The Difference Between Women and Men

by Bret Lott

  But then had come that janitor, that fire. Maybe, Larry figured, he’d just made a left turn one street too early or one street too late, in this tract of homes. Maybe this house was just somebody else’s, a simple mistake.

  Then the garage door opened, not from the button—he’d finally given up, had in fact placed the car in reverse, so convinced he was of his error—to reveal to him his son, Lawrence, there in his headlights.

  His thirteen-year-old was pushing up the garage door from the inside, grimacing with the effort, the red emergency release handle from the opening device dangling above him once he’d gotten the door all the way up.

  “Hey, Dad!” he said, and waved, then stood to one side, made a sweeping gesture to usher him into the garage.

  Larry smiled, pulled in, parked.

  “How goes it?” Larry said, and climbed out. “What’s with the garage door opener?” he said. “And the lights?”

  The boy was a black shadow now that the headlights were off, weak evening light in from the open garage door useless. He believed Lawrence shrugged at the question. “I don’t know,” Lawrence said, then, “Promise you won’t be mad.”

  “Mad about what?” Larry said. “About the lights?” He came around the car, stood before his son. “Mad about what?”

  “Just promise,” the shadow said. “It’s no big deal, really. But you have to promise.”

  “All right,” he said, and wondered what this might all be about. “I promise.”

  Lawrence said, “I got a tattoo.”

  “You what?” He tried to focus on the figure before him. “You got a what?”

  “A tattoo,” Lawrence said, and now he saw his son moving, turning toward him, pushing up, he believed, his T-shirt sleeve. “A couple days ago. I saved up for it.” He paused, as though Larry might be able to see his arm in the dark. “I was waiting for the scab to come off before I showed it to you and Mom.”

  “You what?” Larry said again. “You’re thirteen years old!”

  “Dad,” his son said, “you promised. You promised me you wouldn’t get mad.”

  “Where is your mother?” he said, and brushed past his son, took the three steps up to the kitchen door, pushed it open, his son silent behind him, his moves, he knew, too quick and hard even to allow an answer. He would find her, see what she had to say about this.

  The kitchen was dark, the only light the pale purple in from the windows, so that it seemed he might be walking in a dream, the things around him—the refrigerator, the breakfast nook table, the sofa and chairs in the family room, the hall table, even the individual rungs of the banister as he mounted the stairs—as pale and meaningless as the empty sky outside.

  What was with these lights?

  He found Debbie in their bedroom, saw her—in the instant he pushed open the door—throw something from where she stood at her dresser to something big and dark lying on their bed.

  It was a suitcase, he made out, open.

  “This is it,” she said, “this is it, this is it.”

  “What are you doing?” Larry said, and came to the bed, saw sail from the dresser to the suitcase before him a wad of something. Clothing, he believed. Hers.

  “This is it,” she said, and slammed shut a drawer. He saw her figure bend at the waist, heard a drawer scrape open, saw more wads of clothing fly.

  “Honey,” he said. “Debbie,” he said, “what’s going on?”

  She stood then, and he heard her breathing, sharp and hard in the growing dark of their bedroom.

  “I’m having an affair,” she said, and then it seemed she burst, those sharp and hard breaths gone in an instant, replaced with sobs as open and clear as the day had seemed when he’d backed out of the driveway this morning, as open and clear as when he’d put that red flag up to signal the mailman.

  Had he known this was coming? he wondered. Were there signs? What had he missed?

  He turned, sat on the edge of the bed, his back to his sobbing wife. She sobbed, still at the dresser, and he wondered what words there were for this, for something he hadn’t foreseen.

  What might he say, now that everything had been lost? And did his job even matter now, the death of a janitor and all those schoolchildren forced to hold class in camp tents donated by families in town nothing more than an odd item in the newspaper, a funny photograph he and Mr. Hemley had laughed over just yesterday morning, when the world lay before them, untainted and pure?

  What about his son’s tattoo?

  And what was with these lights?

  He looked up, saw the switch by the door, the one that controlled the ceiling fan in here, and the lights.

  He’d laid out the wiring schematic on this house himself. He’d done that work, and for the last seven years had rested each night with the good knowledge he’d done his work well, all the lights working, and that ceiling fan, even the garage door opener.

  But what would happen were he now to flip on the lights in here at that switch plate? Would he, too, fry as had the janitor? Would his wife sob even louder were he to die here, his own house razed by his inept schematics?

  Was this how his life would end? he wondered, and believed, perhaps, it already had: His wife was having an affair, his thirteen-year-old had a tattoo, his boss had left with the softball trophy.

  Why not try? he wondered.

  He stood, went to the switch plate. Still Debbie sobbed, there at the dresser, and it seemed the few feet to that switch plate had suddenly become a maze a mile long, as much an ordeal as a day courting Laqueesha and Dorinda and avoiding the eyes of Benny O’Hearn, the bastard.

  He reached the wall, put his hand to the switch. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and here came a picture of that janitor in the moment before he touched those wires, beside him a galvanized bucket of clouded antiseptic water, a mop in the other hand, his feet planted square in the patch of wet linoleum he’d just finished cleaning.

  He opened his eyes then, blinked away that image. He’d done a good job on the wiring here. Yet he’d believed he’d done a good job on that Burger King napkin as well. Still, the school had burned down.

  And it came to him: Things happened, he only now knew, took strange twists away from you, and in a single second headed straight for hell in a handbasket with no input from you whatsoever.

  That, he finally realized, was the way things worked.

  He flipped up the switch.

  Nothing happened.

  “That’s nothing,” Debbie managed to say then, her voice winded, empty, relieved of itself for how openly and clearly she had sobbed. “That’s nothing,” she said again, and turned from the dresser, headed for the master bath. “Listen to this,” she said, and he followed her, saw her in the near black of the bathroom twist at the faucets of their double sinks. Immediately the room filled with sound, rapid-fire thuds from air-filled pipes.

  “No water,” she said. “No water, and no electricity.” She paused, and here were the sharp and hard breaths again. “I’m having an affair,” she said, and the sobbing began again.

  He’d had nothing to do with the plumbing in here, and for a moment felt relief, felt himself almost smile. He had nothing to do with the plumbing.

  But then his life came back to him, and he lost the smile.

  He turned, left her there in the bathroom, left the rapid-fire thuds and her sobbing, and went to the window across the dark room to see what this day’s last moments of light might bring.

  He saw out there a blue sky so dark and heavy he knew it would be only a moment or two before the black would take over completely, and stars would emerge like celestial master electricians come to jeer at him, his life out of his hands.

  “Citibank called today,” his wife sobbed from the bathroom. “They canceled the cards. They said they called TRW, too, and told them to put our name on their shit list.” She took in several quick breaths.

  He noticed then that no other lights were on in any of the houses he could see. Not in the Tolmans’ across
the street, or the Neezaks’ to their right, the Dohertys’ to their left. He saw no streetlamps, either, only darkened streets and a deep blue sky empty of stars, as though perhaps this were the end of the world, and civilization as he knew it—a garage door opener that worked, a faithful wife, the United States Postal Service picking up his mail—was finished. Done and done.

  “They put a lien on the house, too,” she sobbed. “The bank.” She took in more quick breaths. “And Ed Hemley,” she sobbed, “is great in bed.”

  His life, done and done.

  Then, out there in this evening he believed to be on the cusp of the Apocalypse, he saw the headlights of a car down on the street, moving slowly, stopping, moving slowly again, stopping before each house a moment, as though in search of an address, and he imagined it might very well be the same officer as had served papers on Mr. Hemley—Ed, now—come to get him, and he crossed his arms, held himself, waited for whatever might come next.

  It stopped next door at his neighbor’s house a moment, then pulled to his own.

  A white jeep, there at his mailbox.

  The mailman.

  He saw the mailman lean out, flip open the door on his mailbox, saw him extract small slips of paper, saw him insert some of his own. He saw all this beneath a sky as close to black as a sky might ever be, and still hold no stars, and thought it a miracle somehow, so dark out there, and yet light enough for him to see the quick flick of the mailman’s wrist, a practiced move as professional and smooth and confident in itself as anything he had ever seen, and then he saw the mailman look up to him, here in this darkened window, and saw, he believed, the mailman smile up at him, saw him wink, then wave, a brief gesture filled with possibility and courage.

  Larry felt his own hand move of its own accord, and he, too, waved, the same gesture a passing on of something: courage, he thought. Courage, and possibility.

  And one by one, throughout his neighborhood, he saw lights come on. Here, there, the next blocks over, then the Tolmans, and the Neezaks, and the Dohertys, until his hometown seemed a spray of celestial gifts, myriad constellations, a map of the galaxy, untainted and pure. Who needed stars? he thought.

  Then his own lights came on, first downstairs, and he saw that light he knew from every other night spill softly onto the sidewalk and lawn and driveway; next came upstairs, this room in which he stood with his wife, and all view of the night outside was suddenly gone, replaced by his own reflection in the glass, the lights on behind him, so that what he saw was a man, himself, with his arm up in a kind of snappy salute, confident in himself.

  Debbie had stopped sobbing, and he turned, saw her where he’d been on the edge of the bed. She was weeping now, carefully, gently, and he went to her, put his arm around her, held her.

  He heard water flowing now, saw from where they sat on the bed into the bathroom clear water stream from the faucets, the water back on.

  “I was lying. I’m not having an affair,” she wept. “I would never do that to you. I just want you to cherish me,” she wept. “That’s all.”

  He held her, held her close, watched the water flow, smelled his wife, her hair, that same shampoo she always used, and the phone rang.

  He would not answer it, he decided, chose instead to cherish her in this moment. But it rang only once anyway, and he held Debbie close, smelled her hair.

  Then it rang again, and though this time he thought perhaps he ought to answer—maybe this was Ed Hemley calling, begging Larry to come bail him out—the phone again rang only once, and no more.

  “There,” he whispered to Debbie. “I cherish you,” he whispered, “you know I cherish you,” and thought of the mailman’s wave, his own perfect copy in the glass reflection, and thought, too, of how he might get the library bid on his own. Hemley Electric, Inc., was ripe for a takeover, he thought. And the wiring wasn’t, finally, his own fault; Mr. Hemley had in fact given him the okay; no way was he liable for it. No way.

  He heard a small and tentative knock on the doorjamb, and turned, saw—standing in the doorway—Lawrence, who smiled, gave a small, tentative wave. “Can I come in?” he said.

  Debbie sniffed, sat up straight, dabbed at her eyes. She gave Larry a nod, a broken smile.

  “Come on in,” Larry said.

  Lawrence took a step into the room, and another. He said, “I answered the phone.” He shrugged. “The first one was somebody from Citibank.” He shrugged again, smiled. “The guy said they made a mistake, and now they have you down as paid up. The guy said he was sorry and that he’d called TRW, whoever that is.” He shrugged yet again, still smiled. “He said this TRW was wiping clean your life. That was what he said, ‘TRW is wiping clean your life.’ And they’ve upped your credit limit, too.”

  Larry looked at Debbie, whose smile was no longer broken but strong and healthy.

  “Who’s TRW?” Lawrence said, then, “And what’s a lien? Because that was what the second one was about. Some lady from Bank of America said the lien was off, and it was a big mistake, the mortgage was in.”

  “When you’re older,” Larry said, and felt himself smile, “you’ll understand about all this.” He patted the bed next to him, said, “Come sit down. It’s been a long day.”

  Lawrence came to the bed, sat beside him, his hands in his lap. He shrugged.

  Still Larry smiled, smiled at this faithful wife, a loving son, lights and water. He smiled at Citibank, and the mortgage, and the miracle of the mailman, the graceful bestowal of fortune he’d signaled was on its way with a smile and wave of his hand. All this, in just the smallest of gestures.

  “Can I show it to you now?” Lawrence said. “In the light?”

  “What?” Larry said, his smile grown to beaming now, the way the world worked no surprise at all, finally: a representative from the United States Postal Service had arrived, taken up those obligations, and sent them on their way, the world a wonderful place, full of possibility and courage. The way things worked.

  “My tattoo,” Lawrence said.

  “You’re just kidding, right?” Larry said, still beaming.

  “No,” Lawrence said, his own smile grown into its own beam, and he looked to Debbie, beaming on her own. They all beamed.

  Lawrence rolled up his T-shirt sleeve. He said, “I saved up for this for five months.”

  There at the top of his son’s shoulder was a tattoo, a jagged bolt of red lightning six inches long, its edges crisp and keen, beneath it a scroll, the word Dad stitched into the skin of his thirteen-year-old son’s arm.

  It was beautiful.

  “This isn’t one of those wash-off kid’s things, is it?” Larry asked.

  “Nope,” Lawrence said. “Permanent,” he said, and nodded.

  “Good,” Larry said. “Young people these days need something they can depend on,” he said, and put his free arm around him.

  He held his wife, held his son, and decided he would give his son a raise in his allowance, give him a boost toward the next tattoo, one for Debbie, and imagined a heart, pink and plump, on his other shoulder, Mom stitched there.

  Ed Hemley served with papers. That was something. And the janitor’s family would come out all right after this, once they’d settled out of court.

  Water flowed, light fell.

  What more could he ask?

  HE TOOK THE BOX DOWN FROM THE SHELF, FOUND ANOTHER PAIR of running shoes in it, as in every other box he’d pulled down. Eleven of them so far, and it looked in the dark of the top of the closet as though there were maybe ten or so more.

  Just shoe boxes stacked on the top shelf, in every one of them a worn-down pair of running shoes, some scuffed, some still with mud in the tracks of the soles, some with broken laces, some with Velcro straps pulled apart and put together so many times they no longer held.

  This was two days after the funeral, his father’s death a surprise: He was sixty-four, ran four miles every day, and just Sunday evening he’d talked to Paul on the phone, asked after Kate and David and Jill.
His voice had sounded fine, as predictable as ever: clear, sharp. So normal Paul had thought nothing of the conversation, merely filed it away as Dad’s Sunday evening call, him alive and well and two hours north, the words passed between them forgotten as easily as hanging up the phone.

  Then he’d gotten the call Monday morning, a doctor from the hospital in North Myrtle Beach. His father had died in the kitchen of cardiac arrest, just back from his morning run. He’d been able to call 911 himself, but had died before the paramedics made it over.

  Now here was Paul with these shoes, this empty condominium, his sister and two brothers already headed back to their lives a variety of states away, himself and his family left to sift through, report back.

  He brought down another box, opened it, saw another pair: New Balance, blue. Then he brought down the next, and the next, as though convinced somehow one of these might yield something else, some other shard of his father. Something.

  But they were all only shoes.

  Kate sat at the kitchen table, a stack of file folders before her. She had one open, her fingers moving through the papers, looking for what, Paul could not say. But she was working, doing something. Gathering information as though this were her job, and not simply the last evidence of her husband’s father. David and Jill were at the movies, a matinee, dispatched there by Kate, David quietly gleeful even through the shroud of grief both he and his sister wore: Though they had both sobbed openly at the gravesite only day before yesterday, David was in the car before Jill had on her jacket, month-old driver’s license in his wallet.