Y Is for Fidelity

by Logan Ryan Smith

  I was hoping no one else would have noticed that yet. I’m already considered a sissy in comparison to my one-legged brother, now I have male-pattern baldness to look forward to. I may as well drink Drano and die!

  “She’s fine. Jesus, what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?” Ben storms past me into the kitchen. He yanks the refrigerator open, reaches in and grabs a beer, cracks it open. “And, for fuck’s sake… this is about me. I’m the goddamned nutcase going to a goddamned therapist—and one without a doctorate for some reason.”

  “I know. What’s up with her not having that doctorate? Seriously, it’s like, what, two extra years of school? One, maybe? Anyway, what happened?”

  I put my cigarette out into a tinfoil ashtray as he collapses into the couch beside me, that can of Old Style glued to his lips.

  “Result,” he finally says.

  “Result?”

  “Breakthrough. Well, as far as your goddamned precious Madelyn is concerned.”

  “Really? A breakthrough? That’s wonderful!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

  “Your dainty non-doctor said I’m blocked.”

  “Blocked?”

  “Yeah, like I have constipation of the mind. Basically, she told me what every other piece of shit with some phony certificate has told me. Right? All my fault.”

  Ben picks up the PS4 controller off the coffee table and starts up a game of FIFA without inviting me to join.

  I sit back for a few moments and pout but he doesn’t notice so I ask, “Is that all? Is that all there was to the breakthrough? I mean, Madelyn is pretty smart. She knows her stuff.”

  “She’s a fraud.”

  “That seems to be a pretty regular theme to things.”

  “Goddamn, Ian,” Ben says, eyes on his game, “you’re turning into a real cynic in your bald-headed old-age.”

  “I’m not bald!” I complain. “Yet.”

  “Whatever you say, chief. Anyway, that Madelyn’s about as big as my pinky, but she’s still a good-looking woman, no? I mean, you could really toss that piece around the bedroom…”

  “So, your breakthrough wasn’t any kind of breakthrough at all.”

  “Well, like I said. She told me what every other goddamned headshrinker has said—that I am choosing to remember nothing because I murdered my own wife and kids.”

  “What?” I shout. Without thinking, I’ve jumped from the couch and put the coffee table between us, my breath short and quick.

  “Do you mind?” Ben says, looking around me. “I’m trying to play a game here.”

  “Madelyn said she thinks you murdered your wife and kids?” I think I’m having a panic attack. Ben keeps playing his game, unmoved.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, thank god.” I retake my seat next to him. He must be making a tasteless joke.

  “But that’s what I think. Maybe.”

  “Jesus, Ben.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t remember shit. Not really.”

  “So what in the hell makes you think you killed your wife and kids? I mean, really, how do you even know you have a wife and kids—I mean, had.”

  He sets the PS4 controller down on the coffee table littered with tinfoil ashtrays. I’ve given up on the smoking ban now that I’m partaking in the filthy habit.

  “I can’t remember anything. But I dream. And in the day sometimes I have these, like… daydreams? I don’t know, hard to explain. But, there’s blurs… little pictures running through my mind. Often times it’s like watching something through a frosty plate-glass window. It’s all… distorted. Impossible to completely decipher.”

  “So, through this frosty plate-glass window you’ve seen yourself murdering your own wife and kids?”

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t know. It’s either that or a melting Rothko or, I don’t know, a dark blurry thing humping farm animals. Hell, it could be a family holding hands and singing kumbaya together. Like I said, it’s not really something I can describe and it’s fucking confusing!”

  He picks up the game controller, expels a hot breath, restarts the game, then whips the controller side-armed across the room. It cracks into three pieces against the wall and clatters to the wood floor.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  Ben leans forward, head in hands.

  “I killed my fucking wife and kids, Ian.”

  “Maybe you didn’t, though. Like you said, you could just be confused.”

  He rocks back and forth, that scar behind his left ear pulsating. He’s breathing hard and the veins at his temples rise like violent fault lines.

  He cries. Small, choked sobs.

  Shoot. I don’t know what to do. I reach out and put my hand on his shaking shoulder.

  “Christ’s sake, Ian!” Ben yells, jerking away from my touch and standing from the couch. He paces in front of the TV.

  Oh, he’s got blue eyes. Oh, he’s got black eyes. Oh, he’s got grey eyes.

  “I might have killed my goddamned wife and kids!” Ben shouts, his face strained and scared.

  I don’t understand this. Ben is cold, steely… Ben is cool. He’s acting like a panicky spaz and it’s really throwing me off. He’s reminding me a bit of myself, really, and I’m not sure I like this side of him—his Ian-side.

  “I…”

  “Do you think I could have done… done something like that?” Ben asks.

  Before I can stop myself I scoff and tell him of course I think he could have. I throw a hand over my mouth and my face grows hot with rushing blood.

  Ben’s expression is… expressionless. For three seconds. Then he looks like a child whose puppy was just run over by the firetruck sent to retrieve his kitty out of a tree and in all that commotion the cat fell out of the tree and broke its neck. And then his grandma died of a heart attack.

  Either that, or he looks like someone capable of murdering his own wife and kids.

  That look’s followed by one of betrayal. Ben can’t believe that I believe he’s capable of such a thing. Somehow, my thoughtless words have broken this man’s heart.

  I hardly knew he had one.

  “Ben, come on… I’m just joking! I didn’t mean I really think you could do something like that,” I spit out, a little over-excited, as Ben storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 18.

  I’m getting lonely. Ben’s been gone for almost two weeks. He’s not been back at all in that time. I’m certain he’s not made any of his late night returns, either. I’ve been awake into the dark morning hours, smoking and drinking Old Style, the dinner I made for us having gone cold hours earlier. He’s just not been back.

  I don’t like this feeling. This loneliness. It makes me anxious. I don’t know what to do with myself. Before Ben moved in I had no trouble filling all my time, alone. I’d come home from work with an almost giddy sensation at the prospect of a whole evening of Doctor Who or Downton Abbey. I couldn’t wait to get home and make myself a green salad with braised tofu, pour myself a glass of chilled chardonnay, and just watch my programs until it was bedtime. It was comforting. Cozy. I felt nothing but soothed by my time alone with my shows, or sometimes a book with a Phil Collins CD on the Bose and maybe a lit candle or two.

  Now? I get overwhelmed with trepidation at the prospect of going home to an empty apartment after work, let alone a whole weekend. It’s like I’m a cat owner and my cat’s gotten out while I was away. I almost want to run door to door in the apartment building asking if anyone’s seen my Ben around. But, no, of course I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to bug anyone.

  Still, I get panicky and I spend an extra hour or two at work just trying to decide what it is I’ll do once I get home. I have to plan it out because if I don’t I’ll get home from work and just pace and drink and smoke until it’s well past my bedtime. Then I’ll crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my chi
nny-chin-chin and berate myself for having wasted a whole evening doing nothing! I’ll berate myself for being such a lonely, uninspired sack of poo.

  In desperation I’ve called my brother more than a couple times, but he’s always antsy to get off the line and each time he comes up with some excuse to cut the call short. One time he even said his muffins were burning in the oven and had to go. That left me, standing in front of my living room window, my iPhone held out in front of my face, screaming, “Muffins? MUFFINS???” over and over until I noticed the fat man across the street was watching me. I flipped him off, flapped my arms like a bird, blew a raspberry, then shut the blinds on him.

  I’ve also called my mom a few times, and she complained that I only call when I want money. I told her I really didn’t want money this time, but I did ask how their investments have matured over the last few months and she hung up on me. My own mother!

  One time, when calling my brother, Annie answered and I managed to have a pretty good conversation with the kid, killing a whole hour. I asked her how school was going and if she watches that charming children’s show on BBC, Teletubbies, and she chortled a spit-filled laugh and told me that show was for babies and she’s not a baby. I asked her if grandma and grandpa had been around and she said they had—that they’re around all the time and that grandma and grandpa and mommy and daddy and her have lots of fun all the time. Annie also said grandma and grandpa got her a tiny motorized Maserati and that they opened a college fund for her. I asked Annie exactly how much money did grandma and grandpa put in that account but she couldn’t tell me. I pressed for an answer, asking if she thought it was a couple thousand or maybe less. She said she thought it was lots more than that. “What about me?” I yelled into the phone before I could stop myself and Annie giggled. I asked her if she got the birthday card from me and she said she had and that she didn’t mind at all that it was two months late and that she’s very grateful for the twenty-dollar Amazon gift card.

  She’s a great kid, that one.

  But it’s been lonely around the apartment. I’m pretty sure I’ve worn a trench into the wood in front of the living room window with all my pacing.

  And it’s not all about me, of course. Of course I’m worried that Ben’s confused revelation may have caused him some harm. Like, maybe he turned himself into the police, or, worse, took a swan dive off the top of Sears Tower. Or maybe the legless, leather-faced man at Fisters beat him to death with a flurry of vicious head-butts. Maybe someone gutted him in that sexy operation room and left him to bleed out while a high-paying couple made love in the pooled and dripping blood.

  I mean, of course I’m worried about that, but I couldn’t call the cops, could I? If he’s a wanted man I couldn’t very well lead them right to him, could I? Ben’s my friend and you don’t rat out your friends, just like you don’t rat out your neighbors.

  But, when I’m not pacing and worrying, I’m crippled by loneliness.

  That’s why I’m sitting in the breakroom now, waiting for Katharine who I haven’t seen around in maybe a month. I think she’s been avoiding me, but, to be fair, I’ve been avoiding her, too. I’ve taken my lunches on the other side of the river and steered clear of the breakroom. And since I’ve been staying a few hours late at work, dreading going home, I haven’t had to worry about running into her in the elevators or the lobby.

  Right now I’m at the plastic table nearest the refrigerator and I have my yellow can of Lipton Ice Tea and my egg salad sandwich laid out before me, untouched, because I don’t want to begin until I’ve had the opportunity to ask Katharine to join me.

  It doesn’t take long before she’s striding in on those magnificent legs, her dark hair as full of bounce and pert as possible. She’s radiant, even under this yellow-orange haze of fluorescent light. She’s wearing a skirt that’s quite a bit shorter than her usual—about mid-thigh. It’s black. A white cap-sleeve blouse shows off her toned arms—she must have been working out recently. I wonder if Ben really did say something about the gym to her. Today she’s wearing no leggings or pantyhose, and her legs are milky white, untouched by tanning beds or the sun. They’re exquisite. I’m sure they redden at the slightest touch. She has black pumps on, giving her an extra three inches in height. She’s statuesque.

  “You’re statuesque!” I blurt out then bite my tongue, literally, my eyes immediately watering.

  She was jiggling change in the palm of her hand but stopped when she noticed me, which, sadly, was only once I spoke up.

  “Oh, um, hi, Ian. How are you?”

  “I’m great!” I say, and it comes out a little bit too Tony the Tiger-ish.

  “That’s good,” she says, nodding and turning toward the soda machine, plunking quarters into the slot.

  “Are you getting the Lipton Ice Tea?” I ask. “It’s really very good canned tea.”

  “Yes, I know you like canned tea, Ian,” she says, shaking her head now, something faint tugging at the corners of her lips, perhaps a smile. She picks a Diet Dr. Pepper and my heart drops a rung.

  When she opens and reaches into the fridge, retrieving her bagged lunch, I make a wide sweeping gesture at the empty space across the table from me and ask her to join me. She laughs, embarrassed, maybe, but takes a seat. My heart regains a rung on the ladder.

  “So, how have you been?” I ask, sure to make eye contact and to smile a lot so as to put her at ease. It’s something Madelyn told me to do.

  “I’ve been… really good, actually. I know you couldn’t possibly have known, but I had hit a rough patch recently. I’m pretty good at hiding it, all my friends say.”

  “You are. I hadn’t known. How could I have possibly known?”

  “Anyway, not only did I get passed over for a promotion last month, but my boyfriend also left me around the same time.”

  “Oh no!” I exclaim. “I didn’t know! How could I have known? That’s terrible! How could I have possibly known? What’s the no-good bastard’s name?”

  “It’s, um, OK…” Katharine fidgets with the tab on her Diet Dr. Pepper and refuses to make eye contact. I realize I may have overcooked it a bit.

  “Hey, did you hear Mara in HR is trying to grow a penis?” I ask, attempting to change the subject and offer her a bit of gossip, which I know she loves.

  “No! You’re kidding me,” she says, still fiddling with the tab but making eye contact and smiling.

  “It’s true. She—excuse me, he started the hormone therapy last week. Mara, apparently, has always been a man trapped in a woman’s body. But, get this—not just any man, a gay man.”

  “No!”

  “It’s true. Mara’s a penis-less gay man at the moment, but not for long!”

  “That’s incredible. Wow. Mara. I never would have guessed. Well, good for her. I mean, him.” She reaches into the brown paper bag and pulls out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and takes a few small, pensive bites, her mind clearly traveling elsewhere.

  I take that as my cue to start eating my sandwich as well, so, we sit there chewing quietly for a while, the fluorescents crackling overhead. A few faceless coworkers enter and exit after getting something from the fridge or snack machines.

  “So, what happened with Ben?” I finally ask.

  “Oh, no. I really… really do not want to talk about that.” Again, no eye contact, both hands wrapped around her soda can. “Can we just, maybe, pretend like that never happened?”

  “Absolutely!” I chirp. “Say, I’m sorry to hear about the promotion. Who got it?”

  “Dennis.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me!”

  “Ian, geez, I didn’t know you knew how to cuss.” She’s making eye contact again.

  My face flushes, but at least the half-erection I’ve been trying to make go away finally does.

  “Anyway, I think we both know that guy is not fit to wear your shoes—or high heels,” I tell Katharine and she chuckles and sighs and puts her half-eaten sandwich back in the bag. She’s about to
go. Why is she going? She’s not done eating yet!

  I panic.

  “Will you marry me?” I ask.

  A shotgun-laugh. “What?”

  “I mean… do you want to go out with me sometime? Hall and Oates are playing the United Center in a few weeks. I have an extra ticket. Maybe you want to go?”

  “Oh, uh, Ian, thanks, but… no.”

  SCCREEECH

  She pushes her chair back and stands.

  “That’s OK. Hall and Oates isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But, I must say, you’re the first person I’ve met that doesn’t like them.”

  “Yeah. But, you know, have fun.” She steps to the fridge and tosses her brown bag inside, returns to the table and grabs her soda. “Anyway, nice talking to ya. I’ll see you around.”

  She gives a little wave before twirling on her heels away from me.

  She’s leaving.

  She’s leaving!

  “Maybe we can get a drink? Like, Friday? Or maybe even tonight? Or tomorrow? You know, I know a place where they have free beer tomorrow,” I say. She’s turned away from me, about to exit the breakroom. I chuckle at my little joke and wait for her to chuckle too.

  She doesn’t. She pauses, turns, and sighs.

  “I’m really sorry, Ian. I just… I don’t think we should see each other.”

  “What? Did you get back together with your boyfriend or something?” I ask, a little more snide in my tone than intended. My heart thuds. My heart drops two rungs on the ladder.

  “No, but… I am seeing somebody.”

  “Ben? Is it Ben? Is that why you didn’t want to talk about him? Are you and him living together? Already? Geez, that was fast! You hardly know the guy. Hell, I hardly know the guy. Katharine! Katharine, how can you just shack up with some guy you just met?”