The Man I Love

by Suanne Laqueur

  So here it is, 2002. I was at Lancaster for the ten-year anniversary. Nice of you to show up. What, you think your angst doesn’t smell?

  Kidding.

  (Not.)

  Anyway, I was at Lancaster. Don’t know if you heard but they rededicated the auditorium to Marie. They made a really nice ceremony and Daisy and I danced “The Man I Love” because DUH. Haven’t danced the thing since 1993 and to tell the truth, I’m fine retiring it from my resume. It’s just riddled with fucking context and I can’t dance it without crying, plus Daisy gained six ounces and lifting her makes my knees creak.

  (Don’t tell her I said that.)

  (Oh wait, you wouldn’t anyway. My bad.)

  So what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Lancaster. Opie was there. He’s a superstar down in Boston now. He and Dais had a thing some years ago. (Don’t play the dumb blond—I know you know.) They still seemed awful sweet on each other at the ceremony but probably they were just caught up in the nostalgic moment. Whatever the case, Opie did grow up nice. But who didn’t see that coming?

  (I don’t know, why AM I telling you this?)

  David was there and he’s in sad shape, apparently in remission from some kind of kidney cancer. The treatment really did a number on him, lost all his hair and weighs less than Daisy. It was pretty sobering although he seems in good spirits and the prognosis looks promising. He spoke of a girlfriend, hinted they were going to tie the knot. Although if this chick is smart, she’ll keep herself a dishonest woman. Dave only wants what he can’t have, right?

  (Jesus. My bad again.)

  Meanwhile, back in Lancaster (Did I mention I was there?)… For shits and giggles, Opie, the girls and I went by the old apartments. By some weird coincidence we got there just as they were delivering, wait for it, a new stove to Jay Street. Remember the ancient fire hazard? They were JUST replacing it. So we had a good laugh and being the man I am (and the man I love, ha ha), I stepped in to help the guys lug the old one out. And lo and behold underneath it was your necklace. It must have come off you and

  Erik dropped the letter. Heart pounding, he grabbed the envelope and went digging. With shaking hands he took out a small plastic bag.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. He broke the zippered seal and tipped the contents out. A jingle as the familiar heft of the chain coiled against his palm, the solid clink of the charms on top.

  “Holy shit.” He closed it up in his hand, set his forehead against his fist. He breathed, laughing a little. Nearly crying. Relief settled on his shoulders like a cape, his whole being now reduced to one thought.

  I got it back.

  Still holding his lost treasure tight in his palm, he picked up the letter again.

  It must have come off you and got kicked under there on (cough) the day of which we will not speak. (Yes the hole in the wall has been patched but you can see it if you know where to look.)

  Like the One Ring waiting to be found, there it was. And here it is. I should deliver it personally but then you’d have to suck my cock and it would just get out of hand. Better sent through the mail and you can suck the letter carrier’s cock. Just remember to breathe through your nose.

  But seriously folks, it’s a little grungy and you’ll see the clasp is broken and one of the charm thingies fell off, but any jeweler can fix it up for you. I hope you’re glad to see it again. Not that you’d treat its miraculous reappearance as anything SYMBOLIC or MEANINGFUL.

  Pardon me while I beat you over the head with it.

  As you can see, I’m writing not from Lancaster (I was there), but from the frozen tundra of my ancestral homeland. I won’t tell you what I’m up to because the intimate, personal details of my life are not for your ears. Not until you suck my cock, anyway.

  Hope you’re taking good care of your sorry ass, which I have the unfortunate honor to still love. I’m kind of stupid that way.

  Under strenuous protest, Lucky says hi. She refuses to send any love until you show your face and let her smack the shit out of it. I told her not to hold her breath. She was breathing through her nose at the time.

  (Don’t tell her I said that.)

  (Oh wait, you wouldn’t anyway. My bad.)

  Yours truly in Christ,

  William

  P.S. Don’t fucking call me.

  Erik opened his fist. He tipped the necklace from one palm to the other. Then cradled it in both hands, still not believing it was here. After nine years, it was back in his hands.

  It must have come off you and got kicked under there on the day of which we will not speak.

  It could have been lost forever. If Will and the others had not been at the apartment, the day the stove was being moved… His gut twisted at the implication. Someone would have picked it up. Looked at it. Wondered at it. And kept it.

  Shuddering at the near miss, he touched each charm, saying hello: the fish, the boat and the Saint Birgitta medal. There should have been four. The little pair of scissors Daisy got him for his birthday was missing.

  If anything was lost, it might as well be the scissors. They weren’t part of the original. This, here in his hand, this was the returned treasure. His talisman. His legacy. He had it back. Closing his fingers around the warm pile of old gold, he felt complete and was humbly grateful.

  “What was in it?” Melanie had come back into the kitchen.

  He opened his palm and showed her. “Will found it.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh my goodness.” She took the chain and stretched it out carefully. “Look, it’s just the way you described it.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, well,” she said. “Maybe you won’t be moody tonight after all. Can I see the letter?”

  He slid it across the table and got up to get another beer. She sat down and read through it, with a few chuckles more polite than genuine.

  “Well,” she said. “He’s certainly friendly, considering you cut him off without a backward look.”

  Erik nodded while his insides squirmed. She was right, of course. Will had zero reason to be so amiable.

  “He’s got a big heart,” Erik said.

  “What’s all this ‘suck my cock’ stuff?”

  “It’s… Never mind, I couldn’t even begin to explain.”

  She folded the paper neatly and slid it back to him. “How many questions?”

  He grinned at her. “I’m in a good mood. You may ask unlimited questions.”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “Will?”

  She nodded. “Or at least write and let him know you got it?”

  His good mood wobbled on its axis. Again, she was right. He should at least let Will know. And it made him feel cornered.

  “I’ll let him know I got it but…I don’t know how much more I can do, Mel.”

  Melanie tilted her head, studying him for a long moment. The silence pulled out like strings of taffy, reminding Erik of early sessions with Diane Erskine. How the quiet would coil around him like a boa constrictor, squeezing words out of him from sheer desperation. The surprise benefit, all these years later, was awkward silence didn’t bother him. He could sit easily in it. Far longer than Melanie could. She always caved first.

  “Baby,” she said, sighing. “Everything about Lancaster makes you go so far away from me. You get a look in your eye, like…you are somewhere you just can’t come back from.”

  “It is hard to come back from there,” he said. “Which is why I don’t like going in the first place.”

  “I know. I just try to demystify it by throwing questions at it.”

  “You do? Really?”

  She smiled, put a hand out on the table and Erik dropped his onto it. “I can’t deal with it, Mel. I admit it. If I call him, then it’s just too close a proximity to Daisy and I have no desire to get caught up in it again.”

  “Caught up in what? What did she do to you?” Melanie shook her head. “I mean, I know what she did. But it’s like…you never got over it. You just le
ft it.”

  “Honey, I spent a lot of time and a lot of money getting over it.”

  “Over the shooting or over her?” Her fingers stroked his wrist, close to the tattoo of the daisy. It was a gesture to soothe him. Instead he felt the bristling desperation of a trapped animal. He took a long drink, willing himself to relax. He was being ridiculous. She wasn’t trying to trap him or trick him. She was his wife. They were having a conversation.

  “Over all of it,” he said. “It was all one thing.”

  “It still seems so unfinished.”

  “It just is what it is.”

  She took her hand away, rolling her eyes. “I hate that expression.”

  “Sometimes it makes the point beautifully.”

  “I just find it incredible how you could completely shut down this part of your life.”

  He spread out his hands. “I plead the Fifth.”

  “You don’t have many male friends, do you?”

  The swift subject change threw him. “What are you… Come on, I have plenty of friends.”

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  He smiled at her. “You.”

  “Thank you, but who’s your closest male friend?

  “Miles, I guess.”

  “You guess? Come on, if we had had a big wedding, who would have been your best man?”

  “My brother. I wanted him at our little wedding but he was having surgery.”

  Elbow on the table, Melanie slid her jaw along her palm, the other hand’s fingernails tapping on the tabletop.

  “What?” Erik said, sighing.

  “I’m just looking at my handsome husband.”

  “You’re tapping your nails and analyzing your neurotic husband. Stop. I can pay to be analyzed if I want it.”

  Her nails stilled. “It’s a puzzling side of you, my love.”

  “Oh now I’m a box. Well, there are five other sides to me, hopefully you like those.”

  “I like all of you, I just…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She stood up and went over to the refrigerator. “I am so glad you got your necklace back. Are you happy?”

  He held it up, gazing at the charms. “I don’t have a word for what I am right now.”

  “You’ll take it in to be fixed?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll take our wedding bands in to be polished, too, if you want.”

  Her head popped over the open fridge door. “I can defrost some chicken? Or we can get Chinese and chill out?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Are you done asking me questions?”

  She stared him down. “Do you want pork or vegetable lo mein?”

  * * *

  Though he wasn’t outwardly curt or moody with his wife that evening, Erik was all anxious brooding within. He kept catching himself whistling bars of “The Man I Love,” which was annoying. So was the hydra in his gut, rearing a thousand emotional heads, hissing and biting at him.

  He felt guilt for not attending the ceremony, then justified because he didn’t know about it. Then he was insulted at not being informed, and regretted cutting himself off to the point of exclusion. On the heels of regret came relief he avoided seeing Daisy, or worse, seeing her being awful sweet on John. David was an unquestionably dodged bullet. Then again, Erik could have seen Will—another helping of guilt. But Will was in a professional collaboration with Daisy now.

  In Canada.

  Daisy, who was always cold, living up in Canada.

  He pictured her in a long wool coat, walking along snowy streets in boots, a hat pulled low and a scarf pulled high. Dance bag over her shoulder.

  Walking alone.

  Was she alone?

  He put his fork down, pushed away his container of lo mein.

  “Not hungry?” Melanie said.

  “Not really.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Stop asking me shit.”

  Calmly, Melanie made a gesture of reaching into her pocket and then held her empty palm out to him.

  “What?” he said.

  “It’s a fuck,” she said. “I give it.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you. And I’m going to take my guitar out on the back porch and be moody.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” she said, smiling, and gestured to his uneaten food with her chopsticks. “Can I eat that?”

  It was a lovely night for April. The air was velvety soft. The perpetually-strung Christmas lights made the little porch into a warm, twinkling cave, and Erik sat there a long time. Deconstructing the opening riff of Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away,” he tried to shut his thoughts out. Tried not to let it matter Daisy hadn’t spoken his name on the radio.

  The back door opened.

  Stark naked, Melanie lounged against the jamb, fingers combing through her plaits.

  “I have a question.”

  Slowly Erik put the guitar down, got up, and followed her inside.

  Sometime later, in the dark of the living room, Mrs. Fiskare lifted her face out of the couch cushions with a concerted effort, and weakly pushed her tangled cornrows out of her mouth. Her shoulder blades were heaving and slick with sweat.

  “Oh my God,” she said, gasping. “What was that?”

  “A fuck,” Erik said, falling onto the floor, panting and spent. “I gave it.”

  Delivered in Person

  April 28, 2002

  What’s up, asshole? I heard the radio show yesterday. Then arrived home to find your letter and my necklace. Mind blown. If you delivered it in person you would’ve been blown as well. But it’s allergy season and I can barely breathe through my nose. So it’s for the best.

  Seriously. I’m an overwhelmed and sloppy mess from this. But I wanted to let you know I got it. And thank you. Thank you for being the kind of guy to step in and help lug a stove out. Thank you for being the kind of guy to hunt me down and send back the thing that means the world to me. I don’t have words to tell you how much I appreciate it. (Other than “suck” and “cock,” of course.)

  I’m taking care of my ass. It’s not as high and tight as it used to be, but it’s in one piece. And it is sorry...

  I won’t fucking call you. But I fucking thank you.

  E

  Part Six: Kees

  Testicular Failure

  Melanie came to him one night, sat on the ottoman and put her hand on his outstretched legs. Erik looked up from the guitar he was stringing to see she wasn’t crying, but her eyes were bright and her mouth trembled.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I got my period,” she said.

  He stared at her. He didn’t want to say “And?” out loud but he was completely confused.

  Melanie sighed, closing her eyes. Her mouth was set somewhere between a smile and a grimace. The last time she had this expression was when she dropped her cell phone in the toilet.

  “Mel, you look like you need a body buried. What’s the matter?”

  She took her hand off his shin. “I stopped taking the pill a year ago.”

  “A year?” Erik set guitar and strings aside. “A year ago you stopped?”

  She picked at her fingernails. “Nothing’s happening.”

  He was too shocked to put a sentence together. “All right,” he said, pulling his hair back from his forehead. “But…” He exhaled, hands open. “Mel, I had no idea you’ve been trying to get pregnant since 2002.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He barely recognized her. They had their moments of miscommunication, true, but this bit of clandestine business seemed deliberate and devious. It was almost manipulative.

  “Oh, Mel, that ain’t cool,” he said, trying to let her know he was upset, but not be harsh with her. Every line of her body was already laced in misery. She was crying now.

  “I’m almost thirty-seven,” she said. “I’m worried something’s wro
ng.”

  He took his feet off the ottoman, leaned forward and gathered her to him. “Don’t cry,” he said, running his hand along her hair. She had taken her cornrows out a year ago and had it straightened. “Everything’s fine, nothing’s wrong with you. Don’t cry.”

  “Do you want to have a baby?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth. An unequivocal yes should have tumbled right out but he had nothing. “I figured we would,” he said. “Of course. But let me get used to this, honey. You’ve been kicking it around for a year. I’m just coming into the picture tonight.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to wait too long.”

  He held her away, thumbed away the tear tracks on her face. “We won’t wait too long.”

  They barely waited at all.

  Male plumbing is less complex than female, so Erik got tested first.

  Locked in a small room at the urologist’s office, a room loaded with every kind of porn in every medium imaginable, he ought to have felt like…

  “A man in a room loaded with porn,” he mumbled. “Candy store, my ass.”

  He felt ridiculous.

  Trying to get comfortable in one of the recliners (he felt stupid), and staring at his cup (he felt even more stupid) he spent a few minutes laughing. Then he sighed a lot. Then he picked up one of the magazines and tried.

  He tried another magazine.

  “Whoa,” he said, peering at a page. A naked woman with long dark hair was turned partly away from the camera, looking over her shoulder at him. She was top-heavy: giant, augmented breasts on a too-slender body. But Erik wasn’t looking at her breasts. He was looking at her legs. With keen interest his eyes trailed the length of thigh and calf, down to her feet.