8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Grady Marlow
A gainst my better judgment, I drove to Cal’s rental townhome, still not sure what his intentions were inviting me over. The clunker I swapped my yellow Pontiac Firebird Trans Am for to keep any nosy media people away, sits idling outside his place. Pulling my cellphone out, I scroll to his message again. It simply says, Stop by if you have time 533 Dunbar Dr, thx. My guess is that he wants to pry about Remi.
I pass Sara’s last message and video. After years of opening, it daily, I realize I haven’t watched it for a couple of weeks. Clicking on the video after making peace with Wilder, changes the context. The angry look on his face while hugging Sara doesn’t seem directed at her, or even me, but at Cal who is standing on shore pointing at something with irritation on his face. For years I’d built a narrative in my head surrounding the toxic relationship between Sara and Wilder, but honestly, she and Cal fought just as much.
“I’d undo it all. I’d go after you, if I could do it all over again, Sara. There will never come a day I’m not sorry about that. It’s time to let this go,” I say to her, to myself, and the powers that be. “I need to get rid of this video now.” Before I can stop myself like I have so many times over the years, I delete it.
There’s finality in it. Admission to myself that holding grudges against Wilder, torturing myself watching it… none of it fixes anything. She’s gone. We lost her six years ago.
It doesn’t take Cal long to open the door after I press the tinny sounding doorbell. “Hey, man.” He gives me a one-armed bro hug, with a slap to my back. “Did you walk all the way here? Where’s the hotrod? Did Remi finally convince you that none of us are meant to have our bodies jostled around in machines?” He smirks to himself at the mention of her.
It only took him five seconds to do it. Here I thought I was getting obsessive about her, seems I’m not alone there.
I tell him the arrangement I made over the vehicle swap, while we settle in his living room. Then he’s up to grab a couple bottles of beer from his empty looking fridge. Tossing me one, he asks, “We’re friends, right?”
Are we? I hesitate because even if we’d been friendly years ago, we’ve never moved in the same circles. But Remington has changed all of that. Now, we have her in common, not just the tragedy of the past. Shrugging, I clear my throat and respond, “Yeah, I guess?”
That sounded noncommittal of me, but he continues anyway, “Did Remi tell you she’s going back to Florida for art school soon?”
“It’s a good move. You’ve seen how talented she is.” He half turns to lean against the counter gazing out the patio door while I continue, “It’s not forever, she’ll come back.” I need reassurance myself that the end of the summer doesn’t end us .
He closes his eyes and sighs. “She hasn’t said a word to me about it. She hasn’t really said anything to me since the night we burned her mom’s trunk.”
“Oh? How did you hear about it then?” She is avoiding him. She’ll share about it if she wants to, no prodding will bring it about like Wilder had tried. Not that I’m going to tell him she’s doing that. “Ahhh… her cousin the world class yapper probably.”
“No. Charlie mentioned it.”
She’d tell him, but withhold it from Cal?
“Mmm, could it be that she hasn’t had a chance yet? She’s been busy at Hidden Treasures and volunteering with Ceily.” I play it off, because I don’t have the heart to admit I’ve seen her every day. “What does Charlie say?”
“What I want to hear, like he always does.” Finishing his second bottle of beer, he grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels off the fridge along with shot glasses. “Want one?”
This little drop in at Cal’s place is fast becoming a party for two. “Just one shot.”
Two hours later we’re both feeling no pain. I’ve listened to his opinion of Skip James and the relationship he has with Remi, heard everything there is about the Lake Regional High school baseball team, and played a halfhearted game of quarters. My motor skills are lessening all the time. Laughing at the public access channel he’d stopped on looking for a baseball game, I almost miss the couch when I go to topple on it. “What the actual fuck is this?” I slur at him. My vision swims as I try to focus on a nun hula hooping in the courtyard of the St. James Cathedral.
Cal flops down next to me on his old couch, out of nowhere asking, “Do you think I’m emotionally repressed?” Is he serious right now?
“Do you ?” I wobble standing to grab the stale chips Cal dug out of a cupboard. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like sharing things. Our family motto is ‘keep it to yourself’ and that’s been the unspoken motto forever, because we keep it to ourselves.” He chuckles after a hiccup.
He picks up the television remote pausing the screen as he points. “Is that… Remi?”
I wouldn’t consider myself drunk enough to be seeing things, but sure enough on the frozen screen is our Remington James, standing next to a dunk tank, inside the tank sits Father Chris Lowe from St. James. “They took video of the charity event? Damn, man, look at her, she’s such a knockout.” Her animated little faces talking to the kids, the twirling of her Sharpie marker hanging on her bird locket chain, the little drawings littering her skin. The whole package inside and out makes me thank my lucky stars every day.
Cal’s dreamy-eyed gaze at the visual of her is certainly duplicated on my face. He rewinds until the camera is focused on the booth she is volunteering at. Like lovesick idiots we replay her segment a few times. “Let’s call her,” Cal says with another slight hiccup.
Normally, I’d love to call Remi, if she answers. Her cellphone is usually misplaced somewhere. But we’ve both over imbibed. I’ve already accepted that I’m passing out here. “How about we don’t drunk dial our girlfriend?”
“Our…” Cal laughs to himself. “Doesn’t it feel
strange thinking of her that way? Are we boyfriends then? Because no offense, I don't think of you like that.”
I should’ve anticipated dealing with this question, eventually. Cal is a good-looking guy, but I’m not attracted to him. Never have been. “We’re friends, remember? I’m not into you, man.” Thankfully, that whole conversation is dropped as he channel surfs, looking for some sport to have on in the background.
He lands on an ‘expose’ of Romantic Ruin, or more correctly focused on yours truly. The glib sounding reporter stands in front of blown up photo of me on stage at The Splash. “ Marlow hasn’t been seen since the music festival in Minnesota, insiders say he’s laying low while rumors circulate about his sexuality -” Our band’s latest release has managed to stay strong in the top five songs for that last three weeks on the Billboard music charts, but sure… let’s talk about my personal life. My bottom teeth hurt from clenching my jaw and my left ear is ringing just watching this. The guilt over my shit eclipsing the band itself is always on my mind.
Making a disgusted noise, Cal flips the channel. “Stupid fuckers. How is that news? Not to mention that no one even acknowledges the loss you had in your family. Fuckers.” This could be the moment that I decide Cal may actually be my friend. A real friend.
An hour later, when I find Cal in the middle of his kitchen doing the standing nod off, I call it. The party wraps up with me steering him to his bed. Depositing the wastepaper basket next to it, I put a hand out to the wall to help guide me to the couch, tempted to try calling Remi. However, just hearing her voice is a weak replacement over holding her.
I may be feeling sick tomorrow, but it was worth it. It’s been years since I last spent any real time with Cal. That time lapse had me forgetting how much fun he actually is. I laugh at the memory earlier in the evening when he did a little heel kick, while speaking in an Irish brogue, or when he attempted a jumping toe touch but nailed the wall like a live action cartoon. Silly. Aspects of his personality that seem dimmed around Charlie.