The Hearts of Men

by Nickolas Butler

  “Very pleased to meet you,” he says, bowing slightly, and then taking her hand, which he kisses delicately. When his face rises again to preside over those well-yoked shoulders, it is centered by two sadly observant eyes, the look of a man quite bored with most of what passes for the world’s business.

  “Likewise,” she says.

  He slips sideways and presents a thick hand to Trevor. “Good to see you, Mr. Quick. Though, I see, you’re already imbibing . . .” Their handshake takes on a new intensity, with Nelson resting his left hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “I hope I don’t need to worry about your partaking at camp, do I?”

  “Absolutely not, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, Trevor. You want to drink like a man, act like it, too. Simply accept the consequences.”

  “Awful hard, though, Nelson,” Jonathan laughs, “to act like a man, when holding twenty-four ounces of strawberry daiquiri.”

  Releasing his grip on Trevor, Nelson now slides to his left and faces Jonathan.

  “Thank you, Jon, for inviting me this evening,” Nelson says, extending his hand.

  Jonathan accepts the solid handshake offered him. “It’s good to see you, Nelson. That’s a fine suit, too. Very dapper. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Laphroaig. And if there’s no Laphroaig, Lagavulin.”

  “Smoke bombs, uh,” Jonathan drawls, inching closer to the bar, and ordering their drinks. He likes this. The prospect of drinking single malt with Bugler, this man so unlike the boy in his childhood memories: so corded in muscle now, broad as a wildebeest, so utterly lacking in the sort of phony bonhomie that makes the country club go round. Sliding a twenty across the bar, Jonathan glances back to spy Nelson leaning into Deanna, speaking in a volume so low Jonathan hears nothing. And then: a rose blossom of delight flushes across Deanna’s face. What did he say? And Trevor moving closer to Bugler, listening in, an absurdly rare teenage smile stretching below his greasy nose.

  Jonathan scoops both Scotches and delivers one to Nelson, toasting, “To old friends,” as he raises his glass.

  Nelson offers a little nod, readying his lowball for the toss back.

  “To friends,” says Deanna, raising her champagne, and then turning to Trevor, “So nice to meet both of you. How lucky am I? Eating dinner with three such handsome men.”

  And then Trevor, moments behind everyone else, breaks from really slurping that daiquiri. “Sorry,” he says, touching her flute with his oversize glass goblet.

  “So,” Deanna begins, “your father tells me you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah,” Trevor admits, suddenly shy, examining his shoelaces as if they are in desperate need of retying.

  “How long have you been seeing each other?”

  “Six months,” he stammers, “about a hundred and ninety-one days, actually.”

  Deanna laughs, touches his arm.

  “What?” he asks defensively.

  “Nothing,” she says sweetly. “You’re just in love is all. It’s quite charming.”

  “Are you married, Mrs. . . . I’m sorry. Dad never told me your last name.”

  “Tolbert,” she says flatly, as if the name were a badge she wore with chagrin, an aged garment or brooch she once inherited and has never particularly liked. “And yes. I am married. Twenty-five years in September.”

  “Where’s your husband?” Then, “I’m sorry. Is that rude? I’m just—Dad said you were a friend, but . . . until a few days ago, I’d never even heard him mention your name.”

  Nelson holds his glass, face implacable, eyes turning subtly to Jonathan as Deanna clears her throat, sips at her champagne, and then from the kitchen, to the rescue, a loaded serving tray hits the deck to a cacophony of broken glass and dropped silverware.

  “Lemme go check on our reservation,” Jonathan says, giving Trevor’s shoulder a light squeeze.

  THEIR TABLE SITS immediately beside a bank of expansive windows looking out onto a lake lined by majestic white and red pines, and out on the water, the occasional pontoon boat motors lethargically past, its skipper and passengers waving contentedly from the deck, an American flag mounted off the stern, hardly undulating as the craft duffs along at perhaps a knot or two.

  There is almost nothing Jonathan loves more than a supper club. The warm woods, low ceiling, ample bar, more-than-competent kitchen . . . Sitting at a four-top, Deanna and Nelson at his sides, Trevor across the white-linen tablecloth with a single votive candle to mark the center, Jonathan finds the evening about as perfect as he could have hoped. There is his boy, Trevor, almost a man now, sipping a daiquiri as he studies the menu, mouth moving slightly as he reads. And Deanna, her readers perched on her nose, a single finger raised to her lips. Nelson, his menu resting on the table, his right index finger circulating the ice around his Scotch, eyes downcast, the candle’s light now and again drawing shadows from his sharp nose and mustache, the wrinkles cracked around those sad old eyes of his.

  Jonathan is glad now for Trevor’s daiquiri. Let the boy drink, he thinks. No need to have the kid sleuthing around his sex life. Then again, wasn’t that the idea? He had intended to introduce Deanna and Trevor, and Shit, I don’t know. Maybe if the kid approves, a divorce might not be so traumatic. Maybe he’ll understand, take it all in stride . . .

  The waiter arrives, takes their orders, and resolutely collects menus before moving off. Nelson sips his Scotch, and Deanna clears her throat, rearranging a napkin across her lap. Trevor sucks loudly at what remains of his daiquiri through a straw that must be over a foot long; it reminds Jonathan of a pole vault.

  “Thirsty, huh?” Jonathan says. “Better go easy on that second one, tiger. We don’t need any hungover Scouts tomorrow, now do we, Nelson?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m afraid,” Nelson says. “Or likely the last.”

  “Oh,” Deanna trills, “I’m sure it doesn’t happen very often though, does it, Nelson? That kind of behavior?” Beneath the table, her hand lands as lightly as a butterfly on Jonathan’s knee, her index finger rubbing a figure eight there . . . and then another . . .

  “Every summer,” Nelson says, grinning sadly. “In the final analysis, Deanna, Boy Scout camp is fairly similar to a juvenile detention facility, really, or, taken a step further, maybe prison. I’ve got a population of kids that I’m in charge of. The camp counselors are my guards, and I’m counting on the troop leaders and adult chaperones to act as tribal leaders, keeping things in check in each campsite.”

  He takes another sip of Scotch. “Nobody’s being punished, of course. And we’re not trying to rehabilitate anyone exactly . . . But, for better or worse, they’re captive for a week, their day regimented, and of course, they’re asked to wear their uniforms.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve got kids coming to camp every year with contraband. Been that way for decades. Beer, vodka, whiskey, schnapps—whatever they can procure from dad’s liquor cabinet. Cigarettes, cigars. Hell, a year ago, I caught a counselor who planted about an acre of marijuana deep in the woods. Genius idea, really.”

  Deanna’s fingers inching forward in the darkness, Jonathan takes another rip of Scotch, woozy with anticipation . . . And the old joystick in his pants, still in good working order, he is pleased to report . . .

  “What happened to the weed?” Trevor blurts out.

  “Naturally, I confiscated it,” Nelson says, twirling his ice cubes again.

  “I’m sure you did,” Deanna giggles, lifting her champagne glass to take a sip.

  “Yeah, but then what’d you do with it?” Trevor presses on.

  “After the Scouts left that summer, I had a big bonfire. Torched it all.”

  “Too bad,” sighs Jonathan. “An acre of grass? You could’ve retired down in Cabo. Set up a new Scout camp on some deluxe Mexican stretch of beach.” Her hand fully massaging his crotch now, the Scotch taking effect, the warmth of the room, bread and butter aromas, and off in the distance, the evening’s last waterskier, carving up the flat mirror of th
e lake and sending a distant curtain of sliced water toward their shore as he vanishes, leaving behind only the softening drone of an outboard motor, and the dining room’s sound track: silverware touching, laughter, voices rising in disagreement, a radio on somewhere back in the kitchen . . .

  “Dad?” Trevor asks. “Are you okay?” His voice is so sincere.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Deanna says, “you all right, there?” Her hand has fluttered away; now it’s just her toes at his ankles, and blessedly holding their position. He realizes he must have closed his eyes for a blissed-out moment at the dinner table.

  “How about you, Jon?” Nelson asks calmly, peering over the table as if this is all some very cordial interrogation, no hurry, they’ve got all night. “How’s the trucking business?”

  “Business is good,” Jonathan says, nodding his head. “Real good, actually.” It’s true, business has never been better. Quick Trucking & Transport has grown from a dozen drivers working a Chicago–Minneapolis Highway 94 route to more than six dozen employees spread all over the country. He can’t say how it even happened. One day, he’s twenty-six years old, freshly back home after some cushy Reserves deployment over in Germany, working a desk his father assigned him to in Receiving. And now, he’s forty-nine years old, president of the same company, with revenues expected to exceed six million dollars next year. He can’t even call what he does “work” anymore. He has other people to do the actual “work.” And him? He sits on a half-dozen boards, plays golf whenever the weather allows (his secretary schedules it on his calendar as “client development”), swims thirty laps a day at the YMCA, and plays racquetball twice a week with a retired trial attorney whom he has never beaten—not even close.

  And now, here he sits, with Deanna, a woman whose role in his own life is yet to be defined. Is she, as he told Trevor, “a friend”? Or is she a “girlfriend”? His mistress? His future wife? Suddenly he isn’t so sure about this dinner, about having invited her along . . . Putting a label on their fun has somewhat dampened his enthusiasm. There is a searing flash of realization, for one thing, that to marry Deanna means divorcing Sarah, and that will be a costly thing indeed. He might just have to return to work.

  He moves his leg, away from Deanna’s toying foot.

  “Business is good,” he repeats for a third time, nodding. He’s a trucking magnate, or something. How did this happen? Where did those twenty-five years go? One afternoon, you’re drinking kolsch in a German bier-garden with two nineteen-year-old backpackers from Colombia, and the next you’re operating a trucking empire from Eau Claire, Wisconsin?

  “You must be very proud,” Nelson continues. “Great family, great son, great business. I’m truly happy for you, Jonathan.”

  Deanna looks down at her plate.

  Perhaps because his daiquiri has run dry or perhaps because the relish tray and bread still haven’t arrived, Trevor decides to plunge back into the conversation, with little to distract him but the banter swirling around the table.

  “I’m sorry, Deanna,” he says gingerly. “How did you and Dad meet?”

  “Well,” she begins, rearranging her silverware. “I, uh . . . I guess I would have thought, that, uh, your father would have told you before now.”

  “We actually met here,” Jonathan says dryly, adding no superfluous details. “A few years back. Deanna was dropping her son off at camp, too.”

  “Oh, do you know my mom?” Trevor continues. “I mean, are you friends with her, too?”

  Deanna coughs into her fist, not so accidentally knocking a soup spoon to the floor.

  “No,” Jonathan says, “Deanna and Mom haven’t met.” He pauses. “Not yet anyway.”

  “It’s just that”—Trevor rubs his forehead—“I’m confused. I mean, I’ve never heard you tell Mom about Deanna, Dad. Do you, like, call each other sometimes? Why are you friends, exactly?” He giggles to himself. “I just can’t imagine my dad making friends like that, you know? Like, what do you do together? Just eat dinner once a year?” He laughs again, peers around for the waiter, his empty daiquiri glass held searchingly aloft.

  “Look, Trevor,” Jonathan says, exhaling deeply, “Deanna’s my girlfriend.” He has stepped into the river, and the current has taken him. There’s no swimming back to shore now. He feels at once stupid relief and gripping fear. And until they return home, Trevor is now an accomplice to this secret. Jonathan wonders what exactly the boy will do with this newfound knowledge, realizes he’s begun sweating.

  Nelson coughs into his napkin and shifts in his chair as the waiter delivers a basket of bread, a plate of butter, and a bountiful relish tray laden with radishes, celery, carrots, cheeses, charcuterie, dips . . .

  Trevor stares at his father. “Excuse me?” he says.

  “She’s my girlfriend,” Jonathan repeats, clumsily reaching for her hand.

  “But, you said . . . Dad, you said she was your friend, not your girlfriend. I mean . . .” Trevor runs his hand all the way back through his longish, wavy brown hair. He’s been growing it for months now, and Jonathan regularly tousles it, compliments the kid, telling him it reminds him of the Beatles, of mop-tops, of when he grew his own hair out and how much it annoyed his own father. But Trevor’s not that kind of kid. Jonathan can’t remember a single incidence of Trevor ever knowingly trying to annoy him, let alone undermine his power. This is a good boy. Well on the path to Eagle Scout.

  “Jesus!” Trevor suddenly shouts, the dining room stilling to the very barest register of white noise.

  “Trevor,” Jonathan says calmly, leaning toward his son. “Chill out. All right? Here—do you want another drink?”

  “I do, yes!” he shouts, and then, “I mean, goddamnit, Dad. Goddamn you.”

  “Your father should have told you,” Deanna says, moving her chair closer to Trevor, reaching out a hand to rub his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is something that should have happened back home, I suppose. Are you okay?”

  “Don’t touch me,” the kid says. “Jesus, where’s your shame, lady?”

  “Beg your pardon?” she asks, leaning back. Though no moralist, Deanna is a woman with a backbone. She always gets a laugh when tabloids focus on the men in cheating scandals, those aging silver foxes on the downhill slide of a midlife crisis. How the affairs are always their fault, the men clearly pigs. The irony, of course, is that they’re sleeping with women, oftentimes, married women. Two to tango, and all that jazz. Her own father married four different women before he died, and left her mother to raise three girls in a one-bedroom shotgun bungalow in Milwaukee. So she’s tired of the self-righteousness of men, the righteousness of anyone for that matter, and the sanctimony of this boy in particular. In a way, she already regrets her last comment to the kid. No—better he learn before the divorce. Give him a burden to carry. Let him grow up already.

  “Well, just that—” Trevor begins again. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  She nods, squeezes Jonathan’s hand, thinks back to earlier this same day, their tryst in her motel room, the tenderness with which he handles her body, the compliments he offers her, better than any chocolates or flowers, saying these, these, sweet nothings, these unnecessary kindnesses that had become so foreign to her. God, I love your toes, he says to her. Your ass . . . your lips . . . your hair. God, you’re beautiful. And the way you smell.

  The waiter is suddenly standing at attention beside Nelson. He is an older gentleman, with the rather regal and severe look of an Austrian butler, his back ramrod straight in a black uniform, utterly without stain or wrinkle, his eyebrows two hedgerows merged together and gone without pruning for years under a great dome of a bald pate. Jonathan notices Nelson appraising the waiter, perhaps admiring the man’s clear attention to detail.

  “Another drink?” the waiter asks.

  “Christ yes,” says Jonathan. “We’ve been dry here for eons.”

  “The same, then?” the waiter asks.

  “You wanna slow down there, Trev? Or is it damn the torpe
does?” Jonathan reclines in his chair a bit. Their canoe is already headed straight for the falls. Why the fuck not?

  “Sure,” says Trevor, “Yep. I’m game.”

  “Very well,” the waiter nods before moving off.

  Nelson rests a heavy hand on Trevor’s shoulder, whispers, “I’m sorry, son.”

  “What are you sorry for?” Trevor blurts out. “You’re not my dad! You didn’t ambush me with this . . .” He stutters for a moment, hesitant to curse before Nelson. “ . . . bullshit. You know? This fucking bullshit.”

  “Hang tough, all right?” Nelson continues. “Look, if you want to head back to the motel, or even come to camp a night early, I can give you a ride.”

  “Now hold on there, Nelson,” Jonathan says. “This is my son. All right? He’s my son, damnit. And this was my decision.” Jonathan has straightened his posture, risen up in his chair, laid a hand on the table close to Nelson’s almost-empty Scotch glass; his fingertips are within five inches of Nelson’s cuff link, and his voice is cold and authoritative, a tone he rarely needs to employ these days, but is perfectly able to. How many times has he had to strike fear in the hearts of local politicians, Teamsters, shift supervisors, and so on?

  Nelson, looking nonplussed, holds his hands up in mock surrender, then brings one arm to rest behind Trevor’s shoulders, like a most favored uncle.

  Jonathan now unleashes the speech he’s been clandestinely preparing since the night he first slept with Deanna, and realized with a start, that perhaps his life was moving in a separate direction from that of his wife and only son.

  “The thing is, Trevor, your mom drives me crazy, okay? She’s insane. She isn’t the woman I married. And, hell, I don’t know. I suppose this is all news to you, but the thing is, the woman I married, she was a spunky little thing, and it was the beginning of disco, and we’d go out every night,” he says, stabbing down at the table, suddenly impassioned, “every single fucking night, and we’d go dancing. And nights we weren’t dancing, we were still going out. Still having drinks or having dinner or going to see a show or a concert.