Vital Signs by Jen Michalski

 

Arthur was trimming the grass at the bank when he ran into one of his students. She would be a sophomore now. Took an Introduction to British Literature class for a language requirement but was, he guessed, an education or psych major.

“Professor Schlesinger, it’s me, Dawn Cruddup?” She stood before him, clutching her purse, friendly, but wary. Perhaps she thought Arthur would bite her. “I heard you took some time off from teaching.”

“Well, not time off, actually,” he answered, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “A permanent vacation, really.”

“Oh, so you retired?”

“Kind of. School is well?”

“Yep. Everything is good.” She looked at the ground between them. “Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you…I heard that…well, I always thought you were a great teacher and decent man.”

What did you hear? he thought, but then thought better of asking. Did he honestly want to know, to have to defend against all types of idiocies, so much so that he’d feel compelled to go back to teaching, to prove to them he wasn’t an alcoholic, a plagiarizer or child molester? He fiddled with the switch on his hedge trimmer.

“I’m great, Dawn,” he answered finally. “I wanted to spend some time to myself. Thanks for asking, though. I’m glad you’re doing well at school.”

With that, the thin thread of their connection had broken, and they stood awkwardly for a moment before Dawn waved eagerly and walked back to her car. Arthur wondered about the others who trailed in and out of the bank. Did they know he had published 52 journal articles in the past twenty years, that he had written two books, or did they think he was just some guy, some guy with a hedgetrimmer? But that’s what he was, wasn’t he? Just a guy with a hedgetrimmer.

“What, you communicating with it?” Hank huffed by with a bag of mulch. “We ain’t got all day here.”

 

Arthur finished out the rest of the week cutting grass, pruning trees, and sitting on his porch with a hot water bottle between his back and the chair, drinking cheap beer and not thinking too much, particularly during periods of pain and when Hank stopped over to visit, which was often. Arthur grilled hamburgers from a box while Hank stretched on the dusty, moth-eaten glider, compresses on each of his knees.

“A couple of divorcees eating hamburgers.” Hank let the paper plate rest on the hard pillow of pauch that was his stomach. “Does it get any better than this?”

“Compared with what?” Arthur grinned. It was hard to compare this experience directly with any event in Arthur’s life---not because of socioeconomic or class barriers---but because Arthur had never had a friend before, an adult friend. He supposed Julia had come close, and she more confidant by marriage than friend. But he had never had a friendship for the sake of camaraderie, for “shits and giggles,” as Hank liked to say.

“You’re a quiet guy, Arthur.” Hank sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Not much to say.” Arthur shrugged. “There’s the past, and then there’s now. If I linger in the past, I’m not here now.”

“But you still talk to the wife and son, I reckon?”

“Of course.”

“They think you’re a nutcase, don’t they?”

“Julia--yes. She thinks I’m having a midlife crisis. When she had her midlife crisis, we got divorced. Why does she think mine should be as easy as buying a convertible?”

“You miss her, then? The divorce was pretty recent?”

“Three years ago---right after Erik left for college. Almost calculated in that respect. But to be honest, I was so wrapped up in my own career---and she in her life---there wasn’t much to miss. We seem to work better as strategic partners, anyway.”

“I never talk to my wife, Eunice, anymore. She joined this church about ten years back and suddenly everything was a sin. She didn’t even want me drinking or smoking. What kind of life was I gonna have, always having to worry I was doing something wrong? But hey, I got off easy---she don’t talk to me no more, but damned if she doesn’t go down to the prison every chance she gets to try and convert the boy. He’s likely to commit a crime in there just to stay the hell away from her longer.”

“Do you visit Tommy?” Arthur asked, feeding Buster the remains of his hamburger. He had not given Erik his forwarding address. Like most essentials of their life together, he assumed Julia had taken care of it. He wondered if he should call him personally. It had not occurred to him that a conversation was needed.

“Hell no. I gave him a job whenever he needed one, and all he damn always robbed me of money or tools or didn’t show up, off on a bender. No, if he wants to do the right by his old man he’ll have to come to me and earn it this time. But he’s my son and I’ll always love him. No sense in him doing things the easy way, right? Too boring. Can’t lie in your coffin waiting to die, he’d always say.” Hank looked out across the ramshackle yards, the shadows of the evening lining his face. “We could put a deck back here easy, you know. Then we can really fire up the grill and get serious.”

When Erik showed up one evening at the house, Arthur was not entirely surprised. When he had lunch with Julia the previous week, she had mentioned Erik’s dissatisfaction with school and their increasing distance as a result.

“He hasn’t cut his hair in months, Arthur, and he wears the same clothes whenever I see him. I want you to talk to him, although I’m sure your influence at this point is mostly negligible. Of course, you’ll probably be peas in a pod these days.”

Something, of course, Arthur and Erik never were when Erik was growing up. Erik was a mystery to Arthur as much as football. Good-looking, although not particularly athletic, he was somewhat effeminate and needful of attention, something Arthur had always blamed on Julia. Erik had cared more about his wardrobe and cultivating a sense of urban ennui than academics, sports, or rebellion, which had been fine by Arthur. It had been easier to order J. Crew sweaters between writing journal articles than taking Erik to a psychiatrist. And literature---Arthur had given up on Erik long ago---volumes of Hemingway and Cummings and Milton sat dusty and unopened next to dog-eared copies of GQ.

Arthur was not prepared, however, for the unkempt man standing with a duffel bag on his dilapidated porch.