by Michael Kun
Then, a little while later, she stops at my machine and hands me the spool of black thread.
“I borrowed your thread this morning for a job,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
And I say, “It’s okay.” Then I say, “Do you remember how you and Palmeyer were talking about Mario Lanza the other day?”
And she says, “Yes.”
And I say, “Well, I was at an Italian restaurant the other night, and the maitre’d told me that Mario Lanza had once eaten there.”
Her eyes get so big you’d have thought I told her she had just won a brand-new car. For the next fifteen minutes she tells me all about Mario Lanza.
“I can lend you some of his records if you’d like,” she says.
And I say, “That’d be great.”
For a minute I think that maybe I won’t look for a new job after all.
x
After work, I stop at Fat Matt’s Rib Shack for dinner. I eat by myself, have a few beers and a few cigarettes, then I go home to wait for Renée so I can tell her about how I bought the Krispy Kreme donuts and how Broom Hilda is being friendly to me now. I watch television in the living room while I’m waiting, even though there’s nothing on that I’m interested in. The first show’s a comedy about a woman with two children. So’s the next. I sit on the couch and mend one of Renée’s blouses. I fix the hem on one of her skirts. The phone rings, and I think that maybe it’s Renée calling to say she’ll be late, which happens more and more lately. I set Renée’s skirt down on the arm of the couch and answer the phone.
“Hello,” I say.
It’s not Renée, though. It’s a man. He says, “Hello. Is this Hamilton Ashe?”
I think it might be a salesman. I say, “Yes. Who’s this?”
And that’s when he says, “You’re not going to believe this, but this is Hamilton Ashe. I mean to say, that’s my name, too.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say, “Is this some kind of joke or something?”
And he says, “No. I swear to God, my name’s Hamilton Ashe. I live in Baltimore, Maryland, and I heard that there was someone in Atlanta with the same name as mine.”
I’m not sure whether he’s pulling my leg, so I say again, “Is this some kind of joke?”
And he says, “No. It really is my name.”
So I say, “How did you find out that I had the same name?”
And he says, “I was up in New York City on business, and I had dinner with some people, and there was a woman there by the name of Shellie Haller. She gave me your number.”
That’s when I know he’s telling the truth.
I say, “That was my wife. Shellie Haller was my wife. She used to be Shellie O’Connell, then we got married and she was Shellie Ashe, then we got divorced, then she got married again and became Shellie Haller.”
And he says, “I know. You should have seen the look on her face when they introduced us. They said, `This is Hamilton Ashe,’ and she turned white like she drank some spoiled milk. I thought she was going to have a heart attack.”
I laugh picturing that, picturing Shellie meeting some complete stranger whose name is Ham Ashe. I laugh picturing Shellie turning white. I laugh louder than I had at any of the television shows I’d been watching.
This is incredible,” I say. “How does she look? Does she still look the same?”
And he says, “I don’t know what she looked like before, so I don’t know if she looks the same. But she’s a very attractive woman.
And I say, “I know. Does she look happy?”
And he says, “Yes,” which makes me a little happy and a little sad at the same time.
“This is incredible,” I say, again. Another person with my name.” It probably happens all the time with people named John Smith or Bob Johnson. But not with Hamilton Ashe. I’ve never even heard of anyone having the same last name, let alone the same FIRST and last names. I say, “I can’t believe someone has the same name as mine.”
And he says, “Me neither.”
And I say, “It’s an unusual name.”
And he says, “Not as unusual as it was five minutes ago, is it?”
And I say, “I guess not.” Then I say, “Listen, when were you born?”
And he says, “June 6, why?”
And I say, “I just thought it would be funny if we had the same birthday, too.”
And he says, “Do we?”
And I say, “No. I’m November 28.”
For a couple seconds, neither one of us says anything. Finally, I say, “How’d you get your name? My mother named me after a man she once knew.”
And he says, “I was named after a watch.”
And I say, “A watch?”
And he says, “Yes. It’s the name of a watch company. Hamilton Watches”
I look at my watch. “Good thing my mother didn’t do that or I might be named Casio Water Resistant Ashe.”
The other Hamilton Ashe laughs at my joke, which is nice of him.
Then I say, “Listen, are we related?”
And he says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we are. What’s your father’s first name?”
And I say, “Samuel Ashe.”
And he says, “No, that doesn’t ring a bell.”
And I say, “What’s your father’s name?”
And he says, “Alex.”
And I say, “I don’t know any Alex Ashes.”
We spend ten minutes or so trying to figure out whether we’re related. We go through parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, and we can’t come up with anyone in common.
Then he asks me, “Did people ever make fun of your name?”
And I say, “Of course.”
And he says, “Me, too. They used to call me Bologna or Salami—“
And I say, “That’s what my boss calls me. Salami.”
And he says, “Let me ask you this. Did you ever think it was funny?”
And I say, “Maybe the first time I heard it when I was four or five.”
And he says, “Same here. Everyone always thinks they’re the first one to realize that ham is a type of meat.”
That’s when I tell him the story of how Shellie was elected class president by putting up posters that said, “Ham Is A Pig.”
He laughs a little and says, “I know. She told me about it at dinner.”
And I say, “She did?”
And he says, “Yes. After she made me show her my driver’s license to prove that I’m really Hamilton Ashe.”
There is a pause, and I say, “We don’t talk anymore.”
And he says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
And I say, “It’s okay.” Then I say, “So, are you married?”
And he says, “Yes. My wife’s name is Angie. We have two daughters, Katie and Claire.”
And I say, “Those are nice names.”
And he says, “Thanks. How about you? Did you get married again?”
And I say, “No. No wife, no kids. I’m living with a girl, though. Her name’s Renée. She’s taking classes tonight.”
And he says, “Oh. What’s she studying to be?”
And I say, “Smart.” Then I say, “Really, I don’t know what she’s studying to be.”
Again, a few seconds pass without either one of us saying anything.
Then he says, “I wonder if we look alike.”
We both describe ourselves. We don’t look alike at all.
Then he says, “What do you do for a living?”
And I say, “I’m a tailor. How about you?”
And he says, “I’m a school teacher. I used to be a lawyer.”
And I say, “That’s funny, That’s what my brother does. I mean, he’s a lawyer.”
And he says, “Really?”
And I say, “Really. His name’s Carl Ashe.”
And he says, “Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if I had a brother named Carl?”
And I say, “Do you?”
And he says, “No. I was just thinking what a coincidence it would be.”
He tells me a little about when he was a lawyer. It sounds like he worked long hours, just like Carl. The way he tells it, it sounds dull and tedious and not all that different from my job. Then he tells me about how he’s teaching at a high school now, and he tells me how much he likes it.
I tell him a little about working with Palmeyer. I try to make it sound interesting, but there’s only so much you can say about being a tailor. I tell him a little about Palmeyer. I tell him a little about Broom Hilda, only I call her Debbie when I do. I tell him about what happened with the black thread and the Krispy Kreme donuts, and how Debbie is friendly to me now.
“Good,” he says, “I’m glad. It’s important to like the people you work with.”
And I say, “I agree.”
He tells me about his wife. She sounds like a very pleasant woman.
I tell him a little about Renée. I leave out a lot. I don’t mention anything about the song about the dog missing its ear.
He tells me a little about Baltimore. I’ve never been there, and it sounds like a beautiful place, the way he describes it.
I tell him a little about Atlanta. I try to focus on all the beautiful trees and the monuments. I make a point of not telling him about what it’s like here in August, when you can’t even go outside because the air is so thick.
We talk about baseball and movies and music.
Before I notice, we’ve been on the phone for more than an hour. Finally, he says, “This has been interesting, Ham. I didn’t mean to keep you on the phone so long.”
And I say, “It’s okay. Renée’s not here.”
And he says, “Look, if you’re ever up in Baltimore, you’ll have to give me a call. We’ll take you out to dinner.” Then he gives me his telephone number. I write it down on the back of one of Renée’s Redbook magazines. It’s the one with Oprah Winfrey on the cover.
I say, “If you’re ever down here in Atlanta, you’ll have to call me, too.”
And he says, “I will.”
And I say, “Good.”
And he says, “Well, good night, Ham.”
And I say, “Good night, Ham.”
Then we both hang up.
x
Now I have two things to tell Renée about: Broom Hilda and the other Hamilton Ashe. I can hardly sit down, I’m so excited. I can’t pay attention to anything on television. I finish mending the hem of Renée’s skirt, then just pace around the apartment waiting for Renée to come home so I can tell her about my day.
Only Renée doesn’t come home.
CHAPTER 13: A THOUSAND BREATHLESS SUMMERS
When your girlfriend doesn’t come home at night, you’re supposed to think, I hope she’s all right. I hope she wasn’t in an accident. Or you’re supposed to think, Maybe I should call the police. Maybe I should call the hospitals.
Or you’re supposed to think I wonder if she’s left me, especially if that’s what your wife did.
Only I don’t think that at all.
Instead, I think, Guitar Walter.
Guitar Walter.
Guitar Walter.
GUITAR WALTER.
Guitar Walter with his guitar.
Guitar Walter with his oily hair.
Guitar Walter with his college books, sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee I paid for.
Guitar Walter sitting on my couch and smelling my girlfriend’s perfume like a dog sniffing around for a treat.
Guitar Walter with his hands all over my girlfriend.
At two o’clock in the morning, all I can think about is Renée and Guitar Walter kissing.
What I think about at three o’clock is worse, bare arms and legs everywhere.
What I think about at four is horrible.
x
I shower. I shave. I make a pot of coffee. I get dressed.Renée still isn’t home when I leave for work. She hasn’t called. I don’t know any of her new friends’ telephone numbers. I don’t even know their last names, so I can’t look up their telephone numbers or call directory assistance. You can’t dial 411 and say, “I’d like the telephone number for Guitar Walter.” You can’t say, “I’d like the number for a girl named Claire Something-or-other with red hair and pale skin.” You can’t.
I stop on the way to work to get some more Krispy Kreme donuts, and when I get to the shop I tell Debbie and Palmeyer about how Renée didn’t come home last night. Debbie makes an “O” with her mouth, then covers it with her palm.
“That’s terrible,” she says. “Did you call the hospitals?”
I tell her, “No,” and she says, “We’d better.”
For the next half hour, we take turns calling the hospitals. I look up the numbers in the phone book, then Debbie calls them.
“Is there a girl there named Renée Yates,” Debbie says, and after a little while she looks at me and shakes her head side-to-side, no.
“Ask if there’s a Renée Ashe,” I say.
And Debbie does, and then she shakes her head, no, again.
We call all of the hospitals that are listed in the phone book. There are more hospitals than you can imagine. There must be more sick people in Atlanta than anywhere in the world. Or else they’re very small hospitals.
No Renée Yates at any of them.
No Renée Ashe.
Then we call all of the police stations in the area. Hands. Feet. Legs. Breasts. I try to put them together in my mind to complete two naked bodies, but I can’t.
Same thing.
Then I start picturing her with Guitar Walter again.
I try to call her at home, but there’s no answer. I just keep getting our answering machine saying, “Hello, this is Renée Ashe. My husband and I are out at the present moment. Please leave a message.
I work on a sports jacket for five minutes, fixing the buttons on the sleeves, then I call home again. Still no answer, just Renée’s voice.
I work a little more, then call home again.
Then I work a little more.
Then I call home again.
It’s not until ten-thirty that Renée answers the phone, only now I don’t know what to say to her.
“Renée,” I say, “is that you?”
And she says, “Yes.”
And I say, “Renée, I was worried sick. We’ve been calling the hospitals and the police stations.”
And she says, “Who?”
And I say, “Me and Debbie.”
And she says, “Who?”
And I whisper, “Broom Hilda.”
And she says, “Why have you and Broom Hilda been calling the hospitals and the police stations?
And I say, “I thought maybe something happened to you when you didn’t come home last night.”
And she says, “I’m fine. I ended up staying the night at Claire’s.”
Film Claire. Claire from the kitchen.
And I say, “I wish you would have called to tell me. I didn’t sleep at all last night, I was so worried.”
And Renée says, “I tried to call you a thousand times, but you were on the phone all night,” which I hadn’t even thought of. I was on the phone with the other Hamilton Ashe. Then Renée says, “Finally, we just fell asleep.”
And I say, “That makes sense.” And she says, “Then I tried to call you at work all morning, but the number has been busy.”
And I say, “We’ve been trying to find you. I was just so worried.”
And she says, “What did you think happened to me?”
When I don’t say anything right away, she gets angry and says, “You’re a pig, do you know that?”
And I say, “Why?”
And she says, “You thought I was fooling around with Walter, didn’t you?”
And I say, “Well, to be honest —”
Before I can finish, she says, “For your information, I didn’t even see Walter last night. I was out with Claire. Just me and Claire.”
And I say, “Okay.�
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Because it’s a Friday, Renée doesn’t have classes, so I say, “Well, I’ll be home at about six. What do you say we catch a movie tonight?”
And she says, “I can’t. There’s a party tonight.” Then, very quickly she says, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
And I say, “Where is it?”
And she says, “It’s over in Virginia Highlands,” which is the name of the artsy part of town. It’s filled with shops and art galleries and little stores that sell nothing but expensive coffees. “But you don’t have to go,” she says again.
She keeps telling me that I don’t have to go, over and over again. If I had a dollar for every time she says it, I’d have ten or twelve dollars.
It’s pretty clear that she doesn’t want me anywhere near her friends’ party, or why else would she keep telling me I don’t need to go?
Why?
Which is exactly why I’m going to go.
x
“This isn’t a suit-and-tie affair,” Renée says while I’m getting dressed. You can tell she’s still angry with me for thinking she’d been with Guitar Walter last night. “It’s more of a pants-and-shirt type.”
She stands in front of the bedroom mirror, changing her clothes, her arms twisted behind her like a full-nelson as she tries to hook her bra. Dressed in just my shorts, I walk to her side and fasten the tiny metal hook for her, turning it in my fingers, and she pats my forearm once, then twice, and thanks me.
“You know,” she says, “you really don’t have to come tonight. If you’d be uncomfortable, I’ll go by myself.”
And I say, “No, no, I’m going to go. Where is it again?”
And she says, “At Walter’s.”
And I say, “Which one is Walter?”
And she says, “You know which one is Walter.” She puts her hand on the small of my back and gives me a shove. “Now, go shower already.”
I pull a pair of dark slacks and an Oxford shirt from the closet and hold them up for Renée’s approval—she nods her head in the mirror—then lay them on the bed. I pick a pair of boxer shorts from my underwear drawer and carry them into the bathroom, then I shower, and when I return to the bedroom in my shorts and wet feet, Renée is still in front of the mirror, brushing on eye shadow now. She’s wearing a loose, black sweater and a dark skirt with the pattern of blooming flowers. She doesn’t look a thing like the Archaeologies or the Films.