“By listening,” I answer. “What good is any relationship if it doesn’t liberate us? What good is it if we’re unable to live our lives as our individual selves? I’m talking about all forms of liberal engagement, Matt. A truly bountiful relationship puts no restrictions on a partner.” I wave both my hands in an animated gesture, remove all pretense from our discussion as I go, “Traditional relationships are untenable. The cookie-cutter definition and expectation placed on marriages in general creates tension.”
I take another sip from my drink, measure my words carefully as I want to make my point without chasing Matt away. “The American notion, which defines love through our sexual fidelity, is stagnating, Matt. It’s unnecessary and provincial. Love should not be about suppressing our physical lives to one partner. The prospect is soul crushing. We are bigger than that. We are better than that. If I love someone, that love must extend beyond our sex, otherwise it won’t survive.”
Matt still isn’t buying and asks why sex should be centermost in establishing our individuality.
“Why indeed,” I reply. “That’s not up to me. It’s just the way things are. Why have we as a society made sex so taboo? What are we so afraid of? Why does real freedom terrify us so? Why are we so staid in our relationships, so provincial in our lives? Don’t you get bored sometimes, Matt? I mean honestly.” The tables outside of Bachman’s are black iron with thin rods for legs and palm leaf designs for feet. We have an umbrella in the center of our table and it’s open now. My margarita has beads of condensation on the outside. Two women sit at the table directly next to ours. I don’t know if they have overheard anything I’ve said, though they do glance our way.
Matt moves his chair further from the sun. He folds his hands lightly in front of him, considers his reply, and then says with instruction, as if I may have somehow failed to consider, “Has it occurred to you true love inspires intimacy and monogamy, and all discussion of extracurricular needs is a smokescreen for problems that already exist in the relationship?”
To this I answer, “That’s a lot of hooey, Matthew. That’s you being judgmental.”
“I’m not being judgmental at all. You’re free to do whatever you want, as long as you don’t impose on others.”
I lower my sunglasses again and say to Matt, “Not to worry.”
Matt shoos a fly, finishes his drink, pauses again, then says, “I don’t mean to sound like a prude, but I don’t think the issue is about being puritanical, it’s about a different sort of desire.” He quotes Auden to me, speaks of his affection for Cara as: The years shall run like rabbits / For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages And the first love of the world.
“That’s beautiful,” I give him this. “But you’re overthinking everything, Matt. What I’m proposing is that the human spirit is capable of tremendous generosity and a little individual time away from the marriage can be good for the relationship long term. To suggest two people cannot love one another deeply and profoundly while having sex with others is a narrow view.”
“I don’t think it’s narrow,” Matt remains unpersuaded. “I think people want to be in love and want to be monogamous, but we’re clumsy and impatient and this leads to our looking for fulfillment elsewhere.”
“Hell, Matt.” I lean forward in my chair, pull my sunglasses off completely, and say, “I’m not concerned with fulfillment, I’m talking about getting laid. Don’t you ever want something new now and again, if for no other reason than to refresh yourself and be reminded that life is large?”
Matt lifts his empty glass. The bend in his arm has muscle. When he looks my way he appears irritated and no longer willing to debate. He thanks me once more for the Zell then says of the rest, “The way I see it, boredom is one thing and love another. One we choose while the other comes and goes. I can’t tell you how to deal with either, but for me my desire is my desire, if that makes sense. It’s not a complicated concept, really, how I choose to love.”
Chapter Nine
Returning home, I find Gloria in the front room watching the news. She has made herself a salad and poured a glass of wine. I drop my keys in the bowl, kick off my shoes, and sit in the chair as Gloria mutes the TV. She asks about Matt and I tell her, “He turned me down.”
“What?”
“He said no.”
“To the Zell?”
“To the Zell.”
“Get out.”
“No lie.”
“But why?”
“Who knows? He’s a poet. He claims he’s not comfortable with my helping him.”
“He said that?”
“Yep.” I sink lower in the chair as Gloria asks for more details. When I tell her about the vote and how I explained to Matt that I was the only one to have read his work and had to persuade the others to give him the slot, Gloria realizes what I have done and scolds me for going back on my word. “You said you wouldn’t fuck with them.”
“How have I fucked them? I got him the Zell. He turned it down.”
“Sure he did. You wanted him to in order to piss Cara off.”
I stretch my legs and don’t bother to deny it. Gloria goes into the kitchen and pours more wine, comes back and sits again in the chair. Her glass is filled too high and she nearly spills some before sipping. I watch her hand, which is steady around the neck. She has her hair pulled back now and to the side. I try and ignore how handsome she is. I am bothered when Gloria continues to complain about Matt and says, “You need to reconsider what you’re doing.”
I defend myself with gibberish and say that my activities to date are romantic in spirit, that I am a searcher of truth and looking to explore the bone-dense challenges of love. Gloria summarizes my claim with her favorite one-word review. “Bullshit.” She says what I’m doing is brutal. “You want to hurt them.”
“That’s not true. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Then stop.”
“But I’m not doing anything,” I lie. “I just thought if I shook things up a bit the truth would be easier to see.”
“What truth?” Gloria answers before I can. “You want to prove all relationships are fragile? Well guess what,” she raises her wine and says, “all relationships are fragile.”
Rather than concede the point I change the subject, I am not interested in arguing or discussing Matt further, so I ask, “How was your day? I was thinking about you. I missed you.”
There is a moment before she replies, before she is able to gather herself and snap back at me, where what she wants to do and nearly does is take the remote from the television and hurl it at my head. I am sure of this, I can see it in her eyes just before she groans loudly and tells me, “Do not go there.”
I act surprised and say, “Go where?”
“McCanus.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Well, which is it?” I insist she can’t be upset if she knows I didn’t mean it. This causes Gloria to groan louder than before. She puts her glass of wine down on the table between our two chairs and says, “I didn’t miss you.”
I start to say that’s too bad, I am playing a bit with fire and obviously that’s how I like it, this back and forth and emotional poking of the dog. I begin to joke and sing a line from John Waite’s “Missing You” when Gloria stops me and goes, “I heard what you said when you came back from New York.”
“You heard me?”
“Say you loved me.”
“Hell.”
“You thought I was asleep.”
“I did,” I admit, “otherwise I wouldn’t have said it.”
“I’m sure.”
“Yeah, well.” I don’t know what else to do now, I am not sure how to recover, though I try and go, “I was tired. It was a long day. I wanted to remind myself of the feeling but it wasn’t real.”
“Of course not,” Gloria says again.
I tell her just the same, “I don’t love you.”
Gloria repe
ats as much to me then gets up, moves past me, reaches back for her wine, which she holds for a moment in front of her face and drinks. I watch her walk away from me and up the stairs. It’s early still, too soon for bed I think. Gloria is already beneath the sheet when I come in. I strip and get in beside her, I can’t decide if I should say more, unsure what I would say if I could say anything about loving her or not loving her, so I don’t say a word as Gloria stirs and reaches for my hand.
Mostly when we have sex she is lively, robust and earthy, well-focused on how she feels, and I am happy when she enjoys herself. As partners in that moment, we are a feral and mutual force. In our sex she will push against me, wrestle into me before going somewhere else, somewhere all her own and where I can only try and give chase. Tonight, I hope she will stay with me, and I am glad when she moves toward me, takes the lead, kisses and lets me kiss her and touch her until she’s ready, and then she straddles and rides on top.
She remains quiet, much more so than usual. I lay her back down, kiss her neck and shoulders and ears until she shivers and lets me think she came. She clings to me afterward, briefly and unexpectedly, still not saying a word. I am good now, I am finished and content, though I hold her as well, for whatever reason. Gloria is the first to roll off and onto her side where she exhales softly, the sound filled with confession I think, and while it’s possible I may have gotten the sound all wrong, I move closer just the same.
•
Cara is home watching the news when Matt returns. She has made herself a salad for dinner and is drinking wine. He tosses his keys into the bowl, drops into the chair beside her, kicks off his shoes as she mutes the sound and asks how things went.
“Good,” he says, then tells her about the Zell.
She isn’t quite sure she heard correctly; she can imagine him saying he got the Zell or did not get the Zell, but, “What do you mean you turned it down?”
He explains how his nomination circumvented normal procedure and that, “I shouldn’t have been given a slot.”
“But they offered?”
“Technically. McCanus twisted arms. They hadn’t even read my work.”
“And so you turned them down?”
“I said under the circumstances I wouldn’t feel right accepting.”
“Wouldn’t feel…?”
“Right.”
There is a moment before she replies, before she is able to gather herself and construct a proper response, where what she wants to do and nearly does is take the remote from the television and hurl it at his head. What she wants to say, which is different from what she eventually will say, is that he’s a fool and his decision has nothing to do with protocol but rather that he’s a scared little rabbit and refuses to take his own work seriously, that it shouldn’t matter how the Zell came to him but only that he has the opportunity, and Goddamn it why does he have to turn everything into a moral apocalypse? Why can’t he just accept that Eric agreed to help because he could, that this is the way the world works and everyone else understands this?
Instead, she switches the TV off and sets the remote on the side table. “All right,” she says. “What now?”
“Now? Nothing,” he answers and, sensing her dismay and that his reply is all wrong, he adds, “It’s okay. I’m good.”
Of course you are, she wants again to shout, is angered by how easily contented he is and quick to be good. She goes into the kitchen and pours herself more wine, holds the glass by the neck, and says, “I think you should have taken it.”
“But I couldn’t,” he defends himself this way, ignoring the holes in his claim, his self-righteous lip flap and high-road imperatives. He describes what was said over drinks, how McCanus made sure to let him know he was responsible for the invitation, how the rules were bent and people were bound to question his appointment. “Under the circumstances it would not have been right to accept,” he says again then adds, “I think McCanus was relieved by my decision.”
Cara returns to the front room, has her wine, her bare feet spread on the wood, her arches sore, she shifts left to right. “I don’t believe that,” she tells him. “Why would Eric bother to get you the Zell if he didn’t want you to accept?”
“I don’t know. It was an odd conversation.”
“So now you’re blaming Eric?” She’s annoyed, tired, and hungry still after having only had a salad, and is quick to reply, “If you don’t want the Zell just say so, but don’t blame Eric for your decision.”
“I’m not blaming.” He nearly raises his voice and says, You don’t get it, but is concerned how she might respond and doesn’t want to escalate things further. “I’m just saying,” he hates to think Cara is angry or disappointed and tells her, “we really only spoke about the Zell for a moment and spent most of our time discussing relationships.”
She knows what he’s doing, what he always does, how his main interest is keeping the peace and that’s okay, mostly, but there are times when arguing a bit would not be a bad thing, when their solidarity becomes itself a burden, and what she really wants is to scratch and claw like two cats locked in a basket, screeching and brawling before lying exhausted together in sweet recovery. There is something to be said for this, too, she senses as much and blames herself for not letting go more than she does, for holding back, and for what now? The same peace and contentment she is ready to excoriate him for.
“Relationships?” she repeats the word as if it’s a puzzle. “What about them?”
Relieved to change the subject, he presents McCanus’s theory on love and marriage. He tries to be fair, avoids painting him with a red brush, though he does tell her what was said about the value in maintaining our individual selves and how most marriages would benefit from adopting a liberal view toward sex and allowing a revolving door of partners.
Cara puts their argument on hold here, again unsure she has heard right, and, looking at Matt, suddenly flush behind her third glass of wine, she raises her chin and replies, “He said what now?”
Chapter Ten
The first truck arrives towing a yellow crawler dozer to dig up the yard. I am upstairs writing. Fred barks and goes out back. Cara comes a few minutes later. Before the dozer begins to excavate, the sod is rolled away, put aside, and saved for future use. I continue my own work, glancing every now and again out the window. Fred returns to check on me, to be sure I am aware of what is happening. I rub his head to let him know all is as it should be.
•
I go out back around noon. The yellow dozer is operated by one of the college boys. Cara works along the slope, creates impressions where six large stones will be placed and serve as steps down to the lowered part of the yard. I have moved my car out to the curb in front, while in the driveway an additional truck delivers trees and bushes and gravel. Cara has on a pair of brown gloves, which she removes as I approach. There is dirt from her work in the lines of her cheeks. I have brought her a water. We talk about the garden first and then as we walk toward the shade Cara mentions the Zell and apologizes for Matt’s decision, says she regrets the trouble I went to.
“Not to worry,” I answer appropriately. “It was worth a shot. I was glad to do it.”
“You don’t have to say that.” She delivers the sentiment cold, apologizes again and lets me know, “I should have said something earlier. The first time you brought up the Zell, I should have warned you Matt might say no.”
“You couldn’t have known.” I remain deflecting, though hope she might say more.
“But that’s just it.” She starts talking about Matt’s tendency for reticence, his habit of shying away from events involving his writing. The pattern is well-established, Matt’s happiness simple and ambitions small. “It’s frustrating,” she catches herself here and stops. I use the opportunity to say I find Matt wanting to earn his way commendable and am certain the others on the committee will love his work. I blame myself for not getting the committee to read Matt sooner and wish that I had explained all to Matt more cle
arly.
Cara won’t let me take responsibility and says almost fiercely, “This is not your fault. This is not on you.” She touches my elbow then draws her hand back, looks at me for several seconds before insisting once more the blame belongs on Matt.
I think how opportunity is a matter of chance and ambition brought together, and I am this close to agreeing with Cara and taking the situation somewhere new, but I remember what I promised Gloria and stop. This is supposed to be the end. If I need proof that what I saw at the market was but a flash glimpse of a marriage and no more representational of a full relationship than any other quick peek might reveal, if I want to somehow be convinced that love is layered and can be built up with foundation posts or torn down by any variation of high winds and rains, then the incident from our dinner and now with the Zell should be enough.
It should, yes, though the problem is I’m writing a book and need to know for purposes of closure what happens next; at what point does the bow bend and where does it break?
There beneath the shade of the one tree set to remain, my elm in bloom, I say to Cara that she should not be too hard on Matt, that he has created wonderful poems and if his character is otherwise lacking, if his personality does not allow him to take his work and champion it openly to new and awaiting audiences, if he prefers the shy existence of a poet who produces great verse and leaves it like a birdsong on the wind, if he entrusts the selling of his books to his publisher and marketing people, this should not be construed as weakness. “Not all men are cut out for testing their convictions beyond the comfort of their own walls.” I submit this and watch as the cords of muscle in Cara’s neck tighten.
I leave her there while saying that I have an appointment. Fred and I take a quick walk around the block and together we head off to Colossal.
•
Gloria calls as I’m halfway to the studio. I’m scheduled to work with a singer/songwriter named Michelle Joy and have to phone her now and apologize, promise to make things up to her tomorrow. Michelle is with Glassnote. I’ve listened to her songs and dig her sound though Gloria is better. I was actually thinking about this, about Gloria and her music, when my cell rang. A minute later I am making a U-turn on Parkwood and driving back home. Cara and her crew are still in the yard when I pull up. I park at the curb in front of my house and hurry inside.
Liars Page 8
