Dirty Love

by Andre Dubus III

  Against the fireplace were two tall boxes wrapped in gold—skis for Kyle and new lacrosse sticks for Luke, Nancy had whispered to her earlier. Now Marla stared at them; they looked to her like oversized bricks of gold, and she thought about the huge vault she and the girls put their cashboxes into every night before the bank’s doors closed, all the stacks of new currency that were absolutely worthless without the real gold in Fort Knox they stood for, or at least used to. She and Dennis planned to give each other presents after their trips, but she didn’t have one for him yet. She wondered what he was doing right now at his brother’s house, but there was no pull or ache in this wondering, and she knew she did not miss him. She didn’t. Her throat began to close up and her face felt too hot. She looked into the gas fire, at the steady, controlled flames beneath the stone logs. A new song began, strings and bells.

  “Marla, honey, are you crying?”

  Marla covered her face.

  “What, sweetie. What’s the matter?”

  Marla shook her head, felt Nancy’s hand on her shoulder. “What is it, hon? Tell me.”

  “I don’t think I love Dennis, Nancy. I really don’t.” She’d said it, so she must mean it, and now it was out, and there was just her heaving shoulders and wet face and running nose beneath her fingers, Nancy handing her a tissue, her friend’s soft, motherly voice saying, “That’s it, let it out. It’s okay, honey. Just let it all out.”

  NANCY LET HER CRY for a while. She patted and rubbed her back. “Are you sure about this? You both look so happy together every time we go out.”

  “That’s because we have a good time with you guys.” Marla sniffled and blew her nose. “You’re fun.”

  “Yeah, but I see how you both look at each other. There’s something real there.”

  “Then why do I feel so lonely?” Marla began to cry again. “I just don’t feel like me anymore.”

  “Everybody feels like that sometimes, honey.”

  “You feel lonely with Carl?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the time?”

  “No, and I bet you don’t either, Marla.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “That’s just ’cause you’re new to all this.” Nancy raised her glass and stared at the lights of the tree. Her face looked tired and sweet and vaguely superior, and Marla remembered being new at the bank and not knowing anything. But this was different, and she didn’t like seeing Nancy look that way right now.

  “It’s been six months, Nancy.”

  “What’s your hurry? It took me a year to get used to living with Carl. I mean, what do men do anyway? They work, eat, drink, and play games. Sex for them is in the sports-and-recreation category. You can’t live with a man and not be lonely.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Besides, once you have kids it all changes anyway. Everything seems to make more sense then.”

  “Dennis doesn’t want any.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He said he didn’t.”

  Nancy seemed to take this in a second, then waved her hand in front of her face. “Have you ever met a man who did? Honey, it’s not in their nature. They don’t even think about it. Just get pregnant and he’ll rise to the occasion. It makes them feel more like a man, you know.” Nancy laughed. She looked back at the tree and sipped her eggnog.

  For a moment Marla had a hard time swallowing. “You’re afraid I’ll lose him, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m afraid you’re expecting too much from him and you’ll give up too soon. Which wouldn’t be fair to Dennis, by the way.”

  “Is it fair to pretend around him?”

  “There are worse things than pretending, Marla.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not trying hard enough.” Nancy smiled at her, her eyes patient and loving behind her gold-rimmed glasses. Marla sipped her eggnog, felt the bourbon flash down her throat, like medicine she wasn’t sure she needed.

  SHE WOKE CHRISTMAS MORNING to the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee. She could hear Carl’s deep voice coming from the kitchen, then Nancy’s, high and cheerful. No sound of the boys yet, though even teenagers would probably get out of bed early today. A weak light came through the curtains, and Marla pulled the covers to her chin. Her mouth was dry and her head ached slightly behind her eyes. Her stomach felt queasy too. It was the bourbon eggnogs, staying up late in the kitchen, helping Nancy with stuffing, rolling out pie dough and pinching it into pie plates. The last thing they talked about before bed was Nancy’s New Year’s Eve party next week, how this one would be formal. Black tie and gowns. Champagne and lobster bisque.

  Against the guest room wall was a dressing table and mirror. Marla had had one like it when she was a child, though she’d never sat at it the way pretty girls probably did, staring gratefully at themselves, doing things with their hair, trying on new shades of blush and eye shadow and lip gloss. If Marla ever used it at all it was for a desk when hers was too cluttered, and she’d prop a textbook against the glass so she wouldn’t have to see what she already knew. And that’s what Nancy really meant last night, didn’t she? That some people have to try even harder at love than others, and she was one of them. She felt old and tired.

  From down the hall came the muffled sounds of music, high voices singing in a chorus on Nancy’s stereo. It made Marla think of white flowing robes and baby Jesus swaddled on a bed of straw. There was a soft knocking on her door, then Nancy standing there in her robe and no makeup, holding two cups of coffee. Marla smiled at her friend and Nancy smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Marla.”

  MARLA WORKED the short week between Christmas and New Year’s. Business was slow and when customers did come in, they seemed vaguely ashamed of themselves, as if they’d spent too much money over the holidays and all the bank tellers knew it. There were long stretches when Marla killed time counting and recounting her drawer, restacking her deposit and withdrawal slips, walking to the coffee room for water. At night, at home alone on Dennis’s Naugahyde couch with Edna, she watched television she didn’t really see or listen to; in the kitchen, her dirty dishes from supper sat in the sink. When she finally went to bed it felt too wide and empty, and she missed Dennis’s big warm body beside her, but little else. She kept hearing his voice when she’d called him from Nancy’s Christmas day after dinner, told him she hadn’t gone to Florida, that she’d decided at the last minute she didn’t want to put up with flight delays and crowded airports and not enough sleep.

  “Oh.” He’d sounded hurt. In the background children were laughing, his niece and nephews, and Nancy’s kitchen began to feel small and airless and Marla was sure she must not love Dennis at all; how could she? Lying like that?

  Then she lied again and said she had to get off the phone soon to help out with the dishes. “Have a good Christmas, Den. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  NOW MARLA LAY AWAKE in the dark in Dennis’s bed. His smell was in the pillowcase and sheets. She imagined leaving him, renting a U-Haul and moving her things out of the garage, Dennis inside somewhere—doing what? Feeling what? She didn’t know, but she would have her own room again, her own kitchen and bathroom, her solitude, her sharing her days and nights with no one but her cat, just herself, just Marla, the way it had always been. She began to cry, and it was as if she were falling backwards into a dark hole, for how could she have forgotten she was a dull, round woman who’d been a dull, round girl, lucky enough now to have found anyone at all? That for all Dennis was not, for all she didn’t feel for him, he was better than a lifetime of nobody. She thought of Dorothy and her sad eyes, all that dark melancholy covered with a bitter gloss of indifference, the two of them for decades to come standing side by side at bank outings talking about work, picking at their food and looking out at all the families, acting as if they weren’t completely alone when they were. And now Marla cried harder, turning her face into her pillow.

  After a while she stopped and blew her nose. She lay there unde
r the comforter with a balled-up tissue in her hand. Edna leapt up onto the bed and Marla stroked her head and listened to her purr. She stared into the darkness of the bedroom at all the shadowed furniture that had become so familiar—his tall masculine bureau, his recliner in the corner—and she felt a little better. His plane came in tomorrow, the last day of the year, and there was the feeling she was being given one more chance, and there was still time to avoid something horrible.

  She just needed to work harder at loving Dennis, that’s all. What was wrong with that? Maybe he had to work harder at loving her too.

  JUST BEFORE NIGHTFALL on New Year’s Eve, Marla met Dennis at the airport. The temperature had come up twenty degrees; there were wide slushy puddles on the highway, and the airport’s usually shiny floors were tracked with mud and salt. She was only a few minutes late, but his plane had come in on time and he was already downstairs at baggage claim walking toward her, pulling his gray Samsonite on wheels behind him, smiling and waving, a round friendly face behind a bushy beard. She smiled and let him hug her with one arm. He smelled like breath mints, and his perfumey cologne was stronger than ever.

  “Oh, I missed you, Marla.” He turned her from side to side.

  “Me too.”

  “You did?” There was fear in his eyes, and he was looking right at her, her face hot with the lie she’d just told.

  She slapped at his shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  That seemed to be enough for him for now, and in the car she drove carefully along the wet roads in the twilight and listened to his holiday, the three-day video game marathon he’d played with his brother, the sledding afternoon with the kids, and all the food: “The food, the food, the food. I even got drunk with my sister-in-law,” he laughed. “Peach mimosas. Ever have one?”

  “No.” So far that was only the second question he’d asked her. She was aware of him taking up all the room in the dark space beside her, and she turned onto the highway ramp and accelerated quickly. Up ahead was a plow in the fast lane scraping slush, its red taillights blinking, Dennis talking about his brother’s house, the addition he’d built full of wireless, high-definition hookups. Marla was suddenly hot under her clothes and she rolled her window down a crack and breathed deeply and sat up straight behind the wheel; maybe it was okay to feel far away from all he was saying; maybe she could just stay busy there in her solitude and think her own thoughts.

  When she turned off the highway, he finished telling her his video game scores, then stopped talking. There was only the sound of her wet tires on the asphalt. He took a breath and rested his hand on her knee.

  “Why are you being so quiet?”

  “I’m just listening.”

  “Oh.” His fingers moved up her thigh and squeezed gently. “Can we make love when we get home?”

  “Okay.”

  He began talking about Nancy and Carl’s party tonight, how the last time he wore his tuxedo was for his youngest brother’s wedding, and he hoped it still fit. Marla planned to wear her only gown, the red one that cinched in beneath her breasts and made her look pregnant. She heard Nancy’s voice in her head saying everything made sense then, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up, and when they were finally home and undressing in only the light from the bathroom, his suitcase on the carpet, she said nothing as he reached for the condom, then was soon back inside her, and even though it was over too soon, it did feel good. After, instead of getting up and going straight to his shower, Dennis stayed on top of her, resting his weight on his elbows.

  “I do love you, Marla.”

  “I love you, too.” Why not say it? It was sweet of him to say it right now, like this, and she swallowed and was about to say she sometimes felt lonely with him. Did he feel that way too? Did he? But he was smiling down at her behind his beard, happy, so happy to have had his say, and he kissed her on the mouth and was out of her and off her and in the bathroom, and she felt the cool air and pulled the bedspread up and over herself.

  SOON THEY WERE DRIVING along the shore of Whittier Lake, just an endless black expanse of melting ice and snow. Dennis sat behind the wheel in his tuxedo and overcoat singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Marla had never really heard him sing before. It wasn’t the best singing she’d ever heard, but it wasn’t bad either. A strand of hair kept coming loose, and she had to push it off her cheek and press it back into place. On the other side of the lake was the twinkle of lights.

  Now they slowly passed all the large houses of all the people who could afford to live here, and her heart began to beat faster as Dennis turned down Nancy and Carl’s private road. Both sides were lined with tall pine trees, and Marla could see their lighted house ahead, their floodlit driveway. Curled over and around the front door was a wide gold ribbon. Lining the sanded walk were two rows of lit candles in gold bags leading all the way to the plowed yard where a dozen cars were already parked. Dennis pulled up behind a white Audi sports car. Lisa’s Prelude was in front of it, but Marla didn’t recognize any of the others and she began to feel afraid and didn’t know why.

  Dennis got out and closed the door. She pulled the rearview mirror toward her and checked her face. It was hard to see in the dim light, though, and Dennis was already waiting for her at the first flaming bag of the sidewalk. She took a breath. The air wouldn’t go all the way into her lungs. She opened her door and stood, the ground so soft her high heels sunk into it, and she quickly gathered up the hem of her gown and had to put a hand on Dennis’s car hood to make her way around to where he stood in his overcoat and tuxedo, jangling his keys, his eyes on their friends’ house. She was fourteen again, making herself go to a party where no one knew her and never would. She had to stop and swallow something in her throat.

  “Coming?” Dennis held his arm out for her, a patient smile in his voice. She peered up at him, but he was just a tall, blurry shadow. There was talk and laughter and music coming from inside the house. Above it the stars were in a black sky. That black, black sky.

  “You all right?”

  All those stars so far apart. None of them close. From far away they just looked it.

  “Marl? You okay?”

  She swallowed and took a breath. “Yeah. I’m okay.” She stepped forward, and he took her hand, and they walked through the gauntlet of low flames. He was saying something to her, asking her another question, and she smiled and nodded just so he’d stop. Inside Nancy’s house, a man laughed and laughed. Dennis opened the front door for her, and she could smell wool and cashmere and the cream of lobster bisque. She stepped past him into the warm foyer. There was sweat on her forehead. She heard the door close behind her, felt his big hand on her lower back. Her hair came loose again. She reached up and pressed it firmly back into place, then climbed the stairs one at a time, and she led them to the rest of the couples, to all those smiling, happy couples.

  THE BARTENDER

  ROBERT DOUCETTE MET HIS WIFE-TO-BE WHILE TENDING BAR at a dance club on Hampton Beach. It was Labor Day weekend, the season almost done, his sunburned customers already beginning to wear sweatshirts and light sweaters. He had spent the summer living in a one-room rental above the bar and he had four thousand saved, enough to get him through until late winter when he was thinking of hopping a bus to the east coast of Florida to work a topless bar called Skinny’s. But late this morning while he was lying in bed listening to the beach traffic out on the boulevard, a phrase occurred to him and he thought he might start a poem with it. The words that came were of a woman “with eyes of black hope.” He wasn’t sure he liked this line; he suspected it sounded mawkish and falsely heroic, but its unexpected arrival left him feeling there might be something within him worth mining for after all.

  Then she walked into the club. She wore a white sundress, her long, curly black hair held back in a loose ponytail, her bare shoulders and arms thick for a woman but tanned and hard-looking. She was with two laughing blondes, both thin and inconsequential. They sa
t at his bar, one of the blondes ordering piña coladas for all three, and the dark one sat quietly watching him, her stillness a force that pulled him closer, though he did not approach her until setting the fresh rum drink on a napkin in front of her. She smiled and looked up at him, and there were the eyes he’d written about just that morning, eyes of black hope, and they seemed not to see him so much as all he might represent. The women only stayed for one drink. In the half hour it took them to finish it, Robert worked the service bar but kept feeling the dark woman’s presence behind him like good news in a letter he wasn’t opening. When they stood to leave Robert took a chance and wrote his name and cell number on a napkin and set it down in front of her. She glanced at it, then took out a pen of her own, crossed out his number, and wrote hers.

  Her name was Althea, and throughout the fall they dated; they went to movies and restaurants in Portsmouth and sometimes Boston. She was a good eater, always finishing the salad and entrée, then ordering a dessert, too. She was quiet, more of a listener than a talker, which at first unnerved Robert. He was used to being around waitresses and barmaids, women who seemed to talk about almost anything as if they were experts. Althea did not present herself as an expert on anything, which left Robert feeling he might not be either. One night driving her home while she sat quietly beside him, he forced himself not to turn on the radio or to tell her another tale from the bar business: of the fellow bartender who had skimmed ten thousand dollars from the register one winter to pay off back child support; of a cocktail waitress who was kidnapped by her boyfriend after her shift and found tied up in a motel room two weeks later—dehydrated and hysterical—her boyfriend having hung himself in front of her; or any of the dozens of bad jokes he knew, tools of the trade which felt, in Althea’s presence, like dried mucus on a handkerchief. He’d already told her of his dreary childhood growing up on his family dairy farm inland, and of course he’d told her that he was a poet, that for ten years he’d been working on a book of poems he hoped to one day publish. She nodded knowingly at this piece of information, but even then, remained quiet. So he drove in the silence and fought the urge to ask her a question about herself, for he already knew the essentials: Althea was an upholsterer, working in the basement of a house she rented and shared with the two blondes, bank tellers Robert didn’t like because they talked mostly of interest rates and attractive men who owned property and they wore makeup even when they stayed in at night. But Althea wore little makeup. Her mother and father had immigrated from Greece, only to return there to care for ailing relatives now that their girl was a woman with a trade she’d learned on her own. She had a steady line of business from local antiques dealers who trusted her to strip and redress their ancient chairs and settees in floral brocades, classical damasks, and gold and burgundy tapestries. She had no brothers or sisters, which perhaps explained her silence, Robert thought, her feeling there was no one in the room to whom she had to speak.