LaGrange

Mr. LaGrange, sleep crusted in his eyes, thrusts his arms through a tangle of sheets and pillows and reaches out for Mrs. LaGrange. She is no longer at hand. She is, in fact, living at an Economy Inn on the other side of the expressway, along with his two stepchildren. In their three years together, he never made her belly swell. It is one of his great regrets.

It was much to his surprise and relief that Mrs. LaGrange had volunteered to move out, but the truth was she had only offered so that he would recognize the ridiculousness of his not offering, and he had failed to call her bluff. Being quite stubborn, she had gone through with the move anyway, but determined that it was behavior like this that led to the split in the first place.

Stumbling downstairs to the kitchen, Mr. LaGrange has no idea what to do with his day. If he were back in Mississippi, he would eat his toast, drink his coffee, and mosey into the law office, but being as this is Ohio and he has not yet passed the bar, he truly has no clue. He opens the breadbox and finds only crumbs. So much for toast.

He unties the string, unwraps the brown paper, and leafs through the used copy of The Last Picture Show he purchased at Kazanian’s yesterday afternoon. He turns to the title page and wonders if he ought to leave an inscription, but he can’t think of anything pithy enough to express how he feels without also being specific to the point of incrimination. Best to leave it blank.

Too depressed to use the stove, he runs the kitchen sink till it begins to steam and splashes warm water over powdered Maxwell House. Tastes like sulfur and chlorine. He skims The Last Picture Show for the dirty parts he remembers from high school. He cannot find them but hopes they’re still there.

* * *

Allison has babysat for the LaGranges over three dozen times during the past year and a half and has witnessed the decline and fall of their mutual attachment. The LaGranges are weird. There is no other way to put it.

Mrs. LaGrange is an awkward, skinny woman with cartoonishly pointy breasts and a thicket of black, unbrushed hair always on the verge of engulfing her face. When she wears dark glasses, she looks almost exactly like Joey Ramone.

For the past two years, she has suffered from clinically diagnosed postpartum depression, and while it is not her sole affliction, it is one of the more prominent ones, and specifically the one Mr. LaGrange never tires of discussing.

* * *

The evening’s first fireflies emerge, glowing erratically between boughs of white birch. The girls give chase, their jerky orbits carefully traced and anticipated by Allison’s watchful eye. “I’m going to tell you something I never told anybody,” says Mr. LaGrange, which is already the beginning of a lie. He squints his eyes and pouts, like he’s having difficulty getting the words out. “She’s … completely and incurably insane.”

“Oh,” Allison says, her eyes never leaving the children. “That’s terrible.” Allison spends a lot of time humoring Mr. LaGrange. It’s not that she’s afraid of him, but she’s 17 years old and has already survived two stalkers: one harmless, and one frightening enough to involve the police.

“She hasn’t been the same since she had that second kid. I fear for those children. I do.”

“But didn’t you meet her after Carrie was born?” asks Allison.

“Well, yeah,” says Mr. LaGrange, “but that was when you could still see ‘the woman who used to be.’ She wasn’t this irresponsible. She never did things like…” Mr. LaGrange means to finish off with something really damning, but the twilight is striking Allison’s pale skin and auburn hair just so, and she’s so beautiful that it hurts.

“Isn’t it nice of her to let you see the girls, even if it’s only for two hours a week?” A stipulation of this arrangement is that Allison is required to be present, and on Mr. LaGrange’s dime.

“She doesn’t trust herself,” he says. “And she shouldn’t. The girls need me.”

In truth, the girls are generally ambivalent to Mr. LaGrange’s presence and even now are ignoring him, playing together with a water toy that shoots little blue hoops over the snout of a smiling plastic seal.

Though Mr. LaGrange lusts after the babysitter, and though he believes it is morally — though not legally in the state of Ohio — questionable, he does not view himself objectively as a bad person. He firmly believes that every human being may choose to embody several distinct personas at once: The Victim, The Letch, The White Knight, The Long-Suffering Husband. (And he’s certain he could add The Atticus Finch to his repertoire, if only he’d pass the bar.)

“Well, I really hope you two can work it out.” Allison’s eyes glow with sincerity; she thinks Mr. and Mrs. LaGrange just might be weird enough for each other to make it work.

Mr. LaGrange cringes. Reconciliation is out of the question. He must remain unattached if he’s to have a chance with Allison, who strikes him as a good little girl. If she isn’t a virgin anymore, it won’t be wrong. He resolves to find out if she is without asking outright, but then it pops out: “So, Allison, you have any boyfriends?”

“Carrie, watch out for that bee,” Allison says. “Don’t swat him, Melanie, you’ll only make him angry.” The girls are giggling, and Allison breaks away from Mr. LaGrange with motherly purpose. Though the bee was invented, her determination is real.

Powerful emotions swirl about Mr. LaGrange like a living shroud. He nearly works up the nerve to give her the copy of The Last Picture Show, but the timing doesn’t feel right. It’s never right. When Mrs. LaGrange’s Honda Civic arrives to pick up the children, he hides indoors. When Allison’s father’s Pontiac Bonneville comes to pick her up, he also hides indoors.

Later that evening, he listens to some Paul Anka love ballads and eats spoonfuls of salsa out of a jar he has discovered at the back of the fridge. He stares at the mantel, at where the pictures of Mrs. LaGrange used to live. Below, where a fire should be, there is a flickering orange-yellow bulb set behind a black plastic grille. He is struck with the urgent sensation that he should be someplace else, with someone else, and doing something else. He wishes he knew what that was.

Outside, in the rich darkness, a sleepy breeze blows among the birches.

* * *

The next day, Mr. LaGrange decides he must bite the bullet and go grocery shopping. Though it requires spending money he doesn’t have, he enjoys his trips to the Shawnee FreshMarket because they afford him the chance to spend time with Bill, Allison’s 15-year-old brother. Bill works there as a stock boy, and when he is replenishing the dairy section, he is a captive to his work and can be easily trapped into lengthy conversations. Mr. LaGrange figures that the level of friendship he can build with Bill will have a direct correlation to the level of intimacy he could have with Allison, and if he can elevate Bill’s friendship to “brother-in-law” heights, that would nearly make Allison his wife.

When Bill first heard about Mr. LaGrange, he was told that he was “eccentric” and “some kind of lawyer.” Bill pictured a tall, hungry man in Armani with a gel-slicked Harvard Clip, every hair in place. In reality, Mr. LaGrange is a short and slovenly man who wears 60-dollar beige suits purchased from Value City; he sports a curly, lopsided mop of graying hair and sees the world through eyes dark and tightly spaced, like a marmoset’s. Bill has gleaned from conversations with his sister that Mr. LaGrange is something of a creeper and, before they had met, even contemplated visiting violence upon the man. Now, however, Bill broadly tolerates Mr. LaGrange in an approach similar to his sister’s; he is unable to despise or even dislike someone he finds so plainly pathetic.

“Well if it isn’t ‘Billion-Dollar’ Bill,” says Mr. LaGrange.

“How are we doing today, Mr. LaGrange?” Bill focuses his attention on the shelves he’s filling with 16-ounce tubs of cottage cheese.

“I have something for your sister.” Mr. LaGrange pulls The Last Picture Show, gift-wrapped, out of his jacket pocket. Bill notices his shirt is untucked.

“Sorry, Mr. LaGrange, my hands are full. It’ll have to be another time.”

“I can wait,” says Mr. LaGrange, grinning. He is very certain that Bill finds his behavior endearing.

“I can’t take packages when I’m at work. We don’t have lockers, so I’d have to leave it in the break room, and stuff tends to disappear from the break room.”

“Oh,” says Mr. LaGrange, and he pockets the book, mortified by the idea of it being lost beyond Allison’s reach. “Some other time, then.”

The freckle-faced cashier is Allison’s age, though not so good-looking. Mr. LaGrange is half-tempted to give the book to her, just to show that Allison’s hold on his heart is not ironclad, but in the end it is not a serious thought.

* * *

Mr. LaGrange’s living situation has changed rather drastically and, in his opinion, not for the better. Mrs. LaGrange showed up one day in a rage, waving legal documents and screaming that she hated him. The result of the outburst is that Mrs. LaGrange and the children are safely back at home, and it’s Mr. LaGrange at the Economy Inn on the other side of the expressway. Most of his things are back at the old house, and the thought of what Mrs. LaGrange may be doing to them right now is the basis of much anxiety. If he were back in Mississippi, he’d have a number of friends and acquaintances to call on for help, but because he’s in Ohio, he decides to stop by the Shawnee FreshMarket.

Bill is balancing the hand truck very carefully so that he can bring out a stack of seven crates at once. His manager is particular about the aesthetics of the dairy section, and it’s a difficult task to keep his head above water when milk is retailing two-for-one.

“Watch it!” shouts Mr. LaGrange, sneaking up from behind. “I wouldn’t want you to cry over spilt milk.”

Bill pretends to laugh and resumes stocking the shelves; he has heard this particular joke from Mr. LaGrange on seven separate occasions.

“Wanna make ten bucks for twenty minutes of work?”

“Doing what,” says Bill.

“Helping me move a few things out of my wife’s basement.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Mr. LaGrange.”

“It’ll only take twenty minutes. We can do it right after your shift. I’m in a real pinch here, Bill…”

When he nods and says “all right,” Bill is not only thinking about the likelihood that he might be the closest thing to a friend that Mr. LaGrange has, but also the relative odds of whether LaGrange would be idiotic enough to ask Allison to help lift boxes in his stead, and if Allison would be too polite to decline.

* * *

“This shouldn’t be too bad,” says Mr. LaGrange, coasting to a stop in the gravel driveway. “There’s only about twenty boxes down there. And I’ve been told she’ll be acting her age for once.” Mr. LaGrange winks at Bill, as if Bill is familiar with any baseline for Mrs. LaGrange’s behavior.

Mrs. LaGrange is sitting on the porch, holding Carrie in her arms. She stands and raises her child like a shield, ready for battle. “Who is this?” she scoffs.

Bill, still wearing his Shawnee FreshMarket apron, shuts the car door and introduces himself as Allison’s brother. He decides that Allison’s “weird” descriptor does not quite do her justice.

“You have exactly fifteen minutes,” says Mrs. LaGrange, “before I call the police.”

“You stop hassling me,” says Mr. LaGrange. He puffs out his chest, but he’s still shorter than his wife, who has the advantage of an additional porch step. “I have time, I have plenty of time…”

“It’s later than you think,” she hisses, “you smashed banana of a man!”

Bill finds this quite evocative; there is something unclean and distinctly sexual about the insult. He’s feeling a similar awkwardness to when he’s at a friend’s house and the parents start bawling out his friend while Bill’s still in the room.

“I’m getting my boxes,” says Mr. LaGrange, and indeed there is a whiny timbre to his voice, a child rebuked by his mother.

It takes 25 minutes to move all of the boxes. Mrs. LaGrange does not call the police, though the entire time she regards her husband with the same death glare she’d offer a wandering spider; the cold and calculated look one gets while slowly rolling a magazine into a war club.

“You wanna know what he did?” says Mrs. LaGrange.

Bill is carrying the final box up the basement stairs and he senses genuine venom in the air. The dam may burst at any moment.

“Don’t you talk to him,” says Mr. LaGrange. “He’s nice. Like me. Too nice for you.”

“You wanna know what he did to me?” asks Mrs. LaGrange. “I’ll tell you.”

Though in theory Bill is extremely curious about the specifics of their dysfunction, at this moment he can only think about returning home, exhaling, and comparing notes with his sister. The tension in the house is so thick, he can only maintain an even keel by counting the seconds in his head: One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…

“It’s none of my business, ma’am,” says Bill. Six-one-thousand, seven-one-thousand…

* * *

A heavy silence troubles the ride home. Mr. LaGrange grips the steering wheel — ten and two — with white knuckles; Bill directs his gaze out the passenger window, feigning interest in fire hydrants, trashcans, and devil strips. After a while, Mr. LaGrange lets out a long and bottled-up sob. It lasts for a full three seconds (One-one-thousand…) before it sputters to a stop like a wind-up toy. LaGrange fumbles for the radio dial and flips to WNCX. “Radar Love” comes on, a little too loud. It works for both of them.

“Mind getting out here?” asks Mr. LaGrange. They are half a block from Bill’s house. “Sure,” says Bill. He is at least as embarrassed as Mr. LaGrange.

“I have your money,” says Mr. LaGrange, and he counts out nine Sacagawea dollar coins, then four quarters. They tinkle into Bill’s open palms; the few that tumble out are caught by his apron.

“Thanks,” says Bill. He feels very superior to Mr. LaGrange at this moment, though it brings him little joy. He wonders if LaGrange even has a bank account.

“Give this to Allison for me, would you?”

Bill takes the gift-wrapped book and slams the door. He has no desire to lengthen the encounter.

* * *

“You ever count the seconds when you’re with that guy?”

“Ha,” says Allison. “Always.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Sis.”

“Two more months. Just two.”

Allison is referring to the remaining time in which the LaGranges will play any sort of role in her life. After that, she will be safely tucked away in a dorm room on the West Coast, starting fresh, incommunicado. She has given serious thought to ignoring their phone calls in the here and now, but it seems cruel to kick people when they are down. Why make it personal? Why not let fate do the heavy lifting for me?

“That guy’s on the edge,” says Bill. “He doesn’t deserve your help. I’m not sure he’s safe to be around.” Bill doesn’t believe Mr. LaGrange is capable of violence, sexual or otherwise, but it feels wrong to not at least attempt a chivalrous attitude. It concerns his sister, for God’s sake, and it upsets him that he doesn’t have a hotter head on the subject.

“I can handle it,” says Allison. “Humoring crazy people is my specialty.”

“Oh, yeah, speaking of which, he wanted you to have this.” Bill hands her the package.

She unwraps it and rolls her eyes. One more thing to do.

* * *

Mr. LaGrange sits in his hotel room, watching VH1 and wearing a complimentary white terrycloth robe. He is doing neither of these things because he enjoys them, but because he believes he must in order to justify the cost of the room. He knows that by now the book must be in Allison’s hands, and yet he is getting nothing out of it. Nothing at all.

* * *

Three days before she leaves for college, Allison receives a call. Thirty dollars for two hours of babysitting at the Economy Inn. She could use the money.

Her father drops her off and she walks through the automatic doors and upstairs to Mr. LaGrange’s room. A desk clerk forms a stereotypical judgment as she passes by, a girl alone.

“Five minutes late,” jokes Mr. LaGrange. “Getting used to the college lifestyle already? One week in, and I bet you’ll be wearing pajamas to class.”

“I don’t think so,” says Allison.

“Let’s make a bet. We’ll talk after you’ve been away one week, and see if I’m right.”

Allison smiles politely and asks when Melanie and Carrie are coming over. Since she first stepped inside the room, she’s noted the conspicuous absence of the children. Her heart is beating at an accelerated rate. All that keeps her from shrieking and running are the pink bicycle parts lying all over the room.

“They’re not,” says Mr. LaGrange, casually. “I needed some help with this.” He lifts a pair of handlebars. Pink, aqua, and yellow tassels dangle between them. “I thought we could chat. Is my money still good?” He laughs.

Allison snatches a white tire with pink trim. She considers its usefulness as a weapon, should it come to that. “Sure,” she says, “but I’m not very handy.”

“That makes two of us,” says Mr. LaGrange. He is convinced that his repartee is top-notch.

Mr. LaGrange waits for what he feels is an appropriate amount of time to ask, “Hey, did you ever read that book Bill delivered for me?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t had the time.” Allison believes that if the scenario were going to turn violent, it would have done so already. Now she is simply bored.

“Take your time with it, take your time.” Mr. LaGrange believes he is playing it very cool. “I think you’re going to like it a lot,” he says, as smug as if he’d written it himself.

“I heard it was good, yeah.”

When the bicycle is finished, there are several extra screws and pins left over. Allison is very OCD about whether they followed the instructions correctly and is afraid that one of the girls could be injured from a flawed assembly. Mr. LaGrange assures her that manufacturers customarily include extra parts, though he truly has no idea. He uses this paternal posturing to segue into his next thought, which is, “Oh, so do you have that address and phone number for college yet?”

“No.” She prays that he leaves it at that.

“The thing is …” he says, turning pensive, “and I didn’t want to mention this unless I thought it was a real possibility, but … you could be subpoenaed during our divorce. You know what a subpoena is?”

“Yes,” she says, but mostly so he’ll stop repeating subpoena, which at this moment is sounding repulsively similar to penis.

“Have you ever testified before, in a trial? Have you been deposed? I could coach you, I have plenty of experience with these things…”

“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr. LaGrange?” She is doing her best to conceal her rising panic. The idea that fate would conspire to keep the LaGranges in her life is nearly too much to bear. She resolves that no matter what, when she leaves this room, she will never see or speak to a LaGrange again, even if it means running afoul of the law. “Oh, look at the time,” she says. “My father’s downstairs.”

Mr. LaGrange gives her the 30 dollars. When the door slams shut he realizes that he wants her so intensely, he’s lightheaded. He lies down and collects himself. When he feels well enough, he rises and furiously stomps on the bicycle. He only succeeds in bruising his foot.

* * *

Over the next few months, Mr. LaGrange leaves a number of innocuous messages on Allison’s parents’ answering machine. Sometimes he bothers Bill at the FreshMarket, but Bill can never quite remember his sister’s address or phone number offhand. “She’s very busy,” he says. “I talk to her, like, once every two months, and I’m her brother.”

The niceties have been maintained, Bill thinks. No one’s feelings have been hurt.

LaGrange shambles away to the checkout, hanging his head.

* * *

Mr. LaGrange writes to Allison at her former email address. “My fingers are crossed that you get this.” The message goes on to explain that he is applying to a Program to host a foreign exchange student — specifically, a teenage girl of Nordic descent. He is asking, in all of his cluelessness, for Allison to write him a letter of recommendation for the Program. He makes a point of saying that she should “tell the truth, all of it, the nice things.” Though she is far too busy, she makes the time to draft a letter and send it in. The letter is truthful. It is not particularly nice.

* * *

The following year, a few weeks after 9/11, Mr. LaGrange sends another email. He jokes that she is harder to track down than Osama bin Laden. “Write me back, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.” She ignores the email. She never sees or hears from him again.

* * *

Ten years later, Allison is cleaning out her old bedroom and finds LaGrange’s copy of The Last Picture Show sitting in a drawer. She begins reading, but sets it down in disgust as soon as a teenaged character is about to sleep with a fortysomething with marital problems. She will never finish reading it, which is a shame, because it’s a well-written, sympathetic novel, very insightful.