I Loved You More

by Tom Spanbauer

  One more glass of Montepulciano and Hank’s got his sunglasses on. The restaurant lights are up high and they’ve turned the music up. Hank’s favorites. John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Stan Getz, Charlie Parker, Oscar Peterson, Terence Blanchard. Billie Holiday comes on, and it’s when I recognize the song she’s singing is “April in Paris” that I lean into Hank. Hank may be sitting right next to me, but he ain’t there. Those black eyes behind his dark glasses are looking only at one thing. Down the table at the red haired woman with the pearl barrette and pearl necklace and pearl earring in the little black velvet dress.

  “It’s our song,” I say.

  “What?” Hank says.

  Hank looks at me as if I’m nuts. I mean with his dark glasses on, when he looks at me, that’s what I think.

  Then: “Oh yeah, man, Billie Holiday.”

  I don’t say anything more. About the night Hank shook his ass in a cornflower blue turban in the candlelight at Esther’s house in Pennsylvania. The Maroni, how his bare chest looked in the candlelight.

  Hank goes back to the vision behind his sunglasses. Still no movement as yet. Ruth still at the other end of the table. Hank still next to me in the saffron throne. I’m betting on Hank to be the one who moves first.

  I’m the one who moves first. It just makes things easier. And I really got to pee.

  OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, the night is way too cold for Portland. The air so frozen I can feel the air in my lungs. My old overcoat is more Dashiell Hammett than Faulkner or Joyce. My breath comes out of me in clouds. My hands deep into the overcoat’s pockets.

  Ruth’s silver Honda Civic is parked next to my Volkswagen. Hank walks out the door of the restaurant next to Ruth. She’s wearing her grandmother’s unborn baby lamb coat and matching hat. Hank in his dark glasses is one of the Blues Brothers. Ruth with the hat is Jane Fonda in Julia.

  Look at us. The three of us, Hank Christian, Ruth Dearden, Ben Grunewald, standing between Ruth’s car and mine. We’re all freezing, all of us a little enchanted with the cold, still night. When Hank embraces me it’s a full-on frontal. Hank’s breath against my neck below my ear starts a chill that that goes all the way down my back.

  “Got to go, pal,” Hank whispers.

  We laugh at our old joke. I push at Hank’s shoulders. He pushes back. A mock battle between men. The next time we share that joke it will be in the got to go pal letter and Hank and I won’t ever talk to each other again.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Hank says.

  Then Ruth. We look in each other’s eyes for only a moment, then lean in for a quick embrace.

  “Thanks for inviting me, Ben,” she says.

  My battery’s been charged so my VW starts right up. Both headlights are working. I roll down the window and hold the door with my armpit. Ruth still hasn’t started her car. I figure it’s best not to look over, though, so I don’t wait to see if her car is going to start.

  When I pull out of the parking lot, my headlights flash over the silver Honda Civic. For an instant the light flashes onto Ruth’s face. It’s shocking really, the way Ruth looks. I recognize the look right off. But I haven’t seen it in a long long time.

  At the beginning, that first night in the cemetery, it’s the way Ruth used to look at me.

  A child at Christmas. A woman in love.

  THE NEXT DAY, I’m like a kid who has a secret nobody else knows. I can’t stop thinking about Hank and Ruth. But Wednesday’s one of my big writing days and I’m busy all day on my rewrites. Plus it’s the holidays and there’s no class Thursday and I got the whole week to write. Really, it’s not until that night when I get into bed that I realize Hank hasn’t called. I’m worried for a moment, then feel a little hurt he hasn’t checked in like he said he would, but then figure, what the hell. Later on in bed, trying to get to sleep, I get to thinking about the two of them fucking and I have to put the pillow over my head.

  Thursday, still nothing from Hank. All day I stay focused on writing. I think I’m doing fine but I’m not. Ruth’s little editing messages on my pages – smiling faces on my pages, her stars. Her penmanship I can’t make heads or tails of. Somewhere in between, in my concentration, in the maze of virtual and hard copy, going back over sentences then back over sentences, over and over, somehow some other me balloons up just above me and behind me with a big realization that I live my life more on the page than in my body.

  If you can’t live in here then live out there. It’s pure and simple.

  Fucking bliss, man. You don’t follow it because you want to. It’s survival.

  That afternoon, Hank calls and I’m not in my body, so the answering machine takes the message.

  “Hey, Gruney,” Hank says, “we’re grooving here, buddy. Talk to you soon.”

  When I go to call back, it’s weird dialing Ruth’s number. So I can talk to Hank. But I keep dialing. In my buzzing right ear, that familiar ring. It’s Ruth’s ring, even though it’s no different from any other ring, still that ring is Ruth’s. Five of those rings and I get Ruth’s message. The fucking message I’ve heard way too many times. Her sing-songy voice. I almost hang up.

  “Hank,” I say, “call me back.”

  Friday morning, while I’m brushing my teeth, there’s Hank’s L.L.Bean toiletry bag. I know it sounds silly, but I’m suddenly worried for Hank that he doesn’t have his green toothbrush and his Crest and his razor and Barbasol shaving cream and his Mennen stick deodorant. I almost call him up to remind him he’s left his toiletries here, but then I realize how dumb that is. Of course Hank knows he doesn’t have his toothbrush. And he knows it’s New Year’s Eve. Besides I can’t just call up Hank. I have to talk to Ruth first. And I don’t want to talk to Ruth. So I figure what the hell, ten dollars at the Walgreens will put the Maroni back in business.

  Friday afternoon, right after I get back from yoga, I’m at my kitchen table when the phone rings. It’s Hank, and in the background I can hear Ruth laughing. Hank doesn’t say hello or anything to me because he’s laughing, too. He covers up the phone with his hand and Hank is with Ruth in Ruth’s house and I’m across town in my kitchen mixing mayonnaise into tuna in my white bowl and they’re laughing and I’m standing on my ugly yellow linoleum with purple triangles and I listen to them laugh.

  I fucking swear, to be jealous of Hank and Ruth is the last thing in the world I’ll do. Whatever they have, what they do, how they laugh on the phone, will all be cool with me. I learned a long time ago not to get between Hank and his woman. Then Ruth is Hank’s woman starts to freak me out. But I compose myself and I do it quick. This shit is not going to fuck me up.

  “Hey, Gruney,” Hank finally says, “I can’t talk right now. Call you later. Ruth’s got moths.”

  What’s going on that I don’t know about is Ruth has just opened an old package of pancake flour and a bunch of moths have flown out into her kitchen. Ruth is freaked and the way Ruth is freaked is making Hank laugh and because Hank is laughing, Ruth starts laughing too.

  But in the moment, on the phone New Year’s Eve afternoon, I don’t know about the moths. In fact, when I hang up the phone, I won’t admit it. Despite the swearing and all the decisions and the promises I’ve made, really what I think they’re laughing at is me.

  About an hour later, the phone rings again. I’m mid-sentence and think I won’t answer. But I answer. Hank apologizes right off then tells me the whole moth story.

  “Fucking funny, man,” Hank says. “When anything starts flying around her head, birds or bugs, man. Totally freaks Ruth out.”

  All of a sudden, it’s that silence that opens up and it’s my turn to talk. I don’t say anything, though. Don’t know where to start.

  “Of course,” Hank says, “you probably already know that.”

  “When does your plane leave?” I ask.

  “Sunday afternoon,” Hank says.

  “What you doing tonight?” I ask.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve, man,” Hank says. “That’s wh
y I’m calling. Ruth wants to cook. Would you like to come over?”

  21.

  The end, my friend

  MORE THAN LIKELY, YOU’RE LIKE ME AND THINK THAT something like this could never happen to you. That you could love a man, then love a woman – two extraordinary people, two unique ways of loving, from different decades, on different ends of the continent, and what happens is something you could never in a million years have planned. There you are the three of you, dancing the ancient dance whose only rule is with three add one, if not, subtract. If three doesn’t find four, three goes back to two.

  I mean this shit is mythical. With three you go directly back to the father and the mother and the child. Or this: a parent and two children. In either case, you’re back to what’s most fundamental about you: who has the love and who’s going to get it.

  From the time I hang up the phone on New Year’s Eve day until nine months later when I sit down and write Hank the Got to go pal letter, I just got to cop to it. I’m no longer reliable. This time, this book, no matter how hard I try, I can’t be one of the big-spirited, redeemed men who’s gone through it all, seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and from that high place of awareness, narrates the story.

  I keep falling into fits and rages.

  Pain like this is too old, too irrational, too hard to bear.

  Pain like this has to be somebody else’s fault.

  NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1999, as I’m talking to Hank on the phone, there’s no doubt about it, I’d rather suck a hemorrhoid than spend New Year’s Eve at Ruth’s house. But then out of nowhere it’s one of those moments. I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. Sure, I’ll be right over.

  As soon as I hang up the phone I have to quick sit down on a kitchen chair and hold my gut. That old fear of leaving my house. Alone. Plus there’s a rainstorm coming and my car is out of gas. Even with gas, my car can’t possibly make it one more time across town. New Year’s Eve, everybody driving drunk. The expired license tags.

  But none of these things, really, are what I’m afraid of.

  On the stove, the meatloaf I’d cooked and the brown rice and broccoli. For Hank and me. A couple of long-necked Budweisers for Hank. On the kitchen table, the videos I’d rented. New Year’s Eve, what could be more perfect than Hank and me and a fire in the fireplace and Shakespeare in Love, Scully and Mulder, The X-Files.

  Fucking Ruth Dearden, man.

  On the ride over to Ruth’s, it’s raining buckets. Crazy fucking windshield wipers like paraplegics. No heat. I’m ignoring the gas gauge. There’s always the reserve tank. With one hand I’m rubbing a hole in the steam. My other hand is freezing to death. My other hand is outside trying to hold the door closed. At Belmont and 39th, the engine backfires so loud, a drunk at the crosswalk in a Santa suit thinks I’ve shot him. Through the static, some guy on the radio’s going on about computers, the new century, and the fucking apocalypse. On 50th I hit a speed bump too fast and the horn starts honking and won’t stop, even after I’m parked in front of Ruth’s. Silent night, holy night, I kick that car in the ass so hard it makes my leg hurt. But the horn stops.

  A holiday evening with Hank and Ruth. Happy Fucking Y2K, man.

  Ruth’s front door is an arched alcove, a small porch you can step into out of the rain. On the flagstones, a fiber mat, bienvenue. Above, a Craftsman lamp hanging down. A Christmas wreath on the dark wood door. Ruth’s front door, just a damn door, but that night another portal. The step you got to take.

  The doorbell that sounds like Beethoven’s Fifth. As soon as Hank answers the door it’s weird. First of all, it’s Hank Christian, my old friend of so many years and twelve years we’d been apart. He’s been three days at Ruth’s and my eyes are happy all over again just to see him. But Hank is opening Ruth Dearden’s door. A door I hardly ever walked through because Ruth always came to my house, because my house was the only place that felt safe, and when I did go to Ruth’s, no matter how hard I tried it always freaked me out and now that’s all I can remember about it. Freaking. And there I am standing in her doorway already the second time in one week.

  Both Hank and Ruth are smiling way too big, trying to be extra nice. I’m dad come home from work and found the kids playing doctor. Really, they’re both kind of bobbing and bowing as if I’m the Dalai Lama or something. The way Hank takes my coat. The way Ruth folds it gently on her arm and carries it to the bedroom.

  In Ruth’s fireplace, not my fireplace, there’s a fire and Ruth’s Christmas tree goes all the way to the ceiling with those bubbly lights and Laura Ashley homemade cookie ornaments and shit. Fuck, it’s the coolest Christmas tree ever. Hank’s in a new soft brown bulky knit sweater, pajama bottoms, and soft wool socks. Ruth’s wearing the exact same thing. They could switch outfits and nobody could tell the difference. Ruth, of course, is more beautiful than ever. Hair pulled back off her face. Her hair’s long enough to be pulled into a barrette at the back of her neck. The blonde strands shining gold. Must have lost two pounds since I last saw her. She looks so relaxed.

  I told her what she needed was some serious dick.

  Something else about Ruth, though. Maybe it’s just me, but I keep getting the feeling she’s staring at me. That night, that very first night, I think that early on, she gets it. That I could be a serious threat to her and Hank. I know for sure she’s surprised. For Hank it was no big deal I drove across town. But Ruth knows different. That I’ve left my house at night and driven all the way across town alone. In all the years, Ruth’s never known me to do that.

  Where I can really tell, though, is with the food. Ruth’s made one of her wacky chef salads. That woman could put the strangest things together and call it a salad. That night it’s carrots sliced too thick, iceberg lettuce, purple grapes, tomatoes, green pepper, sliced chicken breasts, walnuts, and pickles with too much creamy vinaigrette.

  As far as Ruth’s salads go, this New Year’s Eve salad is not that unusual. But it’s when the three of us sit down at Ruth’s oversized dining room table, me at the head of the table, Ruth to my left, Hank on the right – when I look down at the extra boiled eggs she’s cooked for me. At first I think it’s cool Ruth has considered that the salad didn’t have enough protein for me. I start staring at them eggs, though, and then I look around at the chicken in our bowls. I stare at the chicken. There’s no more than two chicken breasts worth of chicken meat for three of us. Back and forth I’m staring, the chicken, the eggs. Then I’m sure of it. Ruth wasn’t at all planning on having Mr. Protein for dinner. She thought for sure I wasn’t going to come. At the last minute, she had to quick come up with more fucking protein and all she had was three fucking eggs. An afterthought. Didn’t even have the time to cook them all the way hard.

  When I finally look up from my three extra not fully boiled eggs, I look straight at Ruth. Her beautiful long red hair, those too-blue eyes. She has that looked-at look only beautiful people have. Ruth for sure knows I’m scrutinizing her and her protein faux pas. And sure enough, there it is. The tell-tale scarlet flush up her neck, onto her chin. The way she’s trying to cover it with her hand. She knows damn well her neck is giving her away. But she’s ignoring me. Her eyes suddenly all transfixed, staring into Hank’s. Hank’s staring back at her. His eyes beholding her. As if she is something newly formed, precious. His breath breathing life into her.

  Hank’s making a toast.

  They’re having prosecco.

  I’m having water.

  Hank’s black eyes, the right eye shiny, rolling a little south. Hank’s doing that thing he does when he’s trying to express something inside him that’s big – as if his body is literally trying to push the thought or the feeling that’s inside him, out. Chest raised up and out, his chin pulled down, shoulders down, flexing his biceps.

  “Here’s to old friends, new friends, and a new century!” Hank says.

  Not a one of us that night, when we clinked our glasses, Hank or Ruth or me, had any idea, not yet, not really,
about the new century and the huge load of horseshit it was going to bring.

  But looking back on it, it’s like that Jeske thing. You know but you don’t know you know.

  Maybe Hank didn’t know it yet.

  But Ruth knew.

  And I knew it too.

  SUNDAY MORNING HANK rolls into my kitchen door about ten-fifteen. His airplane leaves at one. Hank’s back all in black, his jacket, his baseball cap, the hood of his sweatshirt up. His dark black sunglasses. I’m eating my five scrambled eggs with two yokes when he walks in. We give each other a big bear hug in the mudroom. When I put my chin on Hank’s shoulder, I can smell lavender from those scented square pieces that Ruth throws into her dryer.

  “How’d you get here?” I ask.

  “Ruth drove me.”

  “She coming in?”

  “Nah,” Hank says. “She’s got some shopping to do.”

  “How you getting to the airport?”

  “Ruth,” Hank says. “She’ll be by about noon.”

  “You better be careful,” I say. “She’s always late.”

  Hank lays his big hand on my shoulder, squeezes my shoulder. Stares his big black eyes into mine. We both take a breath. I can’t help it. That shiny black glass eye of his makes me love him all the more.

  “Porca Miseria, Gruney,” Hank says. “What a fucking ten days it’s been!”

  The brooding dark Hank that stepped out of the darkness Christmas Eve was gone and now there he is, right in front of me, his hand on my shoulder. The Maroni once again. Bright as a star. Freshly fucked, gorgeous. And why can’t I just blow it off and be happy for him.

  There’s so much I want to say to Hank right then. But it’s not one of my better moments. It’s morning all right, but it’s more than a drug hangover and the time of day. I’m ashamed. That I could be so petty. I mean now that I look back on it. The stink eye, man. There’s not a worse feeling in the world. Like you’ve been slimed. And that Sunday morning in the mudroom, believe me right then, I don’t want to be anywhere near my tiny Catholic heart.