Love Warps the Mind a Little

by John Dufresne

  B. “HYPNOPOMPIA”

  A door clicked shut somewhere in the house, and I woke, but not completely. I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t want to know. I closed my eyes. The dream was gone. I’d drowned my wife. A door opened, this time in my head. A globe rolled through the doorway and stopped at my feet. I saw it wasn’t a globe at all, but a glove. Well, not a glove so much as a pleasant grove of shade trees, if you looked real close. And nestled within the grove, a single grave. You don’t expect this, word games first thing in the morning. Always a surprise. This is something I try to do every day, linger here between sleep and sentience in this curious and effortless country. Marvelous things happen here. One morning I suddenly understood what it was the universe was expanding into, and the explanation was breathtakingly simple and elegant. But by the time I’d snapped on the bathroom light, I’d forgotten it. On other mornings, characters from my stories appear and tell me what they’d like to say in the next scene. This morning a guy, who doesn’t really have a face yet, tells me he’s lost. I notice his hair is wet, his clothes are dripping, he’s standing in a puddle where a grove of trees once stood. I think I know him. I ask him where he lives. He says, Home is where your family is. He’s being cute. I hear Spot barking outside, try to ignore him. He keeps it up, and I wake. I’m at Judi’s. What am I doing here? There’s something compelling about the dripping man. I want to know how he got lost, why he came to me, things like that. I’ll get up and write about him.

  C. “DECONSTRUCTION”

  I wrote: Should love be allowed to interfere with the continuity of marriage? I wrote it, but the narrator said it. Who was he? And where did he get the line? Now my homeless man had a face, and it was, of course, a lot like mine. I gave him a name. John will do for now. I sat him down on a wicker chair in an otherwise empty room. I wrote down what John told me: All the mystery is gone, all the love loved away, all the passion expired, all the happiness deflated. He was talking about his marriage. I needed someone to walk into the room and talk to him, ask him what he wanted to do now. At least that. Someone to tell him, This is the woman you loved, who loved you and your sadness and loved your joy and your dark moods. John said, Marriage may exist for love, but also for safety, for punishment, for comfort. Any number of immaculate reasons. What was he driving at? No one entered the room, so I asked him myself. I said, How do you feel now that you’re alone? He just sat there all wretched and hunched, his face buried in his fists. I answered for both of us, wrote this down: I feel like my wife and I, we’ve been disassembled from each other, piece by piece. My arm from her shoulder. Her lips from my cheek. Deconstructed. Her smile from my eyes. My face from her breast. Where do all these parts fit now?

  D. “FEAR IS A WAKING DREAM”

  I didn’t know why I had done this to Martha, broke her heart, I mean. What was I doing walking away from my wife and my past and myself? Why was I leaving a woman who needed me for one who did not? If that is what I was doing. I told myself that by staying away like I was, I would be saving my life or starting it over or something. Maybe I was temporarily insane or chemically imbalanced, or this was an inevitable, if unflattering, biological craving for sexual variety—a genetic command, simple as that. I didn’t believe any of this, but didn’t want to believe either that I was capable of battering Martha with infidelity, of abandoning her to panic and depression, of behaving like some jaded libertine. I was a stranger to myself.

  I detested this banal and reprehensible behavior, but I also hated who I had become with Martha. I would be nasty for no reason. Often when she would speak, I’d respond with sarcasm. Even when I knew I was doing this, I couldn’t stop myself. It was like she could say nothing right. I was hurting her, and resenting her for somehow making me hurt her, and so I’d lash out again. It was crazy. What did I mean I couldn’t stop myself? Something had gone wrong in the marriage. Maybe what went wrong was me. Whatever it was, we were in trouble, and I did something about it. I took a risk and I left, so to speak. I let myself be tempted away. This was courageous or foolish or both. It was not heroic. I could have waited until we punished each other more, I suppose, until Martha caught on and left me. Or maybe this was all just the normal course of intimacy, like the falling away of physical love. This is what happens when two people are so close over so long a time. Just a bump in the road.

  I imagined Martha waking up from a fitful sleep and realizing that for sixteen-plus years she had loved a man who was selfish and who returned her passion with the semblance of love only. And now, I thought, there will be no growing old together, no more lying together beneath layers of blankets and books, no more talking in bed.

  I knew I could have gone on for the rest of my life with Martha and been happy. Maybe not ecstatic, but content, not fulfilled, maybe, but satisfied, secure, benevolent. Instead, I chose to humiliate the one I loved. Still the easiest thing for me to do now was to go home, back to Martha. Would this be fair if there was even a chance I might leave again? Martha would take me back if I promised to change my ways, talk about what bothered me, not keep it all bottled up like I do, be more patient, more considerate, help out more around the house. And everything would be fine for a while, but you know how long promises last. Soon we’d find ourselves alone in a quiet room, and we’d be uncomfortable. Martha might recall her recent anguish, feel the swell of resentment, might wonder. I’d breathe the perfume of her indignation. We might distract ourselves by cleaning out the pantry or inviting friends over. We might turn on the television. She’d yawn, complain about an early meeting, kiss my forehead, go to bed. Me, I’d stay up so late I’d fall asleep on the sofa. Maybe I’d realize in the morning that I’d been aloof, cold, and I’d try to be more loving. But if you have to attempt love, can you be in love?

  The difference between fiction and life is that fiction makes sense. Problems in stories get resolved. All day I sat at a typewriter and tried to order the universe. All day I paid attention to the troubles of made-up people. Meanwhile my own life was at stake, my wife was in peril, my future was black. I should have moved, but I was still. I should have attended to Martha, but I did not.

  10.

  Love-Lies-Bleeding

  ON THE SATURDAY MORNING OF THE PSYCHOTHERAPIST PARTY, I GOT BACK TWO more form rejections on my stories. First, I felt deflated. What the hell do they want anyway? And would they know it if they saw it? Does it go in one eye and out the other? My limbs were like pig iron. I couldn’t move. I just sat there on the couch, staring at my pages, sluggish and thickheaded. The Wyoming Review didn’t want “Shufflebrain,” and South-side said no to “Steak and Shake.” I got angry. Judi was gone, and it was just as well. I wasn’t fit to talk to. She and Trixie were over at Elements of Style getting their hair done. I felt like calling in sick to work, but that would leave Nicky on his own till three. I needed to break something, and I usually regret when that happens. I took a pound of tub butter out of the fridge, slammed it on the counter, and hammered it with the side of my hand. I scooped up what I could of the mess, shaped it into a butter ball, and carried it out to Spot. He was eating a turkey baster. He sniffed my hands. I set the butter in Spot’s water bowl and told him to eat it before the ants come. He woofed out the side of his muzzle.

  I sat down at the kitchen table with my story. Dale and I found out that the boy, Peter, was retarded. He’s teachable, Theresa told us, but only so far. She kept her hands on her knees when she said this, her eyes on Dale. Dale didn’t know what to say. He’ll always need help, she told him. She looked at her hands. Always. On his drive home that night, Dale couldn’t shake the image of the boy on Theresa’s couch, sucking his thumb, holding his Fretty Betty, rubbing the doll’s hair against his cheek.

  On the bus to work, I noticed a gym bag from St. John’s High under the seat in front of me. No one around. I opened it. Bus tickets, a pack of Camel Lights, a ninth-grade algebra text, and a pornographic comic book. Dagwood and Blondie going at it. Dagwood and Daisy. Blondie and the boy what
ever his name is. This was very depressing. I thought about the guys who write this stuff and about what must be festering in their ulcerous little brains. I tossed the bag and everything into the Dumpster behind Our Lady of the Sea.

  Nicky poured oil into the Fryolator, his long black hair tied up in a hairnet. “Nicholas,” I said. He said, “Who was the Tsar of Russia who suppresseed the Decembrist Movement?” These days Nicky responded to everything in the form of a question. He was trying to get on Jeopardy!

  I played along. “All right, Nick Kargeopoulos, tell us a little about yourself. It says here that you sleep with your TV set.”

  “That’s correct, Alex. I’d like to say hi to—”

  The phone rang. I took an order for a pint of scallops, haddock and chips, a large Moxie. I handed the slip to Nicky and went to the fridge. “American Indians called it manninose. In England it’s known as the sand-gaper.”

  Nicky said, “What is the soft-shell clam, Alex?”

  “Is correct.”

  “Gourmet Foods for two hundred.”

  The phone rang again. I handed Nicky the bucket of scallops and answered. Judi wanted to know if she should pick me up at five. We could swing by her mom’s and take a look at the trailer. I thought fast. I told her I wanted to walk home, check the three-deckers by Hope Cemetery for FOR RENT signs. Hope Cemetery—I’m not making that up. The poet Elizabeth Bishop’s buried there, as a matter of fact. So’s my aunt Emma.

  Before I left work, Nicky told me a joke I could use at the party, about how it took six psychotherapists to screw in a light bulb. One to turn the bulb, five to share his feelings.

  I told him, “Good night.”

  He said, “What did Guinevere say to Lancelot?”

  Judi and the other Irving Street psychotherapists, Mark, Josh, and Ron, were about to launch a new business, Holistic Mental Health Associates, and tonight’s party was a celebration of their venture and a publicity event. The party was at Josh Wolfson’s, and everyone Judi knew in the profession would be there. Judi was so nervous, she let me drive her Miata. She couldn’t stop smoking. What’s to be nervous about? I asked her. She said, A lot of unfinished business with some people. I let that drop. She looked at her reflection in the side window. She practiced a smile.

  Josh’s house was a two-story stone-and-stucco on the west side. Walnut-paneled doors with glass doorknobs, raised paneling on the wainscoting, brass and crystal chandeliers, oak herringbone plank floors, blue tile trimming around the fireplace. Gregorian chants played on the stereo. I felt like I was in church. I wondered what Stoni and Arthur would do at a place like this where every handshake was firm, every smile eager, and eye contact seemed to be an art form. I told Judi, See, I’m not the only one here wearing jeans. I pointed to a couple of older gentlemen by the buffet table. But, yes, I was the only one wearing a T-shirt.

  I was introduced to the other associates. I left them talking networking strategies. I wandered through the house checking titles in the bookcase, photos on the wall, cracks in the ceilings. The party spilled out of the house and into the floodlit backyard, where I spied the wet bar. I loaded up at the buffet—smoked salmon spread and stone-ground wheat wafers, rillettes of smoked trout, artichoke fritters, curried peanut chicken nuggets with a hot mustard sauce—and sat outside on a wrought iron lawn chair. I nibbled and watched the guests. I eavesdropped when I could. I heard two women talking about Judi, how she did such a terrific job with what’s-his-face, the manic-depressive. David, the other one said. David Michelak.

  I went to the bar for a drink. I ordered a Hennessey martini because I’d seen it advertised on the back cover of The New Yorker. Behind the bar were several large plants, maybe four feet tall, with these hanging clusters of long, crimson flowering stalks. I’d never seen anything like them. The bartender caught me admiring them. She handed me my drink, looked at the plants. She said, “Love lies bleeding.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The common name for the plant. Love-lies-bleeding.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Amaranthus caudatus.”

  She told me she used to be a botanist at the Worcester Horticultural Society, and now she ran a software consulting business out of her house and tends bar once in a while for her friend, a caterer.

  She handed me a business card from Creative Affairs: Environmentally Friendly Caterers. She jotted down her home address. I turned the card over and borrowed her pen. I asked her to spell that Latin name for me. I told her I was a writer and introduced myself. Her name was Daphne Engdahl. She mixed me another cognac martini. I watched her wait on Josh, who couldn’t decide what he wanted. He scratched his beard, squinted at the bottles of liquor, ordered a Cape Codder. Daphne had straight, thick dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, and a dimple on her chin. Her nose turned up a little. Josh tested his drink, pronounced it scrumptious. Daphne thanked him. God, I just love women.

  She asked me what my stories were about. I said love and death, which is what I always say, because what else can you say? I didn’t ask Daphne what she read because I was afraid of what I might hear: Danielle Steele, Rush Limbaugh, Robert Fulghum, the Madison County guy Daphne waited on one of the older gentlemen in jeans. I thought I’d better find Judi.

  She was not in the den or the living room. Before I searched farther, though, I had to change the music. If I heard one more minute of Cats I’d go crazy. While I was flipping through Josh’s CDs, looking for Elvis Costello or Van Morrison, I heard Judi’s voice coming from the kitchen. She was telling someone that she had a completely different recollection of a certain evening. He said, That’s your choice. That seemed a little arrogant to me. No Costello, no Morrison, no Marley no Al Green, no Bonnie Raitt. Judi said, And I’ll bet you’re still screwing around on your wife. He asked her to kindly keep her voice down. No Mavis Staples, no Clash, no Kate Bush. I heard Judi say, Open marriage, my ass. No Bobby Bland, no Lyle Lovett. Judi said, Why don’t we just go and tell your dear wife that she’s been living a lie for ten years. Or has it been longer? James Taylor he’s got. Christ, might as well let the cats sing. I thought I’d drift into the kitchen to see who might need to be rescued.

  I could see that Judi and her pal were not pulling balls of mercury up through their spines. They were not visualizing harmony. They were not centered. I introduced myself, shook hands with Sam, his name turned out to be. And then nobody said anything. Judi inhaled her cigarette, leaned against the fridge; Sam looked at the floor; and me, I kept nodding my head. Judi said to me, “If you don’t mind, we have some issues.”

  An hour or so later I was talking with Ron about whatever happened to transactional analysis when Judi found me. Ron was sitting in an overstuffed mohair chair with an inflated plastic doll—the screaming figure in the Edvard Munch painting. Ron told me that the real money was in real estate. He asked me what I did. I write, I told him. Oh, you’re the one, he said. And that’s when Judi sat down on the arm of the sofa, told me she was ready to go.

  We tried to find Josh to thank him and say good night. A woman named Claire told us that Josh and Albert had a tiff earlier on the front porch. Josh got one of his migraines, Albert got frantic about that, and then they said their good-nights and went up to bed. I think Josh left Mark in charge, Claire said. Have you seen Mark? Judi said. Claire said, He’s out in the gazebo smoking dope with the bartender. Have either of you seen Sam? she said.

  I thought I’d just drive, so I got on the expressway and headed east away from Judi’s. She didn’t say anything. I put on a Philip Glass tape, turned it low. Judi said she wished we had some toot. I told her I knew a guidance counselor who kept his friends supplied. I could call. We decided on beer, and I stopped at an after-hours place on West Boylston Street. We ended up with the six-pack out at Hot Dog Annie’s. We bought some dogs and sat out back at a picnic table.

  “We should talk about this, Judi.”

  “About what?”

  We heard a giggle. I saw over Judi’s shoulder
the silhouette of a young couple at another table. I watched moths swoop around the light that illuminated the menu painted on Annie’s wall.

  “You don’t see anything odd—maybe that’s the wrong word—anything curious, interesting, about going out with married men?”

  “No, please tell me, Dr. Proulx.”

  “Dating your patients.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “David,” I said.

  She folded her hands on the table.

  “You cooled off to me when I left Martha.” I took a sip of beer. “Maybe you don’t want to give up your independence or you don’t want a long-term relationship.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” she said. “Want either.”

  “But then you get upset about it, which is what you and Sam were discussing, I guess.”

  “You don’t know anything about me and Sam or me and anyone else.”

  I heard the girl tell the boy to stop what he was doing. She was laughing. I heard Judi crying. I got up and walked around the table to her side, sat down. I put a napkin in her hand. She wiped her cheeks. I told her, Don’t listen to anything I say. She said, We’re both of us fucked up. How could I disagree? I held her while she cried. I kept hearing that awful Cats music. Finally, Judi took some deep, slow breaths and sat up. She said she was okay now. She said, Thanks. She smiled, said she must look awful. She looked young, actually And frightened.