and he’d wonder how he’d gotten so lucky. It was just like an angel had fallen right out of the sky.
When Violet’s divorce from Costa Pavlos was final, Brian asked her to marry him. He was scared to death that she’d say no, but she just jumped into his lap and put her arms around his neck and cried that he was the sweetest thing. They bought a little ranch-style house on an acre of land bordered by fields and a wooded lot. Violet lay in Brian’s arms at night filling him in on her childhood and her abandonment issues, her life with Poor Dead Winston, with Costa, about therapy and the support groups that she found to be so comforting. It was then that Brian revealed his issue as well: He was bipolar—but on his medication. And thanks to Violet coming into his life, he would stay on it this time.
This promise made Brian’s sisters, mother, and Aunt Linda roll their eyes. How many times had they heard that? They weren’t crazy about Violet either. She was stuck up, they said. Thought she was better than everybody else. Wanting to drink wine with funny names rather than have a cold beer. Not going to bingo with the other women. Reading, for Christ’s sake. Painting the rooms in the house funny colors. Who could understand it?
Violet wept and told Brian how this always happened to her, how she was continually ostracized. It had happened with the Pavlos family, the Montgomerys—with her own parents, for that matter, the girls at school. She’d cry big, fat tears, and tenderhearted Brian would find his eyes welling, too, as he took her in his arms. Did he think they were . . . jealous of her, she wanted to know? Brian didn’t know about that, but what he did know was that his position between the bickering women in his family made him more than a little uncomfortable—in fact, it felt downright dangerous at times, and he’d had many a heated argument trying to get them to include Violet.
So Violet learned to play bingo and went to Beanies on Friday nights with Brian to shoot pool, and the women grudgingly made an attempt to include her. She tried gardening with Aunt Linda but was a miserable failure at it. She was bored, and Brian’s mechanic’s paycheck was far below anything Violet was used to. She’d even gone into Standish and tried to find a job herself, but it was hopeless unless she wanted to waitress, which, of course, she did not. No way.
They fought about it. Brian wanted her to contribute—his salary as a mechanic was meager, even though he worked hard and steadily. Violet told him she’d been to college and she’d taken a few business classes—she could do better than restaurant work. She’d never even waited tables when she was with Costa and they owned the restaurant, so why would she want to do that now? She wanted to work in an office, but with no secretarial experience, there was nothing available. By the time Brian was sorry about the arguments, it was far too late. Violet was unhappy.
Then she began to say things that made him feel confused. Things like she could see how unhappy he was, how she could see she wasn’t the right one for him. That no matter how hard she tried, his family would never accept her, and she couldn’t bear to see him torn between them and her. That he’d be better off without her. No matter how much he protested and told her how much he loved her, she walked around with a sad little smile. He began to drink a little more than usual. Not long after that, he started forgetting to take his medication.
It was a quick spiral downward. Despite Violet’s many years of therapy and group work, she had no idea what to do when presented with an actual mental health situation. Brian knew his bouts of euphoria were more palatable to her—the times when he felt sublimely, wanting to dance in the grass with her barefoot in the early morning dew. But when the blackness came upon him, Brian could see that Violet was terrified.
One night, Brian staggered into Beanies talking crazy. His shaggy hair was dirty and unkempt, and though it was freezing outside, he wore no jacket. He kept saying someone had drugged him, kept slurring his words, his eyes rolling alarmingly up into his head. Violet called the bar looking for him, but instead of calling his wife, Jessa had already phoned Brian’s mother, who said she’d be right over. She’d seen Brian like this many times before.
The ambulance arrived just seconds before Violet did. She watched Mrs. Jankowicz take charge with the EMTs, ignoring Violet’s presence, giving them the list of Brian’s medications, his history, getting him packed into the ambulance. As it pulled out of the driveway, Brian’s mother looked at Violet. “Well, come on,” she said tersely, pulling her windbreaker around her, her cigarette clamped between her yellow teeth.
“I . . . uh . . . I’ll drive in my car,” Violet said weakly.
“Suit yourself,” Mrs. Jankowicz said, walking away from Violet. Then under her breath, “You stupid little bitch.”
Violet never showed up at the hospital. A month later, Brian received divorce papers from an attorney in Bay City. He was despondent, spending long hours sifting through the junk in the back of the garage, refusing the work folks brought to him. After finding the beginnings of an old hubcap collection his dad had started years ago, Brian took an unnatural interest in it. He began visiting the junkyard, collecting, stacking, piling, and matching the wheel covers inside his house. When his mom wouldn’t stop bitching about it, he began nailing them to his house. It started innocently enough, like any obsession.
Costa and Marshall came upon their destination around 10:00 AM. Omer was one of those small Michigan towns you’d miss if you blinked, other than the road signs which proudly announced that the village was the Sucker Capitol of the World.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Marshall said. “Sucker Capitol?”
“It’s a fish,” said Costa.
“A sucker fish?”
“Not sucker fish, just sucker. It’s a bottom feeder.”
“Whatever,” said Marshall, laughing.
The men drove through the small village, which took all of ten seconds. About two miles further north, Costa pulled off 23 onto a lumpy dirt road. Marshall looked around at the naked trees, the yards with sad little ranch-style or farm homes sitting in yards sporting hulking, junked-out cars and piles of old tires. Everything was dull, gray, and soggy brown. Even the sky was a dirty yellowish blanket. Marshall hated fall. It was a season of dying.
“How much farther?” he said to Costa.
“Just up the road a ways.”
Marshall peered out the window at the gloomy trees. Through the branches and trunks the wan sun winked off a surface that looked to Marshall like some type of body of water.
“What’s out there? A pond or something?”
“You’ll see. That’s what I wanted to show you.”
“Okay, Costa. I’ve seen ponds before. Lakes. Rivers. Jesus, I’ve even seen the fucking ocean. We’re in Michigan, man. Water wonderland. What’s the big mystery?”
“Isn’t water,” said Costa. The truck bumped over the dirt road. “Look.” He pointed between the trees.
Marshall pulled off his Ray Bans and leaned, squinting over the dashboard. “What is that? Looks like some kind of fucking spaceship or something.” Costa just chuckled and pulled the truck up a little further along the dirt road. Marshall rolled the window down and stuck his head out, trying to get a better view. There was a silvery flickering back beyond the copse of oak, scrub pines, and poplar. In a clearing beyond the trees, Marshall could now see a small ranch-style house. It was covered
