Talking in Bed

by Antonya Nelson

  At the end of their third game, as she was trying to send back Paddy's serve into the corner, she hit herself in the face, full force, with her own racquet. Her upper lip puffed instantly, like a balloon.

  Paddy was furiously unwinding the loop of racquet rope around his wrist, disentangling himself so that he could help her. "Move your hand," he said, pulling down his goggles and peeling his glove off. "Let me see."

  She did as he commanded, feeling the blood run over her mouth and chin, bright and salty on her tongue. He stared at her intently, touching her lip gently with a fingertip, as if it might burst. "Ow," he said.

  "Yes." She mopped up the blood on her chin with her borrowed wristband, watching drops fall on the blond wooden floor.

  "Are your teeth loose?" He opened his mouth in sympathy, in illustration. Rachel remembered his whiny daughter Melanie now. She also could smell his sweat, the moisture radiating from his chest and neck.

  "Oh, it's nothing," she tried to say around her fat lip. She felt herself blushing and wished there were a mirror around so that she could gauge the precise size of her embarrassment.

  "Hematoma," Paddy said, poking the blue ball in his shorts pocket to create a big lewd bulge on his hip. Then, without appearing to think it over at all, he tipped forward and kissed Rachel on the mouth, so softly, so tenderly, it was as if a moth had simply flitted by her face.

  What an astonishing gesture.

  "So that's supposed to make it better?" she asked, trying to cover her alarm. She hadn't been kissed on the mouth by a man other than Ev in sixteen years. Could that be? she wondered desperately, speeding through male faces in her mind to locate one whose lips she'd kissed. Paddy stared hard at her—she could feel his gaze, though she did not meet it, stepped back in order to dilute it. Would he try to make love with her, right here in the YMCA racquetball court number two? Many men, she recalled, were like that, driven and reckless as bulls in the face of passion. She couldn't help looking past Paddy to the observation deck above.

  He, too, stepped back and stared with discomfiting severity at her mouth. "It's still swelling."

  Rachel ran her tongue over the lip, which felt, beneath her tongue, the size of a ... well, of a racquetball. "Ick," she said. "I think my fun is over."

  She drove home holding ice to her mouth—provided by the boys in the rackety equipment cage, who told her she should take an anti-inflammatory as well and avoid alcohol—though what she felt beneath the cold was not the smack and swelling but Paddy's kiss, that sweet little action. He had pretended nothing had happened, or perhaps he had meant the kiss to be genuinely and exclusively curative. Was it good that he made her think of her dear son Zach, who used to kiss the part in her hair when she complained of migraine?

  That night, at the hour when she began pouring herself glasses of wine and when she usually missed Ev most, Rachel sat with her pulsing fat lip and thought of Paddy bending toward her on the racquetball court, touching her mouth with his. There was a twinkling curiosity idling somewhere in her lonesomeness, a bright lure spinning through cloudy water.

  Nine

  MELANIE LIMBACH would not come out of her room when the guests arrived. Evan respected this; he felt like hiding behind a closed door often enough himself.

  Her mother banged with her knuckles, protecting her fingernails, which had to be phony and which were painted a flashing bloody red, as if she'd clawed herself with them. Evan could not understand why he disliked Didi so intensely. Perhaps it was simply because he liked her husband and daughter so much. That she wasn't worthy of them seemed obvious; but why bother hating her?

  "Paddy," Didi called, "get the screwdriver. I told you we shouldn't have a lock on a child's door."

  "No!" came Melanie's desperate little voice from inside the room. "Don't screwdriver my door!"

  "I certainly will," her mother promised. "Missy," she added.

  What was it about a locked door? Why did it threaten people so? As if the child were dangerous when alone. As if her desire for privacy were an affront. As if she might hatch an incendiary idea in the absence of society. It was empowering, Ev wanted to tell Didi Limbach. It gave Melanie a feeling of control. It illustrated a healthy pleasure in her own solitary company.

  He'd had enough, and the evening hadn't even really begun. His agreement to come to dinner had been earned by Paddy's perseverence in extending the invitation, doggedly, without the good intuitive sense of what Evan's persistent turndown might mean. Evan had to admire Paddy's refusal to take a hint. Week after week the request came; week after week Evan declined. Then he just succumbed and said yes, the stipulation being that he would bring the boys.

  "Of course bring the boys," Paddy replied generously.

  Now Zach and Marcus sat on the couch, Zach scratching his head, Marcus scowling at a Sports Illustrated, flipping pages in disbelief. The other reading options on the table were an Old Farmer's Almanac, a large book of Norman Rockwell prints, a woodworkers' catalogue, a Family Circle, and a dictionary-like tome that Evan assumed was the Book of Mormon. He wanted to take that book out of Marcus's reach, so easily could he envision the boy's ridicule of its contents.

  "May I?" Evan asked Didi.

  She clearly did not want him to succeed where she was failing, but she stepped away from the door. Evan asked Melanie not if she would come out but if he could come in. The latch clicked immediately open.

  "I'll be right back," he told Didi, shutting the door in her face.

  Melanie said, "You want to build a spaceship?"

  "O.K." Evan sat on the floor and wondered what his sons would do with Paddy and Didi. Melanie began tossing animals in his direction, and he began lining them up in a parade.

  "This is Noah's spaceship," Melanie said. "With all the animals. God said gather the animals."

  "They'll go to outer space this time," Evan said, smiling.

  "Sure. He said gather them together."

  "To you, he said this?"

  "Sure he did." She pointed to her ear. Evan wondered if she had actually heard a voice.

  "What did he say?"

  "Gather them together in a vessel safe and sound."

  Behind her, the door opened and Didi's head poked in, her perky smile pasted on her face. Evan had to keep himself from screaming at her, as if she were the troublesome relative of a favorite client, as if he were in his office. Perhaps he regarded Melanie as a kind of client; perhaps he anticipated her having problems; perhaps she had them now. He should have locked the door behind him. An oversight.

  "Mel?" Didi said sweetly, cloyingly. The little girl whirled, furious.

  "Get out!" she screamed. "You get out!" In a flash, she threw herself at the door as if to squash her mother's head like a melon. Evan reluctantly got to his feet to intervene, sure he would have to betray her, ally himself with the adult world of good manners.

  Instead, Paddy appeared, pushing the door fully open with a straight arm, holding Didi in the other.

  "She's a brat!" Didi said, clutching her ear, where she'd been hurt. Evan wanted to disagree violently; Didi was the brat here, refusing to let the child be alone. Of course, what sort of mother felt comfortable when her five-year-old closed the door of her room with a grown man in there, a virtual stranger, one who probably appeared sinister to her? It was a good thing he hadn't locked the door, he decided.

  "Don't hurt Mama," Paddy told Melanie mildly. "She didn't mean to," he told Didi. To Ev, he said, "Women."

  "Don't have any myself," Ev said flatly. "Wouldn't know."

  "Troublemakers," Paddy said, squeezing Didi, winking at Melanie.

  Didi took the opportunity to tell Ev how sorry she was about his separation. Ev asked for aspirin, if they had any.

  Later, at the table, there was the awkward moment of prayer. Probably this was where God's voice had originated for Melanie; probably there was a church and some sort of child's service to explain God's order to gather the animals. Didi folded her fingers and bowed her head while the ca
sserole steamed before her, her eyes squeezed shut. Paddy bowed but did not close his eyes, peacefully studying his plate while his wife gave thanks, her voice lilting along without emphasis, as if reciting a phrase in a foreign language, something learned without interpretation. Zach imitated his hosts, tucking his chin as if reprimanded, as if he might fail the prayer test. Marcus continued scowling, waiting impatiently; Ev could hear his foot tapping on the floor. Ev merely let his hands drop to his lap and sighed. He felt sorry for Paddy, for Melanie. He glanced at the little girl seated across from him, who was herself looking around surreptitiously. She caught Ev's eye and smiled conspiratorially at him. He had the strong urge to steal her, to proclaim some sort of eminent domain and adopt her away from her mother. It wasn't that Didi wasn't fit; she just wasn't fit enough.

  "Amen," Didi said.

  Over the food, she chattered about Paddy's jobs, emphasizing how slow he was at finishing them. Paddy interjected mild objections—he was just trying to do things right, he hated a shoddy piece of work—but mostly listened, nodding. Evan had to admire the man's patience with her. Zach ate so much it was embarrassing, as if his parents hadn't fed him. The food itself concerned Ev briefly—full of fat and chemicals, processed and salty. Although he did appreciate Didi's making him a portion without meat. Melanie insisted on sharing it with him.

  "I want to be a virgin, too!" she shouted.

  Evan laughed; everyone laughed except Marcus—who noted disdainfully that she no doubt was a virgin—and Didi, who blushed and corrected the little girl. "Vedge-it-tarian," she said emphatically through her rabbity teeth. "Not virgin. Where would she have heard that?" she asked.

  But unfortunately, Evan couldn't stop laughing. Tears began forming, his cheeks hurt, his rib cage ached, he couldn't catch his breath. Everyone stared at him, first smiling, then with concern. On he laughed, worrying suddenly about breakdown. Had this been what was coming for so many months now—hysteria? He remembered Rachel's disappointment that he never went helpless with laughter the way she sometimes did; she should see him now, except she'd be worried. Just as worried as his sons, who looked at him strangely, Marcus with disapproval, Zach in simple alarm. He should laugh more, he thought; then it wouldn't build up this way, then it wouldn't surprise everyone. Maybe it was just that fucking simple: he didn't laugh enough. As with crying, it was good to let the dam burst now and then.

  Melanie, like a good hostess, joined him in his paroxysm. They laughed until the noise coming from Evan's mouth didn't sound like his own laugh. Afterward, Melanie had hiccups, and Ev had to work hard—uttering the two words that he always used to suppress sappy sentimental impulses, dog shit, dog shit —to keep at bay laughter's inevitable culmination: hopeless tears.

  ***

  "You think all psychologists are crazy?" Didi asked Paddy as they climbed into bed.

  "You talking about the laughing?"

  "I thought we'd have to slap him."

  "It was odd," Paddy agreed, recalling Ev's red face, the demonic expression his pleasure had caused, as if evil were boiling in his belly.

  "At least his wife wasn't here." Didi sighed as she settled like a hen into her soft niche.

  "I like Rachel," Paddy said, though he wasn't sure that was true. He was interested in her; she made him uneasy; she was unlike any woman he'd ever been near. Since Ev had left her, she'd become a separate category in his consciousness, no longer simply an appendage of Ev's.

  "I was so angry with Mel," Didi went on. "Why does she act so bad around those people?"

  The dinner hadn't been as awkward as the one at the Coles' apartment, but it hadn't been pleasant for Paddy. His allegiance to his own life was slipping; he'd caught himself squinting at Didi as if he did not know her. He hadn't considered Melanie's behavior bad.

  Months had passed since they'd visited what had been Evan's and Rachel's apartment. The nagging need to repay the invitation had plagued Paddy; he'd been raised by people with a code of manners, reciprocity—doing unto others—being its cornerstone. Finally, they'd agreed on tonight, but as soon as Ev and his sons had entered the house, Paddy had become self-conscious. His home seemed cluttered to him, a barrage of colors and patterns, the smiling mouths of family photos, the coquettish ceramic animals that Didi collected all lined up on the mantel and organ top, and the thousands of flower faces: on posters of famous paintings, on throw pillows, on rugs, in vases, along the tops of the walls. He had never concentrated on his environs until Ev Cole walked in, and in a flash the place felt alien. At the Coles', all the art was original and abstract, international, three-dimensional, each image its own dark shriek on the wall. The photographs were black-and-white, and not of the family but of snake tracks on a desert or of vegetables shaped like naked body parts. And that naked woman table—a piece of furniture you might expect in a museum, in a gallery, but not in a home.

  "And he makes you feel stupid," Didi repeated, opening her fat romance novel and turning to some midpoint in it. She'd taken to wearing grocery store reading glasses, plastic half-lensed things that made her look like a pretend grandma.

  "He doesn't make me feel stupid." Paddy turned his back on Didi. "What I like about Ev is that he's so different from my other friends."

  "Night and day," she agreed. "He's a snob, and his wife was a stick. She hardly smiled that whole time at their house, never, even when she made a joke, like we're supposed to laugh but she doesn't have to. I'm glad she didn't come, even though I don't understand why they're separated, they seem so perfect for each other..."

  She went on, but Paddy stopped listening for a moment, wondering if the Coles were actually perfect for each other, wondering if he and Didi could be described as perfect for each other. What was perfect for each other? Opposites were supposed to attract, but he'd married Didi because she liked the same things he did, she understood him, she wanted to go where he went, do what he did.

  "...and their children are rude, I don't know why a parent would let children be so rude. Well, Zach wasn't so bad, but boy howdy, can that child eat!"

  "Growing boy," Paddy said.

  "Growing tub of lard," she said. "And Marcus is the snottiest little egghead I ever met. He told me the food would have been good if I learned to make pasta al dente. Al dente. He even told me what it meant, little big-brained brat. I hated having them over, I hated it."

  "What does it mean?"

  "What does what mean?"

  "Al dente."

  "I don't remember—something to do with your teeth." She snapped hers now like a rabbit. For dinner she'd served manicotti, a dish she'd been serving since she and Paddy had married. Suddenly, tonight, Paddy had been struck by how bland it tasted, how gummy and simple this, her most ambitious recipe, truly was. He'd thought he could detect all the textures that made up the meal, the textures and nothing else, as if the textures were the flavors: pellety hamburger, gluey cheese, ketchupy sauce. Ev had tainted his tastebuds, Paddy thought. "Don't worry," he told Didi. "Now it's their turn to have us over."

  "Thank goodness we're square. And I wouldn't go to dinner with either of them on a bet, if the invitation ever comes. I'm going to read—you can put a pillow over your head."

  Paddy gave her a friendly peck on the cheek, flashing momentarily on Rachel's fat lip, which he'd also kissed. Yes, Evan had tainted Paddy's tastebuds and also made him feel not exactly sorry for Didi, but superior instead of defensive on her behalf. Paddy covered his head with a thick feather pillow and heard Didi say one more thing. "What?" he asked, lifting the pillow.

  "I'd go if I was invited to the new apartment, I guess. I wouldn't mind seeing the bachelor pad."

  Paddy grunted, thinking he did not want to take Didi to Ev's new place. He covered his head again and went to sleep in a feathery white noise.

  He woke thinking of Rachel Cole. It was two in the morning; Didi had fallen asleep with her book on her chest, the light still burning, her granny glasses still on her nose. He pushed the thick splayed paperback to th
e floor removed the glasses, and switched off the lamp. Its base burned his fingertips, which he licked and then blew on. In his dream, Rachel had held him underwater, a game: he'd been swimming through her legs, she'd scissored them shut against his ribs. He would drown if she didn't choose to forgive him. He was afraid of her; he'd kissed her on the racquetball court because he wanted to confront his fear. He was used to making stupid gestures and sometimes generating positive responses from them; in school he'd been the designated imp, the one his classmates looked to for pranks, nearly always benign, covered by his appealing smile, his good manners. He had a talent for knocking people off balance. Sometimes, of course, the responses were exactly what he deserved. Rachel could have slapped him; she could have told Evan, who might have laughed as he had tonight, as if there'd never been anything so outrageously amusing as Paddy's kissing his wife. As it was, she'd turned red, but she'd not minded the kiss—that's what he'd learned from his act. Now, when Paddy dreamed of her coffee table, he confused the dirty silver woman with Rachel herself.

  He wanted to sleep with her, he told himself, thrilled and terrified by the truth. She wouldn't have come to the court if she didn't have a soft spot for him, if there weren't some vulnerable place he touched. Or maybe she was accustomed to obliging Ev's friends when they called with their lame ideas. Maybe she was bored. Maybe she'd passed on his kiss to Ev and Ev hadn't even bothered to mention it. Perhaps it was a joke now between them, even though they were separated. Wouldn't a separation involving the cool Coles be so civilized as to include Paddy's juvenile flirtation as a laughable moment, a thing so silly that Evan couldn't even muster a shred of jealousy? Worse, maybe she'd related it and they'd both shrugged: a sweaty kiss on the racquetball court, a gauche instant of absurdity.