by Kaira Rouda
“Lois, please, never tell me what to do,” I said. We were in her tiny apartment, now ours, a place I knew intimately since we’d made love on just about every counter and piece of furniture. I walked quickly to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and soaking a dish towel before wrapping it around several cubes of ice. I pulled the paper towel roll from the holder and presented everything to her. I shook my head in disgust. Now we wouldn’t make the reception. She’d ruined everything.
“You need to put ice on your face. Lie back and the bleeding will stop,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure this was the case, of course. The few times I’d been in fights before with boys my own age, neither had sustained serious injuries. My father always was careful his blows fell in places easily disguised by clothing. Unfortunately, Lois’s injury seemed serious and quite visible.
“Leave,” she whispered. She refused to take the ice or the paper towels so I dropped them onto the couch next to her. She was shaking, violently, and I wondered if I should hold her, squeeze her tight. I was afraid, somehow, that maybe I would hurt her more. Could hurt her more. I stood there, immobilized, my feet weighed down by cement. The times I’d seen my father strike my mother flashed through my mind. Her screams, his empty promises. These memories were loud, thudding through my brain.
But between Lois and me, at that moment, there was only silence. I remembered checking my watch. There was blood decorating its face.
We’d met in Greek Mythology class my senior year in college, when I was goofing off during the last semester of my undergraduate career, and she was a young, adorable freshman. She called me Zeus when we were in bed, when I’d make her orgasm like no one had before. She was a studious sophomore now, and I was doing consumer research for the professor, the one whose invite-only party we were going to miss that night, while I interviewed for jobs at advertising agencies in town. I’d finally accepted an account executive position at a prestigious local firm. This cocktail reception was my goodbye party, and my introduction to important people in Nashville. This night was to be my launch into the ad agency world. Why didn’t she understand how important it was?
“Lois, no one can know about what happened here, do you understand? I’m starting my job tomorrow,” I said. My voice was calm. Fatherly. It was logical that she would want my new career to start out well, unimpeded by innuendo and the like.
Her trembling was becoming more violent, but her eyes were focused on me intently, as if seeing inside me to my organs, my small beating heart. The blood flow from her nose had slowed, but her robe was now covered. Blood splattered in her lap, in the white cotton folds.
“If you leave and never call me again, no one will know. If I see you, or hear from you, I will press charges,” she said. Her voice was quivering with fear.
Press charges, why don’t you? I wanted to say. I would explain that she was delusional, that she fell into the kitchen counter but wanted to blame me. Sure, I could get out of any charges as quickly as she could press them. My father, I learned all the tricks from him. But I didn’t really need her anymore. It was time to move on, establish my career. I didn’t need this college baggage situation any longer.
“As you wish,” I said, bowing at the waist before leaving. It was a reference to her favorite movie, The Princess Bride, and her reaction wasn’t her typical reply. As I opened the door and stepped into the humid Nashville night, her scream followed me out. But I know there was still love for me in her heart. I’m unforgettable. Oh, and the cocktail reception was fabulous. Poor Lois sent her regards as she was under the weather.
Now, standing in the kitchen, I hear my wife laughing in the living room. Unwittingly, she is stoking the fire with her words, her actions and her joy. But it is fine. I’ve learned to control myself since that night in Nashville. I’m telling myself to relax: Mia doesn’t mean to upset you tonight. I know she doesn’t. We’ve been together a long time, we’ve worked out the relationship just fine. She’s simply entertaining our unnecessary guest, our lonely loser of a neighbor. But soon we’ll be on our way to dinner and everything will be back in control. We need to discuss the job, Buck, the credit card situation tonight during the meal. It might be uncomfortable, but once she understands my priorities, we will have the best night ever. It’s certainly salvageable. And just like that, I have calmed myself down.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants legs before I walk back into the family room, carrying the bag of cashews I’d picked up at the grocery store.
“Nuts, anyone?” I ask. Both Mia and Buck shake their heads. I shrug and carry the bag over to the couch and take my seat next to my wife. “So, Buck, did you really spend the winter up here? Is it true you really live here full-time, year-round?”
“I did and I do. For now. It’s a great place to find peace and think. It works for me,” he says. His dimple appears as he smiles at us, the happy couple on the couch. He must be so jealous. He’s so alone.
“And is it true your wife died?” I say. I mean, we’ve never discussed his lack of a spouse, man-to-man. At least I hadn’t discussed it with him. Who knows what Mia knows. All I’ve heard through the grapevine was that his wife was dead. I thought it best to seem interested in our guest.
“Paul. Really?” Mia says. I note her cheeks are flushed and she shakes her head back and forth. Embarrassed, that’s the emotion. Too bad, Mia.
“Yes. It’s true. Stage four lung cancer, inoperable. She was a nonsmoker. Woke up in the middle of the night, short of breath. Five months later, I buried her.” Buck says these things without emotion. The way I might say them if I hadn’t practiced emotional responses. It makes me wonder about Buck. He adds, “It was the hardest five months of my life.”
“Worse for her,” I say. From the looks of it, my joke was not well received by my wife or our guest.
“Buck, I’m sorry,” Mia says. “Paul’s emotional intelligence is a bit lacking, I’ve come to realize. He tries but, well, Paul, you understand that was insensitive, right?”
I’ve slipped the matches that were left on the counter when they unloaded the grocery bags into my pocket. Right now I imagine pulling them out, lighting them all and throwing them at my wife. The fire. My left hand slides into my front pocket, but I can’t reach the matches while seated. I take a deep breath and flash a smile at my wife. She’s so cute.
I turn my attention back to the interloper. “I’m sorry for your loss, Buck. Is that why you quit your job and moved here, the middle of nowhere?” I ask. The neighborhood snoop’s job may be in jeopardy, I tell myself. I know I can run circles around her anyway, if I liked gossip that is. Which I don’t.
“Yes. I sold everything we’d built together. Our house, our apartment in the city, our cars except one. I sold my business and just started driving. Somehow, I took the right exit from the highway and found myself here,” he says. He wipes his palms on his pants as if signaling that is the end of his explanation.
I turn to look at my wife. She is beaming, her face covered with a smile so big and so fake it must hurt her cheeks. Or maybe it’s a genuine smile. One I never see. One that is reserved for Buck, the garden gnome.
“This is a perfect place to heal,” Mia says.
Whatever. My mind flashes back to Lois. I did see her again, of course, on campus, but she didn’t see me. I knew her class schedule, and I also needed to be sure she wouldn’t ruin anything for me and my new job at the hippest advertising agency in Nashville. So I kept tabs on her. I’m a good follower, like I noted. She healed well. I heard through the grapevine that she told her friends she blacked out and fell. Had low blood sugar or something?
Found out she did undergo surgery to straighten things out. And I think she may have had a little something taken off the tip of her nose, a cosmetic enhancement. She looked good, last time I saw her. Better even than she looked before the little incident. Making lemonade out of lemons, that’s my litt
le Lois. She honored her end of our agreement, and so did I. I’m a man of my word. After launching my successful advertising career in Nashville, I moved back to Columbus. As for Lois, she’s married, with a bunch of kids now. Everything works out.
“You two better get going if you want to make your reservation,” Buck says. He stands up. How helpful. At his command, my wife finally rises.
“Yes, I’m ready,” she says. “I’ll just grab my purse.”
“I’ll show myself out,” Buck says. “Have a good time.” He waves his hand at me awkwardly, no doubt afraid to shake it. I still didn’t get an answer on what he did before he dropped into our lives, but I don’t think he was an actual anchorman. Business of some kind is what he said. I guess I will believe him. For now, I just want him out of here.
“Right, well, enjoy your evening.” As I walk him to the door, I ask, “Any special ladies in your life, Buck?” It has been a year since his wife died, after all, and men have needs. I think that is a thing a guy would say to another guy.
Mia appears beside me. She must have overheard me because she says, “Really, Paul?”
Buck chuckles. “It’s okay, Mia,” he says. “I’m sure Paul just wishes me the best, don’t you, Paul?” Buck slaps me on the back, firmly. A brotherly pat, that’s what I’ll consider it. I slip my hand into my pocket, rubbing the matches between my fingers.
7:30 p.m.
12
We are still late for our reservation even though Mia moved it back. I knew we would be. It’s Friday night, and tourists like us have arrived at the lake. We are stuck in traffic. I take a deep breath. There is nothing I can do but try to relax. I’ve called the restaurant, and they will hold our table. It’s a special table, for a special night. I’m thankful for their understanding and will tip the host. I hope Mia brought cash.
“Let’s call Claudia and check on the boys,” I say. I know Mia is tense beside me, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. She probably is worried I am upset with her for our late arrival at the restaurant, but I will show her I’m fine. Calling the boys is a peace offering. I am a normal, loving husband and father.
“They aren’t home. They’re getting pizza,” she says.
“Well, Claudia can answer her cell phone at a pizza joint, can’t she?” I ask. Logical question, I think.
“Let’s not bother them during dinner,” Mia says. That’s odd. She is the person who has called Claudia at least four times since we left home this morning. “I mean, they’re getting pizza at the movies. There’s a new animated superhero movie out today. I told her to take them. I planned ahead and bought tickets for them online.”
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Is my wife lying to me? I wonder. This does not make sense, not at all. I refuse to believe that is the case. I know my wife. My wife loves me, and logically, I know I should trust her as much as she should trust me. We have two sons and a life together. She thought ahead and bought them all tickets to the movie. That is thoughtful, she is kind. I need to relax.
Love is such a complicated thing to us humans. We overanalyze, we fret, we try to understand it. It’s easier to understand if you think of us all as animals, with needs and desires. That’s what we are, all of us. Here, consider this: my wife loves me almost as much as Gretchen does. Gretchen benefits from the carefree Paul, the Paul without obligations. Mia, well, she gets a slightly less shiny version of the Paul who Gretchen sees, the version of me that Gretchen loves. Mia had that once, at the beginning of our relationship, but now she has two kids and, well, a history with me. The good and the bad. Hopefully, she still remembers the early, shiny years.
Ah, Gretchen. She’s the one I’ve been fighting the urge to call since we left home this morning. She’s the one who has called me a few times since we left. Sweet girl. I know she misses me. She tells me it’s our six-month anniversary this weekend. But it isn’t appropriate for me to talk to her on this day. I have rules. I don’t want you to think less of me because of Gretchen’s existence, so please don’t. Our relationship doesn’t harm anyone; it simply brings more joy to the world as a whole.
We are together almost every day now, and the fact I haven’t touched her or talked to her today stings. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t above Mia in my mind, she’s distinct. Gretchen is fun, while Mia is family. Gretchen is youth and fucking—pardon, great sex. Mia is family dinners and strawberry patches and Scrabble. Am I explaining things well enough for you? They don’t have anything to do with each other, and they’ll never meet. I am the only overlap, the circle in the middle of the Venn diagram that depicts Gretchen’s circle on one side, Mia’s on the other. Their lives will never converge; they never will meet even though Gretchen lives in the next suburb over, a five-minute drive away. That is the way my world works. It is neat and orderly. Defined. I’m in control.
Nevertheless, Gretchen is angry that I’m away this weekend and have told her we will not speak on the phone. I am surprised she has called me since she knows the rules. She understands the way things are. I told her going in that I love my wife, and that I’d never leave her, although between you and me, there are no real absolutes in life, are there? Gretchen and I have something special, but not as special as what I have with Mia. I know this is confusing to you perhaps, but my relationship with my mistress doesn’t have anything to do with my relationship with my wife. They are wholly separate, but both valued. Tonight’s not the night for me to be thinking about Gretchen, but my mind is busy for some reason.
Yesterday, we ate lunch in bed, and Gretchen wore a navy silk nightgown that hugged her thin frame, accentuating her generous breasts. She’s a gorgeous brunette, in her late twenties, who works at a lingerie store at the mall called I See London. We met six months ago, when I went to the mall to kill time, maybe buy a gift for Mia. I had suddenly found myself with too much time on my hands during the day, and going shopping seemed as good a pursuit as any. I told myself if I saw anyone I would explain it was client research for a new account. I mean, only women go to malls in the daytime, everyone knows that. But I had a business reason.
I wandered into the store bursting with silk finery in all shades of the rainbow. As soon as I saw Gretchen, I felt that familiar attraction—the buzz, the electricity—and I knew she and I were meant to be. I started by asking her to help me pick a lingerie set. We moved on to a discussion of the quality of the silk—given my extensive travels to Asia, I wanted only the finest and I knew how to spot it, I told her.
Her eyes glistened the moment I mentioned travel, and I knew she was nibbling the bait.
“Let me take you to the high-end lingerie area,” Gretchen said, turning and tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder.
“I’ll follow you anywhere, my dear,” I said, adding my signature smile and wink.
It’s as if no one else was in the store, no one else was in the entire mall. Gretchen and I flirted for at least an hour, as she held up options for me to consider, as our fingertips lightly brushed over the silk goodies, as we talked about our shared love of jazz music (yes!), our shared dream of moving to the beach (why not?) and spending a New Year’s Eve in Paris (let’s do it). She was captivating, young, enthusiastic, and the attraction was intense, instant. I wasn’t looking, promise. I may have left my wedding ring in the car, but that was just an accident.
“So who is the lucky lady who will be wearing this?” she asked as she finished wrapping my purchase in a thick white gift paper, tying it with a red silk bow. She handed the package to me. Her fingers were blissfully unadorned, I had noticed early on.
I smiled then, waiting a beat. “I hope you like it. It’s for you.”
Her lovely heart-shaped face flushed with color as I handed the gift to her. “I couldn’t.”
“You can. I insist. I’m sure it will look wonderful on you.” I checked my watch. “I have to run. Meeting at w
ork. It’s been nice talking to you, Gretchen.”
I turned to leave, wondering if my hook had set. I’d reached the door of the retail boutique and was about to enter the mall when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Paul, wait. Can I see you again?” Gretchen asked. Her flush deepened. “I really enjoyed talking to you, too.”
I pulled a business card out of my wallet, a new card, with my cell phone a substitute for where my work number had been. But for that minor distinction it was an exact copy of my actual Thompson Payne card, complete with my title, Director of Account Services. Women love Mad Men. “Call me. I’ve got to run.”
It’s hard to walk away when the currents of attraction are so strong, but that’s what I did that afternoon, fortunately. It makes the eventual first kiss that much more intense, trust me. I know about these things. As I left the store I saw Doris Boone standing next to a potted plant in the mall. She was staring at me like I’d committed a crime. “It isn’t illegal to shop during the day in a mall, is it, Doris?” I felt like saying. Instead I gave her a weak wave and hurried out to the parking lot. Doris saw nothing, I told myself then. I was only doing research.
Gretchen smells of strong perfume whenever she comes home from working at I See London. She says French perfume is pumped through the air vents, a colorless scented gas. The smell is awful and makes me sneeze, like trying to sit on my outdoor porch in Lakeside. She tries to shower before we meet, before I arrive at her door, but sometimes she hasn’t had time and I can never wait. I don’t have a choice. Her skin is flawless, her lips full and pink. Just thinking about her now I feel myself stirring.
But I need to focus on my wife. Just tonight, moments earlier, Mia told a stranger that I don’t have a high emotional intelligence, which is ridiculous, and now she’s lying to me about my children.
