The final blow fell later that evening when they came to see me in my hotel in a state of extreme nervous fatigue. The peace and quiet, the panoramic view from my window, made Kate hysterical. She took it out on Laura for having chosen the Sapphire, but Laura wasn’t listening, she was gaping at the saffron robe on a chair.
My head bounced off the wall from the slap she gave me. She grabbed me by the hair and Kate pitched in with a kick to my kidneys that knocked me to the floor, then she kneeled on me and squeezed one of my breasts in the crook of her elbow. They dragged me over the linoleum and called me a hypocrite.
When they finally left me alone, I looked for the bonze’s robe. It was gone. The bathroom door was banging in the evening breeze. On the windowsill, a tiny monkey with knowing eyes stood swaying on its paws. I thought to myself: “That wasn’t fair: two men ganging up on a girl.”
This Far Inside
R. Gay
The words I Love You entered our vernacular after a month of dating and now, a year after getting married, they seem to have disappeared, and I am left not knowing how to communicate with my wife. It’s not that we don’t talk. She asks me how my day was, and I return the favor. On Sunday mornings, she asks for the crossword. Occasionally, we argue about her sister, Candace, who seems to have permanently moved in with us. But we don’t really talk. We only say the things we think we are supposed to say. Late at night, when she thinks I’m sleeping, my wife will stand on the balcony of our apartment chain-smoking and crying, or staring up at the stars. I’ll stand in the shadows of the curtains, with a sheet wrapped around me, staring at her, wondering what she’s thinking. Sometimes, I start to open the door, move toward her, but something always holds me back because she looks at once so sorrowful and so peaceful in these moments I know they are meant to be solitary.
Ursula and I met during law school, and although we are complete opposites, I have always been drawn to her. Perhaps it’s the current of irresponsibility that touches everything in her life, or the way she laughs, or the way she always carries a tin of Altoids to hide the fact that she can’t quit smoking, although she has been trying for three years. More than anything she reminds me of how tangible and messy and wonderful life can be. I’m the first to admit that I’m an overly conventional person. I believe that rules exist for a reason and I find a value in conducting myself responsibly. I enjoy ironing because it relaxes me and serves a decent purpose. I never make hasty decisions because I don’t believe in regrets. Before proposing to Ursula I took a long time to actually go through with it. I had the ring hidden in the back of my sock drawer for six months. I weighed the pros and cons of spending the rest of my life with this woman, and when all was said and done, I knew marrying her would be a decision I could never regret.
Ursula is staring at me right now, trying to figure out what I’m thinking. I smile at her and reach across the table. She looks down at my hand and pauses before meeting me halfway. Slowly she smiles back, and we sit in silence until she asks me what I’m planning on ordering.
“Filet mignon with roasted portabello mushrooms,” I say.
“Good choice,” she replies, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“And you?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I was thinking lobster tails and veal marsala and the chicken piccata.”
My jaw clenches, but I nod and smile wider. She does that, ordering two or three entrées, just in case she’s not satisfied with one or more. She likes options. And so do I, but three entrées seems a bit extravagant. We aren’t eating at a Chinese restaurant where we can fill the table with steaming dishes, our chopsticks meeting over chop suey and beef and broccoli. But I say nothing, because when I married her I also married her many quirks.
When our food arrives, Ursula immediately pushes the chicken piccata away.
“What’s wrong with it?”
She shrugs. “I don’t like the way it looks.”
I lean forward, carefully inspecting the dish. “How so?”
“Not enough color.”
I arch an eyebrow as I eye the pale veal practically quivering on her plate in a pool of equally pale marsala wine sauce. “I see. Well, hopefully the lobster and veal will be more colorful to your lovely eyes.”
Her cheeks redden slightly, and I can’t help but notice that they are similar in hue to the lobster tails, four of them, artfully placed along an oval plate. We eat in silence. Although the restaurant is crowded it feels like the place is so quiet that I can hear her chewing, the sound of the linen napkin gliding back and forth across her lips. Sometimes silence is deafening.
At home, I stand in the bathroom, plucking my nose hairs. It’s a chore, but I hate staring at my reflection in the mirror only to see the wispy blond hairs waving from the air flowing through my nostrils. It’s distracting. Ursula is sitting on the edge of our bed, left leg crossed over right, watching me, an amused expression on her face. In the next room Candace is playing the same U2 album that she has been playing for the past three months. I hate U2. I didn’t before, but I do now. I’m not even sure what a Joshua tree is.
“Why are you watching me?” I ask her, wincing as I pluck the last hair, and begin wiping the counter clean.
“Because when I imagined things I’d see my husband doing, I imagined watching him shave, take a piss, shower and whatnot. I never thought I’d see him pluck nose hairs, so I’m absolutely fascinated and repulsed at the same time.”
I frown, flicking a stray hair off the mirror. “Thanks. Glad to know.”
She pats the bed and leans back. “Don’t be grumpy. Come get naked with me.”
I arch an eyebrow and turn to face her. Her bathrobe has fallen down her shoulders and she is naked, arm muscles taut and stretched behind her. The shaft of light from the bathroom leaves half her body in shadows, and there is something intriguing and erotic about seeing her like this. Later, I am alone in bed, sweat cooling against my skin. I can see the curves of Ursula’s body in the sheets next to me, and it’s strange but I feel her presence more in these shadows than I have sitting right next to her lately. I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the window. She is sitting on the balcony, hugging her legs to her chest. I can only see one side of her face and it is streaked with tears. I place the palm of my hand against the glass. And I stand, still.
I remember my childhood in sounds, not words, because my parents’ relationship lacked a verbal vernacular. They were creatures of silence and they communicated in an intricate way that made up for all the thoughts and feelings that went unsaid. I remember the sound of my mother rushing to finish dinner each evening before my father came home, the way she would hum, how the humming would get louder the faster six o’clock approached, and the catch of her breath as she heard him in the doorway. I remember my mother’s laughter, low and husky, like whisky pouring over ice as she greeted my father. The hum of her sewing machine for hours on end and the sound of her left foot tapping against the wall as she worked. I remember the sound of my father’s briefcase landing against the hallway tiles and the way he cleared his throat to let us know that he was home. He and my mother would dance to Frank Sinatra every night before they went to sleep.
And when I got older, I remember the sound of my father’s oxygen cart, the wheels always in need of oil; the hiss of oxygen pouring into his lungs hour after hour, the sound of his old Zippo lighter clicking against his thigh as he longed for just one more cigarette. And my mother, gently patting his back when he was attacked by a coughing fit, or the way she would click her tongue when she was worried about him, worried that sooner rather than later she would no longer hear his sounds. But I don’t remember the sounds of their voices, because in my memory my parents never spoke to each other. It was as if, day in and day out, they slid around each other, only invisible words spoken between them. And now I think that’s why the silence growing between Ursula and I feels familiar. But it is a familiarity I am uncomfortable with, because in that silence I don’t hear the
things I heard between my parents’ silences.
The next morning Ursula ignores the alarm, but I jump out of bed, pulling the sheets and blankets off her before getting ready. After I’m dressed, I sit on the bed next to her adjusting my tie. Getting the knot to look the way I want it to is a skill I have yet to acquire.
I pat her thighs. “Babe, it’s time to get up.”
Her arms stretch over her head, banging into the headboard. “Dammit,” she grumbles.
I shake her again. “You’re going to be late.”
She’s quiet for a moment, lying perfectly still. Even the rise and fall of her chest has stopped.
“I know you’re awake.”
“Fuck off,” she grumbles.
I sigh. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
Candace is already up, leaning into the open refrigerator, wearing only boxers and a thin tank top.
“I see you’re already dressed for whatever it is you do all day.”
“Fuck off,” she says, pulling out the milk and an apple.
“That’s twice in one morning.”
“You’re off to a great start.”
“Whatever. Did you start the coffee?”
“Am I a maid?”
I bite my tongue, and begin making the coffee. The rhythm of this ritual calms me, first the filter, two scoops of coffee, neatly packed, warm water, setting out three mugs. Candace sits on the counter, swinging her legs back and forth as she alternates taking bites of her apple with drinking milk directly from the carton. She’s pushing so many of my buttons that I choose to tune her out rather than get riled up. As the coffee begins percolating, Ursula stumbles into the kitchen, her blouse partially unbuttoned, the hem of her skirt at a strange angle.
“What time is it?” she asks, her voice gravelly.
I look at my watch. “You should invest in one of these. Its 7:15.”
She falls into a chair at the kitchen table, leaning her forehead against her arms. “I need a job where I can wake up after noon.”
“Janitors are always in demand.”
She raises her head only long enough to flash me a glare. “What is your problem this morning?”
I fill our mugs with coffee and set one in front of her.
She kicks me lightly, trying to reach up and ruffle my hair as I step back. “Answer me.”
“Perhaps the better question is what was wrong with you last night?”
Ursula stares at me blankly. She doesn’t even blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I take a sip of coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue. “Of course you don’t.”
Candace waves her hands in the air. “I am in the room. Maybe you could have your little tiff later.”
“Maybe you could just leave the room.”
“Don’t snap at my sister,” Ursula says.
“Are you married to her?”
Without waiting for her answer I grab my briefcase and adjust my tie. I don’t even bother saying goodbye as I leave for work. Neither does she. After about an hour at work, I am calm. There is a reassuring and fashionable order to working as a lawyer for an insurance company. Denial of coverage claims come to me, and I decide whether or not to settle the matter or take it to court, and as with most decisions in my life, I never settle, because if I settle I might regret. Day in and day out I compare the havoc of other people’s lives with the relative stability of mine. It is almost comforting. Today there are three folders on my desk. A twenty-one-year-old kid in Florida who’s white 1996 Honda Accord was stolen but found less than a mile away, the inside burned to a crisp. Even the CDs were still in the car, the plastic deformed and fused with the char of the floor mats. The agent investigating the case believes the kid was involved, something about wanting a new car from his rich daddy.
Next, a woman whose jewels were stolen from her home while she and her husband were asleep. Nothing else reported stolen. And my favorite of the day, a banker’s claim for the loss of his prize-winning and purebred Irish setter, who has run away to parts unknown. I make a few phone calls, take some notes, and hand a pile of paperwork to my assistant. I have to be in court in the afternoon, so we discuss a few pre-trial motions. When he returns to his desk I begin clearing my desk of everything. I have a file cabinet especially for my nameplate, Ursula’s picture, the calculator, my calendar. This is another one of my rituals before going into court, cleaning my desk; an empty slate to think things over.
I briefly wonder what Ursula’s doing at work. Ironically enough she’s a divorce lawyer. I could never understand that choice, getting so intimately involved in other people’s lives, watching day in and day out the end of something that was supposed to last for ever and has dissolved into nothing. But she loves it. We had a long conversation about it once, right after we had graduated and were studying for our bar exams. It was late at night, and we were the only two people in the law library. She was curled up in an armchair and I was seated at a nearby desk, wondering how she could possibly study sitting in such an odd position. I distinctly remember what she was wearing; flannel pyjama pants, a neon yellow t-shirt, and a dirty fisherman’s hat pulled down low. Visually offensive, but adorable nonetheless – a reminder as to why she was good for me. I was wearing khakis and a polo shirt.
Fresh starts, she said. There’s always potential when something ends. And that disturbed me, as I reminded her that when life ends that’s pretty permanent but she had a two-part answer for that. Death is different, and no one knows what happens after death . . . that unknowing . . . that potential.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that night. I should be focused on work. I like to visualize the courtroom; the judge’s bench, the court reporter, the jury box, usually empty for the cases I try. The bailiff standing in the corner, making sure everything runs smoothly. I once decided that if law didn’t work out for me I would become a bailiff, my sole duty to preserve order and calm without the dangers of, say, police work. But realistically I know that such would not be the case . . . all that standing around, never being able to speak. It would drive me crazy.
Sometimes, though, silences are beautiful. On the third day of our honeymoon in Hawaii it began raining in heavy sheets. Ursula stared outside from our hotel room and suddenly decided that in that very moment we needed to be outside. We ran into the parking lot and stared upward, our clothes instantly soaked and clinging to our bodies. It was strangely still. All the other tourists seemed to have disappeared. Ursula grabbed my hand and pressed it against her chest and, looking into her eyes, I heard this peculiar silence that seemed to last for ever . . . for ever until we saw a bolt of lightning and ran back into the hotel lobby, leaving puddles of rain in our wake. We’ve never talked about that moment and I often wonder if it was as intense for her as it was for me. And I wonder about our marriage.
When I get home Ursula is cleaning out the refrigerator. I set my briefcase on the counter and loosen my tie. “How was your day?”
She shrugs, dropping a Tupperware container with week-old ravioli into the trashcan. “The same as any other.”
“That’s not telling me much.”
She sniffs a bowl of custard she made over the weekend, wrinkling her nose as she empties it into the kitchen sink. “There’s not much to tell. I got a new client. I was in court for hours. Same old, same old.”
I don’t know why, but I want to pick a fight. “I guess I’m as useless as those leftovers you’re dumping.”
She stops, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Slowly she closes the refrigerator door and turns to look at me. “What would possess you to say something like that? It’s so . . . melodramatic. You’re my husband, not some crap I’m throwing away.”
“Maybe that’s how I feel.”
“And somehow that’s my fault?”
I slam my hand down on the counter. She jumps, surprised. I start to say something but change my mind and, grabbing my keys, I leave. I’ve never walked out before, but it feels good to leave
the apartment, without looking back, imagining the expression on her face. I’m too even-keeled she’ll often tell me. This should give her something to think about. I have no idea where I’m going as I get in the car, so I spend an hour driving around town wishing I had some place to go, yet wanting to be at home cooking dinner with my wife. When I return, Ursula and Candace are sitting on the couch watching television in the dark. The light from the screen flickers strange and shadowed patterns onto the walls and I am mesmerized until Ursula asks, “Where have you been?”
“Out driving.”
“Out driving where?”
“Around.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“There’s nothing to tell, Urs. Like your day at work.”
Candace shifts uncomfortably. “Do you two want to be left alone?”
Ursula starts to shake her head, but I say, “Yes, that would be great. We would love to be alone.”
Candace stares at her sister for a moment, then heads for her bedroom, and soon we can hear loud music reverberating throughout the apartment. I sit down on the arm of the couch looking at my wife. “She could have just stayed in here for all the good the music is doing us.”
Ursula looks away. “You really hate having her around don’t you?”
I look at my hands. “What makes you think that?”
“You don’t try to hide your exasperation very well.”
“Under the circumstances I think I’m behaving quite well. She’s still here isn’t she?”
Ursula stands up. “See. I knew it. That’s what this is all about. You resent the fact that she’s staying here.”
I rub my forehead for what feels like the millionth time in one day. “Baby, your sister is the least of my worries. Yes, she gets on my nerves, but it’s nothing personal. It’s that we’re never alone and it hardly feels like we’re married.”
She turns to look at me, gently clasping her throat. “I feel like we’re married.”
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