J.J. Alo
CH. 7 - UNSETTLING IN
Curtis tossed and turned. Still fully dressed, sprawled across the quilted top, now completely disheveled. He turned to the crimson glow of the pink alarm clock, which stared back: 6:14 p.m. Any moment he had felt himself drifting off, he would jolt awake, and the relentless burden of work would return. It invaded his brain like a freshwater parasite—a Naegleria fowleri to be exact, slowly feeding on cell tissue, disrupting his neural network. Incorruptible, until there was nothing left. He couldn’t turn it off, shut it down. Some days during his interrupted sleep, he would lay, staring into the dark, and question his career decision. An Electronics Systems Tech was not the future he envisioned for himself after high school. In fact, he didn’t have much idea of what he wanted to do with his life upon graduation, although he certainly left his mark.
A football powerhouse—running back for a regionalized academy on Connecticut’s Southeast shoreline; he played well. Highly athletic, intimidating—he was big for his age, towering over his classmates at six-foot-two by senior year. A hard man tackle and no stranger to the weight room, although he always lifted for strength, never for size, not wanting bulk to compromise his elusiveness. It made him the quickest man on the field—unstoppable. His athleticism led him to earn a partial scholarship to Notre Dame that he instead turned down, confidently, to enter the armed forces. Most of his classmates, upon graduation, entered college; Curtis went into the marines.
Although he didn’t get the opportunity to study Freudian psychology and British literature or attend a lecture hall for applied statistics or business marketing, and while he may not have had the chance to do a keg stand, belligerently drunk at a Frat party, it wasn’t a total loss. Curtis was able to find comradeship in the armed forces where he could efficiently utilize his innate strengths.
He studied Ohm’s Law to validate the value of current levels, voltage drops, and resistance in integrated circuits; he learned to read system elements of schematic diagrams and how to solder electrical hardware components to circuit boards; he could blindly splice coax cables and terminate delicate fiber optic telecommunication cables. And at the end of the day, Curtis wasn’t eighty-grand in student loan debt.
His father, a decorated Army captain, served two tours in Vietnam and was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery during the assault of Chau Phu, where he defended the city and drove out the Viet Cong, consequently rescuing numerous civilians. Curtis, proud of his father’s achievements, thought serving his country with honor like his father was the appropriate path to follow, thus joining the military. To his unexpected misfortune, conflict erupted a few years after enlisting, forcing him to deploy overseas. He spent six months in Saudi Arabia during the Gulf War, most of which was spent in the blistering sun troubleshooting and repairing high-frequency, multichannel, portable radio communication systems along with ground/vehicular transceivers. Much of it had arrived faulty from California, and operation was a constant struggle keeping Curtis plenty busy.
It didn’t take long after stepping on foreign soil for him to realize being a soldier was not his calling. Physically built for battle, yes, but emotionally, things had taken an unexpected turn. Many in his unit were either wounded or killed in the assault on Kuwait City while he took shrapnel, critically injuring him days before the war ended. Things he saw over there in that short time weighed heavily on him, forever changing his hopeful, carefree disposition toward the world. He was honorably discharged a year later.
Curtis stomped down each creaking step, rounded the corner through the family room toward the kitchen. He walked behind the couch where Wes was sitting, fidgeting, engrossed in a television show, and as he walked by, he brushed the top of his shiny blonde hair.
“Hi-ya, kiddo!” Curtis said softly. Wes, not acknowledging, kept his attention on the TV screen.
Amy was at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes and squeezing them in a primarily full dishwasher below. She was in baggy gray sweats and a tank top—her usual evening attire, which she’d typically throw on upon returning from work. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her face bare of makeup. Most nights correcting Algebra and Geometry homework would consume the remainder of her evening—the life of a high school math teacher. Total comfort was everything. She was getting mentally prepared for a bombardment of bad arithmetic and correct answers with no work shown, which would usually indicate cheating. All of this she contemplated as she stood, spacey, scrubbing dried, burnt gunk from a large glass casserole dish. The floor creaked behind her, followed by the suction release of a refrigerator door opening, snapping her back to reality. She turned to see Curtis bent down, peering in.
“There’s a plate for ya in there if you’re hungry.”
Curtis slid a round plate down from the shelf. It was twice wrapped in cellophane, but what it covered, he had no idea. A viscous, brownish-white substance with chunks of what he thought most likely to be beef, peppered throughout, over a mound of dry egg noodles. The sight reminded him of the many unpalatable meals during chow time in the mess hall at Parris Island during basic training—one-pot slop. He grimaced, pushing the plate back on a mostly vacant shelf.
“Not that hungry. Thanks.” He felt guilty turning it down, but it was something he just couldn’t stomach. The shelf below held something more provocative. Pizza. Sausage and mushroom. There were two slices left in the large, brown box. He grabbed one; the aroma of oregano and baked crust instantly sparked his olfactory nerve as he folded the cold slice, shoving half in his mouth.
“How’d ya sleep?”
“Don’t know if I actually did,” Curtis said as he walked to the small, square dinner table against the kitchen wall, which as of late, was a junk counter covered with mail, coloring books, Amy’s workbooks, papers, folders, car keys. Anything anyone might have in their hands upon entering from the garage was thrown there. In the back middle was a pile of mail, which Curtis was avoiding, self-deluding by looking at everything else around it.
“There’s a bunch of mail on the table for ya.” She was reluctant to mention it, but it had to be addressed without knowing how long he planned to stay.
Curtis cringed. The last thing he wanted to hear.
“Oh, and there’s another one of those weird letters, too, you should take a look at.”
It took a moment to recall what she was referring to, by “weird letters,” as he didn’t want to directly ask what the hell she was talking about. He lifted the pile and sifted through—propane bill, SunTrust Bank mortgage bill, Charter Oak Federal Credit Union car loan bill for Amy’s SUV, doctor bill, doctor bill, specialist bill, Mastercard bill, junk mail credit card offers, junk mail car insurance offers, debt consolidation offers, Allstate car insurance bill times two. Sure, he could’ve avoided the headache by just having Amy manage the checkbook while he was at work, or at least pay her own bills on the joint account, but he needed the distraction. He needed to keep a sense of control, even if nothing else around him stayed within his grasp.
Then there it was at the bottom of the stack, opened, edges frayed as if torn open by a child on Christmas morning, however, Curtis had a feeling this was no present. Nor was it something he wanted to even look at, much less discuss. He pulled it, opened it, quickly scanned it.
Mr. & Mrs. Reynolds
1 Forest Street
Norwich, CT 06360
Via Certified Mail
Mr. & Mrs. Reynolds
I am writing in response to the multiple correspondences we have sent out over the last four months regarding the land surrounding the Forest Street properties. The City of Norwich is wrapping up negotiations in coming weeks and is intending to sell the land for a proposed project funded by the Federal Government.
This letter serves to notify you that the City of Norwich, on behalf of Hock ADR Corp, intends to take ownership of the land surrounding Forest Street by means of Eminent Domain to ensure redevelopment, which is slated to begin spring of next year.
If you would prefer to avoid delay and the process of court and expenses, Hock ADR Corp would like to retain its current offer for just compensation on your house to help facilitate the process. As explained in the previous letter dated September 18, It has been estimated that fair market value of your house is $123,896; however, the City of Norwich would like to have an assessor out to determine actual value. The acquisition of this land is of the utmost importance to the City of Norwich; however, their goal is to attempt to negotiate an amicable agreement for all property acquisitions.
Failure to respond to this final notice by January 1 will result in nullification of the proposed offer followed by court proceedings with removal in sixty days thereafter. It will not be necessary for you to surrender complete possession of the estate until March 1. In the meantime, please provide a copy of your purchase agreement and a list of expenses incurred for improvements to the property to date to ensure fair market value.
Best Regards,
Kirsten Davidson
Corporate Councilor
Norwich Corporate Council
80 Hunters Avenue, Suite 823
Norwich, CT 06360
Curtis quickly stuffed it back in the envelope and threw it back on the table with the rest of the mail.
“I’ll go through it tomorrow.” He tossed the pizza crust in the garbage pail and walked out to the garage. He returned carrying a Mondo-Mart plastic bag, which inside held a rectangle box, crossed the threshold into the family room where Wes was sitting, still fixated, gently bouncing up and down on the seat cushion, his hands twirling by his sides.
“How’s the man of the house doing, huh?”
There was no answer or acknowledgment.
“Whatcha watching, Champ?” Curtis said as he sat next to his son.
The Discovery Channel logo was present at the bottom of the TV screen, then the title flashed along the bottom as it returned from commercial: Before We Ruled the Earth. Curtis watched a few moments as three cavemen were stealthily hunted by a grisly saber-toothed tiger lurking among the dense overgrowth.
“You know; daddy misses you soooo much—come here…” He picked him up, placed him down on his lap, letting out an overly dramatic, audible grunt. “Oh my lord, Wes, you are getting so heavy! What’s mommy feeding ya, huh? I know what she’s feeding you, pizza and casseroles! That’s what she’s feeding you, isn’t it—isn’t it? And from what daddy saw in the garbage: McDonald’s Happy Meals!?” He said in playful banter.
Still at the kitchen sink, Amy turned back, overhearing the exchange, and gave a disapproving glance, which went unnoticed. She found it a tad difficult to be annoyed by her estranged husband’s ignorant judgment bearing witness to his interaction with Wes. It made her smile.
“Happy Meals, Happy Meals, Happy Meals! Are you happy, Kiddo? Huh, huh, are you happy!?” Curtis, now in sing-song, bouncing him up and down on his knee. Wes nodded his head, smiling, still staring at the TV. “You areeee!? Good!” Curtis then commenced with the seemingly incessant tickling of Wes’s underarms as he let out a shrill of uncontrollable laughter, rolling off daddy’s leg.
Curtis reached around the side of the couch, grabbing the box he’d brought in from his truck. “Daddy got ya something. Check it out…”
Wes looked over; his father was holding a Star Wars Millennium Falcon one-thousand-piece puzzle. His little mouth dropped from pudgy, pale cheeks, baring a smile, missing both teeth on either side of the upper two fronts. His hands began to wildly flap in front of him, then he grabbed the box from Curtis’s hands and stared at the cover, analyzing the muddled graphic and its intricate contrast of neon colors against the backdrop of outer space, along with all of his favorite heroes, the Death Star looming in the distance and of course—Darth Vader.
“Sweetheart, it’s time for your bath,” Amy said with a soft smile, leaning in the entryway.
Wes, ecstatic, held his new puzzle straight over his head as if he’d just won a 1st place trophy for his mother to see.
“Sooo cool!” Amy playfully gasped. “Come on, Hun; it’s getting late.
Wes and his puzzle followed Amy upstairs to the bathroom directly across the top of the staircase. Curtis, feeling a bit dazed from lack of sleep, decided he’d go up and try to take a power nap. He knew he’d have to force himself up at a certain hour to maintain—or at the very least, try to maintain his current, erratic sleep schedule. Before getting up, he was curious as to the fate of the cavemen on the TV. At that moment, the saber-tooth was nearing, getting ready to pounce, before thwarted by a pack of dire-wolves. He smirked at the cheesy computer-generated graphics, then headed upstairs.
Sleep didn’t pan out as he’d expected, continuing to roll around, tossing, turning. This time, he was much more comfortable in a pair of old, faded Gold’s Gym shorts and matching tank-top. The window was cracked, letting in the brisk autumn air blowing in from the river, cooling his overheated body, which always tended to run hot. Since high school, he’d been used to having a fan at the edge of the bed perpetually running, year-round, especially, sleeping next to Amy, who was always cold, having the heat cranked during the winter and AC turned low in the summer. Curtis, now fan-less, lay awake wishing for the soothing low roar of a fan motor to drain out the clatter of chirping crickets pervading his bedroom.
The pink clock mocked: 9:43 p.m. Curtis rolled out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom, where he peed, washed his hands, then splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, analyzing the contours of his aging face, the forehead wrinkles and smile lines becoming more prominent, the bags beginning to form under his eyes, and his five-o’clock shadow darkening the edges of his square chin. His electric razor was back at the hotel. Now that he thought about it, so was his toothbrush.
The upstairs was pitch black save for the mild, amber glow of a night light near the top of the steps across from the master bedroom. Curtis, wanting a sweatshirt, slowly entered Amy’s room and tip-toed over the hardwood floor to his closet to grab one, keeping an eye on her bed as he did so. The white, sheer curtains were open several inches, letting the soft glow of moonlight spill over her face as she slept. He stopped to admire her a moment, remembering how beautiful she was even asleep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen it. Years.
Next, he opened Wes’s bedroom door and peaked in. Like the one by the stairs, a night light was next to his bed—a giant, red race car. Wes, unrecognizable under a plethora of stuffed animals, the only indication of his existence was by the snuffling snores droning from under a pile of Storm Trooper covers. He smiled and shut the door.
After finishing the final slice of cold pizza—crust tossed—he plopped down on the couch. The lights were off, but the same moonlight that crossed Amy’s bed was now a spotlight through the tall family room window, making its way past the kitchen, out the sliding glass doors. Curtis lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, head back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling its intoxicating vapor into the atmosphere. He slowly turned his head, taking in space around him as if seeing it all for the first time. The chatter in his head now just muffled, incoherent noise, darting around a hundred different intermingling thoughts. His mind couldn’t seem to decide where to stop. He was okay with that.
The shelf under the coffee table held many items, primarily things needing to be hidden from plain sight: magazines, coloring books, Amy’s manicure kit and staggering array of nail polish shades, photo albums, remote controllers. He reached under to remove his favorite ashtray—his only ashtray, a vintage glass Amberina, blood orange and amber, which was his father’s, one his mother also used before she quit ten years earlier. It was cumbersome, mainly used as a paperweight, holding magazines in place. He grabbed it, and as he did, a series of photo albums of different lengths and sizes caught his eye. He pulled one out and began to flip through. It was the latest album—Wes’s eighth birthday celebration, with Amy’s parents at their beach house in Madison and all of his Harry Potter-themed gifts—Legos, puzzles, Hufflepuff Quidditch jersey, etc. His mother-in-law, clad in a flowing red cocktail dress, dangly jewelry, a face full of makeup and drink in hand, was present in just about every one. Who the hell gets that dolled up for a kid’s birthday party? He wasn’t much of a fan of his in-laws, knowing he was too low class for their pretentious tastes, especially Amy’s mother, nor she a fan of his, but he dealt with the awkward discomfort by only having to see them three times a year: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Wes’s birthday.
The next album, slightly older, held some glorious memories: the early years of the Reynolds’ life on Forest Street. Wes must have been two or three years old by Curtis’s recollection, judging by his size. The Cavanaugh’s were present as well. Half the photos had been taken in their backyard from either a Memorial Day or Fourth of July barbecue, he couldn’t remember which, the cookouts and gatherings all blended together. He pulled a group photo from under the thin plastic slot and held it up in the bluish-grey hue of the moon. The camera must have been on a timer, he thought, because all five of them were set in the front of Frank’s picnic table. Wes was sitting top center in a patriotic red, white & blue jumper; to his left, standing beside was Amy in a yellow summer dress and Estelle in a floral pattern. To the right of Wes was Curtis in jeans and a tee-shirt, his arm around Frank, who was hilariously shorter, wearing one of those funny quipped aprons—If You’re Reading This, Bring Me A Beer—gripping a giant, stainless steel grill fork. Plastered smiles on all.
“Can’t believe you’re gone, Frank.” Curtis gently shook his head, took a final drag, then snubbed out the butt against the scalloped edge of the Amberina.