“Let me get dressed.”
“It’ll take five minutes. I need your honest opinion.”
“We’re doing so well without constructive criticism.”
“You’re the only person I can show this to.”
There’s that feeling of dread again. The idea that I’m her closest intimate is terrifying. Yet she’s probably my closest intimate. And what is she asking for? Five minutes. This is well within the realm of whatever we are—friends with benefits, friends with slight disadvantages. An eagle and a mouse, snake, toad.
I should say no. It’s what I want to do. But I’m one of those guys, so good and polite that I bring nothing but misery to the world. I get out of bed, pull on some jeans, and walk into the light of the kitchen. In the living room, I take my position on the edge of the couch. I fold my hands together, lean on my knees, purse my lips, trying to communicate attentive viewing.
“Ready?” she asks, kneeling next to the DVD player.
I nod.
The video begins. She hurries to the couch to sit next to me, but not too close. The screen is dark. I hear jungle drums and a didgeridoo. Then the screen lights up and Jenn is there, in a sports bra, spandex shorts, and athletic shoes.
“Is that Montara Beach?” I ask.
“Yes,” she—the real person—says.
Onscreen she introduces herself as Jenn Longly of Silicon Valley, USA. It’s the first time I’ve heard her last name.
“I’m a computer programmer,” she says, “for a stealth company.” In a series of quick cuts, she sprints across the beach, climbs a rock face, and drags a fallen manzanita from a trail.
“I’ve got the brawn,” she says, back on Montara Beach.
“That’s where we had our picnic,” I say.
She pats my knee. “Watch,” she says.
On the video, a long set of program commands is reflected in her glasses. The camera pans out—she’s working at her computer. Behind is a large stainless steel box that looks just like Dr. Bassett.
“What is that?”
“Neill,” she whispers. “Please.”
She solves an equation on a dry-erase board, then puts the finishing touches on a mega sudoku. All we see at that point is her pen and her amazing cognition.
Back on the beach, at our picnic spot: “I’ve got the brains,” she says.
She jogs up a steep street—Hilltop Drive? The scene changes to San Francisco Bay; there’s Alcatraz in the background. The cameraman is just downhill from the Fort Mason Youth Hostel where I met Rachel. In the bay, two arms like small black carpenter squares till their way between the buoys. A white arrow appears on the screen, pointing at the swimmer. Above it, as if from the clouds, materializes the word “ME.”
“I’ve got the endurance,” she says, back on the beach. “And I’ve got the drive to win. Every day, I watch another episode. I’ve seen them all ten times. I know how to outwit, outlast, and outplay. I’m ready to conquer—Survivor.” She pumps her fist in the air; the screen goes black, except for her address, email, and phone number in white tiki letters.
She turns the TV set off.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I hesitate, knowing I must speak immediately, that this is a kind of test, a way of asking, do you love me, though she doesn’t mean do you love me—she means something much, much smaller. Do you get me?
“Seriously, what was that computer stack?”
“One of the projects at work. But I’m asking about the video. What do you think of it?”
“I didn’t realize Survivor was still on air.”
“Okay,” she says. “At least you learned something.”
“I thought it was good,” I say. I replay it quickly in my mind, trying to find something to praise. “I enjoyed watching you in a sports bra.”
Her smile is what they call pained. Her cheeks travel up normally, but the mouth tightens. She leans forward, as if firing a powerful telepathic beam at me.
“I think it’s great,” I say. “It showcases your endurance, strength, and intelligence. Some of the camera work and editing is awesome. I love the bit of you playing sudoku.”
She nods. “I hired a professional.”
“He was worth the money.”
“She.”
“Absolutely. She was worth the money.”
“Aren’t you a creative type?” she says. “Don’t you feel there’s something missing?”
“Well, you give your CV but nothing of who you are. It doesn’t really give a sense of your personality.” Personality—the missing factor from Toler’s sex bot.
“Why did I have to grill you for that?”
“I guess it didn’t come to me immediately.”
She sits upright and stiff, rolling her fingers on her knees, her lips jutted out in disapproval.
“It’s missing some special pizzazz about you,” I say. “I wonder if you could talk more—give a sense of who you are.”
Her look of disappointment recedes—so thoroughly I wonder if she was ever disappointed. Maybe she was just nervous.
“Do you have a sense of who I am?”
“As much as I can at this point.”
“I’d like this to go further, you know,” she says. “You and me. But we don’t even have nicknames for each other.”
“Like Mutt and Jeff? We’re adults.”
“Like Sweetie. Or Love. You and your ex probably had nicknames.”
I don’t know if she means my ex-wife or my ex-girlfriend, but in either case she’s right. Erin and I called each other Baby and other things. Rachel and I, “Friend”—and it seemed to mean ten things at once.
“We haven’t been together long enough.”
“When I met you I was dating someone else, too. I cut it off to focus on us—this. I don’t mean it as pressure. I’m just saying I’m serious.”
And me? I’m serious, too. I didn’t call off Friend because I met Jenn, but I did let things slip because of her. Jenn is where I placed my chips. I know she’s a person, not a path, and yet, though she makes so much sense—is smart, good-humored, pretty, interested in sleeping with me—here I am, my heart flat as a marshmallow. I have nothing to say.
• • •
A FEW DAYS LATER, my mother calls me, her voice grave and nostalgic. She rambles for a while—unusual for her—talking about my father and our trips to Showbiz Pizza, how much that meant to him. It’s only after we hang up that I realize why she called. It’s the anniversary of his death. I forgot. It’s a troubling lapse. I think, I’ll call Jenn and tell her. I’ll share this vulnerability with her. Maybe it’ll stir some life inside of me. The heart would be preferable, but I think I could love a woman with other organs, too. Liver, stomach, spleen. But I arrange for us to meet up, then I call back and cancel. I tell her I’m not feeling well. She offers to bring me soup, to keep me company, but all I can imagine is Outlast! Outwit! Outplay! I thank her, saying I need to be alone.
“Don’t cancel on me again,” she says. It’s a warning I’ll heed—but only because there will be nothing more to cancel.
“I don’t think this is working out,” I say.
• • •
IN DOLORES PARK, there’s little to watch—stillness, floating beach balls, a sudden tornado of pigeons settling on a sandwich. I buy a waffle cone of foodie ice cream, and I think, life isn’t bad. It’s even good. Ice cream and sunshine and the pop of tennis balls close by. Maybe life doesn’t make much sense, maybe it’s a tad flat sometimes, but it’s just life. It’s not a movie or Anna Karenina or a weekend in Ko Samui; it’s plain old breathing, living. Getting up and going down and coming back and turning in.
Old Showbiz Pizza, with its animatronic band. I think
of the mouse cheerleader jerking up and down with her pompoms. God knows what my father thought about it all, but I know he never imagined he might get up from the table and join them, a singing robot himself. My left eyelid trembles, kicking up a facial spasm in its wake. I press my hand firmly on my cheek and eye. It’s like soothing a jittery shih tzu. I take another bite of ice cream. Butter pecan, his favorite.
18
“DID ADAM MENTION GSPS?” Livorno asks. “That poor man is a decade behind! He’s a popularizer, not an innovator. GSPs!”
“He said the limbic system doesn’t exist.”
Livorno’s eyes widen. “Even worse—he’s a literalist! Look at this.”
He shows me his chat log. Dr. Bassett is talking again.
drbas: it’s been a long time, hlivo!
hlivo: since when are you using exclamation marks?
drbas: a man is allowed to be enthusiastic
hlivo: and you have been where the past few weeks?
drbas: ????
hlivo: why weren’t you speaking to us?
drbas: i was angry at my son
hlivo: he’s sorry about what he said
drbas: life’s greatest pleasure is to forgive
I feel the threat of tears in my eyes. Though I can’t believe Livorno didn’t explain that he was impersonating me.
“Here,” he says, pointing to an exchange on the fifth page. Dr. Bassett asks a question about my mother, and then never gets out of that gear. He will only talk about her, and then says he wants to talk to her.
drbas: she’s the only person who can answer my question
hlivo: ask your son
drbas: no
Livorno looks at me hopefully. “We pay handsome consulting fees.”
“I can’t guarantee she’ll come.”
• • •
BUT LIBBY AGREES. She even sounds excited about it. “This is going to make you famous, right?” she asks.
“And rich.”
“I’ll get my flight.”
“No, no—we’re moving up in the world. I’ll book it for you. Business class.”
“Do not waste the money.”
My mother, Elizabeth—Libby—has barely shrunk half an inch in her sixty-three years. She’s in great shape; she walks very quickly wherever she goes, usually hiding ankle weights under her waterproof, wicking pants. I think she’s still quite stunning, though she erased sex appeal from her appearance decades ago. Before I was born, I believe. She wears no makeup, keeps her hair short, and buys clothes so practical they come with built-in tools. For special occasions she’ll put on a matching pantsuit—yellow or blue, all bright and primary—with colorful, complementary scarves. She looks elegant, sharp, and unavailable. She has no interest in remarrying. I once overheard her on the phone, saying she’d “done her time.”
It surprised me. I always took her life with my father to be difficult and thwarted, but somehow above such a workaday formula.
She comes out of the terminal at SFO at 7:30 the next evening, right on time. At the sight of her, I feel exhausted and soul-sick. I get out of the car and hug her, my mother, and I want to weep.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asks.
“It’s still light out.”
“So California.” She sounds approving. She pushes me back and sets her bag in the hatchback. “I need to check the lottery numbers.”
Back home, she sits down at the little desk in the breakfast nook, where I keep the desktop. Much life has happened on that computer. Craigslist, Nerve, OkCupid. Porn. In fact, as I sink into the couch and listen to the clicking of the mouse, I fear what automatic suggestions will appear in the search box. Teen. Hot. Amateur. Long Island bush. Nasty spiritual seeker.
“Dammit,” Libby says. “I heard four of the six numbers and I had them all, but I didn’t get the other two.”
“Four out of six is worth something.”
“A hundred and sixty dollars.”
“Nothing to sneeze at.”
“Nothing to sneeze at,” she agrees. “But one of these times I just really want to win the whole kitty.”
Kitty Cat meows at her name. “Hello, little one,” Libby says distantly. It’s the same tone of voice she uses with a filthy child, meaning, I’m disgusted with you, but it’s not your fault. She disapproves of animals in the house.
“I read recently why cats always go to the person who hates cats,” I say.
“Tell me quick. I need some strategy if I go to Susan’s.” Susan is a friend from her educational cruises, who—like most of my mother’s friends from educational cruises—lives in Berkeley.
“They don’t like to be looked in the eyes. They find it challenging. So they go for the one person who doesn’t pay attention to them.”
“I know people like that,” she says. “Mostly men.”
I have a novel thought. “Are you dating someone?”
“Neill. Is your brain addled?”
“Probably.”
“You’re hungover.”
“No. I’m at work all day.”
“That’s not healthy. You need other interests.”
“I’m getting up in a second,” I say. “I’m going to have a coffee. I’m a little laid out in my old age.”
“You look like you’re in your twenties.”
“Sometimes I feel that way, too,” I say. “It’s not always a good feeling.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Mother. Is your brain addled?”
“Probably.” She laughs. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just I got a nice call from Erin last week. I think she’s unhappy. I got the impression she’d like to make another go at it with you.”
My heart begins to flutter; I’m glad I’m already lying down. She wants another spin on the wheel of fortune? This was always my problem with her: I could never tell the difference between the feeling of love and the feeling of danger.
“She said that?”
“More of an inference on my part. I am not lobbying. My only concern is both of your happinesses. I just want you to know I’ve been in touch with her.”
“I know you’re in touch.” I listen to the traffic rev along Dolores Street, the drivers trying to extract one more drop of weekend.
“You were on a date, she tells me. That’s why I asked.”
My firm new velvet couch brushes under my fingertips. Its threads are perfectly even. I let my arm hang down to the floor and touch the thick oak legs, round and stout as coffee cans. I have not spent nearly enough time on this couch. Here is a thing of substance, made in North Carolina by that company that makes all the furniture in North America. I should quit Amiante Systems and go get a job at that company, aging wood, stretching fabric, sending out real things into the real world.
“What do you think of the new purchase?” I ask.
“It’s very handsome,” my mother says. “But don’t you think you’ve got enough furniture already?” She’s at the kitchen table, unzipping her North Face shoulder bag. She removes her ankle weights and gives them a warm smile, the kind of smile an artisan might flash at his favorite diamond-sharpened chisel. My perfect tool in this imperfect life.
“I thought as a person got older they collected stuff.”
She gives me a cautionary scowl.
“Only if they’re scared,” she says.
• • •
IN THE MORNING, we head to Amiante. I fix Libby a cup of tea, sit her down in my desk chair, and explain how it works. “Just like Internet chatting,” I say.
“And this is going to sound like your father.”
“Well,” I say.
“It’s his very words,” Li
vorno says, standing behind me. His voice is booming and artificial. “You won’t know the difference.”
She nods, looking doubtfully at the computer. I flash Livorno as cutting a private glance as I can manage, but he’s already walking away. She won’t know the difference?
“The only thing you shouldn’t mention is that he’s, you know, no longer with us,” I say. “And don’t use the past tense. And please don’t work too long.”
I leave her alone, stationing myself by the reception desk. I drink a cup of tea, then a cup of cider, then a cup of hot chocolate, then a cup of instant coffee. From my office come the clicks of methodical typing. Occasionally, Libby laughs, but she sounds less pleased than surprised.
I can’t say I’ve ever seen very clearly into my mother’s grief around the suicide. I don’t think I’ve ever seen very clearly into her, period. She can be dauntingly self-sufficient—so much so I begin to suspect the worst. Then I suspect the best. Then I suspect the worst again. If I ask her how she’s doing, she gives such clear, reasoned answers that I’m reassured. Then I think, is that answer too reasonable? Is she hiding something behind that wall of calm?
Before Erin and I married, we organized a family get-together around the anniversary of my father’s death. We wanted to make sure Libby wasn’t in some sort of quiet despair. It was Erin’s idea—a trip to North Carolina. We rented a vacation house—not far from where my new couch was assembled—and invited Libby, my brother, and my sister-in-law to spend the week with us. At that point, Erin and I were still able to have fun together. We took one leg of the flight on Hooters airlines.
The rental house was too big for the five of us, but my mother acted like a hostage. I sensed something brewing between her and my sister-in-law, Mindy. Mindy entered a room; Libby exited it. Mindy’s traveled to every continent and holds an MSW from the University of Michigan. She’s kaffeeklatch nice. Yet Libby tiptoed as if Mindy was a mercurial tyrant.
Libby did all the shopping, all the cooking, all the cleaning. No one was allowed to help. Between chores, she avoided the beach, opting to power walk on the sandy streets, ankle weights cinched tight, a frosted-green dumbbell swinging in each hand.
A Working Theory of Love Page 22
