“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“With what?”
“C’mon, you’re calling me from an ashram.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Well, for starters, where’s Laura?”
“Not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? What’s going on with you two? I know you’ve hit a rough patch, but who the hell hasn’t? Do you think your mother and I never hit a rough patch?”
I didn’t want to hear a story about him and my mother. I didn’t want advice or encouragement. So I blurted out a thought that had taken shape in my subconscious. When I said it, I found that I liked how it sounded:
“I’m thinking about quitting the paper.”
“What’ll you do?”
Another subconscious thought:
“I thought I’d come home for a while.”
“Home home?” he asked, his voice maneuvering around the shock and joy and sorrow he must’ve felt over the idea.
“To Connecticut. Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, surprised by my honesty.
He let the matter go. Then he began telling me how he could put me up and even give me a job on campus. It wouldn’t be with the kids, he laughed, but something behind the scenes.
“I’ll come up with something,” he promised.
I didn’t respond.
“Until you get your footing.”
We talked for a while longer. In that time he didn’t mention Laura again. When we hung up, I expected to feel the dissolution of the optimism we had just fused. The tacit understanding. The solace. The idea of me moving back to Connecticut. I sat in that little square-shaped room on one of those slat-back chairs, waiting for all of it to abate. It didn’t. I was stunned. I fell asleep that night to the distant sounds of Indian instruments, a tabla and a sarod and a shehnai, and for the first time since I could recall, I had dreams about the east coast.
. . .
When I was less than ten minutes from my house, I pulled the car to the side of the road and called Ben. I told him I didn’t think I could face things. He sighed a little into the phone.
“Let me call you right back,” he said.
Since I broke the news about Laura, Ben’s sentimentality towards me seemed to waver. He now dealt with me with such brevity, such remove, that I became self-conscious whenever I delivered my bad news to him. Ben lived in Harwood Heights, a suburb just outside the city, in a beautiful brick Colonial with a three car garage, a spacious first floor den, and his wife and daughters. To him, my reality must’ve now seemed like some grotesque fantasy once it was stacked up against his own. We were no longer working towards the same conclusions in life. My dilemma must’ve reminded him of what he never wanted to lose. In that way, I was the worst kind of threat.
As the engine ran, I waited. After nearly fifteen minutes, he called back and told me to come over.
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Justine’s parents are here, so you’re on your own for tonight.”
“That’s fine.”
I told him about the ashram, hoping he’d see it as a sign of humility and self-help. It was important to me that Ben understood that I wasn’t cavalier about my situation. Whenever we spoke, I found myself saying things that tried to underscore this point. My worn away spirit had to show, I told myself. But in case it didn’t - or in case it wasn’t enough, or in case he doubted whether I was still a good man - I put on a bit of a performance, pausing and mumbling and heaving deep, pensive breaths I hoped would clear up any confusion over the matter.
Justine asked me to join their family for dinner that evening. It would be a nice home-cooked meal, she said, looking at me with more tenderness than I deserved. She was a short, attractive woman with the build of a fitness trainer and bright green eyes that looked like they were made from newly erupted lava. I understood what she meant by the home cooking comment. Politely, I declined. She persisted, so I relented.
The evening was pleasant. The meal was outstanding and my wine glass was never far from reach. Justine’s parents, Bob and Susan, were spry, affectionate people. In between romps with their granddaughters, they talked about their recent trip to Belize. Justine, in an effort to include me in the conversation, told them I had just returned from an ashram. She mentioned it was the same one she had once visited. I talked about it, exaggerating its effect on me, claiming it was an unforgettable experience. Ben’s twin girls asked no one in particular what an ashram was. Without flinching, Ben told them it was where you went to find balance. Justine perked up.
“Nice to meet you, Meher Baba,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to your expertise.”
“Excuse me,” said Ben, feigning defensiveness, “I forgot whose presence we’re in. Darling, would you like to respond to your daughters’ inquisitiveness?”
Smiling, Justine looked around the table, paused a moment, and told Rachel and Robyn the exact thing their father had. We all laughed. Ben and Justine clinked their glasses together and drank. Once the attention diverted to another matter, I witnessed them making playful faces at each other; it was subtle, but it was there - coy, loving, secretive.
“Did you find that for yourself, Gray?” Bob asked me.
“Find what, sir?”
I knew what he meant. I just needed the extra seconds to work out a response in my mind, something witty or profound or maybe endearingly honest.
“Balance,” he said.
Attention was now on me. Even Rachel and Robyn, who must’ve had more than a few moments that evening of wondering who the hell I was, looked my way and awaited an answer to an absurd question. I was a bastard if I said no. I was somehow damaged in the first place if I said yes. Turning to Ben, I let out a little gasp. Ignoring the plea, he took a sip of wine and looked down at his empty plate.
“I don’t know,” I finally said.
There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of Susan filling her wine glass.
“Speaking of balance,” Justine broke in, “what did you think of the food there?”
Not bad, I told her, but nothing I’ll miss. I told the story about the recipe of split pea soup I had somewhere in my suitcase. And so the conversation shifted. And at least for a moment it was put aside that I was the dinner guest, the outsider, the interloper with stories to tell, stories to which I couldn’t find a proper beginning or ending or even a point.
Ben helped me settle into my room for the evening. It was an enormous space above the garage that was used as the girls’ rec room. Boasting a ping pong table and wall-to-wall shelves filled with books and toys, it was carpeted, well lit, and smelled of cookie dough. We moved a few things to make the space around the pullout sofa more accessible.
“This is great,” I told him as we shimmied a portable piano out of the way. “If I can’t sleep, I can always play ‘Chopsticks.’”
Ben didn’t respond to this. We moved a dollhouse and a kitchenette together in silence.
“I appreciate everything.”
“Of course.”
He told me about the bathroom and the towels and the leftover food in the fridge.
“I’m just gonna crash and then I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”
“Fine.”
We exchanged looks for a moment. It might’ve been brief, but I understood that something was happening between the two of us. Ben had me in his house. I was eating his wife’s cookin
g. I was sleeping in the room in which his daughters played and pretended. He was unsure how to handle me now. I’d become as elusive and controversial as some midnight drifter. He turned to walk out of the room when I blurted out that he’d barely known Laura.
“I know that,” he said, turning to face me.
“We were never a foursome,” I went on, “two married couples breaking bread and hitting the town together - that was never us. Shit, I think Justine met Laura two or three times.”
“No one’s saying otherwise, Gray.”
“Then stop acting like I broke up the old gang, for fuck’s sake. Because frankly this is all starting to resemble a Woody Allen film.”
“I’m not acting like anything. And keep your voice down.”
“I’m not gonna corrupt your family. My misery will not harm any of you. You’re safe from my bullshit. You’re all safe. It’s not contagious.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“That’s not what I need to hear from you right now.”
“And what do you need to hear?”
“I need to hear you say I’m not a bad man. That you understand me and nothing’s changed where we’re concerned. I need to hear you say that you’ll help me organize a hit on this motherfucker who’s banging my wife.”
“Lower your voice. And would any of that solve your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
The blood in my head suddenly felt like it was undulating against my temples. I made my way to the sofa and sat down. With the heels of my hands, I began massaging my eye sockets. After a few moments, Ben came closer to me.
“I don’t have a problem,” I said again, my voice soft and raspy. “I’m carrying something weightier than a problem. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it scares the hell out of me. I think...I think it’s something I’ve never seen before in anyone else. I’m not saying I’m special, but I’m starting to think I have a stranglehold on this thing, like I’ve cornered the market on it.”
“You’re fucked up right now. You didn’t corner the market on being fucked up. Besides, didn’t you grow up in a place where being fucked up was the status quo?”
He was smiling when he said this. After a minute, he sat down beside me. We didn’t speak for a while. Then he let out a long exhale and told me I could stay at his place as long as I needed to. All the ping pong and piano I wanted, he told me. He’d already talked it over with Justine, he said, and she was okay with it. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. This was an unexpected act of kindness, a bounty I would willingly accept, but scarcely contemplate. I’d had, after all, far too many thoughts of worthiness and gratitude for the time being.
. . .
Living like some nomadic fugitive, I stayed at Ben’s for ten more days. In that time, I kept mostly to myself. I ate next to nothing, grew a little beard, and watched season after season of a show called Red House that Justine had recommended to me. I made the drive back to my place on a cold and overcast Tuesday morning. The second I walked in the door I knew I was alone. I checked the garage for Laura’s car and found it was gone. The house felt heavy under its burden of silence. A few windows were ajar and a crisp breeze crept through the rooms. The pillows on the sofas were fluffed and angled. The kitchen sink was gleaming. The wood floors looked like they were installed and polished that day. The only sign of life was a crystal bud vase on the island, holding two of the most perfect red roses I’d ever seen.
I snooped for a while, checking my bedroom, the bathrooms, the contents of the hamper, the fridge, even the garbage. Nothing appeared out of place. Pouring myself a dry bowl of cereal, I sat down and called my father. He picked up on the third ring. Little time was wasted before he asked how I was doing.
“I’m all right.”
“Is Laura there with you?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“Good question.”
“What exactly is going on out there?”
“Hard to say.”
“Try.”
“It’s sort of shapeless right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s still taking shape.”
“I can’t get a straight answer from you.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Are you still thinking about coming home?”
It was on the verge of my tongue to tell him no, that I’d changed my mind, that I was an adult, and a successful one at that, and I could certainly navigate my way through turmoil and come out ahead and be fine and whole and happy. But the thought of hearing such lies was enough to stifle me.
“I’ll let you know.”
That evening I took a bath, something I hadn’t done in years. For over an hour, I sat in a tub of hot, soapy water and scrubbed my skin until it felt as red and raw as it looked. Then I shaved my face clean and trimmed all my nails. For a while after this, I watched TV in bed and drifted in and out of sleep. On occasion, I would look out the window at Glenn’s house to check for any activity. His lights were off and no vehicles came or went.
At around 1:00 a.m., Laura came home. I awoke from my half-sleep the moment she began ascending the stairs. The TV was still on; it was playing Straw Dogs, a movie I’d never seen from beginning to end. The volume was a little loud, so I turned it down to just above a whisper. I still wanted it playing when Laura entered the room; the thought of there being no distractions upon seeing one another was unbearable. The moment she approached the doorway, the scene transitioned and the TV went nearly black for a second. In that flash, as I saw her figure standing no more than twenty feet away, I had the distinct feeling that despite all the recent changes in our lives, the most radical one would be happening at any moment.
“Are you up?”
She said this with a voice sweet enough to caress the soft pattern off of china.
“I was just drifting in and out.”
My own voice was hoarse and uncertain. When she entered the room, I got a good look at her as she moved toward me on the bed. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater with a pink scarf around her neck that draped neatly across her breast - all very plain, but she looked classy and pretty.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I mean I’m not fine, but I’m okay.”
“I understand.”
She sat beside me on the bed.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m good. Yeah, I’m actually pretty good.”
“Where’s Glenn?”
She looked at the TV. It was the scene where Dustin Hoffman’s character finds the dead cat hanging in the closet.
“He’s next door.”
“And how’s he doing?”
“Stop.”
“Well, we can’t leave him out. I’m fine to okay. You’re good to pretty good. How’s Glenn doing?”
“I’ll tell you,” she said, all the tenderness in her tone gone, “he was worried about you, too. He must’ve called every hospital in the city.”
“Glenn was worried about me? I can’t believe you’re telling me this. How do you expect me to react to that? Should I give him a fucking humanitarian award? Glenn was worried about me. What was he worried about, that I might shoot myself in the basement and lower his property value?”
“He’s not who you think he is.”
“Who is he then?”
“He’s different.”
“Different from what?”
She stared at me. Then she took a deep breath before turning her head towards the TV. I studied her face
in the glow from the screen. I decided she looked better than I’d seen her look in a long time. There was a new vitality in her skin and eyes and mouth. She knew it, too, because as well as she wore it, there was a trace of self-awareness that only a husband of some years can detect. I couldn’t help but wonder if Glenn knew it.
“I don’t want to discuss Glenn,” she said, looking back towards me.
“What’s left then? What’s left to discuss?”
“I don’t know.”
“There must be something we can discuss.”
Laura said that whatever we had left to discuss was no longer emotional, but instead practical. I told her this was an ugly thing to say. She said it was true. Then she stood up and went to her bureau, where she opened the top drawer and removed a large manila envelope. Dropping it on the edge of the bed, she told me it was all very straightforward and easy to understand. I could look it over in the morning, she said, and eventually sit down with my attorney and ask any question that might arise. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Laura looked beautiful standing there, but it was no longer the kind of beauty that would make me breathe easier; if I let it, it might sicken me to no end and drive me to real despair. So I didn’t say anything; I just nodded my head and watched the TV, which was showing the last seconds of the movie’s most controversial scene between the woman playing Dustin Hoffman’s wife and the film’s ghastly villain.
. . .
So much of spring went by in a wash of broken moments. I moved in with Ben after he had Justine send me a pleading text to do so. And I hired an attorney I found online. His name was Ed Rawlings, and he told me an uncontested divorce was the way to go. He said it would be the quickest and least expensive means to an end. Laura agreed this was the best option. She said we owed it to ourselves to be civil. I came close to asking what she meant by this, but I never did. With a maddening sense of grace, grace born out of wisdom and temperance, Laura initiated conversations - all on the phone or in text - on how to best settle our affairs. She was staying with Glenn during this time and it was easy for me to imagine the two of them collaborating in their decorum so that Gray, poor pitiful Gray, might learn that winners and losers alike could maintain such dignity.
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