“Oh. Ah, hi, sweetheart, Bernadette.”
“Hi,” you and Bernadette croak in unison.
Bernadette looks green.
“I thought...Weren’t you two going to stay at Bernadette’s?”
You say, “Um...”
“It was late,” Bernadette says. “And we...were worried about you.”
Dad introduces you to his woman-friend, but you forget her name immediately. Everyone tries to play nice, but you reek of booze and Dad just spent the night in jail. Nice family.
“So, you posted bail?” you ask her.
“Yes.”
“Thanks. You must be a good friend.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, we, um, work together.”
Screwing, in other words. “Ah,” you say.
“Henry, I should go, and let you...”
“Sure,” he says, “sure.”
She goes. He closes the door behind her.
“Well,” Dad says, “excuse me, I gotta visit the little boy’s room.”
It’s only when you hear the bathroom door close behind him that you remember.
“Oh no. Oh shit.”
Bernadette groans.
You wait, hear the toilet flushing, and then he’s back, standing in front of you.
You force yourself to meet his eyes.
“What’s that?” he says, and waves a hand toward the hallway.
“Nothing,” you say.
“Nothing?”
“Just...a joke.”
“A joke.”
“I was just being stupid, Dad. We had a couple of drinks and...”
You see his chin quivering and his shoulders slumping. You stop talking. You feel Bernadette beside you, breathing fast.
“Well,” he says. “You’re just like your mother, aren’t you?”
You blink and swallow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
“Too late,” he says. “Too late.”
He takes two steps, sinks into a chair.
This is the worst moment ever. Your dad, no matter what, the dad you love, the dad you need, the dad you would never want to hurt...wounded, diminished, brought low when he is already down.
Hurt by you.
Weeping, stabbed, shot down by you, kicked by you, sobbing, shaking, heart broken by you.
Please, please, make it not so.
But it is so.
You piece of shit.
“Daddy...” You reach out to touch his shoulder.
He flinches.
Chapter 11
I always wondered what happened to Faith English after she left our high school in disgrace. But my wondering never included the desire to have coffee with her and pretend we were all great buddies.
We weren’t.
Of course, Faith still looks perfect, her yellow hair stick-straight, brown eyes big and long-lashed, and her clothing—lilac cashmere turtleneck, black pants, leather boots—conservative but stylish.
“So, non-profit, that’s admirable,” Bernadette says to Faith, beaming at her across the small table. “You like it?”
Faith nods. “We never have enough funding, of course, but the people I work with are fab. How’s your family?”
Bernadette blushes. “Fine. Good.”
“Your brothers still like to wrestle with you?”
“Oh, I kicked Martin’s butt for good years ago, and Paul is way too dignified to wrestle these days. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Well,” Faith looks down and then up again. “You used to have bruises.”
Okay, TMI. And suddenly I may as well not be here so I excuse myself and go to the washroom, where I hide out for a couple of minutes. Crazy protesters, riot police, and now Faith English. This day is seriously killing me.
“Bee, I need to get home,” I tell her when I return to the table.
She blinks at me like she’s forgotten who I am. “Oh! Yeah, sorry.”
Out on the sidewalk many long minutes later, we both shake hands with Faith.
“It was great to see you both,” she says. “Really, really great.”
“Mm,” I say.
“Absolutely,” Bernadette says.
“Yeah,” Faith says, not leaving. “You said you live on Euclid?”
Bernadette beams. “303A,” she says.
“Great, great. Well, maybe I’ll...see you in the neighborhood.”
“Maybe. Bye, Faith,” Bernadette says, and we walk away.
Half a block up, Bernadette says, “Do you think she’ll call?”
“You gave her your number?”
“Nope.”
“You think she’ll actually remember your address?”
“Faith has an excellent memory for numbers.”
“Bee, I don’t think...I’m not sure this would be positive for you.”
Bernadette chuckles at my concern, and we keep walking.
I am unwell. My stomach is queasy, my temples are throbbing, and my body is convinced something bad is about to happen. I hear thudding inside my head and look around. Some vengeful ex could leap out of an alleyway and stab Bernadette, a rabid dog or raccoon might attack us, the end of the world could arrive. We are in front of Sappho when I suddenly can’t walk any further. I’m having a heart attack, a stroke. I need to sit down, but there are no benches and too many germs on the ground. Lead, dirt...I will never leave my house again.
Hugo will think I’ve stood him up tomorrow night and give up on me. People will realize my paintings are shit and stop buying them. Sal will cut me off and I will lose the house, have to be forcibly removed, evicted, and I will live in the park until Bernadette finds me and by then I’ll be terminally ill. Tuberculosis, malnutrition—
“Mara!”
I blink twice and find Bernadette standing in front of me with her hands on my shoulders.
I am on Church Street on a chilly autumn day. There are tears in my eyes and I’m shaking.
“Mara?”
“Hi,” I say. “Ah, what’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up! What the hell is going on? We were having a conversation and suddenly you were gone. You just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.”
“I’m fine, it’s okay. I got, ah, tired.”
“And it made you cry?” She puts an arm around my waist and starts walking us forward again.
“I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”
“But you’re all right?”
“Good as ever.”
“Okay,” she says, and squeezes me close to her. “Let’s get you home though.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, I forget you’re so sensitive sometimes.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Listen, dude,” she says. “You fucking scared me.”
“Please don’t call me dude,” I say. “Because that scares me.”
***
Normally a day in bed wouldn’t be a big deal.
I could hide here until the world seemed safe again. But tonight Hugo is waiting for me and I can’t get up, can’t do anything. I am exhausted, neurotic, paralyzed. I hate it, hate myself for it.
And do I have his phone number so I can call and cancel? Do I even know his last name? No, because I am a paranoid, prickly, ridiculous fool.
Failure is inevitable. I will lay here staring at the ceiling, shuffle to the bathroom to pee, and watch the minutes and hours go by as my chance at love passes me by. My imagination could spiral into variations of worst-case scenario, but I might already be there.
Goodbye Hugo.
I pull the covers up high so they tuck under my chin. The sheets feel cozy, the comforter soft, but I can’t get comfortable and every second that goes by, I feel worse.
He is there by now, waiting at the usual table by the front window. Perhaps he’s ordered his Bloody Mary and my soda and now he’s sitting watching the bubbles rise past the ice cubes to the top, then burst into the air. The bubbles will come slower the longe
r he waits, until finally the carbonation is gone, the drink flat, the evening over.
He is there, he is there right now. Without me.
Wait a sec...
I sit up fast, exposing my upper body to the chilly bedroom air. DUH. I don’t have his last name or phone number, but Sappho is a business and businesses have telephones. I reach my hand out to the bedside table and grab the receiver before I can out-think myself, and dial 411.
Adrenaline rocks through me as I get the number, dial, count the rings until they pick up, and then beg the bartender to find the only man in the bar and ask him to come to the phone.
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I tell her.
She puts the phone down and I wait. And then, some shouts among the roar of the bar, a clunking sound in my ear, and there he is.
“MARA?” he shouts.
“Yes! Hi!” I say.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I’M NEXT TO THE SPEAKER.”
“YES! YES, HUGO, IT’S ME.”
“OH GOOD! I THOUGHT MAYBE … WHAT’S UP? WHERE ARE YOU?”
“HOME. I’M NOT FEELING WELL.”
“HANG ON, THIS IS BRUTAL. IF I GIVE YOU MY CELL NUMBER WILL YOU CALL ME BACK IN TWO MINUTES SO I CAN GO OUTSIDE?”
“YES.”
“YOU HAVE A PEN?”
“YES.”
He hollers the number out and I write it on the back of my electric bill envelope.
“OKAY,” I say, “I’LL CALL YOU BACK. BYE.”
“WAIT!” he says.
“WHAT?”
“YOU PROMISE YOU’RE GOING TO CALL?”
“YES.”
“CUZ OTHERWISE I’M GOING TO HANG MYSELF.”
I laugh, but he has reason to think I might chicken out.
“YOU GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER TOO!” he says.
“OKAY.”
I could give him the Pizza Pizza number, but I don’t.
We hang up and I start counting. The phone rings before I reach sixty.
“Have some faith!” I say when I pick up.
“Is this the elusive woman I’m supposedly not dating?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Is she ‘not there’?”
“Very funny.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So what’s up?” he says.
“I’ve been in bed since yesterday, I’m sort of sick.”
“Sort of, huh? You contagious?”
“Um...”
Do I tell him? Maybe I should try to explain.
Sure. Oh, Hugo, by the way, sometimes I can’t walk down the street without losing my mind and occasionally I’m so overwhelmed I can’t get out of bed in the morning and speaking of beds, after I saw you the other night, even though I really like you, I went and had sex with my jerk of a lover who’s suddenly acting like he gives a shit about me, which is another problem...Yeah, that’ll work.
“No,” I say, “Not contagious.”
“Is it a migraine or something?”
“Kind of. More like a stress headache.”
That’s close to honest, right?
“Sounds like you need some TLC.”
“You think?”
“I think. How about I come over?” he suggests.
“Over?” I say, like a total dolt. “Here?”
At this he bursts into a full-bellied laugh.
“Well, yeah, there.”
“Oh. Um.”
“What’s your address?”
“No, no. I haven’t...You can’t...”
“I’ll bring diet soda,” he says.
“That’s...”
“And hot food.”
My stomach, back from the dead, it seems, gives a long, low rumble. I give in and tell him my address.
Holy shit.
Who needs caffeine? Who needs therapy? Just invite a man over to your house when you have fur on your teeth and you’re sitting in the dark in ugly, unwashed pajamas.
I’m up!
I shower, towel my hair, throw on clothes, and nearly brush my teeth with face cream.
My house smells stale, like a sick person.
Windows open, candles lit...
But now it looks like I’m staging a seduction. Which I’m certainly not ready to do, given the state of my inner landscape. Plus Hugo and I haven’t even kissed or gone on an official date and I intend to do something about Erik before things get any messier. Like stop fucking him, for example.
Candles out, fan the air, holy shit!
Ding dong.
I’m not ready for this.
Maybe I could make a break for the back door. What was I thinking? What happened to being cautious? Taking it slowly?
Oh, no, not me! Days of resistance and then in one weak moment I’m having him to my house. I may as well whip my clothes off and answer the door naked and tell him I want bear his children.
Who said anything about children?
Ahh! Ahh! Aaahhhhh!
Ding dong.
Move your loser feet toward that door, you pathetic wretch. There’s a nice man out there. He has food.
Right, left, right, left. Fingers to bolts. Hand to doorknob. Turn, pull.
“I’m not ready to have children,” I blurt out before he has a chance to open his mouth.
“How about gnocchi?” he says.
“What?”
“Are you ready to have gnocchi? Arrabiata sauce.”
“Oh.” I step out of the doorframe and let him into the foyer.
“Not sure what else you had in mind,” he says, and gives me a wicked grin.
I take the bags of food from him and walk to the kitchen.
“Just ignore me,” I say. “I’m a freak.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Good,” he says, and follows me. “Do I get a tour?”
I think about the state of my bedroom.
“Not today,” I say. “Help me unpack the food and we’ll eat in the front room.”
He stands next to me at the countertop and we divvy up the feast. My stomach growls and we both laugh.
Eating is awkward at first. I forgot to turn music on, so the only sounds are those of chewing and swallowing. But the food smells amazing and I haven’t eaten since yesterday, so I tell myself to get over it.
Once we’ve finished eating, we put our plates aside and lean on opposite arms of the couch with our feet up, facing in.
“So, “ I say, “You heard about my family, what about yours?”
“I have a pretty good family,” he says, and shifts deeper into the couch. “I’ve got a brother and a sister—I think I’ve mentioned that.”
“Yeah. You said your brother’s very competitive.”
“Exactly. Not a bad guy, though. Just needs to make everything about status. I have no patience for that shit. My sister’s cool though. We’ve always been close.”
“And your mom and dad? They’re together?”
He nods.
“Are they happy?”
“I think so. They fight sometimes but they also make each other laugh. My mom likes to take the piss out of my dad and he never seems to mind. And they have a lot of friends over, you know, dinner parties and stuff.”
“Wow. Your life sounds so normal.”
He winces.
“No, that’s good. That’s nice,” I assure him. “And you know, it sounds very…populated. Compared to being an only child, I guess.”
“I’ve heard only children often have intense relationships with their parents,” he says. “Good or bad.”
“Huh,” I say.
“Seems like it might be true for you.”
“You could say that. Add a divorce, personality conflicts...addictions. Yeah, it gets intense. The alimony, the acrimony...”
He laughs.
“But that’s boring,” I say. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Umm...”
Our feet are touchi
ng.
“Isn’t this where you ask me to sleep with you?” Hugo says.
I try to laugh but it doesn’t quite come out that way—it sounds more like I’m choking.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Back to your old communicative self,” he says. “Because why?”
“Because now you’re in my house.”
“Doesn’t seem like a deterrent to me,” he says.
“And because now I like you.”
“You liked me before.”
“Maybe.”
“So now you like me more?”
“Possibly.”
“And this means you stop asking me to have sex with you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay.”
“You know what I really want?”
“I can’t wait to hear,” he says.
“Your hair.”
“Hunh?”
“Your hair, I want it. I like it.”
“Really. Should I be worried?” he asks.
I laugh softly. “Yeah. Maybe you should.”
“What do you want with my hair, Mara?”
“Just this...”
I push myself forward, reach out with one hand, and touch. His hair is soft, the individual curls tight and silky. Our faces are close and he looks right into my eyes.
“Go ahead,” he says, “use both hands.”
I swallow, resist the urge to lick my lips, lift my other hand and hold both sides of his head, then spread my fingers and thumbs out to explore.
Hugo sighs and shuts his eyes.
“Your scalp is purple and your hair is a lovely blue,” I whisper, giving words to what my artist-brain sees.
“Mmm,” he says. “Anything you say.”
I massage around the back of his head and to his neck, but our position—cross-legged, facing each other—is getting uncomfortable. I uncross my legs and place them over his, on either side, so I can move closer.
His eyes open. We are inches apart.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Is this where you ask me to sleep with you?”
I shake my head.
“Damn,” he says.
“It might be where I ask you to kiss me though.”
“Ah,” he says, and pulls me up onto his lap. “It’s possible I could do that.”
My hands are still lost in his hair.
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