You don’t know him the way I do.
No one knows him like I do.
Here in this empty house, I realize she’s right.
No one knows me like she does. My mother maybe, certainly no one else.
But even Alice couldn’t have imagined me down on my knees in front of the urinal, swallowing a stranger’s semen. Or maybe I’m deluding myself and she knew all too well what I was capable of and turned a blind eye and a deaf ear, loving me anyway.
The house is so quiet I can hear her walking through the kitchen. I imagine she’s opening the refrigerator door, checking for any ancient jelly or olive jars left behind. That’s my Alice. Thorough to the end. Doing a little pre-inspection inspection. Making sure the faucets are working and the toilets still flush.
Oh, Sweet Jesus. The big, beautiful master bath, accessible only through this room in which I’m stranded, is sure to be on her punch list. I’m caught. There’s nothing to do but get up off the floor and straighten my back, accept my fate, and stand face-to-face with the woman I betrayed. The words won’t come easy. I can’t ask her forgiveness. I’m afraid she would deny it, but am even more terrified she will offer it. Besides, I’ve asked enough of her over the years, more than enough, too much, more than I had a right to take. I can’t ask her for anything ever again.
But what I can do is thank her.
Thank her for staying with me, for knowing I wasn’t ready.
But this happy reconciliation will never come to pass if she goes into cardiac arrest when she unexpectedly comes face-to-face with this great ghost from the past. Just as I’m about to call down to her, her cell phone rings. Hello? she answers. Okay. All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’m leaving now. Good-bye.
She turns away from the staircase and closes the front door behind her. I hear her car backing down the driveway. She’s probably singing along to the radio, her mind preoccupied with directions, blissfully unaware of me watching her from the window. She’s let me off the hook again. I can walk away scot-free, without having hoisted anything heavier than my car keys. It’s been a wasted trip. Hours of driving to accomplish nothing except a quick catnap. But I have a few moments before Zack or Tyler or Jason or whatever the most popular name for baby boys was sixteen or seventeen years ago comes bursting through the front door, still sweaty from lacrosse practice, to haul the last of this detritus from the house. I’m here, after all; it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek at what’s packed in that small pyramid of boxes downstairs.
Books, of course, as promised. Dozens of cheap paperbacks, their dry yellow pages crumbling, stuffed with bookmarks and receipts from long-shuttered bookshops, the underlined and highlighted passages revealing my impressionable undergraduate mind. I find what I’m looking for in the second box, the complete works of Faulkner, the Vintage editions, including a dog-eared copy of Absalom, Absalom! I carefully flip through it, astonished to find ancient petrified crumbs lodged between the pages. Is it possible they’re from the bits of cookie I dusted off my lips when the bold little coed startled me in the Davidson dining hall? Not likely, but I’m not gonna let common sense stop me from believing they are.
Other boxes have books of a more recent vintage. Alice’s book club selections are sandwiched between copies of Ball Four and the complete Henry Wiggen series. Along with the immortal volumes of Susan Moore Duncan and Lucy Patton Kline is her copy of Wuthering Heights, the tidy Everyman’s Library edition with acid-free pages and slick red cloth place marker. Damn her, I spit, angry and hurt, my face stinging with rejection. She’s jettisoned this very important artifact from our history, a critical key to deciphering the mysterious code that scripted the story of our marriage. I tear through the boxes, looking for more evidence of her callousness in her choice of what to keep and what to consign to the scrap heap of history.
It appears she’s keeping those goddamn Dawn Powell books.
And, at last, in the heaviest boxes at the bottom of the stacks, I find hundreds of LPs in their faded and frayed jackets. Damn, it’s the mother lode! These things are worth hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars now that the warmth and beauty of the crackling imperfections of vinyl, once rejected in favor of unbreakable, unscratchable technology, has been rediscovered, championed by record store geeks, indie pop front men, and contrarians.
Not bad, I think as I shuffle the records, impressed by the range and depth of my musical knowledge and tastes. The collection spans generations and genres, from the most glittering, shimmering pop to chord-crunching R&B, from plaintive folksongs to soul-crushing blues.
And The Greatest Hits of George Jones and Tammy Wynette.
Twelve three-minute masterpieces, each one a classic.
“Golden Ring.”
“Two Story House.”
“Near You.”
Perfect harmonies, pierced by searing aches and throbs, transcending camp and kitsch to soar to that point in heaven where pain and desperation intersect with hope and optimism. Jesus, what chance was there for me and Alice to succeed where the two most glorious voices in Nashville had failed?
“We’re Gonna Hold On.”
And so we did, until it was time to give up the ghost and move on.
I debate for a minute, telling myself that, some day, I’m going to regret not exerting the small amount of energy I’d need to load the car with these boxes, the only evidence left of the union, imperfect as it was, between my wife and the man who loved her as best he could.
And so I compromise, taking Absalom, Absalom! and Wuthering Heights and The Greatest Hits of George Jones and Tammy Wynette, lock the door, and drive away.
Fumbled
I knew from the outset it was a mistake. The timing wasn’t right. I wasn’t ready. I was too inexperienced. Yes. Inexperienced. Not because I’d simply been away from the playing field for years and, with a little practice, could bring my skills back to championship form. The sorry truth was I’d never played the game at all. Alice hadn’t merely rescued me from virginity. The wry little smart-ass with a studied, worldly demeanor eating alone in the Davidson College dining hall had never even been on a date. The closest I’d ever got to the prom was a fifth-aisle seat at Carrie. I had reached the brink of middle age without being issued the playbook on dating. I was totally ignorant of how to call a pass pattern, oblivious to the rushing offense, clueless about defensive positioning, incapable of running a punt return, stone deaf to the two-minute warning. All in all, it was the perfect scenario for a fumble.
I saw him in the shadows, standing near the dance floor. There were silver highlights in his close-cropped hair and he looked to be completely gray at the temples. But when he stepped into brighter light, I saw he had a baby’s face, pink and healthy, without a crease, not a day over twenty-five. I walked away, seeking a beer and a quiet room. And then I looked up and he was standing directly in front of me. He caught my eye and smiled, pretending to be engaged in conversation with the friend next to him. Interested, obviously, expectant, but too shy, too inexperienced to speak first. A big boy. An overgrown cherub. Soft. Warm. The fine blond down on his cheeks was damp from either exertion or nerves. Probably nerves, since I hadn’t seen him shaking his booty on the dance floor.
His name was Steve and he was a medical resident. Great, I assumed, he’s older than I thought. Then he told me he’d done a five-year program, meaning he went straight from high school to anatomy and pharmacology without wasting four years on the Great Books and music appreciation. He was a first-year resident now, an intern, with a long haul until he’s certified by the American Board of Emergency Medicine.
He said he lived close to the bar. Alone. In one room with a sleeper sofa. Don’t expect too much, he told me, not wanting me to be disappointed. We opened the bed together, backs to opposite walls of the tiny room. The sheets didn’t match and there was only one pillow. The blanket was rough as sandpaper. The first few moments were awkward and the night seemed destined to end in frustration and failure as he re
sisted the only plays I knew how to execute—quick rough jabs, poking his asshole with my fingers, grinding, pushing, racing to a quick, fierce conclusion.
“Slow down, we have all night.” He laughed.
All night…with no eye cocked to the bedside clock or wristwatch, no ear pricked for the sound of a creaking door announcing the arrival of an intruder looking to empty a full bladder, no mind distracted by the need to compose an excuse for being late, again, or a reason for being called out of town on short notice, again.
“I really like your body,” he said. “I want to get to know it.”
How long had it been since I’d last heard a few simple words of affection? My restless, frantic assignations were always accompanied by a soundtrack of guttural grunts punctuated with harsh commands, suck it, fuck me, yes, god, yes. I flipped him on his back and pinned his wrists above his head, a clear message that he was my prisoner now and that it was useless to try to escape. He smiled and opened his mouth, his wagging tongue inviting, no, begging, me to kiss him. I slapped my hand over his lips when he tried to speak, expecting dreaded words like daddy, sir. But he shook my fingers away easily, insisting I hear what he wanted to tell me.
“You have a really nice face. Your eyes are incredible.”
I’d never felt so completely possessed by another person before, never clung to anyone so greedily. Even the briefest bathroom break seemed like an eternity. There were no barriers, nothing I wasn’t willing to do, even allowing him to go where no one had been since the long red snake many years ago.
In the morning he asked me to wait so we could leave together. He wore his scrubs proudly, certain that they gave him an air of authority, but, to me, he looked like a happy toddler in a comfy playsuit. We exchanged phone numbers. He gave me his home number, but told me to try the cell first. He’s a busy guy, he said, on the move. He was young and having a romance with the commitments of grown-up life. The phone was his sweetheart. He wouldn’t have believed me if I had told him the day would come when he would be exhausted by its demands.
I waited a respectable three days, calling his home number from a different time zone, in midday, when I knew I’d reach his machine and avoid any possibility of awkward pauses, flimsy excuses, maybe even hostility. I couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t remember anything about my face except the lines in my forehead and the bags under around my eyes.
Hi. It’s Andy. Just wanted to let you know I had a great time the other night. Hope you’re doing well. Stay in touch.
That’s it, I thought, I’ll never hear from him again. C’est la vie. He was a nice kid. I really liked him. I felt a kick to the stomach. My cell phone rang two hours later. I was finishing a sales call and let it roll into voice mail.
Hi. It’s Steve. Nice to hear your voice. Where are you? Texas? Right? When do you get back? Call me. I’ll be home tonight doing some reading. Bye.
He answered on the second ring. I told him about my late flight; he told me about the broken bone he’d set on a little boy. The dreaded awkward pauses never came. He asked when I would be home. We made a date for hamburgers and beer later in the week.
I was a few minutes early; he was right on time. He was still wearing his scrubs. His forehead was peppered with beads of perspiration. He’d rushed, afraid of being late. I extended my right palm for a handshake. He leaned forward and kissed me, not on the cheek, but smack on the lips. The hostess was too startled to ask smoking or nonsmoking.
The beer settled the butterflies in my belly. The hamburgers were eaten, the last fry dredged through the ketchup. We split the check. I only had a twenty and he had to make change for me. He had a question to ask before he handed over the ones. Did I bring my own toothbrush? No, I lied, not wanting to sound presumptuous. He laughed and handed over the bills. Good, he said, now I know I didn’t waste three bucks when I picked one up for you this afternoon. He slept in my arms that night; I lay awake, enchanted by his snoring. Don’t forget me this week, he said in the morning, kissing me good-bye at the door.
He called me in Salt Lake City and said he wanted to make me dinner in his tiny bed-sitter when I got home from my trip. Four nights later, I sat on the bed in my underwear, listening to him chatter as he chopped and minced. He was eager to share his history, insisting I know him, or at least his romanticized view of himself.
I like you. I like you. I like you so much.
He kept repeating the words as we made love that night.
Why couldn’t I respond? Didn’t I like him too? No. I realized my feelings ran deeper than that. I couldn’t explain them without sounding crazy, obsessive. He couldn’t know the impact of his words; he wouldn’t understand I’d waited my entire life to hear another man speak them but had made conscious, deliberate choices to ensure I never would. And all that careful planning—compartmentalizing, rationalizing, justifying, avoiding, excusing, lying—where had it gotten me in the end? Locked in a fucking jail cell and kicked out on the street. But somehow I’d survived to make it here, at long last, to this tiny apartment, at the brink of an auspicious beginning. But my fear of the risks of intimacy, the possibility of rejection, still held me back. The only thing more terrifying than losing my home, my job, my good name, was the very real possibility of losing my heart.
I felt him squirming in his sleep. He rolled on his side, turning his back to me. I finally fell into a light sleep as the sun was coming up. He threw his arm across my chest, reaching for the alarm, then flopped on his back. I waited for him to touch me, to stroke my chest, to dawdle a few minutes, reluctant to leave the warm bed. He scratched his armpit and yawned. I rolled toward him, pretending to be asleep. He slipped out from under my arm. Then I heard the water running.
He seemed to spend an hour in the shower, but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. I hoped he would crawl back into the bed, all warm and damp. But he went directly to his closet and pulled on his scrubs. I opened my eyes and yawned. He noticed I was awake and smiled.
“Rise and shine,” he said, sounding like my mother.
He offered me a bowl of Cheerios. I declined and ducked into the bathroom for a long piss. I came out and dressed without speaking.
“Last chance for oats,” he said, tipping the bowl to his mouth. He wiped the milk from his chin with his sleeve.
“Where do ya live?” he asked, maybe realizing that last night he’d shared deep, dark family secrets and I’d volunteered nothing.
“Far suburbs, Gastonia actually.”
He looked puzzled. Local geography meant nothing to him.
“You married?” he asked.
“No. No.” I laughed, nervous. “Why?”
“I dunno. Sometimes you seem married.”
“I was once,” I admitted.
I broke down and told him the truth. At least part of the truth. That I lived with my mother, quickly qualifying it with the explanation that she had cancer. Someone needed to be with her, I said, afraid of sounding like a boastful knight.
“Hey, we gotta get going,” he said, obviously unimpressed by my dutiful sacrifice. I couldn’t find my watch. He seemed frustrated as he tossed aside the bedsheets and ran his palm under the bed. I read rejection in his helpfulness. He could have, should have, said, don’t worry, it’ll turn up, you can pick it up next week. But he didn’t. It meant that he was sick of me. He woke up this morning and stared at my unguarded sleeping face; everything changed once he saw me for what I am. I’m old. I’m puffy. I drink too much and smoke. There’s something shady about me. I’m dishonest. Or at least not forthcoming. I’ve gotten too comfortable around him. Let down my guard. He’d heard the occasional squeaky pitch that betrays my practiced baritone. He’d seen the unmanly flinch as he described some particularly gory medical procedure. He’d picked up the slip of the tongue that revealed an unhealthy interest in Rodgers and Hammerstein. He’d pierced the façade and exposed the little sissy Bride of Frankenstein. He was repelled, disgusted, horrified by his own bad judgment and he wasn’t goi
ng to give me the sorry excuse of a mysteriously missing watch to force him to call me now that he’d decided he was done with me.
“Ta-dah!”
He dangled the watch in front of my face. It was under the mattress. I looked back at the unmade bed as we left, wondering if I’d ever lie there again.
He asked where I was headed for the week. I gave him my itinerary, telling him I’d be back on Friday. He told me he was on the ER schedule for the weekend. We’ll talk, he said. Yep, we’ll talk, I answered.
My mother’s nurse caught me sneaking into the kitchen. You look like hell, she said. I went to the mirror and saw what he had seen this morning. I should have had a haircut last week. I should have clipped the hairs in my nostrils. I should have gotten more sleep in Utah. I watched the clock all day, imagining his routine at the hospital. Twelve-thirty. Lunchtime. He’d be sitting in the hospital cafeteria, talking excitedly about procedures I can’t even pronounce and crushing an empty milk carton to emphasize a point. I was the furthest thing from his mind.
Seven o’clock. He’d be having another hospital meal. Less conversation, more exhaustion. Maybe he would call to say hello. The cell phone stared up from the armrest, silent.
Eleven o’clock. He’d be trudging through the parking lot and driving home. He would be crawling into the unmade bed, falling into a deep sleep. I jumped out of bed to respond to the moans coming from my mother’s room. I wanted to call him but knew I couldn’t.
I awoke in the dark to make an early-morning flight. The morning paper wouldn’t be delivered until six, so I spread the Sunday magazine supplement beside the cereal bowl. Cheerios. The cover article was about something called the Cosmic Dark Age before the Big Bang that created the universe. The Charlotte Observer reported with firm certitude that the Dark Age extended “a billion years until the stars emerged to light the universe.” How do you measure a billion years? I looked out the window into the pitch-black morning. I panted, panicking over the brevity of life.
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