by Kim Wright
He’s not really in a ditch, of course. He’s parked on the side of a road in his own neighborhood, two blocks from his house. Cell phone reception is good on this hill, we know this from past calls, and it’s important that we don’t lose each other tonight, when we’re both feverish. “Wait a minute,” he says and I hear a long zipper sound. Too long to be his pants. He’s getting something out of his gym bag. I talk to him about what Kelly does with men and what I do until he suddenly yells out and I think he’s been rear-ended. I have a vision that someone has crashed into his dark car parked there on the side of a suburban street, but he says no, that he had just tried to unhook his seatbelt with one hand and it snapped loose and guillotined his cock. That’s the word he uses, “guillotined.” We laugh and laugh. We laugh like people who see the rescue helicopter approaching the desert island.
Later I curl up and we talk, mumbling our half-sentences to each other without purpose, as if we were really together in bed and not on the phone. He swears that he can smell me on his hands. I lift my own hands to my face, tell him Mrs. Chapman liked the pots. Then he is driving again, looking for a good place to trash his sticky gym sock. He asks me why Kelly and her husband had the fight.
“He wanted to smoke.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Yeah. He’s gross.”
“Has he apologized?”
“Not yet, but he will. If she gives the best blow jobs he’s ever had, there’s no way a man is going to give up on that.”
Gerry is quiet for so long that I think we’ve lost the connection. Then he says, “Oh, I don’t know. You’d be surprised what people leave behind.”
I start to ask him what he means, but he’s relaxed and happy tonight, spinning out stories like fishing line. He could always come to Charlotte, he says teasingly. He wishes it were possible for him to meet all my friends. Maybe he could show up at book club. The ladies would be dressed in white lace with gloves and veiled hats—no, perhaps better that our hair is piled up on top of our heads. We sit in wicker chairs with a ceiling fan making a slow arc above and we’re discussing—what would we be discussing? Ah, yes, we’d be discussing Virginia Woolf and her use of time in Mrs. Dalloway. Someone would serve cucumber sandwiches and champagne from a silver tray—no, maybe tea would be better, tea in very thin china cups, and then the doorbell would ring. He’d be standing out on the porch in a seersucker suit with a straw hat in his hands. I would rise, skirts rustling, and say, “But ladies, you must meet my friend Gerald…” and I would go to the door and let him in.
“It won’t work,” I tell him. “I could never get my book club to read Virginia Woolf.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Do you ever think about his wife?”
Lynn and I have finished the sixth grade room, and the seventh, and are now on the last classroom in the row. We have developed a system—we both scrape and then I tape and she comes behind me, painting. We’ve gotten fast.
“When you were married,” I respond, “did you and Andy sleep entwined?”
She shakes her head.
“Neither do Phil and I. And with this new guy… do you sleep entwined with him?”
The question makes her uncomfortable, but she doesn’t ask how I knew she was dating. “He’s never spent a single night at my apartment,” she says. “I wouldn’t put my boys in the middle of that.”
“I know you wouldn’t. But when Andy has the kids and he’s at your place, do you sleep entwined?” She shakes her head again. “No,” I say. “I didn’t think so, because I’ve got this theory that you’re either the kind of person who likes to sleep touching somebody or you’re not. I don’t think it indicates how much you like the person, or how great the sex was, or whether they’re a spouse or a lover. I think you’re just either an entwined sleeper or you aren’t.”
“You’re probably right, but what does this have to do with his wife?”
I pull the ladder over to the windows and climb up with a roll of masking tape. “This is how I know that Gerry and his wife are still a couple. He’s an entwined sleeper. He wants us to sleep on our sides like spoons with his top leg stretched over my hip. You know how men like to do that, throw their leg over your hip, like they’re trying to climb into you, like you’re some kind of canoe or something? I can’t stand it. It’s like he’s pinning me down. I can only go to sleep if I’m lying flat on my back like a corpse.”
“So how do you and Gerry sleep?”
“Badly. I tried it at first. I didn’t want to push him away or make him feel rejected so the first few nights I really tried to go to sleep with him all wrapped around me. It didn’t seem like too much to ask. Because that’s the way it is in the movies, right? You fall asleep in each other’s arms and nobody moves until morning. But it drove me nuts. I’d wait until he was asleep and then I’d ease my way out from under him and scrooch across the bed, but he’s a chaser…”
She moves the can of paint. “Oh no.”
“Yeah. He’s one of those chaser people. He’d go scrooching his way after me in his sleep. I’d end up right on the edge of the bed, one cheek of my ass hanging in mid air, and I’d wait until he got settled again, and then I’d disentangle myself and get up and walk around to the other side of the bed. That would work for an hour or so and then he’d flip onto his other side and come after me again. Finally, after a couple of nights of pure torment, I tell him I just don’t like to be touched when I sleep.”
“And he was okay with that?”
“Basically he was. He didn’t take it like some big symbol or something. So the next time we get into bed I give him this big fat goodnight kiss and roll over to my side of the bed and go right to sleep. But every time I woke up through the night he was awake. Half the time he wasn’t even in the bed. He’d get up and pace.”
“So what’d you do?”
“I said, ‘Are you still awake?’ and he said, ‘Yeah,’ because of course he was, he was standing up looking out the window. I asked him what he did on all the nights that he traveled for business and he finally tells me—I swear I think this almost killed him—that he would line up three pillows end to end like a fake wife and put his leg over her and go to sleep. I said, ‘So, okay, we need to make a Susan,’ and he said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ but I got all the spare pillows out of the closet and we made a Susan between us right down the middle of the bed. He threw his leg over her and I lay down flat on my back on the other side and we both slept straight through to morning. We do it automatically now. I even request extra pillows when we check in. Three of them. I think she’s taller than me.”
Lynn looks up at me. “That’s a very weird story, Elyse.”
“I know. But you asked me how I feel about his wife and I’m trying to answer your question. It’s not like I ever forget she’s there. She’s literally in the bed between us, for God’s sake. That’s what it is when you’re nearly forty and you’re married and you have a lover. You do whatever it takes to make it work for everybody, for all the people in all the beds. You realize… you realize that nobody deserves to get hurt, not your husband or his wife or sure as hell not these four little kids who’ve never done anything wrong. So you find yourself doing whatever it takes.”
“The day I got divorced…” Lynn says. “I don’t know… Do you want to take a break?”
I nod. We go outside, across the playground and past the cabin where the youth group has their meetings, and to a bench, the only part of the churchyard that is in shade. Lynn sits down and unscrews her bottle of water.
“Okay,” I say. “What happened the day you got divorced?”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“ ’Cause you think I need to know it. And you’re probably right. You’re the only one who’s ahead of me on this trail.”
She laughs, takes the ball cap off and tries to fluff her hair. “I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”
“Come on. Where were you? Uptown?”
“Yea
h… I saw Andy coming out of the courthouse and he looked awful. I sat in my car and watched him walk across the parking lot and get in his little leased Toyota. He just sat there with his head bent down over the steering wheel. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or praying or just thinking. He never did much of any of those things when we were married…” I smile and she smiles back. “I know. But it bothered me that he was so sad and lost. Everyone said… you know what everyone said.”
“They said you should hate him because he’s the one who left.” The one who leaves is always the villain. If we were to ever acknowledge, even slightly, that the one who left might have had his or her reasons, then we would become no better than animals. Pretty soon we would be chasing cars and peeing in the yard.
Lynn shoots me a look. “But I couldn’t hate him. He looked so small in that car. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But he sat there and I sat there and watched him and after a while he drove away and I followed him. I told myself that he was upset and I just wanted to make sure he got home okay. After all, he’s still the boys’ father. I didn’t want him to have a wreck or do anything stupid. That’s what I told myself, but I’m not really sure why I followed him. He saw me at the first stoplight. He saw me behind him and he waved… I don’t even know why I remembered that, but you’re right. It’s funny the things you end up doing.”
“What did you do when he waved?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just that if you leave Phil you might find yourself—”
“Fucking him in the backseat of a Toyota on the day our divorce is final?”
“That’s not exactly what happened.”
“Was it out of pity or because you still loved him?”
Lynn looks away. “I don’t know. Probably a little of both.”
“Were you already dating that guy by that point? I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.”
“It’s better if they don’t have names. Yeah, I was dating him, if that’s the term you want to use. But he didn’t have anything to do with how I felt about Andy. It’s hard to explain.”
“I understand. You don’t turn it on and off like a faucet.”
“Is there a part of you that still loves Phil?”
“Yeah, if that’s the term you want to use. I probably would have done the same thing in the car that day. I care about him. I don’t want to be married to him anymore but I don’t want to see him hurt.” The church doors have opened and children are running out into the playground. Soon it will be too loud to talk. So I lick my lips and ask her the question I most want to ask. “Do you ever wish you were still married?”
Lynn snaps her chin back in one quick move and looks me right in the eye. “God no. I mean, God no. Jesus and Elvis and a team of wild horses couldn’t drag me back into it. I was just trying to tell you not to be surprised if you end up doing things… but you already know all that. In fact, I think you’re farther down the trail than I am.”
I lean my head back and look up at the branches above us, running through the winter sky like cracks in a pot. “Well, that’s bad news. I was counting on you to tell me what’s going to happen next.”
“This deal about making a wife down the middle of the bed with pillows—that’s a very odd story, Elyse.”
“I know.”
“And kind of sweet.”
I link my arm through hers. This may be—other than flapping arms and air kisses—the only time that Lynn and I have ever touched. “I think your story about blowing Andy in his Toyota is kind of sweet too.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, but she’s laughing too.
“No, I understand. Love makes people act weird.”
“That’s funny.” Lynn wipes her eyes. “In all these months, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say the word ‘love.’ ”
I wipe my eyes too. “Exactly what did you think we’ve been talking about?”
Chapter Thirty-three
Two weeks later a postcard comes from Mrs. Chapman’s gallery, announcing the dates for their March crawl. My pot is on the front.
When I call to thank her, she says, “But my dear, you’re going to be a big hit. The cards only went out this Thursday and we’ve already had an order, that man from Boston.”
I had debated whether I should send Gerry a pot and then decided not to. He’s never seen my work and I wonder if he really liked the picture on the front of the gallery postcard or if he just wanted me to make an early sale.
“That’s wonderful,” I say.
“You know the one, dear,” Mrs. Chapman says. “That man who likes you so much.”
The gallery has already sold one of my pots,” I tell him at lunchtime on the phone. “The postcard just came out on Thursday. It’s a good omen.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
“Do you want me to send you one?”
“No. I mean, of course I’d love to have it. I just know you’re under the gun about making them right now.”
I am smiling into the receiver. “I could bring you a pot when I come up on Tuesday.”
“About Boston—” He goes into a rambling, complicated explanation about my ticket, and having a driver waiting for me when I arrive because he has a meeting that could run long, and I need to bring a coat of course because it’s always fifteen to twenty degrees colder in Boston than it is in Charlotte, he’s tracked it on the Weather Channel, and that’s pretty much the average differential, and then he says, “Do you mind that I plan all this stuff?”
“I like it.”
“You don’t think I’m a bully?”
“I think you’re my wife.”
“Because sometimes I hang up the phone and say, ‘Damn, man, you were way too controlling.’ ”
“It’s nice not to think.”
“I know you’re perfectly capable of handling all the details, I just don’t think you should have to,” he says. “You shouldn’t be bothered. You’re an artist.”
“I love you.”
“What?”
“I love it when you handle the details.”
There’s a pause. “I’ve got to go,” I finally say. “I’ve got book club tonight.”
“Bring me one of those pots,” he says. “I’ll put it on my desk.”
“We’re starting to keep secrets from each other.”
“I know,” he says. “This thing is getting real.”
Watch Oprah.”
“What?”
“Oprah. Cut it on.”
I walk into the den, click on the TV. It’s a program about mothers who have lost custody of their children. I check to make sure Tory is still in the playroom with the neighbor’s kid and then I sit down and dutifully watch the show through to the end, even though it makes me a little sick.
Kelly is calling back before the credits even begin to roll. “You need to do it,” she says. “All the things they said.”
“Kelly—”
“No, I mean it, Elyse, you think just because you’re the mother everything would automatically go toward you, but what if you lost Tory, have you ever really thought about that? Did you see the part about the notebook?”
“They were wrapping it up when I turned the TV on but I think—”
“Because that’s what you need to do. Keep a little spiral notebook in your car and write down every time you do something for Tory. All the times you take her to the doctor, or ball practice, or go by the school—”
“Oh, come off it, I volunteer with her art teacher every week. Just yesterday I helped the second graders make bunnies out of papier-mâché.”
“Write it down. Make sure you stop by the office and sign in every time too so they’ve got a record. You might have to prove that you’re the one who does everything for her.”
“Everybody knows—”
“Part of what everybody knows is that you go out of town every month.”
“For two days. Are you honestly telling me that Phil being responsible for our daughter for two lousy days
a month is worth more than me being on duty the other twenty-eight? What kind of math is that?”
“And watch the drinking.”
“I don’t drink that much.”
“Because you saw the part about that guy who took a picture of their recycling bin with all the wine bottles in it… Does Phil have a camera?”
“I don’t drink any more than you do.”
“Did you not even see the show? It’s not like those women were trailer trash. They’re just normal people who made a few mistakes… We probably shouldn’t even be talking on this phone. Phones are the worst.”
“Phil wouldn’t be that vindictive.”
“You don’t know what Phil might be. Picture a transcript of every conversation you’ve ever had all printed out word by word and stacked on some lawyer’s desk. And some big blown-up pictures of your recycling bin.”
That is an appalling thought.
“And you need to start documenting when you help her with her homework or do her laundry. Even cooking. Those are the things that count. And the fact that you give blood all the time and send money to that orphan in Thailand or wherever she is. That kind of stuff. Write it down.”
“If I lived like that I’d lose my mind.”
“You’ve already lost your mind, that’s why I’m trying to think for you. I wake up in sweats sometimes. I had this dream that we were in a big airport and when we turned around Tory was gone—”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You’re crazy and paranoid but at least you believe me when I say I’m going to leave him. Nobody else believes me. Phil doesn’t think I’d really go and Jeff doesn’t and not even Gerry…”
“They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know how strong you can be.”
“Thank you.”
“Or how stupid.”
He loves you,” Nancy says.
We’re on our way to book club at Belinda’s house. Nancy’s driving carefully, as she always does. She goes 35 in a 45 zone.
“How would you know?”
