Early Morning Riser

by Katherine Heiny

  “The baby is talking,” Jimmy told him. “I mean, not really, because babies can’t talk. Some actor is talking. You’re just supposed to think it’s the baby.”

  “But the baby’s lips aren’t moving.” Gary pushed his glasses up his nose and stared at Jimmy accusingly.

  “Well, maybe not talking,” Jimmy said patiently. “More, like, those are supposed to be the baby’s thoughts.”

  “Then it should be called Look Who’s Thinking,” Gary said.

  Jane had sometimes thought that Jimmy and Gary could be combined into a whole functioning person, but now she decided she was wrong about that. They would need a third person, maybe even a fourth.

  She sat on the arm of Duncan’s chair. He smiled and put his arm around her. “Hello, darlin’.”

  Freida strummed her mandolin and sang:

  You don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin’,

  You never even called me by my name.

  Jane gave her an annoyed look, and Freida immediately glanced up at the ceiling in a show of innocence.

  Always, the worst part of visiting Jimmy was saying good-bye, knowing that you were abandoning him to the Lifetime Movie Network and gray bedsheets and cold pizza. (Now he didn’t even have cold pizza—Aggie had thrown it all out.) But it was better than usual tonight because Jane was not alone. Jimmy walked them to the door, and they went out into a summer night as soft and deep as raven feathers.

  “Oh, Jimmy, I nearly forgot,” Aggie called. “I left you some enchiladas in the fridge—just cover them with foil and bake at three-fifty until they’re warmed through, and add the sauce at the last minute.”

  “I sure will,” Jimmy said, although Jane knew the chances of him doing that were less than zero, literally less than zero—negative chances.

  Freida had put her mandolin in its striped cotton bag, but she sang, “ ‘Good night, ladies, we’re going to leave you now!’ ” softly as she walked to her car.

  “Now, Gary,” Aggie said as she followed Jane and Duncan down the sidewalk, “I need to stop at Glen’s on the way home for flaked coconut so I can make Swedish coffee cake tomorrow. It won’t take but a minute, and you can wait in the car.”

  “Now, that’s something I don’t miss,” Duncan said to Jane in a low voice.

  “What is?”

  “Being told to wait in the car.”

  That did seem to sum up what married life with Aggie must be like, but part of Jane was now longing for coffee cake with flaked coconut in it.

  “Good night, everybody!” Jimmy called from the front porch. “Good night! Good night!”

  The ancient porch light threw a buttery spotlight down on him, burnishing his hair and gilding his yellow shirt, and moths swarmed around him like confetti. He waved goodbye, smiling, and Jane could almost believe he was happy.

  * * *

  —

  Jane decided to have the hair on her upper lip waxed. Freida recommended one of her clarinet students, a woman named Nancy in Petoskey who did a little beauty work out of her basement and would give Jane a discount. Yes, it would have been far simpler and more sensible just to book an appointment in a salon, but that’s how things were done in Boyne City.

  Duncan went with Jane to the appointment because Duncan liked to go on any sort of errand. It was one of the very nicest things about him.

  It turned out that Nancy knew Duncan, not because he’d slept with her, but, she said, because he’d stood her up at a pancake supper ten years ago.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Duncan said. Jane did, too. Duncan really liked pancakes.

  “Well, it’s true.” Nancy looked at him sternly. She was a petite blonde in her late forties. “I’m not likely to forget. I was awful excited since you said you were a navy doctor.”

  Duncan nodded slowly, as though Nancy had suddenly begun speaking a language he could understand. “That was something I told women ’round about that time.”

  This seemed to indicate the end of the social niceties. “Well, come on downstairs,” Nancy said to Jane. They followed her down to her basement where an old pink beautician’s chair was bolted to the floor. Jane sat down and leaned back in the chair. Nancy spread warm wax on Jane’s upper lip and then ripped the wax off with a practiced flick of her wrist, like a heavy drinker throwing back a shot of bourbon.

  Jane gave a little yip of pain.

  “Ah, a whole new girl,” Duncan said when she stood up. He put a finger under her chin and examined her face. “Is it going to grow back all thick and brown?” he asked Nancy.

  “No, that’s only with shaving,” Nancy said.

  Duncan paid, making Jane feel like they were on a date. No mention was made of a discount, but that was probably understandable.

  Afterward, Duncan said he wanted to go to IHOP for lunch—Jane assumed the mention of the pancake supper had made him hungry. The hostess led them to a table, Jane trailing along with her head down, worrying that the skin above her upper lip was still pink.

  Their waitress was a broad-hipped woman with faded red hair and a stubborn chin.

  “Now, what do you recommend?” Duncan asked her. “Sweet pancakes, or savory?”

  “Depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  Her voice was impatient. “On whether you’re in the mood for something sweet or something savory.”

  She was clearly impervious to Duncan’s charm. There were others like her, Jane had noticed. Disturbingly, they tended to be women in career fields that required the ability to assess people’s characters: social worker, law enforcement, human resources. Office managers in particular seemed to dislike him. And teachers, except for Jane.

  Finally, Duncan settled on the apple pancakes, and Jane had the French toast, and then felt guilty because Jimmy loved French toast, and here she and Duncan were having lunch on a weekday while poor Jimmy slaved away at Duncan’s workshop. At least Jane assumed he was slaving away.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this before,” she said, tearing the paper off a straw. “But what does Jimmy actually do at work?”

  “Do?”

  “Yes, what are his, you know, job responsibilities?”

  “Not the jigsaw,” Duncan said firmly. “Not ever. Not the handsaws either. Actually, no saws of any kind. Or drills. Sometimes he sands and uses the stapler. Sometimes he helps me varnish. Sometimes I let him tighten up screws.”

  The waitress set their plates down wordlessly and stalked off.

  “That’s it?” Jane asked. “That’s all he does?”

  “He sweeps and runs errands, too,” Duncan said, pouring syrup over his pancakes. “And he answers the phone when I don’t want—would rather not.”

  That meant when some woman was trying to get ahold of him. Jane herself had been a victim of the force field of frustration that was Jimmy answering Duncan’s phone: Gosh, no, Jane, he’s not here. No, he didn’t tell me when he’d be back. I mean, I think he’ll be back to lock up, which is around six. Usually he is, unless he has to go somewhere to buy something, like to Traverse City for router bits. But that’s just an example, he hasn’t actually gone to Traverse City. Sometimes he just goes fishing. He’s never not been here to lock up, but— It was an extremely effective repellent.

  “I can’t believe that’s all he does,” Jane said.

  Duncan looked at her. “What did you think he did?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I guess I hoped he was more—more with it at work than he is at home.”

  “Not really,” Duncan said. “A lot of times he just watches TV in the back.”

  “And you keep him on full-time?” Jane asked. “Can you afford that?”

  “Where else would he work?” Duncan asked. “They’d never hire him again at the feedstore, not after what happened with
the parakeet seed. Besides, I like Jim. He’s nice to have around.”

  They finished eating, and Duncan ordered coffee and then changed it to tea, which seemed to irritate their waitress disproportionately.

  “Duncan Ryfield?” she said when Duncan handed her his credit card. “Why, I believe you slept with my sister Lisa after you installed her closet organizer.”

  Duncan looked startled. “Lisa Gladden?”

  “No, Lisa Strickland.”

  “I don’t recognize that name,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “Would that have been Lisa over in Elk Rapids?”

  “Nope.” The waitress crossed her arms.

  “Kalkaska?”

  “Guess again, Sunny Jim.”

  “Would it be possible to give me a time frame?” Duncan asked. “Or else some details about the closet?”

  “Well, this would have been, oh, about—” The waitress broke off, looking at Jane. “You okay, honey? What’re you laughing about?” She frowned at Duncan. “What’s wrong with your girlfriend? She’s going to make herself sick if she doesn’t stop.”

  * * *

  —

  Jane thought that nobody had ever loved her body the way Duncan loved her body. He loved it deeply and simply and entirely, the same way he loved a winter sunset or fresh banana bread. He seemed happy to stroke her endlessly—the curve of her hip seemed to fascinate him, the smell of her hair to intoxicate him, the taste of her skin to transport him.

  He did not seem to see any of her body’s imperfections. It was not that he ignored them—he truly didn’t see them. His eyes grew dreamy-looking with desire when she leaned down to get something from under the sink and her shirt rode up, or when she pulled on a pair of underpants and let the elastic snap against her hip.

  That night he lay for hours—what seemed like hours—between her legs, licking, caressing, murmuring, “I love this so much, this makes me so happy.” (Which was exactly what he said about banana bread, come to think of it.)

  Suddenly, Jane stiffened.

  “What’s wrong?” Duncan asked, lifting his head.

  “Nothing,” Jane whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  The idea that some people—Jimmy, Freida—might never know sex like this, love like this, it broke Jane’s heart.

  * * *

  —

  On a Saturday in early August, Duncan and Jane drove to Grand Rapids. Duncan was going to the fishing expo, and Jane was going to visit her mother. (Jane felt she might honestly prefer the fishing expo.)

  They got to her mother’s little brick house in the late morning, and Jane was relieved to see a neighbor kid was mowing the lawn. Jane’s mother had mowed the lawn herself when Jane was growing up, pushing the roaring lawn mower up and down in crooked rows while the flesh on her upper arms wobbled and her face grew shiny with sweat. Even as a child, Jane had always begged her mother to hire someone to mow it for her. “It’s honest labor,” her mother had always said. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about it.” Jane had never been embarrassed—she didn’t know how to explain that watching her mother struggle to mow the lawn made her feel an overwhelming sort of sorrow. She had taken over the lawn mowing as soon as she turned twelve.

  Now she waved politely to the neighbor kid as she and Duncan walked up the porch steps and rang her mother’s doorbell.

  “Hello!” her mother said heartily, opening the door. “Welcome!” Then she leaned past them, squinting, and shouted, “Timmy, you mind my rhododendrons!” loud enough to make Jane’s eardrum flex.

  They followed her mother inside. She was wearing black polyester pants and a black-and-white print blouse and a twinkly black beaded necklace and matching bracelets. Jane realized her mother had dressed up for the visit, and was pleased.

  “Now, I have a pot of coffee on,” her mother said. “Duncan, would you like some before you start?”

  Jane frowned. “Start what?”

  “Don’t look so worried, dear,” her mother said. “I just have a few handyman chores that I was hoping Duncan could take care of.”

  “He came to visit!” Jane protested. “It’s not like you hired him for the day.”

  “I don’t mind,” Duncan said. “I will take that cup of coffee, Phyllis, and while you’re seeing to that, I’ll get my toolbox from the van.”

  When he came back, he drank his coffee quickly and said, “Now, why don’t you show me where we should start?”

  He seemed to know instinctively that Jane’s mother would want to supervise the chores, not just assign them. Jane sat at the kitchen table with her own cup of coffee and listened as her mother and Duncan moved from room to room. “Okay, right there, not so much!” her mother cried out. “Just give it a little tap or the whole thing is likely to fall down!” And, “Wait, I think that’s the wrong type of screwdriver!”

  To everything, Duncan only replied equably, “You’re the boss.”

  Jane sighed. Her mother had made Luke do her taxes and Jane’s college boyfriends change the oil in her car. Honestly, it was amazing anyone wanted to date Jane at all.

  Duncan left to go to the fishing expo—lucky him—while Jane and her mother had lunch outside at the picnic table. Timmy had finished mowing the lawn, and now the yard was quiet, filled with the peaceful, somnolent heat of late summer. Jane’s mother had prepared a lunch she’d often made in Jane’s childhood—tuna salad sandwiches with pickles and Fritos—and she served it on the same brown-and-yellow earthenware plates she’d had for an eternity. Jane hoped she’d still be here when Duncan came back to pick her up, that she wouldn’t be stuck in some 1985 time warp.

  Their conversation was as desultory as the weather. Jane said that after lunch, they should go downtown for some pie. Her mother admired Jane’s blouse and said not many women would be brave enough to wear that shade of yellow, given how it muddied the complexion.

  And then her mother said, “And how is Jimmy doing?”

  Jane swallowed a Frito with difficulty. “He’s okay, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  Considering that his mother died! Jane thought. Considering that when she died, some vital part of Jimmy died, too. Considering that he measures time by television, that he sometimes doesn’t speak to a living soul for twenty-four hours, that he invites the pizza delivery guy to stay and eat with him! Considering that I have to make sure there are never more than four Tylenol in the bottle for fear Jimmy might overdose by accident, or worse, on purpose! Considering that every day when he walks to work, he passes the corner where his mother died in your car because of your reckless driving!

  But she didn’t say any of these things because her mother might say, Well, dear, you’re the one who asked me to drive his mother home.

  “Goodness, Jane!” her mother exclaimed. “Do you know that you just had the most remarkable series of facial expressions? First you looked very sad and shook your head a little bit, and then you looked sort of scared and, I don’t know, almost haunted, and then you got an extremely angry glint in your eyes.”

  Jane had forgotten how randomly perceptive her mother could be. “I was just thinking about Jimmy,” she said shortly. “He’s had a hard time.”

  Her mother reached across the table, bracelets jangling, and put her hand over Jane’s. “I know he has, dear.” Her voice was soft. “And, please, you must know how sorry I am that Jimmy is motherless now.”

  Well, that wasn’t quite true, was it? Jimmy was without his mother, yes, but he had a mother. Of course he did. Jane was Jimmy’s mother now.

  * * *

  —

  Oh, the joy of a shared life! The joy is not—as many people believe—building a future with someone, or opening your heart to another human being, or even the ability to gift each other money with limited tax consequences. The joy is in the dailiness. The joy is having someone who will stop you from hitt
ing the snooze button on the alarm endlessly. The joy is the smell of someone else’s cooking. The joy is knowing that you can call someone and ask him to pick up a gallon of milk on his way over. The joy is having someone to watch Kitchen Nightmares with, because it is really no good when you watch it by yourself. The joy is hoping (however unrealistically) that someone else will unload the dishwasher. The joy is having someone listen to the weird cough your car has developed and reassure you that it doesn’t sound expensive. The joy is saying how much you want a glass of wine and having someone tell you, “Go ahead, you deserve it!” (Although it’s possible to achieve the last one with a pet and a little imagination.)

  And all these joys were Jane’s that summer. Duncan had moved even fewer possessions into Jane’s house than Luke had, but his stuff seemed to take up more space, seemed more permanent, seemed to belong more. Jane realized that was just foolishness: a toothbrush is a toothbrush is a toothbrush. It was Duncan himself who belonged, who made her feel perpetually on the edge of some exciting discovery, who stroked her upper lip lightly and said, “I miss your moustache.”

  Duncan was there to get up with her at four thirty in the morning when Jimmy called to tell her there was a scary tapping sound coming from his living room.

  “It’s not like them other times, Jane,” Jimmy whispered hoarsely. “There’s really someone there!”

  Jane tried not to sigh. “Okay, Jimmy. I’ll be right over.”

  She hung up the phone and saw that Duncan was already out of bed and pulling on his jeans.

  “Jimmy’s hearing scary noises,” she said. “I think it’s branches scratching at the window or maybe just his imagination.”

  “Easy enough to go take a look,” Duncan said, and Jane saw suddenly that he was right. It was easy, now that she had Duncan to go with her. It was easy to get up and dressed with him to keep her company, easy not to resent the lost sleep knowing that he would be tired, too, easy to follow him out to his van.