Patricia Gaffney

by Mad Dash

  I open my handbag, fumble for the car key. “I’m not talking anymore.”

  “Great.” He kicks the tire.

  “Except to say—” I sag against the door. “Oh, I don’t want to fight, not tonight.”

  “I don’t want to fight, either.”

  “It’s just, I want things to change, and…”

  “You already said that.”

  “And you don’t. You never do, you love the status quo.”

  He holds out his hands. “Why is that bad?”

  “You like the past better than the present. I’m now, you’re…then. I was thinking of going back to school. Something completely new and different. I could train Greta to take over the studio.”

  He takes a step back.

  “Not right away, I’ll have to wait till Chloe’s through college, I know that. But I’m thinking about it.”

  “Back to school? To study what?”

  I feel a bubble of giddiness in my throat, almost like hysteria, but I manage to say “Veterinary medicine” with a serious face.

  He stares for a second, and then—then he laughs. Laughs. I want to punch him, I want to kick him in the shins! He sees my face, says, “Oh, wait—” But it’s too late, it’s way too late.

  “Yes, it’s very funny, it’s a riot! It was so funny when I put you through graduate school, too, I just laughed the whole time.”

  “You didn’t put me—”

  “Almost! And I could’ve been anything, anything at all, I was young and smart, I had potential!”

  He presses his fingertips to his temples, a familiar gesture; it means I’m driving him nuts. “But you love what you do, you’d never give it up.”

  “How do you know? How do you know anything? You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Veterinary medicine? You’re right, I don’t know anything about you.”

  We glare, him stiff and foursquare, me practically on tiptoes, until Andrew realizes people coming out of Isabel’s are listening to us—something I knew all along; who cares?—and turns away. “This is futile,” he says with dignity. “And it’s not getting us anywhere. Dash, come home with me now. Just come home.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t like the way things are. And—it’s not just you, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not. It’s all kinds of things. It’s me. I have to do something to fix myself, and I have to be by myself to figure out what.”

  This time I don’t blame him for looking skeptical. I’m not a loner; I usually find myself, on the rare occasions when I’ve been lost, by gathering the people I love closer, not pushing them away. But this, whatever “this” is, is different. I have to hibernate. It’s essential.

  He stares down at the ground and doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Couples counseling,” he mutters at last. It’s barely audible. “Therapy. Christ Almighty.”

  I nod grimly. “Kill me now.”

  “Do you know anyone?”

  “Maureen does. I can ask her.”

  He makes a sound of distress or disgust. It’s just now sinking in for him, the truth of what’s happened to us. Dash and Andrew are separated. Maureen recommending a therapist will make it real.

  “One of us has to tell Chloe,” I say. “Do you want to?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Okay, I will. I’ll call her tomorrow. No, it’s Christmas—I’ll call her the day after.”

  “Shall I start sending your mail to you?” he asks coldly.

  “To the studio, I guess. If you would.”

  “I’ll keep paying the bills, same as always.”

  “Yes. And I’ll keep depositing my checks in the joint account. I don’t think anything has to change, moneywise. I guess there will be more bills since we’ll—we’ll have two different households, but it shouldn’t be much, just the electric down there, and Mr. Bender for chores….” I trail off because he’s not looking at me, he’s gazing away, not appearing to listen. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I can see it now, it’s clearing like a photo in a tray of developer. How much I’ve hurt him.

  All right, I think, let’s forget the whole thing, and for a second I let myself imagine going home with him. We’ll light a fire in the fireplace, because it’s Christmas Eve, and we’ll hold hands on the sofa while we listen to something predictable like The Messiah. Then we’ll take glasses of brandy upstairs, for a treat, and make love. “Merry Christmas,” we’ll tell each other afterward; “I love you.”

  The temptation makes my head reel; I’m actually dizzy. What am I playing at, anyway? This is self-indulgent. It’s not like he beats me. And I’m not the kind of woman who leaves her husband, I’m a loyal person, I’m slow to anger, I don’t fly off the handle at the least little—

  Andrew says, “You know, this is the third time.”

  I flinch. He couldn’t have been reading my mind, though, because I was softening, I was going over to his side. Now I’m back on my toes, defensive. “Those weren’t anything like this. Don’t say that, it’s not fair.”

  “Really? What’s the difference, exactly?”

  “You’re just being snotty. I thought you said you didn’t want to fight.”

  “I don’t.”

  “The difference is—those were emotional times for me. And one was hormones,” I rush on, because I can’t stand the incredulity in his face. “Hormones, Andrew, it’s not that damn uncommon. And the other was cold feet. It’s not like we haven’t discussed this.”

  “I’m only trying to comprehend the difference.”

  “I told you, those were emotional, this is—that’s the whole point, this is not emotional because I’m not myself, I can’t find myself, I don’t know if I’m two or three.”

  “What?”

  “Or one! I just have to do this, okay? Quit talking to me, I mean, pretty soon it gets to be abusive, you know?”

  His face turns black.

  “No, wait.” He starts away, but I catch him from behind. “Don’t go like this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Dash, for the love of Christ.”

  “I know. And it’s his birthday.” Feeble joke.

  “You want too much. You want to leave me, and you want me to tell you it’s fine, go, here’s my blessing.”

  “No, I just want…” We’re sort of holding on to each other’s arms. My hands grab higher; I want to hug him and hold him, front to front. I want him to kiss me and then let go of me.

  “You’re right.” I step back. “I was being selfish. This is bad, any way you look at it, and I was trying to soften it or something, have it both ways. But the more I talk, the worse it gets, so can we just say good night? Please?”

  “Yes, I think that’s best.” He’s offended, and there’s nothing I can do. It’s true, I want too much, including his blessing as I drive off down the road.

  “Good night,” I say, not touching him. “I still love you.”

  “That’s something.” He holds the door while I get in my car. “Be careful. Try not to tailgate. I hate this drive at night for you.”

  “I never tailgate.” This is an old argument.

  “You do it unconsciously. It’s infuriating—someone unstable could fly into road rage. Try to drive defensively.” He goes on advising caution, reminding me he’s programmed 911 into my cell phone, all I have to do is hit 01, or 02 for AAA; don’t speed, pull over if I feel sleepy—it’s endearing when he goes through this litany for Chloe, not so much for me.

  “Merry Christmas, Andrew,” I interrupt. “Will you call me tomorrow?”

  He feigns surprise. “If I may.”

  “You may.”

  We can’t quite smile at each other. I want to, so we can end this frustrating evening on a friendly note, and to send the message that underneath all the trouble and pain there’s still hope, still plenty of sweetness between us.

  But that’s just me wanting too much again. I start the car, and he slams the door.r />
  It feels strange, driving away from him. I don’t suppose anybody gets used to this, but I can’t get over how peculiar it feels to go off in opposite directions. However, just because it’s unnatural doesn’t mean it isn’t right.

  I wipe sudden tears out of my eyes. In a wave, everything I love about Andrew swamps me, everything I don’t recedes. What in the world am I doing? And why can’t I decide on one course and stick to it? Either one I picked, I would be so much happier. I, who can’t stand being alone, am driving straight into total, absolute aloneness on purpose, and on Christmas Eve. What madness.

  I don’t remember until I’m merging onto the Beltway that I forgot to give him his Christmas present. He didn’t give me one, either. Did he forget, like me, or did he mean not to give me one? His is still in a shopping bag in the backseat. A joke gift, not suitable at all for our current circumstances: The New Encyclopedia of Men’s Health. It weighs a ton.

  andrew

  seven

  Half an inch of wet snow fell on Saturday night in the middle of January. At eight o’clock the next morning, Wolfie rang Andrew’s doorbell. He and his snow shovel were the same height. He cleared the walk in five minutes and charged ten dollars. “You got any cocoa?” he asked, blowing on his mittens, chattering his teeth. Andrew said he didn’t think so. “Yes, you do, man. On that shelf with the cookies.”

  In the kitchen, Wolfie banged his heels against the chair legs and looked around the room as if he’d never been in it before. “How come it look different in here?” He wouldn’t take off the sweatshirt over his jacket, wouldn’t even put the hood down. Gnomelike, he hunched over his mug of hot chocolate, peering around critically. “Look like nobody live here.”

  Andrew cast around for a good conversational topic. Sports didn’t work; he followed college teams, Wolfie liked the Redskins and the Wizards. Wolfie had two sisters and a brother, all older. He looked shocked when Andrew told him he had no siblings, no relatives at all except a father. “Do you like him? Do he like you?”

  “It’s…we have a…it’s not…yes, we like each other.”

  Wolfie studied him with searching eyes, running his tongue around the inside of his mug. When he went home, leaving footprints on the kitchen floor and chocolate circles on the counter, the house fell absolutely still, as if he’d sucked all the sound out with him.

  Rattle around. That’s what they said about men who lived on their own, but not women. He just rattles around in that house all by himself. A cliché.

  All morning, Andrew wandered from window to window, staring out at the dull view of the street or the dull view of the alley. He wanted to call Dash, but somehow they’d gotten into a routine of talking to each other every other day, and this was an off day. He thought of going for a run, but the temperature was hovering around freezing and he hated running in the cold. A dull pain under his ribs on the right side came and went. His mother’s cousin had died of cirrhosis of the liver. This pain was lower, though, nearer his large intestine. He did a load of laundry, a small one, just his underwear and socks. The phone rang. He raced to it, said, “Hello?” eagerly, but whoever was on the other end waited a second, then hung up.

  He called his father. Edward had a new telephone with a dial on the receiver to turn up the volume, but he didn’t like it: “All it does is make everything louder.” The conversation took a familiar absurd turn when he couldn’t understand the word church. Andrew said it over and over, even spelled it. “Church, Dad, did you go to church today?” “Hurt? I hurt every day.” “No, worship.” “Warship!” his father exclaimed, disgusted, sarcastic. “Did they take you to the chapel today? In the main building?” He was shouting; Edward was growing furious. “Never mind, Dad, it doesn’t matter.” “What?” “I’ll call you tomorrow!” They hung up with mutual antagonism.

  A few minutes later, Chloe called.

  “Hi, Dad! Happy Sunday. How’s it going?”

  His pleasure in hearing her voice was diluted by something almost like shame: In the last few weeks he’d turned into the sort of person his daughter felt she needed to call often and cheer up.

  “I went to the coolest concert last night,” she began, and launched into a spirited description of it: the venue, the kids she’d gone with, what they’d done afterward. If she’d stayed in the dorm and played computer games last night, he suspected she would regale him with that story in the same lively, energetic way. It had been like this since Dash had told her about the separation. Chloe’s solicitousness made him feel pathetic—the exact opposite of her intent.

  “You know Becca, that girl in my English class? Remember, the one who wants to be a playwright? Her psych teacher flipped out. He’s gone, they’re saying a ‘leave of absence.’ Did I tell you about him? The day they’re doing personality disorders he dresses up for class like a hermaphrodite. Seriously, he had on, like, half a wig, one high heel and one sneaker, one earring—for a teaching aid. Can you imagine?”

  “Too well.”

  “I know—everybody’s talking about it like it’s so bizarre, so unusual, but I told them it happens all the time. Professors going bonkers.”

  “Perhaps not all the time.”

  “No, but it’s not that unusual, right? Even at Mason-Dixon, which is tiny, it happens what, once a year? To somebody?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “So how are you doing?”

  “My, what an artful segue.” He laughed, genuinely amused, and after a second or two Chloe joined in.

  “No, but, you know, I was just asking.”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart, I’m just fine. Haven’t even been tempted to wear my tricorne to class.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “Or shoot the place up with my musket. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, too. Did you get my last move?”

  “Indeed. Very bold.” They’d started playing chess via e-mail. Chloe’s idea; another kind, transparent attempt to buoy his spirits. He felt like a social studies project.

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Haven’t you spoken to her?”

  “Yeah. I was just wondering if you had.”

  “Not today.”

  “Emily said…”

  He stifled a sigh. Lately, more and more of Chloe’s sentences started with “Emily said.”

  “Emily said her parents probably wouldn’t have split up if she hadn’t gone away to college. Because then they had time. You know, no distractions, they could just concentrate on all the things that were wrong, whereas before, when she was there, she was like the focus, so they didn’t have anything to argue about.” She left a pause, thoughtfully allowing time for him to speculate on whether that was what had happened to him and her mother.

  Was it? Had Chloe’s leave-taking merely cleared away the obstruction between them and their incompatibilities? No, Andrew decided. Not for him, anyway. For Dash—who could say?

  “Sweetheart,” he shook off some strange, creeping inertia to say, “this is just temporary, you know. Your mother and I are going to be fine.”

  “I know.”

  “Emily’s parents, whatever they’re going through, it’s got nothing to do with us. And as for us—that’s got nothing to do with you. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Right, I do.”

  “Good. Okay.”

  “But Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I could come home. I could go to Maryland or Georgetown, George Washington—I could even go to Mason-Dixon.”

  He wavered between laughter and—he didn’t know what. She was kidding, wasn’t she? An embarrassing lump in his throat made it hard to speak for a moment, and after that it took awhile to josh Chloe out of her sweet, crazy offer—which he feared was only half a joke. Even when she said, “Well, think about it, Dad. For you, I could join a gang and flunk all my courses, I could get deeply into drugs, have a baby—then Mom wouldn’t have time to go to the
cabin.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Only for you.”

  She hung up laughing, but as soon as the line went dead Andrew’s grimacing smile faded to nothing. He stood with his arms limp at his sides, hands heavy as dumbbells. I’m not well, he thought. My daughter feels sorry for me. He pressed his fingers to the side of his throat, monitoring his pulse. I’m not doing well.

  Dully, he watched the red light on the answering machine flash on and off, on and off. He’d been erasing every new message but that one for the last two weeks, which was foolish, not like him. Time to get rid of it.

  He pressed Play.

  “Happy New Year! Hi, it’s me—I guess you’re out. We’re here, just Sock and me. We went for a walk and now we’re sleepy, we’re going to bed. Not even going to watch the ball drop. Couple of old poops.”

  Pause.

  “Well, I hope you’re out somewhere having fun. But not too much fun—ha-ha. Okay, I guess that’s it. Love you. Miss you. Happy New Year.”

  He’d called her as soon as he got back—from walking Hobbes, not partying—but the conversation had been perfunctory, superfluous, not nearly as satisfying as the message.

  He erased it.

  Dash was the only adult he knew who genuinely liked New Year’s Eve. He hated it, the mandatory socializing, the antic fun required, the undiscriminating hilarity. The only thing good about it as far as he was concerned was that it marked an anniversary for them. They’d met on New Year’s Eve.

  At a horrible party one floor up from his two-room apartment in Foggy Bottom. He’d climbed the stairs at eleven o’clock in the evening, aware of the joke he was about to make of himself, the studious, uncool jerk come to complain about the noise. But he was in a bad way, preparing for the D.C. bar exam while trying to convince himself that a single cell in his body gave a damn about the practice of law. It was one of the worst times of his life; he’d felt as if his head were a test site or a proving ground, the locus of explosions and collisions years in the making.