by Tom Bierdz
The doorbell rang. It couldn’t be Megan, because I had already called her and told her I’d catch a cab and see her shortly after noon. Figuring it was probably a sales call, or a visit from a missionary which seemed to be the order of the day on Sunday, I chose not to answer and rolled over instead. When the ringing persisted and knocking was added, I pulled myself up and stumbled to the door. It was Hanna, looking healthy with rosy cheeks, in a pink, breast-cancer awareness, jogging outfit, pink shoes and cap-- pink from head to toe. Stunned, I stood, my mouth agape.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.
“No. No. I’m just surprised.” Hanna had never called on me unannounced before.
“Well, I was just in the neighborhood...” Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “You can’t possibly believe that. I stopped by to see if you want to walk with me. It’s a beautiful morning and I wanted to share it with you.”
There was a time, a few years back, when Hanna and I walked together, sometimes in our neighborhood, other times in the many parks and trails in the Seattle area. We found the walks to be freeing, frequently using the time to unload, sharing thoughts and feelings. It was our time and helped us stay connected when family, work, or other demands pulled us apart. Some years back, before Kevin left us, we got away from our walks. We blamed it on the weather and life’s incessant demands, but we simply didn’t put forth the effort to protect that time for ourselves. I realized I missed those walks.
“Come in,” I said, opening the door wide. “I’ll grab a jacket.” I put on my shoes and jacket and when I returned to the living room Hanna stood, her face scrunched up, observing my living space.
“Grant, you need a woman’s touch. Still nothing on the walls.”
“I’m ready,” I said, cutting off the conversation, anticipating perhaps, that she might offer herself and further complicate my situation. It was complicated enough.
“You’ve been walking a lot?” I asked, as we headed down the sidewalk.
“Not as much as I should. Isn’t this a great time of the day? Still a bite in the air. It tickles my lungs. And the varied shades of green as the trees bud out.” She increased her pace, causing me to step it up.
I couldn’t simply enjoy the moment. I got right down to business. “Why are you here?”
“Oh, Grant, hasn’t anybody told you your timing is atrocious?”
“Yeah, you have. Several times. I’m sorry, Hanna, I’d love to simply just be in the moment with you, but too much has happened. Is happening. Is it about Hank? Last time we talked you were going away with him to a ballgame out of town.”
“Maybe. I’m not really sure why I’m here. I’m not privy to that self-awareness that you seem to have.”
She was totally off the mark with that one. At the moment I was so out of touch with my feelings that I might have been in someone else’s body. Hanna’s appearance added to my confusion. But to share that now was counter-productive. “Wish I had the capacity you give me credit for. You talk, I’ll listen.”
“Can we just walk for a while?”
“Sure.” I grudgingly got in step.
We both watched the missionaries, two clean-cut, young men dressed in shirt and tie and dark trousers, on bicycles headed in our direction.
“I never see them in my neighborhood,” Hanna said.
“They know where the sinners are,” I said.
She smiled again.
I felt I had redeemed my earlier faux pas of pushing too fast and too hard. We walked in silence for a good twenty minutes. It was the route I walked to work until we veered off toward the park, but it felt completely different. Almost brand new. I noticed things I hadn’t seen before–neighborhood watch signs in the windows, daffodils poking out of the ground, a fence in need of repair.
We strolled into the park, sat upon a park bench.
Hanna loosened the zipper on her top. Starring into the distance she said, “Hank is nice, treats me well. The ballgame trip was pleasant.” She turned to me, shuttered. “I don’t enjoy this dating scene. I mean Hank is as good as they come, probably most women would consider him a good catch. He is handsome, respectful, intelligent, a good provider, but I don’t feel anything. There’s no chemistry.” She frowned, shook her head.
I sensed she felt she disappointed me by telling me this, as if I expected her to hurry up and get on with her life and relieve me of any burden. Alimony would cease when she remarried, but it was more than that. She knew I felt an emotional responsibility as well as a financial one. “Why are you sharing this with me?”
She clasped my hand. “I need to tell someone and you know me better than anyone else.” She released her hand, patted my knee. “Ironic, isn’t it? I push you out of my life, then turn to you for advice.”
“Because I’m a therapist?”
“Because you were a good listener when you were my husband.”
Maybe if we negated Kevin’s suicide and its ramifications. “That seems so long ago now.”
“Yes, and now that we’ve put a little distance between us, I can see things a little clearer. I can remember how good those early years were, and that’s the standard I use to compare against any new relationships. Nothing measures up. My relationship with Hank doesn’t measure up.”
Listening to Hanna talk about her relationship with Hank made me uncomfortable. “Maybe you have to give it more time.”
“I will. We’re still dating. I’m trying to modify my expectations, but I don’t have a lot of hope.”
Wrapping my arm around her, I said, “You know I want the best for you.”
“I know.” She pressed her cheek to mine. “Again, I’m sorry for blaming you for Kevin.”
“Thanks. You doing better?”
“I have my good days.” Planting a kiss on my cheek, she stood, “Let’s head back.”
I thought about telling her how I had been drawn to the bridge where Kevin jumped but I didn’t, intuitively feeling this wasn’t the time to talk about Kevin. I didn’t think Hanna would want to go there.
“Oh!” we both shouted when a boy on a skateboard tumbled after his board hit a raised section of sidewalk. He seemed to be alright when he picked himself up and skated away. I thought about how Kevin loved to do tricks with his skateboard. I thought Hanna was going to say something about that when she looked up at me. She didn’t. Instead, she asked, “How are things with your fiancée?”
“You mean Megan? She’s not my fiancée.”
“Potential fiancée!”
“We’re dating, but you’re jumping too far ahead.”
“Our neighbor Jane ran into the two of you at a restaurant. Says you two made enough electricity to light up the place.”
I scoffed.
She reached up and tore off a maple leaf from a branch that bent down and edged the walkway. “Jane says she hears that Miss Wilshire gets what she goes after. Bobby says you’re seeing her exclusively.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bobby’s got a big mouth.”
“In defense of Bobby, I had to pry it out of him. He’s very loyal to you. He gave me no details, only confirmed that you were only dating Megan.”
“Why did you bring this up?”
“Because I care about you.” Seeing the confusion on my face, she continued, “Not in that way. We’ve shared a lot together. I care what happens to you. Miss Wilshire gives me bad vibes. I think she’s dangerous. I have no facts to back that up. Just a feeling.”
I averted her eyes, focused on the walk ahead of me and mulled her concern. Was she simply jealous or should I heed her warning? Hers wasn’t the first.
We returned to my house. I thanked her for the walk, said my goodbyes, and retreated into the house.
26
Megan had prompted me to accompany her to check out
a starving artist’s exhibit in a downtown loft apartment. She was part of a wealthy civic group who subsidized new artists, helping them get started until they could develop a following and support themselves. A member of the civic group offered her swanky loft for the exhibit. Megan parked her car in a tall, parking structure, paying the valet extra to keep it on the ground floor so it wouldn’t be driven down the narrow spiral exit.
We took the lift to the apartment and was greeted by the hostess, an attractive woman in a slinky, orange dress who I guessed to be about fifty who pretended to be thirty. Her dress was wrong and too tight and her plastic surgery had removed the character from her face. Megan later told me the women had reconstructive surgery on other parts of her body as well. The artist, a lanky man some thirty years younger, was all hair and looked to be in need of a shower; his unruly head of hair fell beneath his shoulders, and his facial hair covered everything except his dark, beady eyes and sharp nose. Barefoot, his jeans were paint splattered and he wore a ripped, stained, wife-beater tee that exposed his hairy chest and arms. I’d bet money he was balling his benefactor judging from their carnal touches and glances.
Neither Megan nor I thought much of his paintings which were nothing more than bold splotches of paints on canvas titled by emotional adjectives like anger, jealousy, hate, sex, etc. depending on the predominant color and the interweaving complimentary colors. I seemed to recall monkeys and elephants producing similar paintings. Except for the hostess, none of the small group of others present, any who could individually finance the artist, were impressed.
We had a flute of champagne, mingled briefly with the crowd and left early, laughing and making fun of the exhibit.
Megan gave her ticket to the parking lot attendant. Waiting, we shivered to the screeching tire sounds as the cars zoomed down the spiral exit. When the valet brought Megan her car she walked around it, examining it, finding a small scratch. “Goddamn it!” She stormed up to the valet. Come here, you son-of-a-bitch and take a look at this.”
Reluctantly, he inched over to the rear fender.
I drifted over, rubbed my hand over the area and the scratch disappeared. “It’s nothing,” I said, and apologized to the valet.
Megan looked at me as if I needed an explanation for her behavior, and started the car. “You saw how they grind those cars down that winding exit. They drive like they’re in the goddamn Grand Prix.”
“But you paid extra. Your car was on the first level.”
“Yes, I’m very generous and giving and I expect to be treated accordingly.”
“Do you think, maybe, sometimes you’re too quick to fly off the handle?”
She chose not to respond, merged her car into traffic, and kept her eyes focused on the road in front.
Later, when we both mellowed out, I shared some of my meeting with Carrie, that she was planning an abortion and wanting me there with her. I also told her about my need to visit the bridge from where Kevin jumped. I did not tell her about Hanna’s visit.
Near suppertime, Megan said, “I’ll go in the kitchen and make the Paninis.”
“Need some help?”
“No, Margot made all the preparations - sliced the mozzarella, the prosciutto, tomatoes, basil, and roasted red peppers. All I needed to do it brush a little virgin olive oil on the focaccia and put them in the Panini press. Why don’t you put some music on?” She left for the kitchen.
I sauntered over to the cabinet where Megan kept her CDs in a drawer, divided into classical, jazz, and popular. I ruffled through her jazz collection, put on a Miles Davis track. I found his music soothing. Returning to my chair I noticed a newspaper page on a table, sticking out under a coffee-table book of Chicago with photographs of the city’s highlights. Remembering that I needed to be more observant to learn more about Megan, I lifted the book and studied the page. It was from a recent Seattle Times edition and included an approximately four-by-six-inch, black and white photo, ad of a professionally handsome Dr. Isley Hodges, sans cowboy hat, in a suit and tie announcing the opening of his psychiatry practice.
Several thoughts intersected. First, why did she keep the clipping? Was she planning on seeing Dr. Hodges? Had I missed her grieving for her sister? She didn’t appear depressed, but maybe she covered it, grieved in privacy. After missing Kevin’s signs I had to question my powers of observation. She couldn’t see me for therapy since I cut her off; we were now emotionally involved. Still, I couldn’t help but think I’d have picked up on something, some clue, or that she would have mentioned something.
“Megan,”
“Yes, dear?” she yelled from the kitchen.
I started to ask her about the page but changed my mind, electing to approach it from another angle. Instead, I said, “You never mention playing tennis. You can’t play as a pro without practicing in between. You must have to keep at it.”
She entered the room with a bottle of Chianti and a corkscrew and handed it to me. “Will you open this?”
I followed her into the kitchen.
“I play at the tennis club one or two days a week. I don’t mention it because it’s routine and uneventful just like you don’t talk about your patients every day. If I played Serena Williams you’d hear about it. Shall we eat inside or out?
“In,” I grunted, pulling out the wine cork. “It’s still too chilly for me outside.”
She brought the plates with sandwiches, chips, and pickle to the table adorned with a beautiful, silk tablecloth and a lit candle.
I poured the wine. “You’ve never mentioned the women you play with.”
“That’s because I play with either Steve or Troy. Both men.” She sat. “Are you itching to play me?”
“If you promise not to take my head off.” My bruised ego had recovered, and I did want a rematch to see if she was really that good, or if my game was off due to a lack of play. Who was I kidding? I was competitive and still felt the sting of being beaten and humbled by a woman.
“You got it.” She sipped her wine.
I bit into my sandwich. “Delicious.” Wiping the corner of my mouth with a napkin, I added, “Are you sleeping okay?”
She smiled, “Yes, why do you ask?”
“I’d been remiss in not asking you how you’re dealing with Sasha’s loss. I know how close you two were.”
She took a few beats before answering, studying my facial expression. “Thanks for asking but I’m okay. Every once and a while It’ll hit me and I’ll lose it. But, all in all, I’m doing okay. Even better than I thought I would be.”
“You don’t have to bear it alone. You can get help.”
“Darling, I’d come to you if I needed help,” she said, clasping my hand.
“I’m here for you but sometimes it’s better to see someone who’s objective, not emotionally involved. I can recommend someone–“
Smiling, she patted my hand acknowledging my concern and signaling me to cease my line of questions.
“Dr. Hodges has started his practice,” I continued. “Do you remember me mentioning him to you?
“Of course I do. I appreciate your concern, Grant, but you’ll be the first to know if I think I need to see a shrink. I’m good, okay? Let’s drop it.”
“Sure.” Then why have you saved his photo? I was baffled. She had my permission. If she planned to see him, there was no reason to hide it from me. If she wasn’t going to see him, then why keep the ad? Maybe she planned to give it to someone? Whatever? In any case, it wasn’t a mystery I was able to solve now. I would file it in my mental pending file to take it out and examine it at a later time.
We retired to the living room. Miles Davis was still sweetly blowing his horn. The sun had set and darkness abounded. I strolled to the expansive window and looked at the house lights below, comparing the hill scene to a Christmas tree where every lig
ht was burning, and where I stood at the tip, the very top where the angel perched. At least that’s how I imagined it might look to a giant, like Gulliver, from a distance. Was this an angel’s house?
The angel brushed my shoulder, handed me a crystal glass of Cognac. “I like seeing you in this room.”
I smiled, kissed her cheek.
“How about if we just sit and relax like an old married couple.”
Habitually, we never sat long. We lusted for each other and couldn’t wait to get into bed. Just sitting and relaxing was appealing tonight, although I wished she hadn’t added that part about old married couples.
“Sounds good,” I said, sinking into a cushy chair.
She sat on another, an end table between us.
We sipped our Cognac, talked for a while. I filled her in on more of the details on Carrie, how we originally worked together and became fast friends.
Hours later, after our second glass of Cognac, Megan said, “Having you here, sharing like this, feels so good. So comfortable. Do you feel this way?”
I nodded. “I do.”
Her smile diminished as her expression became grave. “Then move in with me.”
I uttered a deep sigh.
“We’re good together. Two intelligent, virile people with so much in common. The sex is great. We’re spending all this time together. Why not live together?”
I set my near empty crystal glass down on the table before my tightening grip broke it in my hand. “Megan you make it very tempting. I like being with you, look forward to seeing you.”
