An Available Man

by Hilma Wolitzer

  “Hi, Nathaniel,” Edward said. “It looks as if school has followed you home.” He put his briefcase on the floor. “Would you like to work in here?”

  The boy’s head and shoulders twitched in something between a shrug and a nod; maybe he had a tic, or had simply taken a vow of silence.

  “Where are your manners?” his mother asked, and Edward said, “Thanks, this looks fine,” as if he were the one she’d been scolding.

  As soon as she left the room, Nathaniel retrieved his pencil and put it back in his mouth. There were yellow flecks of wood on his lips, and Edward imagined that he must have been tasting graphite by then. “You were in Mrs. Wheeler’s class this year, weren’t you?” he asked, as he reached into the briefcase for study materials.

  The boy removed the saliva-slick pencil. “Yeah,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it needed oiling.

  Maureen Wheeler was considered a tough, humorless teacher, given to sarcasm and onslaughts of pop quizzes. Her lab was referred to, by students and faculty, as “the dungeon.” She was famous for ignoring raised, even frantically waving, hands, and for asking students if they were sitting on their brains. Through the sadism of chance, shy underachievers like Nathaniel often landed in her classroom, and the school’s policy was to categorically deny parental requests for transfers. Not that Edward was aware of the Worths ever requesting one.

  He sat down on another, smaller chair, across the desk from Nathaniel, as if he were applying to him for a job. The idea made him smile, but the boy had dropped his pencil again, and was under the table, retrieving it. What I did on my summer vacation, Edward thought glumly before shuffling through his papers. He’d been given copies of some of Nathaniel’s failing tests, but hadn’t brought those with him. Instead he had the worksheets for the material Maureen Wheeler had covered the previous term, including the life cycles of butterflies, mosquitoes, and earthworms.

  She was one of those teachers who concentrated on the memorization of facts, many of which seemed to slip from Nathaniel’s head almost as soon as he read or heard them. Edward handed him a page to study and then asked a few questions about it. The boy appeared to merely scan the text, and his answers were mostly wildly improbable guesses, delivered without affect or hope. After about ten minutes of this futile exercise, Edward gathered the papers and returned them to his briefcase. He sat back and said, “So, what do you like to do for fun?”

  Nathaniel seemed to consider this question as tricky as the ones about larvae and pupae. He swiveled back and forth in the leather chair and finally said, “Stuff. I don’t know.”

  He was such a lackluster child. Asperger’s? Edward wondered. Depression? “Do you have any pets?” he asked. He was thinking of bringing Bingo along for their next session.

  “Uh-uh. I’m allergic.”

  Of course, Edward thought. “Do you want to take a walk?” he said. “Should we go ask your mother?”

  Permission was granted for a “local field trip,” and Edward had Nathaniel lead him to the nearest supermarket, where he bought a covered plastic food container, a bottle of water, and a jar of mustard. He swiped a couple of plastic spoons from the deli counter, and they headed for Carl Schurz Park at the river’s edge.

  In a shaded grassy spot several feet from one of the footpaths, they crouched, looking for wormholes. Edward instructed Nathaniel to squirt some mustard onto a plastic spoon, to which he added a spill of water, then stirred. They poked the solution into one of the holes and in moments a worm came crawling out, and then another. Edward had a moment of vertigo, but Nathaniel seemed to come to life. “Hey!” he said, almost shouted.

  “Yeah,” Edward said, “they like their hot dogs plain.” The kid frowned, puzzled, and Edward said, “That was only a joke. They’re actually vegetarians. The mustard just irritated them, so they came up for air. Want to do it again?”

  When there was a whole congregation of wriggling worms, Edward began punching small airholes in the lid of the plastic container with his pocketknife, and he told Nathaniel to gather up some of the grass. They put three of the fatter worms into the container, along with the grass and a few spoonfuls of earth, dampened with water, and covered the makeshift terrarium with the punctured lid. Nathaniel carried it carefully back to his apartment as if he were bearing something sacred to an altar.

  As Edward had expected, Margo Worth wasn’t thrilled by this addition to her household, but she succumbed to his argument that it was a learning experience for her son, and to his assurance that the worms were securely ensconced. Nathaniel put the container on a shelf in his room, and Edward said, “Well, now you have some pets that won’t shed.” Then he dug a fact sheet about earthworms out of his briefcase, which would serve as a guide to their care and feeding. When Edward left, Nathaniel was busy reading it and barely looked up as he waved good-bye.

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Bee had loved parties, and the Gilberts’ annual August barbecue was particularly festive, with a rented tent, live music, and even a small wooden dance floor. They always seemed to invite everyone they knew. Each year Ned concocted some exotic cocktail, like blood orange margaritas or blue martinis, and the caterer brought portable grills and people to man them.

  Edward hadn’t attended the previous barbecue, so soon after Bee’s death, but this time he had no excuse, although he still felt conspicuously alone in a crowd of couples, and leery of another awkward fix-up. That evening, after he’d showered and shaved, he went into his garden, which he’d begun taking care of again—his other summer project besides Nathaniel—and picked a lavish, fragrant bunch of lavender, roses, and astilbe to bring to the party.

  It was coals to Newcastle, of course. The Gilberts’ own garden had been lushly planted as usual, and every table under the tent held a summery floral centerpiece. Still, Lizzie made a fuss over Edward’s bouquet and extracted a promise that he’d save a dance for her. He’d offered his cheek for her hello kiss, but she managed to catch the corner of his mouth. In his head, in his memory, Bee smiled knowingly.

  The trio was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” as Edward walked across the lawn toward a cluster of friends, although the barbecue smoke drifted discreetly away from the guests. Sybil was holding a glass of this year’s special cocktail, something emerald green, and a little of it sloshed onto Edward’s neck when they hugged. “Ooh, sorry,” she said, dabbing at his neck with a cocktail napkin, and Edward said, “It’s nothing, just a little frog juice.”

  “Tastes more like mouthwash,” Henry said, setting his own glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “So how’s that boy you’re torturing?—whoops, I mean tutoring,” he asked Edward.

  “Nathaniel? He’s coming along, learning stuff. He makes eye contact now and even smiles once in a while.”

  “And the worms?” Sybil said.

  “They don’t smile. And they don’t even have eyes.”

  “Really?” Sybil said. “How can you tell which end is which?”

  “You run your finger along the body. It’s smooth from front to back, and bristly in the other direction. The kid discovered that by himself, and announced it like a news bulletin.” Nathaniel had read up thoroughly on his new pets, going onto the Internet after he’d exhausted the information on the worksheet.

  “Did he name them?” Sybil asked.

  “Yes, and I think he’s got a sense of humor. When he found out they’re hermaphrodites, he came up with names like Billy Sue.”

  Coaxing the worms from the earth that day in the park, Edward had a terrible flash of Bee lying underground in their company. Only the boy’s sudden interest in what they were doing kept Edward engaged, too, and stable. It’s not Bee anymore, he reminded himself whenever he had such graphic, morbid thoughts, which didn’t always help.

  Now the musicians picked up the tempo, and Sybil asked Edward to dance with her. “Take my wife, please,” Henry said, and off they went to the dance floor under the tent.

  “How’s Masha?” Edward asked as Sy
bil came into his arms.

  “Who?”

  “Your cousin, the one at your dinner party last year.” Why had he brought her up? He’d already cased the crowd and hadn’t noted any suspicious-looking female strangers.

  “Do you mean Olga?” Sybil said. “She’s fine. She’s in the Netherlands for a few weeks, doing research with a colleague, someone she’s seeing, actually.”

  “On what?”

  “Her specialty, medieval tapestry. Didn’t she mention it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Edward said. All he could remember was the shock of the situation, that woman’s surliness and his own misery.

  He swung Sybil out and reeled her back in. “You’re such a good dancer, Edward,” she said. “Henry always tramples my toes.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, happy that she’d changed the subject. “You are the proverbial feather.”

  There were no place cards on the tables, and Sybil invited Edward to sit with her and Henry and a few other neighbors he liked. When Lizzie came to claim him for their dance, the band was playing a medley of romantic standards. All around them, couples moved together slowly, closely entwined. Lizzie held out her arms, and she and Edward joined the other dancers. She was a pretty woman, which even Bee had grudgingly admitted, saying that Lizzie wore her age well, that she had good bones and great skin.

  That night, she wore a flowing white dress, and her dark hair was pulled up into a loose knot studded with tiny fresh flowers. She put her cheek against Edward’s as they danced. Hers was flushed and warm, but her hand in his was cool. He was sharply aware of her body pressed against his and, in the background, of Sybil looking their way, while Ned hovered over another table of his guests, drinking and laughing.

  Then the band swung into a fast, loud number and Edward let go of her, saying, “Whoa, that’s heart attack music. I’d better sit this one out.” Lizzie laughed and wiggled her shoulders and hips to the new, frenzied beat, reaching for his hand again. “Oh, come on,” she said. Like Laurel persuading him to lighten up. But he said, “Sorry, Lizzie, really,” and then another man came up behind them and danced her away.

  Edward was sweaty and short of breath when he got back to the table. He could smell the smoke from the barbecues now, and the air seemed hazy. Maybe the wind had shifted. Maybe he actually was having a heart attack.

  “Well, here’s our dancing fool,” Sybil said, but she was looking at him fondly. And Joy, who was sitting next to her, said, “Edward, the buffet is ready. Would you like me to fix you a plate?” Henry passed him a glass of water. Soon he felt well again, cared for, and safely returned from behind enemy lines.

  Later, just before he was ready to leave, he went inside the house to use the bathroom. The one downstairs was occupied, so he went up to the second floor and knocked on the closed door of the bathroom near the landing. Someone, a woman, called, “Who is it?” and he said, “Edward. Take your time.”

  He was about to move a couple of feet down the hallway to wait when the door opened and Lizzie was standing there, barefoot and smiling. “Where’ve you been?” she said, and when he stepped inside she locked the door behind him.

  “Liz—” he began, and she said, “No talking,” like a strict teacher to an obstreperous pupil. He didn’t want to talk, anyway; that was only his final, pointless defense against the rough hunger that overtook him. For once, his mouth sought and found hers.

  There were facing mirrored walls in the small room, throwing back multiple images of Edward and Lizzie kissing and writhing against each other, silent except for their strenuous breathing. Like an orgy of quintuplets. He saw his own crazed eyes staring into his own crazed eyes and almost laughed, but it came out in a groan.

  Someone knocked at the door. She put her hand to his mouth. “Shush,” she whispered, the word itself a little blast of liquid heat in his ear. “They’ll go away.”

  There were a couple of sharper raps on the door, and it was as if someone were rapping directly on his head to bring him around. He pulled away from Lizzie, sick with desire and regret. “We can’t,” he said as softly as he could.

  “What?” Her voice was too loud. He thought she was going to hit him. “Why not?” She wobbled a little, and he noticed that her tongue was green—those stupid drinks. He wanted to put his hand over her mouth, but she might have bitten him.

  “You know why,” he whispered. “Ned. He’s my friend … oh, shit. We just can’t do this, Lizzie.”

  The knocker hadn’t gone away. There were no footsteps on the hardwood floor, and Edward could sense a listening presence. Maybe it was Ned, himself. Or Sybil, or Henry. Bee’s ghost would have simply floated through the closed door. Jesus, what had he been thinking? But of course he hadn’t been thinking at all.

  Lizzie sat slumped on the closed toilet seat. Her anger seemed to have dissipated, and he expected her to wait quietly with him until whoever was outside gave up and left. But then she stood, made a few fast, blind adjustments to her dress and hair, and flung the door open. The young waiter standing there watched her stride past him before turning to offer Edward a sly, loaded grin. “Hey, sorry, man,” he said, “but nature calls.”

  Edward took one last look at his disheveled self in the mirror, tucked in his shirt, and wiped the lipstick from his face with a Kleenex that he then tossed. “It’s all yours,” he said, going out onto the landing. And after a decent interval he went down the stairs.

  Patterns of Evolution

  “Poppy? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, no,” Edward said. “I was just lying here.” He’d been dreaming about Bee for the first time since her death, or at least the first time that he could remember. She had been standing on the stepstool in the kitchen, holding a swaddled baby, the one they hadn’t conceived during the first year of their marriage, though not for want of trying. Bee’s balance seemed precarious, and he was hurrying in to steady her, or to catch her if she fell. Then the phone rang, in the dream and in reality. Had he reached her in time? He didn’t know, and now even Bee’s image was evaporating, and he was lying on her side of the bed talking to Julie on the phone.

  “So, Todd and I went to this club last night?” she said. So many of Julie’s statements seemed to be questions, as if she wasn’t sure they were true. “And he kept looking at this cocktail waitress? So I said maybe he’d like to be with her, and he said, ‘What is your problem?’ ”

  Julie’s ongoing problem, Bee had always maintained, was the fear of abandonment that colored most of her relationships. When she was a schoolgirl, she’d agonized over her friendships with other girls. They had all moved in cliques that appeared to arbitrarily take her in and toss her out. Edward had often observed the same phenomenon at Fenton. Bee was right when she said that girls of a certain age were mean, even viciously cruel to one another, in their precipitous climb toward womanhood, their vying for the attention of boys. And the boys, both Bee and Edward agreed, were mostly senseless thugs fantasizing about blow jobs. How did anyone survive?

  In Julie’s case, not all that well. She’d been in therapy a couple of times but quickly dropped out, using one excuse or another: It was a total waste of time, she had better things to do, it was too hard talking to a stranger. She preferred getting help closer to home. And her mother had been her mainstay—listening, commiserating, counseling—the one girlfriend who would never kick her to the door.

  Edward felt like a substitute teacher, a babysitter, really, who didn’t know the curriculum but valiantly tried to fake it. What if he turned the tables on Julie and said, So, I went out with this woman I met through that ad? And she was like those mean girls at school? But I wanted her anyway, and then, when I could have her, I said no, thanks. And wait, that’s not all—a couple of months later, I nearly screwed my friend’s wife. What is my problem?

  Of course he didn’t. And unlike Julie, he’d outgrown or cast off his problem, falling back into the chaste, secure routine of school and home, while time flitted by the wa
y it did in that affecting Kurt Weill ballad: September, November … He said, “Jules, Todd is a jerk.” This opinion, rendered before, was based on previous reports from Julie that Todd had complained that her breasts were too small, or that he’d advised her to get over herself.

  “I know,” she moaned. “I’m like this magnet for jerks.”

  He couldn’t disagree with that; Todd was just the latest in a series of losers in Julie’s life. “Pretty women often are,” he said.

  “I wish my face was more symmetrical,” she said. “I wish my boobs were bigger.”

  I hate that word, Edward thought. Todd is a boob. Your father is a boob. They’re a real pair of boobs. His stomach growled, and he looked at the clock. Not even eight thirty, and it was Saturday. “Well, you can’t have everything,” he said, which seemed to stop Julie cold. Her mother would have gone on reassuring her, he knew.

  But Edward felt weary, as though he hadn’t slept at all. He tried to imagine how his dream might have continued had he not been awakened, and if it would have offered some consolation, or insight into the mystery of non-being. Well, he’d never know. “Listen,” he said into the phone. “I’m going to Greenbrook later to check up on the birds. Do you want to come?” It was a perfunctory invitation. Julie didn’t “get” birding, although the stillness and the patience it required might be good for her. It might even take her out of her own unhappiness for a while, as it did him.

  “No, thanks,” Julie said. “But have fun,” she added doubtfully.

  Bee hadn’t truly gotten birding, either. They didn’t do everything together, as other couples professed to do. She hadn’t gone to nature preserves with him, and he’d never joined her on her flea market treasure hunts. It was the coming together after their separate outings that had been so pleasurable. Sometimes he wondered how Sybil and Henry could spend almost all their time in each other’s company. Or how Ned and Lizzie worked out their “don’t ask, don’t tell” protocol. And how did Bruce Silver manage to sleep at night?