Losing Julia

by Hull, Jonathan

  The young man next to me—he boarded in New York—appeared about thirty, with neat sandy blond hair that looked as though it was cut exactly one week ago and again exactly one week before that. From his expensive leather shoes I assumed he was in finance or at least represented those who were. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, worsted wool I think, and wore a crisp white shirt adorned with a yellow paisley tie. His cologne, recently applied, was a bit too sweet and reminiscent of nothing more than other affluent men his age who smell too sweet. I assumed it was called Wall Street or Attaché or VIP or Portfolio and I imagined him leaning into the mirror each morning as he slapped some on his cheeks, POW! POW! just like in the commercials. His face was handsome, strong chin and straight nose, but lacking in animation. A good face for poker but not for striking up friendships. How much are we the product of our faces and how much are they the product of our personalities? I’ve known people whose faces rested naturally in a smile and I’m certain their lives were much different because of that.

  I watched as he stuffed a pillow beneath his lower back and then pulled a thick leather-bound notebook from his briefcase, opened it and stared at the pages. From the graphics I surmised that it was some sort of schedule book.

  “Looks like you’re pretty damn busy,” I said, startling him.

  He eyed me for a moment, then waved the book and said, “It helps keep me from completely falling apart.”

  I wondered what I would write in an appointment book. Take medicine? Review living will?

  I plucked the in-flight magazine from the seat pouch and struggled to recline my chair until the young man noticed my difficulty and put a hand at the top and pushed it back. I thanked him and thumbed through the magazine, then closed my eyes and imagined I was a seagull skimming just a few feet over the waves which marched below me in perfect formation across the ocean.

  As fast as one wave was mown down, another rolled up behind it. Our machine-gunners say they were absolutely sick of killing them.

  —Harold Coulter, British Army.

  I WAS TEN when my father took me to Antietam to study the battlefield and learn about strategy and courage and most of all to stare at his father’s (and my namesake’s) thin white slab jutting from the wet grass. That was 1908, and it was cold and foggy as we walked across the fields and down along the Sunken Road, which my father explained was also called Bloody Lane. He carried a large jug of fresh apple cider in one hand and with the other pointed out where each army stood and I listened carefully for the sound of cannon and pounding hoofs and the clash of metal but I heard only the sound of the cider sloshing in the jug. Still, I felt afraid as I stared across the meadow toward the woods and imagined it full of soldiers drawing a bead on me and preparing to charge.

  “Your grandfather fell somewhere right around here,” said Father, surveying a grassy field. “Died fighting slavery and to keep this country together.” Even then I realized that such a death was about as good as it gets and I carefully selected a spot about equidistant between two stands of trees and stared at it until I saw grandfather Delaney lying there with a glorious glow about him as he died again and again for freedom and justice.

  “We still have the letter from his captain that said he died in the second charge, dead by the time he hit the ground. Took a minie ball right in the chest.”

  I was doubtful but said nothing as we walked across the grass to a cemetery bordered by a low stone wall. To me the rows of tombstones looked like dominoes and I wondered if I pushed the first one hard enough would they all fall? Beneath the grass I saw rows and rows of skeletons still dressed in blues and grays and some even holding swords by their sides.

  When we reached my grandfather’s headstone Father knelt down before it. “I still remember the day that letter arrived in the mail,” he said quietly. “I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face.”

  I tried to feel their grief but I was more interested in looking at the worn letters of my name etched in white stone and wondering what my namesake looked like down in the rich black soil beneath my feet.

  TRAFFIC USED to come to a complete standstill in New York City every year for one minute at eleven a.m. on November 11. It’s true. The police would blow their whistles and everybody stopped.

  Does anybody remember that? Could they all be gone?

  DANIEL? Daniel? Daniel! I feel fiery hot and there are hands pressing on my shoulders. Julia? I can’t get to him, Julia, I can’t!

  Who’s shaking me? My hips and stomach hurt and I breathe faster and faster until suddenly it’s bright. I stare into the light until gradually I see a face. A young man’s face.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  “Huh?” I sat motionless for a minute, waiting for everything to stop moving. Then I squinted and looked around. I’m on a plane. A plane to Paris. Just dreams.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, coughing. “Bad dream. The medications do it.”

  “No problem.” He looked worried and I wondered if he feared I might have some sort of seizure or simply expire right here next to him on the 506 to Paris. I felt embarrassed and apologized again as I pulled my seat forward.

  He returned to his paperwork and I to my book. But I couldn’t focus for long on the words and soon I closed the book and stared at the flight attendants. When they were out of view I watched the young man shuffle through his papers.

  “What sort of work do you do?” I asked.

  “I’m an attorney. Corporate law.”

  “Interesting?” A cruel question, but I was bored.

  “The money is.”

  “Ever think of doing anything else?”

  “Oh, lots of things, but they don’t pay enough.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh well, let’s see, I guess in my heart of hearts I would have liked to have been a professional musician, but I don’t have the talent.”

  “Funny, I always wanted to be a musician too.”

  “Did you play an instrument?”

  “No, never got around to it. I guess everybody wishes they were a musician. I wonder what musicians long for?”

  “Probably a paycheck.”

  “Yeah, right. You know, you kind of look like a musician.”

  “Really, you think so?” He sat up.

  “Hair’s a little short. What instrument do you play?”

  “Guitar. It’s a great outlet after work, though my neighbors might disagree.”

  “Ever write your own songs?”

  “Haven’t for a while because I’ve been so busy, but I used to, especially in college.” He smiled. “After breaking up with a girlfriend the muse came on strong. The problem is, I only wanted to write when I was depressed.”

  “That’s the thing about art. It really helps to be unhappy.”

  “Maybe that’s why so many musicians stop writing good music once they make it big.”

  “So be glad you never hit it big.” He chuckled in a way that belied his youth and made me like him.

  The blond stewardess served our dinner: chicken, a small salad, a roll and a brownie with nuts sprinkled on top. I traded my brownie for the young man’s roll and we ate in silence. After I finished I pulled out my small black kit bag, unzipped it and began opening pill bottles one by one, returning each bottle back into the bag after I had removed and swallowed a pill.

  “Why are you going to Paris?” he asked, as the trays were being removed.

  “Job interview.” I popped the last of eight pills into my mouth.

  He looked puzzled. I winked. I’ve done a lot of winking since I got old. One quick wink meaning “right-o.” Two rapid winks with mouth agape meaning, “Our little secret, right?” Winking is one of the few things you can do better when you’re older. In fact, I don’t think anyone under sixty-five can really execute a wink properly. When young people wink, they look like they’re having problems with their contacts. When old people wink, it’s like they are firing off great big smoke rings, dense with cryptic meaning.
Maybe winking is the secret handshake of old age. But I can’t help but notice that I got really good at winking just about the time I got really bad at screwing. Maybe that’s why old people wink so much, kind of an inside joke like: you can’t keep it up either, huh? (Isn’t God a scream.)

  “Actually, I thought I’d look up some old friends while I can still get about,” I said.

  “I admire that. I think we’re only as old as we feel.”

  “No, actually, I feel quite young, at least inside; your age really. It’s the rest of me that’s so dreadfully dated.”

  He laughed. “Good point. I suppose there are some limitations.”

  I folded my arms on my chest. “It’s interesting, when you think about it. I mean, you’ve got what I need and I’ve got what you need.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “You’re wondering what I’ve got, eh?”

  “Wisdom, experience,” he said, uncertainly.

  “Something even more important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got physical proof that people your age really do turn into people my age. And fast.”

  “Time flies,” he said.

  “In my case it has flown.” I waved one hand in the air and made a whooshing sound. Then I leaned into him and said, “Do you want to know a little secret?” He nodded hesitantly. “It’s simple, really. Once you become my age, you finally realize that the things that people your age consider important are actually bullshit.” I jabbed my finger into his chest. “Total, absolute, worthless bullshit. But by the time you realize it, it’s too goddamn late to do anything about it, which is really bullshit! But at least I’ve warned you.”

  He put his tray up and leaned back. “I was debating whether to have a 7-Up or a Scotch, but you’ve just made up my mind.”

  “I’ll have one too,” I said, turning back to look out the window.

  Two drinks and several confessions later, the young man turned to me and said, “I have a problem.” I looked at the way his eyebrows huddled together and I knew he was serious so I raised my eyebrows in invitation and waited. “I think my wife is having an affair.”

  “You think she is?”

  “Well, I’m not positive, but let’s just say that my marriage is a mess.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Thank God no,” he said. “Though I suppose children might have held us together.”

  “Let me tell you something—and I love kids—but having children to improve a marriage is like shooting the dog to kill the fleas.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “What does your wife do?”

  “She’s a stockbroker, very successful.”

  “You two powerhouses ever see each other?”

  “It’s hard, juggling our careers and all.”

  “Do you like the way she smells?”

  “What?”

  “Your wife. Does she smell right to you?”

  “No one’s ever asked me that. I guess so. Sometimes. I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” I said. “I will.”

  “Are you having an affair?”

  “No, but I can’t say I’m not attracted to other women.”

  “Trust me, you’ll never be able to say that, not with a straight face. What makes you think your wife is having an affair?”

  “There’s this guy she works with. We were at an office party. They weren’t flirting or anything, but I saw this look.”

  “Ah, that look.”

  “Yeah, I mean don’t you think it shows, on people’s faces, when they’ve slept together? I think I could walk into a room and pick out people who slept together thirty years ago.”

  “It’s my experience that everyone who is the least bit interesting has at least one terrible little secret, usually about sex or money.”

  “The scary part is, I’m not sure that I care anymore. I’m not sure I still love her. And we’ve only been married for three years.”

  “Married years are like dog years,” I said. “And you don’t even have kids yet; you’re not even incorporated.”

  “I can’t imagine. Even sharing a bathroom is trying. It looks more like a trauma center when she’s done. You’d think people had been brought back from the brink of death in there.”

  “It’s tough, them being human and all.”

  “But when I see other women and imagine being with them, I know it would be only a matter of time before I took them for granted too. That’s just human nature, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe my expectations are too high,” he said.

  “Mine were so high that I’m still single.”

  “Your whole life?” He looked incredulous.

  “No, I was married once. But not happily.”

  “Do you suppose everyone who is married secretly wonders if they could do better? Find a better fit?”

  “Of course. And some not so secretly. Do you want in on a terrible secret?”

  “Sure,” he said, hesitantly.

  I lowered my voice. “No matter what you do, you’ll always be plagued by the sense that your life is slipping away and that other people are having better sex than you. Much better.”

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “But if it’s any comfort, everyone else feels that way too.”

  “That’s so depressing,” he said. “I remember when Ann and I were just dating. We must have talked on the phone five times a day. We slept on top of each other. Do you think there is any way to sustain that feeling, at least a little longer?”

  “Restrict your conjugal visits to a minimum. Don’t look in each other’s closets. Use separate bathrooms. Don’t ask too many questions.”

  He finished off his glass of Scotch and looked around for a flight attendant. Then he said, “I had this English teacher once—God, he really ruined literature for me, tearing it into little shreds and then demanding to know what each shred meant, when of course only he had the correct interpretation, which probably eluded even the poor author himself. I wanted to tell him that maybe Byron was hammered when he wrote that stanza but I couldn’t afford to flunk. Anyway, this teacher used to say that romantic love was false love, just a temporary intoxication based on idealization and mystery, while true love—or rational love—was based on knowledge and respect and compassion and maturity, which sounds fine until you actually compare how the two feel. Wow, what a difference. I’ll take romantic love any day. Do you remember your first crush? Shit.” He turned and looked back down the aisle for a flight attendant.

  “I do.”

  “Or how about when you found out that a girl had a crush on you. What a feeling, like you were omnipotent.”

  “Didn’t happen much.”

  “Me neither.” He waved his hand at a flight attendant, who ignored him. “So what do you do, just keep them on a pedestal? Never consummate the relationship? That’s torture! I nearly had a breakdown in seventh grade sitting next to Sally Manley every day.”

  “The dues we paid in the hard coinage of puberty,” I said, which made him laugh. “It’s torture because you’ll always wonder if maybe that love, that feeling of romantic love, could have been sustained with the right person.”

  He paused a moment, biting the edge of his thumbnail, then said, “I wonder how long it would last, if you loved somebody from afar. Somebody you couldn’t be with or even touch.”

  “I suppose the feeling would last a very long time.”

  “I wonder if it’s worth it. If it’s bearable. Like the wife who secretly longs for her neighbor’s husband all her life, or the man who secretly wishes he had married a former girlfriend or who falls in love with his brother-in-law’s sister. That sort of thing.”

  “I don’t think people who love from afar have much choice in the matter.”

  He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, a gesture I haven’t been able to pull off for several decades. “I think I’m getting a headache,” he sai
d, as he rose and headed for the lavatory. When he returned he turned toward me and said, “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

  “Pushing eighty,” I lied.

  “Wow. You don’t seem that old.”

  “That’s because I’m still breathing.”

  “What were you dreaming about earlier, when you woke with such a start? You looked terribly frightened.”

  “I was.” What was I dreaming about? I couldn’t remember. “At my age it gets harder and harder to distinguish dreams from reality, the past from the present. My life is now so heavily weighted toward the past that I feel sometimes like a listing ship.”

  “A lot of flashbacks, huh?”

  “Tons of flashbacks,” I smiled.

  DEAR JULIA:

  I’m finally going back, back to France. I’m on a plane now, somewhere over the ocean. Technically, I think I’ve run away. But don’t worry, I feel good. And I’ve met the nicest young man.

  Did you ever go back again? Was it harder or easier the second time? I hope it’s not much harder.

  Anyway, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’m not such a fool after all, that maybe my choice in life wasn’t between loving you and finding someone else to love; maybe it was between loving you as I have or being like all those people who don’t have any love at all, people without any magic in their lives; without any stars to guide them. So I don’t feel so bad. I’ve got the Northern Light. I always have.

  Love,

  Patrick

  I SLEPT AGAIN for half an hour and awoke with stomach cramps. I carefully made my way to the bathrooms, where I had to stand in line behind a tall teenager with headphones on. Once inside I carefully latched the door and began unbuckling my pants. Just as I sat down the red return-to-cabin light flashed on and the plane began to shake. I ignored it and held tight to a handgrip. When I finished I glanced down in the toilet before flushing. Blood. I washed my hands, careful to clean the sink area with my towelette, then struggled with the door latch before opening it. When I returned to my seat, the young man was back at work, a pile of papers in his lap. From the way he kept blinking and rubbing his temples I could tell he was having trouble concentrating.