Woke Up Lonely

by Fiona Maazel

  Was a loan gambling? Only if you weren’t 100 percent sure you’d pay it back on time. So, no: not gambling. Trial by Liar was going to make it. He went to the bank, and the rest was easy: a deal with a cable station that broadcast only to the East Coast but was seen in a million homes. As for Rita, she was on a need-to-know basis; that was what a good marriage was about. He’d make the money back and use the profits to buy her peridot earrings.

  The show attracted notice. It was raw and depressing. Some of the people were crazy. Others were violent. There were fights and tears. And for Bruce: vindication. He was not making money, not yet, but he was pleased. There was room in the canon of documentary filmmaking for work such as this. Unhappy people engaged in the venture of character assessment, which is a venture of love.

  In the meantime, though, he was running out of capital. The major networks had not called. Pepsi had not called. The interest rate on his loan was awesome, and his wife wanted a baby.

  Many nights over dinner he’d say the finances were prohibitive, to which she’d say: Oh come on, and woo him to bed. Which was, in the end, just fine. Those times together ranked as some of the best of their marriage, Rita being of the idea that the more explosive his orgasm, the smarter his sperm would be. She tried hard. She tried everything.

  Bruce, for his part, enjoyed what he could and sabotaged the rest. He’d been working with a laptop poised hotly on his groin. He’d started wearing briefs a size too small. And with each passing month, he began to think his efforts were paying off. That, or there was something amiss on her end. Never mind. Their sex was great, she was not getting pregnant, he was safe.

  But not for long, because Rita decided to do what most women her age do: make appointments, get tests.

  The show got canceled. Bruce was paid to give a few talks about underground programming and used the fees to bankroll an online gambling bender that cost him one of two savings bonds, the other of which he used to shred his debt, which, it turned out, was impossible. There would be no money for a college fund or life insurance. There’d be no money for a crib. But still he said nothing. He spent his days in the park and came home to his wife stabbing herself in the gut with hormones. She braved the drugs and procedures and shots, and so there was just no telling her what he had done.

  The day she got pregnant was etched in his mind as the most confusing of his life. The panic was incredible. The joy unbridled. The effort it took to hide the panic almost life threatening. The ease with which he took her in his arms and squeezed: wonderful. They were having a baby! He threw up in the bathroom. He had sworn never to tell her about the gambling and the loan, and then he told her everything. This meant the day she got pregnant became the most confusing of her life, too. Could she still trust her husband? Did she still love her husband? She was so angry, she threw up in the bathroom. He would have to get a job. Any job in any field. She’d take on extra work until maternity leave. They’d fire the cleaning lady and cut out the luxuries. It all seemed reasonable, and he swore to do exactly as told. But a job in any field? Was he supposed to janitor just because he was creative and creativity did not pay? Was he being punished for wanting more than the next guy? No, he was being punished for ruining their life. He promised to look for work the next day.

  He cruised the job sites online. He uploaded his résumé and met the relevant parties and tried to be agreeable, though it never occurred to him actually to work in these places. A job in HR at a pharmaceutical company? A super for Curtis Building Management? Come on, he was a show runner! In most cases, he was not offered work, anyway, which was fine. He could say he tried and spend another day watching the vampire slayer on TV.

  The weeks passed. Rita would spot blood and cramp and spot some more. Spotting, gushing. Something was wrong. On the day she went to the hospital for surgery and was prescribed bed rest, Bruce was offered a position with the phone company, customer service. Only such was his rush to refuse the job, he’d forgotten to wipe the answering machine before Rita got home. They spoke for a while on the couch. She wasn’t feeling well. And she was worried. They’d consolidated their debt and cut way back, but to minimal effect. They weren’t saving money. And the baby was due in less than five months. She’d had her head on his shoulder when she noticed the 1 on the answering machine and went for it. Bruce did nothing. It was like watching a bottle of wine roll off the table. Not enough wherewithal to stop it but full knowledge that here was a disaster.

  They fought. She hemorrhaged. Two weeks later, the phone rang. “This is the Department of the Interior,” said some strange woman who seemed to know a lot about him, followed by a job offer and signing bonus. To do what, exactly? Footage consultant. Had he applied for a job there? He couldn’t remember. Never mind, there was no arguing at dinner, no discussion. Bruce simply accepted the job and started work.

  “Can I have the remote now?” he said.

  “No.”

  They’d been watching Les Misérables on pay per view. She said, “You know, most of the radicals in this country are fixated on their commitment to revolution way more than on the revolution itself. They don’t want to succeed. Because if they did, they couldn’t be radicals anymore, and a radical is most interested in his sense of being a radical.”

  He shifted to his side. “See, this is why you need to stop with all that reading. It’s making you sound like a crank. Where do you get these ideas?”

  “Just look around.”

  “I am. And what I see is a middle-class couple watching Les Mis on a Sleep Number bed.”

  “Crystal could probably put what I said better, anyway.”

  “Oh, so this is Crystal talking. I’d like to meet this fount of conservatism.”

  “She’s not conservative. She’s Helix. A level-headed reformist.”

  “Aha.”

  “Get me that brush while you’re up?” she said.

  It was on her nightstand. He tossed it her way. “Anything else?”

  “It’s snowing out. I bet Crystal’s not going to make it.”

  His heart sank. Crystal, do not do this to me! The doorbell rang. And rang again, because he was so busy lamenting the afternoon ahead, he didn’t hear it.

  “Want to get that?” Rita said.

  He made for the door. A young woman with a canvas bike bag and a box of chocolate peppermint bark. Eighteen years old. Twenty, tops. “Yes?” he said.

  “I’m here for Rita. You must be Bruce.”

  She wore a hat with a yarn pom-pom dusted in snow. The cuffs of her jeans were soggy.

  “You’re Crystal?”

  “The very one.”

  She took off her boots in the doorway. They were shag Inuit boots with tassels and incongruous rubber soles. She took off her gloves, coat, scarf, and sweater, and piled them on the radiator. She’d looked much bigger a second ago.

  “My wife’s in the bedroom,” he said. “Follow me.”

  “I know the way.”

  She trotted down the hall: guess she’d been here before.

  He decided to make nice. Brew some tea, make a tray of chocolate and whatever else was in the fridge.

  Crystal had pulled up an armchair and rested her feet on the mattress. Awfully chummy, these two. Her socks were penguins on the beach. Rita had put on her glasses, which she never did in company. They were giant. Brown and plastic, and hitched to a chain around her neck. She was reading out loud. Bruce leaned against the door frame and waited.

  Crystal put up her hand as if to say: Not in front of the husband.

  But Rita shrugged it off. “He’s fine,” she said, and she kept going:

  As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

  As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

  As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

  As the seizure,
four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

  As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

  As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

  Rita looked over her glasses at Crystal, who said, “So what do you think? We’re passing them out at the meeting today.”

  “I think it’s good. It’s got moral authority.”

  Bruce cleared his throat, wanting to jump in.

  “You think?” Crystal said. “Because we haven’t gotten input from HQ. Not yet, anyway. Thurlow’s a busy man.”

  Rita nodded. She’d read every speech Thurlow Dan had given, and none had actually mentioned interest in the travesty helming the government or that he thought the political strife of 2000 had turned into a bald divide no country could sustain, so revolt. But still, the message was there. Implicitly. Loud and implicit. Revolt!

  “We were going for a certain tone,” Crystal said. “Like, you sort of want to call up the language of back then but not the substance.”

  “Exactly,” Rita said. “Because if anything, the Confederates have all the power now. Total role reversal.”

  Bruce cleared his throat again. And when they continued to ignore him, he said, “Uh, there are no Confederates anymore.”

  Crystal returned her feet to the floor so she could one-eighty and regard the idiot by the door. Rita gazed at him from above the rim of her glasses. Their faces were the essence of pity.

  “What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Crystal said, “Okay, but surely you’ve got a problem with what’s happening. Everyone with a brain has a problem with it. This government represents only half, half, of Americans. And the wrong half at that. You call that a union? It’s time we found each other. Started something new.”

  As she spoke, her hair began to take on an unruly look. Static, perhaps. Or sympathetic arousal. Maybe her skin was on fire. She was so young.

  “I thought the Helix was more of a therapy thing,” he said.

  Crystal sighed as though to say: Who has time for this.

  “Well,” he went on. “I’m apolitical, anyway. I choose not to get involved. Do I have opinions? Of course. Do they matter? No.”

  “Gross,” Crystal said, and she looked at Rita, like, How was Rita married to this oaf?

  “You have to know that pamphlet sounds like some ridiculous secession manifesto,” he said. “Are you in a club or something? High school play?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Rita. “Crystal is my new assistant. I told you.”

  She told him? Really? “Oh, right,” he said. “When did you start?”

  “Couple weeks. But I feel at home already. Lucky to have been assigned to Rita. We get along famously.”

  She turned to Rita. “So, you ready? Meeting starts in about an hour. I got a car outside. And there’s plenty of couches, so you can lie down the whole time.”

  “You bet,” said Rita. And, to Bruce, “Honey, get me my coat?”

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “You can’t go out. What are you doing? You won’t even pick a sock off the floor, and you’re going to some silly model congress with lounge furniture?”

  “Since Rita’s vouching for you, you’re welcome to come,” Crystal said. “The more the merrier. Strength in numbers.”

  She bent over to pick up her bag, brimming with propaganda. On the small of her back was a tattoo. A blue double helix.

  “Rita,” he said. “This really isn’t a good idea. You don’t even know these people.”

  “Oh, come on. You heard Crystal: There’s couches. Now help me up. Slowly. God.”

  He put on his coat. Grabbed his video camera. He was not going to let Crystal the levelheaded reformist take off with his wife of no sense.

  They made it down the hall and into the mudroom, Rita availing herself of techniques used to prevent a pee, should one have to pee en route to a place where peeing is welcome. She was also cupping her vulva, but this was a different matter.

  Outside, Crystal’s vehicle came to life. It was a Hummer, with side wheels mounted on the curb.

  “Mind if I drive?” Bruce said.

  “Normally, no. But it’s my godmom’s car. Don’t worry.”

  It was a box. Pewter and black. Silliest vehicle ever. On the plus side, it had reclining seats and a DVD player, which meant Bruce could live in this Hummer without complaint.

  “So where are we going?” he said.

  “My godmother’s. She’s got a huge basement with a separate entrance. She thinks I have parties down there.”

  “Is she sympathetic?” Rita said. “To the cause?”

  Bruce, who was sitting in the back, popped his head between the front seats. “Let me get this straight: we have a cause?” He was clutching their headrests and pulling.

  Crystal turned to Rita. “You sure he’s okay? I don’t mean for this to be rude—he’s your husband—but there’s a lot of us who can’t include our significant others. It’s not even about priorities, putting the Helix above your husband; it’s just about keeping everyone safe.”

  Bruce said, “Just to play along here for a second, your saying all that in front of me sort of undoes the point of excluding me.”

  But Crystal just looked at Rita, who said, “I promise he’s fine. I just haven’t had a chance to fill him in.”

  “Because you’ve been so busy,” he said.

  He sat back in his seat. The windows were tinted; the world was grim. Crystal caught his eye in the rearview, smiled, and seemed to say with her smile, We could fuck but it wouldn’t be worth it.

  They drove down to D.C. and through a residential neighborhood. Eventually, they turned off and down an inlet that meandered for several miles before pooling in a cul-de-sac. Crystal parked and said, “Voilà.” She jumped out of the truck—it was so high off the ground, you actually had to jump—and opened the rear door.

  “Give me a hand, Bruce?”

  He went around back. “I don’t even know where we are.”

  The land was barren. Plaqued with ice. The only disturbance to the snow was a set of tracks that wandered off into a copse several hundred feet away. He thought he could make out a hedge, but it was too far to tell for sure.

  “What’s this for?” he said, and he helped Crystal with a plastic sled. It was shaped like a bathtub, though it was half as deep.

  “Rita, of course. How else we gonna get her there?”

  He thought she was kidding and laughed.

  “Clever,” said Rita, eyeing the sled. “You do think of everything.”

  She lowered herself into the well. Crystal gave her a Burberry throw and said, “Okay, Bruce, we’re going to walk in single file. We’ll make like sled dogs—you’ve seen them on TV. Oh, and try to keep to the footprints that are already here.”

  “Why?”

  “It helps to make it look like there aren’t so many of us.”

  He looked at the prints. “You’re saying more than one person has come through here?”

  She squinted, did some math. “About fifty, I’m guessing. Let’s go.”

  He took hold of one of the ropes and secured it over his shoulder. He looked back at Rita, who had pulled the blanket up to her chin. With her hat brought low, her bangs pressed into her forehead and eyes.

  “Ready?” Crystal said.

  “Hang on.” He ran back and tucked Rita’s hair behind each ear. She was adorable, his wife. All snug and pregnant in a sled.

  They started off. It was slow going, having to stick to the prints. The steps were spaced so tight, he tangled in his own pants.

  “Mush!” cried Rita. She untied her scarf and lashed his back. “Mush!” She was laughing. He fell down.

  Crystal stopped. “Okay, guys, this is all very nice, love in the snow and all, but I’ve got a meeting to run. Can we pick up the pace a
little?”

  Bruce said, “Where the hell are we going? There’s nothing out here.”

  “Course there is. Just up ahead.”

  He realized they were making straight for the hedges, which were twenty feet tall, at least. You didn’t see hedges like these in D.C. These hedges were pledged in the defense of hearth and home. Like Beverly Hills or Bel Air.

  Bruce whistled. “Holy cow, look at the size of this place.”

  They had passed through a gap in the bushes and were on a path flanked by stone walls on which yew and juniper sat in pots three feet high. It was an arcade, almost. You couldn’t see the sky.

  The lane egressed into a patio framed with garden chairs stacked by the dozen. The patio had just been shoveled and gave the impression that there were such festivities here as to accommodate hundreds without inconvenience. Beyond the patio was a porch in balustrade—all limestone, very old—and behind that a manor home the size of the Capitol. Twenty thousand square feet, at least.

  Crystal said, “Wait here,” and she ran around the side of the house.

  Bruce squatted. He took Rita’s two hands in his and blew.

  “Crystal lives here?” he said.

  “Her godmother.”

  “Her godmother is God?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And Crystal’s working for you why, exactly? I bet whatever’s in there sells for more than we make a year. Combined.”

  “You steal anything and we are through.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Crystal reappeared with six men in tow. Men in bomber jackets and bomber hats. Matching Timberlands. They looked like a boy-band militia.

  Crystal motioned to Rita and the sled. “Now, be careful. Three of you on each side.”

  They did as told and lifted. Like pallbearers. Rita went up five feet. “I don’t like this!” she said, and she covered her face.

  The men walked in step. Bruce felt in his pocket for his video camera. He wished he had brought a second battery. The crappy battery life on this camera was reprisal for his having read six reviews of the product in which crappy battery life was the main complaint, only Bruce had wanted the camera, this camera, because it was password protected. It was the only camera he knew of that could safeguard his work from the nosing of a certain wife, who had every right, at this point, to nose through whatever she liked.