The Marriage of Sticks

by Jonathan Carroll

  They were in his study waiting for me, but I wouldn’t know that until many years later. The room was large and bare except for a pine table Hugh used as a desk. It was piled with papers, books, and a computer. On the wall facing the desk were four small paintings of the same woman.

  “What do you think?”

  I was so involved in looking at them that I hadn’t heard him come in. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re fascinating or they scare me.”

  “Scare you? Why?” There was no amusement in his voice.

  “Who is she?”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know. Around the time we met, a man came into the office and asked if I wanted to buy them. He didn’t know anything about them. He’d just bought a house in Mississippi and they were in the attic with a bunch of other stuff. I didn’t even haggle about the price.”

  “Why do I feel like I know her?”

  “Me too! There’s something very familiar about her. None of them are signed or dated. I have no idea who the artist was. I spent a good deal of time researching. It makes them even more mysterious.”

  She was young—in her twenties—and wore her hair down, but not in any special fashion that gave you an idea of the time period. She was attractive but not so much so that it would stop you for a second look.

  In one picture she sat on a couch staring straight ahead. In another she was sitting in a garden looking slightly off to the right. The painter was excellent and had genuinely caught her spirit. So often I looked at paintings, even famous ones, and felt a kind of lifelessness in the work, as if beyond a certain invisible point the subject died and became a painting. Not so here.

  “Hugh, do you realize that since we met, I got beat up, saw a ghost, made out in a Gap store, and now am looking at pictures of someone I’ve never seen but know I know.”

  “It’s the story of Zitterbart. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “Zitterbart means “trembling beard.” It’s a German fairy tale, but not from the Brothers Grimm. There was a king named Zitterbart who got his name from the fact that whenever he grew angry, his beard shook so much his subjects could feel its breeze in the farthest corners of his kingdom. He was ferocious and whacked off people’s heads if they so much as sneezed the wrong way. But his weak spot was his daughter Senga.

  “The princess was madly in love with a knight named Blasius. Zitterbart approved of a marriage between them, but one day Blasius went to battle and died while fighting another knight named Cornelts Brom.”

  “Blasius and Brom? Sounds like stomach medicine.”

  “Senga was shattered and swore she would kill herself at the next new moon. The king was so frightened that he had the kingdom scoured for every good-looking man and swore if any of them caught her fancy, he would permit the marriage. But no luck. All the most interesting men were brought before her, but she’d take one look and turn to the window to see if the new moon had arrived yet. Zitterbart grew more and more desperate. He sent out a decree that any man who pleased his daughter would have her hand.

  “Cornelts Brom heard about it. He’d also heard how beautiful Senga was, and he decided to have a look. The thing about Brom was, he was the plainest-looking man in the universe. His face was so forgettable people would break off conversations with him in the middle because they forgot he was there. They thought they were talking to themselves. That was why he was such a great warrior: he was essentially invisible.

  “As a child he realized if he wanted to make his mark in the world he would have to excel at something, so he became the best fighter around. Plus when he was actually in a sword fight—”

  “His opponents forgot he was there.”

  Hugh smiled. “Exactly. But Senga wasn’t interested in great fighters, and besides, this man had killed her boyfriend! Brom was clever though and, with his forgettable face, had no problem sneaking into the city for a look at her.

  “Every Tuesday the princess went with her lady-in-waiting to the marketplace to shop for food. Brom stood right next to her and watched her squeeze tomatoes, haggle over the price of cucumbers, and fill her basket.

  “He instantly pitied her, and pity is a bad place for love to begin. He knew she really would kill herself because he had seen that same doomed expression of absolute hopelessness on men’s faces in battle when all they wanted was the peace of death. A special despair that comes only when people have lost the way back to their own hearts. It was Brom’s fault this had happened to Senga and he was genuinely sorry. Because he was a decent man, he swore that if it were the last thing he ever did, he would help her.

  “Living outside the city were three minor devils named Nepomuk, Knud, and Gangolf. They did a good business trading wishes for parts of people’s souls. If you wanted something, you went to these little shits and said, ‘I want to be rich.’ They’d look in their ledgers and say, ‘We want your joy. Give us your ability to feel joy and we’ll make you rich.’ Most people were willing to do it too, not knowing that as soon as they did, they’d give up something much more valuable than riches.”

  When he said “little shits” I laughed out loud and rubbed my hands together in expectation. He sat down next to me.

  “Brom went to the devils and said he wanted to make the princess happy again. This confused them because they were sure that, with his face, he would wish to be handsome. Then they got into a fight among themselves. Nepomuk wanted Brom’s plain face because he knew that would make him vulnerable on the battlefield. Gangolf wanted his sense of humor because no fighter is ever great without the ability to laugh. Knud insisted on his fear because anyone living without fear is either a fool or dead.

  “In the end, they settled for his courage. Brom didn’t hesitate: ‘Take my courage in exchange for the princess’s happiness.’ There was a large clock in the corner of their house. All three devils went over and blew on it. The clock stopped in mid tick and the deal was fixed.

  “Back at the castle, the princess stopped looking for the new moon, put a hand over her heart, and started singing. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “At the same time, Brom stood in the doorway of the devils’ house, unable to move because he was afraid of everything. What he didn’t realize was that the devils had given him Senga’s fear, which was what had made her want to die. Life is full of surprises, but if you’re convinced all of them will be bad, what’s the point of going on?” Hugh jumped down from the table and, taking me in his arms, started waltzing us around the room.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what happened to Brom?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “You made all that up?”

  “I did.” He dipped me backward.

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “When you find your way back to your own heart, amazing things happen. You see ghosts, you fall in love; anything’s possible. I was trying to think up a great end to the story that would tell you all that. But I couldn’t figure out what happened and…

  “I wanted to tell a story that would convince you it’s time, Miranda. Time to let go and start trusting me. Let it happen.”

  “I do trust you. I’m just scared.” I pulled away and swept an arm in a wide arc to include his room, his home, his family. “But I’m also ready. Let’s go to my place.”

  5. Never Pet a Burning Dog

  There used to be a neighborhood dog I liked. Since I didn’t know his name, the second time he visited I started calling him Easy, after Hugh’s bullterrier. The dog didn’t seem to mind. A mixed breed, he had the color and markings of a cow—brown spot here, white there. Midsized, short haired, calm brown eyes, a real dog dog. He came by once or twice a week on his rounds. A gentleman, he invariably stood at the bottom of the porch steps and waited for me to invite him up. I was always happy to see him. When you are my age you have few visitors.

  Usually I would be
sitting in the rocking chair with a magazine or book or just my old woman’s thoughts. That’s one of the things I like about this house—it has a good sitting porch where whole chunks of a day can be spent daydreaming and contentedly watching this small district of the universe come and go. My house is just off Beechwood Canyon in Los Angeles. During the day most of my neighbors are away at work and their children are in school, so it is surprisingly quiet and peaceful for a street ten minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. Generally the only sounds are occasional snatches of conversation, the hiss of sprinklers or roar of a leaf blower, and the muted but constant hum and thump of traffic on the Hollywood freeway a mile away. It is a good house in which to be old. One floor, a few rooms, not much work to keep it clean. The porch has a view of a peaceful street and good-natured neighbors who wave or smile when they pass.

  Whenever Easy came to visit I would give him two Oreo cookies. He knew that was the limit and even if I had the package with me, he would make no attempt to ask for more. The dog had his dignity and never begged or stared with “gimme more” eyes. I liked that. I also liked the way he sat beside me on the porch for a while after he had slowly eaten his cookies. He was my companion for a small part of his day, and we watched life’s passing parade while I’d tell him what I had been thinking. Who wants to listen to you when you are old? A sympathetic dog is better than an empty chair.

  Sometimes odd things happened. Once a bird flew so low that it almost hit him. Once a child fell off its bike directly in front of us. Easy looked at me to see if these things were all right—if the world was still in order. I said, “It’s okay, nothing major,” and he went back to watching or sleeping with his head between his paws. Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.

  After I heard that someone had poured gasoline over this dog and set it on fire, I realized I could no longer wait for you. These many years, your coming was the only thing I had left to hope for. I genuinely believed it would happen one day. Although I had no idea what would occur when we met, I’ve thought about it constantly. But after Easy was murdered I realized I had to finish this account as soon as possible because we might not meet before I die. Whether we do or not, this diary will be here to help you. To explain where you really came from. Perhaps that knowledge will save you from some of the awful experiences I have had because not knowing my own history ruined my life.

  What is important about the death of a dog when so much else has happened over the years? I can only say it brought the realization it was no longer important whether I continued living or not. I’d thought that moment had come years ago, but I was wrong. Old age arrives like the first days of fall. One afternoon you look up, or smell something in the air, and know instinctively things have changed. I suppose the same thing is true about our own death. Suddenly it’s near enough that we can smell it.

  Despite that, I must continue to tell this story. Whether I am still alive or not when you read it, you must know what really happened and why.

  Is it possible to properly describe the months right after Hugh and I first became lovers? That means describing happiness, and no words bear the weight of real joy. I can tell you about meals and weekend trips, conversations walking down a street on Block Island in August when the summer air was thick as breath because it was about to rain and the afternoon was suddenly purple everywhere.

  Our hearts were always too full. But what does that mean? That each of us had our separate, impossible hopes, which we had brought along like secret extra suitcases.

  His small touches on my arm, hair, hand always reminded me of a school of silvery fish that swam up, intensely curious, made contact, then fled at my slightest movement. But I was always moving toward Hugh, not away, and after a while when he touched me his hand would stay.

  I have never felt so loved in my life. It made me suspicious at first. Like a turtle, I kept pulling my head back into my shell because I was certain a blow was imminent. But as our bond grew stronger, I left my head out and realized how much I had been missing my whole life.

  The great surprise was how quickly we understood each other. Even in the best relationships I’d had, certain things were never communicated or understood. No matter how fluent you are in a language, situations arise that stump you for ways to express exactly what needs to be said. Being with Hugh gave me the words, which in turn helped me to know myself better. Trusting him, I opened up in an entirely new way.

  Sexually he was marvelous because he had had so much experience. He admitted that for years women had drifted in and out of his life like incense. His wife knew about many of these affairs but they had come to a truce about them: so long as he was discreet and never brought home any part of these other relationships, Charlotte turned a blind eye. Was theirs then only a marriage of convenience? Did she have lovers too? No. She didn’t believe in affairs and no, the marriage was strong and important.

  If that was true, why had he allowed me to come into his apartment?

  “Because I was already gone for you by then. Gone like never before. I would have done anything. I broke every one of my rules.”

  “Why, Hugh? Why me after all those other women? The way you describe some of them, they were incredible.”

  “There’s never a satisfying answer to that. No matter what I say, it won’t assure you or lessen your doubts. Love is like an autistic child when it comes to giving good explanations. Sometimes we love things in others they’re not even aware of. Or they think are ridiculous. I love your purse.”

  “My purse? Why?”

  “I’ve never seen a woman with such a Zen purse. You keep only the most necessary or beautiful things in there. It says so much about you, all of which I cherish and admire. I love the way you put your forehead against my neck when we sleep. And how you put your arm over my shoulder when we’re walking down the street. Like two pals.”

  “You are my pal. My dearest pal. Whenever I write you a letter that’s how I’ll start it—Dearest Pal.”

  What did I feel about his wife? What one would expect, made all the more difficult by a quality I liked very much in Hugh: he said only good things about Charlotte, no matter the context. From his description, she was a loving, generous woman who made life better for everyone.

  Married people often feel compelled to deride their spouse to a new lover. I knew it from my friends, and particularly from Zoe’s accounts of ex-boyfriend Hector. It makes sense, but it’s neither honest nor brave. We have affairs because we’re greedy. Don’t blame that greed on someone else. People are brilliant at justifying their motives. It’s one of our ugliest talents. Hugh and I wanted each other and were willing to hurt others if it meant the survival of our relationship. There were other explanations and rationalizations, none of them true. We were simply greedy.

  When did Charlotte find out about it? I think a couple of months on. Hugh never said, directly, “She knows,” but things came up in conversation that indicated she did. Strangely, the more involved we became, the more like her I became in not wanting to know about his other life. In the beginning I was fascinated to know what they did together. Or what kind of woman he was married to. But one day that stopped. As best I could, I tried to shut her out of my thoughts and ignore the fact she was there.

  It worked for a time, but six months on I answered the ringing phone and almost threw up when the tranquil voice on the other end said, “This is Charlotte Oakley.”

  “Hello.”

  “I think you know why I’m calling.”

  “Yes.” I wanted a composed voice too. One that said, I’m ready for this, ready for you; nothing you say will change how I feel.

  “My husband told me he was in love with you. I said I was going to call you. He made me promise not to, but some things need to be said before this goes further. I think you should know them.

  “He was very f
rank about your relationship. I don’t know you so I can only go on what he said. Hugh loves women and has had many lovers over the years.”

  “He told me.” Was this the tack she was going to take? Try to humiliate me by making me feel like just another of his sweeties? Something inside lightened immediately. I pushed hair off my face that had fallen there a moment before, when I sat with it hanging down, like the guilty party.

  “I’m sure he has. That’s Hugh’s way. Women love my husband because he is so honest. And funny and pays so much attention that you feel like he’s your alter ego.

  “What you don’t know is his habit of choosing the same kind of woman again and again, Miranda. They’re always pretty and very intelligent. They have something to say. They do interesting things with their lives. But when you get down to the fine print in his job description, they must also be needy. Hugh wants to save you from your dragons. He’s a chivalrous man. I’m sure you need help and he’s here to give it.”

  “I’m going to put the phone down.”

  For the first time, her voice became cross. “I’m telling you something that will save all of us time and pain! If you are anything like his other girlfriends, you love him because you need him and not the other way around. You’ll fall into this relationship until you’re helpless without him. Maybe you already are. But I warn you, once it happens and he grows bored with your weakness, he’ll leave. He always has. That’s just his way. He’ll do it sweetly and it’ll seem he’s in so much pain that you’ll think it’s your fault, but it isn’t—”

  “How can you say these things about your husband?”

  She laughed and the tone scared me; it was relaxed, knowing. Here was a subject she knew a great deal about. Talking to me, the beginner, was amusing.