Tomcat in Love

by Tim O'Brien

  It was raining, too, in Tampa. We checked into our hotel, unpacked in silence, showered, slipped into bed, then lay in the droning dark without touching. Barely a moment elapsed before I felt the strike of a terrible premonition. I jerked up, but Mrs. Robert Kooshof was already sighing. “Tom, do you love me?” she whispered. “Even a little?”

  I am convinced it was not a coincidence. Fate again: the conjunction of weather and a misled life.

  “Well,” I murmured, “it’s interesting you should ask,” then I went on to discuss the nature of love, the physics of infinity. I did everything in my power to avoid the word no.

  “Yes or no?” she said.

  And so, for the second time that day, I heard myself requesting a rain check.

  “I guess that means no.”

  “No,” I said. “Even no doesn’t mean no.”

  “What on God’s earth are you talking about?”

  I rolled onto my side and feigned sleep. The day had been a long one, full of almost intolerable strife, but exhaustion now translated into a flow of images that kept me awake for several hours. Lorna Sue drifted by. Then Herbie. Then Toni and Deborah and Karen and Carla and June and Little Red Rhonda and Mrs. Robert Kooshof.

  “Well, if you don’t love me,” Mrs. Kooshof said near dawn, “I can’t see any point.”

  I glared at Satan’s teasing face.

  “All right,” I said. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Right.”

  Her eyes dissolved into a pair of warm blue puddles.* “You mean it?” she said. “I mean, does yes really mean yes?”

  “Got me,” I said. “Let’s have breakfast.”

  In the dining room downstairs, while I devoured my ham and eggs, Mrs. Robert Kooshof positively beamed at hers.

  The word yes, unlike its antonym, apparently carries magical restorative qualities, for my companion’s face had shed a good ten years’ worth of romantic blight. I was reminded, curiously enough, of young Toni’s honors thesis, in one section of which she had compared the standard English and Germanic marital vows. Where in America we would dully intone the words “I do,” our German friends respond with the much more telling phrase “Ja, und Gott helfe mir.” Translated, it reads, “Yes, and God help me,” which approximated my own emotions on that early Tampa morning.

  “Yes,” I’d said, but was this a promise?

  Was this duplicity?

  Mrs. Kooshof’s question, remember, had come in two parts. Did I love her? Even a little? My eventual response—which was pried out of me like a wisdom tooth—had addressed the interrogatory as a whole, not merely its unqualified first component. Yet I doubt Mrs. Kooshof took it that way. She was a woman; she was in love; she had forgotten her own botched utterance. And it was one question. Not two. Otherwise, I would have responded, “Yes, yes,” or, more probably, “No, yes,” or, possibly, “Yes, no.”

  In any event, my malfeasance—if there was any—had to do with an understandable reluctance to remind her of this intricate linguistic sequence.

  I purchased peace with the coin of silence.

  I let well enough alone.

  We spent the remainder of the morning, and most of the afternoon, enjoying the fruits of our confused and misapprehended truce. Mrs. Kooshof was shameless in her joy. She smiled during the act of love, then smiled in her sleep afterward. A lovely thing to witness, in part, but also frightening. For some time I lay very still, attuned to her breathing, and to the steady rain, and to the alternating buzz of yes and no.

  In late afternoon I slipped out of bed, took a shower, then used the bathroom telephone to call Lorna Sue. (Her number, I must confess, was committed to memory. Over the past several months, I had often dialed those heartless digits for no purpose but to hear her voice.) There was no answer on this occasion, but I knew instantly where to find her. When I called Herbie’s residence, Lorna Sue picked up on the first ring. I listened briefly, then disconnected.

  Now, I thought.

  It starts.

  All the scheming, all the waiting, and it was hard to contain myself as I placed my next call, which was to a certain downtown real-estate firm. (The word glee may be taking it too far, yet I have come to discover that acts of vengeance are often accompanied by a swollen bladder, an airy tickle at the tip of the urethra.)

  After two or three telephonic miscues, I succeeded in reaching the tycoon’s secretary, who rudely put me on hold, and it was a good four minutes before the tycoon himself deigned to receive my call. The man’s voice was more cultivated than I remembered, low-pitched and sugary. He made the word Yes? sound like a donation to the mentally impoverished.

  I almost giggled.

  Instead, according to plan, I informed the wife-rustling monster that Lorna Sue wished to be picked up at her brother’s house.

  “Picked up?” he said. “Who is this?”

  I could not help myself—at this point I did giggle. (Lightly, of course. Covering it with a cough.) “An emergency,” I said. “If I were you, sir, I would waste not a moment.”

  “But what—?”

  “Incest,” I said.

  Wickedly, then, I hung up.

  I waited a moment, dialed 911, and reported a domestic dispute in progress.

  There was no need to awaken Mrs. Kooshof.

  I dressed quickly, hurried outside, and hailed a taxi. Weeks earlier, on a previous visit, I had taken care to scout out the terrain at Herbie’s place—vantage points, angles of vision—and upon arrival, thirteen minutes later, I instructed the cabbie to park under a pair of shaggy trees diagonally across the street. The wait was short. In two or three minutes a blue Mercedes pulled up. The tycoon emerged, trotted to Herbie’s front door, rang the bell, shifted from foot to foot in the steady drizzle. Clockwork, I thought. Despite myself, I could not resist a self-congratulatory chuckle.

  “Watch closely,” I told the cabbie. “You may well profit from this.”

  My view was obstructed by the tycoon’s ridiculously wide shoulders, but even so I could make out the surprise on Herbie’s face when he opened the door. He had the appearance, if I may say so, of an ostrich attempting to swallow a toaster. His tongue fluttered. A hand jerked up. He took a stride backward, almost gawking, clearly on the defensive, and then a moment later Lorna Sue stepped into view. To my disappointment, she was fully clothed.

  What was said, precisely, I could not tell, but the conversation did not appear to me tranquil. The decibels multiplied: indignant gestures, theatrical poses, histrionic queries and responses. The word incest was surely in the wind.* After a moment Lorna Sue shouted something, disappeared inside, and returned with her purse.

  It was at that instant, somewhat tardily, that the Tampa police force put in its appearance. Two squad cars. Four stern officers of the law.

  Again, I could make out not a single syllable, yet my imagination filled in the gaps. (Accusations and denials and disbelief.) The officers stood awkwardly on the front doorstep, hats under their arms, and judging by the tycoon’s well-flushed face, I felt confident that issues of embarrassment were now exceeded only by those of marital suspicion. (A question for philosophers: Do we ever truly know our husbands and wives, our lovers, our friends, our brothers and sisters? What do we believe? How do we believe? Where is your husband at this instant? In a Hilton? Or, at a downtown travel agency, where he has just purchased a pair of one-way tickets to Fiji?) It was gratifying, in any case, to watch the epistemology unfold. The seeds of doubt, so recently planted, were now germinating in the steady Tampa rain, and I could not help but be reminded that human relationships hang by the most fragile of threads. How easily we are mutilated by life’s random intrusions: a frivolous lawsuit, a gossipy neighbor, a malicious midday phone call.

  All good things must end.

  In short order the tycoon escorted Lorna Sue to his flashy blue Mercedes. They stood talking for a moment, eyeball-to-eyeball, then Lorna Sue slipped into the car and slammed the door. The tycoon slammed his too
—much harder—and as they sped off, I caught a glimpse of the gentleman’s unhappy face. Not so handsome now. Puffy and bright red. His lips, I impishly noted, seemed to be curled in a snarl.

  “Not bad,” the cabbie said.

  Back at the hotel, I found Mrs. Kooshof waiting in the bar. One quick glance: she seemed to know.

  “Lorna Sue?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  For the first time in months I grinned the old Chippering grin. “It’s hard to be sure,” I said, “but I believe her marriage may be on the rocks.”

  * Improbable, perhaps, but true. Even the feminists of our world, in whose ranks I have long and proudly marched, must concede that love is both blind and blinding. Mrs. Kooshof was human. She was no stick figure. She was ample in all respects.

  * One should not underestimate the power of suggestion. For the remainder of his life, I most fervently pray, the tycoon will be massaging the word incest. Like me, he will always wonder.

  Curiously, as I lay abed that night, I found myself feeling a (bare) modicum of sympathy for Lorna Sue’s doomed and exceedingly hairy tycoon. It was all so wretchedly familiar, suspicion and countersuspicion.

  Who can explain the wee-hour workings of the mind?

  Perhaps it had to do with the sweet stress of revenge, but for several hours my thoughts kept looping back to an incident that occurred on the occasion of my seventh wedding anniversary. Half elated, half melancholy, I lay on the tiny patch of bed left to me by Mrs. Robert Kooshof, attuned to the endless rain, picking at the scab of that seventh anniversary. (Anniversary: the word reaches out to embrace a set of meanings that can be described only as painfully conditional. Anniversary means: “I love you if.” Anniversary means: “Maybe.”)

  In the weeks leading up to our day of marital celebration, Lorna Sue had been disappearing for extended periods, sometimes with prior warning, sometimes without. The excuses were multitudinous, but it invariably turned out that she had been in the squalid, incestuous company of Herbie. In virtually any other circumstance, I would have been justified in calling a divorce lawyer—obvious adultery, yes?—except the accusation left me open to an equally obvious rebuttal. “Christ, he’s my brother!” Lorna Sue snapped whenever I summoned the courage to complain.*

  Short of discovery in flagrante delicto, there was little I could do. “Your loving brother,” I’d murmur, which would open the door to Lorna Sue’s anger: “So say it, Tom. What exactly are you suggesting?”

  She knew full well that I was helpless, that I could never broach the subject openly.

  Yet there was plenty to “suggest.” Her disappearances. The way Herbie looked at her—obliquely, penitently. I will never know, I suppose, if anything physical occurred between them, but in a sense it no longer mattered. Their bond transcended sexuality—more enigmatic than simple incest—and though I doubt it was ever conscious, ever fully formed, I could see the trappings of a bizarre love cult all around me, something unworldly.

  Case in point: our seventh anniversary.

  I had come home early from class that day, put on a fresh suit and tie, and sat waiting for her with a dozen roses and high hopes. Nine hours elapsed. Near midnight she finally called from Herbie’s house: music in the background, people laughing. Lorna Sue’s voice betrayed not a trace of remorse. A surprise party, she informed me. Herbie had picked her up at noon. Lots of fun, lots of friends. Did I wish to come over? When I ventured the notion that someone might have thought to invite me, Lorna Sue seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m inviting you now,” she snapped. “And don’t spoil things.”

  “Fine, then,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  There was a short, brittle silence before Lorna Sue said, “Well, you don’t have to come.”

  “Ten minutes,” I told her. “Stay put.”

  When I rang Herbie’s doorbell, the celebration was already on its downslope. Five or six strangers lingered in the living room—friends of the family, I supposed, none of whom displayed pleasure at my appearance. I took Lorna Sue by the arm, squeezed hard, and announced that we were departing.

  Herbie gave me a bemused smile. “Good old Tommy,” he said softly. “Glad you could make it.”

  The ride home was all fury. I cannot in good conscience repeat Lorna Sue’s language, which was tasteless, but in general terms she insisted that I shape up fast. I was paranoid. I had ruined her party. Yet not a word about Herbie. And not a word about her own warped psychology, or the stench of depravity, or the fact that I had just played a tuneless second fiddle on my wedding anniversary.

  Which of us, therefore, needed to shape up? Which of us had ducked out on marriage?

  My own emotions broke loose.

  I was hurt and bewildered, full of rage, and I told her so at a pitch that made my throat raw.

  I remember pulling off the road, stopping in front of a busy gasoline station. Directly ahead, a large neon sign cast a yellow sheen across the windshield, lewd and bright, the S of the word SHELL flickering on and off through some technical malfunction, (SHELL/HELL: another linguistic butcher knife.)

  “Fucking anniversary,” I said. “You could’ve included me.”

  And then I said other things too. Partly accusing, partly pleading.

  Did she love me, or did she not?

  Where did Herbie fit in?

  To whom was she truly married?

  Lorna Sue’s face went pensive in the gaudy yellow light. She made a little gasping sound—like a tin can popping open—and blinked into the yellow haze. Several seconds went by before she looked at me.

  “All right, I’ll try to be clear,” she said. “I’m married to you. For now. But I’m not a piece of property. Not yours. Not his.”

  “Certainly,” I said, “but that’s—”

  “I belong to me.”

  I was amazed. And angry. “Hey, you’re the one who left me waiting for nine hours. Did I imagine it?”

  “No, but—”

  “What’s going on? Tell me. Brotherly love?”

  Lorna Sue closed her eyes, clenched her jaw, as if deciding something. “Okay, I’ll say this one time. You’re right—Herbie loves me. Maybe too much. Too possessive. But that goes for both of you.”

  “Possessive? I’m your husband.”

  “Except you don’t know me,” she said. “It’s hard to explain—I won’t even try—but Herbie takes care of me when … when things are bad, when I want to hurt myself. Or hurt you. Or the whole world.”

  I was at sea.

  I wagged my head and said, “You damn well hurt me tonight. Nine hours’ worth.”

  “I’m sorry. But you don’t know what hurt is.”

  “I think I do.”

  Lorna Sue shrugged.

  A few seconds slipped by, both of us silent, just the on-and-off buzz of that Shell/Hell sign. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out a fountain pen, uncapped it, held up her forearm, glanced at me, and swiftly thrust the point into the flesh just below her elbow. She did it twice, fast. She licked the blood away.

  She said, “Do you?”

  Then she said, “Sometimes I want to hurt you that way, Tom. And Herbie. Everybody.”

  She jabbed the pen into her bare thigh.

  Into her arm again.

  Into her hip.

  Into the palm of her left hand.

  She murmured something, laughed, held the pen to my nose.

  “My whole life, Tommy—ever since we were kids—it’s like I’ve been squeezed from two sides, these two walls pushing in. You and Herbie. And sometimes I just want to run away from both of you. Or else hurt you. That’s the other alternative.” She looked at me without emotion, then returned the fountain pen to her purse. “Anyhow, I don’t know where you get these sick, disgusting ideas of yours. But it has to stop.”

  I was stunned, a little woozy, yet I finished the thought for her. “Or else?” I said.

  “That’s right. Exactly right.”

  “Leave?
Walk out?”

  Lorna Sue shrugged. “If, Tom. Just if.”

  “If,” I murmured.

  Anniversary. Shell. Hurt. If.

  * Language itself offers clues to my predicament. The phrase “Christ, he’s my brother!” can be taken two ways. (“My brother is Christ.”) And just as easily, with the same passion, Herbie might well have screamed, “Christ, she’s my sister!” He was Catholic. He had nailed her to a cross.

  The next morning, a Wednesday, Mrs. Robert Kooshof and I spent three invigorating hours on the beach behind our hotel. The rain had let up only a little. “It’s my vacation,” she said staunchly, “and I won’t waste it indoors.”

  Ever dutiful, I bundled up in a pair of heavy woolen sweaters, plus a nylon jacket, and accompanied her down to a cabana-style bar at water’s edge, where we took shelter under a roof of artificial bamboo. The day was cold and sodden, not at all improved by lightning to the west. Mrs. Kooshof slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The frames were a fluorescent purple, the lenses molded in the shape of twin hearts.

  “Romantic, isn’t it?” she said. “The rain and everything. I think it’s cozy.”

  “Toasty,” I said. “Snug as a porpoise.”

  I ordered a trio of hot toddies, Mrs. Kooshof a tropical drink involving canned pineapples. The booze helped, and after a time I began to find merit in our nippy outing. A pert young waitress attended to our needs, keeping the drinks stiff, refilling the peanut bowl, and even the rain had a nice medicinal effect, steady and lulling. Not cozy, by any means, but tolerable. On her part, Mrs. Kooshof seemed in high spirits, chatting amiably about life in Owago, her likes and dislikes, her plans for the future. The word yes had done wonders for her disposition. Perched (as she was) on a barstool, legs crossed, my Dutch mistress had never looked so thoroughly feminine. She wore a terry-cloth jacket, white sandals, the purple sunglasses, a pink one-piece swimsuit. Statuesque to begin with—six feet of unfurled womanhood—Mrs. Kooshof looked larger than life in that bright swimsuit, her long, closely shaven legs unwinding before me like twin roads to eternity. Erotic, to say the least, and as we conversed, I ran my fingertips along her inner thighs, nodding occasionally, paying heed to that no-man’s-land where goose bumps gave way to silken secrets.