UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  Around six, Stephen waltzes in the door, all smiles. Stephen almost never manages more than a slight upturning of his lips. Whatever the good news is, it must be big.

  I look up from the issue of Houston magazine I’ve been flipping through and try to mirror his happiness in my face. I probably fail. “So?”

  “Guess who just snagged the guest lecturer series in chemical engineering at Rice next week?”

  Why do people phrase things like that? Who else would it be. “Congrats,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, although I don’t succeed.

  Stephen doesn’t seem to notice. “And they’re paying for me to stay down there so I won’t have to make that three-hour round-trip commute every day. They want me for the full week, plus a few events the weekend after!” He puts his hands on his hips proudly.

  That gives me an idea. “I could take a few days off, go with you? We haven’t had any time away together in a while,” I say, rising and crossing to him. “You’ve been working so much. It might be fun, especially if they’re providing a hotel…” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively as I trace a line down the center of his chest.

  Stephen looks down at me. “I’ll be busy all day, and they have my nights scheduled with dinners and social events, and that’s not counting prep work I’ll need to do on top of everything. There’s no point in you going.”

  “I could go to some of your lectures…”

  “You’d just be bored,” Stephen says, putting his large hand over mine and gently pulling it away. “Really technical engineering stuff. You could still take a few days off. Maybe do something with someone from work? What about that chubby Mexican girl? I forget her name. I met her at that one work party of yours.”

  I sigh and pull away, grabbing my purse and following him out to the garage. “She wasn’t chubby. She was pregnant. She had twins a few months ago.” And none of my attempts to hang out with colleagues has ever worked out well, especially ones with kids, but I keep that to myself. Would that change once my baby is born, though? Would that make me part of the “mommy club” whose membership has eluded me for so long? Would Melanie—who I haven’t heard anything from since the convention—and I be closer friends, despite the geographical distance, if I had children too?

  Stephen shrugs as he heads over to the driver’s side of his car, a practical, boring sedan he picked for its safety/value ratio. Like my car, it’s also white, the only color that makes sense in Houston’s hot climate, he’s told me more than once. Well, that’s my layman’s way of translating something about the coefficient of heat or thermal conductivity, which is how Stephen actually talks. “Well, I suppose you could use the time to work on your book, since you insist on writing it, even though it always makes you depressed.”

  As we pull out of the garage, Stephen seems to forget almost everything about our recent conversation, babbling excitedly about the lectureship, and I let his words roll over me as I watch the familiar neighborhood pass by.

  I can’t help thinking of Santiago, the feel of his Porsche, the way one hand is constantly occupied manipulating the gas and brake. The other day I checked out some of the Becker’s MD blogs I’d bookmarked weeks before. It was interesting to read about some other men’s perspectives, how their lives had been affected by the disease. It seems to vary so much from person to person. Some guys don’t have any effects until middle age, while others need a power chair or scooter by their thirties. I suppose, all things considered, Santiago is pretty lucky.

  I recall our last meal together, the conversation we had, so even though Stephen is in midlecture, I turn my head and speak, interrupting him. Fingering my medal, I ask, “If you had some disease, hypothetically speaking—you’re not going to die, just—let’s say you were paralyzed—”

  “What? Where did that come from?”

  “Let’s just say you had this disease, and you had a choice: you could wish to be cured, or you could wish to be with me. But only one or the other. Which would you choose?”

  Stephen rolls to a stop at a red light and turns to study me. “Is this because you’re angry that I suggested you stay home instead of coming with me to Rice? There’s going to be nothing for you to do. Coming with me would be an inefficient use of both our time.”

  I sigh, close my eyes, lean my head against the window.

  “This has to do with your book, then,” Stephen says as he accelerates through the intersection. “You’re writing one of those ‘wounded hero’ books you like to read so much.”

  That snaps me back to attention. “What? How do you know that?”

  Stephen lazily shrugs a single shoulder. “You were spending a lot of money on e-books. I thought I’d see what it was my wife was reading.”

  A spike of worry hits me. I haven’t even told Santiago about…well, why I like those books. Worse, despite my plan to tell Stephen about my pregnancy, I had hoped I could leave Santiago out of it, at least for now. As illogical as it is, I feel like Stephen will somehow be able to put all the pieces together, work out what I’ve done, who I really am.

  But Stephen’s still talking, apparently completely oblivious to the war within my head. “I figure, if you’re going to spend so much time and effort on this book, it may as well be something that’ll be a bestseller. Like, a wizard vampire who’s into BDSM. Isn’t that what everyone’s reading nowadays?”

  I spy the shopping center up ahead, relieved that we’re nearly at our destination. “There isn’t some secret magic formula you can use, plug the right things into, and have a successful book.”

  “Of course there is,” he says almost before I’ve finished. “There is an actual mathematic formula for a chart-topping pop song. And don’t tell me there aren’t formulas for movies, TV, and books too.”

  I shake my head. “You can’t engineer everything like you do chemical processes.”

  “See, I disagree,” Stephen says, pulling into the parking lot. “Name one thing you think I can’t engineer, and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  The sad thing about this argument is that it’s the most engaged Stephen’s been with me in ages, and yet he’s trivializing my book, something so important to me, my final link to my mother, by saying it’s simply a matter of plugging the right numbers in and solving for X. I feel a spike of tears wanting to form; in the past few weeks they come more readily than ever before. I blame the pregnancy, but I wonder…

  “Love. You can’t engineer love. You can put two people together for years, but you can’t make them love each other.”

  Stephen misses the sting in my voice as he roams the parking lot looking for the optimum spot. “But I disagree. After all, love is nothing but a series of chemical reactions in the brain. In theory, if you could figure out how to trigger those artificially, you could create a legitimate love potion.” The restaurant is busy, and he can’t find an available spot, so he circles a few times. “In fact, if you could figure out how to do such a thing, you’d be rich. Maybe even win a Nobel—”

  “Just drop me off,” I say suddenly, interrupting him. I clear my throat. “I’ll make sure we can get a table while you find a place to park.”

  “Ah, thinking efficiently,” Stephen says with a wink, not seeing the tension in my shoulders or how tightly I’m pressing my lips together.

  * * * *

  Inside, I quickly give our name and wait, trying to cool down. Stephen hasn’t really changed in ten years, so why is it that even little things, like his insistence that everything can be treated logically, irk me so? I pull out my phone, and I see the text message icon indicating I have a few text messages. My heart immediately lightens, and a smile spreads on my face. A little note—probably some more purple prose or a ridiculously corny joke—from Santiago would be perfect right now.

  Instead I see they’re all from an unfamiliar number. How fitting: I expect a pick-me-up from my lover only to be invited to enter a sweepstakes. However, when I open the messages, I see they’re actually from Melanie.

  Di! Pho
ne was stolen. Lost all my #s but found yours while cleaning up my office. Heading out of country. This phone won’t work, but will call you when I get back!

  I check the date. Two days ago. Did I miss it? Or is it my phone provider being stupid again? Either way, the only person outside of this situation I could talk to about it is still out of reach, and she gave no indication when she’d be back. Part of me wishes I’d just deleted the texts without reading them after all.

  “Di? It is Di, right?”

  I glance up from my phone and see a familiar-looking couple. Both in their early forties, both pretty unassuming, but in a way that seems almost intentional yet creepy. Like they stepped out of an early Tim Burton film. I can’t think of their names, but they’re both engineers who work with Stephen. “Uh…hi,” I say rather eloquently.

  “Daryl and Carol! I think we met at the Christmas party?” the woman asks, and now that I hear her voice, something pulls at the strings of memory.

  It clicks, and I’m a little ashamed I didn’t recall them more specifically earlier. I mean, really, rhyming names? Yeah, Santiago’s nickname and mine have the first two letters in common, but knowing the kind of people Stephen works with, I almost wonder if that was one of the pros on their checklist when they were doing the cost-benefit analysis of marriage. “Yes, of course,” I say with a polite smile, shaking both their hands. I’m pretty sure Carol was the one I accidentally walked in on at that party, blowing one of the accountants in the bathroom. Guess I’m not the only unhappy wife out there.

  “Where’s Stephen?” Daryl asks. I open my mouth to answer, but before I can say anything, Daryl waves his hands. Stephen certainly stands out in a crowd with his height. “Stephen! Over here.”

  Stephen navigates through the other waiting diners to join us, nodding his head in greeting. “Daryl. Carol.”

  “Heard about the lecture series. Congrats. Say, why don’t you two join us? The more the merrier, eh?”

  Despite what happened in the car, I still planned to use dinner as a way to tell Stephen about my pregnancy, but that’ll never happen if we’re with the rhyming couple. “It’s a pretty busy night; it’s easier to seat two than four.”

  “Nonsense,” Carol insists. “Besides, we have one of those customer loyalty cards. We’ll get 10 percent off our meal!”

  With that, I know my fate is sealed. Stephen isn’t tight, but he’s certainly economical. He couldn’t pass up a savings. I look at him, my face pleading with him to tell them no, that tonight’s supposed to be our night, but he just smiles his slim smile, pats me on the head, and says, “We can’t turn down a deal like that. Besides, aren’t you always saying we don’t socialize enough?”

  * * * *

  Daryl and Carol must really be regulars, because despite our increased party size, Carol whispers a word to the hostess, and it isn’t long before we’re seated. Unfortunately, they both soon engage Stephen in detailed, technical conversation about his plans for his lecture series, and though I honestly try to stay involved at first, offering what little contributions I can, it isn’t long before their voices are floating over me in a sea of jargon.

  I’m amazed how I can sit at a table with three other people, one of whom is my husband, in a crowded, bustling restaurant, and yet feel as alone as I did visiting the mausoleum in New Orleans. All I want right now is to be with Santiago, to climb into his lap and feel those warm arms wrapped around me, to lean my head against his and hear his soft, deep voice whispering words in Spanish I barely understand.

  * * * *

  Back home, I stand in front of the mirror, hands on my belly, staring at my image. The exact picture of my mother in my mind isn’t as vivid as it once was, but now I can see her there, looking back at me—her hair twisted up in a makeshift bun, her eyes a little tired, the faintest hint of lines around them—though mine are more from stress and hers were from laughter. Her eyes were a different color than mine, but I see her in the shape, in the way they study me, and my heart aches. It shouldn’t still hurt this much, not after so long, but after that dinner—even Santiago didn’t respond to my texts—I feel like I might as well be gone like her too, if it weren’t for the life growing inside me.

  A baby. No matter what happens with me and Santiago or Stephen, I have more than myself to think of. I close my eyes, my palm on my stomach, as if trying to make some kind of mental link between us, as silly as that is.

  I startle when Stephen presses up behind me, his hands on my shoulders, his hard-on digging into my back. Without another word, he bends, kissing my neck, practically sucking at the nape, and it’s so completely out of character I pull away in surprise. Stephen barely tolerates French kissing, but he seems oblivious to my unease and slides his large hands over me, kissing exposed skin while sliding the zipper down on my dress.

  He’s strangely amorous, and I’m so starved for a human connection I sink into it, letting him do with me what he wants, barely cognizant that he’s stripped off my dress and bra and tossed them aside.

  It’s strangely erotic to see Stephen break character like this. He normally regiments everything in life, even sex—including brushing his teeth before and neatly folding his clothes—so seeing him loose, free, and horny arouses me. I squeal when he suddenly lifts me and tosses me on the bed, diving on top of me, placing openmouthed kisses on my breasts. Maybe there is hope for us, after all. If I told him about the baby, maybe things would be okay between us. After all, Stephen’s never been very good at hypothetical thinking; he’s always better with concrete facts.

  He may not want children in the abstract sense, but now that the possibility is real…

  “Stephen,” I say between kisses. “I still need to tell you something.”

  “Later,” he says, grinding his cock against me.

  I push him to give us some distance. “Let’s try something different.”

  “You mean like…BDSM?” His voice is cautious, uncertain.

  I laugh. That’s not what I mean—though the prospect of tying Stephen up, not for the sexual thrill but simply the satisfaction of it, is intriguing. “No,” I say. “Like, you kiss me down there and I kiss you.”

  “You mean like cunnilingus?”

  I nod. Reach for him, but he pulls back.

  “Di,” he says, and he increases the distance between us, no longer touching me.

  “I’m clean. I can clean again, if you want,” I say, trying not to sound pleading, the emptiness engulfing me, making me feel heavy.

  He shifts me on the bed and kneels in front of me, looking down at me, and the scrutiny is sucking away any arousal I’d felt from his earlier attention. He puts his hands on my breasts, only he doesn’t stroke them or tease the nipples; it’s almost as if he’s testing their weight.

  What if he’s noticing they’re slightly larger than normal? It’s subtle, and even I can normally tell only when I have a bra on. No way Stephen’s that observant. He is a scientist, anal about details. Leave it to Stephen to somehow have a sense for how much my breasts normally weigh and be able to compare it to their current, early-pregnancy enlarged state. Has he put the pieces together: weight gain, enlarged breasts, moodiness—the fact that I didn’t drink any alcohol at dinner?

  “Stephen, listen…”

  Still holding my breasts, and in the same tone of voice he’d use to observe that it’s time for an oil change, Stephen says, “Do you realize one of your breasts is slightly larger than the other?”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I sigh. Loudly. “Yes.”

  He sinks down onto his calves, fascinated, as if he just discovered a new element or something. “I can’t believe I never noticed this before.”

  I realize I’m not getting licked or sucked, and I don’t even care anymore.

  He pushes closer, hands on either side of me, his cock pressing at my entrance, picking up as if nothing happened between us, as if this is sex like any other night.

  Fuck that.

  I press my hands aga
inst his chest, pushing him away. “No.”

  His face scrunches up. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I mean forget it. It’s not happening.” I manage to roll out from under him, leaving him in the bed and crossing to the dresser.

  “You can’t just get me erect and then not let me ejaculate,” Stephen says, half whining, half yelling.

  I pull pajamas out of a drawer, slip them on without turning to face him. “You have hands. I’m sleeping in my office. Good night.”

  * * * *

  I curl up on the futon in my office, not bothering to clear the mess so I can unfold it, cradling the voodoo-doll keychain in one hand, my phone in the other, letting my music soothe me. Part of me wishes the doll were real and I could use it on Stephen, but then I think how silly that is. Lying in the darkness, I feel hollow, confused. Alone. I’ve never said no to Stephen like that. Not about sex. Not that far in.

  I imagine Santiago lying beside me, the comfort of his scent and warm touch, and a physical ache pierces my chest, as if a piece of me were missing. A fierce longing overwhelms me, more than anything sexual. For a moment, I grip my phone, debating calling him, but quickly decide against it. Somehow I know hearing his voice without feeling his arms wrapped around me will be worse than the horrible, dark stillness of my office.

  American Hi-Fi’s “Lost” starts up, and I follow the music in my mind, picturing myself on a small island, surrounded by ocean. I have to swim. Either I go back, or I go forward, but I can’t stay here. I think of St. Anthony as the chorus echoes about being lost until we’re found. A notification interrupts the music momentarily as a text message pops up in the dark. From Santiago.

  My heart swells momentarily. The message of the song—determination not to let sadness overwhelm—continues to echo in my ears as I read his short message: Phone was charging. Didn’t see your texts till now. Going to bed, but TTYS. :x

  I stare at the glow of my phone and Santiago’s message, a brief light in the darkness, for a long while until sleep finally claims me.