Wait For Me Jack

by Addison Jones

  ‘Jesus, Ernie, I know all that. But.’

  ‘But what.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I felt…cheated. Billie didn’t keep to the deal. I know it sounds dumb, but the original deal was that we were supposed to be like this.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘That’s what I thought was going to happen. Laughing at the same stuff. Billie has no humour. She thinks jokes are funny.’

  ‘Jokes are funny, Jack.’

  ‘You’re joking, right? Anyway, I figured we’d talk all the time about everything, like you and me do. Understand each other.’

  ‘I think you’re overrating conversation, Jack. Sure, Bernice can talk the hind legs off a donkey. I can hardly finish a single darn thought, some days.’

  ‘You don’t get it. You and Bernice play guitar together, for Christ sake. It’s all working out how you planned it to. You suit each other. Me and Billie, well. It’s not her fault, but she’s not really my type.’ He’d meant this to sound sophisticated and funny, but hearing it out loud he instantly knew it wasn’t.

  Pause, while they’d opened more beers. Then Jack sighed. ‘I missed first kisses. I love first kisses. And first looks. When I look at Colette, something still changes in her eyes. Like I’m switching on the Goddamn Christmas tree lights.’

  ‘Aha! That’s it. I know what your problem is, Jack.’

  ‘Oh crap, here we go.’

  ‘Jack MacAlister. You’re a fucking romantic and always have been.’ (Jack had smirked and lit a cigarette, flattered.) ‘You want what’s out of reach, and imagine it’s perfect. But when you get it, you find fault with that too. God, poor Billie. Poor Colette! Who next?’

  ‘I never chase women, Ernie. Colette chased me. I am not a predator.’

  ‘I did not say that. That would be sleazy. You are not sleazy, Jack.’

  ‘Correct, I am not sleazy. I am…reluctant to hurt a girls feelings, that’s what.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, Jack.’ He’d begun slurring. Shomething for noshing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I was married to Billie.’

  ‘No. Really? No.’ He could see two Ernies now. Amazing. Two entirely separate Ernies preaching to him. How was he going to drive home?

  ‘Do not ever remind me I said that. I want that erased from your memory right this very minute.’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘But it’s true, Jack. Bernice can be very annoying. You have to stay on your toes all the time, because she’s so fucking smart. She’s a fucking mind reader. At least with Billie, your thoughts are your own. Your life is your own. I almost wish I was doing it too. Getting some extra marital, while I still can.’

  ‘Jesus, Ernie, aren’t you?’

  ‘Are you kidding? She’d know instantly and then she’d kill me. The whole thing would be over in a day, and I would be dead.’

  That was yesterday, blind drunk at midday. Ernie had to make do with what he had, but Jack – well, Jack now had exactly what he wanted. In addition to a hangover. He got up, but Colette pushed him back down onto his sunlounger. Her crotch was inches from his mouth.

  ‘You stay right where you are, Jack. I’ll get you a nice tall drink.’

  ‘Here you are,’ said Billie, and as she handed Jeff his glass, her robe briefly opened enough for a glimpse of white thighs, and three-quarters of one milky white breast. Jeff took the glass but didn’t drink. Billie started to feel the beginnings of uneasiness. Was Jeff asthmatic? Then Jeff put his glass down, pulled her to him so quickly, so clumsily, so adolescently, that at first she was not frightened. She was amused and angered in equal measure. As if it was sweet Mister Rogers who was groping her by mistake. He’d just meant to button up his sweater and got confused. ‘Stop it,’ she scolded. ‘Knock it off!’ she said with more seriousness, when his hands slid inside her robe.

  Kick him in the balls, screamed Louise from the roof. Poke his eyes out!

  But Billie was not prepared for this. She could not fabricate aggression quickly enough, and found her polite self, her protective mother self, still in operation. Willy was in the other room, and must not be alarmed. This was her own fault, her own dilemma and she must solve it quietly. His hands on her body were so strange, a part of herself detached and noticed that his skin was not as rough as Jack’s, but his fingers were more insistent, and there was an odour emanating from him now. Unpleasant, but she couldn’t think what it was. She had time, while he pulled at her robe and she held tight to it, to wonder if he smelled of rotten eggs mixed with deodorant, or was this the essential smell of male horniness? She kept saying: ‘Stop it!’ in a low hissing voice. ‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying. ‘Calm down.’ His face was ugly now. He smiled. Then they fell to the deck, and he pinned both her hands together above her head before she had a chance to struggle. With his other hand, he fumbled with his jeans. His body had a density she had not guessed at. He was stronger than Jack. She went limp and told herself: this is what men do to women sometimes. What bodies do to other bodies. How extraordinary it’s happening to me. Then she wondered if she was getting splinters on her bottom. The deck was redwood and terrible for splinters.

  Even Louise gave up and whispered in a practical tone: Hold still, sis. He’s a cunt, but he won’t hurt you. Just ignore him and let him finish before Willy comes looking for you.

  Then Willy cried out from the living room, a sudden sharp whelp as if he’d fallen, and Billie found she had strength after all. She squirmed hard sideways and freed herself while Jeff was still trying to open his jeans.

  Jack swallowed his morning martini and felt a bit flat. Maybe a blow job would cheer him up. It was weird to be home on a weekday. Weird to call this place home. Maybe Ernie was right, and soon Colette would drive him crazy too. Watching Colette swim back and forth in the turquoise pool put him in a trance, which melted into a nap. When the phone rang, at first he thought it was part of his dream.

  ‘Billie? What is it?’

  ‘Slow down. What?’

  ‘What the fuck? Jeff from number 23?’

  ‘Who is it?’ called Colette, emerging from the pool like Venus – the body of an eighteen-year-old, not a stretch mark on her.

  Jack didn’t reply. Hurtled out of the house with his car keys. If he married Colette tomorrow, if they never argued, if they had endless stimulating conversations, incredible sex, it would still only ever be a secondary marriage. A perfectly formed, easily executed but trivial, shallow marriage. The real thing, the primary connection, would always be with his sweet-kneed, cock-eyebrowed, stubborn Billie. He imagined the space he used to take up, that space exactly his body shape, patiently waiting for him to resume his old rightful life. He pressed harder on the accelerator, hit eighty-five.

  But there was someone else at his old home, a vaguely familiar woman, and it looked like her kid was playing with Willy, pushing little cars and making engine noises. And this stranger had an arm around Billie, like they were old friends. They turned to stare at him, and he suddenly remembered he was supposed to knock on the door first. That was their agreement.

  ‘Jack, remember Irene? From across the road.’ Billie did not meet his eyes.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Jack.’

  He ignored Irene. ‘Billie? You okay?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Irene. Then: ‘Can I make you a coffee, Jack?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, his eyes still on his wife. How dare this Irene offer him coffee in his own house! He bought those stupid mugs. He fumed and fussed, and checked that the plants on windowsill had been watered and that the kitchen taps weren’t leaking again. Then the kids came home early from school because of a power cut. The boys grunted their hellos and disappeared into their rooms. Elisabeth said hello, then loitered awhile, making herself a sandwich.

  Nothing had been said about Jeff. No one had remarked on the fact Jack was here on an unscheduled visit, and Billie seemed to be having a very lazy day, still in her bath
robe. Even Willy seemed oblivious. Now he was methodically emptying out alphabet blocks from one dumper truck to another, while the other toddler rolled playdough into tiny balls then squashed them together again. Jack could not get near Billie. His old home conspired to make him feel unwelcome; no Jack-shaped vacuum waiting for his return after all. It seemed recent history had entirely removed his right to protect his wife. But she’d phoned him first. Not Irene.

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? It’s not your visit day,’ snarled Elisabeth, halfway through a peanut butter sandwich. He flinched and declined to answer. Traitor daughter! He’d talk her round, next time. She belonged to him; they were buddies, Goddammit.

  ‘Anything I can do, Billie?’ He tried to catch her eyes. She was wearing a baggy sweater over her robe. His sweater. He remembered opening the gift box containing that sweater, one of those Christmases that had now blurred into one morning of pine-scented chaos. ‘You don’t like it, do you?’ she’d accurately guessed. ‘I’ll return it,’ she’d promised, but evidently never had.

  She turned from her half-whispered conversation with Irene, looked at him wandering slowly in the kitchen, and for a brief second there was her old look. Half giddy, half knowing. His heart lurched. But:

  ‘Thank you for coming, Jack. I was upset when I rang, but I’m all right now.’ In a low voice.

  Irene said, ‘Nice to see you, Jack.’ Dismissively.

  He looked away, towards Elisabeth, who was watching Gidget on television now. ‘Hey, you got a colour TV!’ His voice sounded peevish to his own ears.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Billie guiltily. ‘Mom gave me some birthday money.’

  ‘Where’s the black-and-white?’

  ‘Our bedroom. The bedroom.’

  He was momentarily confused. He felt oddly pleased about the new colour television, as if it was his too. He had to stop himself from going over and inspecting it. Then Sam loped into the room, with his usual mixture of gangling cockiness and deference. Turned to his father, and said so maturely, it made Jack’s heart stop:

  ‘Nice to see you, Dad. But I guess it’s time for you to head out, yeah?’ He remained standing, as if waiting to escort his father to the door. A distant politeness in his face, more upsetting than all their heated arguments to date. Jack looked around at the living room with the framed family photos and the stain on the rug where the kids spilled orange Shasta one hot August day. The rug he remembered buying and laying while the Shangri-Las sang ‘Leader of the Pack’. And there was nothing for him to do now but leave. Move, he told his legs. Walk, he told his feet. Go! Jack had never properly noticed gravity before.

  ‘All right, Billie,’ he said thickly. ‘Let me know…’ He didn’t know how to end this sentence, and so opened his hands in a helpless gesture instead. And managed to move finally, with the kitchen clock ticking very loudly, and the rain outside dropping very slowly.

  When Jeff heard the knock at the door, perhaps he imagined it was her. Perhaps he thought: that was women for you. No meant yes, and no matter what anyone said, women loved to be dominated. He could hear his wife vacuuming the staircase; she was always vacuuming those damn stairs. He stepped over a toy fire engine, opened the door, and pow! Jack knocked him flat on his back.

  Two Years Earlier

  Stepping Out

  December 31st, 1968, San Miguel, Marin County

  11:02pm

  Jack was a little drunk, walking down the stairs from the bathroom. He could hear voices of course, and laughter, but mainly it felt like he was descending into a pool of jazz. It was one of his favourite records from the old days. ‘Cry Me a River’, with the Harry James band. Nothing but noise, the music these days. Then before he reached the last step, it changed to a dance tune, and he had to pause because the room had become a throbbing mass of bodies, all dancing away like they were teenagers again. He sat on the middle step and watched. Maybe they were young again. He was still holding the high ball glass that he’d carried upstairs to the bathroom without spilling. 100% gin. He understood everything in the world now. He saw himself joining the dancers in a while. He’d join in clumsily at first, then he’d become one of them. He knew he wasn’t a good dancer, but no one would notice. He decided music made the life force audible: an energetic pulsing stream, and musicians and dancers and anyone who lived intuitively could join in. Himself after a few drinks, for instance.

  Then ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ came on, and Jack kept sipping his gin. He started thinking that maybe life was more like a moving train, than music. If you had enough nerve, or equally if you did not give a damn, you ran alongside it till you could leap on, and then you too were part of the action, part of the world, you were going somewhere with a bunch of people who were also holding on tight and going somewhere. But if you couldn’t run fast enough, if you were too old, or tired, or sad, or drunk, then you would have to sit back and watch it all happening without you. Feel the wind of its passing, and sigh. He was lonely suddenly. If only Ernie and Bernice would move to Marin. If only they could afford it. They met a few times a year, not nearly often enough for Jack. He’d never admit it, but he only really felt like himself, his true self, with them. And of course, with Billie. But she got his less fun true self. The simple truth was, Billie was not the wife he’d hoped for. In the beginning they’d had similarities in abundance, but now he only noticed their differences. She didn’t get drunk with him, didn’t share his love of oysters or mussels or scallops, didn’t read literature, didn’t like the same movies, didn’t laugh at the same things that made him laugh. It was hilarious, when you considered it. It turned out it was possible to love a woman who was not your type. He shook his head in drunken wonderment. Who would have thought?

  Then he rose and glided down into the dancers. When the song ended, he found himself next to Colette, who asked what his resolutions were. He immediately said: ‘Get divorced.’

  ‘Jack! He’s just kidding, Colette,’ said Billie, who appeared by his side looking stunningly sober.

  As soon as Billie walked away, he gave an exaggerated shrug and lifted eyebrows. Colette gave him a quick tight hug as if he had just done something too adorable to respond to verbally.

  ‘How are your kids?’ She had to shout over the music.

  ‘Nightmare. Sam’s become impossible. Billie doesn’t see it, but he’s a complete pain in the ass. And Danny and Donald – well, of course, I feel sorry for them, who wouldn’t? But they hardly ever wash, they won’t even get haircuts. Plus, they all hate me.’

  ‘Crap, Jack.’

  ‘I don’t get it. They’re so lucky, compared to how we grew up. But they’re rejecting all the good stuff. Everything’s gone to hell.’

  It was true. The boys were breaking his heart, so was Elisabeth. She used to be the one who always laughed at the same things he did. And since Willy, they were back to sticky surfaces and the smell of sour milk.

  ‘Never mind. Well, better mingle,’ Colette said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  They’d known each other for years. He’d always liked her slightly gauche way of acting, especially when drinking. And her amorality – she was single again now, with two wealthy ex-husbands supporting her life style. Plus she never wore a bra. He could see her nipples clearly outlined in her dress. Those have never had a baby sucking on them, he thought. Women without kids were sexier. When midnight came, he conspired to be next to Colette.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ and he kissed her long and daringly hard, on closed lips. He thought Billie was in the kitchen somewhere, still sober. She’d be talking to the host’s father, a doddery man who drooled and adored Billie. Jack remembered hearing Billie describe Colette as fast. Kissing Colette felt numb at first, the loose kiss of drunkenness. But when he pulled away, she grabbed his head and pulled him in for a deeper kiss. For a second, she parted her lips and he felt the quick flick of her tongue. Suddenly, it was as if they were alone. Did a police siren begin and people hose them off, and shout: Stop! That kind of kissing is dangero
us and life threatening and terribly against the law! Nope. So they kissed again, parted to kiss others and shouted Happy New Year! Then moved to a dark hallway and dived straight back into it, mouths open, tongues deeper and deeper till Jack was afraid finally.

  ‘Billie, honey, ready to go home?’

  She turned to him and smiled beatifically. God, she was something. The only un-blurry person in the house, and she was his wife.

  ‘Yes, ready when you are honey.’

  That would have been that, but Colette was determined to call his bluff. And a devil in him wanted his bluff called. It took another seven days of ambiguous phone conversations, and a bad mood brought on by his wife’s extravagance in I. Magnin. Damnit! Did she think money grew on trees? She was such a child in some ways. Not like the independent Colette. Colette was a woman, all right. She knew what a man wanted. And she had his number in every way possible. As he drove to her house, he was stone cold sober, telling himself with every mile this was not a mad impulse.

  As soon as entered his own house again, he knew life would never be the same. Everything was different. Of course his own body felt different, and it should, given where it’d been recently, but why did his furniture look odd, and the children’s voices seem thin somehow, and his wife’s expression seem…well, so unsuspicious? Didn’t she know him at all? Couldn’t she see the imprint of Colette on him? It was glaring, Goddammit; it was blinding. Another reason to betray her. His own wife was virtually a stranger, but a stranger he was tied to, someone he had to support financially. Not to mention the life’s sentence of eating, sleeping and watching television with her. God! It was only just now dawning on him, what marriage was. To literally be with a specific other person until you were dead. Dead. The price was quite simply, quite obviously, too high.

  And then, of course, all his life Jack had been dishonest regularly in small ways. He and Ernie had stolen Hershey bars from the corner store all one summer. And it was a fact that Jack neglected to inform the checkout girl when she undercharged him, he parked illegally in the staff-only slots behind the courthouse, he told fibs about being sick when he was just hung-over, and he cheated annually on his income tax. He even lied to the IRS about that money Louise sent once, when she’d had a lucky day at the races. Doing these things diminished some kind of vague resentment; evened things up. This thing with Colette was not like that at first, it was too big. But as with the stolen Hershey bars, when he wasn’t caught, he became accustomed to not paying and kept stealing. A bit more each time. Three Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a Snickers, ten Milky Ways. Once, a whole carton of Milk Duds. After a while, it hadn’t even felt like stealing, or cheating. Anyway, didn’t everyone do it? Hadn’t John Kennedy, bless him, done it too? It was human nature to want to get away with things. Jack told himself he was not a bad man, just a man trying to find a way to make his existence bearable without hurting anyone. His first affair felt like getting drunk for the first time. Discovering that intoxication made nonsense of his worries, and realizing that while a bit naughty, it was also something pretty much everyone else already knew about. Opening a door to a room he hadn’t really believed was accessible, and finding no need for even a key. It was unlocked and inside, a big crowd of partying people. Hey, Jack! Where the hell you been?