by Shelly Oria
When I get up to brush my teeth, Zoë opens the door. I’m fine, I say before she has a chance to ask. Are you sick or something? she asks. I’m fine, I say again, tasting toothpaste. I’m sorry about yesterday, she says, it wasn’t cool of me to leave you and go with that guy. She clings to my back now, hugs my shoulders, and looks at both of us in the bathroom mirror. Besides, he kind of smelled like burnt rubber, she says in an attempt to make me smile. I don’t. You know it’s not you, Pie, she whispers in my ear, and then kisses it; it’s just my fucking daddy issues, it has nothing to do with you. But I’ll work on it, she adds when I don’t respond, I will. I try to ignore her and focus on brushing my teeth; she reaches for my toothbrush with her right hand, and I stop brushing and look in the mirror. We look stupid; I have white toothpaste foam coming out of my mouth, and Zoë’s eyes are still sticky with sleep. I look sad; she looks relaxed. She kisses my cheek, her eyes still on the mirror. Ron and I had a really good talk when I got home, she says softly; everything will be okay, you’ll see. Her voice is all promise, and I feel a sharp pain at the bottom of my stomach, my need to believe her.
* * *
I spit and say slowly, What about Keith Buckley? Zoë’s eyes go from the mirror to the sink. She says, I don’t want to talk about it; and then, It’s not important. I say, Maybe it is. Zoë lets her head fall gently to one side, and her fingers circle the zipper of her sweatshirt. When they settle on it, they pull it down a bit, then up, again and again. She says, I just … I got it in my head that if Keith doesn’t notice me, then it’s a sign that I’ll never succeed in anything, you know? She looks at me now. But I’m done, Pie, I swear, she says and shakes her head. Done. I put my hand over hers, quieting her zipper. Zo, it’s impossible not to notice you, I say. Zoë gives a short laugh, and we stand there like that for a few seconds. Then she says, Remember that guy with the dreadlocks from the bookstore? The weirdest thing happened. I saw him again when I was on my way back, and he just walked up to me, in the middle of the street at like four a.m., and said, Go home. Maybe it wasn’t him, I say, maybe it was some crazy guy. It was him, Zoë says, I recognized him, and I’m sure he recognized me, too. What did you do? I ask her. I don’t know, she says, it was this moment from a dream; I think I said, That’s what I’m doing, I’m going home.
Almost out the door, she turns around and says, But listen, Pie, the Keith stuff, that’s just between us, okay? I wait, then ask, Why? She’s already on her way to the kitchen, her arm stretching in front of her to open the freezer door. She giggles and says, You’re the best, Pie, because she thinks my question is a clever way of saying “of course.” This is what I think: Nothing’s changed.
I am alone in the bathroom now. I look at myself in the mirror, foam-free. I hear Zoë in the kitchen fixing us all a Saturday-morning breakfast. I’m no longer nauseated, and the idea of breakfast is tempting. The only thing Zoë knows how to make is French toast, but it’s the best I’ve ever tasted. I think: This is what there is, this is my life. I think: Do I want it or not?
Zoë turns on the stereo to wake Ron up. Radiohead or Coldplay? she shouts, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Then she’s in the bathroom again, holding a bottle of maple syrup. I think she’s about to ask what’s taking me so long, but this is what she says: Ron thinks I should go to Israel with you in the summer; he says we’d have a blast and that we shouldn’t miss out just because of him. What do you say?
* * *
I see us on the plane, right before landing, and I hear people clapping as the wheels hit the ground. Zoë laughs. I’ve told her about this silly Israeli tradition, the way I’ve told her so many other Israel stories, the way I’ve been telling her about Tel Aviv since the day we met. I say, It’s stupid, you know; this culture treats pilots as heroes. Zoë says, It’s not stupid, and then: It’s exciting. She tugs on my earlobe the way she sometimes does, and peeks out the tiny airplane window. Then she says, We need to call Ron right when we land; we promised. I say, We will, but I don’t think he’s worried.
Ron ducks under Zoë’s arm to get into the bathroom. He starts to pee, but then his face twitches. It smells like puke in here, he says. Then he looks at me, still peeing. You all right?
VICTOR, CHANGED MAN
1. Natalie’s Return
Two a.m. on a dreary Tuesday, a knock on the door and Natalie was in the doorway, her eyes shining more purple than ever. I immediately went to the bedroom and shook Stuart and Martha awake. This was lovely, I said when Stuart opened his eyes, looking at me like he couldn’t quite place me, but I need you and your wife to leave now; the woman I love is suddenly in the doorway, against all odds.
* * *
The man Natalie left was a very different version of me. Two years later, I am no longer him. He was a reckless mess: the kind of man who looks up at the moon on a gray night and starts laughing; the kind of man who treats ointments as gifts. Beauty, then, was a code I was trying to break.
She just woke up one morning, looked at me, and started packing. I couldn’t blame her. She was out before the first bird started singing, which I’ve always been grateful for. Asleep, I was spared the humiliation of pleading.
I’ve always assumed she was done with me for good, in part because the note she left said, “Victor, I’m done with you for good.”
2. The Fog of the Morning After
In my living room, Natalie showed no interest in conversation. She let her hands look for answers in my pants, or else she had no questions at all. I said, Nat, you will be happy to hear that I am now a changed man, a better man. I said, I think we should discuss the terms on which … But Natalie’s left hand made me forget what I wanted to discuss.
The last thing I remember that night is Natalie saying, No way, Victor, I’ve got to get some sleep, when I grazed the space between her breasts with my thumb for the third time. I didn’t mean … I said; I just wanted to feel close to you. That was a lie—I did mean. I meant to have sex with Natalie again because her skin was smooth like Teflon, and every time I thought maybe now I’ll get a good grip. But Natalie must have believed me, because she said, You’ve always confused sex with comfort, Victor. That’s your problem.
Already, I had a problem again.
This was five a.m., and within seconds Natalie was grinding her teeth next to me, and I thought, God, I missed her. I do remember looking out the window and thinking, This is one foggy night, but it didn’t seem like anything the morning would fail to disperse. My last thought before closing my eyes was this: If Natalie doesn’t notice my change, or if she leaves before she does, have I actually changed at all?
* * *
By the time Natalie and I woke up, the cloud consistency must have been at stage two if not three, and you could see nothing except your own thoughts. Natalie? I said, and my question mark hung heavy in the foggy air, suggesting for a moment that last night was just another fantasy. Natalie said, Victor, I’m scared. I followed the sound of her voice, hands stretched forward until I felt her body, and she said, Ouch, because apparently I got her straight in the eye. Jesus, Victor, Jesus Christ, she kept saying, and we started to walk carefully toward the bathroom so she could wash her eye. Did you put something on your fingernails, Victor? Natalie asked; it burns like hell. In my tiny bathroom we found better prospects. The square metal-framed window looked like a floating silver cube, emanating light. What is that? Natalie asked, sounding pissed instead of happy. I said, Light, light, we can see light through that window! This is east, I added, we’re turning east now, so I guess maybe things are not as bad in the east. That doesn’t make any sense, Victor, Natalie said and sighed.
I almost said: Nat, this isn’t my fault, or: At least we can see each other now, or: Nat, try to cheer up. But I thought: Change change change. So I sat down next to her on the edge of the bathtub, touched her chin gently, and said, Nat, It’s going to be okay, I promise.
3. Faux Heroism
The fog took almost three days to clear. By the end of the second
day, fog clearers were threatening to go on strike, and Natalie said, I knew it, I knew it. She meant that government people always look for excuses not to work. Or she meant she should never have come back to me; Natalie hates government people, but she also often regrets her choices, so it was hard to tell.
I said, Nat, maybe we can clear some fog on our own. She said, That’s stupid, there’s only two of us. I said, We can form a posse, recruit people with good intentions. This was my only chance to prove to Natalie how changed I was. Suddenly I felt an appetite for leadership. I drew road maps, diversion plans, tools we might need. But then I looked at Natalie. She was shaking her head. It’s not our job, Victor, she said; the government’s supposed to do it. I should have known, of course, that’s what Natalie would say. She used to have a Don’t Enable Incompetence sticker. She believed passivity was the purest form of protest. What kind of changed man was I, to forget my girlfriend’s values? It was too late, and I figured honesty was all I had left. I said, I’m trying to show you growth here, Natalie, just give me a chance. That’s not growth, Natalie said; that’s faux heroism, very common among males in your age group.
* * *
By that time we could see each other clearly, and every hour the world outside looked a little more like something you could trust. The satellite signal kept coming and going, and Natalie spent her hours staring at the screen so as not to miss the next time when the clouds and the winds and the satellite plates all aligned themselves in a way that allowed news reporters to appear briefly in my living room, explaining things about cloud consistency and evacuation efforts, providing updates about the cleaners’ strike. To Natalie, these were things of great importance. A woman needs a good countdown when she wants to leave a man.
I wasn’t exactly sure what faux heroism meant, but with our reunion at a state of such acute fragility, I couldn’t afford any ignorance. I didn’t ask. I thought, Maybe there’s a thing called faux heroism that masquerades as change in grown men fighting for love; I thought, Maybe that’s why I kept doubting my change, kept questioning its veracity; I thought, Maybe once again, Natalie is right.
On the morning of the fourth day, when we woke up, we could see the mountains through my bedroom window, and I knew we were down to minutes. Really, it was safe enough to leave the night before, but Natalie was being kind. She stretched and said, Morning, in her sleepy voice; already, I was missing her. I stared out the window, hating the mountains, the clear horizon. I said, Just no notes this time, okay? She rolled herself on top of me, smelling of dreams, and said, No notes, I promise, and I knew I should make our last time long enough to hold a little bit of future, long enough to be both a moment and a memory.
4. Flowers Wilt in Sexless Air
It’s been a week now since Natalie left, and I’m gravely considering abandoning this righteous version of me, going back to the old one. Change, I’ve learned, is rarely a good idea. If only I could stop imagining Natalie’s purple eyes watching everything I do, there would be nothing left to consider, and I would be my old self again: immature, unreliable, self-centered. But those eyes, they’re the toughest audience a man can have. For now, I keep trying.
* * *
One problem: when Natalie left again, she must have taken with her any physical desire I’ve ever had. For the first time in my life, my body is numb with indifference.
When Martha comes over to visit, she looks at my window box with concern and says, Even your flowers can’t take it anymore. At first I assume she just wants my attention—I’ve felt that sort of thing from Martha a couple times before, back when she and Stuart were living with me—but then I look and see she’s right: the flowers in my window box are wilting. I still can’t do it. I feel inadequate, too selfish even for plants, too selfish to take care of anything more alive than a wall. My flowers are begging for the chemical sex releases to the air, and I can’t give it to them. I think: Maybe I can at least have sex with myself? But I cringe at the thought; it feels like I just threw up and someone is offering me candy. I think: I never should have gotten that window box, I’m too self-absorbed for gardening; I think: Selfish is the opposite of changed. Then I think, Well, when I bought it, I never knew Natalie would come back, then leave again; I had every intention to produce enough chemicals for many, many flowers. But then I think: My poor flowers; they don’t care about reasons, they just want to live.
While I am thinking all these thoughts, Martha is tidying up my room, folding clothes, spraying Lysol. It stinks of loneliness in here, she says and pouts, her nose a small wrinkled button.
I look at Martha and say, If you and Stuart are willing to go at it for my flowers, you can live here rent-free. She says, We don’t pay bills and we don’t pay for food. Deal, I say.
5. Charisma and the Average Woman
Three a.m. on a bleak Monday night, and Stuart is suddenly in my bedroom. She’s not coming back, he says. Jesus, I know that, what the fuck, I say. I meant Martha, he says. Martha’s gone? I say; we had a deal—what about my flowers? Then I feel bad for asking that first. I’m sorry, man, I say. But I’m not really; I can’t feel too much these days.
Then I feel bad for not genuinely feeling bad, and I know the night is over. I sit up in my bed. So what happened? I ask Stuart and realize: I am a changed man, a man who cares enough to ask questions; I cannot be unchanged.
* * *
Stuart says, You know how women are about charisma. I say, I’m not sure. He says, You know, the whole concept of audience—they need it, like, constantly. They do? I ask. Oh sure, he says. It’s all projections and shit, you know. If you’re not a good audience, they don’t feel charismatic. If they don’t feel charismatic, they’re not in the mood to fuck. Then there’s no sex, your flowers start to die, and you’re fantasizing about other men, and then they catch you and say, So the whole threesome business, the whole orgy business—all this time you were simply gay. Every time it’s the same bullshit, man, and I’m sick of it.
Charisma, huh, I say. Charisma, he says, and fingers my cheekbones.
6. A Call for Action
In the kale aisle a week later, Stuart and I are choosing our greens when Martha appears. Look, I don’t care what you two got going on, she says, that’s not why I’m here. How many times do I have to tell you, Stuart says. Martha rolls her eyes. I thought you might want to know, she says, looking at me: the fog’s not gone; they just pushed it over to the docks. It’s always something about the docks with you, Stuart says; not everyone is out to get the poor all the time, Martha. She ignores him. Natalie is stuck there, she tells me. I just thought you should know.
* * *
As I am throwing things into my large backpack, Stuart says, It’s probably not even true. I can’t take that chance, I tell him. We’d have heard about it, he says, if things down there really got so bad. I give him a look. You know very well if the government doesn’t want something reported, it doesn’t get reported, I say. Either way, he says, she’s not your problem anymore; isn’t that the point of breaking up? I tell him I won’t let anything bad happen to her. Stop it, Stuart says, you know the hero talk turns me on; why would you do that when you’re practically out the door?
7. A Whole Lot of Something Else
Closest I can drop you off are the downtown gates, the cabdriver says, no cars going to the docks anymore. I nod at him through the rearview mirror. I don’t understand how no one is talking about this, I say. He shrugs. It ain’t news when there ain’t nothing new about it, he says. It’s fogged like this before? I ask, but of course he’s not talking about the fog; he’s talking about the government moving problems instead of solving them. He looks at me to see if I’m being funny. Ain’t no fog in the Main City now, is there, he says.
* * *
When he stops the car, I can’t see the gates; everything ahead of us is a gray shade of white. I am still, my fingers not reaching for money. In my own apartment I couldn’t find Natalie without hurting her eye; why did I think I could sa
ve her? I imagine walking into something sharp, and dying, the blood pouring out of me invisible in the fog. No harm in changing your mind, my man, the cabdriver says; this wouldn’t be my first round trip today. You don’t understand, I say, still not moving. Sure I do, he says, you got a woman in there. He turns around and looks at me, squints to see better. Or maybe a man? he asks, and then concludes, Someone you love. I do, I say, but that’s hardly the point. The cabdriver chuckles—perhaps thinking I’m joking, perhaps laughing at me. For years I was a man who’d never give a massage unless he wanted one himself, I tell him, who’d never make a salad for someone unless he himself was hungry. But I’m trying to change, I say, my voice cracking on the last word. Then go home and make a salad for someone, the cabdriver says; hell, bake them a pie! This here is a whole lot of something else. Just give me a minute, I ask. It’s your dime, my man, he says, but let me tell you. I seen ready and I seen unready, and you sure ain’t in the first group.
* * *
The wheels make an awful sound when we’re U-turning, and I wonder if it’s the engine or some animal trapped underneath it.
8. A Full Garden
Every time the doorbell rings, I imagine Natalie ringing it. Victor, she says, I’ve heard rumors that you’ve truly changed; are they true? Nat, I say, shaking, you’re alive. I was never in the docks, Natalie says, or she says, Yes, I got away. She looks behind me then, and her eyes widen. Victor, it’s like a full garden in here. It’s not what you think, Nat, I tell her; I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. I believe you, Natalie says, and I believe you’ve truly changed. I nod, tears in my eyes. Sometimes at that point she says, Victor, I’d like you to meet your son, and behind her I see a child, a beautiful boy with my skin and purple eyes. I pull both of them close to me and we hug. Come in, I tell them, come in.
