The Bachelor

by Andrew Palmer

  “Anyway,” I echoed.

  “Okay, well—” A car door opened, then slammed shut. “Who is that? Is someone here?”

  “Yeah, so, I can’t remember if—”

  Sadie walked in with a loud, long sigh. “Well, that was about the—oh. Hello.”

  “Sadie, Jess. Jess, Sadie. Sadie’s, ah, she’s visiting for a few days.”

  “That’s true. I also own the place.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “I didn’t mean, I wasn’t trying to…”

  “Of course not. Well! Jess. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Juice?”

  “No—thank you. I’ve heard a lot about you. I was just on my way out.”

  Sadie seemed to study my face, may have misread what she saw there, said, “I’ll just go for a little walk.”

  “No!” I objected too strongly. “I mean—”

  “Yes! I could use a little air.” She looked at Jess. “So nice to meet you. Those boots are amazing.”

  “Thank you! I love your coat.”

  They smiled at each other, my two new friends. Then Sadie left, then Jess, and I was alone.

  I went to the living-room windows to clear my mind but immediately remembered the unopened package. I went back to the kitchen and tore it open and slid out an advance copy of Ashwini’s novel. On the cover was a woman in a short turquoise skirt, feet too small for her black high heels, head and shoulders cropped out of the picture so that the reader could fill them in. I looked at the back cover: “magical…luminous…a dazzling mosaic of details and images…as heartbreaking as it is brilliant…a writer to watch.” The novel told the story of a first-generation Indian Canadian family struggling through life’s quiet challenges in suburban Toronto. “Written with humour, grace, and heartbreaking honesty, Go Away is Ashwini Dasgupta’s stunning debut novel about finding one’s place in the world, and discovering the rare beauty of those one cannot live without.” I flipped to the author photo: there she was, those eyes, that shy smile, looking as always like she wished she were elsewhere. The smell of her hair wafted up from the paper. I scanned the acknowledgments page for my name, not there, but a few mutual friends were “readers without whom,” etc. On the cover page was an inscription: “Let’s not. Love, Goose.” A heaviness besieged me, as if the full weight of our separation were descending on me for the first time, and maybe it was. The book was dedicated to her parents and younger sister. I doubted I’d ever read it. Books are tombstones. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was so tired.

  Sadie walked in the front door and I looked up. “Jess is gone,” I said. “You didn’t need to leave us alone here. We’re just friends.”

  “I never suggested otherwise,” a lie.

  “I met her at the dry cleaners.”

  “She dresses very nicely.” Sadie was hanging up her coat. “I’d love to talk but I’ve had a difficult afternoon.”

  I apologized, offered to leave the house for a while. “No, please don’t. No need for that.” She walked into the living room and sat down against a wall at a right angle to the one I was sitting against. Hadn’t she just said she didn’t want to talk? “You’d think after twenty years of living here I would’ve at least bought a chair,” she said. “Don’t laugh at that. I’m exhausted. My heart is hurting.”

  She looked distraught, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to ask what happened. I considered telling her more about Jess, the concert, imagined her telling my mother, said instead, “I’m reading an advance copy of my ex’s novel,” as if that might set her heart at ease.

  “How is it?”

  “You wouldn’t like it: it’s fiction. Sort of.”

  She smiled, then stopped smiling but continued to look at me, probing my eyes as if fathoming their depth, as if trying to decide if I was worthy of confiding in. She must have decided I was, because she said, “You’re not the only one dealing with a breakup.”

  It took me a second to understand she was talking about divorce. My mind scrambled for condolences, oh god, when did it happen, I’m so sorry, are you okay? is your son okay?

  Sadie’s gaze was direct and even. “Ethan will be fine. He and Mike only met a few times.” On my face, she had to have seen the confusion that it must have been her intent to sow. “Ryan and I are still together. I had a boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.”

  “A boyfriend.” What a ridiculous word.

  “My marriage is open.”

  “You mean…” The meaning was clear.

  “I’m in an open marriage. We see other people. It’s done. It’s something that people do. Try not to look so stunned.”

  I was stunned, and I was embarrassed to be stunned. How little I’d experienced of the world!

  I told Sadie I was sorry about her breakup, fuck Mike, and she laughed and thanked me. The decision to end things had been set in motion the last night of her last visit, she said, but it wasn’t finalized until this afternoon. “So now we can commiserate,” she said.

  I didn’t feel especially like commiserating so I said, “Yeah, I mean, at least no one died, right?”

  “Breakups are worse than death,” she said. “The person who’s causing all your grief is still there.”

  I laughed and told her she had a point. She sighed. She was always sighing. Then she got up and headed upstairs to take a shower, turning before she reached the stairwell to half-shout, “Do you want to go to a retirement dinner this evening? Suddenly a spot has opened up.”

  * * *

  —

  The dinner was in a “modern American” restaurant in downtown Des Moines’s recently christened East Village, a slowly but proudly gentrifying neighborhood wedged between the Des Moines River and the capitol. The restaurant hadn’t existed when I was growing up, and I tried to take it as the sign of progress it so clearly wanted to be. The ceilings were high; the walls were exposed brick; one was lined with wine bottles whose curving necks all caught and reflected the dim track lighting at almost exactly the same spot, serially gleaming; they echoed the gleaming gold and silver balloons that were tied to chairs and tables here and there. The whole restaurant had been rented out for the evening. Near the entrance was a life-sized Superman cutout with the transposed head of a friendly-looking man—the retiree, I assumed and Sadie confirmed. On the ride over she’d called the man “a saint”; he’d been in charge of the Des Moines Art Center’s educational programs since their inception more than thirty years ago. “And he’s one of the ones who stayed friends with me after Ryan and I made our decision,” she said. She and Ryan had never tried to hide their open marriage, she said. “That was always very important to us.”

  Seating was assigned; we searched for our table, stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with Sadie’s friends and ex-friends and -colleagues, central Iowa’s cultural elite. Sadie had an easy, frank way with everyone, which wasn’t always reciprocated. Everyone asked about everyone else’s children. I felt preposterous among the distinguished women with their makeup and pearls and brooches and heels, the men with their suits and goatees and rimless glasses. I wore a suit, too (my only one), but mine was a disguise. Sadie wore a tight iridescent knee-length dress that most often shone either green or gold. She introduced me as her friend. I felt drunk from the wine that lined the wall. “He’s retired, too,” she told one woman, and the three of us laughed conspiratorially.

  We found the place cards for Sadie and “Sadie’s Guest” and sat down, the first to arrive at our table. Underneath our chairs we each found a gift bag that contained a disposable camera, a dog treat, a curlicued straw, a pair of tickets to an Iowa Cubs game, and a packet of vegetable seeds. Each gift, Sadie explained, referenced an interest in the life of the retiree. Straws? “Milkshakes. Stephen loves milkshakes.” We compared our seeds: she got kale, I got parsnips. She wanted to trade but I held firm. Almost before I realized I’d taken a sip, a wa
iter materialized to top off my wine.

  “Excuse me!” Sadie grabbed the shoulder of the departing waiter. “Me too, please,” and he poured more wine into her goblet, which I was pretty sure she hadn’t drunk from yet. “Bottomless,” Sadie said, and smiled. As she raised her glass and I raised mine to meet it, a man with a slight southern accent yelled, “Hold on now, let me get in on this!” He sat down next to Sadie and raised his glass and we all clinked to Stephen. “To Stephen!”

  The man, broad-shouldered and totally bald, with a thick mustache, leaned in to kiss Sadie on the cheek. “Dave Corwyn,” he said, extending a hand to meet mine. His head gleamed like the wine bottles and balloons. He had the build of a former football player, but maybe that occurred to me only after he’d started talking about the Super Bowl, which he’d attended the previous weekend on the invitation of NFL commissioner Roger Goodell. On his phone he showed us photos of himself with his two sons and the offensive line of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

  “I thought you were in the Amazonian rain forest,” said Sadie.

  “That was in December. Now, that’s some river. Ever been there?” He was looking at me; I’d never been! “If you ever decide to go, give me a call.” His hand was on my wrist. I nodded gravely. “Let’s just say I’m on good terms with some of the natives.” He smiled and released my wrist, to my relief, then gave a winking sort of look to Sadie.

  A waiter came by with salads and a stiffly rehearsed offer of “freshly ground pink peppercorns, freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.” Sadie accepted ungodly amounts of both; Dave seemed determined to accept even more. Feeling suddenly compelled to one-up them both I waited until the waiter stopped grating, then said, “More, please,” and let him go a while longer as Sadie and Dave exchanged wide-eyed looks. I repeated the act with the pink peppercorns, nodding, suddenly feeling like a king. “Thank you.”

  “My man!” Dave said when the waiter left, and I gave a look like Damn straight.

  Meanwhile another waiter had topped off our wine, and as we ate and drank, newly bonded by our tacit competition, Dave told the story of how he’d come to be invited to the Super Bowl by Roger Goodell. He’d recently had the good fortune, he explained, to attend a breast cancer awareness fundraiser and wine-tasting event at which Goodell was the featured speaker. Everyone was there—DiCaprio, Seal, Joe Montana, I mean everyone. This was in Sonoma, not far from his new house. Beautiful country. I mean—my god. You guys’ll have to come out there sometime. He was sitting at a table with Sean Penn and Michael Dukakis, who was a good, upstanding, God-fearing man, whatever you thought of his dumb-ass politics. The three of them were drinking wine and having a grand old time. “Did you know Sean Penn fucked Cher? It’s true. Don’t know how they managed to avoid the tabloids, but there it is! Don’t tell anyone I told you that. So anyway, me and Penn and Dukakis are getting good and drunk on Cabernet, just comparing war stories, shooting the shit, and one of them, can’t remember if it was Penn or Dukakis, brings up the very important topic of which NFL team has the hottest cheerleaders. I knew you’d love that, Sadie. Ha! Now Penn, he’s a California boy, he goes with the 49ers, okay, whatever, can’t blame him for that, and Dukakis—Dukakis goes with some crazy wildcard, the St. Louis Rams or some shit, I can’t remember, he’s obviously not an expert on the subject. Now, you and I both know there’s only one correct answer and that’s the Dallas Cowboys. But Penn, he’s not having it, Dukakis, not having it, so I say, Boys, boys, there’s only one way to settle this. And right about now it’s time for Goodell’s Q and A, and wouldn’t you know it I’m called upon to ask the commish a question. And I stand up from my table. Smooth my suit. Straighten my tie. Clear my throat—ahem!—and say, ‘Um, yes, Commissioner. Sir. I wonder if you could settle a very important difference of opinion between myself and the other two gentlemen at the table.’ ‘I’ll certainly do my best. What’s on your mind?’ ‘Yes, uh, thank you, Commissioner, sir. Mr. Penn and Mr. Dukakis and I are having, shall we say, a gentleman’s disagreement. You see, Mr. Penn is of the unfortunate opinion that the most, um, attractive cheerleaders in the league belong to the San Francisco 49ers.’ Some tittering in the audience, right? ‘And Mr. Dukakis, I’m sorry to say, is of the opinion that it’s the St. Louis Rams.’ The whole room trying not to laugh at this point. ‘Whereas you and I both know, Mr. Commissioner, that the most attractive cheerleaders in the league, without question, are the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. I’d just appreciate it if you could confirm that. Thank you. That’s all. Sir.’ And Goodell, he’s real serious, he’s playing it cool: ‘You raise a very important question, Mr. Corwyn. I sure am glad you brought that to my attention,’ and he goes on in his very official way about how all the cheerleaders are wonderful assets to the league, it’s impossible to choose one squad over another, blah blah—but later that evening, after the Q and A, he comes over to me, leans in close, and says, ‘Goddamn right it’s the Cowboys Cheerleaders.’ Goddamn right! What do you think of that? Well, hell,” Dave concluded, “I knew right then we’d be friends, and by the end of the night he’s offered me two seats in his box for Super Bowl Forty-five. I told him I already had tickets to the game, but he insisted on having me and my wife as guests.”

  Sadie and I expressed the requisite amazement, and a minute later Dave got up to go to the bathroom. I looked at Sadie in mock panic, and we laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know we’d have the good fortune of being seated with Dave.”

  “He seems nice.”

  “He’s a boor, I mean obviously, but what’s funny is that he’s also actually one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. If you can get past the…Texasness.” He was an oil tycoon who spent money on art, buying it and donating to arts organizations. He had homes in Houston, Calgary, New York, and now apparently California, but his wife had grown up outside of Des Moines and he’d been involved with the Art Center for a long time. “He comes to events and actually helps out—hands out pamphlets, sets up chairs, whatever’s needed. Everyone here loves him. He’s sort of despicable, but he’s also really kind.”

  Another couple had joined us at the table while Dave was talking; they were eating their salads and chatting in low voices. “Linda, hello!” Sadie said. Linda turned toward us and said evenly, “Hello.” Sadie introduced me and I said I was pleased to meet them. “Yes,” said Linda and turned back to her husband, who gave a little smile as if to apologize. Sadie nodded at the couple knowingly, then took a gulp of wine.

  Dave returned and Sadie asked him about his new home, she hadn’t known he’d been looking to buy in wine country. Oh yes, he’d been looking for a long, long time, it was just a matter of finding the right place. It was on top of a mountain between Napa and Suisun valleys. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, two stories, octagonal, indoor-outdoor infinity pool cantilevered over a cliff. “It looks like a fucking spaceship landed smack on top of the mountain.” It had a name: House Above the Morning Clouds. Every morning the fog rolled in from the Pacific and surrounded the house like a cotton-candy carpet. The property was seventeen hundred acres. “Nice piece of land,” Dave kept saying, and every time it sounded like “Nice piece of ass.” On clear days you could see the Golden Gate Bridge, and in the other direction the Sierra Nevadas. The house had been featured in a Lexus commercial, and also the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, maybe we’d seen it.

  “Not yet,” Sadie said.

  “Nice piece of land,” Dave said. The waiter took our empty salad plates. “But I’ve just been going on about myself. What do you do, my man?”

  Me? It was hard to say—I did a lot of—I spent a lot of time—

  “He’s a writer,” Sadie said. “He wrote an amazing novel. And he’s house-sitting for me. Multitalented.”

  “A writer! I admire that, I really do. I stand in awe of people who can write. Me, I can barely throw two sentences together. Put a gun to my head and maybe I’ll get a—what’s it called?
A paragraph? I’m kidding. But let me tell you: I love to read. I’ve always been a reader.”

  “Oh? What have you been reading lately?” I asked. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say.

  “Euripides.”

  What language was he speaking? “I’m sorry?”

  “I probably have the pronunciation wrong. Euripides?” It was the correct pronunciation. “Ancient Greek playwright. Heavy stuff. You read him?” I said it had been a while. “Heavy stuff. Really makes you think about things. The big questions, you know. What are we here for? What do we do?”

  “And?” Sadie asked.

  “Hell if I know. You’ll be the first to know if I find out, I promise you that. I’ve always loved those little Loeb Classical editions. You know what I’m talking about? With the green covers? You ever read those things? I have a pretty good collection. Handsome books. My wife got me into them. English major. Hey, I got a thought.” He looked at Sadie. “Is this gentleman a decent house-sitter?”

  “The best.”

  “Doesn’t steal? Doesn’t throw too many parties?”

  “I haven’t heard a single complaint from the neighbors.”

  Dave turned back to me. “How’d you like to watch my new house for a spell? We want to make a few improvements before we move in and it sure would help to have someone there. Be a great place to write your next book. If Sadie doesn’t mind my stealing you, of course.”

  The brief look that Sadie and I exchanged contained a conversation: “Do you want to?” “I’m not sure.” “You can if you want.” “I need someone to tell me what I want.” “No, you need to figure it out on your own.” “How?” “Search within yourself.” “But…”

  “Yeah,” said Sadie, “it’s fine with me.”

  “Fantastic! My wife’ll be so pleased. I’m texting her right now. Her sister was looking after the place but she got scared, couldn’t handle it. Gets a little lonely but you’ll be fine. I’ll make sure the Jeep arrives before you do. You’re going to love driving that Jeep. 2012. Kevlar. Super tricked out. What’s the soonest you can get out there? So I can tell my wife. The glass people are coming up on Friday.”