Unreliable

by Lee Irby

  “I thought you hated me,” I remind her coolly, still struggling to figure out what to do. I can’t set up a blockade of the city, although some of the breastworks remain from 1862, when Richmond prepared for a Yankee invasion of a different kind.

  “I do hate you, with all my heart.”

  “Can you call your parents please? They’re worried and your dad called me, which really freaked me out.”

  “Oh, I talked to them already. They know everything.”

  She places erotic emphasis on the last word, twisting it like a dagger in my back. “You told them about me?” I whisper as the piano player switches to a jazzier number, Gershwin’s “Summertime,” but the living ain’t easy right now, not with Lola cackling in delight just as Leigh Rose emerges from behind a large marble column and waves at me with a big smile, holding up my “I Have Issues” hat.

  “No, but I should tell them!” Lola erupts. “You’re being such a d-bag. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? It’s because of Thor, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s because of Horse.”

  “Whatever, dude! I’m sick of talking about him.”

  “Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. Not even a little. Thor, Horse, I can’t keep them straight anymore. But the worst thing you did was tell Dahlia about us.”

  “You’re such a loser.”

  And then she hangs up on me, promptly exiting on Leigh Rose’s entrance, the way characters randomly come and go in one of Beckett’s absurdist plays. I stand up to greet my old sweetheart, and we embrace, not like lovers whose bodies have become one, but the way survivors cling to each other to weather a storm.

  “I have your hat,” she tells me in a soft voice that sounds faintly hoarse, either from overuse or crying or both. She’s dressed not in casual wear but a prim and proper gingham dress with a string of pearls, like she’s going to a country-club cocktail party. She’s got makeup on, too, and it unsettles me to see her rendered thus, just another well-appointed woman of ample means displaying her wealth and privilege while hiding any trace of irony. I barely recognize her.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking it from her and shoving it into a pocket. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Um, sure. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting my father at six.” This declaration seems to force her down into a chair, as if the words themselves weighed too much for her to withstand. Then she falls silent, offering no further clarification, though she need not provide me with any. I get the waiter’s attention and he quickly comes to us. Leigh Rose orders a house white and asks for the check. I don’t bother to complain.

  “I got married here,” she says after the waiter leaves.

  “You did?”

  “I did. It was my mother’s dream wedding.”

  “Not yours?”

  “I don’t have any dreams, Eddie.”

  I lean forward and take her hand, which feels cold and lifeless. “What’s wrong? You seem very down and depressed. Did things not go well with Norris? Isn’t that his name? Norris Mumford?”

  “Things never go well with Norris.” She emits a nervous giggle that lacks all mirth, removing her hand from mine. “I’m sorry, it’s just I’m in a horrible mood. The worst mood ever.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You really can’t. No one can.” The wine comes but she doesn’t even touch the glass. The waiter places it in front of her but Leigh Rose is somewhere else, far from here. How to get her back before she disappears forever? When we dated, we were always honest with each other. Shouldn’t I just fill her in on what I’m going through? What do I have to lose?

  “I’ve had an interesting day, too. The girl I’ve been seeing back in Ithaca is driving down here to see me, uninvited.”

  She perks up, even lifts up the glass of wine to her painted lips. “The young ’un?”

  “She’s impetuous.”

  “Oh, Eddie. You’re a bigger fool than me.”

  “It gets better. She’s one of my students.”

  Her eyes grow wide, but she’s animated again. Even smiling. “Isn’t that, like, illegal?”

  “No. Just highly unethical.”

  Laughter! We clink glasses in a gregarious toast, and color has returned to her once-pallid face. “Why is she coming down here?”

  “Because I told her we couldn’t keep this up. She hopped in her car and started driving. I expect her around ten. Unless she’s lying, which is entirely possible. She enjoys toying with me. That’s an understatement. She lives to toy with me. It gives her untold pleasure.”

  “And you, too?”

  I cock my head back and gulp down some air. “I derive some satisfaction from her cruelty, yes. Mostly I feel disgust.”

  “Cruelty? Does she hurt you?”

  “Not physically. Nothing like that. We’ve never actually consummated our relationship, in case you’re keeping score.”

  Leigh Rose nearly leaps out of her chair, and her hands go to her gaping mouth. Her reaction is akin to that of an Amazonian explorer who encounters a truly unique culture based on unusual practices. Eating the brains of the deceased, brothers mating with sisters—the sort of depravity long since considered taboo in our world but very much alive in the isolated jungle of my id. “I don’t get it. Why is she coming here?”

  “Exactly. Why indeed? You’ve summed up the situation perfectly. There’s no logical explanation.”

  “But she might not be coming?”

  “I long ago stopped trying to understand any of it. She’s a lovely person, a very talented poet, but highly flammable. I should’ve known better. I’ll blame my ex-wife. Isn’t that how divorce operates?”

  “But you guys don’t actually…?” Her voice trails off, and I can tell that she is utterly fascinated by my indiscretion and wants to know more—and there is so much more to tell. Yet divulging all too quickly won’t work to my advantage, and so I shake my head and slurp down the rest of my wine.

  “It’s hard to explain the mechanics of this relationship,” I demur with a devilish smirk.

  “I guess it’s none of my business.”

  “No, I just wanted you to know that you aren’t the only person today who’s been placed in an awkward situation—not that I equate my problems with yours. Mine are trifling compared with what you’ve been going through.”

  She sighs and checks the time. “My father is mad at me. My brother is furious, obviously. My mother won’t talk to me.”

  “Just because you won’t marry Norris?”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  She seems unwilling to expound, and so I stick to what I do know. “So you’ve been summoned?”

  “Yes, I’ve been summoned. I’m going to be read the riot act, I suppose. For the hundredth time. They can yell and scream all they want to, but it won’t change anything. It won’t make me love that prick.”

  The word “prick” momentarily stymies me, but I push on. “Why do they care who you marry or who you don’t marry?”

  “There’s a few million reasons why, Eddie.”

  “Of course. Everyone wants to live where the streets are paved with gold. El Dorado, the ultimate gated community.”

  “But not you, huh?”

  Suspicions regarding my motives? Or just the kind of verbal jousting that has come to define our repartee? “When I joined the ranks of academia, I took a vow of poverty.”

  “Is that why colleges are so cheap to attend?”

  “Very funny. Faculty salaries aren’t why tuition has risen. It doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m going to jail.”

  “Wait a sec! You said you weren’t doing anything illegal.”

  “My lawyer told me to say that.”

  We’re chuckling again, mocking the very troubles that hound us, but what isn’t clear is a path forward. A way out. Life doesn’t come with an escape plan. Spending time with Leigh Rose doesn’t leave me confused or full of self-loathing. I don’t feel fake around her, or like a bore. We share a
natural rapport, but logistics argue against us making it anywhere together. I’m the comic relief in her saga of emotional blackmail, a weekend diversion she can count on being gone by Monday.

  “Thanks for bringing me the hat,” I say with mounting regret, approaching the inevitable good-bye that’ll forever separate us. “It really means a lot to me. It was a gift from my therapist.”

  “I’m glad you two lovebirds are reunited.”

  “It’s a heartwarming story of perseverance and loyalty.”

  “You should write a book about it.”

  “Will you come visit me in jail?”

  “Eddie, stop it. You’re not going to jail.” A pregnant pause. “Are you?”

  “No! But will you come visit me anyway?”

  “In jail?”

  “In Ithaca. Where I live.”

  “I can’t visit you, Eddie. And you can’t visit me.”

  She wipes a tear that rolls down a cheek, just as the pianist strikes up a strange rendition of “All Along the Watchtower.” I use this musical anomaly to deflect her proclamation from puncturing my heart. “Dylan? Am I hearing that right? Is that guy drunk or something?”

  But she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m getting at. She blinks at me uncomprehendingly and leans forward, eyes watery like she’s been chopping an onion. “My father is making me sign a legal document stipulating that I can’t marry anyone who isn’t from my economic status or I’ll be disowned. He’ll cut me out of the will.”

  At first I’m flummoxed and struggle for a response. But around Leigh Rose, I can respond in only one way: sarcastically. “I’m very wealthy. Did you know that about me? I hide it well with trucker’s hats.”

  “I’m serious, Eddie. This sucks. They’re such horrible people.”

  “So you feel it, too? We have something here between us?”

  Note how she doesn’t directly answer. “They seem to think so and they don’t like it one bit. They think you’re after my money, which is hilarious because Norris is after my money but the difference is they want him to have it.”

  “I want you for your body, not your money. They need to get that straight.”

  She bursts into laughter once more and reaches out to grab my hand. “Oh, Eddie. You’re so funny. I know I should tell them to go to hell, but I’ve got my kids to think of. I’d never do anything to hurt them.”

  “But seriously, sparks are flying between us, right? It’s not just my overwrought imagination?”

  “Sparks have been sighted, yes. But I’m in a bad place right now and not very good company.”

  “I wouldn’t want you any other way, Leigh Rose.”

  “I need to get going. Can’t keep Daddy waiting.” She opens her handbag and fishes out a purse that itself looks to be made of money.

  “Okay then. When I wear those white shoes, I’ll always think of you.”

  Her brow furrows in confusion. “White shoes?”

  “For my mother’s wedding?”

  Her entire body sinks from the sorrow that presses down on her. “See, I can’t think right now. My head is so screwed up. These people are wearing me down.” She offers me a meek smile as she drops a twenty on the table to pay for the drinks. “Have fun at the wedding. I hope it goes well.”

  “Yeah, I’ll survive.”

  She can tell my feelings are hurt because she didn’t even remember us buying the shoes at Macy’s. I don’t want her pity or her money or really anything other than a prison cell. I stand to leave, and she hops up as well. “Hey,” she says softly, once again taking my hand like she’s leading a lost child through the darkness. “Thanks for cheering me up today. I really needed that in the worst way. You’re in my thoughts, Eddie. I just have too many thoughts right now, my brain is so crowded and cluttered.”

  “I know. They’re putting the screws to you.”

  She rises up, clutching my arms, and plants a sweet kiss on my cheek. Then she leaves.

  I’m angry. Resentful, wounded, and frankly numb. Once again I’ve allowed myself to be duped and placed in a position where I look ridiculous. Did I actually think she’d fall in love with me after confessing to my crimes? I’m an idiot full of bile and bitterness. But here’s the strange part, the part you really can’t make up, as it comes directly from the department of Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction—whom do I see lurking in the background, biding time beneath a white marble statue of Thomas Jefferson, but Jeb Wardell himself! The rotund walrus has come to supervise his sister and ferry her across the River Styx to the promised land of her riches.

  You can’t believe what madness takes hold of me, the mild-mannered writing instructor who has been accused of lacking passion and ardor, as I stride purposefully across the high-domed lobby of a prestigious hotel to confront my tormentor. I overtake even Leigh Rose herself, who doesn’t know I’m coming up behind her, and glare at Jeb, whose back stiffens at my approach. We say nothing to each other. Leigh Rose grabs an arm to prevent any further advance.

  “Come on, Eddie,” she pleads with me.

  The index finger of my free hand becomes a knife and I slice it across my throat in a dramatic if not tawdry gesture of violent retribution at which Jeb scoffs in one belching wheeze.

  “Eddie! Please!” Leigh Rose squeals in a whisper.

  I break free of her grip and backpedal away, my eyes still fixed on the bulbous girth of my nemesis, who has only contempt for me and assumes that I’m idly threatening him, which is likely true. But it goes well past that. What I’ve done is sign my own death warrant. You can’t just make a deadly gesture to someone like Jeb Wardell and not pay the ultimate price. I’ve never threatened anyone before. Not even Igor, who didn’t know me and one presumes never lost a night’s sleep worrying whether Bev would go back to me. Sure, I imagined killing him, but he was blissfully unaware of that.

  What have I done now? Why can’t I control myself?

  Moments after the showdown, I’m sitting at the bar inside the Jefferson Hotel, the Lemaire, sipping on a glass of wine, and contemplating the end of existence. Socrates wasn’t scared of death, but I am. Not just death…but my mother’s mortification when she learns the truth about me, which strikes me as worse than death.

  Happy Hour, and my thoughts have turned to mayhem. Then someone taps me on the shoulder.

  “You aren’t Eddie Stith, are you?” asks a man around my age, wearing a blue blazer but no tie. I recognize him at once: John Graziano, aka the Graz, my boyhood friend and neighbor, a certified legend in high school for his prodigious appetite for drugs and sex, which he then parlayed into a career as a high-end dealer of narcotics, if the rumors are true.

  “Graz?”

  “I thought it was you! Hey, man, how’s it going?” We engage in a vigorous handshake as a willowy blonde looks on with a whimsical smile. Whether she’s with Graz or not, I can’t tell.

  “Not bad. How about you?”

  “The same.” He holds up a half-finished highball of some potent decoction. “Just gettin’ my crunk on. Haven’t seen you in a while, huh? Where you been hiding out, you big wuss?”

  “I live in upstate New York. I’m a college professor.”

  “Yeah? You nailing some hotties or what? I know I damn sure would be.”

  A fake snicker escapes my trembling lips. Having confessed once, I’m in no mood to come clean again. Some secrets should remain hidden forever. “Yeah, you’d last about ten minutes before you got slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  “Tell me about it. Hey, you remember Mrs. Lambert from high school? The one with the huge cans? I was banging the crap out of her senior year.”

  “I knew it! She was always smiling at you and waving, and she never once looked at me, never. You bastard.”

  “It was sweet. She was a freak. She still hits me up from time to time, but she got fat, bro. I don’t do fat chicks.”

  The blonde rolls her eyes at us, grabs her drink, and slips away. The Graz isn’t subtle. He’s pretty much live
d his life in capital letters, and he would certainly know how to kill Jeb Wardell. He probably could do it with his eyes closed. But you can’t just come out and ask someone that kind of candid question. There is much finesse involved, not that I know how to steer a conversation toward the topic of murder. But seeing the Graz after so many years fills me with bravado and I suddenly feel glad that I confronted Jeb Wardell like I did, childish as it was—at least I can say I didn’t let him kick sand in my face. I stood up for myself, perhaps looking foolish while doing so. Therefore I’m completely unprepared for what he says next.

  “I heard you’re in town for your mother’s wedding.” A casual remark, and one I immediately laugh off. It takes a few seconds for me to deduce the tangled logic of his statement. Heard from whom?

  “You did? Who told you that?”

  “I have my sources.” He’s still smiling and seems genial enough. Screwing with people has long been one of his favorite hobbies, but the fact is, precious few people in Richmond know I’m in town, one of them being, of course, Leigh Rose. Another is Jeb. Why would he have spoken to them about me? He didn’t go to their high school or move in their circles—at least he didn’t used to.

  “Well, it’s true.” I sound peevish because I’m flustered by his cryptic behavior that borders on rudeness.

  “Funny what life calls on you to do sometimes, the positions we get put into. You came back home and ran into a bunch of old friends, and you don’t know the whole story—you can’t know the whole story.”

  Now he’s starting to scare me in addition to pissing me off. “What are you talking about? You sound like a Zen master on acid.”

  “Fair enough. Here’s the deal. Leigh Rose Wardell is going through a hard time right now. She’s very fragile, you know. Very delicate. Her family’s been trying to help her, but she won’t take her pills or whatever and no one wants to see her go back to the hospital.”