Left Like Yesterday, Pt. 4

The incident at the art show became almost a taboo among us. We were neither awkward upon seeing each other next, nor were we cautious, but we did maintain an air of common knowledge. All three of understood that some private matter should stay in the privy of those involved. While there was something horrid in that moment, a connection was made between us because of it. I think it was because of that incident that Alma and mine's friendship could become more intimate, which really, I believe was a conduit for their relationship to begin. It was only in their nature to be keen of each other, wary of letting them into the personal box of their lives, afraid of what might come out. Someone had to be there to mediate, and that someone was me.

I began showing up to Rendez-Vous Cafe on a regular basis and I would sit at whatever seat I could find, preferably upstairs in the smoking area, or outside if it was nice and not rainy, and wait for Alma to have a break to give me a break in between my studying. Really, I began to enjoy this routine, and it wasn't that much of a bother in a change in my life. Considering I lived on Hill and East University and Rendez-Vous was around the corner from Hill Street on South University, it was about a ten minute walk. I would free coffee, I would get out of the house, and a lot of pretty women liked to go and socialize. That's one thing I'll always love about this city, how active it is for a small town. How political everyone is. Everyone's always involved with some organization, or pleading about needing to help this nation in Africa, worrying about the current crisis in Sierra-Leone, wondering why the Republicans can't leave Clinton alone. It was every liberals dreamland, seriously. I wish I could've been here in the sixties to see the tanks and the declaration of the Peace Corps.

As for Wes and Alma- there was no Wes and Alma. At this point, it was Wes, Alma, and Steven. Or, it'd be Alma and me, or it'd be Wes and me, but the two of them together, alone, didn't come along until the semester ended and I moved home for the summer. What would generally happen is that I would be at Rendez-Vous studying, and Wes would walk in with his casual stride, glancing about the room as if he just showed up here on a whim, not expecting to see anyone, and upon seeing me, he'd take his hands out of his pockets, wave to me, walk over to me, in most cases taking a few moments to say hi to someone sitting there that he knew, and then sit down and start talking to me. I'd just have to put my books up because I knew there'd be no chance for me to continue studying once he's there. In most cases, he'd have a deck of cards with him, and we' play gin until Alma got off work, and we'd go somewhere, whether it'd be a bar for a beer, to someone's house to relax, or to a party on the weekend, it didn't matter. Of course, there would be some deviation to that order sometimes. Every once and while, Wes and I would be walking, and we'd show up to Alma's place, or Alma and I would be cruising in her car and pick Wes up and we'd drive out to the woods towards Saline, where we part the car and walk out to this brook we found that breaks through and creates a path to a little drop off where you can see a highway a little ways away. We'd sit there for hours and watch the sun set, or the snow fall, or the moon caress the backs of cars, and sometimes, we wouldn't say anything. Our cigarette smoke would intertwine with our breath, and inundated with the comfort of our small little gestures and our silent monosyllabic sentences, we would forget the pressures of the realities a few miles away. I remember one time we were out there, and Alma sketched the view. It was quite breath taking, the way the pen strokes somehow seemed to, in a casual quality, express the hushed existence that we were around. It showed that while everything moved with the wind, it all stayed the same. She asked what it should be called. I was stumped. Wes, without even thinking, said: "Call it, 'The Wind Whispers Through My Pen.'"

Alma just looked at the drawing, pulling it close to her face in the fading light. "That's kind of a long title, don't you think?"

"You don't have to use it," he responds monotonously, not moving a muscle (other than his mouth, of course).

She stares at it some more. "Fuck it," she says with some emphasis. "Where is it ever written that it has to be short?" Then, in very neat and precise handwriting, full of curves and accents, she writes in an empty space at the top of the drawing, at an angle, "The Wind Whispers Through My Pen." Then, in the bottom corner, with quick strokes, she signs it like a basketball star would sign an autograph. After a moment, she passes the pad and pen to Wes who just stares at it blankly. "Sign it," she says, waving it at him.

"Why?"

"You came up with the title. You deserve some credit."

Wes stared at her for a moment, evaluating the situation, I assume, before taking the pad and pen slowly and with some reservation. Right below Alma's signature, Wes signs, "WES '98" in large block letters, handing it back to her saying, "So we never forget how old we were."

"You think we'll know each other that long?" she responds. I tried looking at her so I could study her face. I wanted to see if she was smiling at Wes' comment, but it was too dark. All I could tell was that she was looking at the pad. Wes never responded. Instead, he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

That was a sweet moment between the two, and gradually they became more common. But, before they were together as a couple, that was the only one that happened in front of me. Usually, when the three of us were together, Wes and Alma were usually being childish and stupid and going at each other's throats. As time went, though, something change. One could sense that the generally hostility that once used to exist, that used to be the manifestation of the tension between the two, would be replaced with an almost good natured teasing. Now, half the time they argued, there would be a smile involved, and comments like, "I don't want to be offensive," and "I see what you're saying, but..." which never used to exist. Instead it'd just be, "hey, fuck that, you're wrong, you fucking asshole."

Soon, there was a comfortable arrangement between the three of us which allowed for us to be publicly together. It took a while, but it came to be. At first, honestly, sometimes, I became embarrassed to be around them. There arguments would escalate to the point where I could see people snickering at us openly. But, as the winter began to dwindle, and the heavy jackets faded away to thick cotton sweaters, the sun seemed to also melt the coldness between them.

The last night I would see the two of them together but not in a relationship was the night before I moved back to Detroit for the summer of 1998. This would be the first time since I went to college that I was moving back home for the summer, and I was sad for leaving but I was to intern in the North Oakland Medical Center in Bloomfield, which was something I needed to do before I graduated (which was the plan for me in August of '99). Anyway- remember my friend Tanya? Well, at that point, she lived in these really nice apartments at the outskirts of the town, on the top of the hill, where if you stood on her balcony, you had an impressive view of the city and roads. Well, she threw an "End of the School Year" party that night, and invited Wes and I, and of course, we went. She wanted to make it a theme party- something to the extent of Hawaii in Michigan. Everyone dressed in Hawaiian t-shirts, were "laid" (how do you spell those things, really?), and there were all sorts of beach decorations on the wall. The only thing out of place was the music. Of course there was rap music, mixed in with some Sublime (when I confronted her about the music, she said, "Well, I got Sublime in there, right?" I said, what's Sublime have to do with it, and she said it was reggae, silly! I didn't have the heart to correct her.) They served all sorts of mixed drinks made primarily of rum, and of course, some people brought over The Beast and Labat Blue so there'd be beer, but me, I enjoyed drinking whatever the hell I was drinking with the big umbrellas and coconut pieces and pineapple wedges.

Something changed the night of Alma's party when Wes was embarrassed badly by Alma. While he still had a crowd of people around him, and while he still was immensely popular, it was different now because of Alma standing there by his side. Now, people would watch Wes, become entranced with his wit and humor, staring at his hands conducting the crowd and their emotions, but no more did the bedroom eyes exist anymore. The girls were there, but now that Alma was there, even though there was nothing between them, the girls became wary. You could see it in their posture, how they shifted uncomfortably in their feet, how desperately they wanted to step closer to him, and how they wanted to look at all of him, but every time they caught themselves looking passed his eyes, you could see this quick glance at Alma, like she was a parent and they were a child breaking a rule. I don't know how it started. Maybe it was because of that night they expected them to be enemies and they turned out to be friends that made everyone curious as to the extent of their relationship, but it was something very subtle and took me a while to notice exactly what it was. I knew something was different at the first party we went to, but when I realized that those eyes faded away, I was amazed, especially for the fact that the only time Alma said anything would be one liners making fun of Wes, pretty brutally too for that matter, that Wes would generally just blow off and continue with his ramblings.

I could hear the insistent thumping of the music and laughing and loud talking of the party behind me through the glass sliding door that led through the balcony that separated Wes, Alma, and I as we smoked a cigarette after a long discourse by Wes finally came to an end. I was starting to buzz, and I'm sure Wes was too. Alma was drunk already. I could tell by the way she leaned into the railing, swaying back and forth in between Wes and I, not caring really what we thought.

"What do you think you're going to do back home?" Wes asked me.

"I don't know. Work. Hang out with my dad. See my old friends. I'll probably visit my mom, see my sister before she goes to Boston. See how Todd's doing."

"What do your parents do?" Alma asks, raising herself on the railing, leaning half her body over the edge, as to where her legs are swinging in the air behind her and she's looking at me from a free floating distance two stories above the ground.

"My father's a high school teacher."

"What's he teach?"

"He teaches sophomore chemistry."

"Was he your teacher?"

"No, he wasn't. The school wouldn't allow it."

"Are your parent's together?"

"No."

"Who'd you live with?"

"My father. My sister and my brother lived with my mom."

"What's she do?"

"She's one of those psychiatrists for rich people. A drug dealer." She laughed at that. "She's not a drug dealer, but you know what I mean."

"Your sister's going to Boston?"

"College."

"Harvard?"

Now I laughed. "Not likely. Boston College."

"That's still a good school."

"Yeah. I don't know how she got in."

"Asshole! Have more faith in your sister."

"You don't know her. I love her, but sometimes, I think my brother has a better chance in college that she does. She's a complete doofus."

Alma looks at me in confusion. Wes leans into her and mock whispers, "His brother is autistic."

Her eyes grow big, and for a second I think she was about to cry. Her hands raise to her face. "I'm sorry."

I turn around and lean on the railing with my elbows so I can look at the festivities inside. "For what? I'm not. He's just fine."

"I didn't know."

"And you didn't say anything about him. I did, so don't worry about it." I look at my empty cup. "I'm getting a drink."

I left because I wanted something more to drink and because I don't like it when Alma reaches this stage of her intoxication- her "sad" stage. Thankfully, this is her shortest stage, I've come to notice. At least, most of the time, it's her shortest stage. I push through the crowd to reach the kitchen, and as an exodus opens I have a clear line of sight to the fixed up bar where there should be pepper's and supplies to cook. Standing in the kitchen, mixing a drink, from the back, I see a body that could only be Tanya. I measure myself for a moment and conclude that I am with enough alcohol in me that I can use that as an excuse, so I walk up to her smoothly, wrap my free arm around her body and pull her to me and whisper in her ear: "Tanya, you look amazing tonight."

Her head looks up to see who it is, her eyebrows tight with anger until she realizes who it is. Upon realization who it is, her face becomes the cool, contained face that it always is, and her hand reaches up and grabs my chin. I'll be honest, at first, I get pretty excited, I didn't really think my plan was going to work out well- and, well, I was right. Tanya, with my chin in her hand, turns my face to the crowd, and with the other hand, points to the crowd. "Do you see that deliciously gorgeous black man right there?" she says with a little seduction in her voice.

I sigh and push myself away from her and place my hands on the counter and lean into my arms perusing the crowd until I see the only possible person she could be talking, who, I have to admit, was a very attractive man. "Yeah, I think so- the guy in the black collared shirt?"

"That's the one."

I turn around and mix a drink. "What about him?"

"What do you think about him?"

I lean on the counter as I take a sip of my drink. All I really know is that I put rum in my cup with an assortment of other stuff. Upon a first sip, I knew this drink was the one that was going to throw me over the edge. "What do I think about him?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know him."

Tanya's face slips into the most sly and vixen smile. "Neither do I," she says.

I laugh. "You're bad, you know that?" I know she loved that response because she laughed too as she walked away, saying, well, I've got business to attend to. I watched her walk up to this man, and I saw a master at her game. He was hooked at the hello. I shook my head as I walked back to the balcony. I had my hand on the handle, ready to slide the door open when I looked outside to see Wes looking at Alma, who was looking up at him talking. I saw this look on Wes' profile, a sort of glow- a smile I've never seen before that seemed so natural that I was surprised that it has been so alienated from me. I wasn't standing there long watching them, maybe a few seconds, but Alma must have sensed my presence, or seen my shadow because she turned around and looked at me, and with some voyeuristic shame, I quickly stepped back out to the balcony.

The rest of the evening goes without saying. We drank, talked, had a good time, and when Alma got to drunk to be social, we walked her home. After that, I walked with Wes to his house, and standing on the steps of his door he invites me in. "No, man. I have to wake up early," I say.

"I guess this is the last time I'll see you in a while," he says coming up to me giving me a hug.

I hug him back, sort of hitting his back, trying to make it seem more "manly." "Don't become all sloppy drunk emotional on me. You'll see me again."

"Yeah I know. Are you going to come back and visit?"

"Sure."

"Well, you be safe there. Give me a call."

"I will." And I watched my friend walk in his house. There was a strange feeling I had as I turned around and began walking to my apartment. It was a sense of growing up, like I was beginning to detach myself from this codependent relationship and becoming a man. At the same time, I knew I was going to miss him. I had mixed feelings of excitement and sadness with each step I took. Maybe it was the alcohol.

I stayed at my father's place over the summer, taking care of it while he visited his brother's family, which happened to house his aging senile mother, in Eugene, Oregon. He lived in Brush Park, and it was a nice house, so I was comfortable. He moved here shortly after my parents divorced when I was fifteen. My mother moved to a ritsy neighborhood in Bloomfield, and while it's way nicer over there, I have a special place in my heart for Midtown and the 313. The drive was considerable every day for work, but the benefit was that every so often, I could drop by my mother's house and grab a bite to eat. My mother would always be at work, and my sister Sandy would always be off with her friends, and whatever was her boyfriend of the week. The house generally was empty except for my brother Todd and the hired nurse to take care of him, but he didn't do much but sit around and watch TV and make sure Todd didn't burn the house down.

When I started working at the Med Center, I had this expectation that I would be involved in actual medical work- you know, get involved with stuff that would help me out in grad school. Instead, I was the errand boy. Steve, run this to Dr. So and So, do this, xerox this, fax this, call this patient, blah blah blah fucking blah. While I got to walk around and see the political, or better yet, internal structure of a hospital, in the end, I felt somewhat disheartened by the experience. I felt that some intellectual fantasy of my mine, where I would be thrown into the gauntlet of academia did not come true. I guess the big lesson I learned from my experience from the hospital was this- never make your expectations big because you fall harder.

The most trying part of that summer was dealing with my family. My family dynamic has never really been what I would consider smooth. My father is about as bipolar as they come, but refuses to see a therapist because he ex-wife is one. My younger sister is a whore (she was back then, I hate saying it, but that's how she dealt with life), and my brother is autistic. My mother is pretentious and thinks she knows everything about everything and constantly reminds us about how she "graduated suma cum laude from Harvard medical in psychiatry." Sometimes, I want to walk up to her, slap her, and say, "If you're so smart, then what made you think that you and my father were a match with your Harvard degree and his barely made it through Eastern Michigan to become a high school teacher," but she's my mother, and I don't believe in slapping women.

The problem was the divorce. To this day, they both still try to justify their actions to each other. And, the fact that I chose to live with my father has created a great deal of tension between my mother and me. I tried telling her, it has nothing to do with her, I think they're both equally fucked up, I just didn't want to leave Midtown. They both had their wrongs- my mother wanted to control everything and my father couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Of course, you'll probably thing that my father's infidelity is worse that my mother's trying to control everything, but it's not. I think my father slept around because my mother tried to control my father's dick. But that's a whole other issue. Regardless, they're human, and flawed. In the end, I chose to live with my father and my mother never forgave me for that I think. She gave me some grace on the resentment when I went to her undergraduate alma mater, U of M, but in the end, our relationship never really bloomed until the winter of '99.

That summer, we only had one period of extended time together and it was going away party for Sandy. I felt ridiculously out of place there, with Sandy and all her "girlfriends" and all the football players that are asking me about college because they're going to like Appalachian State on scholarship. Sandy had the most stereotypical group of friends ever. Ever. Of course, we bought them a keg, and mom was "watching" over the party, but really, me and my mother sat on lounge chairs in the shade of the lawn patio awing as the afternoon sun beat down on the backyard where everyone gathered sipping our Crown on the rocks just watching all these...kids, drinking in relative silence, smoking cigarettes.

Then, of course, my mother can't help saying something: "Why don't you come live with me for the summer?"

I don't even turn my head to look at her. I respond quickly, because I can. Because somewhere, in the back of my head, I was expecting this question- I was just counting down the time for this question to come out. "Because I like it there, ma. Come on."

"But it's so... dirty."

I move from my leaning into the back of my seat position to a rigid back posture facing her on the tip of my chair. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Don't talk to your mother like that. Just because you went to college, young man, doesn't means you can forget your formal education."

"And just because you moved out of the 313 doesn't mean you can forget you were born in Dearborn."

As I leaned back into a comfortable position in my chair again, I could see the quick frown form on her face. "But you have to admit," she says, leaning forward into the table between our two chairs, grabbing the tongs in the ice bucket and dropping two cubes in glass. "You have to admit, it's a good deal nicer here."

"Sure," I say, stifling a yawn. "Sure, it's a lot nicer, yeah. You've got your Starbucks and Border's and whatnot, but what's wrong with Downtown?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you keep insisting on trying to get me to move here?"

"I just want what's the best for you."

I shake my head as I stand up. I give a soft, harsh laugh before I say, "I got to use the rest room. I'll be right back."

I was using the bathroom upstairs, the door wide open, when I sensed a presence standing in the doorway, and when I turned, in mid-piss, to see Todd standing there, I was scared shitless. "Jesus, Todd! I fucking hate when you do that." I zip myself up, wash my hands, and dry them on the towel by the sink as he watches me silently. No matter how many times I've been through this procedure in my life, I could never get used to it. "What? What is it? You need something?" Todd just turns around, and silently walks towards his room. "Fuck," I whisper as I walk down the stairs. It's not like my brother can't talk- he can, he just rarely does it. In fact, when he does, it sounds so awkward that sometimes we don't know what to do when he speaks. We'll just sit there in silence wondering if it really happened. He's not retarded and he knows, for the most part, what he's doing, he's just detached from reality, I guess. That's how someone explained it to me. I don't really get it much. And I know, I'm kind of an asshole to him, but it's hard to take care of someone so much, to love someone so much, and they don't say a fucking word of gratitude. I'll defend him to anyone, violently if I had to, but I just got frustrated, and I took it out on him. It was immature, and selfish, but I just didn't really understand the nature of it all.

When I arrived at the patio, I sat at the edge of my chair in silence for a moment. I could tell my mother knew I wanted to say something because she was watching me from the brim of her sunglasses. "What are you going to do about Todd?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when you die."

"Well, it's pretty far from now."

"You can't take care of him forever."

"I'll put him in a home or something."

"Have you ever tried to ask him what he wants?"

"Do you really, honestly, think that he cares?"

"Yeah."

"Let me rephrase- do you really, honestly, think that he's going to answer that question? Better yet, understand it if I ask it of him?"

"I think he understands everything, but he chooses not to respond."

"So what makes you think he'll respond to that question?"

"I don't know. Still, don't you wonder about his future?"

"Of course I do, I'm his mother. I've been taking care of him for sixteen years, and everyday I have to think, 'Is today the day I'm going to get the phone call,' the call telling me that Todd burnt himself, or did something stupid? I'm constantly worried about him. If I have to, yes, I will keep him in my house until the day I die, or if it happens, until he dies."

I lean back into my chair as I light a cigarette. "I guess you know best."

"I hope I do. But please, I don't want to spend this day with my oldest son talking about these things. Tell me, how's that good looking friend of yours?"

"Wes?"

"Sure."

"Still stealing the cradle, ma?"

"Don't be crude."

"He's fine. We'll be graduating at the same time."

"Isn't he older."

"And slower."

"That's not nice."

"It explains how we're graduating at the same time."

My mother refills two cups of Crown before speaking again. "Have you thought about what you're going to do post graduation?"

"Med-school."

"Harvard?"

"Doubtful. University of Chicago is the goal. I have a good GPA, and I'm already preparing for the MCAT, so hopefully, with the right recommendations, I'll be in."

"Chicago's good."

"I know, ma. That's why I want to go there."

"Any back-ups?"

"Sure. But I'm being hopeful right now."

"That's good. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Can't seem to nail one down."

"That's too bad."

"It's okay, ma."

"Well, just don't make me a grandmother before I'm fifty and I'm fine." And she leans back and doesn't say another word. Sometimes, I couldn't believe my mother.

During the whole summer, that was the only extended time I spent with my family. Sandy went off to Boston the next day, and I continued to work at the hospital. What I didn't realize was that my conversation with my mother about Todd would play a bigger role in our lives than I would realize. But that would come later. In late July, I visited Ann Arbor for a weekend, staying at Wes' place the whole time. It felt good as I drove into town, feeling that sense of relief as I saw that Red Roof Inn and that Big Boy's. The familiar sights and trees that marked the outskirts of the city somehow made it easier for me to breath, and the closer and closer I made it to campus, the more excited I felt, until I turned onto Washtenaw, and then I was soaring.

I showed up at Wes' around four in the afternoon. The sun stood high in the sky, and the heat was just barely bearable, but everything seemed a perfect fit. Wes sat on his patio, on that old, thrift store sofa with the blue petal flowers, wearing jeans and a wife-beater, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. As I pulled into his driveway, he didn't get up, but his face lighted up in a smile. With my duffle bag, I walked up the steps, and sat down right next to him on the sofa, where I saw Wes had his feet resting on a cooler. By the time I leaned back into the cushions, Wes already had a beer in his hand, and was handing one to me. "Welcome home, bud," was all he said. For the next two hours, we sat there in the sun talking about nothing. I told him about Sandy's party and my concerns with Todd, and so forth.

Then he just flat out said it. "Alma and I hooked up." My head swung to look at him so fast that I felt a sharp pain for a little while after. He had this large, almost ridiculous smile on his face. Then he started laughing. "Yeah, I know. I can't believe myself."

"No, I can believe it, I just didn't expect it so soon. When did it happen?"

"Just the other day, actually."

"What happened?"

"Well, after you left, we just started hanging out on our own. I'd go up to the coffee shop and she'd give me coffee and I'd read a book or something and at night we'd go to a bar or party or something. You know, it was pretty much the same thing as the three of us without you being there. That's the way that it always happened though, we never exchanged numbers or anything. I'd always go to her work, and we'd leave from there. And she'd never tell me if she was working, and I didn't go in all the time, it was kind of a random thing. So, the other day, I was walking through the Diag, and I bumped into her. We talked for a moment, and decided to grab a bite to eat. So, we get something to eat, and then she invites me to her to go with her to her friends house that night- you know, a bunch of people just hanging out. So I go, and I'm feeling all out of place, and Alma, who doesn't get all shit faced drunk, senses that or something, actually does something cool, and goes outside to smoke and tells me to go with her. You know what we ended up doing? We ended up walking to the arb. And for some reason, we walked through the arb all night, and I don't know, everything else is history. We ended up back in my place, and it just happened."

I don't say anything, and I can see the consternation on Wes' face because I know he wanted an immediate reaction from me. "You have her phone number now, right?" I ask finally.

"Shut up."

"That's good man. I'm happy for you."

"Yeah," he says softly, looking into his beer for a moment, before he gulps down the rest. Then he looks at his watch. "Speaking of which, throw your shit inside. We got to go meet her."

"Where at?"

"Rendez-Vous."

At the coffee shop, Alma immediately noticed us walking in, and while it was busy, she rushes to the side where the employees walk in to be behind the counter. Wes walks quickly up to her, and I follow right behind. She leans over the small door that separates them both, where it looks as if they were going to kiss, but I see her eyes look at me. "Have you told him yet?" she half mumbles to Wes.

"Yeah, he knows," he says as he grabs he face.

We were at the top of the world. The three of us. We were giants of our domain. No one could touch us, and even if they could, we'd just brush them off of our shoulders and not look back. Our shadows covered the dark secrets of our path and the road ahead seemed illuminated by the sun that warmed our face and our faith. These days were our days. These days were forever embraced in the loving arms of the catalogues of our histories. We were the trees that survived the fire.

Then October 14th, 1998 happened.