The Dictionary of Failed Relationships

by Meredith Broussard

  Fran pressed herself against the door of the car. “She does care. She obviously does. I knew she did!”

  “It’s the past,” Tom said. “You can’t do anything about the past. Forget about it.”

  “I’m not thinking about the past,” Fran sobbed. “I’m thinking about the future.”

  “The future?” Tom tried to glimpse her expression as headlights flashed in the darkness.

  “Ours.”

  “You’re insane,” Tom said.

  “You always say that.” Fran was suddenly hushed. She looked at Tom. “Why do you always say that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do. A lot.”

  “Maybe because you act insane,” Tom said. “Where do you get these ideas?”

  “They’re not ideas, they’re feelings.” Fran attempted to compose herself and sat up. “Why did you say that to her?”

  “Because it was true.” Tom shrugged.

  Fran stared at him for a long time. “If you two had gotten married, a lot of those people would have been at the wedding, wouldn’t they?”

  “We were never going to get married,” Tom said.

  “Yes, but if you had.”

  “Not a lot of them.” Tom thought for a moment. “Some.”

  “I bet she was thinking that, too.” Fran looked out at the night.

  “I doubt it. She does have another boyfriend, you know.”

  “Why wasn’t he there?”

  “Buster didn’t invite him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t approve. He thinks the guy’s sleazy.”

  Fran laughed bitterly. “Buster probably liked her himself.”

  “Actually,” Tom said, and the thought made him smile, “a long time ago, he did.”

  HONEY MOON

  By Mary-Beth Hughes

  hon·ey·moon ’h-n-’mün noun [from the idea that the first month of marriage is the sweetest] (1546) 1: a period of harmony immediately following marriage or the establishment of a new relationship . 2: a trip or vacation taken by a newly married couple, during which the tone of the entire marriage is set.

  When Isabel stepped from her honeymoon bed and drew open the drapes, the view of Atlantic City was awful. Tilted houses, scattered parking lots, municipal buildings rusty from the sea air. The arrangement seemed badly planned or not planned at all, and the elevation of their bedroom was wasted, because the ocean was out of sight. Just behind me, Isabel thought, and turned as if to find it there. Tom was sleeping, and his lips sometimes vibrated on his exhalations. I have wasted him with kisses, she thought. Or at least she hoped she had. Marriage required a certain alignment of mind and body, and she was determined to make good on her end.

  Isabel left the window and went in to draw her first bath in the heart-shaped tub. She chose the lavender bubble bath, half-remembering that lavender was for fidelity—wasn’t it? Or was lavender for kindness? She couldn’t recall, but earnestly allowed its stream to join the bathwater. She was twenty-two. The year was 1967.

  At noon, a tiny bellboy, not more than a teenager, wheeled in breakfast. As the boy backed out of the door, Tom, who was barely sitting up, reached for various pockets, but couldn’t find anything smaller than a twenty and said he would catch him later.

  The bellboy nodded and smiled, but when Tom rose from the blankets and went into the bathroom, Isabel retrieved a five-dollar bill from her purse and settled the account on the spot. The moment the door whispered shut, Isabel felt uneasy, almost dizzy, and hoped that Tom would forget all about the bellboy. She imagined Tom’s confusion when the boy would say he’d been tipped, even overtipped. Already she was making mistakes. She fiddled with the silvery tops on the dishes, piling them into an awkward stack before Tom came to the table. When he did, he mentioned that his eggs were cold.

  Breakfast was brief. They were both anxious to get on with the day. Tom hurried into his clothes, barely glancing at Isabel as she sat with her legs crossed in her new stockings, wearing her new shoes and her pretty new dress. It was only in the lobby, as they were heading across the massive expanse of green carpet, that Tom pulled her to him. She was walking slightly ahead, looking in her purse for a booklet on sights that she had borrowed. He pulled her to him, as if overwhelmed by the sight of her, and kissed her just beneath the earlobe and whispered, My sweet wife. Isabel felt her heart would break open with relief. She was certain she heard the word newlyweds whispered by the admiring bystanders that she sensed all about them. The word danced very lightly on the air—newlyweds.

  Beyond the gilded doors, she could see how thick and gray the day had become. The cold was nearly visible. She pulled the collar high on her pearl-colored, winter-white bridal coat and snuggled against Tom’s arm. The boardwalk was immensely broad, its slats of wood arranged like a herringbone fabric. Far to the left, waves sputtered and coughed a gray spume. It seemed like a reel of film draped across the low horizon. Even so, Isabel was transfixed by the sight. She’d grown up inland and was unaccustomed to water sprawling just out of reach.

  Tom released his arm from Isabel’s and scratched his bare head. Sweetheart, you forgot your hat! Isabel almost said, then stopped. She satisfied the impulse with a brief loving stroke across his windblown hair, then devoted herself to the pages of her tour book and was pleased to find something that would interest them both. The World Famous Diving Horse! Certainly better than Skee-Ball or the merry-go-round. It wasn’t far according to the map, and it was open year-round. So much was still closed in March.

  Tom was willing to be led to the exhibition pier until a better idea presented itself. Did Isabel want to get a drink? Why not? They were on vacation. Honeymoon! Isabel cried. But she wanted to see the horse, didn’t Tom? They could go watch, it wouldn’t take long, and then they could go have a drink.

  It was farther than Isabel’s map had indicated. By the time they reached the special attraction, Isabel’s cheeks were chafed by the cold. Tom’s gloved hands were deep in his pockets, his collar pulled nearly over his ears. They paid the three-dollar admission, then went inside through a low, damp tunnel that led to the end of the pier. They were well out into the ocean when they emerged to find a rather rickety arrangement, something like a small arena. Not very sturdy, Isabel thought. The planks rigged for seating looked barely stable. One whole side of the tiny stadium was completely open, and a large chunk of gray ocean was revealed in the breach. In the white sky above, brackish clouds bumped against each other. A harsh wind scorched through the opening. Tom and Isabel waited perhaps ten minutes for other spectators to arrive, but no one else came.

  Finally, a gate was released on a platform high above them. The platform had a long tongue, which extended through the gap and over a patch of ocean. Three men struggled above to bring a white horse—a beautiful, mammoth white horse—out onto the stand. Its eyes were covered with blinders, but even so, it seemed to sense that the waves below were sharp and unwelcoming. Isabel thought its eyes must be very gentle, very kind. Some animals have very knowing eyes. She could tell, even from a distance, that the white horse was one of them. The men struggled to get the horse to move forward, but it wouldn’t. Each progression toward the sea was accomplished by the horse’s being dragged as though its hooves were skates across the wood planking, and each forward pull was followed by a desperate skittering back.

  Stupid horse, Tom said. What? said Isabel. But Tom didn’t even look at her. He had his wallet out and was counting the bills inside. I’m not staying for this, he said, it’s a waste of time and money. He stood up, indicating that they should leave. Well, said Isabel, stalling until she had a clear idea of what to say. She looked up at the horse. It was up on its hind legs, its front hooves drawn close to its heart. How could she leave? I think we should stay, she said to Tom, I think the horse will jump, don’t you? Fine, he said, stay. Before Isabel knew it, h
e was ducking into the tunnel.

  It had happened so suddenly. They had had a fight, or it seemed as if they had, and Isabel didn’t know why. She sat, too confused to follow him and ask what was wrong. She huddled in her coat, which was far too thin for the gusts blowing off the water, and felt a sticky darkness opening up inside her. Sitting there, unable to budge, Isabel watched the horse being coaxed into a dive. Now the men had something tempting in their hands. They waved some treat over the edge of the platform so that the horse would be fooled into jumping, but still the horse stayed, impervious to threat or seduction. Isabel couldn’t stop watching. When the horse went up on its hind legs again, she felt she understood the horse’s actions better than anything she’d ever known. She understood that drawing in, the way the horse’s head lifted back and to the side, away from the foolish men. She understood all that.

  Someone was gently touching her shoulder. She turned, relieved. Of course he’d come back. She knew he would, even if she’d been afraid to think it. But it was the attendant from the admission gate, offering Isabel her money back. Isabel shook her head. No, it was all right, she didn’t want her money. The horse had done the right thing, she said. It made the right decision. It’s too cold to jump into the ocean today.

  When the horse was finally led off the platform and the gate was bolted, Isabel stood, wrapped her coat tighter around her body, and prepared to return to the hotel.

  When she unlocked the door of their suite, Tom’s back was to her. He sat slumped in the black leather armchair, facing the TV. Someone had sent flowers. Plump irises sheathed in pink cellophane had been placed uncentered on the coffee table, the card still sealed. Tom was having his drink. He set down an empty miniature bottle by way of greeting. Isabel approached him, unsure of what to say. He didn’t ask her anything, didn’t say hello. His face didn’t have that hinged-shut look that he usually had when angry. Still, there was nothing to guide her, nothing to signal her.

  She opened the drapes wider. He didn’t stop her or comment. He watched the TV screen with indifference. Isabel shook back the gauzy sheers in the windows so that the whole of the sky and the topsy-turvy buildings laid out their unpredictable pattern before her. She pulled her coat close to her chest, though the steam heat was stifling, and turned to watch her husband. After a very long while, when he didn’t say anything, she told him, deliberately, on the first full day of their marriage, that the horse had jumped.

  The horse jumped, she said, it was incredible. Then she stepped up onto their double honeymoon bed without removing her coat or shoes. She let the black heels scar the silver spread. She didn’t care. She pumped her legs up and down, shoes scraping against the bedspread, and held her arms tucked in close, her hands balled like hooves. She couldn’t help it. She twisted her head back and let out a cry. The horse jumped, she said, and Tom got up from his chair, a little afraid. My God, Isabel, he said, thinking she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. She teetered on the edge of the bed, her arms starting to wilt, her face wrecked for a cry.

  Come on, Isabel, he whispered, opening his arms. He gently pushed the black chair out of the way. Come on, Isabel, he said, and bit down on his lip when he stepped forward, needing to catch her.

  ISLAND

  By Jennifer Macaire

  is·land ’-lnd noun [alteration (influenced by Old French isle) of earlier iland, from Middle English] ( before 12th century) 1: a tract of land surrounded by water and smaller than a continent. 2: something resembling an island especially in its isolated or surrounded position. 3: an isolated group or area; especially: an isolated ethnological group; specifically: man.

  There are geckos crawling up the sides of the tent. The moon is so bright that I can see their silhouettes as they trot across the canvas. The only problem is, I can’t tell if they’re inside or outside the tent.

  Beside me in the dark, I can hear my sister’s soft breathing and the harsher breathing of my mother and her boyfriend as they try not to make the cot squeak. It makes no difference to me. What bothers me is the thought that maybe a gecko will leap on a spider, and they will both fall onto my face during the night. The thought keeps me awake while the soft moans from across the tent fade and snores take their place. My eyes trace the geckos’ paths across the tent, while the moon slides through the tropical night and the waves move slowly up and down the beach.

  The next morning, we snorkel around the reef. I’m tired and let the waves carry my body where they will. Up and down I bob, my hands dangling beneath me, my hair floating all around, my eyes half closed, and the sound of my own breathing in the snorkel tube lulling me to sleep. I wake up when my sister touches my hand with her flipper.

  “You’re the only person I know who can sleep in the sea,” my sister tells me. I crawl out of the water just far enough to reach my towel, and then I sleep again. Visions of parrot fish and angelfish swim through my dreams while my back burns to a crisp.

  That evening, we eat at the cafeteria. We were going to have a barbecue, but we have no meat. Besides, the bright neon lights and white linoleum tables lure us into the cafeteria like moths to a flame. I take a tray and look at the food. Hamburgers wrapped in tinfoil, hotdogs, wilted salad with anemic tomatoes, half grape-fruits with faded maraschino cherries, and tuna sandwiches. I take a sandwich and a can of orange soda, then sit in a folding chair that rocks me as I eat.

  We spend three nights camping on St. John. Each night I stay awake—listening, watching. There are rules to living in a tent. A blanket is suddenly a wall. In the morning, you take your toothbrush to the showers and hold the toilet door open for your sister, so you don’t have to pay an extra dime. When you fall asleep on the beach, make sure you’re in the shade. No one tells me these rules; I learn them by myself.

  When the sun sets, we take the ferry back to St. Thomas and drive through the deep, velvet night to our house. Easter vacation is finished.

  Next Easter. Camping again. We take the wheelbarrow to get our supplies. There’s no boyfriend to check the list. My sister pushes the wheelbarrow. My mother sighs when she looks in her wallet. We get sheets and blankets for the cots, a kerosene lantern, charcoal and lighter fluid, some hotdogs to grill, a bottle of soda, and a package of ice. Mom forgets dishes and cups, so we spear the hotdogs on sticks, drink from the same bottle, and tell ghost stories while the lantern flickers. Moths blunder into our hair and sizzle on the lantern. We wrap sheets around us and spray mosquito repellent on our bodies. Sleep eludes me, though. There is no moon, so I can’t see the geckos, but I hear them walking on the canvas, stalking their prey, so I get up and sneak out of the tent. No one hears me.

  I move through the campground in the dark. I can barely see the white gravel path, but barely is enough for me. Tents loom and subside as I wander down twisting paths. Some folk are sitting around barbecues; in other groupings, the tents are dark. I feel myself being lured toward the sound of a guitar. I round a corner and come across a group camp in a clearing, where five tents form a rough circle. There is another circle made up of children, who are sitting in front of a small fire. It seems to be a school field trip. Three men and a woman accompany the children. One is playing the guitar. I watch the children closely for a while. We’re the same age, thirteen or fourteen. I’m the only one barefoot, though. I stay in the shadows. There is no one I know. They are from another island. I relax, take my hands out of my pockets, and smile at a boy standing alone just outside the light.

  We talk, softly. A nearby tent flap is open, and the boy invites me inside. I slip in, no one notices, and we sit on the edge of his cot and kiss. I don’t ask his name. When he runs his hands over my breasts, I don’t pull away. My heart is beating like moth wings. I know this is against the rules.

  Outside, one of the adults orders everyone to bed. There are giggles and groans, and the tent flap lifts again. Children hurry to bed, obedient. Without thought, I duck under the covers and press myself to the boy. I hear muffled goodnights, a flashlight flickers aroun
d the tent, and then all is darkness. I slip my hand beneath the boy’s shorts. His breathing quickens and he jerks against me, uttering a surprised cry. My hand is suddenly wet, and I wipe it off on a sock. He trembles.

  Soundlessly, I sit up and kiss him on the lips. He touches my face. We don’t speak. Rules have been broken tonight, but so many that no one will ever believe him. Without a word, I slip out of the tent in the darkness. No one sees me. I make my way back to our tent in pitch darkness. Beneath my bare feet, the white gravel gleams faintly. There is still no moon, but it’s hot and the bay-rum trees give off a subtle scent. I raise my hand to my lips and lick. It tastes like the sea.

  The next morning, I sit on my beach towel and watch pelicans dive into the water. My mother goes to the pay phone and calls her boyfriend, and they talk until her coins run out. She hangs up, smiling, and decides to leave early. We rush to catch the last tour bus to the docks. I want to see the boy from last night, but I know that even if I do see him, we won’t speak.

  The next Easter. My sister and I tell our mother we’re going camping on St. John. It’s tradition, we say. She lets us go, too tired to argue. She stays behind with her new lover. He’s glad to give us a lift to the ferry. We’re glad to get away from him—he gives us the creeps.

  At the docks on the island, we meet up with my boyfriend and three of his friends. At the campground, we don’t rent a tent. We put our sleeping bags right on the beach and build a campfire near the rocks. My boyfriend has a guitar and plays music nearly all night long. People stroll up and down the beach, often coming to sit near us to listen to the guitar. Someone steals a cooler from outside a tent and we drink ice-cold beer and soda. A joint gets passed around.

  My boyfriend sleeps with his head on my lap. I smooth his hair as I watch the sky turn pink. Then he wakes up and we make love. We move in slow motion, like the waves on the beach. He always digs his chin into my collarbone—often, I have small blue bruises there. I wrap my legs around him and close my eyes. I see the ocean behind my eyelids, though, rising and falling, white foam on the water. There are rules about making love. I haven’t learned them all yet, but I have learned not to say that I love him. I understand that I frighten him in some way, and that he’s more fragile than I am. Afterward, he sleeps again, and I wade into the ocean. I float on my back, watch the sun rise, and wonder about the rules of love and why I can’t sleep at night.