The Use of Fame

by Cornelia Nixon

  He came out to the foyer, and the three of them stood and spoke stiffly for a few minutes. They did not thank her for the cactus—she slunk away. What on earth were they thinking? Their iciness almost hurt worse than what Ray did.

  And for Christmas, Ray sent her a mixed CD of independent rock, produced on the CD burner she once gave him, his traditional present to his friends—as if she had been smoothly translated from love of his life to one of the boys.

  Thirteen

  Tory’s white poodle, Emile, snored peacefully beside him on the couch, giving off a faint doggy odor, as Ray sat in his air-conditioned house, feeling like hell. His chest hurt now not only up the midline but all the way into his throat, which felt like it was swelling shut. The night before, it was so bad Tory had taken him to the ER, where they told him fluid was collecting in his torso. The ER doctor stuck a long needle into his chest and drained it, filling a giant syringe with watery orange liquid, like a sick Kool-Aid.

  That took the pressure off, and he should have felt better tonight, but he did not. His chest was still on fire, and he was sipping a Bud Light to try to put it out. On the coffee table, the TV showed a Japanese monster movie that was so low-budget you could see the rubber costume on the giant lizard ripple when the guy inside it moved. But that was somewhat amusing, so he watched it with the sound off.

  His phone lay next to the TV, and it chirped out the music that was supposed to sound like owl calls but did not. Johnny, it said.

  He picked it up. “Yeah.”

  “Just checking in for my nightly dose of cheer,” Johnny said. “Hit me with the good news first.”

  Ray gave him the health report. “Turns out the heart is a sump pump, and mine’s not working anymore. Tell me, is it a good thing when people stop saying how thin and pale I am? Floridians used to say it all the time, but now they’ve stopped.”

  “Maybe they’ve gotten used to you,” Johnny suggested. “Or you look so bad they’re afraid to bring it up.”

  “Yeah, probably. I’m down to one-thirty.”

  “Quit bragging. Hey, you should take it easy, man. Eat a steak once in a while and get some rest.”

  Johnny didn’t get it, about his heart, that it was slowly dying in his chest—he thought it was exaggeration, or some kind of metaphor, all in his head. Okay, maybe it was, with all that had happened, with all that he’d gone through, visiting itself on his body. Psychosomatic was the word, but nonetheless he could no longer run, could barely swim. He couldn’t walk more than a block without stopping to pant. Well, in part that was the weather here in horrid south Florida, where it was hot and humid almost all the time.

  Ray changed the subject, told about their dinner a few hours earlier, with a bunch of young wannabes Tory knew from her new job, as a Poet in the Schools.

  “Those kids have no idea what to do with me. I’m just old to them. I’m not their teacher, and they don’t know enough to be impressed with me. They’re like my students. They haven’t read a thing.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “Kids today, just ignorant. Same thing Socrates said about Plato, probably.”

  Ray didn’t have the patience to deal with Johnny tonight, and he found a way to get off the phone, just as Tory walked through the dining room. She was ready for bed, in a yellow T-shirt from the Miami Zoo, with lion cubs on it, her lovely slender legs bare below. As he always did, he admired her lithe quickness and grace, and her young, creamy skin, so delicious to the touch—even if she had trapped him into a dinner with a bunch of ignoramuses.

  She went into the kitchen, turned the water on and off, then walked toward him, across the dining room, with a small smile—though when she saw the beer in his hand, she frowned.

  “You should be in bed,” she said, and nimbly plucked it away from him.

  He reached to snatch it back, but she danced across the room with it.

  “Give that back. It’s only nine o’clock. I’m not six years old.”

  “It’s been dark for hours, and you need sleep. It’ll help get rid of your chest pain.”

  “No, it won’t. The pain’ll keep me awake, so I’m not going in there yet. You go sleep if you want to so much.”

  She carried the beer across two rooms, into the kitchen—he heard it glug into the sink. Of course she was just trying to take care of him, and she understood better than anyone what he was going through. But pushing him around was not the way—there was something prim about her, like her shining dark hair, cut precisely at the jawline and never out of place. But she was just silly about the beer. Of course he could get another as soon as she went to bed.

  She came back and stroked the dog’s head. Emile lifted his head alertly and thumped his tail against the couch, before he relaxed again with a sigh.

  Tory kissed Ray good night, smelling of peppermint from her just-brushed teeth. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  Then she was gone, into the bedroom, and soon the light went out.

  Quietly, he fetched himself another beer, eased it open without a hiss, and used the remote to switch to the weather station. It said it was only seventy in Miami tonight, but he knew it would be a wet, oppressive seventy. God, he hated this place.

  Eventually the weather station got around to the West Coast, and it was like a punch to his chest. Out there, Pacific storms were sweeping through, power-washing every molecule of air, and in Berkeley every tree and bush would be in such enthusiastic bloom that they would froth over fences, never slowing down.

  Yeah, stuff grew that way here, too, but you never got that cold fresh air. It was worth your life to step outside some days, and he hated—hated!—air conditioning, though it was the only way he could breathe. The day he arrived, it had been ninety and raining, and it often seemed like all hell was about to come out of the sky, a hurricane, or at least a violent thunderstorm. Hurricanes in December, for God’s sake, flinging cheesy house trailers across the Everglades.

  He dreaded the thought of summer, a time he used to love. He couldn’t go to Berkeley as a visitor, and he would have to work. Designing and running a new program was turning out to look like year-round work, way more than the department had promised him, in this place where it could be eighty-five degrees in the middle of a summer night. He would have to live indoors and wonder what the fuck he was doing here.

  Even now, in the relative cool of winter, his longing for Berkeley hurt like the chest pain—maybe it was the chest pain. That, and the breakup of his marriage. He no longer expected to recover from it, wasn’t even sure he wanted to. The pathetic truth was, he had started to suspect the whole thing was a big mistake. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he and Abby had parted, a nightmare. Could he ever get it back, no matter what he did? He didn’t know if he could undo enough, if he could ever find a way back or even if there was a back there. He felt like Odysseus, all companions lost.

  It struck him that he hated Miami the same way Abby had loathed Morgantown. He had never understood that, how it was possible to hate the place you lived. He checked his phone—she hadn’t texted him tonight. Quickly he wrote to her.

  “I get it now what it was like for you in Morgantown. I’ve never hated a place before, but I fucking hate Florida. I’m dying so much faster here. Giving up my California driver’s license was a blow. I have a Florida license now, a Florida phone number, a Florida address, like some goddamn ancient retiree. I’m a formerly cool dude, now almost dead.”

  Within seconds, she replied. “You should go see the cardiologist there again.”

  “You have too much faith in doctors,” he wrote back. “That asshole cardio here? He talked about the heart transplant like he couldn’t wait to take a knife to me. They can’t seem to do anything else. They can’t even explain why I’m still on my feet. According to the numbers I should be in a wheelchair. But I’ve outlived my dad by seven years, and so what if I can’t run anymore. Maybe I should get over the fact that I’m not twenty-seven anymore.”

  He waited for her reply, so a
nxiously that he wondered what the fuck he had done to himself. He had thought somehow the better job, and Tory’s love, would save him, end the pain, calm everything down. He had never felt such lust for anyone, monstrous because thwarted, when most of his life there had been an easy transit from desire to act, no need for volcanic buildup.

  And it had been great at first, living that desire—but of course it didn’t last. And now he knew it wasn’t going to turn into something better, the way it did for him and Abs, his own String Bean. With Tory, it was just another relationship, flawed like all of them. But it must be worth all he had trashed for it—wasn’t it? If it wasn’t, nothing added up.

  Standing, he paced through his dark house. He did like the place he’d bought. A simple ranch with hardwood floors and exposed beams in the living room, it had a big open kitchen with a bar at one end and tall stools with red vinyl seats. The antiques he and Abby had found around New England looked great here, primitive Shaker stuff—they both had an eye for it and agreed on every piece, surprisingly, given their differences. Out west they collected Japanese tansus and old Mexican chests, pieces that went together oddly well and would have looked great here, too—the thought made his chest hurt worse. And the state had required that Abby’s name go on the house’s title as his wife, though they spelled it wrong (who used Abigale?). So it was like she haunted the place. He could see her everywhere.

  On the glassed-in porch in back, he looked around the walls for the pink-bellied gecko that lived out there and couldn’t find the guy—he must have some hideout for sleep.

  Opening the door, he stepped outside—the air felt almost bearable, and he could smell wet dirt. Pale moonlight gleamed on his orange trees, and he walked over to one and put his head into its leaves, inhaling their green, spicy scent, as he felt around for nubby fruit. By day, the trees would be bathed in yellow light and filled with chatty mockingbirds. He did love mockingbirds, the way they imitated anything they heard—the calls of other birds, but also car engines, lawn mowers, and washing machines. And in the mornings, before the heat become unbearable, he could throw a Frisbee for the dog to leap after across the lawn. Come summer, he would just have to make the best of it, dig up the yard for a vegetable garden. Tomatoes probably loved it here.

  He turned and looked back at his dark house. He checked the phone in his hand—no, clearly it was Abby he was waiting to hear from. And that meant he was fucked.

  A few weeks later, on a February night, Tory said cheerfully, “Let’s go see more of Florida. We’ve been here for five months, and we haven’t left the city limits. Let’s go see the Keys. They’re only about twenty miles away.”

  Ray was disoriented enough, just being there, and wherever he was, he never wanted to leave home. But Tory had worked hard to take care of him, and she didn’t ask for much. The last few days, the weather had cooled a bit, low seventies by day, sixties at night.

  So he agreed, and when Saturday came, they packed the dog into Ray’s used Subaru, and he drove them south.

  It was beautiful at first, crossing long bridges, low over turquoise water, where sailboats cruised silently and speedboats zoomed along, some headed for the bridge, to zip right under it. Ray kept his eyes on distant objects, hoping to hold off the nausea he could feel threatening. He waited for the vista to open up into wild, clean, empty spaces like where he and Abby hiked. Wasn’t some of this national park?

  But it did not. The bridges were all clogged with cars, never breaking free, and each island they came to was paved and covered with houses, some in the distance looming large, others in small villages encrusted with signs for tourist restaurants, local museums, gift shops, and ice cream stores.

  They drove for hours and stopped for lunch at a funky place on the water that fried everything. While Tory ate shrimp and calamari, Ray managed a few clams and a cup of coleslaw, and gave the rest to the dog.

  When they set off again, Tory drove. He and Emile hung their heads out the windows, wind in their hair, smelling salt air and some sort of rot that was half fish, half fruit, scented with diesel fuel. After a while, the carsickness arrived for real.

  “Let’s stop somewhere,” he gasped. “A beach. I need to get out.”

  It took her a while to find one, and when she did, it was so crowded she had to search for an empty parking space. As soon as she stopped the car, Ray and the dog burst out, Emile tearing off into the crowd of families with towels and umbrellas covering the sand—Tory grabbed the leash and ball thrower and took off after him. Ray leaned over, hands on knees as he breathed deep, trying to stop the nausea.

  In front of him was a pile of trash scattered around a bin, sandwich wrappers, red Coke cans, half-eaten ice cream cones plopped on their heads, being explored by wasps, cigarette butts all over them. Once on a ferry crossing to San Francisco, he and Abby had met a man visiting from Florida, who had effused to them about the cleanliness of the water in the bay.

  “Y’all keep it real nice here,” he said, and flicked his cigarette butt over the side—Abby had wanted to strangle him, though of course she was too polite. And now here was Ray, exiled to the trash heap the guy came from.

  He straightened up and searched the crowd—Tory was far down by the water, pitching tennis balls for Emile, who streaked after them joyfully, though he usually failed to bring them back. Ray got his swim goggles and a towel from the car and picked his way through the crowd.

  When he got closer, crowd to his back, he could see the beauty here, the turquoise water with gentle waves, shining in the sun. Tory looked lovely, too, trim and leggy in shorts, laughing at the big white dog, as she ran to grab the balls away from him, toss them again.

  But down here by the water, there was not a scrap of shade, and the sun was intense, too low, hinting at its lethal side. Maybe the water would be cool at least, and Ray had his suit under his jeans. Whipping the T-shirt over his head, he kicked off his running shoes, dropped his jeans, and waded in, as he strapped the goggles on, to keep his contacts in his eyes.

  The water felt cool at first, but when he sank into it, swam a few strokes, it seemed to be the same temperature as the air, or his skin—he couldn’t feel where he left off and the water began. Stopping, he made sure he could still touch bottom, caught his breath—he needed those pool rails to hang on now. Afraid to get beyond his depth, he swam parallel to shore, standing when he needed to, feet on the rough bottom—it didn’t feel like sand, more like crushed coral. The water was fairly clear, but he couldn’t see any fish, just a lot of little kids wriggling past in water wings, small chubby legs churning.

  He heard something, high engine whine, more than one, headed his way—it sounded like a gang of motorcycles, or a flock of huge mosquitoes. Lifting his head in time, he saw three Jet Skis bearing down on him, young men on them, one with a girl in back of him, one with a pit bull in front.

  “Hey,” some dad shouted nearby, and grabbed his kid as the skis roared past, not slowing down, two of them on either side of Ray, swamping him with spray and waves.

  The pitch of the motors changed, got higher, and he turned to see the Jet Skis scramble, circle, and change places, before they charged back toward him. One of them—the one with neither dog nor girl—steered straight at him and seemed to speed up. Taking a breath, Ray dived as deep he could and heard the thing churn over him. Something nicked his calf.

  He waited a few beats but didn’t have the breath—he needed air. He surged up, saw the skis circle again and head his way.

  But someone screamed, a woman’s voice. “Get lost, jerks!”

  Tory bounded through the water, fully clothed, reaching for him—behind her, parents dragged their children out. When she got to him, the water was too deep for her to stand and she had to tread, but she seemed as ferocious as a mongoose defending its young.

  “Murderous assholes!” she shrieked at the approaching skis.

  They hesitated, looped away. One guy gave her the finger and screamed, “Bitch!”

  B
ut finally they did buzz off the way they came.

  “You’re bleeding,” Tory said, and grabbed his arms, tried to haul him toward the beach, kicking the water with her legs.

  “I’m all right,” Ray protested. But his calf stung badly, and when he looked down, he saw something dark feathering into the water around it.

  “Come on,” she said impatiently. When they reached a depth where she could stand, she put both arms around him, tried to pull him out.

  As soon as he left the water and air hit his leg, it felt like a knife stabbing his calf.

  “Yow!” he cried. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Hush,” Tory said, dropped to her knees, and pressed her hands onto the wound.

  “Jesus Christ. Fucking place is trying to kill me now. I guess I wasn’t dying fast enough for it.”

  A crowd soon gathered staring around them, no doubt enjoying Tory’s wet tank top clinging to her braless breasts, the nipples standing up. Ray tried to block their view with his body.

  A strapping, muscle-bound young lifeguard sprinted up with a first aid kit, exuding rude, obnoxious health.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said as he wrapped gauze around Ray’s leg. “I called the Coast Guard on those dudes. They won’t get away with it.”

  The fuck of good that did Ray, who was bleeding through the bandage by the time Tory corralled Emile, got him in the car, and drove them to the nearest ER. She had reserved a romantic room in Key West, but when the ER doctor finished stitching Ray up, he just wanted to go home.

  She looked disappointed, but he must have been quite pale, because with a little worried nod, she agreed. She drove them back to Coral Gables, picked up Cajun takeout, and took it to their house, a place he never planned to leave again.

  The wound took weeks to heal, and when it did, it left a pink cicatrix on his lower leg, like a fat earthworm—his gift from the great state of Florida and further proof of how he had fucked up his life.

  In March, it heated up again.

  One broiling afternoon, he had to spend three hours in a stupid meeting, everyone mad. It was impossible to get his English Department colleagues to agree on anything—they just wanted to talk, talk, talk, and do nothing. They were mostly fanged serpents in tenured chairs, but Ray had to work with them, as he tried to create a graduate program that made sense, using their courses from the traditional poetry master’s program, plus his experimental classes. So far he’d managed to put up a few rickety footbridges, but mostly by doing things without permission, and for that, people already hated him. Sitting there, his chest burned in a new way, maybe from rage. He could hardly get a word in.