Man of the Year

by Caroline Louise Walker

  “Damn,” I said. “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, well.” Her attention trailed off somewhere mysterious. “I kind of fucked up getting my college applications together this year.”

  “Oh.” Not so mysterious after all, then. I guess there wouldn’t have been much time for essays and SATs during all that drama with Mr. Voss.

  “Yeah,” she said, like she was reading my mind. “I bet you’ve been overseas lots.”

  “Couple times,” I told her, but I didn’t say that both times were London. “You?”

  “I went to Paris with French class last year. It was cool. I’ve been to Canada, too, if you count that.”

  I don’t really, but I nodded. Nick’s dad was from Canada. I tell Kayla, “That’s funny, because they speak French in some parts of Canada, too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. She didn’t say it mean, but I still wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be a bitch about it. I don’t know why. I’ve never talked to a girl that way in my life.

  “You going to Crowley’s party next weekend?” Kayla asked.

  Ugh. Sam Crowley’s the kind of guy who’s always looking around to make sure people are laughing at whatever lame story he’s telling—and then he’ll tell the same story later just so he can include the part about how everyone laughed so hard when he told it before. He’s the worst. “I don’t know,” I told Kayla. “Kind of doubt it. Have to finish writing a paper.”

  “Summer school?”

  “Yeah. Lit and Comp. What about you?”

  “Summer school?”

  “No, Crowley’s. Are you going?”

  “I was thinking about it,” she said.

  I kind of wish she hadn’t told me that. Kayla’s the type of girl who calls movies “films” and isn’t embarrassed to tell you she plays piano for fun, but is embarrassed about how pretty she is, because she’s pretty without even trying. I don’t know why she gives a crap about who goes to Sam’s thing or whether she should go. The saddest part of parties like that is when girls like Kayla start doing keg stands or when they puke on the kitchen floor and everyone freaks.

  “Anyway,” Kayla said, “you should go. It’ll be fun.”

  I nodded and told her, “I’ll think about it.” But seriously, we had nothing to say to each other after that. It wasn’t awkward, though, which was cool. Awkward silences don’t bother me anymore, anyway. They used to back when I thought I was the one who didn’t know how to talk to people, but I don’t think that now. Nick helped me realize I’d just been talking to the wrong people my whole life.

  Like, I used to think my sense of humor was dumb. I’d crack a joke at lunch and everyone would still be staring at me like, “Wait, was that the punch line?” I thought I was legitimately stupid, too, because I’d ask questions in class and the teacher would be like, “Okaaay.  Anyone else?” Eventually I stopped raising my hand and being funny out loud.

  Sometimes it was almost like I was speaking another language, like whenever I tried to find common ground with Dad—asking medical questions maybe, like, Why do I get charley horses at night but not so much in the daytime?—except instead of answering me he’d be all sarcastic, like, I don’t know, Son. Maybe it’s related to your psychedelic urine, because I asked him one time why my pee turns neon when I take vitamins, which is an excellent question, actually, but he acted like I was a hypochondriac or trying to be special. Maybe if he’d have just answered like a normal dad, I’d have been interested enough in his area of expertise to want to be a doctor too.

  On the flipside, if it wasn’t for Nick, maybe I’d still feel guilty for not wanting to be a doctor. It might have taken me a whole lot longer to figure out that some things just aren’t my things—same as how some people just aren’t my people.

  Looking back, it’s crazy to think I almost had a nervous breakdown over having to live with Nick. The whole reason I applied for the solo dorms early was because I had zero interest in rooming with a stranger. But then I got that letter saying I’d been assigned a double anyway. The head of residence didn’t give two shits when I called to appeal. He said people are often “pleasantly surprised.” I seriously wanted to punch him in the nuts for that, but he wasn’t wrong, because honestly, I probably never would have even talked to Nick if they hadn’t forced us to live in that shoebox for two semesters, and we definitely wouldn’t have rented our house last year. Now it seems like I lucked out with the only other normal person in our entire class, and now I feel kind of bad about spazzing on the head of residence.

  This one time, I told Nick he was the weirdest person I’d ever met. I wasn’t a dick about it. I was just like, “Dude. You’re so weird.” And he was like, “So?” And I was like, “My point exactly.” I’d never met anyone before who gives zero fucks about being cool, or about being a certain type of person other than himself. There I was trying to be the premed kid, like it was my whole identity or whatever, but hating myself for hating it so much, and Nick was like, “Do it if you want to. Don’t do it if you don’t.” Turns out it really was that simple. Why had it always seemed so much more complicated before?

  If anyone else had pulled that life-is-too-short-to-blah-blah-blah crap, I’d have told them to shove it, but Nick’s been through some shit. He knows better than anyone how short life can be. I mean, life is too short to bust my ass for a job I hate, or to worry about what guys like Sam Crowley think about me, or to miss out on getting to know people like Kayla, who’s supposed to be radioactive but, as it turns out, is pretty cool and pretty much wants to get to know me too.

  After we’d talked for a while at the beach that day, Kayla stood up, zipped her hoodie, tightened the drawstring around her face and said, “Maybe I’ll see you this weekend,” and I guess I was thinking that life’s-too-short crap when I said, “Do you want to take my number?” She didn’t answer right away, so I said, “In case Crowley’s thing changes. It’s supposed to rain next week.”

  So we exchanged information and she said, “Tell Nick I said hi. See you guys around.”

  I nodded. “For sure.”

  She smiled at me. “See you, Jonah.”

  I guess I forgot to tell Nick, but only because I figured we’d see her soon anyway. I had this dumb idea she might be at Dad’s party tonight, which I now realize was legit stupid, because the Vosses practically bankroll those shindigs. See, that right there is another thing I’d never thought about: the people and places Kayla has to avoid because of him.

  Through my floor, I can hear Dad coughing. He almost had his perfect night, but then he went and picked a fight with Elizabeth. Now he’s sleeping in the office instead of in bed with his wife. He thinks I’m an idiot who doesn’t notice that stuff, but I can hear when he pulls out the hideaway, or coughs, or stubs his toe and curses. He thinks I’m clueless, but I don’t take it personally anymore, because I get it now: he just isn’t my people.

  3.

  “Robert.” Her voice is barely a whisper. She strokes my head and I crack my eyes. Nautical twilight paints the walls soft violet. “The boys will be up soon.”

  Elizabeth is standing over me, half asleep and wrapped in a robe, and although she didn’t bring me a cup of coffee to start my day, I smell a pot brewing in the kitchen. She hands me the boxer shorts I’d dropped at the end of the couch last night. I put them on without saying a word. She doesn’t ask how I slept, but she does help me carry bedding so we won’t have to answer Jonah’s questions if he sees pillows in my office. We tiptoe through the living room and up the stairs, and with every step, the drama of last night loses power and relevance. It was stupid. We were tired. We hang a right and close our bedroom door behind us.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have talked it over with you first.”

  “What’s done is done,” I tell her. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

  “I know. Are you mad?”

  “Not really. Are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. Heaven knows she shoul
dn’t be.

  I say, “We were both surprised. No big deal.”

  “I just want to do what’s right for Jonah.” She props a pillow against the headboard and gets back in bed, sitting upright with her knees drawn to her chest and a blanket wrapped around her feet. “What do you think of him?”

  “Of Jonah?” What a strange question.

  “No, of Nick.”

  I scratch my belly and answer to the best of my ability. “I don’t think much of him.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think badly of him. I just don’t think about him. I haven’t given him much thought, period. How’s that?”

  “Hm.” She drapes her forearms around her shins and stares at the ceiling fan.

  The sun has cleared the horizon, and the safe in-betweenness of dawn is behind us. I’m not much for reliving fights in broad daylight. What’s done is done. It’s not yet five thirty, and it’s Sunday, and Elizabeth’s robe is falling open above the sash tied in a bow at her waist, so I move toward the bed and stand over her, just as she stood over me minutes ago, and I wrap my fingers around one loose end of satin and I pull, undoing the knot. She lets go of her legs, so I slide them toward the foot of the bed until she is laid out long in front of me. Her eyes are closed, and her skin is warm and velvet soft when I slip my fingers under silk and press my palm against her ribs. I bring my mouth to her body. With one finger, I strip off my boxers before climbing on top of my wife, and I spit in my hand out of habit, but there was no need. She is ready for me. I find her warmest place, and we find our rhythm, and we follow it, chase it with tremendous heat. Her eyes are still closed, but mine are open, so I get to watch the surprise broadcast on her face when, for only the third time in over a decade of sleeping together, she climaxes from penetration alone.

  She feels incredible, beyond, so I come too, and only when the mad rush has passed do I take note of another thing I can count on one hand: simultaneous orgasms—and this time I’m certain she’s not faking.

  When we are entirely finished, when the aftershocks clear our systems completely, I collapse on top of her body. Dead weight. We lay like this until I guess I fall asleep, because she nudges my back the way she does when I start snoring. So I kiss her forehead and her stomach, and I head to the bathroom to take a long shower. It’s an excellent shower. When I get out, a cup of coffee (cream, no sugar) is by the sink. I hadn’t even felt a draft when the door must have opened and closed.

  I expect Elizabeth to have fallen back asleep, or maybe to be reading in bed while waiting for the bathroom, but she’s not here, and even after I’ve dressed and made the bed, she hasn’t returned. I hear her voice, though, on my way downstairs. She’s speaking in a soft, low whisper to someone else speaking just as soft and low.

  “Robert,” Elizabeth says when she sees me. She’s sitting on the countertop by the sink, holding a mug of coffee between her knees. “Did you know we have a master angler in the house?” She’s not wearing a bra.

  “I did not,” I say.

  She tells Nick, “Show him the Northern Pike.” Elizabeth hates fishing. She wouldn’t know a pike from a guppy. I bet the only reason Nick showed her pictures was to get her to lean close to him with her shirt draped low.

  “You’re up early, Nick,” I say.

  He tilts his head. “Old habits from military school.”

  “Ah, that’s right. I forgot. Military school. That must have been interesting.”

  “I guess. It’s all I knew.”

  “Robert fishes,” Elizabeth says. “He used to, anyway. He’s hardly gone out on the boat at all this year.” She says it to Nick, but she says it at me.

  “We had a late spring.” It occurs to me that Elizabeth hasn’t taken a shower yet. I move close to her and breathe her in.

  “Well, we’re having a beautiful summer now,” she argues.

  Nick looks at me like it’s my serve on the tennis court. Most people would pretend to be doing anything other than hanging on their hosts’ every loaded word, but Nick is shamelessly entertained. Strange one, this kid.

  “The shower is all yours,” I tell Elizabeth. “Sorry I took so long.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she says.

  “Are you sure, Lizzie?” My encrypted glance, coded by ten years of partnership and silent messages in crowded rooms, says, No you’re not. Below that: No really, darling. You smell like sex. She doesn’t read it, though, because she’s busy refilling her mug with black coffee, no sugar.

  “Yes, Robert. I’m sure.” She laughs. “Nick, show him that pike.”

  It’s a forty-four-and-a-quarter-inch Northern, a beauty by any standard. He’d gone all the way up to Ontario to catch it. He’s telling me the story, but I’m only half listening, because I’m preoccupied by the shirtless figure in the photo—sweaty and tan, classic Ray-Bans, white teeth. So fucking young. What kind of guy shows shirtless photos of himself to another man’s wife in another man’s house?

  “Anyway,” Nick is saying, “it was a special trip. Nobody around for miles. Peaceful like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You like the water?” I ask.

  “Love it.”

  “You didn’t grow up near water, though.”

  “No.” He slips his phone into his back pocket. “Grew up in Ohio. We had some lakes nearby, but nothing special.” He nods toward the windows facing the yard, the harbor, the sea. “This is exotic to me.”

  I’m struck with a sudden urge to assess this Nick Carpenter, to size him up. He’s been Jonah’s sidekick for a couple of years—long enough for me to have formed a clear opinion, and yet I have none, which must be why he bugs me. I’m a data guy. I should get acquainted with this person who shares early morning coffees, privileges, and conveniences with my family, who brags about the size of his pike to my wife as she leans in close with no bra and no clue what she’s doing to the boy. So I say, “Maybe you’d like to hitch a ride to a different beach one of these mornings? Change things up. I can drop you off on my way to work.”

  “Sure,” Nick says. “That’d be great.”

  “Maybe you’d like to go fishing.” Two heads snap up to gauge my sincerity.

  “Yeah,” Nick finally says. “That would be cool.”

  “We should go today.” I smile at Elizabeth, who seems puzzled even though she was the one who practically suggested it. “How about it?”

  Nick pats his pockets and glances left to right, as though needing to check a calendar or consult an assistant before making plans. Of course, he doesn’t have an assistant or plans, because he’s our houseguest, and his only friend here is asleep upstairs.

  “Sure,” he finally says. “If Jonah’s up for it, I’m in.”

  “Great. Know anything about boats?”

  “A little.” He scratches his head and rubs the back of his neck, glancing upstairs toward Jonah’s closed door. “Are you sure this is convenient?”

  “Hey,” I say, looking at Elizabeth, “why not? We’re having a beautiful summer.”

  Elizabeth shakes off her bewilderment and tells Nick, “You’ve seen how it’s been around here. That party last night was exhausting. Take the boat out. Relax.” To me, she says, “A day off will be good for you. It’ll be good for everyone. God knows you’ve earned it, Robert.”

  “You’re telling me,” I say.

  “Besides, I have a million papers to grade and could use the peace and quiet.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll roll out when Jonah gets up.”

  Nick stuffs his hands in his pockets, lifts his shoulders and gives me this cowboy nod, saying, “I’m going to go clean up and I’ll be back to help out. Thanks so much, Dr. Hart.”

  “Not at all.” When he steps outside, I turn to Elizabeth and say, “Take a shower.”

  • • •

  Jonah sleeps and sleeps. If I hadn’t known him his entire life, I might suspect anemia or hypothyroid, but I do know him, and he’s just lazy. Maybe he’s the one who should have gone to military sch
ool. Maybe we made the kid soft.

  I wake him up at eight o’clock to tell him the plan, taking a second to look around a room that’s only ever been his part-time home at best. To my surprise, the floor is moderately clean. No dirty plates of moldy food in sight, no jizz-filled socks. Maybe he is growing up. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.

  “We’re leaving for the marina at nine,” I say.

  He moans and mumbles, “Sounds good,” before rolling over, still buried in covers. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  I leave the door open so he’ll be vulnerable to downstairs chatter and the smell of bacon while I buy and print fishing licenses, my treat. Fifteen minutes later, he still hasn’t appeared, so I go back and nudge again, and he whines, “I’m up. I said, I’m up.”

  Back in the kitchen, I bemoan my son’s bad manners, making sure Nick knows my parenting isn’t to blame, and Elizabeth comes to my rescue, saying, “Why don’t you and Nick head to the dock and get the boat ready. I’ll blast Carly Simon and send Jonah over when he gets his ass in gear.”

  There it is. She has my back. Her whole demeanor has brightened, and I feel bad for being annoyed with her before. She’s so damn good most of the time, and Nick’s perviness isn’t her fault. She’s taken a shower. She’s wearing a bra. Maybe she does see Oliver or Pip, but maybe that’s not so dreadful, because if Nick represents an opportunity to flex repressed maternal instincts, I should support the exercise. Heaven knows she didn’t get the chance with Jonah. Elizabeth missed the first half of his life. She’s never seen her DNA imprinted on an infant. I would have had another child if she’d wanted one—hell, I’d have had two—but it was her decision to send me off to get snipped. She was the one who made that call.

  “I’m not willing to trade my autonomy for a seven-million-dollar pet,” she used to say. Remarkably, she’d say it with zero emotion, let alone grief. I’d argue she lost her autonomy the day she married me, technically, and that Jonah is not a pet, but she’d hold her ground, saying only, “You know what I mean.”