The Man She Married

by Cathy Lamb

  “I can’t remember names. But that’ll be pretty,” he said. “Anyone want to play Build a Building?”

  We told him we did.

  He hobbled over to another area to get a few cardboard boxes, construction paper, scissors, and glue and started making a building on a Styrofoam platform. I was happy I could remember that word: Styrofoam.

  “That’s Architect.” Frog Lady pointed at him. “He builds buildings.”

  It was a cool building. “Cool building,” I told him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Want to sign your name on my helmet?” Soldier asked him.

  “Sure!” Architect’s face lit up happily. “Thank you for asking me!” Architect drew a building on Soldier’s helmet. It took a long time. It was a sprawling building with a bridge in the center, trees, glass, a tower. Modern and slick. On top of the building he drew a long cow.

  Frog Lady grabbed a hunk of clay and started making another frog.

  After I made my necklace, I tried to make my mind do math.

  Thirty-four plus twenty-six. I wrote the numbers down. I wrote the plus sign. I wrote the line underneath. I wrote an equal sign.

  The numbers swam and tilted.

  The number four was . . . to the side. The two was upside down . . . and what number was that? Was that a number? Was it a snake? Had I drawn a snake? Maybe it was a six? I kept trying to do math. It was so frustrating. It was frightening. It ticked me off. I couldn’t do it, so I scrunched up the paper, threw it, and yelled, “Bad and stupid math.”

  “Stupid math,” Frog Lady hissed out. She made her clay frog jump upside down on his head.

  “Math and guns are both bad,” Soldier said.

  “I do math to make buildings. I stack the numbers up,” Architect said.

  I tried to get un-mad.

  Soldier was drawing a graphic picture of men at war. I thought he said he was drawing Goldilocks and the three bears for his grandma. The scene he was drawing, on white paper with pencil, was of three soldiers on the ground behind a mound of sand. One had his arm half off and was screaming, blood spurting. The other two were shooting huge guns, rounds around their chests. A tank had black smoke billowing out of it in the distance, and there were two bodies on the ground. He had drawn an American flag as a background, but it was ripped and bloodied.

  “Grandma’s going to like my picture of Goldilocks and the three bears,” he said, in complete seriousness.

  It’s confusing in here sometimes.

  Frog Lady molded two frog eyeballs in her hands. “Frog’s eyes are googly.”

  What was I trying to do again?

  Math.

  Bad and stupid math.

  I cried.

  “Uh-oh. Jewelry Maker is crying again,” Soldier said. “I think I’ll knit her a hat. Has anyone seen my yellow yarn?”

  “It’s in the gym by the bikes,” Architect said.

  “Is this crying session?” Frog Lady asked. “I’ll do it!” She burst into tears.

  Architect whispered, “I don’t think she likes me.” He pointed at me with one finger, his hand held close to his chest. “That’s why she’s crying. She doesn’t want to sit by me.” He put his helmeted head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “No one likes me.”

  “Hey, man,” Soldier said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I like you. You like my fairy-tale drawings and you wrote your name on my helmet.”

  “I like you, Architect,” Frog Lady said, her head wavering side to side. “You drew my frogs in your last building. Thank you.”

  I was surprised, but not much. We are all a wreck in here. I’m irrational, too. “I like you, Architect.”

  His head whipped up, his face wet, those dark eyes swimming. “You do?”

  “Yes.” I wiped the tears off my face. “You’re keeping me company and you’re nice, but I don’t like math.”

  He sniffled. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll build you a building, girl. I don’t know your name.”

  “Her name is Jewelry Maker,” Soldier said, grinning. “Because see? She likes making necklaces.”

  “I like jewelry, Jewelry Maker,” Architect said. “When I’m done with this building I’ll give it to you. What’s your favorite color? Red? Okay. A red building with jewelry.”

  I abandoned math and made up a poem in my head as I made another necklace:

  Natalie has a bad brain.

  It is full of dirty rain.

  She can’t do math.

  She needs a bath.

  Go home real soon.

  Or you’ll be a dumb goon.

  In the morning, in front of my door, was a red cardboard/ construction paper building. It was three stories, all angles, jewels cut out and pasted on the construction paper. The jewels were origami-like, intricately folded and popping out from the sides of the building. Architect had also cut out dozens of white construction paper circles to drape a long pearl necklace around the whole thing. A line of what looked like blue topazes wrapped the bottom edge of the red building. Rubies rimmed the corners.

  It was magnificent.

  It was one of the kindest gifts I have ever received.

  I cried again because of Architect’s kindness.

  * * *

  I found Architect and gave him a hug after one of my therapy sessions.

  He hugged me back, his helmet knocking gently into my head.

  “I liked my building.”

  “Good! I’m happy you liked it. It cost forty million.”

  “I’ll pay you later.”

  “It’s okay. It’s free for you because we’re friends. Want to have breakfast? They’re serving cement pancakes. I used cement for the design of your building, too.”

  “Sure.” He helped me walk into the cafeteria because I was wobbling, and he carried my tray for me. I adjusted his helmet when it tilted. He wasn’t walking straight, either.

  We had “cement” pancakes together. They were pretty delicious.

  * * *

  I made a necklace later. I found a silver car charm. Made me think of my grandma. Then it made me think of that red 1967 Chevy vision, and that made me think of her apple pies and how she loved her perfume bottles and her guns, which made me all weepy because I miss her.

  I made Architect a choker necklace with colorful beads.

  I made Frog Lady a necklace using two chains with silver charms and silver beads.

  I made Soldier a necklace with black beads and a gold peace sign.

  The one nice thing about being in rehab was that I had time to make necklaces again.

  They all loved them. Architect said, “So you do like me? You’re my friend?”

  Frog Lady said, “This is the hopping best necklace I’ve ever had from a frog friend.”

  Soldier said, “Peace, Jewelry Maker, and thank you.”

  They all wore them, every day.

  Chapter 8

  Zack was exhausted I could tell. The lines were deep in the corners of his eyes, and his hair was coming in gray here and there. His phone rang when he sat down with me in my room. His face darkened. He turned it off.

  “What’s going wrong?”

  “What?”

  “Is it work? You’re getting a lot of calls that seem to make you mad.”

  “It’s all okay. It’s . . . a plumbing issue. Electrical. Details. Boring stuff.”

  “Ah.” I studied him. “I’m sorry, Zack.”

  “What I’m sorry about is that this happened to you. But you’re being so strong. I always knew you were a strong woman, but how you’ve handled everything, how you don’t complain, how positive you are, how determined you are to get better, baby, you’re a miracle.”

  “Not a miracle, Zack. If I thought whining would get me someplace, trust me, I’d do it. I’m not happy this happened to me. I’m not happy I can’t walk right or talk right, and sometimes I’m so ticked off I want to scream. I mean, listen to my voice. I’m talking slow. But in the meantime I figure I might as well try to get better. Ther
e’s nothing else to do here.”

  “And there you are again, sweetheart. Determined.”

  “Want to see if we can get a milkshake?”

  He smiled. Soft, indulgent, loving.

  “Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?”

  “I’ll take chocolate.”

  We had a milkshake together.

  “I like your outfit, honey.”

  “Thanks.” I was in my red jeans, a sparkly belt, and a purple cotton shirt with poofy sleeves. I’d added a necklace with an old-fashioned key, the type that you think you’d need to open a treasure chest. “Go home. Go sleep. I’m fine. And thank you for the daisies.”

  His face was in hard lines. If I saw him in an alley, I would assume he was a marauding criminal and I would hope that I would not be his next victim. “Really, Zack. I know you’re exhausted.” His shoulders slumped, and he gave in. He kissed me, long and loving, and left.

  I thought about that call he received when he arrived. He said it was work.

  He was not telling the truth.

  I want to talk to him about it. My gut instinct is that he’ll lie to me again. If I could remember what happened the morning of my accident I’d get some clarity. . . . It was all there, I knew it.

  My head started to bang. This intense fatigue swooped down on me like bricks. It does that all the time. I’m awake and all of a sudden . . . I have to go to sleep.

  * * *

  After we met on the Deschutes River, Zack and I started dating in Portland, where we both lived. I had a studio downtown; he had bought a dated, run-down, dark home in an expensive neighborhood in the hills above Portland as an investment and remodeled it when he had time. When it was done it was bright and airy, lots of windows, a modern interior.

  There was a kink in the dating, though.

  I held back because I have problems with fears of abandonment, or FOA, as I labeled it. That’s a fancy way of saying that since my own mother deserted me, I believe that there’s a high chance that other people will abandon me, too. I knew my dad, Justine, and Chick wouldn’t, but a man, a husband, that was a huge risk to me.

  After all, if my mother didn’t love me enough to stick around, why would a man?

  My FOA accounted for a number of “quickie relationships” that I’d had. I liked the men. Didn’t love them. And when they pushed for more, I pulled back and took off. I did feel bad for hurting them, but I couldn’t take that jump. Surely they would leave me, too.

  Justine called me “No, no, oh no, Natalie.”

  Chick called me “Wiley Coyote. Speeding off into the canyon, leaving dust and weeping men in her wake.”

  But with Zack, something happened. I didn’t want to hold back. I wanted to be normal. I started falling for him on the river.

  But Zack held back.

  We went mountain biking. We went fishing again. We went to the beach and had clam chowder. We went to the movies and met for lunch.

  We never ran out of things to say. Books. Politics. Social issues. Movies. Funny shows on TV. He and his construction business donated to a Boys & Girls Club, and my firm and I donated to a college scholarship program for disadvantaged kids, so we had that in common also. But we started being able to be quiet together, too, which was a relief, because I can’t be “on” all the time. I can’t be cheerful and upbeat all the time. I find it exhausting.

  He liked his work, and I liked mine.

  “I love building homes because I know a family is going to live there,” he told me. “I know they’ll make memories there. I know they’ll have family dinners there. I know the kids will run around in the family room and out in the backyard. They’ll read books in their bedrooms and, maybe when they’re teenagers, they’ll sneak out the back door by the kitchen. If I can build something that will make people happy, make families happy, then I’ve done my job.”

  His homes were open and light. They averaged around 2,400 square feet—“enough space for everyone, but not too much space”—and had high ceilings, exposed wood beams, stacked rock fireplaces, wood floors, always at least one window seat, and a lot of lighting.

  He took me to his job sites after hours and started asking me for my opinions about the homes and what to do to make them special.

  I love home decorating and design. The love of it comes, oddly enough, from deep sadness and loneliness in my childhood, but I’ve studied home décor magazines and books since I was a girl, so to help Zack was a ton of fun for me.

  I told him my thoughts, how he should add strips of colored glass or artistic tiles to kitchen backsplashes, and pendant lighting. I suggested different textures and materials; for example, the island should be painted blue and have a different counter than the rest of the kitchen. I showed him how to add armoires for storage and copper hood vents and use repurposed dressers for sideboards and bathroom vanities.

  He asked questions about accounting and my business and about my childhood; growing up with my mother, until she left; my dad and his past roofing and metal businesses; our animals; and the pranks that Justine, Chick, and I played when we were young. I told him about the necklaces we used to make and sell at the farmers’ market.

  I told him about the Big Penis joke. There was a row of tall, thick shrubs in front of our high school. Late on a Sunday night, with my dad’s electric saw, the Moonshine and Milky Way Maverick Girls carved out the words BIG PENIS SCHOOL. It was crooked, but we were still proud of our horticulture art work.

  Another time we changed the lettering of the reader board in front of the school late at night. We spelled out GIVE SENIORS FREE BEER.

  We had a Friday night Senior Sleepover at the school. The teachers never got wind of it. After the janitors cleaned the school, we all snuck in with sleeping bags, changed into our pajamas, made popcorn, drank beer, turned on music, danced, and had a great time, all night. The girls told their parents they were going to Justine’s or my house to spend the night. The boys told their parents they were going to a couple of the guys’ houses to spend the night. None of the parents checked on their kids.

  Zack thought our pranks were hilarious.

  I longed for that man.

  I lusted for that man.

  I thought I saw passion in his eyes for me, that same lust I was feeling, but he never acted on it. Zack didn’t kiss me. Didn’t even hold my hand. I was stunned and hurt and started doubting myself and us.

  The whole thing started to depress me. I managed to keep my smile on through the dates, then I went home. Alone. What was wrong? Was he not attracted to me? Quite possible. And why did I think he would be interested in me as a girlfriend, or a wife? Like my mother said, I was a gawky thing. An awkward thing. I really needed to “do something” with my unruly mess of curly hair. My eyes were too big, and I had a hippie style with my flowing shirts and boots and bangles and necklaces.

  I had darker thoughts, too: Was he married and had he lied to me? Was he gay? Was he asexual? Was he grieving for someone else, a broken relationship? Was he incapable of a commitment? Was he hiding something? Was he sterile or impotent?

  I came back to the same answer: He simply wasn’t attracted to me.

  One night I went home alone after he took me to a fancy restaurant after three months of dating. Clearly I was the only one who was “dating.” I loved the man. I was crushed. I asked myself that question that’s been asked a zillion times by both men and women: Is it more painful to stay in a relationship, knowing the person doesn’t want what you want, doesn’t want a future, a marriage, than it is to leave?

  Should I break this off now, before I fall more deeply in love with Zack and am then abandoned again?

  Or is it better to have him in my life as a friend and lust for him on the sidelines while crying at night all by myself?

  Already I couldn’t imagine my life without Zack. On one hand, he had quickly become my best friend, along with Chick and Justine. He was so smart, but he was self-aware, too. He was thoughtful. He was considerate. The man was evolv
ed in a way that so many men never are; they just stumble their way through life, dense and clueless, arrogant and needy, selfish and scared, not ever really getting emotions, getting themselves, getting other people. Stumble, bumble, blah.

  On the other hand, I felt his resistance, as if he wanted to be with me and was trying not to get too close but couldn’t help himself. I’d feel him relax into our relationship, laugh and smile, but then I’d feel him pulling away again.

  There was a watchfulness, a wariness to him. He always noticed who was around us. There was a suspiciousness to him. I’d see it behind his eyes and I could tell he was lost in his thoughts, and those thoughts were closed to me.

  I opened the door to my apartment after the fancy dinner date, kept the lights off, and splayed flat out on my bed and cried. I decided I was done. I did not need more pain in my life.

  I didn’t take his call for three days. I could feel my heart throbbing when I finally picked up.

  “Hi, Zack.”

  “Natalie. How are you? Is everything okay?”

  I heard the worry in his voice.

  “Everything’s fine. It’s fine.”

  We did the surface talk that we all know how to do. We both knew there was something off.

  “What are you doing tonight, Natalie?”

  “I’m home. I might have a wild night watching a home decorating show.”

  “Do you want company?”

  Oh, I did. I wanted his naked company. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to end up crying again. So, naturally, I said, “Sure.”

  “I’ll bring dinner.”

  “It’s okay. I made lasagna. Let’s have that.”

  “You are after my heart.”

  I hoped so. But we were going to talk about that.

  * * *

  He came over and looked delicious in his black shirt and blue jeans. He picked his clothes out well. He was tall and rangy and built, that man. I like men who have something to grip, and he was grippable.

  I smiled and gave him a hug and resisted pulling his jeans off because clearly that was not what he wanted. Still, I’d taken time to do myself up. I was in a red cotton dress that stopped midthigh, my usual chains and charms, and half an armful of bracelets made from beads and leather.