The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  This was the weirdest fight I had ever been in.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I was afraid to admit I was afraid.” I pulled my last punch and got off of him. “Get out.”

  “You get out,” he said. “The duplex was my idea.”

  You had to love this guy. There he was laying on his back, bleeding, clearly a beaten man, and he was telling me to get out.

  Jerry Ripley

  After the fight, I got up, a little wobbly. My head ached. But in some ways I had never felt better. It’s a lot easier to live if you’re not afraid to die.

  Cliff had already left the kitchen, and I could hear him running the water in the bathroom. I walked over to the sink and cleaned myself up. I wondered how I looked; whether the visual would match the throbbing I felt on various parts of my face.

  Then I headed toward the bedroom, wondering if we were going to do it all over again. I felt my heart beating. But the anticipation, I decided, was far worse than the actual fighting. And I think that goes for a lot of things in life.

  I entered the bedroom, unsure of what I would find. The scene I saw was both remarkable and unremarkable at the same time. Unremarkable was the ordinary picture of a man packing his things. Remarkable was that it was Cliff who was doing it.

  Without looking up, he said, “You win, Marciano.”

  We shook hands, and then I was alone. I think the feeling side of me died a little that night. Not really, but maybe it was just under more control. As a matter of fact, after Cliff left, I decided not to feel anything. At least for the night. There would be plenty of time to think and analyze and to feel. At that moment all I wanted to do was ice my face, brush my teeth, and hit the hay. That’s exactly what I did. And two minutes later I was asleep.

  I guess I didn’t know until about day four or five how alone I had really been. That was the day that Barbara came back. I was coming home from work, and she greeted me with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  Of course, I hadn’t even known she was gone since she had apparently left for New York a few days after I had left for Independence. I had thought it was a little strange that I hadn’t seen her around, but you know how it is, we all get busy. If anything, I figured she’d been burning the midnight oil at work, trying to forget about Dot.

  “It is so good to see you, Jerry,” she said. I loved seeing that smile again. Then, before I could say another word, she apologized for the way she had talked to me after Dot had left. She felt terrible about the whole thing.

  “I was pretty rough on you,” she said.

  I grinned and told her to forget it. I had said all the wrong things that day and had put myself in the line of fire, I told her.

  Sitting on the patio, drinking Cokes, we caught up with each other in regards to all that had been going on. It was one of those perfect Southern California nights, and I felt so comfortable just slumping down on the patio furniture.

  “It has been one hell of a couple of weeks,” she said.

  “Yes, and you know what’s strange now? We’re a couple and yet each of us is living alone. Hey, maybe we should get married for real now.”

  “Are you kidding? Men are disgusting.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I feel the same way about women.”

  She chuckled, and I lit a couple of cigarettes for us.

  “What are we going to do now?” she asked. “Now that it’s only the two of us. To the outside world it looks like only half the duplex is occupied.”

  We both considered things a moment.

  “Well…I guess the Lonigans have taken an extended vacation. A second honeymoon! So glorious, they aren’t ever coming back!” I said. “And now we’re back where we started. Two homosexuals, each living alone. I never expected things to end up this way.”

  Barbara raised her Coke. “To the duplex.”

  “To the duplex.” And we clinked our bottles.

  “I guess it could be a lot worse,” Barbara said. “Imagine if I had been ‘married’ to Cliff and you’d been ‘married’ to what’s her name…”

  “Dot.”

  “Yeah, Dot. If you had been ‘married’ to Dot and they both left, can you imagine?”

  “Do you think people would think they ran off together?

  She gasped. “Positively scandalous.”

  We laughed a moment and held hands. And then we looked at the stars.

  “Are you really angry with Dot?” I asked after a while.

  “Not anymore. Now I just miss her. My heart just absolutely aches for her.”

  I looked over and saw the tears collecting in her eyes. I squeezed her hand tighter.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, first shaking her head ‘no’ and then ‘yes’.

  There was no music and no reason to dance. Other than the fact that I really thought Barbara could just use a really good hug.

  Barbara and I are both planners, both lawyers, and we liked to think ahead. Nevertheless, on the issue of what to do with our beautifully planned duplex, built for four but being used by only two, we put any decisions on hold for the time being—including the issue of paying the rent. Speaking for myself, I had grown weary of trying to figure everything out; the simple striving for perfection was a strain and, in fact, not simple at all. When we ran into nosy neighbors, for now, our story was simply that Cliff’s mother was ill, and that the Lonigans moved back to Michigan for the time being, to attend to her needs. And no, we were not sure when they would be back.

  Even this little narrative was not planned out. Barbara thought of it on the spot when she ran into Mrs. Murphy at the market one Saturday afternoon. She told me about it afterwards in order to keep our stories straight. Since then, the same story was told three or four more times. I guess you can say we had more than a couple of curious neighbors.

  And so things went. It was an adjustment, but we had one another, and as a result, we grew very close to each other.

  Barbara was dealing with quite a bit, and I was happy that I could be there for her. She had just lost her father as well as Dot in a very brief period of time. In some ways I think losing Dot was harder on her. She was, to be quite direct, used to her father being out of her life, and I think she viewed their final days together as a victory in many ways and was so grateful for the opportunity to make amends.

  As for Dot, Barbara was devastated, and she ached with a painful longing for her missing friend and companion. And love of her life. But she also had that beautiful mind. One that helped her forge ahead and analyze and, I think, in some ways became a better person for it.

  Whatever anger she had, seemed to turn philosophical. Dot had taken a straight and narrow path. She had made her decision and would take the good with the bad.

  Anyway, that was my amateur psychiatrist analysis of the situation. And I couldn’t help but feel proud of Barbara for how she was coping with things.

  As for me and my loss of Cliff, I surprised myself by how well I was dealing with it. It’s so strange to say but up until recently, I think deep down I really didn’t like myself much.

  “I guess he just was not who I thought he was,” I told Barbara, about Cliff.

  She sighed. “Or not who you wanted him to be.”

  Barbara and I began doing a lot of things together. Drive-in movies, seeing ball games over at Gilmore Field, bowling, watching television, playing pinochle, and our marketing.

  But the most consistent activity for us was having cocktails nightly after work. She liked to have them over on the girls’ side of the duplex because I know she likes everything a certain way. “It’s so hard to kick a lifetime of horrible habits like being responsible—well, too responsible. That and wanting everything to be a certain way,” she said about the topic one night.

  But I was fine with it. Besides, it m
ade me feel more like I was “going out” when I came over to her side.

  I don’t know if it was the cocktails, her sense of loneliness, or the proverbial full moon, but one night when Barbara and I were sitting close, she began kissing me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but I was loose enough to kiss her back.

  We began undressing and rubbing against each other, and my mind was really racing at this point. Not that the feeling was overwhelming, but I suppose I did have some curiosity about what it would be like to be with a woman. And as far as I knew, Barbara had never been with a man before. But still, it didn’t feel quite right. If I was going to have this experience, there would be no one I would have rather have it with than Barbara, but at the same time I did not want to jeopardize our friendship. I also didn’t relish the idea of rejecting her, especially not in her current state. But it quickly became apparent to me that I might have ended up rejecting her anyway and in a pretty visual way at that—I was not becoming aroused, so to speak. I wanted to believe that a homosexual not being able to perform with a lesbian would not be too insulting to her, but still I wasn’t sure how she might take it.

  As we kissed and undressed each other, Barbara began talking. “It just feels so good to hold somebody. To be close again.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “But enough to resort to heterosexuality?” I’m not sure if I meant it as a joke or…how I meant it. I just said it. And for some reason I kept talking. “You know how you’ve said you like to feel settled? Well, that’s all you need at this stage of your life—imagine if you find out you’re straight.”

  In any event, she dropped her head before throwing it back in a fit of laughter. “Resort! To sink—to that level!” she screamed through her cackling. I felt a sense of relief until her laughter somehow morphed into tears. Then she hugged me before ultimately ending up with her head in my lap. The tears continued to flow as I stroked her hair.

  “I don’t know why you put up with me,” she said as she calmed down, still breathing hard.

  “I don’t know, either. I want a divorce,” I said, hoping at this point she could handle a joke like that. It turned out she could, telling me she’d phone her lawyer tomorrow.

  One Saturday I was over visiting on Barbara’s side when the doorbell rang. She was doing the dishes as we talked in the kitchen, and she asked me to get it. I could tell from her reaction—her face and the way her hands instinctively touched her hair—that her first thought was that it might be Dot. I don’t want to give the impression that Barbara had been acting like a nervous Nellie, thinking she saw Dot behind every mailbox or at every dime store she passed. Not at all. But as a girl with an analytical mind, it was only natural that she’d think about such things on occasion.

  The first thing I saw when I flung open the door was a wide familiar grin.

  “Jerry, how are you?”

  Bob. Bob Mitchell. The petition guy.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Well, I’m nothing if not persistent, right Jerry?” Then he laughed. “Listen, I know it’s your Saturday, so I won’t keep you. I just need five seconds of your time, just long enough to sign your name.” Then he thrust his pen out and cradled his petition my way. I instinctively reached for the pen and he adjusted his arms. I tapped the pen against my other hand. It was a moment of dread.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Bob.” I was stalling. How many times could I go through this song and dance?

  His smile widened.

  “Because I, uh, I want to show you something.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “The seat of my pants.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My ass, Bob.”

  Then I did a half turn and slapped my backside. He looked confused which only spurred me on.

  “I’d also like to show you the outside of my door,” I said, as I slammed it in his face.

  I stood there for a half second. My heart was beating, excited, nervous. I was one big goose bump as I felt a strange tingle shower over me.

  When I turned around, I saw Barbara standing there by the kitchen door with a dishrag and plate in hand.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Oh!” I said, turning away from her. And then I grabbed the knob and flung the door open again.

  Bob had only walked a few feet and was heading away from the house, but the sound of the door caused him to turn back around in my direction.

  “Bob, Bob, listen, I also wanted to say that if Jackie Robinson can play in Ebbets Field, a law-abiding Negro can live in my neighborhood any day of the week as far as I’m concerned.”

  Then I tossed his pen to him, purposely putting some English on it so he would look like a jerk trying to catch it. He did.

  As I went to close the door, something else caught my eye—or someone, actually. It was Cliff.

  When Barbara saw Cliff, she asked him if he had Dot with him. She was clearly joking but the question also seemed, to me at least, to sum up the condition we were all in. It was a big gray area where no one quite knew where he stood. The four musketeers, if we ever were that, had splintered, maybe even disintegrated.

  I sensed something else in Barbara who is one of the most loyal people I have ever met. I noticed a certain guardedness in her around Cliff. Congenial but guarded. She and I had grown close, and I felt her allegiance shift toward me. In an odd way, I realized this shift made me want to protect Cliff somehow. Maybe it’s because I despise mob rule, even if it is only two against one.

  “Do you mind if I stay awhile?” Cliff asked when we were alone. We had walked through the passageway in the closet and were now sitting in the living room on the boys’ side.

  I was surprised he was back. I really didn’t expect to ever see him again. And I had accepted that. I think I was equally surprised that he was asking me.

  I’m usually pretty literal, but this time, instead of answering his question directly, I told him to sit down and relax.

  For a moment we just looked at each other. He spoke first.

  “So, I guess you think I’m some kind of jerk, a real louse, huh?” He said it with a slight smirk like he was somehow proud of the idea.

  I shrugged. “I was wondering about your eye. That couldn’t be from our skirmish. That was weeks ago.”

  “No,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, you don’t hit that hard from what I recall.” And there was that smirk again. Same old Cliff.

  “That’s a souvenir from a different fight I had a couple of days ago,” he said.

  “Yeah? What was this one all about?”

  He gestured toward me with his pack of Luckies, and I took one, lighting it myself.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you. It might make you a little sore.”

  “Since when do you care about that?”

  “Okay, okay. So anyway, I found a little spot to camp one weekend and came down into town on the second night for a few drinks at this little dive. I was slamming them back pretty hard, feeling tight, and I, uh, I guess I forgot myself. My lips got pretty loose, and I guess I started running my mouth and my fingers through this guy’s hair for some reason.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to tell me that?” I said.

  “Well, I figured you wouldn’t want to hear about me and other guys.”

  “Yeah, that whole hair thing is pretty devastating. Cliff, I’m not sure if you’re aware or not, but I don’t particularly care what you do anymore.”

  He seemed taken aback. The smirk was gone. I wondered for the first time since he’d returned if we might have another fight. And just at that moment, it occurred to me that if Cliff stopped joking, he’d be forced to look life square in the face. And I don’t think he liked that idea too much. Which is why the thought of him taking a poke at me had popped into my head. Hitting me would be a lot less painful for him
, let’s face it.

  “You really think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he asked, obviously amused by the idea.

  “No. Just different.” I wondered if I was lying.

  In Cliff’s world—advertising—it seems to me the competition is never just different. It’s worse. The ad man makes sure of it.

  He sucked on his cigarette before saying anything.

  “Anyway, they beat me up. Yeah, there was two of them. His buddy jumped in. I told him to take a number, that I’d be right with him, but he didn’t buy it. And as I’m being pummeled—” He looked at me, a little sheepish. “Like I said, I was pretty tight, not in any shape to do much damage—I notice a sheriff over in the corner of the bar, watching. A second later I took one to the stomach. And that’s when he comes over, the sheriff. He pushes the two guys out of the way and leads me out of the bar just as I’m getting the air back in me. He told me he saw the whole thing. Then he called me a…”

  “Yeah?”

  “He called me a fairy. And told me he ought to run me in.”

  I was watching Cliff’s face. I noticed he was beginning to grimace, and I saw a slight shiver that seemed to travel down the length of his body. I had never seen him like this. Then he sat up straight and continued with his story.

  “Anyway, we struggled a minute, never mind the details. He told me I was lucky he had stopped in for a beer on his way home that night. That those guys might have killed me. He mentioned honor killings, implying they might have gotten away with it.” Then he asked me how much money I had. I handed him my wallet. He took it all—thirteen dollars—and told me to get the hell out of here. Next time he’d arrest me.

  I shook my head. “What a crumb.”

  “Actually, I was lucky he was crooked.”

  I must have looked confused, and he went on.

  “Think about it. If he was an honest cop, he would have done his job. He would have taken me in. Booked me. The whole picnic basket.”

  I’d have to give that one some thought. It was just like Cliff to come up with an angle like that. No one thinks the way he does, I thought.

  “Now look, the way I see it, you weigh the options that are there. Not the ones you wish were there. Given that, I’ll take a dirty cop over one who dots all his “I”s and crosses all his “T”s and follows orders, Monday through Sunday.”