by Owen Thomas
He was prepared for all of that. Prepared not just to endure it, but to accept it on its own terms. It did not matter that the caricature of an identity she would adopt and bring home from lesbian war camp would be transitory. It did not matter that such an identity would be, at best, thirty-percent substantive conviction and seventy percent emotional affectation. None of that mattered. He was prepared to accept her for who she wanted to be for as long as she wanted to pretend that that was who she was. He was prepared to let the moment run its course.
He wanted the moment to run its course, because that course served a purpose. The Buddhists called it kensho – the personal awakening to truth; and kensho, like any destination, could be found only by following the Tao, the Way, and the Way could only be traveled in a state of mindfulness, which required, ultimately, that Susan understand – really understand – her own misguided emotions.
It had not taken much reflection for Hollis to predict Susan’s emotional trajectory, nor to appreciate the wisdom in such prediction. Susan had latched onto the patently ridiculous notion that he had slipped off in the middle of her silly celebration for Tilly in order to have sex with Bethany Koan. That had made her angry. Furious, and genuinely so. Time and reflection had no doubt brought Susan to her senses, although her return to sanity had been by stealth and without any open acknowledgement or apology to him. Hollis had not expected an apology for her doubting him. An apology would certainly have been appreciated, but such dramatic reversals in understanding – truth colliding with falsity, emotions slipping gears – were challenging for anyone. He did not expect that of Susan. He did not want an apology. He did not need an apology. Not for thinking him an adulterer and not for abandoning her life to get her head together. It was enough that now, whatever her prior misunderstanding, she knows him. Trusts him. Trusts in him.
But, first, Susan needed to find mindfulness. She needed to dissipate and then understand her own feelings. And that, Hollis understood, was a process. Rage, once summoned, does not leave easily. It must be exercised and exhausted. Susan knew she had no basis for anger. She knew that he was no adulterer. And yet, she was angry still. What is one to do with such dissonance between the mind and the heart; between what one knows and what one feels? One redirects. One vents. One vilifies the scarecrows in the field and sets fire to them. Susan had channeled her rage into the cause against the Iraq War and against the administration whose job it was to protect from all harm the United States of America, where people were free in all respects, free even to be angry without provocation and to leave their homes and families to commune with lesbians and explore harebrained notions.
It had been somewhat surprising therefore, that Susan had said almost nothing of her time away. Nothing of her companions; nor her activities; nor her environs; nor her opinions or assessments.
Hollis had not asked, of course. He did not want to be deliberately insincere, nor accused of prying. Any serious demonstration of curiosity on his part would be interpreted as furthering some dishonorable agenda; such as belittling her experience or humoring her opinions. So, no, he had not inquired. And she acted as though she had never been gone; as though there had been no break at all in the continuity in the arrangement of their marriage.
But she had been gone. And she was not the same.
She spent a lot of time on the telephone, for one thing. She tended to answer with generic greetings and friendly but nondescript inflections, often wandering out of the room and out of earshot with the phone pressed deep into the side of her face, uttering staccato affirmations and denials – Hello? Oh, hi. Yes. Yep. MmmHmm. No. No. I doubt it. I think it’s a bad idea. No. Nope. Yes. Of course not. Great. Yes. Definitely – leaving Hollis with little to go on beyond the knowledge that his wife was part of a network of people (fellow war campers, he suspected) and their concerns (mostly self-important political agendas, he suspected), that did not include him. All of which was fine, he told himself. Fine. It was just … different.
Susan also seemed to care a whole lot less about what Hollis did with himself. For all of the fuss intended to bolster her own conceit of indispensability, her typically intense concern over where and how he spent his time seemed, suddenly, to be gone. Returning home from a four or five hour afternoon excursion into Columbus, rarely entailed the casual-but-not-really-so-casual debriefing that it had previously. He left when he pleased and returned when he pleased without notice or explanation or apology and Susan seemed not to care much. There was the occasional inquiry into his activities, but they were perfunctory; empty of any real interest.
She also no longer made those maddeningly transparent remarks intended to let him know that she knew exactly how much he had had to drink – as in, if you’re going to have your fourth glass of wine with dinner then there’s really no need to set out an iced tea glass; it just clutters up the table. Nor did she try to flush him from the comfort of his study like a German Pointer into a thicket after a covey of quail. She either sent Ben down to tell him that dinner was on the table or she let him emerge when he was good and ready to emerge. If he tarried, and if dinner got cold and she and Ben were cleaning up when he finally appeared, well, that seemed no longer to be a concern.
It was not a lack of concern born of passive aggression, nor a lack of concern that she ever articulated in order to make a point – as in, fine, Hollis, show up for dinner or don’t show up, I really don’t care. For all appearances, Susan’s lack of concern was real. She had mastered the illusion of detachment.
It was no more genuine than it was permanent, of course; Hollis knew that much. The change was an illusion. But she obviously wanted him to believe that she had made her pilgrimage to Peebles and had returned with clean pores and an emotional independence that rendered any concern she might otherwise have for his comings and goings beneath her. And she had been just convincing enough in this new nonchalance that he thought perhaps she even believed it. All of which was fine. Fine. Just different.
The lid to the washing machine had clanged from down in the basement. Hollis had put down the newspaper he was not reading and, purely on impulse, he had changed the channel, muting the sound. The Ohio-Lights Show was still on. Painted, screaming, bare-chested men, crazed in the rapture of victory, were busy assaulting the Buckeyes mascot at the thirty-yard line, flattening the rubbery legume – not known for their speed – into the turf. Hollis had turned off the television, no longer interested in Ohio’s answer to the Benny Hill Show. He had, in some secret part of his brain, hoped for a return of the advertisement for the CF-9000. He had hoped for another look at Katie in her blue bathing suit and her white tennis shoes and her flawless golden form.
But it was not to be. There had been another clang from downstairs and Hollis had stared fixedly at the black screen in front of him. The unsatisfied impulse that ricocheted wildly from his brain to his groin and back again had instantly reformed itself into a desperate urge to be in superb physical condition. He wanted to look twenty-two. He wanted to look like he looked when he could swim the breaststroke in near record time. He wanted a barrel chest again, and shoulders and arms to match. He wanted an ass of steel and two thighs that were each the girth of little Katie’s waist. He wanted the strength to tuck a Katie or a Bethany Koan or a Miss Daley under one arm. He was a married man and not the kind of husband who went around tucking petite nubile women under his arms, but there was still something irresistible about the image of himself as someone who could do such a thing if he really wanted to.
He had thought about the CF-9000. Forklifts were in motion. Shipping forms were being printed. In a few days, he would be unpacking the patented rubber straps and it would start. His return to ultimate fitness would begin.
Of course, that would never do. When measured against the lifespan of an impulse, a few days was an eternity. He needed to start now. Immediately. The CF-9000 was suddenly only a small part of a master fitness plan that would include daily walks through the neighborhood, to the school, hell
, even all the way up to the hospital and back, until he had enough wind back in his lungs and strength in his legs to start running again; to really pound the pavement. And then, by God, he would put in five miles a day, three days a week, showering off the sweat before Susan was even out of bed in the morning. And swimming. He needed to get back into the pool.
He had realized then that he needed to reactivate his Columbus First Family Health Club membership. He had finally canceled the membership after nine years of monthly payments with absolutely no activity. The club had kept him on the mailing list and he had followed the application of his membership fees to the expansion of the entire facility. The brochure pictures had shown rows of new treadmills, stair climbers, ladder climbers, a room of free weights, a new health food snack bar, and, best of all, a “Junior Olympic” size swimming pool with a three-meter diving board.
Resolved, Hollis had stood up and walked to the door, grabbing his car keys out of the bowl on the hallway table.
“Susan.”
There was no answer. He heard a thump from the basement. He raised his voice.
“Susan! I’m going! I’m going to the club!”
When there was no response he had left without any further effort to advise her of his plans. Spousal exclusion could be mutual. Susan could hardly complain given her own recent exclusiveness.
He got in the car and headed for the club. He was halfway there before the power of impulse had waned just enough for him to realize that if he was going to turn over this new leaf, then he would need to accessorize. He needed workout clothes. He needed water bottles and wristbands. The list kept expanding as he exited the freeway and headed North to the mall. He needed a new lock. An extra deodorant. An extra brush. Shoes. And he needed a bag to keep it all in.
The Athletics Emporium had everything he needed. A cute, bouncy young thing wearing a button down referee shirt and black shorts and a whistle around her neck had seized upon him at the door.
“Can I help?” Eyes dancing. Teeth gleaming. Hollis had explained his purpose.
“Follow me,” she said. And he had followed her, counterclockwise around the store, from one department to the next, arcing merchandise into the cart like improbable looters hoping for an improbable black market: Overtime Deodorant (2 roll sticks), a nylon hair brush, TrakSmart athletic shoes (size 11-wide), a dozen synthetic-plaited super-wicking calf support Power Socks, three twenty-ounce Thirsty Man Nalgene water bottles, ten PowerLift wristbands, one pair of Monster Grip reinforced mesh weight lifting gloves, a set of Beach Bully adjustable ankle and wrist weights, a SuperDigiMan digital body fat caliper, a SquatBoy nylon lifting belt, BlueFin swimming goggles, one pair of Lazy Ray’s Poolside flip-flops, a twelve-pack of Peter-Built Jockstraps, an Iron Guard combination lock, a canvas Pack Mule gym bag, and a colorful collection of BOT-Body shorts, swim trunks and muscle tees that Hollis picked out himself and that his perky personal referee assured him was, like, the totally the new rage in socially progressive athletic attire, whatever the hell that meant.
He left the mall and remounted the freeway. It felt good, he had thought, to be reinvesting in this essential, vital part of himself. The mind and the body were one integrated whole. There was no separation. Mindfulness was nothing short of complete awareness – complete consciousness – which was a product of a singular mental, physical and spiritual attunement. As he drove, Hollis considered that it was time for another reading of the Tao Te Ching. That, and the guitar, by God. It was time to get that guitar out and really learn it this time.
Upon renewing his club membership and having his picture taken, Hollis had headed directly to the locker room. Ripping tags off of the new clothing, he had dressed out, laced up his shoes and committed his new lock combination to memory.
He had paused in front of the bank of mirrors over the sinks on the way out of the locker room. Hair curled in tangled wisps like graying weeds over both sides of the scooped neck and out the arm holes of his new yellow BOT-Body muscle tee. He looked big, doughy and pale; not fat, but far from lean and fit. He was tall enough to carry his protrusion of stomach, but not quite so large of frame that his workout shirt might hang freely to his waist without diversion over the hillock of flesh swelling out of his midsection. His white hair was still thick, at least from certain angles, and his shoulders still spoke for themselves. He held up his arms and flexed his biceps. There was work to do; too little arm muscle and too much arm wattle. But it was doable.
He took a step back. The mid-calf socks had been a mistake. Deciding that they made him look old, Hollis had bunched the socks down around his ankles, as though all of the elastic had given out. It was an improvement, but still not a good look. The sock adjustment had resulted in long naked twin fleshy columns stretching up into the bottom of his blue shorts. Not that he didn’t have decent legs. He did. For his size. For his age. He did. They just seemed too pallid; too giant albino frog-like. He needed sweatpants.
He should not have been in such a hurry. He should have tried on the BOT-Body shorts before throwing them into the cart. They fit, but just barely. They were too short, for one thing, squeezing his upper thighs and packing his equipment into a tight, too obvious knot at the headlands of his groin. The very bottom reaches of his yellow BOT-Body muscle tee actually slackened slightly upon a cotton/lycra-wrapped shelf of genitalia, a protrusion enhanced by the loin girding of his new Peter-Built Jockstrap.
He had leaned forward slightly, billowing the shirt and casting his nether region into obscuring shadow. It would just have to do until he could go back to the Athletics Emporium make some exchanges.
The mirrors in front of him reflected the mirrors behind him, reproducing his body into a gently bending infinity. On the back of his shirt was the same BOT-Body logo that was on all of his new clothes, a cartoon square-jawed face with a winking eye beneath the words Butch On Top, arcing between the shoulders. At least he was hip.
Hollis had taken purposeful, even if not entirely confident strides out across the rubberized floor of the main weight room amid the smells and sounds of great human effort. Most of the machines were alien, their purpose revealed only if someone was using them, which meant that the machines he understood were occupied and the machines that were available for him to use were a complete mystery.
A muscle-bound kid with an unfolding plague of acne had asked if he needed some help, but Hollis had waved him off. In the corner he had found a bench press sandwiched between a military press and a machine that worked the biceps. This is where he had spent the next hour, cycling from one machine to the next until he felt that familiar burn in his arms and chest. And by God hadn’t that felt good. He was officially in training. Sculpting his body. Pushing himself beyond the expectations of his age.
He had stretched for a few minutes and then set off to explore the club beyond the weight room. He found an empty basketball court and skipped rope until he was too winded to continue. He found the bicycle room and forced himself to go all out for one mile and then he walked another mile on the treadmill. When he had felt that familiar leading edge of muscular exhaustion – a great feeling that was nothing less than a physical memory stored in the tissues of the body itself, bringing back powerfully the triumphs of youth – he decided to quit. No sense over-doing it on the first day back in the saddle. His muscles felt taught and large under his shirt. His waist felt tighter.
On the way back to the locker room he had seen the sign for the new pool and followed the arrow. The pool was in its own separate building that connected to the main club facility by means of a hallway. At the end of the hallway was a bank of pigeonhole shelving and a set of double glass doors that were too steamed and streaked with water to see through. Beyond the door were the echoes of shrieking, laughing children.
On the wall next to the door was a framed sign that included lots of exclamation points and underlined words. Adult Supervision. Rough-housing. Running. Diving Board. Street shoes. Swimsuits. Hollis took off his shoes and socks,
placed them into one of the pigeonholes and stepped through the doors.
She had been the first person on whom his eyes had settled. His other senses had instantly succumbed to distraction; the bouncing, ricocheting laughter; the smell of pool water; the envelope of humidity; the feel of wet concrete. But his eyes had registered only her. Not only because she was striking to behold, which she was, like a slash of red on a white canvas, but also because she had been staring directly, unflinchingly at him.
She was sitting at the far end of the pool, her hands and legs bent over the edge, her feet submerged. She was a light mocha with dark wet hair to the shoulders and large unblinking eyes. She wore a single triangle of black fabric, one corner at each shoulder, the third disappearing between her legs. She had been bent forward slightly at the waist, her shoulders thrust out over the water as though she had been ready to unseat herself from the edge and drop herself in.
But she had remained still, watching him, pulling him in. She had smiled; a clandestine curvature of lips that were full and naked. Hollis had smiled back. Then she had held up a hand and flexed the tips of her fingers.
At first Hollis had assumed himself mistaken. She was obviously connecting with someone else; someone nearby. Someone behind him, perhaps. He had looked around in all directions, too obviously at first and then as if he were admiring the architecture of the square, white, windowless box of the pool enclosure.
