by Tad Crawford
I could enjoy those same pleasures. I didn’t want her to think me shallow, so I kept it to myself.
“I can’t wait anymore,” she said in a voice both fierce and plaintive.
“You shouldn’t,” I encouraged her.
She studied me as if I were a specimen exhibiting behavior impossible for its species. Resolving her momentary doubt, whatever it was, she forged ahead.
“It’s not just the biological clock, although it’s constantly running. Lessening the odds. I never thought he’d make me wait so long for children. His doubts, his career, his financial fears, and on and on with his reasons. Finally we tried. What do you think? Do children come from biology or love? You tell me.”
“Well—”
“So we tried and tried. We try and try. Sex on a schedule, every position designed for procreation.”
“No more Sunday mornings,” I said sadly, wondering if they had a big-screen TV for the sports.
“Anyway, he didn’t strike me as ready to father, to be a father. He kept the focus on himself, his little needs, his little life. I offered him something bigger, but he had to be the sole attraction. Can you get me a refill?”
She held up her thin-stemmed glass. I took it and started into the mass of celebrants. These people looked like athletes, young and strong. Joyful. I saw a woman in a pink satin gown hurrying toward me through the crowd.
“We didn’t expect you.”
I recollected an invitation I had politely declined.
“A change of plans. I hope … ”
“It’s no problem at all.” She lifted herself up to kiss me on both cheeks. Her skin was smooth. She had a hint of fragrance that made me feel as if a soft breeze had come through groves of fruit trees. Plucking the glass from my hand, she waved it in the air. A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne. I took two glasses, wondering if I should go back to the strange woman or try to escape. If I furtively went to the far side of the room, she might seek me out and make a scene. That I couldn’t bear.
“Thanks,” I said, wanting to ask whose party this was. But I felt I should know, and I certainly didn’t want to reveal my ignorance.
“I see who you’re talking to,” the woman in pink said, bringing her lips almost close enough to my ear to whisper. “Keep up the good work.”
With that she turned and moved quickly back into the scrum of guests. I looked at the champagne bubbling in the hollow flutes of the glasses. Carefully I made my way toward the strange woman who, I now noticed, looked plain in her white blouse and gray skirt. She also looked older than almost everyone else in the room.
“You came back,” she said, not sounding especially pleased. I realized that she might not have been expecting my return. In any case, she took a glass from my hand and half emptied it.
“What was I saying?”
This annoyed me. I didn’t want to listen to her, but if I did listen to her, she could at least keep track of her own story.
“About sex on a schedule,” I said, thinking I always listen for too long. I don’t know the polite formulas, the deft excuses people use to slip away.
“Is that all you ever think about?” she demanded. “Sex? Surely I talked about other things as well.”
Her accusation stung me. She gulped more champagne, and I wondered how many glasses had preceded this one.
“Schedules, biological clocks—what do you care?” she asked.
How had this conversation begun? Why had I listened to her at all? For that matter, why had the woman in pink encouraged me to continue it?
“Should I care?” I asked.
She regarded me uncertainly. Then, without answering, she continued.
“It’s not just the biological clock. There’s an inner clock too. I need a companion who can go beyond where he and I went. Someone who welcomes exploration, who values the new, the possible. Are you like that?”
“What do you think?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“I’d have to give it some thought.”
She shook her head.
“That’s what he said about the dance lessons. I bought him a gift coupon for a series. Five dances in ten lessons—fox-trot, waltz, salsa, rumba, and tango. I really looked forward to going. It was the first time in years I’d been excited about doing something with him. When I asked him to free up one night a week, he said he’d give it some thought. I asked a few times, but then I didn’t ask anymore. Maybe you think it’s nothing. Maybe he has two left feet, doesn’t like to move, or hates lessons. But for me it was the end. I offered him a little bit of joy, a little bit of fun. He couldn’t even say yes. That’s when I started writing the letter.”
She sounded sad.
“It might be the beginning,” I stumbled. “Once he understands, he might take action, change. You never know.”
She shook her head.
“Not him. It’s better this way. Do you dance?” she asked, looking me up and down.
On a small stage near the table heaped high with presents, a jazz quartet had begun to play.
“No, not really.”
She sighed. The story about the dance classes had taken something out of her. I liked her better this way.
“I don’t need pity,” she said sharply, in response to my expression.
“No, of course not.”
“Certainly not from you.”
I decided not to reply.
“What did you get him?” she asked after brooding for a few moments.
“It’s over there,” I lied, nodding my head in the direction of the laden table.
“But what is it? I mean, he has everything. It took me forever to figure out what to buy.”
“It’s totally useless,” I answered.
“And it is … ” She smiled to show me how she labored to pull an answer out of me.
“It’s nothing, insignificant to someone like him,” I said, and switched the focus to her. “What did you get him?”
“A life insurance policy. I paid the first premium.”
My face must have shown disbelief and a bit of horror.
“Come on,” she said, “it’s his birthday, so he’s a year older. I made a joke. Talk about something really useless—extra money to spend after you’re dead. He’ll think it’s hilarious.”
“He could throw a lavish wake,” I said, getting into the spirit of her joke, “and invite all the people he’ll never see again. But you must know him better than I do.”
“I knew him from before,” she said significantly.
We fell silent again. The noise of the party had risen, and I felt that our silence must be especially noticeable.
“You’re not drinking your champagne,” she observed at last.
This made me nervous, and I lifted the champagne glass to my lips.
“What do you think of first impressions?” she asked at last.
“It can take time to get comfortable and act like yourself. Sometimes you have to go slowly.”
“But if you’re looking for the right person, you can’t wait too long. In my marriage, I waited way too long.”
“That’s a lot different from a first impression.”
“If you’re going to make a mistake,” she said, looking at me with that intense gaze, “it’s better to make it sooner. Then you move on, meet someone else. You have a lot more chances.”
“It can be sad,” I replied, “to be always moving from one person to another. Never giving anyone a real try.”
“You know why I came over to talk with you?”
I shook my head.
“Your ears. I liked your ears. And it’s been … interesting to talk with you. But I don’t feel that you and I have the right chemistry. Maybe you’d be a nice friend, but I have a lot of friends. I’m going to say good night and do some more circulating.”
She offered me her hand, but I didn’t take it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “You hurt me.”
She looked
straight at me then dropped her hand.
“I don’t play that game anymore,” she replied, turning away. After a few steps she tossed back over her shoulder, “Enjoy the party.”
I can’t explain what happened next. I don’t believe I drank a lot of champagne, though maybe I did. Perhaps what she said hurt me more than I realized. I woke up in a bathroom stall with my hands on the oval rim of a toilet. I vomited again and again, pulling up an evil-smelling yellow liquid from what felt like the bottom of my intestines. Eight, nine, ten purges poured out of me like the boisterous jet of a fountain. At last the convulsions in my gut stopped, and I clung exhausted to the toilet, my nostrils breathing in the nauseating scent and my eyes staring at the yellow waste as if to find meaning in this apparition.
“Are you okay in there?”
The voice roused me from my stupor. I spit a few times and reached up to flush the toilet.
“Yeah.” With an effort I pulled myself to a kneeling position, the floor tiles hard on my knees.
“The Romans used to do that for fun.” The man had a jovial, cultured voice. “After a few courses, they’d tickle the throat with a feather to make room for more.”
I used the toilet for support to stand up. Twisting open the bolt lock, I pushed through the metal door to get to a sink. The man stood at the end of a row of half a dozen sinks. He was dressed more formally than the other people at the party. As I bent forward to cup water to my face, I glimpsed his white silk bow tie, black tailcoat, and sparkling patent leather shoes. I rinsed my mouth several times but couldn’t completely rid myself of the acidic aftertaste.
“This champagne we’re drinking tonight—it’s lovely,” he went on as he handed me a cloth hand towel to dry my face. “Moët and Chandon. I toured the caves there once, many years ago. Before his campaigns, Napoléon would visit to stock up. In fact, he stopped there before the disaster in Russia. Can you imagine the terrible retreat from Moscow, stumbling men in uniforms of rags freezing by the thousands while the emperor sips champagne in his cozy tent?”
Another wave of nausea swept through me and I bent over the sink until it passed.
“There, there.” The man placed an arm around my waist to support me. “We have to get a taxi to take you home.”
My legs didn’t respond well as the floor shifted beneath me.
“Keep your equilibrium,” my companion said.
I could hear the party, the din of overlapping voices and the cool, impervious sound of the jazz quartet. He guided me away and soon we were walking hip to hip down a short flight of steps to the street.
“Take a few aspirin before you go to bed,” he advised, looming above the door of the taxi. I fumbled with the seat belt, and he leaned across me to lock it in place. Standing again, he added, “Tell the driver where you live.”
I did and soon found myself sitting at my dining table. The layout of my apartment is efficient: a hallway with a coat closet, a pass-through from the kitchen to the round dining table in the living room, the master bedroom and a second bedroom on either side of the living room. In front of me, on the table, I saw a business-size envelope with my name neatly handwritten in a pale-blue ink. I recognized my wife’s handwriting but lacked the volition to move my arms and reveal whatever might be inside.
I let my head sag forward to rest in my hands. My eyes looked down at the envelope. I closed them for the peace of not seeing. There are a few moments every day when a feeling like this, of wanting to be absent from wherever I am, takes me over. It may be depression, but it’s quiet and calm, like a considerate guest visiting in my home. I certainly don’t mind it enough to take any mood-elevating drugs.
I tried to make sense of why my wife would leave a letter for me. She’d be home eventually and could tell me whatever she wanted. She didn’t make a habit of leaving me notes. In fact, she had never left me one before.
I closed my eyes briefly to contemplate how unfair the evening had been. I must have been drinking, but I had no recollection of the pleasure of my inebriation. I only remembered being sick in the toilet, and now my breath disgusted me and my dizzy head throbbed painfully.
I had a fleeting desire to turn on the television and use the remote to flip through the channels. But I would have to get up to find the remote. Anyway, sooner or later I had to read the letter. Carefully I lifted the sealed flap and pulled the thick sheets of paper from within. It began simply:
“I’m leaving. Any letter that starts that way is hard to write. Certainly this one is. When we married, we vowed to be together always, but what happened to the man I married? I feel like I’m living with someone I don’t know, a stranger. Certainly not the man I promised ‘to have and to hold until death do us part.’”
There was a lot more to read, but I neatly folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. Something had been wrong, but it had been elusive. I guess I ignored it and shouldn’t have. But I could hardly weigh it all now. The man said to take some aspirin, but that would mean walking to the bathroom. I felt too sick to understand what her leaving meant to me. I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. That I knew, because she earned more than I did, and we had been scrupulous in apportioning our expenses. No more marriage, a cheaper apartment, maybe searching for a job that paid more. My whole life would change.
At last I rose and walked slowly to the bathroom, filled a glass of water, washed down two aspirin, and brushed my teeth. On my way back I picked up the remote from the worn brown leather couch and sat again with the letter in front of me. I clicked on the television, moving quickly from one channel to another. Whatever the show, the sound hurt my ears and I quickly turned it off.
I took the letter from the envelope again and began to read carefully through the three pages filled with her finely shaped script. It all had a familiarity, a finality. It didn’t sound open to discussion or negotiation. I hadn’t grown up. I would never make a good father. She couldn’t waste more time hoping for me to change. She gave a few examples, including my drinking too much on our tenth anniversary and acting, as she put it, like a “frat boy.” When I finished reading the letter for a second time, I knew she would never come back. Despite my throbbing head and churning stomach, I felt the loneliness of this apartment without her, of my life without her.
I heard a key turning in the lock of the door. It made no sense—she wouldn’t be coming back and no one else had a key. I stood and faced the door, my hand on the wall to support me. When the door opened, I saw the strange woman who had talked so much and then dismissed me at the party.
“You got home okay.”
“Yes,” I answered.
She came forward.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You drank too much. Feeling better?”
“A little, but how did you get a key?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“A key to the apartment.”
“Do you think I’d give up the key?”
“But you never had a key.”
She looked at me with disbelief.
“This is my key,” she said, emphasizing every word as she had done at the party.
Suddenly the woman no longer looked strange. Like a blurred image brought into focus, I remembered her from the years we had spent together. Once I had found her beautiful and alluring. Once she had charmed and excited me. Once, I knew, I had chosen her for my wife.
“Your letter said you’re leaving.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“If you’re leaving, you should give me the key.”
“I’m leaving you,” she replied, “not the apartment.”
“You can’t be serious.” I looked for an indication of humor, an uplift at the corners of her lips or a gleam in her eyes.
“Maybe you’d like to leave,” she said.
“Where am I going to go?” I asked. “You know how hard it is to find an apartment, much less an affordable one.”
“Would it be easier for me?”
&
nbsp; “But if you’re going, you have to go.” I felt too lousy to be sentimental. First she had to go; then I could be miserable and wistfully recall the good times. “You can’t leave and stay.”
“There are two reasons why I can.”
“Yes?”
“Like you, I have no place to go. If I leave, I know you can’t afford the apartment. There’s no reason why you should get the apartment anyway, but especially not if you won’t be able to keep it.”
“Then you’re not really breaking up with me,” I said.
“Yes, I am. From now on, don’t make any assumptions about our relationship. I’ve moved your clothes into the second bedroom. Don’t come into my bedroom unless I give you permission. The living room and kitchen are common areas that we’ll share.”
“I don’t have to stay here,” I blustered.
“Then you’ll move out. Maybe I’ll have to get a roommate, but I’ll be fine.”
“What’s the second reason?” I asked.
“When people break up, they’re always wondering, ‘What if I had stayed? What if I gave it a second chance? What if I did this or that differently?’ You and I won’t have to wonder. I’ll know where to find you. And if you have any second thoughts, any questions, I’ll be right there.” She pointed to the master bedroom.
“You’re taking the bigger room?” I asked.
“I pay more rent than you do.”
She spoke in a matter-of-fact way. I picked up the envelope, although I had no wish to read her letter again. Slowly, I walked toward my new room. I didn’t have anything to say to her that I could put into words, but it felt awkward to leave in silence.
“Good night,” I called over my shoulder.
“Yes,” she replied, “Good night.”
4
The brownstone had no number and no sign for a shop. I checked the numbers of the adjacent buildings on the tree-lined sidewalk before returning to the front of the four-story building. I tried without success to peer through the oak shutters on the windows. Finally, I pushed the white button of the bell beside the door.
“Yes?” The man didn’t sound welcoming.
“Do you sell model boats?”
