Gloria’s duffel is by the door. She is standing across the room pulling a few books from my shelf. I stop on the other side of the room, still processing what she told me on the phone, how she was moving out and thanks for everything. “Help yourself,” I say about the books, I am clumsy and upset and don’t want her to leave, though this I won’t tell her. Last night after Gloria sighed and I rolled back toward her, we remained that way, holding one another, unexpectedly and curiously until I began to feel calm and dozed. Gloria was the one to get up first. It was early evening. She showered and dressed, said she was playing a set at The Veldrux later, and would I like to come? Had she asked me while we were both still in bed I would have said yes. Removed from her, I made an excuse, said I already had plans. “Break a leg,” I told her. Staring at her now, I think of all the other ways I could have replied.
Gloria reaches down and pets Fred. I move another half-step forward and say, “If I had known earlier I could have helped you pack.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Me? I’m great.”
“And this, then?”
“This is exciting, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Maybe. I don’t know. Why now?”
Gloria glances back at me as if I’ve asked something stupid. “It’s not about now, Mac.”
“Sure it is. It’s always about now.”
Removing a copy of Eckhart Tolle’s seminal work from my shelf, Gloria tells me not to go getting all philosophical on her. “We both knew I wasn’t going to stay forever.”
“That doesn’t explain why today.”
“Today is just when things happened.”
“Yes but what happened?” I want to know. “Is this about last night? Or before? About what I said? About Matt and Cara?”
Gloria resumes picking books from the shelf. It’s unclear when exactly I made up my mind, though now that Gloria’s leaving I am more inclined than ever to say that I really do love her. “Are you mad at me?” I ask.
“Why would I be mad?”
“About Matt and Cara.”
“No.”
“Then we’re good?”
“I’m good.” Gloria takes the books she has gathered—the two of mine, a paperback of Vonnegut and the collected works of Anne Sexton—and puts them inside her duffel. She looks, as always, inscrutable and with no sign of anger or injury of any kind. Still she doesn’t explain anything more, leaves me to assume from her silence that I’m supposed to already know what’s going on. I start over with a different sort of question, I ask about her new address. “You have a place?”
“I have a place.”
“And money?”
“I have a place and money.”
“And you’re not mad at me about anything?”
“What did I say?”
“This isn’t about anything, then?”
“It’s not about you, Mac.”
“All right.” For whatever reason I can’t quite accept and continue with, “So when did you decide?”
“I didn’t decide,” Gloria answers. “The opportunity came along.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And where are you going?”
“East Town.”
“How did you find the place?”
“I have a friend.”
“And this friend called you today?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re leaving me to live with him?”
“Don’t be like that, Mac.”
“But you don’t want to live with me anymore?”
“Seriously,” Gloria cautions, “let’s not, okay?”
“Let’s not what?”
“Make this into something it isn’t.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s nothing. I’m not leaving you because we aren’t together. This isn’t a breakup. We aren’t a couple. I’m leaving because it’s time. This is your house and I need to find a place of my own.”
“But you’re moving in with someone else. How is that any different?” I want there to be something specific, a point of contention in order for me to argue Gloria back into staying, though I think maybe the only reason I want her to stay is because she is about to go. When Lidia said as much to me that night I went by her place, I denied the claim about her as well, and now I wonder, given all the ins and outs, how am I ever supposed to know the truth about what I’m feeling?
I step back, sit on the arm of the chair, and, hoping for a favorable response, something to keep her here longer until I can figure out what to do, I confess about last night, tell her that I drove out to The Veldrux after all, that I caught her set and she was magnificent. I say this, “You were magnificent.”
Instead of being pleased, Gloria walks out of the room and retrieves her guitar, comes back, and puts the case beside her duffel. I have no idea why what I said should upset her and ask, “What’s wrong?”
Gloria is taller than Lidia, not as Nordic as Cara, more nimble and lithely limbed. I wonder if she is about to howl at me and criticize how secretive I can be at times, to point at the flaws in my nature, the way I make things difficult on purpose, that I couldn’t merely accept her invitation and come to the club with her last night but had to turn it into a clandestine encounter where I arrived under cloak, slipped in and out after her set, hoarded my impression of her playing in order to leverage it now as I think serves me best. Despite how harsh this sounds, it is actually what I would like her to do, to yell and scream so I might apologize and say that she is right, no doubt she is, and that I do not blame her at all for being upset, that obviously she expects more from me and this is certainly something we can work on together if she stays.
I am good at this, at responding constructively to some harsh redress, which draws into question my ability to provide whatever it is I’m being accused of lacking. I’m always happy to confess my sins if such gets me what I want. Hopeful here, I’m foolish enough to think things are about to sort themselves out as Gloria walks toward me, leans close, and kisses my cheek. I reach for her, irrational in my confidence, but she is slippery as a conger eel, she escapes my grasp, gathers her guitar and duffel, goes out the front door, heads to her car, and disappears.
•
The three boys in Cara’s crew finish up for the day. Cara comes from the yard last, knocks on my door, says she’d like to leave the crawler in my drive. I tell her no problem. I’m still reeling from Gloria’s departure and my face must show as much as Cara remains on the porch and asks if anything is wrong. I say it’s nothing and invite her inside for a beer.
Cara insists on removing her boots; she bends over in such a way as to allow the front of her T-shirt to billow. She shows the day’s work in the rose tan of her cheeks. After starting the garden, having had lunch and dinner together, and now the incident with the Zell, Cara appears almost comfortable with me, familiar in a way she is still in the process of defining. I see her move a strand of hair behind her ear, the dirt on her neck and wrist charming somehow. She asks if she can use the powder room. She says this, not the bathroom or restroom. When she reappears, she has washed her face and hands. As if there is some necessity, being alone with me now in the house, she refers to Gloria, “I met your girlfriend earlier. She’s very nice.”
An innocent enough comment, I might leave it there, share none of what just happened with Gloria and move our conversation on to something else. Instead, I choose not to, for reasons I suspect were already formed when I invited Cara inside, a muscle instinct, my mind now in a perpetual state of plotting, I offer up a summary of Gloria’s exit and admit that, “I didn’t expect to feel gutted this way.” I say that I was caught by surprise, though am quick to make clear that as Gloria was never officially my girlfriend and we weren’t really a couple, our parting was more or less expected. “The less,” I say, “being today.”
Cara gives me a tender smile. She has large teeth and
wide lips made moist by her beer. We are sitting at the pantry table in the kitchen now. Through the window I can see the yard at the start of its upturned state. With the grass and dirt and stones tossed about, everything appears in chaos. Cara says she’s sorry to hear about Gloria. I tell her that I am, too, and, “Whoever knows, right? In terms of what I want, I mean, I always feel a step behind. Lidia leaves and I say, ‘Oh yeah, that’s what I want.’ Gloria leaves and I say, ‘Oh yeah, I want her, too.’”
Cara moves her shoulders and head in a sympathetic bob, suggests for Gloria, “If you want her back you need to let her know.”
“But she does know and I think that’s why she left. I think she knew before she left that I wanted her to stick around and that’s what caused her to go. It’s complicated,” I say. “Gloria isn’t one for commitments. She has her own idea of how people come together.” I say this and wonder if Matt has said anything about my own views to Cara, so I go ahead and add, “Not that she was alone in fostering the ambiguity of our arrangement. I guess you could say I’m also something of a nontraditionalist.”
Cara confides that Matt did mention.
“So you know.” Despite my promise to Gloria—as Gloria isn’t here—as much as I suspect Gloria’s leaving was instigated by my treatment of Matt and Cara as much as by my whispering “I love you” into the dark, I am starting to calculate further the benefit to our conversation and say to Cara, “The truth is I may have given Matt the wrong impression. It isn’t that I don’t believe in love, it’s that I’m clumsy and can’t quite make my theories work when I need them to.” I talk a bit more about Gloria, about what happened when I came home from New York, and how hard it is for me to get a real handle on my emotions. I pause just long enough for Cara to take in what I’ve said then confess, “It’s a slog for me, for sure. The sustainability of any relationship, I mean. I’m good in the moment but the moments don’t ever string together for long. I wish they would but I somehow don’t know how to make this happen.”
The sentiment causes Cara to react as I hoped she might, her features giving in to emotions of their own. I look at her, present myself as woefully frustrated and sad, so much so that Cara can’t help herself, kind as she is and susceptible now, with her disappointment in Matt and the Zell brought to the surface, her transference of affection almost impossible to avoid as she extends her hand across the table, finds my fingers and squeezes.
Oh I am an ass, but how easy is this? Too easy, in fact. I allow my hand to linger just long enough inside hers, my eyes on Cara’s as I slowly pull my hand back. The intent here is to let her know the moment has been registered by me. Whether she fully meant to or not doesn’t quite matter, the point being that I am regarded as the cautious and prudent one. To act otherwise, with rash expediency, would only undermine any long-term agenda. Better to have Cara make the next move than to throw myself on her now in a moment of weakness. In this way the responsibility is hers.
I smile softly, or at least I think what I am showing is a tender smile. Cara is of firm Norwegian stock and governs her emotions with strict discipline. Reaching for my hand has been a breach and I have played this well. I stand with my beer, go to the window, and look for Fred. Cara takes a few seconds then mentions the trees and brush to be planted by the end of the week. She leaves shortly after this, her beer on the table. I turn and say as she is walking off, “See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
Matt phones at noon and asks if we can get together and talk. He sounds troubled, a woebegone weariness as if he hasn’t slept for some time. I, too, had a troubled night. After Cara left, I wandered through the emptiness of my house, searching for remnants of things that were not to be found. I called Gloria but she didn’t answer. I called Lidia and got the same. I called my lover—not that one but the new one—though hearing her voice made me feel worse than before and so I told her I was travelling and made a date to see her next week. I went for a drink, went for a drive, went to Colossal for a time, and then back home where I got in bed only to find the space around me too wide. An ocean of room with Gloria gone. I thought about Cara then Lidia and Gloria again. I called out, “Hello?” just to hear a voice. Fred appeared in the dark and I stared long enough to make out the wag of his tail.
This morning, I wrote a fresh scene for my novel. I have no idea where the book is going now but the scenes have a density to them, an emotional tick, like the undercurrent of a great swell, and from this at least I am wise enough to let the momentum pull me along. I write of Matt sitting up in the early evening, waiting for Cara as she is late tonight. He has fed the kids, has fixed a macaroni casserole, which he keeps warm for her; careful with the heat, he protects what he has made with a tinfoil covering and sets the temperature to what he thinks is safe. When she comes home, he is reviewing the poem he’s working on, the narrator describing a trip taken years ago to England with a lover who has since vanished completely from his life. The old Ankerwyche Yew there by the Thames two thousand years old where kings courted queens in the grass grown and gone. He has seen up close again and again seen in pictures recognizes the earth and sky the branches as they reach like hands muddy strewn with fronds of spiny needles at play forever.
He asks if she is hungry and she says she wants to shower first. He returns to the kitchen. Outside there are young children playing. She comes down and asks about Eli and Lia and he tells her they have come and gone. Somehow the phrase upsets her and she says, “You should have told them to wait and have dinner with me.”
“I texted you,” he says. “You were not forgotten.”
“Even so,” she grumbles still. She knows she is being unreasonable, but can’t quite stop.
He serves her casserole on a white plate, puts the plate down on the table while asking once more, “Are you hungry?”
Afterward they watch TV, first Netflix and then the news. In conversation she speaks as if distracted, sips her wine slowly. At ten she goes to bed. He stays downstairs, turns the TV off, and sits for a time in the dark where he thinks about her distance, her displeasure with him even as he admitted yesterday his judgment was off, that he never should have turned down the Zell and would see if he couldn’t still get the slot. He expected this to please her, but she became even more incensed and accused him of playing two sides against the middle, of getting what he wanted and then paying lip service to her concerns. “Honestly.” She said nothing more, went outside and worked a hoe into their garden soil before returning to watch House of Cards.
It’s close to midnight by the time he heads to bed. The moon has set itself outside their window, a white sliver of ice, and he follows the ray across the floor, finds his wife, and slides in beside her, silent enough for now, and warms his feet.
•
Cara is out in the yard but I have not spoken with her today. I wonder if she said anything to Matt about last night, I wonder if this is why Matt is calling, though somehow I suspect not. I’m working with Michelle at Colossal this afternoon, and when Matt calls I suggest we meet at Fendunckle’s at five. Fred is waiting downstairs and I take him with me to the studio. I do not stop out back and speak with Cara first, but head straight to my car.
Michelle is already at Colossal when I arrive. I apologize again for yesterday, I say that I’ve given her songs a good deal of thought and have several suggestions. The best of Michelle’s material is a tune titled “Bury Me Whole.” We record the piece with an altered chorus and a piano placed beneath the lines of her guitar. Our effort is definitely an improvement and Michelle is pleased when we finish. I suggest we sleep on the cut and talk tomorrow. Cara texts just as I am getting ready to go meet Matt. She says she didn’t realize I had left, asks if we can talk. Possibly later, I type back.
Matt is waiting outside as Fred and I arrive. We find a table on the patio and I loop Fred’s leash beneath the leg of my chair. I have forgotten to eat lunch, and, starved, I order a Reuben. We chat briefly about Colossal and Michelle before Matt tells me w
hy he called. Distressed, he confides about the error he made, his prideful decision concerning the Zell and that he is wishing now for a do-over. “If there is any chance,” he asks, and I, too, give him a sad look and say no, the invitations went out last evening and everyone accepted. “I see,” he says. “It’s just that,” and here he presents his situation with Cara.
How mad she is and how worried this makes him. Such a concern, he can’t really say how things got to this point, but here they are and what a mess he’s made and while the issue isn’t new, the subject of his reticent ambition, there seems something different and more toxic in her complaint this time.
I let him talk, listen as he speaks of Cara’s attitude toward him now and how she regards his contentment as a weakness. He has ordered McDowell’s rum on the rocks. I’m not familiar with McDowell’s and never drink rum straight. I sip at my own drink and wait for Matt to continue. He rubs his neck, pushes his sunglasses up, and tells me, “Being a poet there’s little to wish for beyond the writing. I thought for a time I might teach at a university, and when my poems began to publish I did apply for a few positions. Maybe I should have accepted the offers. Cara wanted me to. She was willing to move. I was offered a position at Pepperdine and Cara could have worked year-round in the California sun. Instead I liked the high school and decided to stay.”
“There is certainly nothing wrong with that.” I have every intention of defending Matt here, I am quite capable of playing two sides against the middle and, having come this far, am fully invested in seeing things through to the end. Matt reaches down and pets Fred; he appreciates my support and insists he was naïve not taking the Zell, that he should have realized the decision would upset Cara, that her regard for his lack of ambition was a stew steeping all these years, and now the issue with the Zell has tipped the pot. He wrings his hands, sips more rum, and says, “She sees this as a pattern, my unwillingness to do more.”
Liars Page 9
