Wait For Me Jack

by Addison Jones

  ‘Hey, Dad.’ August slumped on to the stool next to his father.

  Jack’s epiphanies evaporated and he sighed. The barmaid brought two Coors without being asked.

  ‘Augie, how could you screw up your marriage so quickly?’

  ‘Yeah, well. That’s what I like about you. Always good for small talk.’

  ‘Bullshit. I don’t know what’s wrong with you kids. Seems like you’re all…marital wimps.’

  ‘How about Billy and Maria? They just celebrated their tenth anniversary.’

  ‘Ten years! That’s nothing. Amateurs. What was so wrong with whatsherface?’

  ‘Nada. It’s me. Guess I’m a screw up,’ he said, looking up and smiling like a child who had just been caught eating the frosting off an uncut birthday cake. Then softly, ‘I know, I know. She’s nice. A good mom. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t mess around with other men. Has a great job.’

  ‘You seemed okay. Happy. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing really. Well, some stuff happened, okay? But mainly just the same old story as everyone else. The old cliché. You know. And I got busted.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jack. ‘That’s just plain dumb.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Dad, you can talk.’

  ‘Why’d you have to go and get caught? At least I never got caught.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Well, okay, obviously, me and your mother. But at least I married someone who could forgive a little…peccadillo.’

  ‘Thanks. Peccadillo. Love to hear my entire existence summed up that way. Anyway, did you marry someone who could forgive?’

  ‘She’s still here.’

  ‘Like she had a choice, Dad.’

  ‘That’s mean.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Beer drinking pause. ‘What would you do if she ever stepped out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If Milly ever found someone else. Fell in love with someone else.’

  ‘As if!’

  ‘What, you don’t think other men have been attracted to her? Your wife is gorgeous.’

  Another beer drinking pause.

  ‘She did, actually, step out once. Or wanted to, anyway. I don’t actually know.’

  ‘Seriously? No! Seriously?’

  ‘She’s human. She met some guy at college. He was in a wheelchair, believe it or not.’

  ‘You saying crippled people aren’t attractive?’

  ‘Give me a break. Anyway, we’d been married a long time. I hated it, but it didn’t mean the end. In fact, when the day came I realised it was over, I felt so sorry for her I took her to Monterey for a weekend. Without kids. It was like a second honeymoon. Or a better first one.’

  ‘Well, you know what I think? I think you are pretty damn lucky she’s still with you. No offence, Dad, but you are kind of a dick.’

  Another pause while they both drank beer, and watched the barmaid. Jack turned to his son with a smirk. August frowned, then they both laughed in their usual way. Loud, helpless, irreverent laughter, drawing looks from others in the bar. Then a winding down.

  ‘Anyway, you’re the one with another divorce on your hands, Augie. Me and Milly are still together.’

  ‘Whoop-de-doo for you.’

  Jack swigged more beer. ‘You think I’m happy?’

  August sighed, looking suddenly about twelve.

  ‘Oh crap, August. I never liked whatsherface that much anyway. Kinda cold, wasn’t she? Super efficient.’

  ‘Not really. Why can’t you ever remember her name? It’s insulting.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy now, Augie. You realise your new girlfriend’s going to drive you insane too. Probably within six months. Insane. There’ll be some little thing, like the way she starts to wear her hair, or some expression she gets when she’s pissed off at you, or the way she votes. Then it’ll be over. This phase, gone. Never get it back, that way you feel at the beginning. But you’ve got to hang in there anyway, because what’s the alternative? New wife every five years? You listening to me?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got those little girls in tow now. Nothing is going to be simple ever again.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I was hoping you’d cheer me up.’

  ‘Just think it’s a shame, that’s all. Not the smartest thing you’ve done.’

  ‘Yeah. Keep it up. Like taking ecstasy, having a beer with you.’

  August found his daughters covered in cookie crumbs on Milly’s front porch.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Squishing ants. Look. There’s the ant graveyard,’ said one of his daughters proudly, while the other dispatched more ants.

  ‘Milly?’

  ‘I’m right here,’ she called from the dim inside. ‘I am watching them every minute. Thank God you’re back safe and sound.’

  ‘Milly, I’ve only been half an hour.’

  ‘Safe and sound,’ repeated Milly with genuine relief.

  It was the best part of the day, still sunny but not hot, when Jack wandered back.

  ‘Hi, honey. I got the milk and bread you wanted. How you doing?’

  ‘Are August and Ah Lam really getting divorced?’ blurted Milly. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Ah Lam! That’s her name!’

  She was sitting in the shadows, her eyes bright, staring into his. And was that lipstick? She was wearing her yellow dress with red roses printed on it. It always reminded him of a dress she’d worn when young – a red dress with yellow roses. He couldn’t help noticing she was actually very pretty at the moment. He felt a sweet ache start in his groin.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with their marriage, Jack. I don’t understand it.’

  A silence, while Jack rinsed his face off at the kitchen sink. The water came straight from the spring. Freezing and delicious.

  ‘Maybe Augie is in love with someone else. It happens.’ Slurring a bit.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Handsome big-nosed Harold flashed into her mind, and she blushed. ‘They have children. You irritate me.’

  ‘Want a beer, Milly?’

  ‘What’s wrong with August?’

  ‘Where’s the bottle opener?’

  ‘You should talk to him.’

  ‘Milly. Honey. Have a beer.’

  ‘I’ll have a Coke.’

  And then, listening to the fly-buzzing, cricket-chirping evening grind down to darkness, and after the occasional interchange about the whereabouts of the matches and the potato chips, Jack and Milly subsided into their old silence. Their oldest silence, not of tension or animosity. There was no energy at all in this silence. This was the placid and private silence of this particular marriage when no one was looking. Jack had stopped noticing that his wife looked pretty in certain lights and in certain alert moods. He was thinking what he always thought about when not talking or working or reading a spy book. Women. For instance, that new novelist from New Jersey. He pictured Agata something-or-other, wrapping her long legs around his back. What if he bought her that turquoise necklace he’d seen her admiring? He never would, not in a million years, but what if he did? Lucky August, a free agent.

  Milly was thinking about dinner, and mentally reviewing the ingredients in the cupboard, wondering how they’d combine into a meal. Strangely, those bags of groceries from United Markets seemed not to contain anything nutritious. Mostly junk food and beer. So dinner tonight – macaroni and ketchup? Under this was her eternal free-floating anxiety about…everything. She had to hold this base camp steady, or the world would implode. Silently, just a soft whoomph like when she fell and the dust rose, and soon it would be as if there’d never been a Mr and Mrs MacAlister.

  ‘Jack!’ she said, after an hour. They had not lit the lanterns yet, and sat in shadows. The heat finally seeped out of the day, and a semblance of energy trickled in.

  ‘What is it, honey?’

  ‘I’m fixing dinner now.’

  She levered herself up, and started edging along the table like a non-swimmer holding o
n to the side of the pool. Extraordinary, she thought yet again, how painless her disability was. You’d think not being able to use your own legs properly would hurt. Then, for no reason, she decided it was time for another puppy. Company for Jaspy when Mackie was gone.

  Jack opened a pack of bear claw pastries and reached for a John le Carré. He considered this: when you got to seventy, eating junk food took on a whole new dimension. Forget booze, forget Prozac. Forget Agata’s long legs. When all else failed, when you were sunburned and you didn’t give a shit about your waistline, and one of your sons had dumped yet another wife, and your own wife kept wanting to buy more puppies and she was a terrible cook – well, there was always bear claws.

  Milly slowly lit the lantern on the table. Unlike most folk, they hadn’t begun using battery lanterns yet.

  ‘I love this,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This lamp. The hissing noise. And the smell. What is the smell anyway?’

  ‘Kerosene. It stinks, Milly.’

  ‘I know. I love it.’

  Two Years Earlier

  A Date With Lizbeth

  November 14th, 1995, San Miguel, Marin County

  12:12pm

  ‘Aren’t you taking the dogs?’

  She couldn’t take them for walks any more, not with her leg so undependable.

  ‘Not this time,’ he answered. ‘Going to the store, and you know how they hate being tied up. Anyway, Scout can hardly walk these days, and Mackie always poops in the middle of the damn sidewalk.’

  ‘Well, okay. We need more milk.’

  She was ironing. She still ironed his shirts as if he was going to the office every day. She ironed each one, and hung them neatly in a row in the part of the closet that was his.

  ‘Okay. Actually, I might go round to see Ernie and Bernice on the way back.’ Jack paused in the door frame, then stepped back into the house, made himself act relaxed. ‘Might be a while, honey.’

  ‘Okay. That’s fine.’

  ‘You know Bernice.’ He made the yackety-yack sign with his fingers, and she smiled.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So, see you when I see you.’

  ‘Toilet paper. We need toilet paper too, Jack! And canned dog food, not that dry stuff.’

  Off he went. The sky was a clear winter blue, and the air was deliciously clean and cold on the back of his throat. Walking without leashes felt strange. Like when he gave up smoking but kept feeling the ghost of a butt between his fingers. He replayed a memory: Lizbeth and himself, dancing to a Benny Goodman song played by a local band at the Fairmount. She was wearing a green silk dress that left her shoulders bare, so he hardly knew where to put his hands. On the slippery fabric? Her skin? She was short, very slender, very young looking – eighteen, but looked about fifteen. Her breasts pushed up from the dress like very sexy marshmallows. He was only twenty-one, but he’d been a soldier for two years. Dancing with her, he felt older but still inexperienced. If only he could dance. It was nerve-wracking, concentrating on where to put his hands, as well as where to put his feet.

  Her hair was red, the kind of red people stared at. It had a fancy name. Titian blonde. It fell in soft waves down her bare back, and a part of him wondered if she was aware of it. Did it feel nice to have one’s own hair caressing one’s back? Did it tickle? Someone asked them to smile, took their picture (which was the photograph that still resided in his desk drawer), and when the shutter clicked, he magically forgot to be clumsy, and off they’d danced in each other’s arms. He had one arm around her tiny waist and she had one arm around his back, and pulled him in close, close, till he could feel her heart beating and he blushed but did not pull away. Their free hands were entwined and raised, and her head nestled into that indent below his shoulder, so he felt tall. This was the most exciting thing to happen to Jacko MacAlister to date, including the war, including that wild camping trip with Ernie, including winning the cross-country that hot August in ’44. Her head right there, just below his chin, and her body curling into his. Damn! He could still taste the vermouth, smell her perfume. Something heady, and mixed up with her own sweet perspiration. The windows had been open, to let in the summer evening breeze. Acacias? No, more like gardenias.

  And now, after all these years, after all those imaginings, he was going to see her. A postcard with a black-and-white picture of Market Street after the 1906 earthquake. Hey, stranger! Am in town for a funeral (old aunt Bethany), let’s meet up for lunch at Marin Yacht Club.

  Milly was beautiful still, and he loved her, damn it, but she couldn’t make him feel like this. Same with Colette. They’d both seen all his less flattering selves too many times. They knew him. It almost made him hate them some days. And so Lizbeth remained the most beautiful girl in the world. (And the reason his daughter was called Elisabeth, but no one knew that but Jack.) Lizbeth was the original love of his life.

  He suddenly felt his bowels clench. He ordered his intestines to freeze. To not even fart till given permission. The closer he got to the arranged rendezvous the faster his heart raced. It was not pleasant. Goddammit! This was why he’d decided to walk – walking always calmed him. He made himself slow down. A cloud scooted in front of the sun, and it was almost frightening. In less than ten minutes, he’d see her.

  The first time was a September morning in 1947. They were both in freshman year. The GI Bill had given him an escape route from his past; he was the first MacAlister to attend college. (His father would have felt threatened, but his mother was proud. His sister, Ivy, too. She sent cards saying so. You are a genius!) Lizbeth been sitting behind him in English Lit I. He’d heard her laughter first. If laughter could sound intelligent and sexy, hers did. When she responded to the lecturer’s question about Dickens, he’d had an excuse to turn around and look at her. He’d only dated a few times in high school. Then there’d been the oddly moving prostitute in Japan. That had felt like a kind of love too. Her numb responses to his kisses, her blank face, had touched him, and he’d left her un-touched (and kept his money). But turning and seeing Lizbeth was the first time his heart had ever stopped. Then resumed like a marching band.

  The last time he saw her, they’d met at the Larkspur Half Moon Hotel for a drink. She’d persuaded him not to pick her up at her parents’ house, and she rushed in twenty minutes late. He’d been on his second beer, half listening to the football game, nibbling on popcorn though he had no appetite. For three years, they’d been…well, Jack had called it going steady but Lizbeth called it just going places with a friend. Because she was also going places with other men, and she was a straightforward kind of girl. No secrets. No shame. They went dancing, walking, to parties, movies, picnics. There’d been kissing and holding hands and hours and hours spent simply clinging to each other, fully clothed. A time of blissful torture. An intensity of yearning that felt like it must culminate one day, must, and yet Jack had been strangely content with this limbo. It drove him wild sometimes, thinking of her with other men. But whenever she was with him, he felt utterly convinced he was the only one who mattered. None of the others would be able to bring out this confiding, cuddly side of Lizbeth. She was the most exciting girl he had ever met. But something had shifted, and all week she’d sounded different on the phone. Evasive. Now here she was.

  ‘Sorry, Jacko. Sorry, I couldn’t get here any sooner.’

  ‘No problem.’ He kissed her on the mouth, noticing her lips were slack. She tasted of garlic. She often did, but it never bothered him.

  ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He lit her cigarette and she sucked hard, pursed her mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring above his head.

  ‘Show off,’ he said.

  ‘Jealous.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Coke. Oh, hell, a screwdriver.’

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Actually, not okay.’

  Then she blurted it out, before
their drinks came. She was going to Paris. One of her less respectable, less discreet male friends frightened her father. He’d enrolled her on an art course at the Sorbonne. She’d take a year break from Cal.

  ‘He can’t do that. Just say no. Tell him about me. I’m every father’s dream boyfriend for their daughter.’

  ‘Ah, Jacko. I want to go, actually. I mean, imagine. Paris!’

  Some team scored a touchdown on the radio, and as she stopped talking, the bar crowd cheered. Then the announcer started shouting about how incredible some footballer was. Jack could hear the crowd going wild, behind the announcer, behind this bar with Lizbeth perched on the bar stool next to him.

  ‘Sure.’ He inhaled his cigarette so hard, it burned his throat like scalding coffee. ‘I get it. Paris. Wow! When?’

  ‘Next week. I’ll miss you, Jacko. Will you write?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Please! I’ll die of loneliness if you don’t write.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll write.’

  ‘And I’ll be back before you know it.’

  He’d taken her home early, feeling sober, despite four beers. Usually when they walked, she fitted perfectly under his arm, with her arm around his waist and their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. But tonight he kept having to slow or speed up; he couldn’t get it right. They walked towards the lit windows of her house, which was set way back from the sidewalk. A tall Victorian house, with a wraparound veranda and turrets over the windows. The shadows of her family were moving from room to room like they always seemed to be doing, always doing one thing or another, and he suddenly understood this might be it. This time, when they parted, they might never meet again.

  ‘We’ll have so much fun when I get back, Jacko,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘I just know we will. Imagine how amazing it’s going to be, to see each other after not seeing each other for so long. It’ll be a gas, Jacko. Really.’

  Had it really been a simple as that? Mutual love, cruelly thwarted by protective parents? Now he sensed something less romantically tragic. He’d looked up to Lizbeth, but had she merely adored him the way one adores an affectionate, loyal puppy? She’d always found excuses to not meet his mother, whereas he was a frequent visitor to her parents’ much grander house. He remembered her mother’s charming manner, and his own complete submission to it. He’d eaten his first oyster in that house, and pretended it wasn’t. Denied his own class. So what mixed-up class were he and Milly now? Not working class any more, but not solidly middle class either. If class was a language, they’d become fairly fluent in middle class, but working class was still their first language. Perhaps it held them close; bound by a common class in a middle- and upper-class enclave? No doubt, they would always dream in the language they’d grown up with.