Goodnight, Sunrise
by Michael Schulman
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
At the hospital, Dr. Holmes read the ultrasound anatomic review sheet prepared by the sonographer. Harley and Carol seemed to shrink in the imposing physician’s presence and office.
Harley watched the doctor form words with his mouth and noticed his mouth curl and make the O shape. Carol did her best to listen intently despite the effect of the tranquilizer.
“The fetus has developed all the five senses at your stage of pregnancy, Mrs. Johnston. The vital organs are fully developed.”
Dr. Holmes pressed his lips together into a feigned smile. “I understand, Mrs. Johnston, that you want me to read you the sonography results in my office with your husband present. You didn’t want to see the baby on the video screen or test the baby’s gender at the earlier sonograms. Because of religious reasons?”
Carol nodded.
“Well” — Dr. Holmes spoke in one long drawl — “at thirty-five weeks, your baby weighs six pounds six ounces and is eighteen and a half inches long.”
Carol looked to Harley, trembling. Harley smiled and put his hand on hers.
Dr. Holmes droned, “Fetal cardiac screening, growth, amniotic fluid evaluation, and placental position are—”
Carol’s teeth chattered and her eyes watered. Harley put his arm around her shoulder and pecked her cheek.
The doctor whirled like a fan, his voice lulling as if he were bored. “Yes, the placental position is normal. Your weight gain will slow down. You might experience heartburn. Your breasts might leak, you might be feeling forgetful, breathing will get difficult—”
“Harley?” Carol muttered.
Harley put his ear to her mouth.
The doctor’s eyes were half shut. “Yes. Sit back, relax, and don’t be too hard on yourself. I recommend doing as little as possible, if at all possible.”
“Harley, ask him,” Carol whispered.
Harley cleared his throat and burst out with it. “Is he a boy?”
“No fetal abnormalities or unusual....” Dr. Holmes shook like coming out of a dream. “A boy?” He folded the sheet over the clipboard. There was one page.
Dr. Holmes waved to his secretary. “Miss Peralta, can you get Mr. King for me?”
He scanned the page. “Fetal gender determination... fetal gender—”
“Harley, please,” Carol poked her husband’s arm.
Harley lifted his head, trying to make himself bigger despite feeling shrunken to the size of a thumbtack.
“What did the scan say?” Harley said.
“Fetal gender determination... where is it?” Dr. Holmes smacked the clipboard against the desk. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Carol slurred.
“It’s a one-in-a-thousand. I mean, this has never...” Dr. Holmes looked from the clipboard to the desk to the door to his clipboard and back.
Harley felt a bead of sweat form on the crown of his head. A thought froze in Harley’s head, and his concentration became fixed but dull.
Carol said, “The baby! Harley, what if it’s all true? The legend? If he’s born and we’re still in Montauk Haven?”
Dr. Holmes tapped his lab coat pocket, looking for a pen.
“We have to know now, Dr. Holmes,” Carol spoke in muted rage. Her mouth started to form the question, but her energy wilted. She felt dizzy.
“I have to go... to the lady’s room.” Carol sat up, faced the door, and crumpled into Harley’s arms, fainting.
When Harley and Carol left, the secretary came to Dr. Holmes with a manilla folder. He tapped his ID badge, beating a slow rhythm. The printed tab: C. Johnston’s Ultrasound Results. The two vacant seats were disturbed from their equilibrium, facing each other on a slant, like two crossed eyes.
“White trash. Smell like horse crap and a pay cut. Bloodsuckers are taking tax money for their government insurance. Your money too, Bernice.”
The secretary faintly nodded.
Dr. Holmes grabbed the folder. Opening it up, he spread the single-page printout on the desk. He smirked. There was not a diagram, chart, or graph on it. Only the words: Fetal gender identification: undetermined.
* * *
At home, the mood of solidarity faded along with the effect of Carol’s benzodiazepine. It was the same. At home, the kitchen TV was turned all the way up despite nobody listening. Bottles of folic acid were opened on the lime green Formica table, mostly empty. Carol had vigorously scribbled the numbers one to thirty-six on heart-shaped personal stationery, FROM THE MIND OF CAROLINE NOVAK-JOHNSTON, and placed them around the bottles. The weeks of her pregnancy.
Harley slumped on a lawn chair, rubbing his temples with his index fingers and thumbs.
Carol hissed, “This is also an issue. The issue is your child, Harley. You know what the town’s been saying. If it’s a boy born in Montauk Haven, he’s doomed like you.”
“Go for another sonogram, darling.”
“Medicaid won’t pay. Didn’t you hear Dr. Holmes?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“The insurance won’t give another. That’s what I’ve been repeating. I checked the website.”
“But—”
“He said it. There are no fetal abnormalities. So Medicaid won’t cover another one.”
“But he didn’t even tell us. How’s that federal aid doing? The check’s been sittin’ in the bank since last May, right?”
It was something Harley said. She got smaller, and a little sound escaped from her lips. She looked away and picked up the smartphone like dirty laundry. “I spent it on... this.”
“Dang it, Carol.” Harley took the pack of cigarettes, rolled in his t-shirt sleeve, and peeled one out.
Carol pushed the lighter across the kitchen table.
“This ain’t an issue. Take the cigarette outside. I don’t want no fetal abnormalities.”
Harley got up and headed to the beat-up hinged screen back door.
“I want you to think about your future, Harley.”
“What about it?” Harley tossed the cigarette between his lips with a practiced motion. His jaw clenched, and heat rippled up from his neck. Harley hated it when Carol gave him advice.
“You’re gonna have a McHeart attack the way you eat cheeseburgers.” Carol inspected her husband, looking him up and down. “Look how you break a sweat when you get up from a seat. You might not make it to your birthday.”
“La-la-la-la. I can’t hear you. La-la-la...” Harley made babbling noises, sticking out his tongue and letting it flay across his lips. He let the door slam.
“Damn it! What did I say about the door!”
The doorframe buzzed from the vibration. Carol looked away, disgusted. She stared at the wall clock, numb and unthinking. Propping her head on her hands, her elbows rested on the tabletop. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she put a hand on her belly. She didn’t make a sound.
In the backyard, Harley took a deep drag from the cigarette, his head swimming in a rush from the nicotine. The metallic-tasting residue of the smoke filled Harley’s mouth and nostrils, and he spat over the patio deck and onto the patchy brown lawn. The bay made a continuous murmuring sound, like breathing. Harley felt a warmth over his body. The bay relaxed him. It gave him a purpose.
The water absorbed the last light of the day. Mud stirred from the bottom and coated the bay with a rusted film. Tied to the dock, the Scout motorboat — made for catching trout, bass and catfish any time of year — flopped heavy and loose on the water. Around the light-dotted houses on the peninsula flowed Napeaguee Bay. The water, the primordial scent of rotting moss, earthy and floral, made gentle splashes on the boat’s hull. It was night.
Ecstasy or ultimate frustration, this part of March was the best time to catch the biggest striped bass in the bay.
Grasshoppers drift at dusk, and they’re almost inactive in the winter. Harley made a trap. Their hind legs catapulted them into a two-liter soda bottle filled with molasses. Harley removed the bottle, covered by the reeds and tall grasses on the bank, and relished the sight. He’d been waiting all day for this. The thick, brown syrup with a sweet, earthy smell collected on the bottom of the empty plastic bottle. A hundred large and small grasshoppers gathered like an insect convention, covering the container’s inside.
In the water on the edge of a sandbar, a little island formed over a low tide out in the bay. Harley positioned the boat, turned off its engine, and waited in a small stream. The current smacked the sediment in fast waves, the water trickling. Harley throttled the fishing rod. He hooked a good fish.
The bass chewed on the grasshopper bait and got its mouth impaled in the barb. Harley kept the rod low during the fight. The fish leaped, and its head shook, but it couldn’t set itself free. The angler made an accurate cast and worked his lure. He reeled in, and the fish, pale gold-green with speckled scales, shimmered in the boat’s searchlight. It jumped with a pounding force, and Harley lifted the fish into the air, admiring its energy and sass while swinging on the rod.
Harley unhooked the fish and threw it back into the water.
He fished for sport tonight, just for fun. But Harley thought about the empty refrigerator and, angry at Carol for forgetting the groceries, mentally went over cash. Harley felt for his wallet in his back pocket. He took it out. It was slender and limp. The leather was worn and faded from years of use. The poverty became real. There wasn’t enough money for food. Harley spent his last bit of wealth on beer and cigarettes. He was hungry and knew the smallmouth bass would’ve made dinner for him and his wife tonight.
Harley spat into the bay. Fishers did it for good luck but, this time, it was an act of contempt. Harley felt disgusted and wanted to contaminate Napeaguee Bay so he or his son and his son’s son would never have a reason to fish in the waters.
* * *
Harley drove to his in-laws. He needed the money. John and Miranda Novak lived in the affluent center of town where Americana houses with American flags hung from wall mounts on porches.
When Harley arrived, it was midnight, and they were up.
“We were expecting you, Harley.” John waved Harley into the house. John, half-smiling, but his brow trembled. John Novak could make out Harley’s patented odor. Fish, smoke, and the several beers he had in the car to muster up the courage to knock on the door. And the cologne meant to cover it all up.
Harley grumbled. But he knew enough to be respectful. Harley corrected himself. “What’s up, Pops?”
John was understanding. Harley spent the last six years becoming a part of the Novak clan, easing into his role as the son-in-law. He was usually in the corner of the room, quiet, respectful, and ultimately upbeat in an apparently difficult situation.
“You know how Carol is. She’s my best friend and sister. But she’s careless with money,” Harley said.
Reclining, Harley arched his back over the living room’s upholstered armchair. He was at home, comfortable on the chair. John automatically gave him the seat as a guest of the Novak home.
“You want me to fix a drink for you, Harl?”
“Er, maybe-—
“John, Harley’s parked in front. Why don’t you get him?” Miranda Novak came, putting on a bathrobe.
“Harley!” Miranda saw Harley on the chair and pulled back, frightened. Harley covered his eyes, giggling, having seen his wife’s mother half-dressed. Miranda’s high hips stuck out like Carol’s. Delightful.
“It’s okay, Miranda. Harl’s seen it all. Ain’t that right?”
“Seen a lot,” Harley smiled to make everything seem fine. Miranda left the room, yawning.
“I know it’s late, but...” Harley started muttering. He was embarrassed.
John knew this. He said, “I can spot you two grand. Wait here.” He left his seat and went upstairs to where Miranda had gone.
Harley breathed in the fireplace heat. His breath had the sweetish sour taste of four Budweisers. With the cold outside, the fire in the house, and the alcohol bringing the blood to his face, Harley knew his face was flushed and swollen.
John brought back a suede leather wallet filled with $20 bills. “One hundred Jacksons. But do me a favor.”
Harley smiled magnanimously with the new reward in his hands. “What’s that, Pops?”
“I don’t want Carol to know her dad spotted you.”
“Yep. John.”
“Harley, I want you to be careful. Really.”
“We’ll be careful. You know it.”
“Carol’s been, you know, always been flighty. I hate saying that about my daughter, but you know what I mean.”
“I know.”
John’s eyes were sharp and keen, strong and sad. “Miranda and I love you like a son, Harley. You’ve always been accommodating. And Carol’s a special girl. She’s the one that deserves this money because government aid isn’t always enough.”
“Yep, Carol’s a beauty.”
John crossed his arms, and his voice deepened by a register. “Really. Don’t let her spend it in one place. Do you know what I mean? Our secret. Nobody needs to know.”
* * *
On Route 27, Harley clasped the steering wheel with white knuckles, driving twice up and down the highway. On his third time, he cut through Montauk Haven clean down the middle, coming from KFC to the Walmart Supermart on the border with Magansett and back again.
The new and old plaster facades were all the same. There was no history to the modern commercial sector of Montauk Haven, all agelessly bland. Harley preferred the rows of warehouses and rustic simplicity of the fishing villages untouched by affluent Long Island. He rejected ornament and embraced the minimalism of industry and the docks, piers, and the bridge over Napeaguee Bay. Here lay ugly necessity and Harley Johnston’s world. This was Montauk Haven, Long Island, New York, and America. This was Harley’s home.
He knew what to do with all the money John Novak gave him.
The town smelled like the Interstate. Glenville was Long Island’s infamous stink highway. Keisha was her name, and Harley had met her at court-ordered community service for a DUI. They painted a local elementary school, and Harley was never gladder to have been punished by the law.
John Novak permitted him. Harley ruminated on Carol’s irresponsibility. This time, Harley wanted his license to do what he pleased. Harley had to get it out before he got home, and he’d come up with some excuse that always worked in the past.
The cocaine made Harley bold, and the beer made him dizzy and forgetful.
Harley would turn twenty-nine on Monday. Now, it was Friday night and Saturday morning at the same time. Carol was due next week, and they still didn’t know if the baby was a boy, all thanks to some stupid religious thing and stupid doctor and sonographer. Harley understood nothing.
Harley never had the time to sow his wild oats. Carol was Harley’s first.
Keen and focused, he was ready for tonight’s delicious indiscretion. Harley was certain of his next few hours. But indistinct yet staring him straight in the face, next week was coming.
At the motel, Harley met up with his friend from probation. Keisha came dressed for the occasion, playing with the leg strap of her garter belt while chewing on a straw while Harley watched TV.
“Sugar, I got to get going already. You seem pretty happy chain-smoking your Marlboros alone.” Keisha said.
Harley’s legs squirmed over the crotch of his jeans. His cheeks burned.
“Keish, did I tell you how much I enjoy your getup? You look fancy,” Harley said with a twang.
“Special occasion. Me and my boyfriend goin’ out tonight.” Keisha couldn’t help but smile over Harley’s flattery.
Harley lit a cigarette with the last cigarette he smoked. He watched a flick of burning ash rise in the air. His eyes twitched, a cloud of smoke encircling his head.
“Damn, Harley. Put that thing out. I’m choking.”
Harley struck the butt out in the ashtray, sparks flying. This might’ve been the last motel in New York State to have smoking rooms. The ashtray said HI-WAY MOTOR INN.
Harley and Keisha sat opposite each other with a neat, untouched bed between them.
“And open the window,” Keisha said.
Harley slid the window up. The swish of cars sounded on the Interstate.
“How many quarters you got?” Keisha said.
Harley dug into his pockets and brought out a handful of coins. “You could have them all.”
“I’m getting a coffee at the vending machine. You want?”
“I’m good.”
Keisha got up from the bedroom chair, pulling out her thong from her butt crack. She put out her arm.
“Gimmie your coat. It’s cold outside.”
Harley handed her his denim jacket, replete with tassels. He looked away from his bare-dressed friend. The jacket had an American flag stitched on the back, with another patch on the arm. On the sleeve was a skull and crossbones. Bad to the Bone. She put the jacket over her shoulders and made it to the door. Harley caught himself watching. Her generously padded backside, lotioned and shiny, jiggled in her haste.
When Harley was sure she was out of earshot, he took a flask out of his back pocket and an extended swig. Harley wiped his mouth with a long stroke of his forearm. He fell back on the padded chair and put his head back. Here came the migraine. Taking deep breaths, he wheezed, and his chest rattled.
Keisha came back, smiling, her eyes and teeth shimmering white. She whispered, excited, and bounced on her toes.
“They’re making an episode of Mr. and Mrs. Reality Show! The film crew’s downstairs. Harley, come with me. You gotta see it.”
Harley was pale and sweaty in the bedroom lamp’s fluorescent glow.
“Harley, you don’t look good. Let me—”
“No! Get the hell away.” Harley cringed.
“You always get like this. Let me look at you.”
“I’m fine. It must’ve been the curry I ate at the takeout.”
Keisha had sipped the coffee from the paper cup and put it on the nightstand by the bed. “Suit yourself. I’m going downstairs to watch the show.” Keisha put on her outerwear and left the room. The hallway squeaked with her pumps pounding on the carpet.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Michael Schulman
