This Is Where I Leave You

down the street. It’s too early to be late for work. She’s rushing from something, not toward it. I haven’t been in the Callens’ house in years. The action was always at our house. The front hall smells of Pledge and potpourri. The oak-flooring creaks beneath my feet. The wall by the staircase is adorned with framed photos of sunsets and forests taken by Linda in her travels. I find Horry in his basement apartment, lying naked on the floor, in the last convulsive throes of his seizure. His mouth is filled with white foam, which drips down his chin like soap suds. The cloying smell of sex and sweat fills the dark bedroom. I grab a damp pillow off the bed and jam it under the back of his head, which is tapping out a staccato rhythm on the oak floor. Then I throw a blanket on him and press my hands against his chest and shoulders to let him know I’m there. He shakes beneath me like a dying animal, his rhythm slowing, his muscles unknotting as he comes to a gradual stop. I wipe the tears and sweat from his face, and after a short while, I see in the dim light that his eyes are now open.
    “You there?” I say.
    “Yeah,” he grunts, his voice thick with spit. His eyes roam the room in quick, nervous jerks.
    “She’s gone,” I say.
    He closes his eyes. “And with a great story for her friends.”
    “We should page your doctor,” I say.
    Horry shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Sex can bring it on. Elevated heart rate, endorphins, adrenaline. Something.”
    “Aren’t there meds you can take?”
    “You can’t get hard on the meds.”
    “Well then, I hope she was worth it.”
    He looks up at me. The whites of his eyes are vaguely pink, like something ran in the wash. “I wish I could remember.”
    After another few minutes, he rolls over and onto his knees. He ignores my proffered hand and stands up on his own, the blanket falling away from him.
    “Well, you have some nice fingernail scratches on your ass,” I say.
    “Always a good sign.”
    He smiles weakly and bends down to wrap the blanket around his waist. Horry’s got the kind of abs you want, the kind that ripple and flex effortlessly under his skin. Looking at him, you can’t help but be reminded of who he used to be, who he should be now. We all start out so damn sure, thinking we’ve got the world on a string. If we ever stopped to think about the infinite number of ways we could be undone, we’d never leave our bedrooms.
    “Don’t say anything to Wendy, okay?”
    “You got it.” It’s not clear to me which part of this he wants kept from her, but it’s not a talk I’d want to have with her anyway.
    “Thanks.” He rolls his head around on his neck, stretching out the kinks, and breathes deeply. “I can still smell her on me.”
    For some reason, I don’t think he means the girl who just left. 7:40 a.m.
    Alice is perched on the edge of my bed when I come out of the shower. She’s wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and the forlorn expression of an abandoned puppy.
    “Alice ...,” I say.
    “I know.”
    Water drips down my legs to my heels, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me.
    She furrows her brow and looks away from me. “I just wanted to apologize for ...the other day.”
    “It’s okay.” It isn’t, but it’s what you say, right?
    “I got a little crazy. I’m sorry.” She offers up a lame, hollow grin. “It’s all these hormones I’m taking.”
    “Okay.”
    “Things don’t have to get all weird between us.”
    “Okay.”
    “Can you say something besides ‘okay’?”
    “Fine.”
    “Come on, Judd. Throw me a bone.”
    “Get out of here, Alice.”
    “Please, Judd. You won’t even look at me.”
    “Can you blame me?”
    “No. I guess not.” Alice looks down at her clasped fingers like she’s kneeling in prayer and then back up at me. “The thing is, you’re having a baby by accident. Wendy squirts her kids out at will and doesn’t even seem to particularly like them. I’ve been trying for so long, and it just doesn’t seem fair.”
    She sits there on the edge of the bed, pretty, sad, and tragically resigned. I remember how she ran to help Paul when he hurt his shoulder yesterday, and I feel a powerful urge to kick her teeth in.
    “You have a good marriage,” I say.
    “What?”
    “You and Paul. You love each other, don’t you?”
    Her face turns red, and her eyes grow wide, like she’s about to cry.
    “Yes. We do.”
    “That’s a lot harder than having a baby. It’s damn near