The Stories of Richard Bausch

by Richard Bausch

  And you don’t—compare?

  Compare what?

  Nothing.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, Larry.

  Don’t be mad.

  Look, I don’t think about him. Okay?

  He used to tell me things. In those first years you were married.

  What things?

  Forget it.

  Jesus Christ, what are you talking about? What things? What things did he tell you?

  Never mind about it, okay? It’s nothing.

  If it’s nothing, why can’t you tell me about it?

  Don’t get up.

  I want a cigarette.

  I’ll get you one.

  …

  There.

  Now tell me what fucking things he talked to you about, Larry.

  Well—well he’s my brother. Men talk about their sexual—about sex. You know.

  You mean he would tell you what we did? Oh, boy! Give me an example.

  Look, I’m sorry I brought it up.

  No—come on now. I want to know. You tell me.

  Don’t cry.

  I’m not crying, goddamn you. Tell me.

  He—well, he—he said you did oral things, and that you were excitable.

  Excitable.

  That you—you’d cry out.

  Oh, Jesus God. Oh, boy. This is funny. This is classic.

  …

  Larry?

  I know.

  You’re really an asshole, you know that?

  Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It was a long time ago. It was boys talking.

  Well, but—now—let me see if I can get this straight. Now, I’m not living up to your fantasies, based on what Joe told you about me. Is that it?

  No. Christ—you make it sound—

  But you are. You’re thinking of what Joe told you, right?

  I don’t know.

  If that isn’t men for you.

  Now don’t start on all that crap. There’s nothing to extrapolate from the fact that my brother told me a few things a long time ago.

  Yeah, well maybe Joe was lying. Did that ever occur to you? Maybe I wouldn’t be here with you now if Joe was half as good as he must’ve said he was.

  You mean that’s the only reason we—you and I—Boy, is this ever a fun conversation.

  …

  Tell me what I’m apparently lacking according to the legends you’ve heard.

  Stop it, Ellen. I just wanted to be sure I was giving you as much pleasure as—hell, never mind.

  No, this is interesting. You want to know if I think you’re as good. Right?

  I wanted to be sure I was giving you pleasure. Is that such a terrible thing?

  And there was no thought of gratifying your male ego?

  Please don’t hand me that feminist shit. Not now.

  Well, isn’t that it?

  No, that is not it.

  You couldn’t tell from what we just did that I was getting pleasure out of it?

  Okay.

  This whole thing bothers you more than it does me, right?

  Well, he’s my brother, after all.

  He never deigned to remind himself of that fact, why should you? Because he is my brother.

  When was the last time he played that role with you?

  This isn’t about roles or role-playing, okay? This is blood.

  …

  No, don’t, Ellen. Stay, please.

  When was the last time he had anything to do with you, besides ordering you around and berating you for the fact that you don’t make a hundred seventy thousand dollars a year setting up contracts for corporate giants?

  …

  Remember when I got interested in astronomy, and he bought me the telescope and we started looking at the stars, making calculations and charting the heavenly bodies in flight? Remember that?

  I guess.

  I was looking through the thing one night, and it came to me that the distances between those stars, that was like the distances I felt between him and me. And it didn’t have anything to do with sex. The sex was fine, then. Back then. At least I thought it was fine.

  Fine. Not nice or wonderful?

  Jesus, you’re beginning to sound pathetic.

  It was a joke, Ellen. Can’t you take a joke?

  I wasn’t joking. I was trying to tell you something.

  …

  If this was a movie, I think I’d be trying to get you to kill him or something. Make it look like an accident.

  Good Lord.

  Why not? It happens all the time. We could play Hamlet.

  …

  The classic love triangle.

  Stop this.

  Hey, Larry. It’s just talk, right? I’m babbling on because I’m so happy.

  Why’d you marry him, anyway?

  I loved him.

  You thought you loved him.

  No, goddamn you—I did love him.

  Okay, I’m sorry.

  …

  Can you forgive me?

  I don’t know what kind of person you think I am.

  It’s just that all this is so strange for me. And I can’t keep from thinking about him.

  You mean you can’t stop thinking about what he told you about me in bed.

  I wish I hadn’t mentioned that. I’m not talking about that now. That isn’t all we talked about.

  You told him about all your adventures with Janice.

  Stop it, Ellen.

  Well, tell me. Give me an example of whatever else you talked about.

  I don’t know. When I was in Texas that time, and he came through on one of his trips. You and he had been married the year before, I think. He was so—glad. He told me stuff you guys were doing together. Places you went. He even had pictures. You looked so happy in the pictures.

  I was happy.

  …

  We’ve been married ten years. What do you think? It’s all been torture?

  …

  Jesus, Larry.

  Well, I feel bad for him.

  He’s happy. He’s got his work. His travels, his pals. His life is organized about the way he likes it. You know what he said to me on our last anniversary? He said he wasn’t sure he was as heterosexual as other men. Imagine that.

  What the hell was he talking about?

  He doesn’t feel drawn to me that way. He hasn’t touched me in months, okay? Do you want me to be as graphic about all this as he was back when we were twenty-five years old and I believed that what happened between us was private?

  No, don’t—come on. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.

  I’m not crying.

  …

  Anyway, this doesn’t really have anything to do with him.

  I wish we could stop talking about him.

  You’re the one who brought him up, Larry.

  Don’t be mad. Come on, please.

  Well, for Christ’s sake, can’t you just enjoy something for what it is, without tearing it all to pieces? You know what you are? You’re morbid.

  I’m scared.

  I am. I’m scared.

  Scared of what? Joe? He’s in another time zone, remember? He won’t be home for another week.

  I think I’m scared of you.

  …

  It’s like I’m on the outside of you some way. Like there’s walls I can’t see through. I don’t know what effect I have on you. Or if I really mean anything to you.

  Do you want me to simper and tell you how I can’t live without you?

  …

  Well?

  I don’t know what I want. It’s like you’re a drug, and I can’t get enough of you. But I get the feeling sometimes—I can’t express it exactly—like—well, like you could do without me very easily.

  …

  I do. I get that feeling.

  Poor Larry.

  I can’t help it.

  And now you expect me to reassure you about that, too.

  There’s nothing wrong with saying you love someone.

  And that’s what
you want?

  Never mind.

  No, really. We started with you worrying about whether or not you were as sexy as Joe—or whether or not I found you as sexy as Joe.

  Let’s just forget it, okay?

  Are you afraid of what my answer might be?

  I thought you had answered it.

  …

  Look, why did you want to get involved in the first place?

  I think it just happened, didn’t it, Larry?

  …

  Didn’t it?

  That’s the way it felt. Then why question it now?

  You said you looked through the telescope and saw the distances between the stars-

  Are we going to talk about this all night?

  Well, why haven’t you divorced him?

  I might. Someday I might.

  But why not now?

  Do you want me to?

  Do you want to?

  Where would I go?

  You could come to me.

  I’m here now.

  But we could get married, Ellen.

  Oh, please. Can we change the subject? Can we talk about all this later? Surely you can see that this is not the time.

  You don’t believe me?

  …

  It would be terrible to leave Janice and the boys. But I think I would. If I could have you. I really think I would.

  You do. You think you would.

  …

  Well, would you or wouldn’t you?

  I said I think I would.

  You’re hilarious. Truly a stitch, you know it?

  I believe that I would.

  Ah, an article of faith.

  There’s no reason to be sarcastic, Ellen.

  I know, Larry, let’s talk about the stars, crossing through the blackness of space. Let’s talk about the moons of Jupiter and Mars.

  You’re being sarcastic.

  I’m simply trying to change the subject.

  Okay, we’ll change the subject.

  …

  If that’s what you want. We’ll just change it.

  It’s what I want.

  …

  Well?

  I’m thinking. Jesus, you don’t give a man a chance.

  Terrific.

  Just wait a minute, can’t you? Ellen?

  …

  I’m listening.

  Did you ever think you’d end up here?

  I don’t think I’m going to end up here, particularly. You make it sound awful.

  You know how I mean it.

  All right, darling, let’s just say that from where I started, I would never have predicted it. You’re right about that.

  I feel the same way.

  Now if you don’t mind, sir, can we sleep a little?

  I’m sorry.

  And stop apologizing. I swear you’re the most apologetic man I know. Do you know how many times a day you say you’re sorry about something?

  You’re right, sweetie, I’m sor—Jesus. Listen to me.

  …

  I’ve been so miserable, Ellen.

  Oh, Christ.

  Okay, I won’t talk about it anymore.

  Is that a promise?

  I promise, sweetie, really.

  Thanks.

  …

  I think I should go soon.

  I guess so.

  …

  Sweetie?

  What, Larry.

  Do you love me?

  …

  I just need to hear it once.

  …

  Honey?

  …

  Aren’t you going to?

  Ellen?

  …

  Sweetie, please.

  …

  Ellen?

  TWO ALTERCATIONS

  The calm early summer afternoon that “in the flash of a moment would be shattered by gunfire”—the newspaper writer expressed it this way—had been unremarkable for the Blakelys: like the other “returning commuters” (the newspaper writer again) they were sitting in traffic, in the heat, with jazz playing on the radio, saying little to each other, staring out. Exactly as it usually was on the ride home from work. Neither of them felt any particular need to speak. The music played, and they did not quite hear it. Both were tired, both had been through an arduous day’s work—Michael was an office clerk in the university’s admissions office, and Ivy was a receptionist in the office of the dean of arts and sciences.

  “Is this all right?” she said to him, meaning what was on the radio.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “This music. I could look for something else.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I don’t mind it.”

  She sat back and gazed out her window at a car full of young children. All of them seemed to be singing, but she couldn’t hear their voices. The car in which they were riding moved on ahead a few lengths, and was replaced by the tall side of a truck. Jake Plumbly & Son, Contractors.

  “I guess I’m in the wrong lane again,” he said.

  “No. They’re stopped, too, now.”

  He sighed.

  “Everybody’s stopped again,” she said.

  They sat there.

  She brought a magazine out of her purse, paged through it, and left it open on her lap. She looked at her husband, then out at the road. Michael sat with his head back on the seat top, his hands on the bottom curve of the wheel. The music changed—some piano piece that seemed tuneless for all the notes running up and down the scale, and the whisper of a drum and brushes.

  She looked at the magazine. Staring at a bright picture of little girls in a grass field, she remembered something unpleasant, and turned the page with an impatient suddenness that made him look over at her.

  “What?” he said.

  She said, “Hmm?”

  He shrugged, and stared ahead.

  No ongoing Conflict or source of unrest existed between them.

  But something was troubling her. It had happened that on a recent occasion a new acquaintance had expressed surprise upon finding out that they had been married only seven months. This person’s embarrassed reaction to the discovery had made Ivy feel weirdly susceptible. She had lain awake that night, hearing her new husband’s helpless snoring, and wondering about things which it was not normally in her temperament to consider. In that unpleasant zone of disturbed silence, she couldn’t get rid of the sense that her life had been decided for her in some quarter far away from her own small clutch of desires and wishes—this little shaking self lying here in the dark, thinking—though she had done no more and no less than exactly what she wanted to do for many years now. She was thirty-three. She had lived apart from her family for a dozen years, and if Michael was a mistake, she was the responsible party: she had decided everything.

  Through the long hours of that night, she had arrived at this fact over and over, like a kind of resolution, only to have it dissolve into forms of unease that kept her from drifting off to sleep. It seemed to her that he had been less interested in her of late, or could she have imagined this? It was true enough that she sometimes caught herself wondering if he were not already taking her for granted, or if there were someone else he might be interested in. There was an element of his personality that remained somehow distant, that he actively kept away from her, and from everyone. At times, in fact, he was almost detached. She was not, on the whole, unhappy. They got along fine as a couple. Yet on occasion, she had to admit, she caught herself wondering if she made any impression at all on him. When she looked over at him in the insular stillness of his sleep, the thought blew through her that anything might happen. What if he were to leave her? This made her heart race, and she turned in the bed, trying to put her mind to other things.

  How utterly strange, to have been thinking about him in that daydreaming way, going over the processes by which she had decided upon him as though this were what she must remember in order to believe the marriage safe, only to discover the fear—it actually went through her like fear—that he might dec
ide to leave her, that she would lose him, that perhaps something in her own behavior would drive him away.

  In the light of the morning, with the demands of getting herself ready for work, the disturbances of her sleepless hours receded quickly enough into the background. Or so she wished to believe. She had been raised to be active, and not to waste time indulging in unhealthy thoughts, and she was not the sort of person whose basic confidence could be undermined by a single bad night, bad as that night was.

  She had told herself this, and she had gone on with things, and yet the memory of it kept coming to her in surprising ways, like a recurring ache.

  She had not wanted to think of it here, in the stopped car, with Michael looking stricken, his head lying back, showing the little white place on his neck where a dog had bitten him when he was nine years old. Just now, she required him to be wrapped in his dignity, posed at an angle that was pleasing to her.

  She reached over and touched his arm.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just patting you.”

  He lay his head back again. In the next moment she might tell him to sit up straight, button the collar of his shirt (it would cover the little scar). She could feel the impulse traveling along her nerves.

  She looked out the window and reflected that something had tipped over inside her, and she felt almost dizzy. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Abruptly, her mind presented her with an image of herself many years older, the kind of wife who was always hectoring her husband about his clothes, his posture, his speech, his habits, his falterings, real and imagined, always identifying deficiencies. It seemed to her now that wives like that were only trying to draw their husbands out of a reserve that had left them, the wives, marooned.

  “What’re you thinking?” she said.

  He said, “I’m not thinking.”

  She sought for something funny or lighthearted to say, but nothing suggested itself. She opened the magazine again. Here were people bathing in a blue pool, under a blue sky.

  “Wish we were there,” she said, holding it out for him to see.

  He glanced over at the picture, then fixed his attention on the road ahead. He was far away, she knew.

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “Not a thing,” he told her.

  Perhaps he was interested in someone else. She rejected the thought as hysterical, and paged through the magazine—all those pictures of handsome, happy, complacently self-secure people.

  Someone nearby honked his horn. Someone else followed suit; then there were several. This tumult went on for a few seconds, then subsided. The cars in front inched ahead, and Michael eased up on the brake to let the car idle an increment forward, closing the distance almost immediately.