The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

by Sonya Sones

  Not her brownies!”

  And when he begins chuckling

  at his own little joke,

  I’m struck by the lovely, quiet sound of it—

  like water flowing over smooth stones.

  I STEP OUTSIDE TO TAKE THE CALL

  Samantha says

  she’s walking though the quad

  looking up at the bell tower,

  and that it looks

  exactly like a postcard

  of how a college should look.

  And just then,

  the bells begin to ring—

  great booming, echoing, peals of them.

  She laughs and says,

  “And it sounds exactly like

  a college should sound!”

  She says the leaves are falling.

  She says the air is frosty.

  She says, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  She tells me

  she can’t believe

  how lucky she is.

  And I tell her

  I can’t believe

  how lucky I am.

  AS SOON AS WE SAY GOOD-BYE

  My phone rings again.

  I check the number

  and see that—shit!—it’s Roxie.

  I let it go to voice mail.

  But a second later,

  it rings again.

  And this time it’s Alice,

  sounding oddly breathless.

  “Oh, Holly,” she says,

  “I’m so glad you picked up.”

  And right away, I know

  that something is very wrong.

  “Alice,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s…it’s Michael. I’m sure he’s

  going to be totally fine, but Noah and I

  just drove him to the emergency room.”

  An orderly brushes past me,

  pushing someone lying on a table—

  someone entirely covered with a sheet…

  My knees begin to quake.

  “Oh my God, Alice. What’s wrong with him?”

  She tells me that they aren’t sure yet,

  but that Michael called her a half hour ago

  and said he was in a lot of pain.

  He said that it came on fast.

  That at first he thought maybe it was his appendix.

  “But then,” Alice says, “he went to the bathroom

  and…and…”

  “And what?” I say.

  “Well…” she says. “There was a teeny bit…

  a teeny bit of blood in his pee.”

  My heart skids to a stop.

  “Is he there? Can I talk to him?”

  “Not right now. They’re running some tests.

  But he asked me to call you

  and tell you he loves you.”

  “Tell him I love him, too,” I say.

  “Tell him I’ll catch the next plane out.”

  And when Alice doesn’t say,

  “Don’t be silly. You don’t need to fly home.”

  a tsunami of terror engulfs me.

  TURBULENCE

  It isn’t until a couple of harrowing hours later,

  when the flight

  that I somehow managed to get a seat on

  is zooming me home to California,

  that I find myself

  thinking about

  how dangerously close

  I came

  to doing

  what I almost did

  when I was stuck in the elevator

  with He Who Shall Not Be Named.

  And my stomach lurches so violently

  that I pull the airsickness bag

  out of the seat pocket in front of me.

  Just to play it safe.

  ISN’T IT STRANGE?

  When your husband’s

  in the hospital

  due to the mystery pains

  knifing through his abdomen

  and he sends you home to feed the cat

  and pick up a few things for him

  while you’re waiting

  to hear the test results

  and you happen to notice

  his scruffy bedroom slippers,

  the ones you’re always tripping over

  because he forgets to put them in the closet,

  those same aggravatingly old-mannish slippers of his,

  whose presence there on any other day

  would have irritated

  the living daylights out of you,

  isn’t it strange

  to find yourself fighting a sudden urge

  to reach down and scoop them up

  into an embrace,

  those tattered old mutts

  standing guard so faithfully

  next to the empty

  unmade bed?

  I SPLASH SOME COLD WATER ON MY FACE

  And, braving the morass of Michael’s studio,

  I somehow manage to locate the sketchbook

  and the charcoal pencils he asked me to retrieve.

  Then I head outside to pick some roses for him.

  I’m snipping a bouquet of Double Delights,

  when I glance next door

  and see Duncan and Jane

  rocking on their covered swing.

  Madison and Pinkie

  are curled up next to them,

  both of them

  deep in dreams.

  Suddenly, Jane takes hold

  of her husband’s hand

  and places it on her full moon belly.

  “Did you feel that?!” she says.

  “Wow…” Duncan says.

  “Our baby’s gonna be a drummer!”

  “Just like her daddy,” Jane says.

  And a proud-papa grin spreads across his face.

  Then, very lightly,

  he starts drumming on her stomach

  and Jane joins in—

  singing “God Only Knows.”

  Geez.

  I better get out of here

  before I start

  blubbering…

  WHEN I RETURN TO THE HOSPITAL

  Michael has dozed off.

  That Percocet the nurse gave him

  must have knocked him out.

  Alice and Noah are snoring away, too.

  I gaze at my cousin, drooling on Noah’s shoulder,

  and my heart nearly cracks with tenderness.

  Then I ease down onto the edge of Michael’s bed

  and reach for his hand—so warm and solid,

  so familiar and comforting.

  I watch my husband sleep,

  moved beyond words by each line on his face—

  his “etchings,” he likes me to call them.

  I lean down

  and gently press my lips

  to his.

  TIME DOES NOT FLY WHEN YOU ARE WAITING FOR TEST RESULTS

  The

  hands

  on

  the

  face

  of

  the

  big

  round

  clock

  on

  the

  puke

  green

  wall

  move

  so

  slowly

  that

  between

  each

  tick

  I

  age

  ten

  years.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN MUCH GOOD AT WAITING

  But

  this

  is

  ridiculous…

  THANK GOD!

  It turns out

  it’s only kidney stones.

  Nothing life threatening.

  So Michael’s doctor sends us home.

  But just as we exit the hospital,

  we see Duncan racing in with a groaning Jane—

  she’s dripping with sweat, her cheeks flushed,

  her bangs plastered to her forehead.

  “The bab
y’s coming!” Duncan shouts gleefully.

  “Good luck!” Michael and I call out

  as they dash past us

  and disappear into the maternity ward.

  A second later, we hear Jane let loose

  with a gut-wrenching scream.

  “You know something…” Michael muses,

  clutching his midsection.

  “I think I know just how she feels…”

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS

  Michael has to pee into a sieve.

  If he doesn’t pee those stones out

  the doctor will have to go in and get them—

  a procedure that involves,

  among other things,

  having a tube shoved into his penis.

  So I cheer Michael on.

  Telling him I know he can do it.

  Telling him I’ve got a good feeling about this.

  Then, after dozens of failed attempts,

  with surprisingly little fanfare or pain,

  he finally passes the stones.

  And somehow this fills me with hope—

  hope that our marriage,

  with equally little fanfare or pain,

  will manage

  to pass its stones

  as well.

  MARRIAGE IS A FIRE

  First it burns with desire,

  with uncontrolled lust.

  You touch each other

  and you combust.

  But if no one remembers

  to stir the embers,

  to feed them, poke them,

  tend them, stoke them,

  the blaze that once sizzled

  will sputter and fizzle.

  Which is why

  I always say:

  thank the Lord

  for lingerie.

  YOU KNOW WHAT I LOVE ABOUT MICHAEL?

  I love that when we first met,

  even though he was dating

  a Marilyn Monroe look-alike at the time

  (I’m not exaggerating—

  she was actually getting paid

  to impersonate Marilyn Monroe),

  he

  dumped her for

  me.

  I love his art, his eyes, his thighs,

  and the tiny flecks of paint

  that dot his cheeks like freckles.

  I love that he has somehow managed

  to convince himself that I’m

  in better shape now than I’ve ever been.

  I love that he always notices

  and compliments me

  when I lose weight.

  But that he never complains,

  or even seems to be aware of it,

  when I gain it back.

  I love that he’s funny,

  always saying things like,

  “I’ve succeeded far beneath my wildest dreams.”

  Or, “The trouble with me is

  that I can make a horse drink,

  but I can’t lead it to water.”

  And I love

  that even when he’s miserable,

  he never stops whistling.

  ON A GOOD DAY

  Being married makes me feel

  like I’m still trapped in that mine shaft,

  only my husband’s in there with me.

  And there’s plenty of air

  and candlelight

  and champagne for us to sip

  while we munch on cheddar

  and green grapes

  and pecans.

  There’s plenty of Maugham

  and Capote and Maupassant

  for us to read aloud to each other,

  plenty of Coltrane

  and Hawkins and Webster

  to saxophone us while we make love.

  On a good day,

  I’m still trapped in that shaft,

  but I’m hoping that the rescue workers

  will take

  their sweet time

  finding us.

  MICHAEL AND I GO OVER TO MEET THE NEW BABY

  The house has a hushed, awestruck vibe.

  Even Pinkie is oddly quiet.

  Jane and Duncan

  have that new-parent glow.

  Madison has that new-sibling

  shell-shocked look.

  She takes our hands

  and leads us over to the bassinet.

  “Dis is Cwementine,” she says. “She’s mine!”

  “Clementine…” I say. “What a pretty name!”

  “She is pretty,” Michael tells Madison.

  “But not nearly as pretty as you.”

  The little girl smiles shyly, and says,

  “Wiww you push me on my swing?”

  “Of course I will,” Michael replies,

  and they head out into the backyard.

  I look down at Clementine,

  swaddled and snoozing,

  bracing myself for the usual

  tidal wave of yearning.

  But it doesn’t come!

  For the first time in ages,

  I’m actually able to look at a baby

  and not feel like weeping.

  SAM’S TAKING A CLASS CALLED POSITIVE PSYCHOLOGY

  She tells me that in 1979

  a sociologist named Ellen Langer

  did a study.

  This study involved putting a group

  of seventy-year-old men into a setting that

  made it seem like it was twenty years earlier.

  The only magazines, TV shows, games,

  books, and music available to these men

  were what were popular in 1959,

  and they were told

  to act and talk

  as if it were 1959, too.

  Sam tells me

  that this study

  had amazing results.

  That after just one week

  not only did these septuagenarians

  look younger,

  but their joints

  became more flexible,

  their posture improved,

  and their fingers,

  which usually get shorter with age,

  actually lengthened.

  Sam tells me

  I should have

  a more positive attitude.

  And maybe she’s right—

  maybe if I start picturing myself

  with the body I had twenty years ago,

  then that little ring of fat, jiggling around

  my waistline like a belt made of sausages,

  will mysteriously disappear.

  Maybe if I don’t feel

  ten pounds overweight

  I won’t be ten pounds overweight.

  And if I don’t think

  I have any wrinkles

  I won’t have any wrinkles.

  Maybe if I

  stop thinking of my hot flashes

  as hot flashes

  and start thinking of them

  as short private vacations

  in the tropics,

  I’ll suddenly

  find myself

  with a nice deep tan.

  I DON’T FEEL LIKE GOING TO THE PARTY

  But something like intuition compels me

  to slog through the infinite indignities

  of getting ready to go out—

  the hair dye, the blow-dry, the plucking,

  the potions, the depressing descent

  into the depths of my closet:

  Am I thin enough to wear this?

  Courageous enough to wear that?

  Daft enough to don those?

  I don’t feel

  at all like going

  to the party

  but something like longing

  propels me to barrel out into the night

  with my husband anyhow.

  And something like destiny gets us there

  just in time to see our host place a match

  to the logs he’s laid on the hearth;

  just in time

  to witness the conflagr
ation

  that erupts.

  And I’m so amazed I have to ask:

  “How did you get the fire to catch like that

  with just a single match?”

  Our host smiles a that’s-easy smile,

  then reaches into a sack and hands me something.

  “Pinecones are the trick,” he says.

  Pinecones…?!

  I think back on all the hours I’ve wasted

  balling up newspaper and shoving it under logs.

  I recall all the fallen pinecones