The Man I Love

by Suanne Laqueur

  He unpacked it all and the box was empty. Taped to the inside was an envelope with a note. Not a card, nor her nice stationery, but a scrawl on half a piece of loose-leaf paper:

  I’m sorry, Fish. I regret what happened more than you will ever know. I will always regret it. I think about you every day and I’ll love you until I die. But I’m done now. I won’t contact you anymore. Dais.

  He stared at the Fish, not recognizing his own moniker, not coming from Daisy. She had never called him Fish.

  He put down the note and inventoried the items again, went through them twice, including the pockets of all the clothing.

  His necklace was not in this box.

  He sat on the floor, surrounded by bits and pieces of a past life, and wasn’t sure what it all meant.

  Drummed Out

  “Directory assistance, what listing please?”

  “Last name Bianco,” Erik said. “First name Daisy. On West Eighty-Sixth Street.”

  A brisk tapping of keys against a background hum of voices and more tapping.

  “I show no listing for Daisy Bianco.”

  “What about Marguerite Bianco?”

  “Margaret?”

  “Marguerite.”

  “Spell that, please?”

  He did, and waited through more tapping.

  “I show a listing for Marguerite Bianco on West Eighty-Sixth. Hold for the number, please.”

  A click and a crackle, then a chopped, automated voice began intoning digits. Erik wrote them down and hung up.

  He was falling apart.

  It had begun a month after Daisy sent back his things, when it dawned on him he was waiting to hear from her. She’d said she was done, but so what, she couldn’t have meant it.

  I’ll love you until I die, she wrote. She wasn’t done. She’d never be done.

  Month after month passed, and nothing in his mailbox.

  He realized he wanted to hear from her. As painful as the communications were, he had looked out for them. Even with no intention of responding to her, he must have subconsciously needed the regular bit of assurance the bridge wasn’t totally burned.

  More months passed, and he realized the depth of his reliance. The streak of cruelness at its bedrock. He had been punishing her. She was full of guilt and remorse and he sucked on that like a piece of candy. A gobstopper of spite set like a sticky, snarling pitbull at the door kept slammed shut in her face. Knowing damn well her unrelieved chagrin meant she would hold her end of the structure up, no matter how much firepower he threw at it.

  But then she had enough.

  I’m done now.

  Daisy let go and the world collapsed. Erik was buried in rubble and ruin. Buried alive. His chest torqued tight around his heart. He couldn’t get food down his throat. Couldn’t get words to come up. Tonight he was pacing his apartment, riddled by an agitated depression and filled with a shamed remorse over the loss of his necklace.

  It was the loss of his necklace making him ashamed and depressed, wasn’t it?

  He was more than certain Daisy didn’t have it. She would have sent it to him by now. He knew her. She would not keep something so precious, simply out of… He couldn’t even formulate a motive for keeping it. She would not have sent back his things and kept just the necklace.

  She doesn’t have it.

  But it’s an excuse to call her.

  Just call her.

  Because you can’t breathe without her.

  Her number now in hand, with a need to stop the insanity and take drastic action, Erik dialed.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  “Hello?”

  It was a man. A crossbolt of confusion went through Erik’s mind, pierced the mental sheet of paper with his scripted lines and pinned it to the opposite wall.

  “Hello?” An edge of annoyance in the voice.

  “Yeah, hi,” Erik said. “Is Daisy Bianco there?” I must have dialed wrong. I was nervous, I switched some digits.

  “No, she’s not, can I take a message?”

  Open-mouthed and stunned, Erik couldn’t think what to say. “No. I mean, yes…”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s… I knew her in college, I was just calling to—”

  “Erik?”

  His eyes widened as his stomach turned inside-out. “Yes?”

  A chuckle in the voice now. “Fish, it’s John.”

  “John?”

  “Quillis.”

  Erik stood up, a hand to his head. “Opie?”

  An exasperated sigh. “Oh for fuck’s sake, will that name never die? Yes. Opie.”

  The face, with its red hair and earnest expression, parted the fog of confusion like a ray of sunshine. “Holy shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  More low laughter. “I took a wild guess.”

  “How are you?”

  “Not bad, how about yourself?”

  “What are you doing there?” Erik said. And then a coldness swept over his limbs.

  “I live here,” John said.

  “You live…”

  “I live here, Fish.”

  Erik’s mouth fell open. Closed. Opened again. “Oh.”

  A long pause.

  “Well,” John said. “This is awkward.”

  “I’m sorry,” Erik said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” John’s voice was friendly, but unapologetic. Authoritative. He wasn’t overtly challenging Erik. Rather he was calmly staring down a potential threat. Sizing up this new buck on the scene who wanted to fight for breeding rights.

  He’s the alpha male.

  “Ope, I’m sorry,” Erik whispered. “I was just…”

  “It’s all right, Fish. Do you want me to give her a message?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, pulled himself together. “Daisy sent me back some of my things she had with her.“

  “I know. Was everything there?”

  “I’m looking for my necklace. I don’t know if you remember it but it was—“

  “The gold one? With the fish and the boat? Sure, I remember it. You lost it?”

  “It’s been lost since school and I thought it would be in the box but it wasn’t. It was valuable to me and I thought she wouldn’t want to send it in the mail. If she even had it, I mean. I’ve looked everywhere and this was kind of my last—”

  “I gotcha. I don’t know, Fish. I haven’t seen it but then again, it’s not exactly something she’d show me.” John cleared his throat. “I’ll let her know you called and asked about it.”

  “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

  “You doing all right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. How about you?”

  “I’m good.”

  A pause. Erik licked his dry lips. “How’s Daisy?”

  “She’s fine,” John said. “She’s fine now. She was pretty bad for a while.”

  Erik closed his eyes. “Bad how?”

  “She was cutting herself, Fish.”

  Erik sat down and said nothing.

  “It was bad. And it’s only just started to be better for her. So I’ll let her know you called. But… I don’t want to sound like a douche or anything, but I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t make a habit of it.”

  The words felt like a reprimand. A beat down. Erik’s face burned and stung. His fists curled in rage and then loosened in impotent helplessness. It was over. He was being dismissed. Stripped of his medals and drummed out of the ranks.

  “You understand, right?” John said.

  “I understand. Thanks, Ope. John. Sorry.”

  He laughed. “You can call me Opie. It’s fine.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Fish. Bye now.”

  Erik depressed the end button with his thumb and let the phone drop onto the floor. He sat. Staring. He didn’t know for how long. Then he pulled on a jacket and went out.

  He w
alked. Hours. No destination other than a corner store to get a pack of cigarettes, his first in years. He chain smoked, one after another, leaving a trail of butts. He leaned against walls like a hoodlum. Sat on park benches like a homeless man. Tried to think.

  She was cutting herself.

  Erik couldn’t even grasp what that meant. Had she tried to slit her wrists? Had John saved her from a suicide attempt? His gut twisted as he screwed up his eyes, dodging his head away from a vision of blood running down Daisy’s arms.

  It was bad. It’s only just started to be better.

  He walked and smoked. Waited to feel something.

  Daisy was bad for a while. Now she was living with John Quillis. And she was better.

  Erik thought her motivation to send his things back was simply reaching the bottom of her well of sadness. She mailed the box, said goodbye and made to carry on, empty and alone. Above all, alone.

  Not the case.

  She returned him because she had found someone else. She said goodbye, shut her own door and now John stood there as a sentry. The alpha male. A line drawn in the sand. A perimeter of piss around his territory.

  The man she loved.

  Don’t make a habit of it. You understand, right?

  He could. He had always liked John. He was crushy on Daisy but in an innocent, non-threatening way. Part of the conservatory lore. He had been down in the blood with Will the day of the shooting. Making his bones. Initiated into the circle. One of Erik’s pack. If anyone was going to take Erik’s place…

  He stopped, turning his face into the wind, letting memory blow over him. A rehearsal for “The Man I Love.” Him and John watching Will and Daisy. Will had picked Daisy up and set her on John’s back, advising him on how to catch her hip bone in his shoulder and stop the roll into the arabesque lift.

  “Now you, Fish,” John had said, turning his head and looking at Erik with a sly, conspiratorial expression.

  Not me, Erik thought. Not me now.

  Now John slept with Daisy against his back. Her hand over his heart.

  Or maybe he spooned her. Holding her all night and keeping her safe from the wolves. He’d wake up and put his face into the curve of her neck. Run his tongue up the bumps of her spine. Grow hard against her legs and butt until she…

  Erik started walking again, lighting another cigarette. John Quillis. It made sense. Another dancer. Someone who spoke Daisy’s language. Earnest and kind and devoted. Protective. Appreciating if Erik wouldn’t make a habit of calling.

  John holding her in the dark.

  Partnering her in the day.

  Daisy’s face pressed to the back of John’s neck. The hip bone he had learned to catch with his shoulder now lovingly pushed up against him. The hollow by the bone where red letters were inked. Erik’s fish swimming in the shadow of another man’s body.

  Again.

  He chucked the rest of the cigarettes and went home. He ran a low-grade fever for two days. Then he ran an emotional fever for a week, alternating between impassioned conversations with himself or crying in the shower.

  A postcard showed up in his mailbox. The front was a panorama of the Metropolitan Opera House. Daisy’s pretty handwriting filled the back.

  John told me you called. I was out of town at an audition. I’m really sorry, but I don’t have your necklace. You were wearing it last time I saw you. I’m sorry, Fish, I know how important it was to you. I feel terrible it’s lost. I hope you find it. D.

  Bewildered, Erik sat down and stared at the card.

  She didn’t have it. He knew she didn’t but he had hoped.

  Not even Dais, this time. Just her initial. The bare minimum.

  D for dismissed.

  Twice she had used Fish in her notes to him. She had returned not just his things, but his name.

  She was gone.

  You will feel nothing.

  His necklace was gone and Daisy was gone now. Really gone.

  They died. You are left. It is time to go.

  He boxed it up tight, took it to the backyard of his heart and buried it.

  Dead Center

  “Janey?”

  “Erik, honey, how are you? Goodness, we haven’t heard from you in months.”

  “I know.”

  “Miles is out for a run.”

  “Actually,” Erik said, “I called to talk to you.”

  “Did you now?”

  “I promised you I would.”

  As he’d hoped, Janey went into her professional voice. “Are you all right?”

  Erik was sitting on the floor of his apartment, curled up, mouth on his knees. “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “What’s the matter, Erik?”

  He squeezed his lips in. He had been so afraid to call her. Now he was even more afraid to tell her the reason why.

  “I’ll help you, Erik,” she said calmly. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Do you feel like you’re going to hurt yourself?”

  “I can’t stop hurting.”

  “Talk to me. Tell me.”

  “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Janey, I lied to you about so many things. I never got help in college. I never went to a support group or was on meds or anything. And I let you think my girlfriend was killed but she wasn’t, she’s alive. She’s with someone else now. She’s alive and I feel like I’m dying and—“

  “Erik, slow down, I will—“

  “I need to talk to someone. And I can’t find the card you gave me.”

  “Erik. Where are you?”

  “Home. And I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Erik, listen to me, I’m going to make a call. Two calls. You sit tight right there, don’t move. Don’t move a muscle until I call you back, do you understand?”

  “All right.”

  “I will call you back. I promise. I’m going to get you help.”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll find you, Erik. We’ll get through it. I will call you back.”

  Disconnected, he sat on the cold floor, dead center in a ring of wolves. Their eyes glowed green and malevolent as they watched him open the blade of his Swiss Army knife. He touched the tip to the inside of his left wrist, tracing the daisy petals.

  I have set you in my presence forever.

  He had done this to himself.

  He had to cut her out of him or he would die.

  Shaking his head hard, he took the blade off his wrist, closed the knife again. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered. “You can stop.”

  I am the alpha male.

  I lead this pack.

  And John lives with Daisy.

  The wolves took a step closer, tightening the circle.

  I am the omega. A stray out in the rain.

  Like James.

  The wolves nodded. Erik opened the blade again.

  Janey sent a friend, a man Erik vaguely remembered from the Kellys’ house parties. He was kind. He didn’t ask questions or probe. He made gentle talk as he took the knife away, closed the blade and slipped it into his pocket. Then he drove Erik downtown, to the office of Dr. Diane Erskine, who was waiting for him.

  So it started.

  The Defining Moment

  At first glance, when he was trembling and disoriented, Erik thought Diane Erskine was old, maybe in her sixties. More lucid at his next visit, he realized she was one of those women who go grey early, eventually becoming silver-haired while still in their prime. She wore her silver hair short, in a pixie cut. Her eyes were grey as well and she tended to dress in neutral tones. She exuded a sleek, expensive class, but she was oddly colorless.

  Therapy perplexed Erik. He went into his first session assuming they’d talk about the shooting. He took up the entire hour talking about his job at the playhouse and the student theater program. He didn’t even touch the subject of college, let alone the shooting. He walked out with a co
nfused dissatisfaction, certain he’d botched it out of the gate and accomplished nothing.

  He started going in with an agenda, a comprehensive list of things to talk about, in order of importance. Yet half the time, the plan was forgotten, the list went untouched, and he would be babbling on a tangent of the most pointless, inconsequential crap.

  It was nervous babble, partly because Diane would never direct the session. She responded to whatever he brought up, but if he had nothing to talk about, she didn’t help him by prompting a topic or line of discussion. Not a baited hook dropped. Not a bone thrown. She simply sat. And waited. The silence would stretch past awkward into agonizing, until Erik reached for anything and started rambling.

  He was also slightly alarmed at the cost of therapy. He was off his mother’s health insurance and flying solo. He wouldn’t be out on the street because of this, but still, he wanted the assurance he was getting his money’s worth.

  It was unsatisfying. Touching a little on Daisy here, a bit on the shooting there, a dash of his mother, a drop of David, a shake of childhood. It all led to the first six weeks feeling like a bad technical run-through: a lot of disassociated parts but no show.

  “What exactly is supposed to happen here?” He made the mistake of asking, back before he learned asking questions was pointless because Diane only parroted them back to him.

  “You feel something is supposed to be happening.” Often she left off the upward, inquiring inflection at the end of a question, making it a statement.

  “Shouldn’t this be… I don’t know, deeper?”

  “This feels shallow.”

  “Well, I mean, shouldn’t I be crying or something?”

  “Do you feel sad, Erik?”

  It was enough to make you crazy, if you weren’t already.

  He tried going in cold, no preparation. Tried the approach of having nothing to prove and trusting Diane wasn’t grading his sessions. He realized he did trust her. He was getting used to her, getting used to this hour of self-centered introspection. Week after week, he made and kept his appointments. He never looked forward to a session. Sometimes he outright dreaded it, constantly on the verge of canceling. He didn’t like therapy, but, he admitted, he didn’t dislike Diane.