Planet Reese. Cordelia Strube
looks up into the eyes of the pregnant flight attendant.
“Thank you,” she says with a timid smile that banishes any doubts Reese has had about forcibly subduing a man.
“I can’t feel a pulse,” the co-pilot says, pushing Reese aside and beginning CPR on the nose-haired man.
“Really?” Reese asks. “There must be one. I mean ... he can’t be dead.” He looks up, seeking reassurance from the pregnant flight attendant, but it is Roberta who is staring down at him as though he has gone mad.
“What have you done?” she says.
She insists that the limo drop Reese off first. He doesn’t argue, is determined never to argue with her again. Clara jumps out of the car and hugs his legs. “Why can’t you come home, Daddy? Please come home! Mummy, why can’t he come home?”
“Get in the car, Clara,” Roberta says. Her hair, usually restrained in a knot at the back of her head, has sprung loose.
“You’re famous, Daddy!” Clara says. “You’re going to be on TV! Junie says you’re a hero. She says if her baby’s a boy she’s going to name him after you.”
Roberta pries one of Clara’s hands off Reese’s legs. “We have to get home, muffin, school tomorrow.”
“Do you really think he was a terrorist, Daddy?” “I doubt it, sweetapple.”
“Terrorists bomb people.”
So does the president of the United States, Reese would like to say, but suspects that Roberta would perceive this as negative.
She straps Clara into the booster seat. “Nobody knows if he was a terrorist.”
“I hate terrorists,” Clara says.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetapple,” Reese says. “We’ll do something on the weekend.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, angel.”
Roberta closes the door. “Have you got everything?”
“I believe so,” Reese says. “If not, you can give it to me later.”
“What about your litho?”
“My what?”
“The Chagall.”
“Oh, right.”
Roberta digs around in the trunk and pulls out the rolled-up print.
“You don’t think it’s worth framing?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t,” she says. The exclusiveness of “I” is not encouraging, but then she touches his shoulder. “Look after yourself.”
“Have you got enough cash for the driver?”
“Yes,” she says, swinging open her door. “We’ll be in touch.”
He planned to comment on the vacation, say, “That went quite well” or “We should do that again sometime.” But Roberta’s door closes and they drive off and he is alone, with his bags and Chagall, outside the basement apartment. What did she mean by “We’ll be in touch”? Whenever someone says they’ll be in touch it means they will never be seen again. What did he do wrong this time? Was she angry that he’d used his media moment as a platform? When the compulsively smiling blonde TV reporter asked Reese how it felt to be a hero, he explained that he wasn’t a hero, that the real heroes in this world are the ones fighting the global free market.
“The global free market means free to the corporations,” he explained to the camera lenses. “Free to exploit without restraints or boundaries.” The blonde gripped her smile until the light went off. The people behind the lenses then shoved their cameras back into their bags and lit cigarettes.
He can’t wash the stench of the nose-haired man’s vomit off his hands. He tries dishwashing liquid, and laundry detergent, but still his fingers stink.
He lies on his futon on the floor and sniffs his daughter’s clothes, what she’s left behind: hairbands, scarves. One mitten he wears on his thumb. His son didn’t even say goodbye, despite the hug at Le Bistro. Reese looks at the photo of Derek and himself he has placed beside the futon. Reese is holding the boy at three on his lap. Derek has one hand on Reese’s cheek, pulling his father’s face down to kiss him. Roberta snapped the shot before the kiss, but Reese remembers the soft trust of Derek’s lips. Derek was his sun, a source of brightness and warmth. Now the boy has been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. The specialists blame his motor tics — blinking and throat clearing — on ADHD, as they call it. But it seemed to Reese that the motor tics lessened during the cruise. Hadn’t Derek been more open? Hadn’t there been a truce on all sides? Roberta didn’t once refer to Reese’s “idealistic efforts to save the planet” running them into a mire of debt. And Reese didn’t speak ill of Roberta, not that he ever would in front of the children. Although he has had some concerns regarding the art student. He has seen the art student’s car parked outside what was once his home — more than once. He can’t speak directly to his children about the art student, can’t say, “Is your mother balling a jerk in a Ford Festiva?” He asks casually if she’s been giving consultations and they reply “yes” because “we need the money.” Derek, blinking and twitching, says this with reproach, the implication being that his father cannot adequately provide.
For months Roberta has been doping Derek, even though Reese has stressed that the long-term effects of Ritalin are not known, that the boy is obviously stressed and in need of special attention. Derek accepts the mind-altering substances from his mother with complete trust, and when with Reese takes pride in remembering to take them himself. Reese watches helplessly as the child struggles to swallow the blue pills, which will vanquish whatever originality of thought remains in his brain.
He opens the only window in the basement apartment. It offers a view to the underside of a deck used by the above-ground tenants, who are singers and dancers. He can hear them now practising Mamma Mia! numbers, and probably guzzling light beer. He knows it will be hours before they bunny hop to the bedroom and perform God only knows what numbers in there.
What did Roberta mean by “Take care of yourself”? And why did she touch his shoulder? She looked sorry for him, as though he were a faithful dog who’d bit the mailman and must be put down.
Did she think he’d “lost it” with the nose-haired man? She told the mediator that he’d “lost it” when he smashed the car with the hyper-sensitive alarm system. Parked on the street outside their house, night after night it would go off due to racoons or squirrels or someone farting in passing until finally Reese got out the hammer. Apparently there were no witnesses. Neighbours had watched through blinds, relieved that someone was finally putting the animal out of its misery. Roberta, however, was unimpressed and has used the incident against him, has cited his “losing it” as a reason to keep his children from him.
He doesn’t trust the mediator, who takes copious notes during their meetings. Occasionally she’ll reprimand him with, “That’s not what you said.” Reese refrains from contradicting her though he knows she’s wrong. She is a cat-lover. Her washroom is decorated with cat wallpaper. Her toilet roll dispenser is a wooden cat holding out its paws.
If, in fact, Roberta and the art student in the Ford Festiva are getting it on, shouldn’t Reese reveal this to the mediator? Certainly the art student is a younger man with an artistic and therefore potentially irresponsible lifestyle — possibly a toker, or a crystal meth user. Even a man-hating judge could not deny that this would poorly influence the children. There is also the issue of the anti-depressants, although Reese suspects that many ex-wives take anti-depressants while retaining custody.
He is aware that — should she file for divorce — every