The Shadow Man

by Sofia Shafquat

  I switched my weight from one foot to the other. “One. I made him dinner. I don’t know if you would call it a date.”

  “Dinner,” the Unicorn mused. “That was real nice of you, Leslie. What did you make?”

  “Potato soup.”

  “Potato soup. My wife used to make this great potato soup. It had little caraway seeds floating in it.”

  I said nothing. I watched him fold his arms across his chest and lean back in the chair. He was squinting out at the waves.

  “I didn’t know you were married,” I said. “Where’s your wife now?”

  It took him a minute to answer. “Hawaii. She married a pineapple king. Too bad he wasn’t Polynesian.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what I mean is it would have fit better. It would have been more like a movie or something. But he was a white man. Real hairy. He had this terrible five o’clock shadow.”

  “Sheddo,” I said softly, thinking.

  “What?” said the Unicorn.

  “Shadow. Men can be like shadows.”

  “I guess,” said the Unicorn.

  “So, what about the pineapple king? Was he huge?”

  The Unicorn shook his head. “No, no,” he said distractedly. “He wasn’t huge. He just had a lot of money.”

  “Oh,” I said, after a while.

  The Unicorn took a long breath in, held it while he gazed at the sea, and then very slowly, like a tape measure stretching the length of a long room, let it out. “The pineapple king was a good guy. He brought my mother-in-law out to Hawaii. She lives in her own little house on their estate. I’ve seen pictures. They’re very happy.” His fingers wrapped around the wood of his chair. “They’re all having a good time.”

  He was still staring somewhere out to sea. The sun was beginning to drop and the light was falling in long, sweeping rays, turning mellower but still bouncing strongly off the little half-moon ripples floating on the oily blue of the water.

  “So you were really once married?” I asked him after a while.

  “I was a lot of things, Leslie,” he anwered. “Married was one of them. I lived in a house. A real house. I had a job. A real job. I wore a white shirt to work nearly every day. I had so many white shirts I couldn’t tell them apart. I couldn’t tell a lot of things apart. The days of the week. The cars in the concrete parking lot below the building I worked in. The people I worked with.” He paused and became silent.

  “So you left?”

  “Uh-huh. I left. My body made me leave. My throat began to close.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dysphagia, they called it. My esophagus clamped shut. I couldn’t swallow. It felt like I had a golf ball in my throat. So one day I quit. I took all my white shirts to the Salvation Army, right on the hangers, and filed divorce papers.”

  “Divorce? Was there something wrong with your wife?”

  “Nothing at all. She was a great wife. I just didn’t want to be married. I didn’t want to work. I didn’t want to save for my future, the way all the rest of the white mice seemed to be doing. I wanted the future to prove to me that it would take care of me. I wanted to quit being afraid. So I turned in my uniform, I guess you might say, and got naked.”

  “Did it help your throat?”

  He folded his arms behind the director’s chair. He had on his usual faded longjohn top. “That took a long time. At first it seemed to only get worse. I thought I would die. I hit the emergency room a couple of times. Then I left the state. I drove. I drove west, into the setting sun. And the more I drove, the more the muscle walls let go. And when I got to California, I could swallow.”

  “You couldn’t swallow for all that time?”

  He laughed. “I could swallow,” he said, “but it hurt like the devil. It was almost as though my throat was saying, cut the crap, Ken, I’m not taking this anymore.” He brought his hands down with a clap on his knees. “You, Leslie, have heard a lot more about me than anyone else. You realize that?” He stared hard at me.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m honored. Really I am.”

  “Well, I don’t know if honored is the right word. I’m sort of surprised I’ve told you as much as I have.”

  “Well, maybe that’s good,” I said.

  “Maybe it is,” said the Unicorn. “It’s all part of being naked, I guess. Speaking of which, tell me more about whatshisface.”

  “You mean Kevin?”

  “I’m sure that’s him. His name slips my mind, for some reason.”

  “Well, right now he’s out of town. He had two trips, back to back. I guess I’ll see him on Thursday.”

  “And how’s he treating you, my wonderful damsel?”

  I paused. “I think if we take it very slowly then he won’t feel threatened and go racing away.”

  The Unicorn reached below his chair for his cigarettes. He thumped the end of one against his thumbnail. “Leslita, you might want to know something.”

  “Know what?” I frowned.

  “There’s a big difference between men and women.” He looked at me keenly. “They don’t get along.”

  “A lot of them don’t,” I agreed. “The ones that are mismatched.”

  “I’m not talking about mismatched,” said the Unicorn. “I’m talking about DNA. There are differences in the DNA. Men and women are about totally different things. I hope you realize that.”

  My brow was criss-crossed in a frown.

  He nodded. “Yup,” he said. “Totally different. Day and night. Ships in the dark. Umbrellas in a storm. They need each other to procreate, so they chase each other down. Ultimately, though, it kills them. To be together, I mean. It kills the woman, and it kills the man.” He considered briefly. “It kills the man more noticeably. Women are a little better put together, I guess.” His eye caught the sand sculptures. “Here, look at this, right here in front of us. Look at how perfect this woman is—the necklace and everything. Look at the man. He’s demolished. Being with a woman demolishes a man. It’s right here in these sand people that a couple of little kids designed.”

  I stared at the mounds of sand. It was true. The woman was intact and in repose; the man was blasted apart, a scatter of sand.

  “They’re just too different,” the Unicorn was saying. “They only kill themselves. But in killing themselves by being together, they create life. And the planet goes on.”

  “Huh,” I said. “What do you mean by umbrellas?”

  “Umbrellas?” repeated the Unicorn.

  “You said men and women were like umbrellas.”

  “Oh, right, umbrellas. Well, have you ever bumped against an umbrella? I mean, when you’re an umbrella, too? It doesn’t work. It’s the most uncomfortable kind of bump there is. And if you bump hard enough, guess what? The umbrella breaks. Yours and his. Umbrellas don’t do well together. They lock spokes. Horns.” The Unicorn bent to remove a bit of shell from some of the sand that had once been the man. He held it up to the lengthening sunbeams and smoothed it with his fingertip.

  I looked at the sand people again, foot after foot of motionless mass, each composed of tiny granules, hundreds and thousands of tiny granules—all representing the hundreds and thousands of men and women who could never co-exist. “I don’t know whether to believe you,” I said.

  The Unicorn put the shell on his knee and lit up his cigarette. He waved the match out in the air and I smelled the sudden pungent sulphur. “I wouldn’t kid you, pal.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

  “There are happy couples,” I said. “And there are people wandering around—” I gestured to the stragglers on the beach, “who are meant for each other, but haven’t found each other. And there’s every chance that they will.”

  The Unicorn grinned. “Yeah?”

  I stood my ground. “I believe it,” I said. “I’m going to believe it.”

  “You do that,” said the Unicorn. He looked out at the ocean through a puff of exhaled smoke.<
br />
  “You’re smoking in front of me,” I said. “You said you never would.”

  “I guess I broke down. Do you mind?”

  “No.” I raised my head to the road. A pickup truck cruised down the highway, sitting tight and high on oversized wheels.

  The Unicorn stretched his arms out and cracked a couple of vertebrae in his back. “There is no such thing as bliss, Leslita. That’s all I’m trying to tell you. Happiness is a much more fleeting thing than most people would like to admit. The instant you come close to it, it’s changed into something else. There is no—” he leaned forward and stared at me, “no eternal bliss. Anyone who tells you they have it is desperate to cover something up.”

  “So then what is there?” I asked. I was getting a little annoyed.

  “Approximation of bliss,” he replied. He heard me let out a sigh. “That’s it, pal. The best we can do. Try. And get smart in the meantime.” He took another long drag from the cigarette.

  “You know, you’re terribly cynical,” I said slowly.

  “Is that right?” He rocked the legs of the chair and grinned. “But don’t you think I see most of the humor?”

  I shrugged.

  “And I’ll be the first to retract what I say. That’s a hell of a lot better than lying, don’t you think?”

  I watched him. The Reeboks, untied, were planted firmly in the sand. His gray-jeaned knees were splayed. “When you had a job, who did you work for?”

  He paused for the tiniest second. “The telephone company. You know how many lies are told on the telephone?”

  “Hundreds, I imagine. Millions.”

  “Try billions. It’s the perfect instrument for lying. The other person can’t even see your face.”

  I shivered as a small cloud covered the sun. “I’m cold,” I said. “I should go home.”

  “See ya,” said the Unicorn. He folded his arms across his chest, the cigarette spiralling smoke from the tip of his elbow.

  I picked my way to the water’s edge, passing the length of the sculptures. Pipers, their beaks poised for action, scurried in and out of the water line. I headed north, my hands in my pockets, the salt froth ebbing just beyond my shoes. I took a last look at the Unicorn. He was still sitting with his arms crossed, his head tilted down and cocked sideways at the same time, as though he were waiting for a thought or listening for a sound. The sand people lay flat beside him, their chests bared to the sky, waiting in silence in the very same way. I waited too, listening with them. There was no sound, no change, except for a lowering of the sunlight as the rays continued to lengthen and the black shadow of a young gull alighting on the crumbled sand piles of the man.

  The Unicorn put his chin in his hand. I turned, facing the sea wind, and headed home.

  Kevin phoned me at work when he returned. It was just after eleven. Hilda had brought in some giant chocolate chip cookies. I was sinking my teeth into one of them when the front desk buzzed me. I swabbed at my mouth with a Kleenex.

  “Kevin,” I enunciated frantically through the cookie.

  “Hey, I’m back.” Why did men use the word hey, I wondered. Did they mean pay attention? Pay attention, I’m back? I had been waiting for days for this call.

  “How was your trip? I mean trips,” I corrected.

  “Great. It all went great. Set up some great contracts.”

  “Good,” I said. The cookie was all swallowed. I wiped my fingers on the Kleenex.

  “Hey, you want to get together tonight?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I’m having dinner with someone from work. But it should be over early. You want to come over for an hour or so after that?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Probably about nine thirty. I’ll call you when I get in.”

  “Okay,” I said. I finished the rest of the cookie slowly, leaning over a piece of Kleenex I had spread out on the desk.

  I brushed my teeth at twenty after nine and was putting the garbage out when he came home. I pretended to be struggling with the garbage can as he climbed out of his car under the light of the streetlamp.

  “Hey, Leslie,” he said.

  “Hi, Kevin.” I stopped dragging the garbage can.

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. About nine thirty.” I tried to sound casual.

  “Nine thirty, huh? How about if I take a shower and I’ll give you a call when I’m done. You can come over then.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  It took him close to an hour to call me. I paced my living room nervously and made a phone call to Paul Reiter to pass the time.

  “Leslie, how’s everything?” Paul asked.

  “Fine,” I lied. I wanted Kevin to call me. I didn’t want to wait nervously like this. I didn’t want to be talking to Paul.

  “How’s your running?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “How’s the guy?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “So, it’s working out for you?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Are you seeing him this weekend?”

  “I think probably one night this weekend.”

  “Good for you,” said Paul. “I’m glad to hear it’s going so well.”

  Ten minutes later, Kevin still hadn’t called. It was now forty-five minutes since I saw him at the garbage can. Ten fifteen at night. And I was supposed to go over and visit at this time? Forget it, I thought. Then I remembered he was taking a shower. But why at ten fifteen at night?

  I paced the living room. I was getting nervous. Then the phone rang. Finally.

  “Hey, Leslie. Sorry it took so long. You want to come over?”

  I went down my front steps and up his. I could have cut through the pine tree that separated our front walkways, but somehow that seemed a desperate and inelegant way to arrive. I could see him walking around his kitchen as I knocked on the glass panes of the front door. He opened the door to let me in. He was wet from the shower and I could smell what was either shampoo or cologne. I hoped it wasn’t cologne. It didn’t seem necessary at this time of night.

  “My dinner got cancelled so I went out to look for a leather couch,” he said. I thought the laugh that followed was just a little nervous. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asked.

  “Do you have tea?”

  “Tea.” He cleared his throat. “Now that might be a little difficult. Let me see. I think I bought some once.” He rummaged in some cupboards.

  I sat down on the cloth-covered couch in the living room and picked up a magazine. It was a men’s mail-order catalog. Kevin put a saucepan of water on the stove.

  “Do you like the clothes in there?” he asked.

  I leafed through a few more pages. “They’re okay,” I said. “I don’t like the expressions on the faces of these men, though.”

  “The models? You mean—how to look like an interesting he-man?”

  I nodded. He came and sat next to me on the couch. He was very close. I had felt chilly but immediately I was warmer.

  The water frothed quietly in the pan and he brought me my mug of tea. It was herbal and mild. He sat next to me again and, after a minute, leaned all the way back against the couch. He flashed me a smile.

  I put my mug on the table and gave him a hug. He stiffened. I let go and picked up my mug. He pulled his leg up and clasped his hand around his knee. He smiled again, this time uncomfortably.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “Is there something wrong?”

  He unclasped his hand and set his foot on the floor. His head jerked ever so slightly and he spoke in the direction of the door. His hair, still wet from the shower, stood up here and there in a couple of spikes. “Yeah, I guess there is.”

  I waited.

  His knee jerked upward to fit behind his hand again. “I guess it’s this whole thing of—I guess I just don’t want to be an item. I mean you and me. I don’t want us to be an item. You know what I mean?”

  I nodde
d. “What makes you think we’re an item?”

  “Well, maybe we’re not. But I don’t want it to get to that.” He put his foot on the floor. “I guess I just sort of reacted when you hugged me.”

  I nodded. “Okay,” I said.

  I lay in my own bed in the dark. Why? I asked blankly. Why? What had I said and done? Why were people this way? Why did they jump—like a canyon had appeared, when things were very innocuous, very calm and very mild? I looked at the clock. It was barely twelve. I called Muriel.

  She answered just after the machine picked up, cutting it off.

  “Hi, Muriel,” I began nervously, “I hope I’m not waking you up.”

  “Hi, Leslie,” said Muriel sleepily. “I’m still awake.”

  I took the dive. “Muriel, I was just with Kevin. He acted very weird. I just sat next to him on the couch and he got all nervous and said he didn’t want us to be an item.”

  “An item?” Muriel repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Muriel was silent for a minute. “Maybe it’s because of his marriage.”

  “What? Why? That was ages ago.”

  “I know,” said Muriel, “but it could be screwing him up.”

  “Huh,” I said doubtfully. I would have to think about that.

  “They lived in a boat,” I offered.

  “Who did?” asked Muriel.

  “Kevin and his wife.”

  “A houseboat?” asked Muriel.

  “No, a real boat. A tiny one, with a tiny cabin. On the water.”

  “Wow,” said Muriel, “no wonder they’re divorced.”

  “He really loves her,” I went on. “Still, I mean.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes. And he still gets her mail. I separate his and her mail from mine.”

  “Wesley.” Muriel groaned.

  “What do you mean, Wesley?”

  “It’s another triangle,” said Muriel.

  “No, it isn’t!” I protested. “He hasn’t lived with her for years.”

  “But in his mind he still does!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know!” said Muriel. “How hard do you think it is to get a change of address?”