by Tim O'Brien
Outside, buoyed by accomplishment, I strolled across the street to do some honeymoon shopping. The perky young salesgirls in Victoria’s Secret were more than helpful as I picked out a new wardrobe for Lorna Sue—peekaboo bras, panties, negligees, camisoles, garters, chaps, teddies, pigskin leggings—all of which the gals enthusiastically packed up for me and dispatched by courier to the tycoon’s downtown real-estate office, along with an accompanying note signed “Herbie.” (The salesgirls, in ascending order of mystery, were Katrina, Caroline, Deb, and Tulsa. “Why Tulsa?” I inquired, which caused the lanky lass to lick her lips and whisper, “Oil rigs, darling.” I asked no more.)
My fortunes, in any case, appeared to be picking up. A sense of progress; modest new control over my life.
I had a late lunch with the gals, collected four emergency phone numbers, then returned to the hotel and again tried calling Mrs. Robert Kooshof. (There is little on this earth more dispiriting than the repetitive, one-note drone of an unanswered telephone.) Over the next hour, I called twelve more times, still without response, then I packed my bags and prepared to check out. I was only moments from departure, in fact, when there came a sharp rapping at my door.
Instantly, in my bones, I knew it had to be Mrs. Robert Kooshof, an estimate that was at least partially confirmed when I opened the door. What I could not have predicted was that a smirking Herbie would amble in behind her.
Uninvited, this unlikely duo strode into the room and took seats upon my bed.
In Mrs. Kooshof’s lap, I could not help but notice, was my old leather-bound love ledger.
“What a scuz,” she said.
In my experience, it is a commonplace but still remarkable truth that the raw materials of one’s life—objects, people, places, words—have a way of converging in time and space, coalescing like the elements of a dream, drawn together by a powerful but altogether mysterious force of nature.
Here again, I realized, was fate’s cunning hand at work.
How did I respond?
Alarm, of course.
Who, after all, would not be discomposed by the sight of one’s archenemy sitting so casually at the side of a beloved consort? Dressed in crisp chinos and a blue polo shirt, the complacent prick radiated a prosperous, upscale masculinity. Physically, as always, he was in superb condition: narrow waist, impressive chest and biceps. His dark hair was slicked straight back in what I believe is called the “Vet look”; his smile was glossy white, his aftershave pungent. This was no longer the snot-nosed delinquent of childhood. A total makeover—a latter-day smoothie.
Herbie’s presence, I confess, was sufficiently unnerving in its own right. Yet even more so was the leather-bound ledger in Mrs. Kooshof’s lap: an embarrassing and easily misunderstood document. So embarrassing, in fact, that I may have thus far failed to underscore its altogether critical role in the collapse of my marriage. (Self-criticism is not my strong suit; I have avoided the confessional for two guiltless decades.) But, yes, the ledger was without doubt a volatile artifact, one that I had last seen on the night Herbie reached under my marital mattress and proceeded to ruin my life forever.
I looked at Mrs. Kooshof, then at Herbie, and said, “Fancy this,” somewhat nervously, with the knowledge that several jigs were on the rise.
Another moment elapsed before I was able to add, “Burn down any churches lately?”
Herbie grinned. “Have a seat,” he said, “and forget the bullshit. You’re in no position.”
I glanced again at my ledger, hesitated, then selected an upholstered armchair situated a safe six feet from Mrs. Kooshof.
My consort sat turning pages. “Sleaze,” she muttered. “Scum.”
Herbie laughed at this.
There was considerable electricity in the room, considerable ill will, enough of both to suggest that our very universe had been organized around the single teleological principle of heaping upon me piles of grief and anguish.
“Stinking liar too,” said Mrs. Kooshof. Her voice was listless. She did not so much as look up at me. “All that crap about checks under a mattress. You don’t know what truth is.”
“Nor do the philosophers,” said I. “Nor do you.”
“Lies.”
I wagged my head. “Not at all. I happen to be a half-truth teller. Fluent, as a matter of fact.”
“Liar,” she said. “Nothing else.”
Again, Herbie laughed. He crossed his legs and appraised me with a small, composed smile. Very silky, very self-satisfied. Months earlier, I had done some rudimentary detective work, turning up the essential facts of his life in Tampa: he ran a successful import firm specializing in electronic toys from the Orient; he traveled extensively and dated even more extensively—no commitments, no entanglements; he lived alone; he paid his taxes in quarterly installments; he attended Mass at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart; he dined out five nights a week; he was in love with my former wife, his own sister, once the girl of my dreams.
Forewarned is forearmed.
I did not blink. (Remember: a war hero.)
For the present, however, the more problematic issue was Mrs. Robert Kooshof, who turned the pages of my ledger with quiet fury.
There was little to be lost by flashing her a sexy smile. “So, then, here we are,” I said gaily. “And may I ask how this cozy rendezvous came about?”
She made an apathetic motion with her shoulders. “I needed to find things out for myself. Showed up on Herbie’s doorstep.”
“So you’ve been staying—”
“Right here,” she said. “In the hotel. Under your nose, as usual.”
“You might’ve let me know.”
“I might’ve.”
Even then, she refused to look up at me. Grimly, without pity, she kept flipping through the ledger, scanning my neat rows and columns.
Herbie watched with obvious amusement. “Fascinating two days, Tommy. Comparing notes and so on. Very informative.”
“An education,” said Mrs. Kooshof.
I eyed my ledger.*
“Whatever’s happening here,” I said severely, “you should understand that you’re in possession of stolen property. Herbie burgled my bedroom—he has no right to it.”
“A matter of opinion,” Herbie said.
“It’s mine. It’s private.”
Mrs. Kooshof snorted and turned a page. “Private’s not the word. I mean, listen to this. ‘Hand-holdings: 421. Nuzzlings: 233. Valentines: 98. Marriages: 1. Meaningful gazes: 1,788. Home runs: 4. Near misses: 128.’ ” She gave a little toss to her hair. “The whole thing, Thomas, it’s revolting. All these ridiculous subcategories. Telephone numbers. Body types. Hair color. Names and dates. It doesn’t stop.”
“Well,” I admitted, “I do think of myself as meticulous.”
Herbie beamed.
“Sick,” Mrs. Kooshof muttered. “It’s like you’re—I don’t know—some perverted public accountant. Inflow, outflow. Assets and debits. Except you’re counting up human beings.” She paused, squinted at the ledger, then held it up toward me. “What’s this mean?”
“Where?”
“Right here.”
I leaned forward. “That would be the young lady’s state of origin. I believe I’m missing Delaware.”
For a few moments we sat in silence, then Mrs. Robert Kooshof closed the ledger and looked directly at me for the first time.
“The thing is,” she said, “I can’t pretend to be shocked. Not even surprised. That story about the checks—so weird, so convoluted—but the whole time it was the most common thing on earth. A little black book.”
“Not so ‘little,’ ” I sniffed, “and far from ‘common.’ ”
“No wonder she left you.”
I stiffened. “Rubbish.”
“Lists of women? Under the mattress?”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
Mrs. Kooshof laughed without mirth. “How noble. You didn’t sleep with them—so what? Keeping these ridiculous statistics. It
’s obsessive and demeaning and … You can’t file people away like a bunch of index cards.”
“They liked me,” I said. “They paid attention.”
“Liked you?”
“Well, yes. It matters.”
Tiny wrinkles formed across her forehead. She hesitated. “So where would you file me? Under ‘Dutch’? Under ‘doormat’?”
I stayed silent. (There was little to be gained by informing her that I had recently inaugurated a new and much improved ledger.)
After a second Herbie chuckled.
“Honest Abe,” he sighed. “Compulsive liar. Compulsive ladies’ man.”
“But not a pyromaniac,” I said tartly. “I don’t burn down churches.”
“You, then? You sicced the cops on me?”
“Concerned citizen,” I replied.
He looked at me without speaking for a moment, a blue vein twitching near his left eye. “Just don’t try it again,” he said. “You’re pushing where you shouldn’t push.”
“I gather they asked some difficult questions?”
“What a baby,” he said, and glared at me. “Christ, if you understood the first thing about—” He stopped and shook his head hard. The vein was still twitching. “I swear to God, you’d better leave it alone. You’re ignorant. Keep the fuck out of it.”
For a second I wondered if he might resort to his old crucifying tricks. Clearly, I had struck a nerve, but his reaction seemed to go well beyond anger; something else was happening behind his eyes—indecisiveness, a tug-of-war.
I waited a moment.
“Well, perhaps I am ignorant,” I said. “But I didn’t destroy any marriages.”
“It was your life, Tommy. Your blunders. Not mine.”
“But you didn’t have to—”
“She’s my sister,” Herbie said softly. “I did have to.”
At that instant the old rage rose up inside me. I wanted to push needles through those complacent, pious, self-righteous eyeballs. So smug. So certain of his own virtue.
I was trembling.
“Sister,” I said. “And that’s all?”
“All?”
“You know.”
Something changed in Herbie’s expression. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Think dirty,” I said.
“Tommy—”
“Sisterly love. That old rugged cross.”
Herbie folded his arms, studied me with a patented Zylstra stare. A muscle moved at his jaw.
“Tell you what,” he said slowly. “I’ll ignore that.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Don’t press it.”
Gracefully, smiling again, Herbie picked up the ledger and cradled it in his lap. He seemed thoughtful.
“I’ll try to be diplomatic,” he said. “I do care for my sister. But whatever you think, whoever you blame, Lorna Sue has a brand-new life now, a pretty good life, and all these juvenile pranks you’ve been pulling … I recommend you cut it out.” He gave me another of his irritating smiles. “We’re not kids anymore. Things change, people change. No more make-believe. Fantasies suck.”
“Fantasies?” I said.
“You’re divorced, Tommy. End of story.”
I knitted my fingers together. “And what about you? Living here in Tampa? Following her around like a puppy dog? Do the fantasies suck?”
“Out of bounds.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Still dreaming sister dreams?”
He went rigid, his whole body coiling up, and it occurred to me that the sleek new Herbie, so controlled and polished, was still struggling to hold back an explosive eight-year-old still inside him.
He rose to his feet, tossed the ledger to me. (Which I fumbled. Same old problem: dead cats.) “Some things, man, you’ll never understand,” he said quietly. “No more pranks—stay away from us.”
“Us,” I said.
“I mean it, Tommy. Be careful. You’re way out of your league.”
I nodded and said, “No doubt,” but it gave me secret pleasure to imagine that Lorna Sue’s handsome tycoon was at that very moment examining a pair of pigskin leggings and a packet of cruise tickets.
“Happy honeymoon,” I said cheerfully.
Mrs. Robert Kooshof and I caught an early-evening flight back to the Twin Cities. It was not, of course, a full-scale reconciliation. Nor quarter-scale. The flight had been booked well in advance—both fares paid by none other than yours truly—and our joint journey was the doing not of Eros but of standard Dutch parsimony. My bewitching vixen, needless to say, sulked through much of the flight, at times staring out the window, at others browsing restlessly through my ledger.
Explanations were out of the question. Mrs. Kooshof was in no mood to pay heed, nor was I in condition to sketch out the intricate psychology at work. Even in the most banal circumstances, human love is a subtle and enigmatic phenomenon, almost beyond analysis, but in my own particular case, which was nothing if not unique, the ordinary complexities seemed to have been multiplied by a factor verging on the infinite. On the one hand I had loved Lorna Sue completely and absolutely. On the other hand there was the reality of my ledger. Between these two poles lay the force field of my individuality, that ceaseless internal warfare we call “character.” (I was no simple Lothario; I was complicated.) I yearned for steadfast, eternal love, as represented by the lasting fidelity of one woman, but at the-same time I wanted to be wanted. Universally. Without exception—by one and all. I wanted my cake, to be sure, but I coveted the occasional cupcake too.
On this hazy principle, I had inaugurated my love ledger as a precocious twelve-year-old. (Faith Graffenteen, Linda Baumgard, Pam and Ruthie Bell, Corinne Vander Kellen, Beth Dean, Lorna Sue Zylstra—these budding, unseasoned kitty-cats were among my earliest entries.) By the time I reached high school, Lorna Sue had been firmly installed as the love of my life, yet I saw no harm in continuing to chart those minor flirtations that occur by the dozens in the flow of a typical school day: a shy smile in the cafeteria, a lingering bit of eye contact in biology lab. Who could fault me? Life is awash in such incidents, a confusing erotic flood, and to keep myself afloat I had no choice but to maintain an accurate running tally. It was a hobby of sorts, a benign and often amusing diversion that I pursued during four lonely years at the University of Minnesota, then through five years of restless bachelorhood, then with increasing regularity during my two decades of marriage to Lorna Sue. An ego booster, one might say.
All this and more I would have explained to Mrs. Robert Kooshof, but instead we sat in silence for most of the journey, attuned to the sound and sway of our aircraft. The tension was funereal—sad and final. At one point, after a drink or two, Mrs. Kooshof blotted a poetic tear from her cheek.
“You could’ve told me,” she said, no anger in her voice, only resignation. “We were starting fresh. You didn’t need to lie.”
“Pride,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure. But I thought we had something.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. “And now it’s too late?”
“Probably,” she said. “Yes.”
Then silence again. The jet’s engines had the effect of a dreary lullaby.
Had I been able to summon the energy, I would have pointed out to her the substantial difference between lying and withholding inessential elements of the truth. Granted, the ledger had been a primary cause of my final separation from Lorna Sue; granted, too, it had been unwise to stash the document beneath our mattress. Still, despite appearances, I had been absurdly faithful to my wife, enduring much along the way, and the ledger amounted to nothing more than a statistical daily diary, a record not of misdeed but of a tidy mind collating life’s random brushes with the rapacious, completely opposite sex. Are we not all entitled to our idiosyncrasies? Our harmless little crotchets and caprices? My only felony, after all, had been to organize the raw materials of experience into a coherent whole. The naughty young Toni, for example, had been duly registered as one of two hun
dred fifty-five brunettes with whom I had very innocently dallied. Much can be deduced from such data: hidden preferences, erotic probabilities, correlations of pigmentation and temperament. In point of fact, as Socrates himself admonished, I have come to know myself by way of my ledger, just as any corporation finds profit in its spreadsheets.
Such were my thoughts when Mrs. Robert Kooshof suddenly jerked upright and turned on me.
“Thomas, for God’s sake,” she said forcefully, out of feminine nowhere, “just this once I wish you’d stop justifying everything. Just one time in your wishy-washy life!”
Here was an alarming moment, obviously—it was as if the woman had read my mind.
“I mean, Jesus, you’re like some fickle, randy old alley cat,” Mrs. Kooshof was saying, loud enough to attract the attention of a buxom young businesswoman across the aisle. (Jade eyes. Toshiba computer. A come-hither upper carriage that had caught my eye back at the boarding gate in Tampa.) “I’m serious. You should be neutered—no morals at all. Can’t you at least apologize?”
“Of course I can,” I said, and blinked in wonder. “But for what?”
“What?”
“If you mean—”
“I mean your personality,” said Mrs. Kooshof. “And stop ogling Miss Milkshakes.”
“I am definitely not ogling,” said I. “Plainly not.”
“You are so! Right now—this instant!” She sucked in oxygen. “My God, you’re still doing it!”
Mortified, I raised an eyebrow at the woman across the aisle, who flashed me a conspiratorial frown before turning away. (It takes two, I believe, to tango. She preened, I took notice.) Both of us, in any event, were no doubt yearning for parachutes as Mrs. Kooshof went on to list my character deficits in a voice that competed successfully with the jet’s twin engines. She was reminding me, in particular, that I had recently uttered the word yes in response to certain inquiries regarding my amatory frame of mind. “I don’t care what you say,” she growled. “Yes means yes. I took you at your word. I thought we were in love.”
“Well,” I said, “time will tell.”
