McIntyre - The Long Stretch

Sextus was standing just in front of the liquor store, a bag of booze under his arm, squinting. I was coming from the drug store, keeping close to the brick because there was a wicked rain dashing against the pavement. A typical Saturday. November 19, 1983. I remember the date because its close to an anniversary I dont often forgetthough I wish I could.

Until that moment, my plan had been simple and not unusual for a Saturday: buy a flask, call Millie, drop by for supper, watch the hockey game, maybe go home, maybe stay. Depending on her cheer.

Well, I said to myself. Theres a bunch of options all shot to hell.

The style of him caught my attention first. The overcoat was practically dragging on the ground. Flapping open. Belt tied casually behind. First I thought: a politician. Then I saw that familiar, unmistakable profile. Jesus. Look at him. I felt a great knotted ball of fear and anger and excitement.

There was nothing stopping me from turning on my heels right then and there. Pretending I never saw him. Just carry on the way I have for thirteen years, recovering from the last time. But I was in the grip of something stronger. Curiosity. And, yes, pride. I wanted him to see that I havent just survived these thirteen years. I have grown.

He plucked his little reading glasses from his face, flipped the overcoat open, and plunged them into the breast pocket of a fancy camelhair jacket. As he turned to walk away he spotted me.

Johnny, he said, amazed.

I looked, trying to act like I didnt recognize him, but I could feel the flush on my cheeks.

He, of course, pretended not to see my reaction. There are people like that, who know how to project whatever they want, no matter what they feel. I just go blank, which is useful in my work. I work with people. Or personnel, as theyre called now.

Just look at the bugger as he strides toward me, not a doubt showing. The onus is on me. It would only take a word, a hesitation of the hand. But already shamed, I blurt recognition and catch his hand with a studied firmness.

It is soft. He couldnt miss the scratchy hardness of mine. I have one of those Scandinavian woodstoves in the living room for extra heat. I split my own wood. Im bony and fit because Ive been running and sober for seven years.

You look great, he says. Lifes obviously good to you.

No complaints, I say. Youre looking, I begin, searching for a truthful word, prosperous. And in a gesture of self-confidence that makes my knees watery, I pat the bulge of flesh swelling over his belt like dough.

He laughs and sucks it in.

Sextus is my cousin. First cousin. Around here thats about as close as a brother. Closer, in a lot of cases. Hes the only son of my fathers only brother. The late Jack Gillis. Uncle Jack. Finest man that ever lived.

Because there were only the two, each named the first-born after the other. Im named after Uncle Jack. This fellow is named after my old man. Not the Sextus part. Thats actually the second part of his name. His first name is Alexander. That was the old mans name. Sandy for short. Hes been dead now for years, since November 22, 1963. The day they shot Kennedy. Almost twenty years ago.

Our name is common around here. But none of the other Gillises are related to us. So seeing him brings back memories. Most of them bad because of everything.

Hes really been gone longer than thirteen years. Last time I saw him was just after Uncle Jacks funeral. But hed been gone a long time before that. Hed already made a name for himself away, writing on newspapers. Then he wrote a scandalous book. And then he stole my life and ran with it. For a long time I had to block everything out when I heard his name. But I rebuilt and eventually he just blended into the miserable part of the memory. It means nothing to me now.

But here he is. He shifts his hand to my arm, clutching my coat just above the elbow.

Long weekend, he says, by way of explanation.

I remember. Hes a teacher now. Or something.

Just got in. Jesus. Its good to see you.

I am suddenly speechless.

I was planning to drop in on you, out at the old place. Youre still there, of course? Wed have a drink. Jesus Christ. Wow, he says, face animated. Just look at you.

I half laugh. Allow a look of surprise.

His smile holds firm, though I know hes reading my mind.

No, no, no, he says. Well have lots of time to talk about all the old stuff.

The rain is staining the shoulders of the overcoat black. Im wearing my woods jacket.

Christ, what a coincidence. Laughing and wagging his head, unaware of the pounding sleety rain. Man, youre just the guy I wanted to see.

The words keep rushing at me and Im studying the face for some connection with the real world. Like remorse maybe.

Then he blushes, removes the clutching hand from my arm and thrusts it into his pocket. Fumbling with something there. Keys probably.

Look, he says, as if reconsidering. If you just want to, and the busy hand comes back out of the pocket, fluttering. I mean, I wouldnt blame you.

No, its all right. What were you going to say?

Well. He clears his throat. I was over at the graveyard. The old mans grave. Theres no stone.

No, I say. Uncle Jack has no stone. None of them have.

He searches my face with those eyes that show none of the uncertainty in the voice. Hard con-man eyes. The hand flutters to his face.

Would you believe, he says, I dont remember where we put him? Sandy I can vaguely remember. Angus, of course, I wasnt here. But my own father?

The we laugh, both flushed, eyes engaged.

You must think, he says. God. I cant imagine what.