You Made Your Bed

by Cornelia Goddin

  “I worried that she faked it.”

  “An orgasm?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It’s important to you that the stranger you were having sex with in a bar bathroom has a satisfying experience?”

  “I didn’t get the feeling she’d done anything like that before.”

  “So you must have had quite a powerful effect on her?”

  I narrow my eyes at Sandie Shearer. I detect irony and I’m not loving it.

  “Look, it’s not like I forced her into anything. She was pretty enthusiastic. So what’s the big deal, really?”

  Sandie looks at me and it’s like she’s an owl with these wide blinking eyes. You gotta watch out for owls, their beaks can rip you to shreds.

  “I believe,” she says, “that you told me the ‘big deal’ was feeling both numb and out of control. That you fear you’re on the verge of losing your wife and your job because you aren’t able to stop yourself from pursuing these encounters? The way you described it was…you feel dead inside.”

  “I can control myself. It’s just so much more fun not to.” I flash her a winning smile but just get the blinking owl-eyes in return.

  After a long silence, she says, “I’m not here to judge your behavior, Wilson. I want to be clear about that. I don’t object to sex, to sex with multiple partners, even to having sex with strangers. None of these things, specifically, are the issue.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I say, even though the impending but hangs heavily in the air. I make a movement to get up and leave, but it’s a joke and she does not smile.

  “The issue is what these encounters are costing you. What the lying is costing you. If it were all carefree and joyful…” She shrugs. “But it isn’t. That’s not how you have described it to me,” she adds.

  “Maybe I haven’t expressed myself well,” I say, with some belligerence. “I do enjoy myself, absolutely! I went home last night and slept like a baby. I’m not wracked with guilt or any ridiculous judgmental crap like that. How do I convince you—I’m not hurting anyone!”

  She leans her head just an inch or so to the side. How can one woman have so many subtle ways to show skepticism. It’s a bizarre talent.

  We sit for ten minutes without speaking. I’m visualizing last night in the bathroom, trying to feel it again, to get the surge of happy I got during. She had great legs, that girl. And a hint of garlic on her breath, but I didn’t mind. It’s true she’d probably had too much to drink. Those boilermakers were maybe overkill, and I only got them because it would be the last thing Anne-Marie would order, and I was pissed off at her.

  Jesus, I sound like I’m six.

  I’m going to sit here for the rest of this stupid session and think about Anne-Marie’s tits.

  “Perhaps it would help you to have some basic information about sex addiction,” Sandie says finally.

  “I’ve heard it all, probably.”

  “Perhaps the information has been presented to you but you haven’t, in any meaningful way, actually heard it?”

  Yawn. Ten more minutes. I wonder if I can make it over to the coffee place before Anne-Marie’s shift ends.

  “Fathers have a great deal of influence when it comes to their sons’ sexuality,” she says. “Tell me about him. Tell me about him and women.”

  Long silence. Like I said, this Sandie with an i-e is all fucking business.

  My three days are up, and the news isn’t good. I’m here at the coffee shop, watching her out of the corner of my eye. This thing between us is like an epic battle with experienced generals on either side, but my flag is tattered and I’m running out of men.

  She’s winning. Which makes me think of Gordon and laugh, because if there’s one thing I learned from my father, it’s that losing—in any arena—is the worst shame you could ever bring on yourself. He pretty much ruined games and sports for me, so thanks for that, Dad. And it’s only occurring to me right now, as I sneak glances over at Anne-Marie, that the whole reason I’m so desperate to sleep with her is that if I don’t, if I walk away without getting it, I’ve lost. I’ve managed to turn something that is supposed to be about pleasure into a competition, a war.

  I push all those thoughts to the side, and walk over to the counter. “Come here,” I say to Anne-Marie, holding out my hands. And she pauses, gives me a warm smile, and puts her hands in mine. I pull her over and kiss her hard, feeling her body stiffen and then release. I get a flicker of hope. But then she lets go of my hands and moves away.

  “Next?” she says, looking at the guy in line behind me, who laughs.

  “I’ll take what he got,” the guy says, and she laughs. I laugh too but I don’t think anything is funny.

  I get out of there and into my car, parked in a corner of the lot in the shade of a scraggly tree. I’m actually trembling. I hold out my hands and see them shaking. I’m furious. How dare she resist me like this! How fucking dare she!

  Those words keep repeating and the anger makes me feel better even though I know what I’m saying is totally douchey.

  I’m douchey.

  But knowing that doesn’t change anything.

  I start the car and get out of there, not wanting Anne-Marie to come outside and see me still here, like some kind of pathetic stalker. For a half hour I drive around Berkeley feeling annoyed at everything I see: young yoga mothers with babies strapped to their chests, old hippies, a yard planted with banana trees. Every bit of it makes me want to hit something.

  No, that’s not true. It makes me want to fuck something. Like it’s the only thing I can ever think of to do.

  I pull into the parking lot of a dry cleaner’s and call Sandie. It’s not much of a breakthrough really, don’t get all excited. But at least, in this one moment? I’ve gotten to the point where I can see with some clarity that I am seriously, seriously messed up.

  7

  2001

  Jamaica

  Just past dawn, Wilson Crowe slipped through the poinsettia hedge, up on the wide porch, and into the house. His parents and sister were asleep, and he paused a moment before going into his room, wondering if there was anything he could do with this moment of freedom, while everyone else was unconscious. But Wilson was only eleven; his imagination only took him so far.

  He peeled off his shorts and T-shirt and got back into bed. He tried to feel satisfied with himself, though his grand ideas about sneaking out and getting into trouble had not produced much of anything. He had spent a few hours roaming the Tryall estate, peeking into windows and hoping he would find some excitement, some girls, some danger.

  But he found nothing but old couples reading magazines by dim lights, and people asleep in front of flickering televisions.

  There were no monkeys in the jungle; he saw no snakes, no crocodiles. He stole some change from a golf cart but that did not satisfy his yearnings even a little.

  He was restless in bed. Vaguely he wondered about doing something heroic, something that would make his father sit up and take notice, that would bring all the parental attention to him, where it belonged. It felt as though his life depended on figuring this out. But though he thought hard for a considerable time, he did not come up with even one idea that had any sparkle.

  She held her breath, heart racing. Edging up to her brother’s room, tilting her ear toward the door, Caroline could almost hear what her father was saying. But just as she got close, he stopped talking.

  She stood in the hallway, head still cocked to one side. A tropical bird squawked and then another, or maybe it was the same one, hooted and rustled in the leaves. She stood rooted outside the louvered door, the tile cool under her feet, ready to spring away if she heard footsteps.

  “You’re an embarrassment,” her father said in a low, gravelly voice to her brother.

  Caroline felt a rush of victory, relief, pure pleasure.

  Well, not one hundred percent pure, actually. Somewhere in her thirteen-year-old heart was a portion of love for her brother, a
nd it produced some regret that her bliss had to come at his expense.

  She did not dwell on this.

  “Do you understand how it looks? My boy, a coward? Sniveling like a baby in front of people like that? What possessed you, Wilson?”

  Caroline leaned in, not wanting to miss a single delicious word.

  “You are a Crowe,” said her father. “It was only a rope bridge, for fuck’s sake. A little girl could have crossed it without making a fuss.”

  He had a quiet way of talking when he was angry where he spat the words out, the syllables drenched in shame. It made her shiver even though it wasn’t aimed at her.

  She heard a quick smack of skin on skin.

  “Pull yourself together,” her father said. “Or it’ll be boarding school for you, and you won’t be getting a vote in the decision, I can promise you.”

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled Wilson.

  Caroline could sense her father’s impatience and guessed he was turning toward the door. She scampered silently back to her room, threw herself on the bed, and lay on her back with a wide smile, looking through the blinds at the lush greenery outside.

  Jamaica is glorious, she said to herself. I never want to leave.

  Nearly dusk, and the faces of the Crowes were bathed in golden light as the family sat on the wide porch facing the sea. Lillian got up to freshen her drink while Gordon paced back and forth.

  “We’re supposed to be on vacation,” she said to him. “Can’t you just let whatever it is go, just for one evening?”

  Gordon glared at her and stalked around the corner of the house.

  Caroline let out a melodramatic sigh. “Come on,” she whispered to Wilson. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Wilson brightened. The two held hands and ran across the lawn and down the steps out of sight, toward the water.

  “Do you think that’s all right?” said Lillian, as Gordon stalked past her in the other direction, tapping his cell phone against his leg as he waited for a call back.

  “What?”

  “Those two.”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, I didn’t hold hands with my brother when I was that age. I’m worried that Hazel might think something untoward is going on. The neighbors—”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes,” said Gordon. “They’re just going swimming. Can you stop worrying about what everyone else thinks for just five goddamn minutes?”

  Lillian smiled, lightly touching her lips with the tip of her tongue. Earlier in the day she had been swimming, and the exercise combined with rum had produced a lovely sensation in her body. She walked over to Gordon and curled her finger around his belt, pulling him to her. “I think I can manage five minutes,” she said, her voice deepening. “If you distract me.”

  Gordon raised his eyebrows. Overtures from Lillian had been extremely rare of late. He allowed himself to be pulled close to her, then he wrapped his powerful arms around her and kissed her hard, pressing her body against his, bending her backwards until she was uncomfortable and began to struggle to keep her balance.

  He let her go all at once and she had to grab the porch railing to stop from falling.

  “Happy now?” said Gordon. “Why don’t you have another drink and continue spying on the neighbors?” He walked into the house, picked up his keys, and took off in the rented Jaguar.

  Lillian made herself a new drink, carefully adding a sprig of mint from the bowl Hazel kept stocked, and lay down on a chaise.

  Everyone was gone, the house was quiet and empty.

  I hope he drives that car straight into a tree, she thought, taking a long pull on her drink.

  8

  Caroline

  I’m chilling in my room, reading. I haven’t been feeling all that sharp lately—I mean physically, which usually is the one area I can count on. Instead, all damn day it’s like a stomach virus is chasing me around but can’t quite close the deal.

  I’m lost in my book when my phone rings. I am no fan of the telephone. It’s so insistent, that sudden, unexpected ring: listen to me, pay attention to me, this minute!

  It’s Wilson.

  “Hey.”

  “Big sistah,” he says, doing some funny accent. “How you doing?”

  “Samesies. I hear you’re gracing us with your presence any day now.”

  “Tomorrow, in fact. Dad sort of insisted.”

  I’ve got no response to that. It’s neither a plus nor a minus, really. He can be fun to hang out with, but now that he’s married, we hardly ever do.

  “Well, but so…listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s…you got a minute?”

  I’ve got minutes stretching into eternity, so yeah. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Well,” he says again. His tone is all over the place—serious, joking, funny voices, all within a single phrase.

  He’s a hot mess, as usual.

  “Well, so, I’ve started going to therapy.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” The jeerlings go silent and I shiver, literally, as though my body knows the bad place this is going before the rest of me does.

  “Actually, no, not kidding. And I’d appreciate your not blabbing about it right away. I want to be the person who tells Dad and Mummy.”

  “And what welcome news it will be!”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to utter just one un-sarcastic sentence, you know.”

  “Whatever.” I’m just trying to buy time, trying to figure out if there is anything I can say that will get him to change direction. “Sometimes,” I say lightly, “sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “That’s not at all what Sandie says. Actually.”

  “Well. Actually, sometimes a therapist runs around giving advice with her head so far up her ass she has trouble separating fiction from reality.”

  “Was that supposed to be clever? I’m afraid you missed the mark.”

  “Look, you know I wish the best for you,” I tell him. “I know your life is probably shitty because you can’t get control of yourself. You don’t have any discipline, little brother. I just don’t believe for one second that psychotherapy is going to get it for you.”

  “Please, Caro. Set your…your lack of confidence aside just for a minute. Just long enough for me to ask you some things. I’ve got some homework. Some things Sandie told me…to talk to you about.”

  “Fine. Ask away.”

  “It’s about Dad.”

  Long silence.

  “That’s not a question, Wilson.”

  “Right, okay. Do you remember…I mean, yeah, he’s Gordon Fucking Crowe, he can probably have practically any woman he wants.”

  “I can see how that would be difficult for you.”

  “My therapist gives me plenty of that fake empathy, I don’t need it from you, too. I’m just…she wants me to remember…but so much of childhood is just a blur. Like someone went in there and scrubbed the film. I have this one vague memory of being in Maine, and some…some kind of funk with Dad?”

  I let out a long breath, thinking I can see where he’s going now. Maybe there’s a way…maybe he will get only so far. Not far enough that anyone really gets hurt.

  “Sort of,” I say slowly. “I think I remember your talking about it, anyway. Does your therapist—what’s her name again?”

  “Sandie. Sandie Shearer.”

  “So just to cut to it—Sandie’s saying Dad’s infidelity is why you’re such a hound dog?”

  “Something like that. I think.”

  “Well, good luck rummaging around inside the old files. I’m sure if you work at it, you’ll be able to come up with all kinds of memories of Gordon’s being a shit to Mummy. But what if you spent all that money on a great vacation instead? If I were Rebecca, that’s what I’d—”

  “Thankfully, you are not Rebecca, and just…come on, Caroline, shut your pie-hole. I’m looking for some support here.”

  “How did you get to be so beta, anyway? Gordon hears you t
alking like that, he’s gonna whup your ass. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Thing is? Not everything I do is about pleasing him. Think about that.”

  I had slated tonight as a recuperative evening, a night off from all bad behavior, but I change my mind and take the blow out of the bedside table drawer as my brother keeps yammering on.

  I get the vial open on the way to the bathroom and tap out a goodly heap on the wide rim of the pristine sink, but hesitate, not wanting him to hear me snort it. Quickly I run to the bed and shove the phone under my pillow, sprint to the bathroom and hoover it up, and when I pick the phone back up, the line is dead.

  I didn’t handle that well. I don’t think making Wilson mad at me is going to help anything; I lost control of myself. These kinds of mistakes are a real problem.

  Allow me to mention that when Wilson knocked her up, Rebecca was the fiancée of Wilson’s best friend Donny. Who—not surprisingly—is no longer speaking to either of them. It’s a shaky beginning for a marriage, to say the least, and I worry that she won’t be able to keep him in California where he belongs. Dear Wilson has a history of screwing any woman who’ll let him, and no doubt he’s in danger of losing Rebecca before the baby’s even born.

  Besides, I do think it’s ridiculous—and counter-productive, maybe even dangerous—to go mucking around in the past like that. By definition, it’s over.

  Look forward, that’s my motto.

  Or at least, it sounds to me, now that I’ve achieved lift-off from that heap of coke—it sounds like it would make a pretty good motto, if you go in for that sort of thing.

  Hours later, as I settle into bed for the sleep that will certainly not come, the Black Forest clock chimes the first hour of the new day. And I am considering how I can put a definitive stop to this new venture of my brother’s.

  For the good of the family, of course.