by Annie Ward
The blanket of self-doubt that settled over his face made him look vulnerable, like the younger man he’d been when we met. He wanted something. It was the same thing that I wanted. He just didn’t know it yet.
I grabbed him by the sides of his stubbled face and pulled him toward me, covering his lips with mine, inhaling tobacco and orange, inhaling who we were once. Time hadn’t changed anything. The room spun. Something sparkled and tickled in my head like feathers and firecrackers, and I swear I nearly fell off the bar stool. He caught me and passed his thumb over my lips, staring at them. Then he raised his eyes to mine. “We’ll go back to my tiny suite then?”
I nodded, unable to speak. He drained his screwdriver and slapped a credit card down on the bar. Within minutes we were staggering up West Fifty-Eighth with an open bottle of Cristal, not because we were drunk but because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
Inside the Hudson, waiting for the elevator, he held the bottle with one hand, and the hair at the back of my neck with the other. His kiss was aggressive and demanding, and once we were inside the room, his lower body pushed into mine until I was dizzy and sliding down the carpeted wall. He was relentless. There was no small talk. He gave short, gruff, easy orders, and I did what he asked. Take these off. Oh my God. You are so fucking sexy. So beautiful. Come here. That’s it. Look at me. That’s it. I came when he told me to. Look at me. Look at me, Maddie, look at me now.
I did. Again and again and again.
We put on the robes and sat on top of each other on the tiny couch in the tiny suite looking over the room-service menu. We fed each other. We took long, decadent showers and used way too much soap. There were always more desserts or cheese boards, endless horror movies and inane comedies on demand, bottles of pricey wine, and hours in bed. The sheets were wet. Our lips were chapped and I ached all over. I limped between the bed and the bathroom. I was never far enough away from the bed that he couldn’t reach out and pull me down.
We didn’t leave the tiny suite in the hotel he despised for days.
MADDIE
2010
The curtains on our hotel window were drawn so that the lit skyline would not keep him awake. The sounds of Columbus Circle were varied and intense. Garbage trucks backed up beeping, and Ian caught his breath, held it, made a rasping noise in the back of his throat for far too long and then noisily coughed out air. In the bowels of the hotel a nightclub was going strong, and I could feel the slight vibration of the bass through the walls and the halls. Room-service plates and a sparkling pile of expensive bottles gave our suite the ambiance of an after-party. Wine, as well as the overflowing ashtray, had spilled onto the crisp white bedsheets, giving our lair a smell of excess and sick.
He slept while I watched movies. All of my students were away with their families, and I had no work to worry about until well after New Year’s.
I should have been lying next to him. I should have stroked his forehead when it suddenly creased and kissed his cheek when his jaw ground down with the nighttime explosions and gunfire. He had a pinkish, rough patch of skin where the safety glass from the IED in Iraq had scarred his cheek. I wondered if it was why he was never now clean-shaven.
A couple arguing in the hallway outside approached our room, and Ian sat up, groggy, sleepy-eyed and appealing.
“Come here,” he said, stretching his hand out toward me.
I joined him in between layers of ash, night sweat and wine-stained white linen.
* * *
During those days at the Hudson, I started to question how well I had known Ian back in Macedonia. Had he taken off his cloak of darkness to smile and entertain me at the Irish Pub? Or had it been there all along, tossed over his shoulder or tucked under his arm, and I just never noticed?
Ultimately our marathon conversations would reach the bottom of a bottle, and Ian would pass out. Sometimes I would, too. Other times I sat and watched him, snoring, twitching and gasping, his closed eyes seeing an Iraqi highway, his hands curled around the butt of his rifle.
Ian refused to leave the hotel room. I suggested we go downtown to some of my favorite restaurants and bars close by my Village studio. He would rather not. I pointed out that Central Park was just a five-minute walk away and that it was romantic at sunset. He was “not bothered.” I told him I was feeling claustrophobic and shut in and that we should just go down to the lobby for a drink. Still, politely, no.
He did not like to go to sleep, but it was nearly impossible to wake him once he passed out. Sometimes in the middle of the night he would suddenly swing from prone position to sitting, like he was possessed.
Waking to Ian sitting on the edge of the bed was an experience I came to dread. I felt helpless but protective, along with a touch of pity. There was something unnatural about the sight of such a powerful man so collapsed, inconsequential and inert. His hands would be clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered almost to his lap. Sometimes when he assumed this position he would mumble incoherently for long periods of time before he would finally lie back down.
Draped around our room was a gray shroud of soft quiet. There was the hum of steady air, the drone of “Snow Patrol” from Ian’s computer and the eerie sensation that we were hiding. I wondered suddenly, how long does he expect this strange chapter in life to last?
I poured myself a drink from our twelve-dollar cylinder of designer water, took two Advil to ward off the morning hangover and snuggled down into the blankets behind him. His hand took mine and he whispered, “Are you warm enough?” Then he covered me with all of his heat, and I told him yes.
* * *
The next day I woke up before Ian. I showered, shaved my legs, put on makeup and actually got dressed in something other than the white hotel robe. When I walked out of the bathroom, he was going about the usual morning business of thumbing through the room-service menu, preparing to order a decadent breakfast along with Bloody Marys and mimosas. The curtains were slightly parted, and I again noticed the strange leopard-like yellow spots in his otherwise salt-and-pepper hair.
“You’re dressed,” he remarked brightly. “You look very nice.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “As do you, in your birthday suit.”
“I must say, I’m relieved you seem to like it.”
I walked over to him, combed my fingers through his bizarrely colored hair and said, “Don’t be offended, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer. What’s up with the dye job?”
Ian sat up and examined himself in the mirror adjacent to the bed. “What? You don’t like my trendy new look?”
I laughed. He was now forty-three years old. “It might have been more appropriate when I first met you, back in your boy-band days. It’s not that I don’t like it. I just find it...curious.”
“It’s the hot new thing in Liverpool.”
“Is it now?”
“No,” he said, lying back with his hands laced behind his head, displaying muscular definition like an anatomical drawing. “It was my sister-in-law’s idea. One of the many reasons I was nervous about coming here was because I’ve gone quite gray since I saw you last. I didn’t even know if you would recognize me. I thought you’d see me and think I’d become an old man. So my sister-in-law told me that if I got some nice blond highlights, it would hide the gray. Apparently that’s what she does to her hair, only her results were never nearly as freakish as mine. So a day or two before I was scheduled to fly I went to downtown Birkenhead, which is not a place to ever get your hair done, by the way, and had some bleach-blonde Scouser proceed to smother my head in something that smelled like ammonia.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. And all the while I was sitting there getting my head wrapped in foil like it was a giant baked potato, these girls kept bringing me drinks. In retrospect I see very clearly that I should have been suspicious of a salon that felt the nee
d to get you drunk before you see the results of their handiwork. But when they unveiled my new youthful head of highlights and I saw that my head resembled a mangy leopard, I was already half cut, so I just said cheers to the girl. ‘Well done. I certainly doubt anybody is going to notice the gray when they have this mess to feast their eyes on!’”
“It is a feast,” I said, straddling him.
He smacked both hands heartily on my hips. “And on that note, what will it be this morning? Eggs Benedict? Waffles with cream and jam? Hmm?”
“Listen,” I said, extricating myself and grabbing my purse. “You know what it should be this morning? The New York special. Bagels, cream cheese, lox, the works. And deli coffee.”
“I don’t believe that’s on the menu.”
I laughed. “I know.”
“No mimosas or Bloody Marys?”
“I’m going to have to detox soon. I have to go back to work in a few days.”
“You don’t have to go back to work.”
“I do, Ian.”
“I love this. I love you. Just stay and let’s keep doing what we’re doing.”
“There’s still some time. I’ll pick up some champagne and orange juice while I’m out. There’s a liquor store around the corner. It will save us a bundle of money.”
“What do you mean? Really? You’re actually going out?”
“Yeah. To the deli for bagels and a newspaper. I’ll be quick, okay?”
“No. Not okay.”
Something in his voice stopped me, and I turned to face him. I knew he had no interest in leaving the hotel room. He’d made that clear from the start. But it had never occurred to me that he might actually try to stop me from leaving. He was staring at me with a confused, mounting rage.
“Not okay?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
“No. I don’t want you to leave.”
“It’s just for thirty minutes.”
“No.”
“We’re wasting so much money, Ian!”
“It’s my money, and I’ll waste it if I want to. Why the hell do you want to go out there when we have everything we need right here?”
“I was just trying to be helpful.”
“Really? Try harder then! Be helpful by keeping your arse right here in this hotel room with me.”
“Ian!”
“What?” he asked, sitting up straight. “I don’t want you to go out there. Why would you want to go out there when there’s no reason we can’t stay right here, just the two of us, and have them come to us?”
“I just—”
“There must be some reason why you’d want to get dressed and hike around in the snow in New York City where anything can happen to you. You want to get shot or robbed or raped? Which is it?”
“I used to go anywhere I wanted at any time of the day.”
“Well, that was bloody stupid of you, now wasn’t it? Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were. You’re acting like Joanna used to! Taking unnecessary risks and thinking you’re invincible. It makes me crazy. You’re not going out in the snow in the city to buy some goddamn sandwiches when I’m offering to get us a real breakfast from room service. Now sit down!”
I stood there, trying to decide whether I should sit down on the edge of the bed as he had asked or grab my coat and go and never look back. I glared at him. “You’re scaring me.”
He stared at me for a few more seconds, and then suddenly he looked down. “I’m sorry. What if something happens to you and I’m not there? That would be my fault and I can’t lose you.”
Time stood still for me as I wavered. I had limits. I had pride. But in the end, he was more important. Finally I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder. “Okay. No problem. We’ll get room service. I’m in the mood for an omelet.”
“Thank God,” he said, clearly relieved. “With potatoes or salad?”
“Potatoes. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I didn’t mean to yell at you, Maddie. I really am sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said, thankful that whatever it was that had taken control of him had passed. I didn’t want to see that look on his face ever again. “But seriously. I was raised in the Midwest. My mom and dad were comfortable, yes, but very frugal. They felt strongly that spoiled children don’t do well in the real world. It’s hard for me to just bask in all this luxury.”
Ian held out his arms and pulled me down beside him. He turned me around so that he was hugging me from behind, and he set his chin down on my shoulder.
“Here’s what I haven’t told you. I can pay for this. We can stay in this suite as long as we want. We can get room service day and night. I never really explained it all to you, but that company my brother and I started? We made a lot of money. And now I’m done with that. All I want to do now is be with you. And we can do anything you want. We can live anywhere you want. You don’t have to work anymore.”
I was stunned. I had to go back to tutoring in a few days. I couldn’t stay shut up in that room any longer. My decadent bender with Ian was supposed to be coming to an end, with the return to real life just around the corner. “Are you being serious?”
“Completely.”
“You don’t have to go back to Iraq at all?”
“John and I, we made a deal at the start. When it seemed to us that the only way forward in our business in Iraq was going to involve bribery, backhanded deals, and exploiting and endangering our teams, we were going to bail out. We would have had to be both disgustingly greedy and complete idiots to continue. We made some money and we got out. Alive. And now that I’m here with you I truly have everything I could want.”
“I thought when our time here was up that you would be headed off to Chechnya or Somalia or who knows where. I was going to visit you all over the globe, waiting for you in some godforsaken fleabag hotel room in the nearest safe zone to where you were working.” I had actually been looking forward to this.
“Yeah. That’s not going to happen. I’m going to stay with you until they kick me out of this country. I know what happens when you and I get separated. I am not letting you out of my sight. Not ever again. And you’re going to have to get used to flying first class and drinking the best champagne without regressing to your frugal Midwestern upbringing and causing problems. Running out in the snow for sandwiches, for fuck’s sake. Please.”
“What’s going to happen to your company?”
“I just want it to be over. I just want to shut the business down. We’re up for a big contract that would make us millions, but you know, I hope we don’t get it. I just want to shut the business down.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated,” he answered in a spasm of motion. Within seconds he had lit a cigarette. “I don’t want to go into it. I just don’t ever want to go back to Iraq. Not even for a meeting. Not even for a minute. Not ever.”
* * *
The day before I was due to return to my tutoring job, Ian and I packed up our stuff and checked out of the Hudson. We hailed a taxi and headed downtown toward Greenwich Village. Hurtling down raucous Seventh Avenue, the Middle Eastern cabdriver fishtailed in and out of pedestrians while shouting into his cell phone, stomped on the gas after each green light and braked to a squealing stop at every crosswalk. Ian looked ahead with narrowed eyes and squeezed the strap of his duffel bag with both hands.
“You’ll like the West Village,” I said. “It’s very pretty and quiet. Not like this, with all the lights and horns and hustle bustle.”
He said nothing.
“My apartment is actually on a cobblestone street. Can you imagine that in New York? There aren’t very many of those left. The apartment is small but it’s cute. It’s the attic apartment, with a skylight.”
“Right,” he said.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Could we please not talk right now?” he responded.
And we were off.
* * *
Ian was dumbfounded by the size of my apartment. For me, it was a quaint alcove. For him it was a roomy coffin. When we entered, the door swung inward and hit the back of the futon. A few inches away from the futon was a little coffee table where the old television sat against the far wall. Ian looked at the space and then looked at me. “I imagined being a writer and all that you would have quite a nice flat.”
“I’m mostly a teacher now. This is what I can afford. It’s a thousand dollars a month.”
“What?”
“Yeah. To have a ‘quite nice flat’ you have to be a hedge-fund manager or a dot-com millionaire.”
“What is it about these big bloody cities?” he asked, throwing down his duffel bag and his computer case.
I took a deep breath, hugged myself and looked down at my feet. “Ian,” I said softly. “If you aren’t happy here, it’s okay. You can leave.”
He spun around. I looked up and met his eyes, hoping I wouldn’t cry.
Ian took me into his arms. I realized I was physically shaking. “What’s important,” he whispered, “is that I’m happy with you. I’ve been to some really bad places and seen some really bad things, and, yes, I’m a bit of a shut-in. But I’ll change. You’ll see. I’ll come around. I know I will. If that’s what it will take for us to be together, I’ll do it. Just give me a little time. That’s all I ask. I won’t try to stop you from going out again, I promise. Do the things you like to do. Take walks, go to work, see your friends. One of these days soon I’ll be able to join you. But for now, is it so bad to come home and find me here, waiting? Waiting just to be with you and be happy?”