While it wasn’t clear if Luann was actually getting better, the Dexamethasone treatment had stabilized her, and her vitals had ceased dropping. And Janie was calling almost every day. But Stillman did not always pick up the phone. He couldn’t. He was not better. So, on the first day of July, he headed to a clinic in Brownsville to meet with a psychiatrist. He did not tell anyone in the family where he was going.
The past week had been bad. As ever, he did not know why. Had he been instinctively holding things together for the sake of his relatives, keeping his mood up until his grandmother’s condition hinted at a chance of recovery? Was it the reminder in being home of the times when he had heard his mother’s shrieking in pain in the middle of the night from her downstairs bedroom? Was it the remove from New York and his band-mates? Was it the blazing temperatures that obliged you to stay cooped up inside every afternoon? Was it the absence of a job? He had considered each explanation, but he did not know. What he was conscious of was fear, the dread that the doldrums would not part. He could tolerate it for an hour or a day – perhaps even a month. What was overwhelming was the thought that there might be no resolution, no escape. That made him contemplate ending it. He thought about the guns in the house. Then he reminded himself that the family had too much else to face.
He had worked with a professional just once. That had been at Harvard, after his break-up from his first girlfriend. They had placed him under observation for a few days. The drugs they prescribed made him feel drained, and, as they told him they might, they induced anorgasmia. He couldn’t even jerk off. That spell lasted for six weeks, and then, quite unexpectedly, it passed. He stopped taking the medication, and a year of freedom followed.
Now he was driving on I-69E. The previous morning had been spent researching clinics in the “Tropical Texas” region. The most recommended one was called the South Climate Region Mental Health Center. Its online comments were adulatory. Indeed, the descriptions were so affirmative that Stillman wondered if the clinic owners had spiked the ratings sites with invented accounts of its wonders and of its empathetic miracle workers. From the descriptions, it sounded as though when you walked in there was a second sun pouring out its rays in the entrance hall and water fountains that offered you alternate choices of peach smoothies and chocolate milkshakes. As much as he wanted to believe, he couldn’t ignore the obvious. It sounded fake, and he would have felt more confident if there had been at least one commentator who said something he had felt in treatment at Harvard: the people seem nice, and you can tell they’re trying. But most of the time you just want them to get the hell away from you and stop with the somber voices and the constant nodding and note-taking.
A website showed the clinic: a structure of cream-colored stucco and a bright red sign with lettering rendered in a festive font. Accompanying the list of services were pictures of green fields and mellow light. The stock photo images were the sort that appear in laxative ads. There was also a photo of the opening ribbon-cutting ceremony. It showed many whites and Mexicans, blacks and Asians: they were all bunched together, arm-in-arm, smiling like pod-people.
The highway he drove on heading east, was spanking new, and filled with semis heading back and forth from the border. Adjoining it were strips of faded yellow grass, bleached out by the early summer sun. Alongside these were truck stops, and, as he approached the outskirts of the city, small fruit and vegetable stands manned by illegals.
Did he want to see these “health professionals”? There was a condescension in their manner and a want of naturalness and humor about them. What he liked was Brownsville. Most of those he had grown up with regarded it as a dump taken over by the undocumented, the terrain of poor people crowded into dilapidated bungalows. But he had always associated it with its palm trees and mangrove forests, the sight of the water and the giant ships coming in and out, and abruptly he decided to break his appointment and take an exit for South Padre Island and the beach.
That was only another fifteen minutes. Turning off his phone so that the clinic doctor couldn’t ring him to see how he was and try to find out why he had skipped out on their scheduled meeting, he sped north. Passing the airport, he watched as a jet hurtled towards the earth. Then he continued until he saw a turn-off for the beach. There he cut across a causeway.
Before him was the sweep of the shoreline and the Gulf. The sky was hazy, the sun momentarily wrapped in a cloud. Parking in a lot, he exited the car. He was hit then by a wave of the hot air. Still, it was fresh, and there was a scent of brine and seaweed. In front of him were great numbers of boys and girls on towels and blankets. He thought of Janie, and he realized that she would not like the presence of so many other women wearing so little.
Taking in the breeze and letting it play with his hair, he strolled to a shack that sold beach apparel and diving and fishing gear. He was wearing trousers, a t-shirt and sneakers, and, broke though he was, he purchased a cheap bottle of tanning lotion, swim trunks and a bath towel. Then he went back to his car, changing inside it.
Returning, he began walking barefoot along the strand. Some among the groups of girls – the ones without accompanying boys – stared at him. He had little muscle, and he was pale. Yet his long dirty blonde hair and his slimness drew their eyes. He wondered why the sight of strangers made him withdrawn? They were ogling him.
Then he saw someone he knew, an acquaintance from high school, and he waved him over. He was seated with two girls. Promptly, he was introduced. His friend, Tim Dickson, made much of the fact that he was a musician and had been the school’s valedictorian and had gone to Harvard. It was flattering, and he saw that the second woman in the party, the one not attached to Tim, was intrigued. She was easy on the eyes, too. Her navy and gold one-piece showed off her tiny waist and small feet, and she was deeply tanned. The color complimented her coffee-colored eyes and curly brown hair. Though her name was Donna, she explained that people called her Rabbit.
He realized that he was starved for the company of an attractive girl his own age. He had not spoken to the Mexican nurse who seemed to have a crush on him and had not seen Janie since March. When she asked him about his band, offering to put the lotion on his back, he blushed. He could see that she didn’t care about his talk of trying to get a record contract and the different styles of music they played. But there was a warmth and innocence to her. When a peddler holding a cooler traipsing along the beach offered them beers, he bought a six pack. He drank two as quickly as Rabbit finished hers. They watched then as Tim and his girlfriend went into the water, leaving them alone.
“I’ve only done two years of college, my associate’s degree,” she said. “I want to go back. I just haven’t yet. I want to get a nursing degree.” She paused. “Harvard sounds pretty serious. I guess it must be, no?”
“I don’t know. It’s certainly old. How long have you known Tim?”
“I just know him because of Jess. This summer only,” she said, shifting her body and looking at him more directly. “With a college like that, you never thought of being a doctor? Or running for office? I mean, you could do a lot of things. You’re pretty tall, aren’t you?”
“Six foot, I think. But, no, I couldn’t be a politician. I play guitar, piano, sing.”
She smiled. “You know, when they get back, we don’t have to stay. We could leave. I’ve already been in the water.”
He understood what she was saying. She had come with Tim and her friend, but she could return in his car. She was from Weslaco, after all. And when their companions came out of the ocean, dripping on their towels and bags, he saw that both Tim and the other woman seemed to expect that they would head off together.
That prompted them to make their excuses. She had to get home, and he could drive her back. The trip had a quality of pleasant tension. The words of their conversation did not seem to correspond to the subject matter. Even so, he told her about his grandmother, and why he had come home, and she nattered in her thick drawl about the bands she liked. Then they spoke of the high school they had both gone to – four years apart – and the teachers.
Throughout they listened to the radio. The pauses were comfortable, and when they reached Weslaco, she did not direct him back to her house. Instead, she suggested without embarrassment that he pull the car over, and they moved to the back seat and began fooling around. The suddenness of it and that it was in the middle of the day with the sun out disconcerted him. But he grasped that it had likely been some time for her, too, since she had last made love. The spot they were parked at was under a willow tree, and it was in deep shade on a side of the road. It was a cool spot, and her hands were smooth and gentle.
When their clothes were fully off, she gazed up to him and, with an amused, affectionate expression, asked, “Glad that you’re not in New York now with all those people tearing down the Confederate statues?” Though he had never heard of Confederate statues in New York, he readily agreed.
Afterwards, they lay in the car, making little effort to dress and looking at each other. He had not explained why it was that he had driven towards Brownsville, that he had not intended on going to the beach. Nor was he about to. Instead, he was taking in what had just occurred.
He realized that she had something akin to perfect pitch in music. She was a naturally gifted lover. She had been absolutely present, in tune with him and loving. It was something he had not encountered before. It was unlike what he had experienced with his first girlfriend, with Jane and with the assorted pick-ups he’d had in New York.
Jane was always somewhere else when they made love. Most of the time he could sense that she was thinking about her ankles, an upcoming Physics exam or the enduring problem of entropy. Or she would be focused on nothing but her orgasm. Once that had been satisfied, she was anticipating doing the dishes. Rabbit was just comfortable. She was at ease with her own body and more with his than he was himself.
He was not sure what to make of the experience. He wished that he could be as she was. But a hundred thoughts percolated in his head. He knew that they only had so much in common. Was that an obstacle to becoming involved with her? Did she expect that they were now boyfriend and girlfriend? Did it matter that he planned to go back to New York when his bartending job was supposed to open up, whenever that might be? Why couldn’t he simply take pleasure in a moment of pleasure?
Driving her back to her place, he kissed her on the mouth and left her off across the street, promising that he would call her. He watched her stroll off then to the ranch house she shared with her parents. It was no more than a ten-minute walk from his father’s home, the one he had come back to. Turning around in her driveway and gazing back to him, she waved at him and gave him a beautiful smile.