Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “You’ll need to show me where it hurts first.”

  “Oh, Eddie, I thought I was going crazy! Nobody understands what it’s like, the pressure, the stupid games. But you’re different.”

  Deviant might be the correct word, but I don’t quibble. She rests her head on my shoulder and buries her face into the nape of my neck. I feel tenderness surge within me, the desire to protect her from the forces that torment her, even if I’m powerless to do so. For a brief second I entertain the notion of Destiny, that pathetic construct we drag out to explain the random, but I can’t help wonder about the vagaries of life that have brought me here, next to this woman who actually seems to need me, who seems to appreciate the very gifts of mine that the world has soundly rejected, who craves my attention, who derives energy from the things I care about. Is this, gulp, the handiwork of Destiny, that I’d be plucked from the depths of hell and deposited on a sofa in a dead man’s mansion to console the widow whose wounds are still raw?

  I kiss her—not because we’re going to have intercourse, which is a physical and/or emotional impossibility, but because I feel gratitude and in her lips reside the last vestiges of the person I was, as if somehow she has come to possess the secret elixir that will restore me to my former grandeur. Her skin reminds me of the Atlantic Ocean—there is a salty flavor, marine in texture, warm and sun-dappled, and I try to summon my inner Rimbaud, the Jim Morrison I know still lives in me, the buried hedonist ready to burn for pleasure—but can only Lola and her depravity truly touch my deepest, darkest places? Is that impetuous coed the symptom of my disease or its sinister source? Out of sheer desperation, knowing it’s the polite thing to do, and in an effort to rid myself of the onus of Lola, I begin to knead Leigh Rose’s breasts, still firm as ever, breasts most men would eat nails to nuzzle against. My touch causes her to stir and squirm, and her hands roam from my chest down to my midsection, as though on a trip south toward my groin. My body tenses and she pulls back from me, her puzzled expression radiating concern.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, of course. Maybe this is a little overwhelming for my delicate senses.”

  “I want to be overwhelmed. Overwhelm me, Eddie.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Such bravado! It’s John Wayne on that sofa, getting ready to pull out his six-shooter and mow down a helpless tribe of Injuns. The American male can admit to no weakness. Dutifully I unzip her workout jacket, somehow convinced that this time will be different, that I’ll become Priapus, and so I lift up her microfiber T-shirt and wedge my hand beneath her jogging bra. She inhales sharply, arching her back ever so slightly, while running her hands through my thinning hair, knocking off my trucker’s hat. It tumbles to the carpeted floor behind us.

  “Take me, Eddie. I’m all yours.”

  “You are so sexy. I forgot how hot you are.”

  “You don’t think I’m old and washed-up?”

  “No way in hell!”

  “You’re so sweet. I’ve always liked that about you.”

  She sits up and removes her warm-up jacket and shirt, and her breasts flop out when the jogging bra comes off. They are rugged-looking, with oval-shaped areolae the color of uncooked flank roast, and heavily freckled near the cleavage. Lola’s jut out with porcelain precision and her nipples protrude like two bullets poised to execute me, but Leigh Rose’s sag under the weight of childbirth, death, gravity, confusion. And yet they are quite welcoming, not imperious like a young woman in the bloom of unblemished beauty, not haughty in the knowledge of their perfection, but honest and friendly, almost neighborly, as if saying, You can stop by anytime!

  She crawls onto my lap, sits on her haunches, and then leans forward to press her chest against my face, though there is something robotic and perfunctory in this gesture, and just as suddenly as she arrives, she tumbles off me as if she’d been knocked over by a gale-force blast of wind. The horrible thought occurs to me that she’s suffering a heart attack, but then she curls into a ball on the sofa and covers her face with her hands as sobs erupt from her. Her crying makes my throat constrict—and I blame myself for this lamentable outcome. My lack of ardor has hurt her feelings and I curse myself for being such a lying scumbag, because Leigh Rose has done nothing to deserve my lame attempt at romance. Except that I actually do want her. At least I’m pretty sure I do. It’s hard to tell anymore.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, petting her shoulder as softly as I can.

  “I’m so sorry,” she sniffles, her face now blotchy and tearstained, a picture of exquisite agony. “I’m just a total mess and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s not fair to you.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “You make me feel free, Eddie. But I’ll never be free. I’ll never be the person I was before. That’s impossible.” She sits up and hurriedly begins to pull her clothes back on, now ashamed to be undressed in front of me. Far from being insulted, I feel a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. “I know you think I’m crazy, and it’s not you. It really isn’t. Seeing you today, it sent shock waves through my body. I felt alive for the first time in a long time. But here’s the thing. I’m just going to tell you because I know you won’t judge me and I trust you. The whole idea of sex, it makes me sick. Like physically ill. I want to puke right now.”

  “Let me get you some water.”

  “That’s sweet, thanks.”

  I hop up from the sofa and hurry to the bar, where there’s a small rinsing sink. I fill a glass from the tap and bring it back to Leigh Rose, who gulps down the water as if she’d been wandering the Sahara for a year. She seems to take comfort in my small gesture of kindness, and her face relaxes as she leans back and gives me a weary smile. “How long has this been happening?” I ask in a clinical voice, the one I use with students who come to me with stories of sorrow to explain why an assignment will be late.

  “Oh, gosh. It’s gotten worse lately, that’s for sure.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I hate to use the expression ‘it’s complicated,’ but it’s complicated. Really stupid and complicated. Eddie, I’m so sick of everything. Not my kids. I love them with all my heart. But everything else, I could do without. Including sex. Especially sex.” She pauses for me to register an emotion, but I can maintain a detached facade for hours. I’ve heard it all from my students, which is an understatement of epic proportions.

  “You’re moving downtown, so that’s a positive step.”

  “It’s paltry compared to what needs to happen. You’re not mad at me, are you, for being such a tease? Because I feel like a huge loser for freaking out on you.”

  My chance to be the Sensitive Guy! You might remember this stereotype from the 1970s, with the turtleneck sweater, suede jacket, and bell-bottom jeans, who was hip to feminism and had an open mind. We gave him a Viking funeral in the Reagan Years. But in my case, I don’t even have to pretend. I abhor intercourse as much as she does, possibly more. “You’re a beautiful and sexy lady, and I just like spending time with you. Maybe not getting puked on, but I’m down with just hanging out and listening to music.”

  She appears stunned by this assertion and shakes her head in small, disbelieving circles. “Seeing you is a sign, that’s exactly what it is. Me running into you was no accident. It was meant to happen.”

  “I usually don’t like to attribute things to fate, but now I’m starting to wonder.”

  “Yeah, I was meant to find you, today of all days. To keep me strong.”

  I infer that Jeb’s sudden intrusion at Starbucks relates in some way to her newfound adherence to our shared destiny, but at that point I’m not sure how the dim-witted walrus factors in. Remember that Jeb Wardell is but one of my possible killers and/or victims, as I’ll soon find out. Very soon, by the looks of it, because a loud buzzing interrupts the music and Leigh Rose’s face becomes stricken with sudden anguish.

  “Someone’s here,” she gasps, bolting up from the sofa. I a
ssume it’s Jeb, who’s come to resume whatever argument with Leigh Rose he’d tried to start earlier. At this point I still don’t know the extent of the situation into which I’ve unwittingly stumbled. Jeb is an idiot, for sure, but even an idiot must realize that I pose no threat to Leigh Rose, and I don’t see why he’d hold a grudge against me, to the point of twice barging in on us like a ferocious house mother at a sorority sleepover. But there is much about Jeb’s life that remains hidden from me, and a plausible motive will emerge in time.

  “Maybe I should go,” I suggest, but Leigh Rose pushes me back down when I try to stand up.

  “No way! Not unless you’ve got somewhere else to be. I’m not letting them shove me around anymore. And we haven’t finished our drinks.”

  Them. A plural pronoun and the first intimation that my adversary isn’t only Jeb Wardell, but another unnamed coconspirator. This is indeed getting heavy. I gaze down at my white shoes, the proximate cause of my current dilemma. I could end this entire standoff in one second by simply showing Leigh Rose the remaining texts from the Promiscuous One back in Ithaca, and all her illusions about me would shatter. But Leigh Rose seems to need me for emotional support and I don’t intend to bail on her just to save my own skin. What Richmond gallant would ever retreat on the first day of Gettysburg, when it still seemed as if General Lee could march our brave boys to victory?

  “I do like this scotch,” I say with a Tom Selleck flair, “and Glenfarclas is probably worth dying for. So I’ll stay until I hear from my mother.”

  Another clamorous buzz of the doorbell. Leigh Rose’s mouth grimly sets into a disapproving frown. “Great. Pour another drink. I’ll be right back.”

  Alone in a dead man’s man cave, drinking his scotch, coveting his spouse, and checking the smartphone for a new message from Lola, the only person in the world who truly understands me. She has vowed to write a book one day, a tell-all, the kind of confessional sob story that Americans crave. But I’ve beaten her to the punch, haven’t I? You can push a liar only so far before he begins to worship the truth like a sadhu. Hail all liars who vow one day to divulge the depths of their secret depravity! Lies form the volcanoes from which truth erupts in great spurting spasms of hellacious lava, and I do apologize for the sexual overtones of that imagery.

  Nothing from Lola. Perhaps she and Thor and the feral roommate Dahlia are off cavorting again, and maybe today is the day I’ll finally summon the courage to ask Lola to send me no more of those photos, those texts, that thrill me to the deepest parts of my soul. Why do I even like it? That’s what I’ll never understand. Sometimes I compare my morbid curiosity about Lola’s sex life to the process of desertification, when once-fertile areas undergo profound environmental degradation and then turn into barren wastelands. Trees are removed, soil erodes, and streams dry up. I grew limp, Bev left me, and Lola took up the space in my brain once devoted to love, to scholarship, to being happy.

  If my inner life is a desert, then Leigh Rose represents the first nourishing drops of rain that can reclaim the blasted lands of my soul and turn them once again into a garden, not of Eden, but perhaps of Nod, where Abel was sent to live out his days.

  At that point Leigh Rose returns, alone, no Jeb clamoring for my head on a platter. She breezes in and heads right to the bar and her vodka. “That was one of the lawn guys,” she informs me, hoisting herself onto a stool. “He thought he saw someone snooping around.”

  “Really? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I know who it was.”

  “Jeb?”

  “He’d just kick the front door down. No, it’s a man I’ve been seeing. A man who wants to marry me. A man I really don’t like very much.” This series of disclosures makes my chest tighten, since each tidbit contains its own unique surprise. She has a boyfriend? He’s proposed? She doesn’t like him?

  “Is he gone?” I actually crane my neck to scope out my blind side.

  “Yeah, he’s gone. The lawn guy saw him run and jump into a car and take off.”

  “I don’t know this person obviously, but aren’t you worried? This isn’t normal.”

  “It bothers me a ton, which is why I don’t want to marry him. Trust me, if he does it again, I’ll call the police.”

  “Stalking someone is against the law, and I think you’re being too charitable. Even one time isn’t acceptable.” I know plenty about the stalking laws in the state of New York, so I’m speaking as an expert.

  “He’s just pissed. He proposed to me last night and I said I didn’t know what I wanted. But I do now, thanks to you.”

  I appreciate the compliment but I don’t let it go to my head. There are still too many unanswered questions that linger. “Is that why Jeb chased you down at Starbucks?”

  “Yeah, he’s ticked at me because it’s his best friend. Norris Mumford.”

  I try to place the name but can’t, as I’ve been gone from Richmond too long and I never moved in the same social circle as Leigh Rose anyway. “He proposed to you?”

  “He did, but he doesn’t love me. He’s a jerk. He just wants my money and I was too feeble to call him on it. See, Eddie? That’s the kind of person I’ve become. I can’t even stand up for myself anymore. But as soon as I saw you, it’s like my entire personality changed like that!” She snaps her fingers for emphasis, and then rushes over and jumps into my arms, and I cradle her as if I’ve just rescued her from a burning building. “Your white shoes saved me. I was so lost, and now I just can’t even describe how strong I feel. Norris doesn’t even like music! I mean, come on. Who doesn’t like music?”

  A good question, but an even better one is: “Why were you with him to begin with?”

  She summons the answer from a plaintive sigh that floats out of her mouth as her body slumps low, tranquilized by confusion. “I don’t know, why do I do anything? There’s no good reason. He’s a spoiled brat from St. Chris who emotionally never left high school and I just went with it because he was Jeb’s buddy and I was lonely. He’s good-looking, I guess, in a plastic sort of way. He can be funny in small doses. But he is so incredibly boring and predictable! Not like you at all!”

  She kisses me on the cheek and then lets her head rest on my shoulder. So now I realize what I’m up against. Jeb Wardell thinks I’ve broken up the relationship between his sister and his best friend, and Jeb Wardell isn’t the kind of person who just forgives and forgets. If Norris Mumford is anything like Jeb, then I’ve got double the trouble to deal with. But Leigh Rose doesn’t seem concerned about my safety (or hers), perhaps because she can’t admit the worst about her brother and can’t entertain the possibility that I’m even in danger. Or are they the ones in danger, Jeb and Norris, the dynamic duo of my undoing?

  At that point my phone rings. My mother is calling, and thus I have to take it. Leigh Rose eases off me as I answer.

  “I can’t move,” my poor mother rasps in a voice as rocky as a celebrity marriage.

  “Where are you?”

  “In my car.”

  “Are you driving?”

  “No. I can’t drive. My body won’t work.” Then she sniffles, as heartrending a sound as I’ve ever heard.

  “Are you having chest pains?”

  “No. It’s a panic attack.”

  “I didn’t know you got those.”

  Leigh Rose is looking on with an expression of concern, which is touching. My mother’s plight matters to her. Not that Bev was cold or lacked compassion, but she at times kept a distance from my problems. I reach over and squeeze her hand in gratitude.

  “My wedding dress doesn’t fit,” my mother explains, still sounding weak and breathless. “I was at the shop speaking with the seamstress and we were debating what to do with the sleeves. I hate the sleeves. This dress makes me look so ugly, so old and ugly.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “I don’t know who I’m kidding. I’m going to be the ugliest bride in history.”

  “Don’t say tha
t. You look great.”

  “I look sixty years old. No, ninety! My arms are so fat. They didn’t used to be. Is it too late for liposuction?”

  “Have you called Mead?”

  “Of course I haven’t called him. Why would I do that?” Sarcasm drips from her tremulous voice in thick, mordant gobs, and it’s apparent that this “panic attack” is related somehow to him. He’s done something to make her question and doubt.

  “Because he’s going to be your husband.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, and Leigh Rose sighs in commiseration.

  My mother clears her throat as a way of gathering her strength. “He’s too busy today. I don’t want to upset him. He gets very emotional when he thinks I need help. He feels things very deeply.”

  “I’ll come get you then. Where are you?”

  She doesn’t reply right away, but instead inhales sharply before emitting a cleansing sigh. “I’m starting to feel better,” she offers without much conviction. “I’m pretty sure I can drive.”

  “Mom, come on. I want to help you and you shouldn’t drive when you’re having a panic attack. You might get in an accident.”

  “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me, Eddie. This is between me and you. No one can know.” She sounds panicked now, and for reasons I don’t understand. Why does she want to hide her condition from her loved ones? Or is it just Mead who can’t know? I can’t say that I like the dynamics of their relationship, in which she can’t count on him when she’s in trouble and he isn’t allowed to learn of the inner workings of her psyche.

  “Fine. This is our secret. Where are you? You haven’t even told me that.”

  “I’m in the parking lot of O’Bloom’s on Forest Hill. I’ll be fine, Eddie, I promise. We’re supposed to meet up for lunch at one o’clock back at the house. Mead really wants to meet you. You can make it, right? One o’clock?” All of a sudden she’s morphed back into her old self, yet I can’t fathom the reason for her original call. Was this her way of letting me know that not all is well in the House of Mead, an indirect method of communication where she tacitly admits that this marriage is a mistake while continuing to rush headlong into it?