So I do. I explain. I explain how it was all Sam’s idea, how she said we’d been doing it for too long, how we needed something new.
Really, as far as explanations go, it’s not much of an explanation.
“Sometimes,” Alice says when I finish, “it’s like you’re still a boy.”
Despite the beer, which usually embarrassment-proofs me, I am embarrassed by this.
Alice must sense this because her hand reaches out and grabs on to mine.
“No, I really like that about you.” She pauses. “Don’t ever lose that,” she says before releasing my hand.
I don’t need to look at Sam to know: the eyebrows are up.
Then, perhaps to cover for the awkwardness of what just happened, we all begin talking at once. We try to solve the dilemma of finding a replacement for I know, right? And while we don’t manage to do that, we do get off on a tangent concerning phrases that make us crazy.
“Too much of a good thing,” Alice offers. “How can there be too much? If a thing is good, I’m almost always going to want more.”
“The definition of insanity,” Sam says, “is doing the same thing over and over again while hoping for a different result. But that’s not insanity, is it? Isn’t it just stupidity? Like, dude, learn a lesson!”
“An eye for an eye makes everybody blind,” I contribute. “I mean, I don’t want to diss Gandhi but how does that make sense? No, see, for that to be accurate, it’d have to be two eyes for two eyes. Otherwise, in most cases, everyone’s still got one eye.”
“I can’t stand,” Alice says, “when people tell me Don’t go there. I feel like I’m being told to: Just. Shut. Up.”
We howl.
“Or It’s complicated,” Sam says. “Almost nothing is ever that complicated, it can’t be explained. No, when you say that to me, what you’re really saying is, ‘Bitch, I just don’t feel like telling you.’”
More howling.
“It’s all good,” I contribute. “No, it’s not. The only reason you’re telling me it’s all good is because you know there’s something in whatever the thing is that’s supposed to be all good that is bugging the crap out of me!”
Howl, howl, howl.
In fact, so much howling, that when someone says, “What’s going on here?” it takes a full round of us looking at each other to realize none of us said this.
On the contrary, it was Helen.
“You’re home!” I say.
“Apparently,” she says.
Didn’t someone ask a question a minute ago?
Then I remember that it was her and I also remember what she asked. Since she’s used to coming home to Sam and me watching GH, or sometimes just the aftermath, I realize she can’t mean that. So she must mean…
“Oh,” I say. “Oh! Yeah, the other night when Billy and Alice came for dinner? I said Alice should come by and watch GH with us sometime. So.”
“Thanks again for dinner the other night,” Alice says.
“You’re welcome,” Helen says, warming up a bit.
“So,” Alice says, reverting to small talk, “really hot day out there today, huh?”
“I know, right?” Helen says.
“Wait.” Alice looks puzzled. “Didn’t anyone tell you—”
I give Alice a please-shut-up look.
She looks back at me blankly.
If it were permissible for me to do so—permissible in more ways than one—I would tell her right now: “It’s complicated.” I would tell her that because, even in my beerish state, I can see what this is like for Helen right now: the three of us sitting close together on the couch over here, her standing alone over there. If Alice further tells Helen that the three of us—us—have decided to retire the group catchphrase and replace it with something else, there is only one way that can make Helen feel and that is left out, like we are conspiring, like there is an us and a her; I mean, of course there’s an us and a her—that’s simply the grammar of the current situation. Still. Yes, even I can see all of this.
But I can’t say any of that, not here, not now.
Fuck, it’s complicated.
And yet somehow, even though Alice can’t possibly understand all that has just rapid-fire gone through my head, she knows enough on her own as a human being to finally go back to her previous question and rephrase it as the rhetorical, “Didn’t anyone tell you how beautiful you look today? When it’s hot like this, it’s all I can do not to look like a rag. But you!”
“Thank you,” Helen says, but she looks leery. Well, who can blame her? My wife is not a stupid woman, never that, and she must know something’s off here even if she has no way of knowing what it is. Still…
Thank you, Alice.
“I think I’m going to change out of these clothes,” Helen says to me, “maybe check out Facebook before dinner.” Then, to the room at large: “Nice seeing everybody.”
“This was really great,” Alice says when I walk her to the door a minute later.
What do people usually say to that?
“Hey, come by anytime,” I say.
And she does.
Tuesday, five minutes before GH, Sam and I are positioned on the couch waiting for the show to start, there’s a knock on the door: Alice. Wednesday, we’re late getting out of the last job, so it’s twenty after three when we pull up in front of the house, and there, waiting for us in her car: Alice.
I begin thinking this is like an idea I once had for a great story. You know how TV talk-show hosts like Jon Stewart are always saying to guests at the end of the show, “Come back anytime”? Well, what if one day a guest did? What if, the day after his guest appearance, the guest shows up at the studio because he was told to “come back anytime” and he’s a slightly twisted person who doesn’t feel like he has anywhere else to go? When he shows up the day after, the people on the show are all like, “What are you doing here?” and he’s like, “Jon Stewart said to come back anytime.” They think it’s funny at first, a gag, but he does it the next day and the next and the next. Suddenly, no one thinks it’s funny anymore nor are they friendly to him. Eventually, he gets thrown out and the studio puts him on a Don’t Allow In list. And then, of course, he gets mad.
I figure it could be a short story, a dark comedic horror thing along the lines of Peter Abrahams’ novel The Fan, only instead of a baseball fan and a baseball star, it would involve a guest and Jon Stewart.
This thing with Alice, while by no means exactly the same, reminds me a little bit of that, as she continues to come back again anytime on Thursday.
And, yes, she comes back on Friday.
Weekend Worriers: Friday
On Friday, Sam and I are a little late getting home from work so when we get there, Alice is waiting on the stoop.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say, hurrying to let everybody in. It’s five after three. We’ve already missed the first set of scenes.
“No problem,” Alice says, coming into the kitchen with me to help get the beer and chips while Sam heads to the living room to turn on the TV. Alice started doing this—helping me get provisions—sometime earlier in the week. Wednesday, maybe? I don’t mean she started helping me for today on Wednesday—that would mean we’d spent the last forty-eight hours in the kitchen, getting beer and chips! Which, obviously, we have not. I mean she started the habit then.
“Still,” I say. “I only have your home phone. Why don’t you give me your cell too so I can call you next time we’re running late so you’ll know what’s going on.”
I pull my cell out of my back pocket and stand there, waiting for her to give me the number so I can program it in.
But it’s suddenly silent in the kitchen—one of those strange too silent moments you sometimes stumble across in life—and I glance up from the phone to see Alice staring at me.
“That’s just so…considerate,” Alice finally says softly, an expression on her face that’s surprised and—I don’t know—wistful?
I’m not sure
I get either of those things. Surprise? But aren’t I known to be a considerate person? And wistful—what’s that all about?
I wait, finger poised over the cell, and at last Alice says, “Oh, right!” and gives me her number.
As I’m putting the phone back in my pocket, I hear Sam shriek from the living room, “Johnny!”
“What?” I say, running in to see what’s wrong, only to find her standing in the middle of the room, remotes in each hand, aimed at the two TVs like a gunslinger. She’s pushing buttons like mad but nothing’s happening.
“I can’t get them to turn on,” she says. “What’s wrong with the TVs?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Fluffy.” I’m so disappointed in him. He knows I don’t like this, but he just stares back at me from where he’s sprawled out on the ottoman.
“The cat did this?” Sam says.
“Yes,” I say, getting down on my stomach on the floor and snaking my hands behind the sofa so I can adjust the plugs in the powerboard. “It’s his new thing,” I say, giving Fluffy another glare after slithering back out. “Try the remotes again,” I tell Sam.
She does and now the power lights are on but still no picture anywhere.
“Sometimes you have to fiddle a bit,” I say. “Here, let me have those.”
“The cat’s new ‘thing’ is to turn off both TVs?” Sam says as I fiddle.
“Actually, he’s never done both at once before. This is new. Usually, he just gets the one. Sometimes, for good measure, he’ll unplug a computer or Helen’s laptop when she’s charging it.”
Now there’s still no picture but in the middle of the screen there’s a notice saying to call the cable company if there’s a problem.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “that’ll go away in a few minutes.’
“But why would Fluffy do that?” Sam wants to know.
“Obviously he’s acting out,” I say with a shrug.
“Acting out? But he’s a cat!”
“Apparently.” I regard his furriness. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings.”
“So what’s he so upset about?”
“Search me. If I knew what the problem was, I would fix it.”
The picture’s finally back, but it’s on MSNBC from this morning, so I switch it over to GH before handing Sam back the remotes. Then I head over to the basement door, which is always propped open so Fluffy can get at the litter box, and grab his leash off the coat rack.
Sam and Alice are already on the couch, beers in hand and staring at the screen, when I return.
“You’ve got to stop this,” I tell the cat as I attach the leash to his collar. “I’m worried that, one of these days, you’ll fry your furry little self.”
“What are you doing?” Sam says, briefly tearing her eyes away from a TV.
“Taking Fluffy for his daily walk.” I pick the cat up, set him on the ground. “C’mon, boy.”
“But GH is on.”
“I know. You can fill me in on what I missed when we get back.”
“But GH is practically half over already and Todd Manning’s on.”
I look at the screen.
“You love Todd Manning.”
Well, love may be an extreme term, although it is hard to tear my eyes away. Still…
“Yeah, but if Fluffy’s upset enough he’s unplugging both TVs now, I think I really should take him for his daily walk. I don’t want him getting so upset he goes after the plug on the fridge next. It’s summer—all the beer will get warm. And anyway, I just don’t want him upset.”
I’m at the front door, leashed cat by my side, when I hear Sam say, “He’s crazy. Don’t you think he’s crazy?”
I’m about to respond to this aspersion on my character when I hear Alice, who’s been strangely silent ever since Sam’s first shriek, say, “Maybe. But he’s also kind of wonderful.”
I try not to hurry the cat along in the walk—I mean, I get why he’s intrigued by that squirrel, although I’m also glad he’s on a leash because otherwise that squirrel would be toast—but I would at least like to catch the tail end of my show.
“Yeah, I know I said I liked Carly and Johnny Z. together,” I tell the cat as we near the front door on our return, “but now that Todd’s on the scene, I don’t know. Her chemistry with Johnny Z. is hot, but her and Todd just sizzle. It is a lot to consider. Yeah, I know you’re not as into it as I am. Maybe you would be if there was a soap starring cats? Hmm, I wonder what that would be like…”
I’m so wrapped up discussing things with the cat that I don’t notice there’s now a fourth vehicle in the driveway but I definitely notice there’s another person in the house after Fluff and I enter, I release him from the leash, rush into the living room to catch the last few minutes of GH and see…
“Helen! You’re home!”
Sam and Alice are right where I left them on the couch, side by side, but now Helen’s on the ottoman, high heels off. All three are sitting ramrod straight. It’s so weird. Is this some kind of proper-sitting contest? Maybe it’s a girl thing?
“Yes,” Helen says, “I am.”
“That’s great. You haven’t been home early since…” I try to think.
“Monday,” Helen supplies. “The last time I came home early, it was Monday. Every other day this week, I’ve had to work late, or at least regular hours.”
“Right, right,” I say, stealing a glance at the screen. At least it’s a commercial. I look at Sam and Alice: still with the ramrod posture. What gives?
I notice there are only two beers on the table.
“Can I get anyone a beer?” I offer.
Sam and Alice, eyes forward: “No, thanks.”
“Helen?”
She shakes her head.
“Well, if no one else…” I head to the kitchen to grab a quick beer for myself.
Open the refrigerator door, snag a cold one, pop off the cap, turn around and…
I give a little jump, startled.
“Helen!”
Apparently, she followed me in, because she’s standing two inches in front of me.
“So,” she says in a low voice, “Alice has been coming by every day this week?”
“Well, yeah. I didn’t mention? I could’ve sworn…”
“No, you didn’t. Which is odd, I think. I’m not sure which is odder, you not mentioning it or her coming by every day.”
“Well, I probably didn’t mention it because by the time you get home, I’m just so happy to see you that nothing else matters.” I move to hug her. “As for—”
“Oh my god!” Sam and Alice shout from the other room.
I race to the living room, only sloshing the beer a little as I race.
Is it just me, or does it seem like I’m doing a lot of hurrying and racing today?
“What is it?” I demand, a little breathless.
Sam and Alice are dumbstruck, pointing at the screens.
I follow the pointing fingers. “Robin Scorpio is alive?”
We talk excitedly all through the brief Next time on General Hospital promo that follows the end of the show—“But Robin was vaporized!”; “How can she still be alive?”—and while the credits roll. We’re still talking when Helen comes through on her way to the stairs, laptop case in one hand, a beer in the other. Apparently, she changed her mind about the beer.
We stop talking.
“Looks like something exciting happened,” she observes. “I think I’ll go up and get a little work done, maybe take a shower”—she pauses, looks straight at Alice as she finishes with, “so I’ll be fresh for the poker game tonight.”
Oh, shit.
Last Friday, we told Helen that she wasn’t supposed to let on to the other wives about playing poker with us. Why would Helen do this? She’s not usually forgetful about things. And how’s Alice going to react to this?
“I thought Sam was the only woman allowed in the game,” Alice says carefully. “But you play too?”
“I d
o live here.” Helen shrugs. “What else am I going to do, sit around knitting while there’s a party going on in my own basement every Friday night?”
I would’ve expected Alice to be mad about this revelation, because I’m aware that women can get mad about this kind of stuff. Plus, she’s Alice, and mad has mostly been her natural state in life, that and bitchy. But instead, there’s that wistful thing again.
“Must be nice,” Alice says, “being one of the guys, or one of the guys and Sam anyway.”
“It is.” Helen gives a tight smile, one I don’t think I’ve ever seen on her before, and a brisk nod of the head. “It definitely is.”
Then she turns and we watch her walk the rest of the way up.
Well, this is awkward.
I swivel to Sam and Alice—“So, who’s ready for a beer now?”—but both of them are rising to their feet.
“I think I’m just going to go,” Alice says, adjusting her shirt.
“What? No! But we haven’t even discussed the show yet.”
She’s already heading for the door, though. “I really should go now.” And she’s gone.
“Me too,” Sam says.
“But it’s Friday. You always stay straight through until it’s time for poker.”
“I know. And I’ll be back later. But right now I just think you could use some, I don’t know, alone time.” When she says this last, she casts her eyes up at the ceiling, toward the faint sound of the shower running.
Somehow, I don’t think she’s talking about me communing with God.
Happiness, conflict, happiness, conflict—is anyone else sensing a pattern here?
When I get to the bedroom—the bedroom which is still pink, still black—the sound of the shower is louder and I sit down on the bed, waiting for Helen to come out. Beside me on the bed is her laptop, which just happens to be open. I suppose that while I’m waiting, I could knock off another chapter of What’s Going on in Your Cat’s Mind—which I obviously do need to figure out—but my eyes stray to that open laptop where I notice that her Facebook page is open.
Huh. I’ve never actually seen Helen’s Facebook page before. But that makes perfect sense since I’m not even on Facebook.
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 16
