Entering Normal by Anne Leclaire Page B

supposed to have been connected the day before, and she wanted to blast the phone company. “The fucking phone company,” was what she said. Right then, as soon as those words flew out of her mouth—“the fucking phone company”—Ned saw his hopes for Rose fly right out the window.
    The boy seems nice enough, though. No bouts of temper as far as Ned can see. He says “sorry” when his ball rolls over to their yard. Not his fault his mother has a mouth on her. When Ned was out mowing the lawn the previous night, he saw the kid playing all alone, tossing an old whiffle ball up in the air, awkward hands missing it on its arc down, tossing and missing, tossing and missing, over and over until it made him dizzy to watch. It reminded him of all the nights he’d spent with Todd, teaching him to catch—a boy needs a patient man for that—and then he remembered all the baseballs he’d bought for his son over the years.
    There is a whole carton of that stuff in the garage. The balls and gloves and Frisbees in that cardboard box would be doing a lot more good if that boy had them. As it is, every time Ned goes out to get the mower, his eyes fall on the carton, a concrete reminder of the worst kind of pain a man could ever expect to have. He had wanted to give the lot of them to his sister Ethel for her boys. But Rose wouldn’t hear of it, although he couldn’t imagine what she had been saving them for. It hadn’t made any sense. Still doesn’t. As far as he can see, all this holding on to Todd’s stuff doesn’t help anything. If he had his way, he’d just get rid of it all. But there was hell to pay the one time he gave some of Todd’s clothes to Ethel. Clothes, for Christ’s sake.
    He had wanted more than the one child, but it hadn’t worked out that way. They just had the one. Rose was thirty-three when Todd was born and had almost lost hope. If you have more than one kid, at least there are others if something happens to one. Not that he’s blaming Rose.
    Sometimes, when he allows himself to think about Todd, he is hit with an actual pain, a physical ache he can feel in his muscles and sinew and organs.
    He notices the bathroom door is closed. “Rose,” he says. “Rosie, you in there?”
    â€œGo away.”
    He tries the knob, finds it locked. He sighs, caught between anger and resignation. “Rosie,” he says to the door. “Open up. I need a couple of aspirin. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”
    After a moment or two the door opens enough for her to extend an arm, hand him a bottle of Excedrin. He should push it open, take her by surprise, grab her and shake her and put an end to this nonsense. He takes the bottle and waits—helplessly—while she withdraws her hand. He listens to the thick chink of the lock being turned.
    Downstairs, he stands at the kitchen sink, turns on the faucet, runs the cold tap until it’s icy, then cups his hands and ducks his face. Again and again he bathes his face, but this does not relieve the tightness across his temples, the pounding behind his eyes. He takes the Excedrin, then walks down the hall and opens the front door, stares across his driveway to the lot next door. The boy has gone inside.
    The lawn over there needs mowing, and the old growth on the foundation shrubs hasn’t been trimmed. A street like this, once you let one place get run down, the whole neighborhood goes to hell. He wonders which realtor handled the rental, who he should complain to. Looking over at the house where he now has for a neighbor a perfect nutcase, Ned again feels a heavy, familiar helplessness.
    He would like to ask someone what do to about Rose. Doc Blessing hasn’t been able to help. Oh, he gave her pills, but after a week, she refused to take them. Reverend Wills has talked to them both, but that hasn’t changed a thing. It’s as if Ned married one woman—a