Until Tomorrow

Until Tomorrow

by Harry Buschman

My son Michael is standing on the steps of the high school auditorium looking this way and that. All the other kids seem to know where they're going – except Michael.

I roll down the window and shout, "Let's go Michael, you know how your mother feels about supper." I roll the window up again and watch him walking toward me. Why did I say, 'Your mother?' "Your mother," it's a strange way to refer to Margaret, as though she was an abbess in a nunnery, as though I was not her husband or his father. I never think of her as my wife, or "Margaret." Never "We." Never "Us." ... when did all that begin?

No use asking when. I know exactly when it began. It began when I gave up the job at the magazine and began writing at home. I should have rented a small office in town and written there, but the temptation to write at home whenever I damn well felt like it was too strong. My best time has always been late afternoon and early evening. So I kicked around the house all morning and Margaret found things for me to do.

"After all you're not really doing anything. There's the hose in the washing machine, and look at that hedge – the clippers are hanging up in the garage."

If I was in the city, I'd be on the phone talking to editors, other writers – people in the business. That's the way to keep your finger in – to know what's going on. How can a writer keep his pecker up while he's fixing the hose in the washing machine? Is it any wonder I found myself in front of the liquor cabinet at eleven o'clock in the morning?

Now I measure the hours of my day by the level of scotch in the bottle and I can see what a mistake it was to work at home. I wait to hear Margaret on the phone or see her in the garden, then I make a bee line for the bottle, grab a quick one and go back to the washing machine or the typewriter. When I stop and consider it carefully, the way things have been going there isn't much difference between them.

"What kept you so long, Michael?”

"Oh, that picky bastard, Mr. McKibben. He made us do the second act three times this afternoon."

"Don't call your teacher a bastard, Michael."

He shrugs. It’s a “if the shoe fits,” kind of shrug.

Michael and his High School drama class are putting on "The Cherry Orchard" this spring. Pretty ambitious I thought. In the light from the street lamp I can see he's still wearing stage make-up. He looks strangely androgynous, like the teen age boys I used to see hanging around Columbus Circle after eleven at night. He wants to be an actor! I shake my head at him and start the car.

"You know Michael, Chekhov runs pretty deep. Maybe Mr. McKibben is trying to bring out the ..."

"Ah, who gives a crap! It's a high school play, what's the big deal? We havin' anything good for supper?"

"I don't know, I've been working."

He turns from me abruptly and looks out the window. I can tell he's on the edge of saying something about the drinking. He can smell it I'm sure. I pick up the speed a bit ...

"Dad, there's a police car behind you – I can see it in the mirror."

Suddenly there are lights flashing behind me and I hear a short growl on the siren.

"Better pull over here, Dad," he rolls his window down quickly. "Wind your window down fast and turn on the fan."

How quick they are to learn the ropes at seventeen. As I ease the car to the shoulder of the road I wonder how often Michael has been pulled over with a half a six-pack on the back seat.

The patrol car pulls over in back of me but a little farther out in the road to protect the driver as he walks up behind me.

"Don't get out, stay in the car please. License and registration." He pokes his head slightly inside the open window and takes a long look at Michael. I fumble for a while looking for my papers.

"I'll need your insurance card too – probably in your glove compartment or up under the visor, nobody remembers where they put them. Don't hurry, we got lots of time."

Well we don't have that much time. Margaret, (our mother) will be on pins and needles by now, standing behind the living room curtain – looking out the window.

"I'm in a hurry, officer. I don't know what I did, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ... "

"Hold on Mr. ... Evans, is it? You passed two stop signs without slowing down, I clocked you at 45 in a 20 mile zone and from all appearances alcohol is involved. I'm patrolman Willoughby, by the way." He held my ID up to the light.

"You wouldn't be Leonard Evans, the writer would you?"

"There goes your rep, Dad." Michael mutters.

"Yes officer, I'm Leonard Evans – just picking up my son at school. My wife is waiting for us – she gets upset if we're late."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Evans. Just let me check your papers, Okay?" He looks in the window at Michael again. "You sober son?" he asks. Michael nodded. "Too bad you weren't drivin'. Got a good reason to be wearin' lipstick?"

"Yes sir – it's stage make-up."

I see what's troubling Patrolman Willoughby. I clumsily try to explain. "He's my son Officer – he's in a school play – "The Cherry Orchard."

"That so?" Says Willoughby as he walks back to his vehicle. Traffic cruises past and curious people stare at us as we wait in the glare of officer Willoughby's spotlight. Why can't he at least turn off his damn flashing lights?!

"If we get out of this, don't breathe a word to your mother," I whisper to Michael. No sooner have the words escaped me that I realize there's no place to hide in a small town like this. How many neighbors have driven past this light show on our quiet two lane street and recognized Leonard Evans and his teen age son?

Willoughby's head appears in the side window again. "You’ve got no prior convictions, Mr. Evans – that's in your favor. But I don't have to tell you that you're DUI, do I? I could pull you in for that, you could lose your license, maybe even your car. Suppose you ran into something or somebody in your condition?"

"It won't happen again, officer. It hasn't happened before – I wouldn't have had a drink if I knew I was going to get my son." Out of the corner of my eye I see Michael shift in his seat and look out the window.

"Tell you what, Mr. Evans. We'll put it down to experience, Okay? But I'm trailing behind you the rest of the way home. I want to see you get this car off the street and in your driveway, then I want to see you lock it up. I'll be parked right there watching."

We drive home, well within the speed limit and stopping, (really stopping) at every stop sign. I even slow down at intersections without stop signs. To impress officer Willoughby even further I use the turn signal when I pull in the driveway. Michael and I get out and I lock up. At that point Willoughby turns off his flashing lights, waves to me and drives off.

Except for the ceiling light in the kitchen the house is dark.

"Where have you been, you knew supper was ready? What was that police car following you for? What have you two been up to?"

She’s been waiting for us in the dark, looking out at the street. Silently, we march like prisoners of war in single file to the kitchen; the same kitchen that has seen so many tearful confessions, angry confrontations and weary forgivings. For some married couples, the bedroom is the confessional, for us it has always been the kitchen.

"I got picked up for running a stop sign. We had to wait downtown 'til the cop checked my I.D., right Michael?"

"Like he says," he shrugs indifferently, "I'm going to wash off this make-up. Is supper still on, Mom?"

We stand at opposite sides of the table, Margaret and I. There, between us, is an overdone pot roast and a bowl of boiled potatoes, turnips and carrots, they look as though they’ve been varnished.

"You knew dinner was almost ready when you left. If you have to get in trouble, would you please do it on your own time, and for Heaven's sakes don't involve your son!" That shade of difference again, "Your son." Sometimes "My son," but hardly ever "Our son."

Thank God Michael walks in.

"Gee, Ma, looks burned, what's it supposed to be?"

The three of us eat in silence, as though someone has died. I don't want to say I'm sorry for being late; it will start all over again. Am I that bad a husband that I can't say I'm sorry?

We're about through when Margaret puts her napkin down and says, "Oh, with all your shenanigans I almost forgot. Your agent, what-his-name, Waterson? He called and said he got an advance from Bedford Press."

"Way to go, Pop, any chance of a new leather jacket?"

It had been so long I'd almost forgotten it – yes "Resurrection." 10,000 words. A long short story, almost a novella. I make a quick mental calculation allowing for the agent's commission and it looks like Margaret can get her new washing machine after all. We had talked about it, but it seems fruitless to bring it up now. It was a long time ago, just about the time the booze took hold. I probably wrote it between sessions with the sump pump, the washing machine hose, and the liquor cabinet.

'Actually, Michael, I promised your mother a washing machine. But, we'll see, okay ... there should be enough."

"When did you promise me a washing machine?"

"Oh, it's got to be three years ago, now. It's funny, I can barely remember the story at all, but I remember saying if I sold "Resurrection" we'd get a new washing machine."

"Not exactly a present for me, is it?"

"No, I guess not."

Dinner is over and if anyone asked me, I couldn't have told them what I'd eaten. I was thirsty though – I haven't had a drink in over three hours. I look across the table at Margaret, she is as tense as a drawn bow. All women undergo their change differently, but it's been especially hard for her. Not too easy on Michael and me either. She is staring with narrowed eyes at the plate in front of her. She fidgets with her napkin and raises her left hand nervously to her forehead. She looks at us as though we are strangers.

"I have a splitting headache, I'm going to bed as soon as the dishes are done."

"Don't worry about the dishes, dear, Michael and I will do them. Right Mike?"

"There's a cast party at Peter's house, Pop. I'm gonna be late as it is." He turned to Margaret, "I won't be late, Mom. Be home by eleven."

It doesn't bother me. I know he'll be gone for an hour or two and Margaret will be upstairs. Maybe I can get some work done after – after a drink or two. Margaret stands up and says a weary good night to both of us. How tired she looks. Fifty-two and utterly exhausted. Have Michael and I taken that much out of her?

So here I stand again .... by the kitchen sink listening to the noise of the party over at Peter's house across the street. The great writer with a story in Bedford's, wearing a "Kiss the Chef" apron. "The Resurrection!" It finally comes back to me, that was the one about the old woman on the internet who finds a man who left her sixty years ago. I remember writing it now, it was not between the sump pump and the washing machine hose at all, it was during the catastrophe of the flood from the upstairs toilet.

There is a window above our kitchen sink that looks out to the north over a tangle of old azalea bushes. They will bloom shortly and brazenly announce the middle of May. They need pruning, many of their lower branches are leafless and woody. They were young when Margaret and I moved here, every bit as young as we were. Deep green glossy leaves and blazingly red flowers. We have grown old together, the azalea's, Margaret and me. An idea for a sentimental story there – growing old with the shrubbery.

I've had one drink too many. My experience with scotch should make me a better drinker that I am. A wiser drunk. Writing comes easy after two. After two the words flow effortlessly, they have a heft to them that plumbs the depth and breadth of whatever ability I may have. But if I take one more I'm all thumbs. I can't put two words together that I haven't put together before with more grace and power.

There is nothing on television and my mind drifts to Margaret as I read. I should go up and talk to her, but with an apprehension born of experience I put it off until tomorrow. Tomorrow can get so crowded with the things we should have done today. The night, what's left of it, is balmy, and I take up my post on the front porch to wait for Michael.

I must have dozed. Michael is standing with another boy at the end of our driveway. I don't recognize the other boy. He's taller than Michael – probably older. I find myself wishing he was standing there with a girl – it would seem more natural after a party. What can two boys have to talk about after a party at this hour?

"You can get into the Actor's Studio at seventeen, Dean was already out in California at seventeen."

"I'd have to have better marks to get out of high school at seventeen. I'll be lucky to get out at eighteen."

They seem to be breaking up, and somewhat unsteadily, Michael approaches the porch completely unaware of me. He stumbles on the top step ...

"Hi, Michael."

"Oh! Hi, Pop. You didn't have to wait up." He stands there, a touch unstable. I recall him stumbling like that as a child of eighteen months planning his next step from the coffee table to the sofa to show his mother and me how small a step it is for a man.

"I wasn't waiting Michael. Are you okay?'

"Yeah, fine – good party. How's Mom?"

"Asleep, I guess." He stifles a yawn and looks at his watch in the light from the living room window. "It takes a little time Michael, you know? It's something all women go through. They're not like us, you know."

"She's got her problems I suppose. I don't know a lot about women, Pop. You going to bed?"

"I'll be right up." He's got his balance now, and he's alert enough to hold the screen door from slamming as it closes.

But, that's not the response I expected, and I feel I should call him back from the edge of a dangerous precipice. There is so much I want to tell him about life and if I put it off until tomorrow it will slip my mind. He is our son after all. If Margaret were here, together we might be able to keep him from going over the edge, but she’s not here and I can't do it alone, I know too little of life to do anything by myself – along with everything else it will have to wait until tomorrow.