by Andrew Roe
It had ended with Henry freaking after she told him she was pregnant. She had been planning on breaking it off anyway, but he had made it easier for her, in a way. And now she could be righteous. She could be pissed off and dramatic. She had the right.
“Long time no see,” she said.
Henry squinted up at her, doing his best to focus his boozed eyes.
“You’re skinny.”
A curtain was closing over his face, the information sinking in, seeping through the liquor.
“Why thank you,” she said, trying to take it in a different direction, watching him curl his knuckles and then hearing them shift and crack. “And you’re drunk. And your shoes are off. And you’re sitting in front of my door.”
“You shouldn’t be skinny.”
She sifted through her purse for her keys. Meanwhile Henry attempted to stand, faltering, once, twice, then succeeding. He was tall, though not as tall as Arlo, and heavy, the hulking frame of an athlete in decline. He worked construction. All of his friends worked construction as well. Only they never seemed to do much work, much constructing. Just hung out and complained, arguing about the Raiders or the A’s or how so-and-so’s wife had so-and-so by the balls and he didn’t even know it.
“What’d you go and do?”
“Oh I get it. I don’t see you in how long and then you show up and start acting like you’re still in the picture. Like you got rights. Why the sudden interest now? Because at the time, at the time you sure weren’t interested. I believe your exact words were I don’t want no part of this, count me out.”
Turning away, Henry stalked down the hallway and back, running his hands through his hair several times. It was eight a.m. or thereabouts, the morning outside gushingly bright and alive, and all the regular people with regular jobs and regular lives were having coffee or just waking up or hitting the snooze button and thinking five more minutes. And here she was with Henry, who just now picked up one of his shoes and launched it down the hall. Then he picked up the other one and did the same. Throwing them with great force, but both shoes landing limply, hardly making a sound. Time to get inside.
She had her key out, ready. But he was blocking the door again, and apparently he wasn’t moving out of the way. Better say something. Remembering rule number one when dealing with a drunk person: don’t tell them they’re drunk. And she’d already done that once. So she didn’t do it a second time. Even though she wanted to spit that at him: You’re drunk. So something else:
“Why’d you come here in the first place?”
At first Henry didn’t answer, just stood there, brow lowered and head cocked in masculine disbelief, like a guy in a police lineup, guilty now, guilty forever.
Then he said, “Doesn’t matter why I came. What matters is what you did.”
It was all about maneuvering now, like a game of chess, but with words, too.
“Look,” she told him, “I just worked my eight hours plus the bus. I’m about to pass out I’m so tired. We are not having this conversation now. I’m going to open the door. You’re going to step aside. And I’m going inside my apartment and sleep.”
“You what—think you can play Jedi mind games on me or something?”
He made himself laugh, he tilted forward, and this provided her with an opportunity. Quickly she managed to drive the key into the lock and squeeze inside the apartment. There was, however, a bit of a struggle before she could close the door. He knocked and pounded and kicked, splintering some of the door’s cheap renter’s wood. Then he gave up. Down the hallway she heard him yelling, “Bitch. Bitch. You shouldn’t let that bitch live in your building.”
10.
In fact she did have a child, a son, Marcus, who lived with a religious aunt in Tennessee. It was better that way. At Christmas and on his birthday she sent him a present, just a little something, she couldn’t afford much but she tried, signing the card, Love, Mom. For years she’d written the “o” in Mom as a heart. But last year she decided it was time to stop, her son was almost ten and probably embarrassed by touches like that.
And now every time she visited or he visited (once, maybe twice a year) it was like meeting a brand-new person. He had different tastes, liked different music and TV shows and cartoon characters. She used to recognize parts of her in him, both physically (his eyes, the unfortunate underbite) and otherwise (his sense of humor, how he liked his cereal soggy). But she had faded from him. There was no part of her left in Marcus, her son, except her blood and genes and DNA, all the things that are there but you can’t see.
11.
As always she took her bus across the Bay Bridge, her daily commute, her daily penance, from Hayward to San Francisco, getting off downtown at the Transbay Terminal and then having to catch another bus to the hospital, practically a two-hour ordeal each way. The only consolation of the trip was the sight of the city sparkling at night, all lit up like a magical land from a children’s book. She stared at the tall buildings, so wise and glittering, and wondered what it would be like to work in such a place, with normal hours, with a garage to park your car in, to sit at a desk, to have a computer, to go home in rush-hour traffic, someone there when you pulled up in the driveway, to even have a driveway.
Arlo called in sick that night. She missed his sweeping and trips into the kitchen. How he smiled then looked down quick-like when he first saw her. She liked that. When had she ever known a man who was shy? She thought of him often during her shift. So did Sheila and Mary Jo.
“That boy is sweet,” said Sheila.
“Sweeter than sweet,” cooed Mary Jo.
She didn’t say anything. It was best to hold back sometimes. Sometimes if you said something out loud it wouldn’t come true.
12.
The phone rang and she let the machine answer. Whoever it was didn’t leave a message. She rolled over on the couch, tried to fall back asleep. Her neck ached, her fingers throbbed. How old do you have to be in order to get arthritis?
At some point the phone rang again. People were out there, in the world, and there was nothing you could do about it.
13.
No, she hadn’t settled on some big life decision. She had been thinking, sure, realizing that there were patterns and certain behaviors. There was a time when there had been too many men, too much sharing of herself for all the wrong reasons. But the job at the hospital had taken care of that. Had made her untouchable, apart. (Henry being the only one to sort of break through, and look what happened with that.) So maybe, then, it had all been for the best. Her employment situation yielded some perspective, a new way to see herself. Before, she had believed in luck. There was good luck and bad. How you lived with the consequences of that fundamental fact was the real concern. But maybe, she was now willing to consider, maybe there was more to it than luck. Maybe it didn’t have to be one way or the other. Maybe you could stop, change direction. Maybe you could surprise yourself.
Arlo was back the next night. He still looked somewhat under the weather—weak and feverish. His breaks lasted longer, he wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve and kept staring at the kitchen’s clock whenever he came in to do something. He said even less than usual. And when he did say something, his voice was cloudy and deep from being sick.
“Mmmmm, sexy,” whispered Sheila.
That turned out to be the night, or morning, at the end of their shift, that she and Arlo got to really talking. It was in the parking lot. And it was just one of those times when things fall into place without much effort. You’re not even trying. It just happens. Naturally. Small talk but nice talk. Not like when it’s all forced and obvious and stupid, when both people know it’s a game and where it’s all heading.
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” she wanted to know.
“I’ll be all right. Thanks,” he said. “I just can’t afford to be missing too much work. I need the money.”
“Don’t we all.”
He couldn’t look her in the eye for very long. The par
king lot was filling up fast; cars, day people passing by. He’d look at her then glance away. Look; then glance away. That was good, she thought.
“How long was it you say you been working here?” Arlo asked.
“Too long. A year.”
“And before that, what?”
“Anything and everything. Cleaning houses, temping. I worked with kids. Little ones. My cousin, she had a family daycare for a while. I helped with that.”
She found herself zeroing in on his neck, the strength of it, the smooth grace. Had she ever noticed this before, fully, his beautiful neck? That was the thing about Arlo. He always surprised you. He always seemed to offer something new every time you saw him or thought about him. Like there were layers. And today it was his neck. And it looked like something to lick, to taste. Her tongue coiled inside her mouth, wanting, waiting.
“A year,” he said, hands in his pockets now. “That can be a long time.”
“Tell me about it.”
And the other thing with Arlo, what repeatedly struck her, and what made him different, or seem different, was how he didn’t have this fucked-up idea of how he was supposed to act, how he was supposed to be, and then he’d try to live up to that no matter what. He was just himself. And that appeared to be enough for him. With Arlo, she thought, or someone like Arlo, she could finally be with a man who raised you up instead of pulled you down.
“A year ago—let’s see. A year ago,” he said, “and I was still living in San Diego.”
“San Diego,” she said, tucking her hair behind her left ear, only to have it quickly spill free again. A horn blared and echoed through the parking lot. “I had a friend who lived there. Used to live there.”
“America’s finest city,” said Arlo. “San Diego. That’s what they say.”
There was a pause. She thought of what it would be like to probe that dimple with the tip of her tongue. Then they started talking again. As often as she dared, she released that smile, that look that said yes. What more could she do?
14.
Arlo had a car. Once they were on the Bay Bridge, she peered back at San Francisco, behind and to her left, the sun fresh and new in the sky, Arlo’s profile shadowed and noble-seeming, like a president on a coin. She looked and then looked away. Back in the parking lot felt like yesterday, last week. There was a song on the radio that she could never remember the name of. Whatever it was called, it was like smoke inside her, potent and rising.
Her apartment smelled of cat and flowers left out too long. She did the brief tour, offered the usual excuses about the place being a mess, not expecting anyone, there was never enough time for cleaning and laundry and shopping, etc. Arlo trailed her, nodding like an inspector of some kind. When he asked about the cracks in the front door she told him it was from a long time ago.
They ended up in the hallway, just standing there. He seemed a little unsure of what next, so she touched his shoulder, then his neck (that neck!), then lips; they were soft, the lips of someone in a dream.
When they were ready, they drifted toward her bedroom and the bed.
“I just want to make sure,” he said. “Are you…Are you taken care of? Or do you want me to—”
“Don’t worry, Arlo,” she stopped him. “It’s taken care of. I learned. Thanks for asking though.”
And she helped him in, and he started to go too fast, she had to tell him to slow down, and he did, they went slow, slower, backtracking, and she pulled him closer, as close as they could get, so that there was less distance in the world, a greater opening somehow. His skin felt like skin: beautiful, warm.
15.
The kitchen seemed like the right place to be. There was a small, round table in the corner with chairs that didn’t match. The refrigerator was old and made an intermittent ticking noise and resembled the refrigerator from I Love Lucy.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Eggs okay?”
“Sure. Eggs are fine. Eggs are great.”
He was watching her now, a woman in her kitchen, familiar with everything, removing stuff from the fridge, firing up the coffee, and she could sense the curious casting of his eyes. She liked it, the feeling of him watching her. Not judgmental or anything. Just watching. Just curious.
“I hope I don’t get you sick,” he said. “With my cold I mean.”
“You won’t. I can tell.”
He told her that the job at the hospital was just temporary, a way to get through school. He had one more year to go and then he’d see.
“College, right?” she joked.
“Yeah, college, I’m not that young.”
She asked what he studied and when he said the natural sciences she left it at that.
Sunlight streamed into the kitchen, thick as paint. Arlo sat in a patch of brimming yellow, sunning himself like a cat would. And just then her gray tabby lounged into the kitchen and stood as if waiting for instruction.
“That’s Norman,” she said. “He doesn’t come out much anymore. You should be honored.”
“Norman. That’s a good name for a cat,” he said.
She cooked up the eggs, adding some salsa from a jar. It was nice to listen to the sounds of food being prepared: the utensils, the spatula working the skillet, drawers opening and closing.
“My breakfast specialty: salsa eggs,” she said, serving him a plateful of scrambled eggs flecked with tomato and onion along with toast.
“Thanks, wow.”
But he didn’t dive in. He was going to wait for her.
“This is out of the blue,” he began.
“That’s okay.”
“But do you know what an egret is?”
“A what? No, I don’t think so.”
She filled her own plate, grabbed the salt and pepper if need be. The coffee was just about ready.
“They’re these birds,” he went on. “They’re white. And tall. And skinny. And they have these really really long necks. I don’t know. Anytime I see them they make me happy. They make me smile.” Arlo paused. He still hadn’t started eating yet. “I don’t know why I thought of that. Maybe because I used to see them in San Diego by the lagoons right off the 5, and we were talking about San Diego earlier, back at work. Or maybe I’m happy.”
She kissed him from behind when he said that, and sat at the table, too.
Then they got down to the serious business of grubbing. She followed his chewing and swallowing and wiping of his mouth with the paper towel she’d given him as a napkin. She cautioned herself not to get too far ahead with this. After all, the rest of the day would come, eventually, and why would anyone think otherwise, and they would need to sleep at some point and then later talk about what had happened and whether this was going to turn into something regular or not. But for now they sat there eating and bathing in the brewing light, saying nothing, wondering who would be the first to speak.
ARE YOU OKAY?
Naked is not good. Naked is not sexy. Naked is not, suddenly, tragically, what you want to be.
But: here you are anyway, naked. Totally. Completely. Shockingly. Nude. As nude as nude can be, and how the word itself, nude, sounds-feels-tastes exactly like it should. Never have you been so nude, so naked, so fundamentally revealed. You wonder: is it the light? No, it is not the light. The light in the room (hers) is minimalist and warm. It’s actually a calming, campfire-y glow. So no: it’s you all right. It’s your nakedness. The fact of this. The lapsed biology of this. It’s something—something is pulling you away from the slutty awe and allure of the moment, and this is not good either. This is, in fact, bad.
Eye contact—when was the last time there was confirmed I-see-you you-see-me eye contact? Minutes ago. Not since the removal of your socks, her panties, both of you busying yourselves with the grave mechanics of undressing. All distractions, all utilitarian preparations gone now. The daiquiris starting to wear off, too. You’re afraid to look; she’s afraid to look. Several minutes ago, and counting.
Somehow (instinct?) you both paddle over to your respective sides of the bed, which is fluffy and white and suggestive of cumulus. Moving is like moving upstream, like swimming underwater against a mighty current. You are salmon people: pink, vulnerable. The question then becomes: under the comforter or on top? Yet another impasse. How many can one encounter withstand?
Though to be fair, it’s her nakedness as well. This is also disturbing. Because you are both older, beyond the push of forty, both well versed in the body’s betrayals and declines. This is not magazines. This is not movies. This is a small bedroom in a large apartment complex where in the background you can hear the nocturnal comings and goings of neighbors, bass-heavy stereos, cats wanting to be let inside. She has had children. One breast seems lower, bigger than the other. The skin sags and hangs where you’d expect, the sporadic blemishes draw the eye like glints of glass. But there is a truth and a bluntness to her shape. You aren’t complaining. It’s not that. And you are not not attracted to her. It’s just that it makes you a little sad, is all.
You think back to the bar. Remarkably it’s been only what—a half hour since you departed in agreement: her place, because the kids weren’t there and it was closer and there was no way your apartment would do. Swaggering out into the night like a couple of professional club-goers. It was a bar adjoined to a Hollywood-themed chain restaurant, and both bar and restaurant were empty of customers but crowdedly decorated with the memorabilia of lesser celebrities who, you thought, didn’t really deserve their own memorabilia. (Stephen Baldwin’s money clip? Ally Sheedy’s cigarette case?) You talked about music. You talked about the coming fall TV season. You talked about when you love someone and it’s like a part of you disappears but you don’t mind. You ran a tab because why not, it’s Friday night, and because it’s not like she’s an anonymous pickup. She’s a coworker with whom you’ve bonded during the past few months, finding each other amid the hundreds of scuttling employees who call BriteTech home. Divorced, single parents, aging, unsatisfied at work, similarly wounded by the world—there was plenty to commiserate about. And commiserate you did. Lunches, breaks, after-work drinks, occasional carpooling. Plus a balanced, enthusiastic exchange of emails, voicemails, and instant messages. The intimacy increasing day by day, week by week, until the narrative arc of the relationship had reached its turning point. Today, tonight. Too many drinks. Too many whispery revelations at one sitting. A hand brushed a thigh. A glance was returned, affirmed. Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” seeped out of the sound system.