“Name one couple that doesn’t fight.”
“OK, what about Leo and The Little Lady?”
“HA!”
“Did you just ‘HA!’ at me?”
“I most definitely did. How can you say they never fought? They were married for how many years?”
“Over seventy, if I remember correctly.”
“Right. Longer than a lot of people will ever be alive. And you don’t think in all that time they ever fought?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Yeah, well, most people don’t go to their place of business and get in huge public fights. I mean, you and I bickering a lot—that’s different. And maybe when they got older, when they finally got used to each other’s ways, Leo and The Little Lady didn’t fight. But it can’t have been like that forever. I’m sure, in the beginning, they must have had issues with lots of things. Everyone does.” She pauses. “What were you thinking, that after you and Helen got married, life together was going to be perfect forever and ever?”
When she puts it like that, it makes me sound like a naive schmo.
“Well, no, but—”
“So you had a fight.”
“You keep saying that, but it was more. It was like, I don’t know, the kitchen sink of all fights.”
“What do you mean?”
“We threw everything at each other: my not standing up for myself to her stupid friend, Daniel; the amount of time we spend with my friends and family, the pets, the annoying clock, even stuff that happened on the cruise ship.”
“That is a lot of stuff. Maybe it would’ve been, I don’t know, more useful to address these issues in a calm manner as they actually arose?”
“You make that sound so…reasonable.”
“Oh, come on, you know me. Even on my best days, I’m about as far from reasonable as a person can get. But since I found Lily, I’m starting to learn. She’s worth it.”
“Hey, how’s that working?”
“It takes time. But I think we’re getting there.”
“I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair. “Some of the things we said…I even told her I don’t like karaoke.”
“Crap.” Sam’s so far on the edge of her seat now, another inch and she’ll fall off. “You didn’t tell her she sings like shit, did you?”
“God, no. What do you think I am, a complete idiot? I mean, the words were right there in my mouth, but I managed to force them back down again.”
“Thank you.” Sam collapses back in relief. “Just so long as you didn’t say that, everything can still be worked out. You just have to figure out how best to do that.”
Yes, that is the thing I need to do. Sam makes it sound so easy. But if it’s so easy, why do I still feel like this could be the end of my world?
There’s only so much hawkey a guy can take, or this guy, so after about fifteen minutes of trying to follow the puck, I make my excuses and depart. It’s only about twelve-thirty in the morning now, though, and I’m still not ready to go home. What if Helen’s not back yet? A part of me may want to fix things, a part of me may be sorry that any of this ever happened, but another part of me is reluctant to be the guy waiting home for her whenever she decides to just stroll in. And what if she never decides to stroll in? That notion is just too depressing.
So I decide to head over to Billy’s place. Billy’s always been a night owl. He’s sure to be up.
Sure enough, when I pull up in front of his raised ranch, I can see lights on through the living room curtains. Still, after trudging up the front steps, I tap lightly, just in case Alice is asleep.
But it’s Alice who answers the door. She’s wearing a green tank, gray sweat pants and pink fuzzy slippers, and she looks dejected standing there with a half-filled wineglass in her hand, tilted at a hard enough angle I worry some might slosh out onto the hardwood floor of the entryway.
“Johnny!” She visibly brightens upon seeing me, which, I must say, is gratifying. What man doesn’t want women to be happy to see him? And really, when has Alice ever looked so happy to see me? It does feel good.
“Hey, Alice,” I say. “Is Billy around?”
“I’m sure he must be around somewhere,” she says, “but he’s not around here.” She opens the door wider. “Come on in.”
“That’s OK. If Billy’s not here, I don’t want to distur—”
“Come on.” She hooks her free hand through my elbow, gives a little yank, and I’m in. Also, that yanking shakes her own body enough that some of her white wine does slosh out on the floor. “Oops.” She giggles.
I follow her into the living room where it looks like she’s been having a party for one. There’s an empty wine bottle on the coffee table and a second that looks like it’s missing about a glass. The crumbs all over the table and a lone potato chip suggest that at one point, there was food involved.
I’m about to park myself in a side chair, when Alice grabs my elbows—not so easy to do with the hand that still has the wineglass—and pushes me toward the couch and down onto it. “Here, sit, sit. Would you like some wine?”
“That’s OK. I—”
“I’ll go get you a glass.”
There’s some noises from the kitchen and a minute later she’s back, sits down on the couch a few feet away from me, sets the glasses down on the table. When she goes to reach for the wine bottle, her hand misses.
“I got it,” I say, lifting the bottle. I pour myself a half glass but don’t top hers up, even though it’s empty. It’s not like I want to hog it all for myself, but rather, Alice looks like she might be done for the night, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Really, I’ve never seen Alice look so…un-Alice before, and it’s kind of disturbing, so I study the label on the wine bottle instead.
“Huh,” I say, reading the label, “Diet Girl. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that vintner before. Why would you buy something like this? It seems, I don’t know, demeaning to women. Besides, you don’t need to drink diet.”
“I know,” Alice says, “but look at the cartoon girl on the label. She looks like she’s having such a good time.”
“You think? I don’t get that at all.” I study the label more closely. “To me, she looks kind of bitchy, like maybe she’d be happier if she ate a cookie now and then or something.”
“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Johnny.” She winks one eye as she sights along her extended index finger and cocked thumb, like it’s a gun pointed at me. “You’ve always been different.”
When has Alice ever had something she always liked about me? This Alice is not only un-Alice; this Alice is downright unsettling.
“Where’d you say Billy is?” I say. “Maybe I should go.”
But apparently Alice doesn’t want to talk about Billy.
“Do you think it’s too bright in here?” She pops off the couch, starts turning off lights. “I think it’s too bright in here.”
Mission accomplished, she returns to sit beside me, only now she’s not a few feet away, she’s right next to me. It’s a good thing the moon’s low on this side of the house, there are street lamps on outside and the drapes are sheer, because otherwise I’d be completely in the dark here.
“There, that’s better,” Alice says, inching closer still so that now…Hey, is that her thigh pressing against mine?
“What are you doing, Alice?” I say, doing a little hop move away from her to make our thighs stop touching.
But she answers my retreat with another advance and, yup, that thigh is back again.
“Alice,” I try again, hop-moving at the same time, “what are you doing?”
“Something I’ve been wanting to do for a really long time now,” she says, and despite the darkness, I see her head making incremental advances toward mine. Wait. Are her lips heading for my lips?
There were so many times, countless times, growing up and even well into adulthood, that I fantasized about such a moment: Alice—beautiful and unattainable and always untou
chable Alice, the one and only girl of my childhood dreams—making the moves on me. But I never once, in all my fantasizing, was delusional enough to actually believe such a thing would ever happen. I mean, how would such a thing ever occur? Alice never could stand me, or at least, for the longest time she couldn’t. No way would Alice ever want to kiss me, let alone initiate it. Against all odds, though, it would seem that a moment I dreamed of so many times is finally here.
And yet now that the moment is here, with her lips just a single breath from mine…
I place my hands on her shoulders. As gently as possible, I push her away.
“You don’t want to kiss me?” Her voice when she speaks is puzzled, wounded, small.
“It’s not a question of want, Alice.” I think about how best to say this, knowing I only have the one chance to get it exactly right. “I know I’ve never said it to your face before, and yet I’m certain you’ve always known: growing up, as far as the opposite sex was concerned, you were everything to me. I knew I’d never have you, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming, and there were times I would have given almost anything to make dream become reality. But you’re Billy’s wife—you’re my best friend’s wife—and I’m married to Helen, who I love and would never cheat on. So while I’m flattered—you will never know how flattered I am that you would think of me that way, even for a second—the answer has to be no. I will always treasure this moment, but it can’t be anything. And while I don’t think you’ve ever thanked me for anything, believe me, when you get up tomorrow morning, you will thank me for this.”
And just like that, Alice’s face crumbles and she starts to cry. I don’t know what I was expecting with my speech—that she’d get angry in typical Alice fashion, or be hurt which would manifest itself as anger in typical Alice fashion—but I never expected this. If Alice trying, wanting to kiss me was surprising, it pales in comparison to this. In over a quarter of a century knowing her, I have never seen Alice cry before. Even when we were nine, playing in a game of neighborhood baseball with Alice pitching, and Drew hit the ball straight back at her, a bullet that nailed her right in the left boob. Instinctively, her gloved hand went right to her chest but when people crowded around to see if she was OK, she just gritted her teeth and angrily waved everyone away. I could see tears in her eyes, but she just willfully blinked them back, because no matter how much pain she might be in, Alice could not, would not let anyone see her cry.
So to see her like this now is—no other word for it—shocking.
I don’t know what to do so, tentatively, I reach a hand out, give her a few pats on the shoulder. I even murmur “there, there” a few times, which, let me tell you, is not all that effective. Finally, I just open my arms and she falls into them, resting her head against my shoulder as she cries.
“Oh God.” She sobs. “Billy.”
“Billy? What’s wrong with Billy? He’s not sick, is he?”
“No, he’s not sick,” she says, pushing away from me and wiping at her wet nose with the back of her hand in a move that is so un-Alice, I feel like we’ve entered another dimension. “But during the week, we’re mostly never here at the same time. And when we are, all we seem to ever do is fight.”
“Is that why he’s not here right now?”
“He just stormed off. He does that. I don’t know where he goes. Maybe he’s cheating on me?”
“No, you can’t think like that.”
“What else should I think? It’s, what, nearly two in the morning?”
“Well, I’m not at home, it’s nearly two in the morning, and I’m not cheating, so I don’t think you can draw a direct relationship between a person’s absence from home and marital infidelity.”
“Wait a second. Why are you here at two in the morning?”
“Because Helen and I had a fight,” I say, the awfulness of it all rushing back at me.
“I don’t believe it,” Alice says, rising abruptly. Then: “Give me a minute.”
The minute is more like five, during which I hear a lot of clattering from the kitchen and the sound of running water more than once. When she finally returns, she’s carrying a tray with cups and saucers, her hair’s been pulled back in a ponytail, and there are still some drops of water on her face—I’m thinking she threw water at herself.
She sets the tray down on the coffee table and hands me a cup. “Here’s your tea,” she says, then she turns the lights back on before resuming her seat beside me, taking the other cup in her hands. “I’m ready to sympathize now. What’s going on?”
So I tell her.
I tell her, not only about the fight we had tonight, but also about all the months leading up to it, all the little things that kept getting on my nerves, sometimes without me even realizing that was what was happening, without saying anything about it.
“I think that could be your biggest problem right there,” she interjects at one point, “letting things just build up like that, keeping too much inside.”
“Well, forgive me for saying so, but it seems to me that you and Billy have been letting things out too much.”
I expect her to get mad at this because, you know, she’s Alice, but she just gives me a rueful smile. “Maybe so,” she concedes, taking a sip of tea. “Go on.”
So I do.
As I talk—and talk and talk and talk—it turns out that Alice is a fantastic listener. Why didn’t I ever know this about her? But not only that, she’s good at giving practical advice too.
Alice says that Helen and I, what with the regular routine we’ve lapsed into, have been spending way too much time with other people—family and friends—when we really need to make a point of still going on dates together, just us; that we need more quality alone time as a couple.
Alice says that going for so long without saying what’s on our minds is a big problem and we’re going to need to learn how to express our thoughts as things occur.
Alice says that, even though it’s important to express our thoughts, we need to pick our actual battles, as in: “Is this thing that’s bothering me now going to still matter in five minutes? Five days? Five years?” And Alice says that we should only ever fight about the specific matter at hand, meaning we shouldn’t use it as an occasion to dredge up every last little thing that’s ever gotten on our nerves.
“Geez, this is some good shit you got here,” I say. “Maybe I should take notes? You know, make a list?”
I half expect her to laugh in my face at this, but she disappears into the kitchen again, returning with two legal pads and two pens.
“Why two?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe it’s time I started taking my own excellent advice.”
I write down what I can remember of what she told me, which, since I didn’t indulge in any of the Diet Girl, turns out to be quite a bit.
“Oh, oh!” Alice gets excited. “Also, you should make a list of all the things you like about Helen, you know, all the positive things that made you fall in love with her in the first place. It’s hard to stay mad at someone when you’re busy thinking about how wonderful they are.”
“Hey.” I point my pen at her. “That is good.”
This is such an easy list to make: smart, funny, sharp, talented, loves sports, took in Stavros and—I study the list, know something’s missing then realize what it is—beautiful. And then, of course, there are specific instances of her being all those things, which I start to list too, sometimes laughing appreciatively as I do so.
Soon, the page is completely full, with extra notes crowding the margins. I look over at Alice’s sheet, which is much less crowded, substantially so. Still, there are a few lines filled, so maybe there’s some hope.
“I’ll have to keep working on it,” Alice says pensively.
I fold my own sheet in half several times and hold it in the air—“Thanks for this,” I tell her—before putting it in my pocket.
“Anytime.” She doesn’t even bother to stifle her yawn.
“Hey.�
�� I look at my watch. “Look at the time.” It’s nearly four in the morning. “I should let you get some sleep.”
“That’s OK,” she says, walking me to the door. “I’m going to wait up until Billy comes home.”
“OK,” I say, “but, you know, when he comes in, maybe don’t yell at him right away?”
“Would I do that?” She laughs, but there’s a peculiar-for-Alice self-awareness to that laugh that gives me hope for her and Billy. “We’ll see. Oh, I almost forgot!”
“What’s that?”
“Another piece of advice. It’s good to talk in a relationship. But it’s possible to talk too much. Like, you know how people say, ‘I want to know everything about you?’ Believe me, no one wants that.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“And hey, while you’ve been making a list of all the reasons you love Helen, I hope she’s been making a list of all the wonderful things she sees in you.”
“That,” I say with a rueful laugh, “would have to be an extraordinarily short list.”
“Are you kidding me?” I guess that must have been a rhetorical question because without waiting for an answer, Alice bulldozes ahead. “You’re a good, kind man. You’re a faithful friend. And look at the way you are with your dad.”
“Aw, everyone loves Big John.”
“I know that. I love him too. But you carry him, Johnny.”
“So? He carried me when I was young.”
“I don’t mean just physically. You carry him, Johnny. In your own weird way, you carry everybody.”
“I’m glad you added the word ‘weird.’” I laugh nervously. “For a minute there, I thought we were having a moment there.”
“We are,” she says. “Since it’s true confession time tonight, let me just say that I’ve always known you were great.”
“Even when you thought I was a total dick?”
“Yes, even then. Oh, I’m not saying you didn’t get on my nerves—growing up, you hopped on every last nerve I had—but I always knew, deep down, what an innately good person you are. It just shines off of you. Sure, you get things wrong, but you mean well—sometimes, I think you mean well more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 27