked. He didn't fight or swear. He just cried.
Once they'd wheeled him away, the man at the admitting desk took their names. "Who's this?" he said, pointing up at Gerald. The man wore a pair of glasses on a string around his neck, but they fell low enough on his nose that his eyes could search up over the rims.
"This is my son," his father said.
The man looked back down at this clipboard and flashed his pen over it to make sure everything was right. "We'd have a whole lot better world if some people brought their kids down to see the crap that goes on in a place like this," he said, nodding as if he were his own audience.
Before they left, they went back to Ed's apartment because his father wanted to empty all the bottles. None of those in the cupboard were full, so they turned the place inside out.
"Your mother says I've done too much already. We got to let him hang himself or save himself, is what people say."
"They say I'm doing this wrong, Gerald," his father said. "They say I'm enabling him to do it again. Know what that means? They say I shouldn't go get him when he asks because then he's always got me to rely on and that's no good. You're still helping him, they say." He reached down beneath the chair and came up with a handful of skin magazines.
"They tell me I shouldn't be here‑‑even your mother says it now, Gerald." He wiped his hands off on his trousers.
"I don't get it," Gerald told him.
"The guy's got to bottom out, they say. He's got to be something himself, and it doesn't help when somebody like me gets in the way. Your mother says I've done too much already. We got to let him hang himself or save himself, is what people say."
*
So the next time Gerald saw his sister Gracie, he let her go. It was later that summer, one hot night after a softball game. When the guy Gerald was with stopped to talk to the guy in a Dodge station wagon full of kids, he saw the bronze sheen of Gracie's hair in the back seat between two guys he knew only by reputation. Both of them had shotguns riding up on their hips. They were shooting cats, an old sport--cats and whatever else moved along country roads. She was smoking something in the backseat's darkness. She saw him too, and she stared at him out of the freckles around her eyes, stared straight into him, daring him to come over again and grab her out of the back seat.
But he let her go. He let her bottom out, because he didn't want his own sister to turn into Uncle Ed, the man with the booze all over his crotch.
That was almost twenty years before.
Gracie ended up marrying one of those guys he'd seen her with in the back seat. She dropped out of high school, took off for California, and had two kids besides the one she was carrying when she married her first husband. The last time he saw Gracie she said she was living in an apartment with a man who managed a Mexican food restaurant, and she claimed she was happy.
But he had no idea where Uncle Ed was anymore. No one did.
*
____________________
Tomorrow: Going after Abbie.
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