Here, Have a Husband

by Heather Gean

  “Do you abuse drugs, Miss Clarke?” the psychologist asked. He blinked at me through glasses with rims large enough to double as the missing border to the numbers on the wall claiming to be a clock.

  “It depends on your definition of ‘abuse drugs.’ I take Tylenol when I get a headache.” His ridiculous question had deserved a ridiculous answer. “And you’ve got the wrong partner if you’re going to discuss substance abuse.”

  Ashley shifted in his armchair, the leather squeaking as he did so. I felt accomplished that I had made him squirm. I was always one to return favors.

  “Miss Clarke, pointing fingers is not the way to go about rehabilitating your relationship. Let’s talk about you.” I stifled a sigh. We had been talking about me for what seemed like the past few years. He didn’t seem concerned with Ashley at all.

  “What would you like to talk about?” I asked. “You already asked me about my parents’ relationship. You analyzed my career choice. You sent my signature to a handwriting specialist for study. You have asked me everything but the important things.”

  “Well, tell me what you feel it is important that I know.” He titled his head so far to the right that I thought it might tip off due to the weight of his glasses. His fingertips were pressed together in front of his body in a clichéd therapist’s gesture. The government’s shrinks at least knew how to appear effective. I wondered if that was the only thing they taught them. They seemed simply for show, anyway.

  “I’m not in love with Ashley. When I filed my appeal, it wasn’t a decision I felt unsure about, but now, sitting here, I think it was a mistake.” He nodded slowly, his eyes bobbing up and down within the frames of his glasses like a small-scale game of pong with giant blips.

  “You aren’t letting love in, Lorraine.”

  “It’s Rainy,” Ashley said almost as reflexively as I would have. It caught me off guard. I glanced over but was met with a facial profile propped on a fist.

  “Is that your nickname for her?” the therapist asked.

  “That’s my name,” I said defensively. He noted my tone and made a show of picking up his pen and recording something onto his notepad. “And if I may argue your earlier point… there is no love to let in. There is nothing.”

  “There is something,” he insisted.

  “Yeah, a government issued mandate which I would like to be considered void.”

  “You requested this partnership.” He waited for my response, but I couldn’t argue with that. “Why did you request a partner if you weren’t ready for the responsibility of a marriage?”

  “I was ready for love. That’s just not what I got.”

  “Love and marriage aren’t the same thing, Miss Clarke.”

  “That should be the DML’s new slogan,” I said with a cynical smile. The therapist snatched up his pen again after staring me down as if he were trying to win a contest. Before long he would have a whole novel about me written on that yellow paper. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ashley masking his smile with a palm-to-mouth motion that could be mistaken for concern.

  “Mr. Schroeder…” Fucking finally, I thought with an inward sigh of relief. “You also filed an appeal. Can you tell me a little about that?” God. He got all the easy questions.

  “It was a case of cold feet. I am fully ready to take on the responsibilities of a husband. There is no question about that.” He was annoyingly cavalier.

  “Actually, I have a question about that,” I interrupted. The therapist looked as if he didn’t know how to proceed after I had said that. Apparently that wasn’t in his how-to-fake-like-a-shrink government-issued handbook. “You work all the time. You’ll never be around. You want to hire people to take care of your children so you don’t have to. I fail to see the amount of responsibility you would take.” The therapist was flipping frantically through his second notebook as if searching for guidance.

  “I think the bigger question here is physical,” the Mr. Magoo look alike said before Ashley could curb his annoyance and offer a response. We both looked in his direction with confusion on our faces.

  “Physical?” Ashley asked.

  “How is the sex?” I felt my face turn that ugly, uncontrollable shade of red. I was twenty-one years old and talking about sex with total strangers still made me as uncomfortable as a prepubescent girl. The room grew agonizingly still. I wondered if Ashley was still breathing. “Intercourse. You know, the act of--”

  “We know what you mean,” I interrupted. Ashley sank into his chair with a long exhale.

  “And?” Freud had his grips on this therapist, and he wasn’t giving up.

  “We haven’t,” Ashley finally said.

  “Ohhhhhhhh.” He nodded for a long time. “Why is that?” Duh. Because we can’t stand each other. We are two young, able-bodied, attractive people who were basically given permission by the government to get busy with each other, and we hadn’t. Obviously there was a serious lack of chemistry. I had seen Liz and Piper meet guys in a back room for a quickie, and in those few minutes of acquaintance they had more chemistry than Ashley and I had. “Your healthcare professional could prescribe medications for lack of interest if it is an issue.”

  “It isn’t,” Ashley said. He had lost a lot of his cool. His voice was as heavy and weighed down as I felt.

  “I sense a lot of tension in this room, and sex is a wonderful method for alleviating some of that.” If the guy could’ve, he would have forced us to have sex right then. Government-controlled sex… there was the worse version of the hell I was living. With those types of suggestions the therapist had silenced the room once again.

  “Perhaps we should try another approach,” he said. “This is a space where everyone can be completely honest. I encourage you to say what you’re feeling, things you may not be inclined to say aloud.” This guy didn’t really want me to unload on him, did he?

  “Is there any way I could see the results from the compatibility tests we took?” I asked.

  “Those results are confidential.”

  “But they’re my results.”

  “This test has been psychologically proven to work. Do you really want to question the validity of this process?”

  “If I didn’t I wouldn’t have asked. I would just like to know how I got paired with a workaholic control freak.”

  “If you want to know the answer to that maybe you should take a good hard look in the mirror,” Ashley said to me.

  “Hey, nobody asked you!”

  “She’s impossible,” he said to the therapist.

  “He’s a stubborn asshole,” I countered.

  When the smoke cleared the therapist sat there like he had shellshock. He proceeded by using our arguments in favor of the system. “The two of you are very much alike, which is exactly what the compatibility test was designed to do. I see here that you both come from fairly privileged backgrounds. Perhaps it is the stress from the spotlight that is keeping your relationship from being stable.”

  “Perhaps you’re right on some level,” I said. “One of the only reasons I chose this route over a non-government recognized partnership is so that my father’s political image wouldn’t be ruined by me. The legal benefits of actually being married were incentive enough to encourage me to sign up, but if I had known things would turn out like this then I wouldn’t have. I’m not even planning my own wedding!”

  “Who is?”

  “Ashley’s mom and her insane assistant.”

  “My mother is not insane,” Ashley said.

  “I didn’t say your mother was insane. She isn’t. She’s evil.”

  “That is a very large accusation to make, Miss Clarke,” the therapist butted in.

  “All I’m saying is that the woman hasn’t liked me since I set foot in her house. The whole family is a little whacko, and I would rather not be a part of it. They’re turning the wedding I don’t even want to have into a media circus. Hell, Ashley doesn’t even like them.”

  “How do you feel about your
family, Ashley?”

  “How does anyone really feel about his family? It was the hand I was dealt. My father is successful. My mother is great at keeping things together around the house. My sisters are lovely.” This barely scratched the surface of his family dynamics.

  “That didn’t answer my question. Try again,” he said.

  Ashley was growing annoyed. “My dad is all business, all the time. My mom hates him. One of the twins is living on a tour bus with a musician, and the other is using Los Angeles as her playground until the credit card is maxed out. I try not to feel anything about any of this because I can’t do anything about it, but none of that is really any of your business because this isn’t about them. It’s about me.”

  “And me,” I added.

  “I think the problem here is that the two of you are thinking in terms of I when you should be thinking in terms of we,” the therapist said. He was making me sick with his generalized evaluations.

  “We are not compatible. We will kill one another if forced to live together. We were yet another mistake by Uncle Sam. This is a violation of human rights,” I said. I was now standing, pacing back and forth across the room. “What I really want to know is who the idiot was that concluded that love was something that could be created with a computer system? You can’t turn love into a commodity that is mass-produced and government regulated like everything else. It doesn’t work that way. And until you’ve been swept up by it you won’t ever understand. I think we are done here.”

  As I exited the room I noticed that the giant clock said the session should have ended three minutes earlier. I went straight for the elevator and pushed the button. Everything in the building was just as quiet as the room I had just been in. I wondered if the people sitting at the desk to my right heard my speech before I made my grand exit. Whenever I glanced their way they averted their eyes quickly and began whispering to one another. I was a walking magnet for gossip these days. Some superpower that was.

  The elevator door slid open, and as I entered someone else swept in beside me. Ashley had pressed the button for the ground floor before I had a chance to flee the elevator and wait for another rather than be stuck with him on the ride down. “When we’re married you’re going to have to remember your manners,” he said. “You seem to have a habit for walking out and not saying good bye.” He straightened his tie in the reflection of the metallic elevator door.

  “Screw you. That was a waste of two hours and you know it. I could spend my whole life in that room with you and the Dr. Phil wannabe, and I would never get out of this relationship.”

  “Why the hell do you want out so bad?”

  “Because I can’t stand you, Ashley!” My voice filled the small space we occupied, making it feel smaller.

  “Then what the hell would be wrong with marrying me? According to you I would never be around. You would get all the money and the fancy things. All you have to do is smile pretty.” I felt like a small animal that Ashley had backed into a corner. I would rather bite his hand than be put on a leash.

  “I am an intelligent, successful woman. I refuse to demean myself by letting you make me your second-place trophy wife.”

  “Then do you want to be the one to tell your daddy that you won’t marry me? Or do you just want the media to do it?”

  The elevator door slid open with a ding. I rushed out of the box as quickly as I could, heading straight for the light spilling through the front doors. I needed to fill my lungs with fresh air, to rid myself of the horrible feeling coursing through my body. By the time my shoes hit the concrete of the sidewalk I was rushing to find a cab. Traffic was stopped in the road beside me, making all sorts of impatient beeping noises that only worsened the throbbing in my temples. Reason one thousand I hated the City.

  Someone grabbed my arm and nearly jerked me out of step. When I spun around Ashley was staring me straight in the face. “Who’s the other guy, Rainy?” he demanded. “He must really be something to make you want to turn your back on everything I could give you.” I wriggled my arm free from Ashley’s hand without much effort. His eyes were filled with anger and lined with terrible annoyance. He didn’t look violent, but my heart rate rose as I realized he had the strength to hurt me if he wanted to.

  “What are you talking about?” A pedestrian hurrying by me knocked me in the shoulder, and in my state of shock I nearly lost my balance. Everything began to spin: the skyscrapers, the taxis, the flashing signs, the people. I put my hand on the wall of the nearest building for support.

  “You aren’t wearing your ring.”

  “It’s too flashy. If I wear it around the City I might get mugged. If it is that important to you, you can have it back. I don’t want it anyway. It’s supposed to be a symbol of love and commitment, two things I do not associate with you.”

  “When you were here a few months ago you weren’t this self-righteous. Suddenly you’re a crusader for love. Since this isn’t 1969 and you aren’t dropping acid, I assume there is a more immediate reason. Honestly, I don’t give a damn who you screw behind my back, but if the tabloids find out there will be hell to pay, Rainy. For you and for me. Let’s see if love can get you out of that one.” During his rant he had backed me up against the cold wall of the building. His angry breaths were falling straight across my face. Within a few seconds he realized where we were. We were on a New York City sidewalk. People were stopping and staring, pointing and talking. He quickly put a few feet of distance between us. After reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card and handed it to me. It had the Schroeder family crest on it and a phone number printed across the bottom. “Whenever you need a car to take you to my house, call this number. Dinner is at seven.”

  Though Ashley started moving down the sidewalk again, most of the spectators didn’t. I quickly retrieved my sunglasses from my purse and slid them on before ducking back into the building I had just come from. It was still empty and still quiet, a stark contrast to the street out front. I found the nearest bathroom and locked myself inside.

  ~*~

  I was in a garage surrounded by clocks: big ones, small ones, traditional ones, distorted ones. They all ticked. With that many clocks ticking at once, it sounded like a monotone hum. Some were set to the correct time, while others were randomly incorrect and one went backwards. “What’s with the clocks?” I asked.

  “Timing is everything,” Van replied. That, as with most things Van said, twisted my mind into an attempt to understand all of the possible meanings that might have. After the therapy session, though, my mind stopped short and stayed stagnant. Most of my intellectual functions were temporarily out of order.

  I had taken a taxi to Van’s house, avoiding one of Ashley’s cars for fear of him finding out where I was going. Van had bribed me with dinner, but it hadn’t been necessary. I would have ended up there anyway, especially since my other option was likened to a stay at Alcatraz. It was a long ride, out into a middle-class suburb, but it cleared my head a bit.

  I was quickly beginning to realize that his house was no ordinary suburban home. The mailbox was accompanied by what appeared to be a typical lawn gnome, but upon closer inspection was actually a small replica of Yoda. Another gnomesque figure sat near the shrubbery aside the driveway, and it resembled Gizmo from the old Gremlins movie. Inside, the living room was a maze of boxes that smelled like lamb chops since I supposed he’d swiped them from a meat packing company.

  Van was in the process of moving; he found a bigger place to double as a workshop and a living space. Plus, his mom’s boyfriend was about to move in. He had continued to live there with her for as long as he had because he didn’t want her to be alone or pay bills alone, but when it finally seemed that she was in good hands after a long string of failed relationships, he took his cue to move on. He hopped over a short stack of cartons and then lent me a hand to help me over. The touch was brief. Physically, boundaries still seemed to be uncertain at any given moment. Still, the short connection made me smile.


  “Is that dinner I smell?”

  “It is. It may not look like much, but it should taste amazing. Everything I cook ends up tasting much better than it looks.”

  “That’s ironic considering you’re an artist.”

  Van smiled at me. “But preferable?”

  I maneuvered around another box. “What is all this stuff? I thought you had moved most of it.”

  “I did. This is a bunch of old artwork. It’s the embarrassing beginner work that I’m still not sure what to do with so I haven’t moved it yet.”

  “That’s a lot of artwork,” I said as I scanned the roomful of boxes.

  “Somewhere in that mountain are the boxes that contain my kitchen supplies. I’m not really sure which ones they are anymore, so I had to make dinner over here.” I should have guessed that organization wasn’t one of his best skills. I dealt with artists a lot, and it seemed to be a shared trait.

  “I can’t believe you actually have kitchen supplies. It’s impressive for a guy.”

  “I can’t take much credit. They were gifts from a while back. I haven’t even opened most of them.” He disappeared around the corner into the small kitchen. “I hope you like Indian food, and I also hope that you aren’t starving right now. Mom should be here in about ten minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Van raised a finger in the air as if it were a visual exclamation point. “But while you are waiting, I would like you to meet other members of the family.” He motioned for me to follow him through the sliding glass door behind the round kitchen table. In the backyard there was a small patio with pieces of lawn furniture that were obvious creations of his. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly.

  Within moments two scruffy dogs came jetting through the neighbor’s backyard. Their whole bodies wagged with their excited tails, and pink tongues flapped wildly in all directions. Van reached down to pet the skinny black one, introducing her as Olive Oyl, and then switched to the little, wiry, rust-colored one named Caulfield. I laughed at how much Olive Oyl’s need for affection reminded me of Ringo, but Caulfield’s attention-span was short and he was off again within seconds chasing after a bird. “There is one more, but if you see him you’ll be lucky.”