Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories

by Hemmingson, Michael

  Frank nods. “Yeah,” he says.

  “And he doesn’t allow her to eat in the same room with him!”

  “That’s their way, the Japanese way,” Frank my husband of eleven years says, “that’s their culture.”

  “Screw that,” I go, “this is America, this isn’t Japan. They want to do things like that they should go back to Japan.”

  “You’re reading too much into it.”

  “The hell I am.”

  “Akiko doesn’t mind.”

  “I think she does.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see it in her eyes,” I go; “I can see it when she looks at her husband-to-be—sure she knows all about tradition and culture and blah blah blah, but she fucking

  hates it.”

  “I hate it when you curse, Anne.”

  “Fuck you,” I tell Frank my husband of eleven years.

  It’s times like these, when he gets me angry, that I want to hurt him with some truth: I want to tell him about the affair I had four years ago with our friend Greg.

  For six months, I strayed from the marriage bed and would go see Greg for quick meaningless sex. We never spent the night together. We would hook up for an hour or two in his small messy apartment and then I would go back home.

  But I can’t tell Frank this.

  He’s been my husband for eleven years.

  I want to keep it that way.

  Greg had said, “Leave Frank.”

  “And do what?” I had said.

  “Be with me.”

  “This is wrong.”

  “Then why did it start?”

  “These things happen.”

  “Why do you keep coming back?”

  “Stop asking me these things,” I had told him; “don’t test me, you know how mad I can get.”

  He knew my temper, as did Frank.

  “You don’t love your husband.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why are we doing this?”

  “It’s time for this stop.”

  “No, no. You can’t.”

  “It’s time.”

  “I love you.”

  “Find someone else,” I had said, “please, find a woman who isn’t married, a woman who can love you right.”

  “I only want you.”

  “I’m with Frank, we’ll always be married.”

  Greg had said, “How could I ever find another Anne?”

  I am drinking a bottle of wine with Akiko and ask her what she thinks of old Japanese customs; the way Takayuki treats her now and then.

  I am sly about it.

  “I hate it,” she goes.

  “I knew it!”

  “I hope it stops,” she says.

  “Will it?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Tell him.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “It is wrong.”

  “How he treats you is wrong.”

  “Not in Japan,” she goes. “Expected.”

  “The fuck,” I say. “This isn’t Japan, Akiko. This is America. The good ol’ U S of A. You can’t be a woman of two customs, two countries. You have to choose one or the other. In America, women say, ‘Hey, fucker, you can’t treat me like that!’ Then you kick the asshole in the nuts.”

  “I cannot,” she says. “He would call off marriage.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t marry him then,” I go.

  Akiko is shocked.

  “I mean, I didn’t mean that,” I tell her.

  She goes, “You are my keeper!”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  She goes, “How could I ever find another Takayuki?”

  I snuggle close to Frank that night in bed. I take his hand in mine while he sleeps. Where would I ever find another Frank?

  Greg wasn’t the only one I strayed with. There was that time on the beach; with a guy I met at a party. Two years ago. Frank was home, sick, and I went to this party of a friend and met this man, I forget his name, and we were both drunk and wandered down to the beach and did it in the sand. We didn’t say a word to each other. We shook hands and I never saw him again.

  That doesn’t count, really.

  That’s not an affair.

  I’m pretty sure Frank cheated on me six months into our marriage. I can’t prove it and I never asked him. I don’t want to know. She was tall and blonde and pretty and was in the same child development class with Frank. I knew she had a crush on him. He was flattered but said it was nothing. Maybe I am imagining it. I don’t want to know. It was eleven years ago.

  We fly to Vegas for the wedding. Why Vegas, I don’t know, but that’s what Takayuki and Akiko wanted.

  There are no other guests.

  On the flight to Vegas, Frank my husband of eleven years asks Takayuki about his suit or tux.

  “What?” goes Takayuki.

  “Your duds to get married in,” goes Frank.

  “I don’t understand,” goes Takayuki.

  “What do you plan to marry your bride in?” asks Frank.

  Takayuki looks at what he’s wearing: a Hawaiian shirt and jeans.

  “Oh no,” I go, “oh, Frank.”

  “You didn’t get a suit, a tux, something?” Frank goes.

  Takayuki goes, “Was I supposed to?”

  I am this: “Oh, Frank!”

  “What?” he says.

  I go, “Frank, how could you mess up like this?”

  “Why is it my fault?” he goes.

  “You’re his keeper!”

  “Shit,” he goes.

  “Problem?” asks Takayuki’s father, sitting in the seats across the aisle on the plane.

  “No, no,” Frank says, “all is well.”

  “Good,” the father goes, “good.”

  Takayuki smiles at Frank.

  “We’ll fix this,” Frank says; “I’m your damn keeper, we’ll fix this. No problem. Vegas has everything you could need.”

  We check into our rooms at the Stardust Hotel and Frank and Takayuki go out, quietly, pretending to hit the slot machines, but really on the search for an emergency wedding tux.

  Takayuki’s parents take a nap before the wedding, which is seven hours away.

  I talk Akiko into going down to the casino floor and doing a little gambling. She’s shy; she has never gambled.

  “Nothing to it,” I say.

  First we try out the slot machines, and Akiko wins $200 in quarters on her second pull.

  Lights and bells.

  “Beginner’s luck,” I say.

  We move to the blackjack table. We have a few free drinks. I’m feeling good and Akiko is glowing with winning and alcohol.

  Men notice us. We’re both pretty enough. One tries to talk to me. He’s in his forties and has salt’n’pepper hair and looks nice enough.

  I show him my wedding band.

  He shrugs and says he’s married too.

  “What would your wife think?” I ask.

  “We have an understanding,” he goes.

  I laugh.

  I’m tempted. Why not? Why can’t I love everyone?

  I have to pee and go to the bathroom and seriously consider going to the guy’s room for a quickie. It’s been so long since I was bad and I’m angry with Frank for not making sure the groom had a tux or suit beforehand. It would serve him right for being a bad keeper.

  I return to the table and the guy is gone and so is Akiko. I don’t think much of it and play a few hands.

  A half an hour later, Akiko is still gone and I get worried.

  An hour later, I am in a panic.

  I look for her among the slot machines, thinking maybe she’s hoping for another lucky pull.

  I look for her among the roulette wheels.

  I look in the bar.

  My heart beats fast.

  I’m sweating and feeling dizzy.

  In the room, Takayuki is trying on a blue and white tux. Frank helps him with the cummerbund and bow t
ie. He looks dashing enough that I almost forgive him for his arcane ways.

  “Is Akiko around?” I ask.

  “She’s supposed to be with you,” Frank says.

  I pull Frank aside and whisper, “I lost her.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “What?”

  I tell him about it.

  “Anne,” he goes, “what did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Something wrong?” Takayuki asks.

  “Just that my wife lost your wife,” Frank says.

  “Lost?”

  His parents join us.

  “Where is Akiko?” they go.

  “Where is Akiko?” goes Takayuki.

  “What happened to this man’s bride?” goes Frank.

  I scream: “I don’t know!”

  The parents are upset, speaking fast in Japanese.

  They say to me: “You are her keeper!”

  We call hotel security. They are not worried about it. They won’t look at the security cameras. “This happens all the time,” they say. “After twenty-four hours, then we’ll investigate,” they say.

  The wedding is in four hours.

  The wedding is in two hours and Akiko walks into the room. She finds her husband-to-be pacing back and forth, cursing in Japanese and English.

  His parents sit on the couch looking sullen.

  I’m drunk by now. I have been having one cocktail after another, imagining all sorts of things: Akiko’s murdered body in the desert; Akiko on a ship, sent to Thailand to be a sex slave.

  Takayuki stops pacing and stares at her.

  I run to her, hug her. I can smell wine and something else familiar on her.

  I go, “Where the fuck were you?!”

  She grins and holds up a handful of casino chips.

  “$500,” she says. “I win again.”

  That other smell on her body: it’s sex.

  At the chapel, helping Akiko with her dress in the back room, I ask her about it.

  She goes, “I had sex with a man.”

  “Who?”

  It doesn’t matter.

  She goes, “He asked me and I went with him, to his room.”

  “Why, Akiko? On your wedding day?”

  “I had to know,” she says.

  “Know what?”

  “Now I know,” she says. “Now I get married,” she says.

  The words are said, “to have and to hold,” etc., and I take hold of Frank’s hand, my husband for eleven years, and squeeze it.

  What Happens When My Wife’s Ex-Boyfriend, Back From Iraq, Pays Us a Visit

  Just when I thought things were getting better, my wife, Anya, talks me into allowing her ex-boyfriend to come by the house for a visit. He wants to say hi, she says; he’s curious about the baby and things, she says.

  I don’t want to put her in a bad mood. The pregnancy was hard; she has, or had, post-partum depression and is on mood pills. She seems to think this is important. The guy is a disabled veteran. He lost both legs in Iraq. He was in a truck that drove over one of those roadside bombs. IEDs they call them—Improvised Explosive Devices. You hear about them on the news all the time. When the news of her ex-boyfriend got to her ears, Anya said she wanted to get married and have a baby. So that’s what we did.

  The soldier’s name is Pete. He comes by the house the next evening. He drives a specially-made minivan that he operates completely with his hands, levers for the accelerator and brake.

  At least he still has his arms and hands and fingers, Anya says.

  We watch him from the window. He crawls into the back of the van, the side door opens, a ramp comes down, and there he is, in a motorized wheelchair. I know the government didn’t pay for all that neat stuff, his grandparents did.

  Anya opens the door.

  Pete, she says.

  Anya, he says.

  It is awkward. She reaches down to hug him. He kisses her on the cheek. He tries to kiss her on the lips but all she offers is a cheek. I don’t mind.

  Hello, I say.

  Hello, he says.

  We shake hands.

  Oh, come in, Anya says, come in.

  Thank you, he says, the wheel of his chair almost running over my toe as he passes by me. I don’t mind. I don’t think much of it, to tell the truth.

  So where is the baby? Pete asks my wife. Where is this little bundle of joy?

  Asleep, I say.

  Nap time, Anya says. Babies nap a lot.

  Can I look at him?

  Um, he’s upstairs, Anya says.

  Pete nods. He taps one of the wheels of his chair. Can’t quite walk upstairs, now, that’s the ugly truth, eh, he says.

  You look good, she says.

  For a crippled guy? he goes. Thanks.

  I mean, she says.

  I know what you mean, he says. You look even better. Marriage and motherhood agree with you. Always knew it would. A boy, he says distantly, a son—how lucky you are, how lucky you are.

  I ask, Can we offer you something to drink?

  Water, soda, orange juice, Anya says.

  Beer?

  We have beer.

  A cold beer would be nice, he says.

  She looks at me. I nod.

  Three beers, coming right up! she says.

  A few minutes later the three of us are sitting in the living room, drinking beers and talking.

  So, he says.

  So, I say.

  So here we are, Anya says.

  Here we are, Pete says. Did you ever think…I mean, here we are, you’re married, you’re a Mom, and I’m a man without any legs.

  Pete, she says.

  Think about it, he says.

  It’s not something I want to think about, she says.

  So, I say, to change the subject, that’s quite a vehicle you have out there, Pete.

  He gives me this look. You know the look. He finishes his beer. Yes it is, he says; yes, it’s pretty nice, I’m lucky to have it.

  I get up to get us more beer. I listen to them, my wife and her ex-boyfriend. They are not talking. I return with three beers. There is tension in the air. They are looking at each other. Now, I do mind this. The man is in my home and he seems intent on causing trouble.

  Thanks, he says when I hand him a new beer.

  I’ve barely had any of this, Anya says about her beer.

  I’ll take it, Pete says. He quickly sucks down the beer I gave him. Anya and I just watch. She looks at me. Her eyes say don’t, don’t cause any waves, let’s just get through this. I wonder if she regrets inviting him over. He’s done with his beer. She hands him her second bottle.

  I’ll savor this one, he says.

  You always could put them drinks back, she says.

  And I can handle my booze, he says, saying to me: Don’t you worry, none, guy, I can handle my beer.

  He can, Anya says.

  You used to, Pete says to her, I remember right. You used to put back the beers too.

  Wine coolers were my thing, she says, smiling, remembering.

  You used to match me one-for-one, he says, nodding, remembering.

  Those were the days, she says.

  The days, he says, looking where he used to have legs.

  Those days are long ago, she says; I don’t drink like that anymore. I can’t. I’m older. We’re all older.

  Wasn’t that long ago, he says.

  Long enough, she says.

  Not long enough, he says.

  I know they are talking in code, about something else.

  Upstairs, the baby cries.

  He’s awake, Anya says.

  Those pipes! Pete says. Maybe he will be an opera singer.

  Nah, rock band, Anya says. She stands up and goes to the stairs, goes up and tends to the baby.

  Pete and I sit there.

  So, he says.

  I don’t know what to say to him so I say: It must have been very hot in I
raq.

  Hot, yeah, hot, he says, and a lot of other things, it was a lot of other things, things you can’t imagine, things people like you have no idea about.

  People like me, I say.

  Citizens, he says, safe and comfortable in your civilian homes. Safe and free because of what we do. We…

  He doesn’t get to rant. Anya returns with our son, holding him close.

  Well looky here! Pete says.

  I do not want him to hold my child. If he asks, I will protest; if he suggests it, I will deny it; if Anya starts to hand the baby to him, I will say no.

  She sits down.

  He’s hungry, she says.

  You can go ahead and breastfeed him, Pete says. Hey, I’m kidding.

  Funny, she says.

  I’m kidding, he says. Can I see him…?

  She leans forward.

  He has your eyes, he says.

  I think so, she says.

  And your nose, he says to me.

  Excuse me, Anya says, standing up and going to the kitchen. I am grateful that she will breastfeed the baby in there.

  You’re a lucky man, Pete says to me.

  Thanks, I say.

  No, really, he says: you don’t know how goddamn lucky you are.

  He stays for dinner and gets drunk. We order pizza and he eats pizza and drinks more beer and asks if we have anything hard to drink. I lie and say no but Anya says, I think we have some tequila. I give her a look. Pete says tequila would be good.

  Anya gets the bottle. We all have a shot of tequila.

  That’s enough for me, Anya says; one shot is one shot too many for me.

  She coughs.

  Awww, Pete says, drunk, I remember the days you could put half a bottle away and still drive home—drive me home.

  Those are days long gone, I say.

  Drive home together, Pete mumbles.

  He exaggerates, Anya says to me, I never drank like that.

  I know, but still, I’m wondering about my wife before I knew her.