The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “Look, you got time, kid,” she said. “What is the rush?”

  “What’s the rush? What’s the hold-up? Barbara, look at me. Look at a woman’s body. From head to toe she’s made for having babies.” I began to point toward myself. “Well, I don’t think I need to catalog it for you. She’s built for it in every way. It’s what she’s supposed to do.”

  I saw a flash of anger come across Barbara’s face. “You just figuring this out? I know she is built for it. You do not see any men having babies! I do not care if—just because she, a woman, is built for having babies, does not mean that she needs to have babies!”

  “I know that! God dammit! But it’s what I want to do. Don’t you understand? I need to do this for myself.” I had raised my voice, surprising even myself.

  “Do you? Leaving the woman you supposedly love is doing something for yourself?”

  “I do love you, but grow up. This is the way the world is. You need to follow your dreams, but you need to follow the rules, too.”

  “To hell with the rules!”

  “Okay. Okay, to hell with the rules. To hell with society. To hell with biological facts. How’s that going to get me a baby?”

  Barbara exhaled hard. Her eyes were filling with tears. And I ran to her. Into her arms. And we just stood there, holding each other, sobbing. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you,” she cried over and over.

  My eyes were already gushing, but this made them gush harder. I wondered if I was making a mistake. A part of me wanted to just give in right there; never let her go.

  “Shh. Shh,” I said. I held her in my arms and we swayed together for a long while.

  “So, I guess you are going to get married, huh?” she asked me, neither one of us letting go of the other.

  “I love you so much, Barbara.” I felt her squeeze me with more intensity, her whole body shuddering. “This is just something I need to do,” I whispered in her ear, trying to get the sentence out before my voice cracked and lost all audibility. Her shaking got worse, but I quickly realized that might have been me.

  “You are too young to be this practical,” she said. Then she laughed, which made me laugh.

  “Or maybe I’m just practical enough now to know that in the future I’m going to be really practical.”

  She sighed.

  “Oh, damn you, Dot. Goddamn you.” She said it softly, but her serious tone was back. And so were the tears. She stroked my hair. “This is not the way things were supposed to be.”

  “I know. And hurting you is the worst thing of all.”

  “Dot, Dot, we were all settled here. It just was not supposed to be this way. We had it all planned, all set.”

  “I know, Barbara. I know. But it’s better now than later.”

  “It sure as hell does not feel like it. Dot?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am not going to let you go.” We hugged each other even harder.

  Finally, I broke our embrace. I looked into Barbara’s eyes for the last time. After a moment, she squeezed them tightly together. “I love you, kid,” she said.

  I tried to say the same back to her, but when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Finally, I just closed my eyes, tightened my lips, and nodded my head. I couldn’t look at her anymore. Not that close. Then I turned and walked away.

  “Hey, kid,” she said. “Hit me.”

  I froze, and a chill ran from my heels all the way up my spine, settling around the back of my neck. I shut my eyes tightly, releasing two large tears. I felt very aware of them as they meandered down my face. I turned toward her again. Barbara’s half-smile was marred by pain, but to me still exuded warmth and beauty. She pointed to her cheek. I kissed her. And then it was over.

  Jerry Ripley

  I’d have to count that moment as one of the worst in my life. Maybe the worst. It was the day after Dot, Cliff, and I had gone bowling. Other than Cliff having a king-sized hangover, the day had started off well. He and I goofed around like an old married couple—breakfast in bed, reading the morning paper and a few chores around the house, which we did together. Bob Mitchell came around, which was pretty uncomfortable. I guess staying away from the window and just generally avoiding him is about the best I can do. I’m running out of excuses. But anyway, I’m getting off track. The point is that the day began nicely. But with my luck being what it is, it went south after that—fast, finally settling in my stomach where it formed a pit that’s been there ever since.

  So I guess I’ll get to it. That pit, that horrible ache was placed there pretty firmly by what I saw when I came home after running a few errands. When I got home, I was excited to see Cliff. I knew he was home because I saw his car out back. That’s when I was slapped with the truth. Opening the bedroom door, I saw Cliff and some other…other man, having sex on the bed. Our bed. Most of what happened immediately after that is kind of a blur. I just remember screaming for them to get out. The man, whoever he was—a college student, I think—scrambled to get dressed as I ranted and raved at both of them.

  I do remember at one point being acutely aware of the fact that I don’t rant and rave particularly well, meaning I don’t do it in a way that would ever be thought of as “cool,” the way, say a Marlon Brando or Robert Mitchum might do it, telling off a boss or a lover. In short, the whole thing, once I became aware of myself, made me feel silly.

  I guess my venom should have been reserved for Cliff but I’m not sure who got the most of it. I do remember, of the two, the other guy looked the most shook up. I never saw anyone get dressed that fast, and it seemed like he was out the door in less than thirty seconds.

  Cliff was startled but calmed down pretty quickly, even seeming to find humor in it all, which made my blood boil all the more. Within moments, his face assumed a sort of relaxed look that seemed to say, Calm down, Jerry, you’re making a big mistake here. It’s all a big misunderstanding. Just let me explain, and we’ll both be having a good laugh over all this nonsense in no time.

  I do remember one thing Cliff did say, and along with the pit in my stomach, it’s been there ever since, ringing in my ears: “Come on, Jerry, men weren’t created to be with just one person. It’s not natural.”

  “They weren’t created to be homosexual, either,” I said, immediately wrestling in my head over the truth of Cliff’s assertion. So where does that leave me? I wondered.

  “And duplexes weren’t made to be merged into one single happy home.”

  I felt a jolt of anger and a new burst of heat under my collar after his last remark. I just stared at him. For the first time since we met, I wanted to hit him.

  “It sounds like there’s a lot of unnaturalness going on around here,” he added.

  The one thing I did know was that I didn’t want to be in the same house with him—at least not at that moment. I looked at Cliff for another few seconds and exited the room. I was hoping he’d run after me, but he didn’t. I wandered into the kitchen and drank some water, not out of thirst but just to do something. Next, I walked out the back door and noticed Barbara’s car was there.

  “Barb, sweetheart, I forgot my keys,” I said at the back door, for the benefit of the neighbors. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I said it. I prayed she’d answer the door so I could break down inside, rather than outside, the house. When she didn’t answer, a part of me was relieved, realizing I didn’t relish the idea of breaking down in front of her either. I thought, Good, she didn’t hear me, as I turned and walked down the back-door steps.

  Then I heard the door open. It didn’t sound the way a door normally sounds when it’s opened. It was noisy as if a statement was being made. A violent and sudden jerk that sucked a gang of air in with it. Looking back, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to see.

  It was Barbara. She was beet red, her faced soaked with tears. She moved backward a little like
she was making room for me to enter. Her eyes were looking away.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She gestured for me to come in, her motion so subtle, I wasn’t sure if I was reading her right. We walked into the house a ways before she told me that Dot had left her. I was shocked. We sat down, and she told me all about it.

  I tried to comfort her, but I really didn’t know what to say. I loved them both.

  Then it was quiet for a while. Barbara was looking down, and I was looking for something to say.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find someone else for you,” I said.

  Barbara slammed her fists on her knees and leaped to her feet. “Oh, Jerry! You do not understand. It is not like with you goddamn apes. It is not about finding some interchangeable cog that can scratch an itch or satisfy some lusty urge. With us, it is up here,” she said, pointing to her head. “And especially here,” she said jabbing her finger into her heart several times. “Not below the waist! You son of a bitch!”

  God, I don’t know anything, I thought. Then I stood up, exhaled, and Barbara collapsed into my arms. She went limp and buried her head into my chest and put her arms around me. But only for a few seconds before pushing me away.

  “Oh, Jerry, get away from me. I don’t need a friend right now. I just need Dot.”

  I turned and walked away.

  Dot Johnson

  I only made it a couple of blocks before I had to pull the car to the side of the road. I just stared at the steering wheel, watching it glaze over through my tear-filled eyes, again and again. I felt like I had an endless supply of tears in me. It took me several minutes before I realized that the car was still running, and some man on the radio was droning on about dish soap. I wasn’t sure if I cared enough to turn off the motor but when the station started playing music, I became afraid that the D.J. might play “Secret Love” by Doris Day, and that’s when I turned the key. The quiet after that really brought me down. Reality hit home. Maybe I had made a mistake. I kept seeing Barbara’s face in my head; kept re-running our last conversation together.

  At this rate it would take me forever to drive back home. I thought about my mother. How was I going to hold it together when I walked through her door? And after that? As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I imagined myself returning home, and I felt as if I could cry twice as hard. I studied my face, wondering, on some level, if it was really me.

  How would mother take my return? And my sobbing? I thought about how she hadn’t nagged me for months. Maybe she had known what she had been doing all along. I wondered if I had been set up in a way. When she had retreated, there was no one to push back against. And maybe this drew me closer to her in an odd way. Maybe. But at this point, it really didn’t matter much. The fact was I really did want to have a baby.

  I also wanted Barbara, of course. But it was time to grow up. I couldn’t have both.

  I felt like I was starting my life over again. Like I didn’t have a choice. And in addition to the horrible ache I felt in my heart and the empty pit in my stomach, I began to feel overwhelmed. I started shaking. Like I had just bitten down on a cube of ice. Everyone at L.A. High now knew me as Mrs. Lonigan. Would I change schools? Tell people I was getting a divorce? How would that look? Of course, I would have to keep all this from mother, and my future husband. I would have to begin dating. Men. And I couldn’t even do that until I could quit sobbing at the drop of a hat. And God only knew how long it would be before I would meet someone special. Then, after a while, he would hopefully propose. We’d be engaged for some time while I would have to plan a wedding. All with a feeling of loss and a terrible ache in my heart. It didn’t look like I would be having children any time soon after all. No wonder girls get married when they do.

  I saw Barbara’s sweet face in my mind. And then I saw myself holding a baby in my arms. My baby.

  Barbara and babies. At that moment, I had neither, and I had never felt so alone.

  Jerry Ripley

  The plane was right on time. L-A-X. Lax. It sure is. L.A., I mean. Maybe too easy going for this Kansas boy, I thought, thinking of Cliff’s smug Hollywood attitude when he was caught red-handed.

  And I was a Hollywood cliché, myself. Running home to mother to get away from that heel. That brute. Well, at least we hadn’t had any children yet, I thought as a way of cheering myself up. Mother had warned me about men like him…ha, ha.

  Anyway, I needed to get away. And other than legal holidays, I hadn’t taken a single day off from work since arriving out here. Still, it felt strange. I wasn’t even sure how to take a day off. I guess when you’re a lawyer, everything’s about procedures, and until you get those down, well, it’s hard to feel completely at ease.

  I didn’t actually know until this morning that I would be taking any time off of work at all. You see I spent last night at a motel. I woke up exhausted, hardly sleeping at all from worry. And for the first time I can remember, the thought of going to work made me feel ill. So I called the office and then just started driving without a plan. After eating breakfast at a diner off of Jefferson Boulevard, I decided to take a few hundred dollars out of the bank since they had a branch right next door to where I had eaten. I knew it was a tremendous amount of money, but I just felt like I might need it for some reason. And I did, of course. When I saw the signs for LAX, I just kind of followed them and without thinking I decided to park. It was a few minutes before ten, and fortunately they had a flight leaving for Kansas at 10:23, so my timing was perfect. The cost was another story. A hundred and thirty-four dollars for a round-trip ticket. Almost a week’s pay! But time is money as the airlines are always reminding us. I’d be home in five hours. L.A. to Kansas. You can’t beat that.

  When we were up in the air, everything started to hit me at once. I couldn’t think very well at first. The guy next to me was really taking advantage of the free drinks. That meant talking. A lot of talking—and a lot of going to the washroom. I finally changed seats with him, had a few cigarettes, and tried to relax. I wondered if I should have called Cliff. I was curious, if I didn’t come back for a week or so, would he think I wasn’t ever coming back, and that maybe I had met someone else? And what would happen to the duplex? And Dot? She was supposed to be Cliff’s wife. Now she was gone. And so was I. How queer that would look? I mean one spouse in each couple gone. It was almost too bad that Dot wasn’t my “wife.” If she had been, I guess people might just think that the two of us were on vacation.

  I wondered what Dot’s side of the story was. And I wondered if she would be back. I missed her. I already had a knot in my stomach from Cliff. But thinking about Dot gave that knot an extra twinge. I wanted to talk to her. We had both left, and I wanted her support. I wanted to give her mine, too.

  My arrival in Kansas wasn’t a complete surprise to my parents. I had called them long distance from the airport in Los Angeles, and once I arrived, I took a bus and a cab to their house. The humidity hit me hard. I had forgotten how uncomfortable it can be. I figured I was pretty spoiled by that point. On the other hand, it sure was nice to be able to take a deep breath and not get a chest full of smog.

  On the ride over, I eagerly looked out the window at the old—yet new to me, somehow—sights. It was a strange feeling being back home. A part of me felt like I belonged, and another part of me could not feel like more of a stranger. I guess in some ways Kansas is who I am. It’s in my blood, and if it wasn’t for my homosexuality, I think this is where I would want to be. Los Angeles, on the other hand, is more accepting of my homosexuality. Well, some of the people there at least. At least they’ve heard of it. And I love the cultural advantages. And it has Cliff… But I’m also not sure if I’ll ever get completely used to it. I guess it’s true that you can take the boy out of Kansas, but you can’t take Kansas out of the boy.

  As we rounded the corner of South Walnut Street, an image of me riding my bike home after deliver
ing the morning paper flashed in my mind. I wished for the good old days. A simpler time. And there was a part of me that wished I had never met Cliff. But the moment I thought it, I felt horrible pain and regret. To be honest, everything I was doing—ever since leaving the duplex—seemed to somehow be dominated by Cliff in some way. Everything reminded me of him, and I managed to insert him into my every thought, conversation, and action. I was even wondering if somehow all that had happened had somehow been my fault. Did I at least contribute to it all? What could I have done differently? And finally, I wondered—agonized over—the idea of how much I was willing to live with, put up with, in a relationship. Maybe sharing Cliff wouldn’t be so bad after all. Can anyone trust another person a hundred percent anyway? I really wasn’t sure.

  The moment I opened the door, I heard that familiar shuffling patter coming from the direction of the kitchen. Mom had been cooking, and it smelled like home. She looked exactly the same to me, and it was good to see her. She wore a peach-colored dress, one that I had remembered from when I was a kid. Mom always did look good in it. Dropping her apron on the couch, she opened her arms wide as if she had recalled my being bigger than I actually am. I could feel myself grinning as I opened my arms as well. I think I must have held on a little too long to her, though, because after a while, she seemed to want to come up for air. “Goodness, don’t the girls in Hollywood ever pass out hugs?”

  For some reason, her question made me feel sad, like I’d been hit with a switch. “Not as good as yours, Mom,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, waving me away with her arms. “Well, step back. Let me take a look at you.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “My boy! How’d you get so good looking?”

  I said the same thing I always said whenever she asked me that question. “Heredity, Mom.”

  She smiled even wider and let out a chuckle, and we headed toward the kitchen. But I veered off, changing course toward the, always-the-same, living room—and more specifically toward our piano. I picked up the framed photo of my brother, Robert. Frozen in time, there he was. Thirteen years old. The victim of polio.