...
May 2009
As for me, I swiftly rise to the rank of office manager at the Bartleby-esque hell where I am stuck to wither.
People are subservient to me. When they see me, they think of nice schools and long vacations and trust funds. I cannot say I fault them for this prejudice- classism does exist in America, but it disguises itself behind fake smiles and polite nods. Most of my underlings are lucky to have an associate’s and go home to a brood of squealing children each night.
“Yes, Mr. Solomon. Sure thing, Mr. Solomon,” they chirp at me. I try to please myself with this but I am not pleased at all. Far from that. Yet I can’t. I just can’t. I feel like that would be abandoning my mother- cheating, of sorts. Infidelity of the parental breed. So I look at the job listings I find on the internet and sigh hopelessly. I am stuck.
“Okay,” I say back to the staffers, as monotone as ever. My supervisor is proud of me.
“You’re a really great addition to this office, David. Don’t forget it!” he barks at me and then offers me some cognac from under the old chestnut desk. I accept.
My mother seems to be peaceful, but it’s sort of a catatonic peaceful. Meaning? I can’t read it. She does things normally, mechanically. Hollowly. She smiles a lot but I wonder if she means it?
My father is more like a ghost, drifting through space now. When she brings him up, there’s a fragile glint to her eye. It’s a passing tear, I know.
I take her out for Italian- her favorite. She has told me some special occasion looms. Special occasion? Her voice is buoyant; I can imagine a glow to her face.
“We should order some Chianti,” she tells me excitedly.
“Okay.” I like her excitement. It makes the both of us smile.
The waiter comes to our table and takes our orders for wine and the linguine I will have, the lasagna she will and the tripe that will come before that.
“I have such big news, David. Such big news.” She grabs my hands.
I wonder what in hell! I can’t imagine her having big news. Ever. I remember when I was younger she’d pull out the same stunt and it’d just be to show me some “gorgeous!” vase she bought at a flea market. My father would laugh at her. I would just be mystified.
"She takes joy in the small stuff."
“What is it?” I don’t even know what to expect. I lean back in my chair.
“I’m going to Geneva for the summer. Well, part of it.” she says in return. Her voice is pitchy; she sounds like she’s about to tell me she made cheerleading team.
“Ohio?”
“Switzerland!” My eyes widen. I think my hands turn cold in her touch.
Isn’t that...
“Really! How, Mom! Wow! Good for you!” I can only speak in exclamations. Despite my initial reservations, flaring up in my throat, I am so happy for her.
The waiter comes with the wine and bread. He's smiling, as if he's in on this, too.
"We should celebrate!" she tells me and pours herself some, then me.
"How did this...come about?" She drinks some of her wine, shrugging her bare shoulders. I feel like we're almost on a date. Eaugh.
"Crimshaw of all people! Would you believe it?" Mom exclaims. Now my eyes want to bulge out of my skull. Crimshaw! Switzerland? That was like putting me in Calcutta.
“Crimshaw?” I’m her parrot.
“Yes! Crimshaw! Remember how him and Dad went ten years ago?”
The trip, from a decade ago, comes creeping into my mind. Postcards and phone calls and an endless parade of slideshows. My father talking about Swiss beer, Swiss mountains, Swiss hot chocolate. How they wanted to go to Austria and couldn't and how the hotel bill of the weekend they spent fleetingly in Zurich could "bankrupt Crimshaw for a lifetime!" Crimshaw, for a good portion of his life, lived in and out of trailers.
"...Yeah...." I struggle to say. Mom watches me with sudden tension, picking up on my mood. Truly, I can never hide from this woman.
"What? Oh, what? Do you disapprove of me, David? Do you? Is this too soon or inap-"
"No! Mom, God no!" I need to change my reaction and fast. I swallow some wine, take in some bread. Jesus and the fucking Disciples. "I'm just honestly surprised, that's all."
"Well, don't be. Your father was going to be doing this if he lived." There's a small pensive pause there, like footfall on the snow. "It's just me instead now. It was the anniversary; they'd been planning it for a year or two." She scatters her hands. "Crimshaw, of all people!" A fragile laugh. Her spirits are still up, but I've killed the initial euphoria of it all.
"I had no idea." One of my biggest regrets was not talking to my father more before he died. We had grown apart. It was the country; it was too big for the both of us to exist separately on different coasts and yet remain close. Long distance relationships, romantic or otherwise, they don't always work out too well. I should have emailed more; I should have called more. And likewise with him, but I'm not one for pinning blame on the dead.
Life is a lot of giving and taking, after all. There are nearly always two parties, equally responsible.
My mom nods. She's wearing a dark gold dress and there's a white shawl she's wrapped around her shoulders now, as if chilled. My mother looks exquisite.
"It's for two weeks in July. I'll be back before you know it. I trust you'll water the plants for me?" She looks at me with such wide eyes. What a dumb request. I nod, subservient to her in this scenario.
"I'm not going to let them die." And with this I think: her goddamn cabbage.
"I just figure the weird thing will be with Crimshaw, we haven't been alone together that long. But we've been spending more time together, ever since your father died. In fact, he came to me a month after your father died and he said to me, 'Ed and I wanted to take this trip. Well, with Ed gone, I've made a lot of preparations and I'd hate to see it go to waste. Do you want to go in his place, as sort of a respect to him? And, let's face it, Lucille. You could use a break.' Well! After some consideration, I called him. I told him yes. Let's do this. And it's been a lot of booking and looking at this thing called-"
She turns her fingers into air quotes.
"the Lonely Planet. Are you familiar, David?"
"Yup. It's a very popular series." More wine follows. I used it when I went to Europe; hell I used it the first time I found myself on the streets of Los Angeles, navigating what I perceived as "certain death" on each corner.
"What a name, because it is a Lonely Planet, isn't it?" She stares at me directly, once again offering no escape.
"It is and it isn't."
"We're flying out of New York and then we're due in Geneva. Crimshaw and your father have friends there from last time. And that will be that, some sightseeing, some cultural experiences. God, I haven't been abroad since I took you to France when you were a baby. You don't remember that, do you?" It's fair to say she's a little drunk, but she's glowing. And if it is booze and the promise of adventure that it it takes to make her glow, well then. Carry on.
"I was a baby." I smile. Our entrees arrive. "How would I remember?"
I help my mom to the car after dinner. Over dinner, she's excitedly rushed to me the details of her excursion. The exact date and time of the flight (July 6, 2:30 PM, Delta from JFK), the names of the friends they are meeting (Otto and Rita Von Griech, a respected couple somehow involved with an obscure literary circle) and the operas she plans on seeing (cannot remember their names, sounded more like gobbliegook to my uneducated ears).
"Are there any girls in your life, David?" she asks out of the blue. I wince at this.
"Just you, Mom."
"You're a regular Norman Bates!" I open the door for her.
"Not going to kill anyone yet, Mom."
"What about that girl you always liked?" She collapses on to the backseat like she's made of bricks. I chuckle. The night has such an unusual mood to it. Surprise, concern, confusion, amusement. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah Brightman?"
"Brannigan? Brightman's a singer, Mom." She taps her forehead.
"Your father always liked her."
"Who, the singer?"
"Both!" She closes the door. I enter in the driver's seat, sliding in and buckling the seatbelt protectively over me. My mom's functioning enough to do it on her own.
"The Brannigans, though. After my," she coughed. "My involvement with Keith, though. He wasn't too keen on them, no. The wife was weird. Ah, Linda. Her and her Anais Nin-derived philosophy. I just don't know what was completely up with her. But he said Sarah was a good kid, always."
I haven't lifted my gaze from her. I'm stuck on something she has let out in her drunken stupor.
"Your involvement with Keith?" I remember Mr. Brannigan. I suppose you could call him good-looking for an older guy; I don't really know. He had been a sculptor and had served a stint in the military, which hadn't worked out in his benefit. He was tall and imposing and broad-shouldered. My father's build was sort of similar, but Mr. Brannigan seemed to be cut from a line of ancient marines.
At times like this, I wish I had a sister, so I could get more valid judgment on whether or not Mr. Brannigan was "good-looking." I couldn't remember that well, besides.
"Yessss," she yawned. "David, take me home." I'm not getting anymore details out of her. She's fallen asleep, her mouth agog, her hands criss-crossed over her lap.
I will not think anymore of this. I tell myself as I drive her back. Involvement doesn't mean affair, she didn't come out and say 'affair,' did she?
I tell myself not to think of it and I still do. It keeps me up at night. At 3 AM, I give Sarah Brannigan a call.
The next day, I'm meeting Sarah for a drink. The Rhinestone is the most popular bar in DuBres. That is like being the most popular girl at fat camp. It's not saying a lot.
Inside, it's a barely disguised dump with dim lighting. The smell of spilled liquor permeates. One of the bartenders is a young, jock guy with a crewcut who shows off his dance moves to the barmaids between drinks.
I watch in utter disgust. I slowly drink my beer, a pale ale. It burns. And as stupid as it is to think about, I wonder what Sarah will drink when she eventually shows.
She's late, so I'm having my doubts with the beer. What is it about alcohol that both relaxes and unhinges me? I'm like an unstable door, at this moment in time. And the questions I'm about to ask. Questions to which I really do, to sound overdramatic, need answers.
I can see my father flinching when I think that thought.
"Hey," Sarah pulls up next to me, out of breath. She looks harried. I didn't mean to harry her. Her hair's a mess and her cheeks are red. I know it's May, but the past few days have been below average. Her overcoat's awry, too, adding to the "harried" noton.
"Sorry I'm late," she started to explain. "It was just so short notice, that was all. And you know how hectic it is, with me going back and forth and all."
The nights she spends here, at her parents' house, in the room she grew up in. In the room she became a woman in.
"The train late?" I ask. I size her up and down, although unconsciously.
"A little. There were some mechanical difficulties. What's up, David? I was honestly surprised to hear from you. Pleasantly," she corrects herself and there's a smile in her voice which helps me believe it isn't a lie when it surely is.
"Life moves fast. It's only been about a month."
"A little more than that!" She orders an Amstel Lite.
"What's new in your life, Sarah?" I look at her. Really look at her. I'm interested.
She laughs shyly, eyes downwards.
"I know that's not why you brought me here, David."
Sarah's right, but that doesn't mean I don't care. I wonder: has part of me always loved Sarah? Has part of me loved this girl without truly knowing her?
"No it's not, but I mean it," I swallow more of the pale ale for courage, swishing it around in my mouth. It makes me feel warm, like looking at Sarah also does. And always has, even before I could find words to explain what that was.
Maybe it was destiny. If you believe in that kind of thing. My mother might. How else could you explain such strange, drawn-out kismet?
"Ha. We can catch up with niceties later. I'll fill you in about everything." The "ggggg" at the end of everything. One of my favorite sounds.
"There's nothing new here. I have regular work now. That's the extent of my niceties."
Sarah is silent for a very long time. She takes her long, winding finger and traces the outline of the rim of the glass. Again and again, very sensual-like. I'm reminded of my third girlfriend, Emily, the writer. She had this habit of caressing computer keys like that. Pencils, pens, coffee mugs. Other things. We broke up because Emily thought her career was the most important thing going for her, her artistic higher calling. It didn't help that I wasn't particularly fond of the poor, wayward girl. Her calling, by the way, I don't believe it got her anywhere. Unless you count working as a service writer for a car dealership in DuBres a where...
"I'm seeing Paul again," she finally says. Each of her words fall like a brick. A song that was popular in my high school years......"she's a brick and I'm drowning slowly...." A song about an unwanted abortion; ours is a lesser tragedy. If you could call it even that. Unrequited love is just unfortunate and unpleasant.
"Oh."
"He's really a great guy. We're trying to patch things up; it's a trial period, you know? I'm hoping for the best. We were so close to.... going all the way, last time."
I don't say anything because I don't want to say anything. What is there to say?
"Good, good. I'm happy for you, Sarah." She stares directly into me, then. Like she can see all of me, inside and outside, exposed as if on an operating gurney.
"So if this was some kind of impromptu date...." she starts to say. I nearly shudder. How stupid, how stupid.
"No, it's not that. It's something else." There's no use in hiding underlying expectations, though. Why run from those? "But I really am happy for you, Sarah. You deserved to be loved."
Sarah twists a piece of her hair and has more to drink.
"So do you, David."
"You want another, big chief?" the bartender spins over to me. He's a clown and his existence, right now, pains me. I want to punch him in the jaw. I think I could easily get him on the floor. Kick him a few times for good measure, too.
"I'm good for now." He nods and moonwalks away. Moonwalks.
"Well, if this wasn't a date. What is it? What's going on?" Sarah leans in closer. I really want to kiss her, against my better judgment.
"I have to ask you about your parents." She stiffens.
"And what about my parents?"
Maybe I should have gotten that other beer.
"Your father," I gulp. "Did he ever talk about my mother at all? Like, at great length?"
"Um. What brings this about?"
"I'll tell you if you answer me first."
"Not a lot. In fact, hardly ever, until your dad died. Then he'd say 'oh, poor Lucille.' Things like that. Sympathetic things, I guess." She was squinting her eyes in the diligence of pure thought, scoping every corner of her memory for a fragment worth mentioning.
"Just that?"
"Why, David?"
"Do you remember what your parents and my parents had that falling-out about?"
"No, God no. Do you?"
"No no no. Too young."
"We're the exact same age, David. How would I remember?"
"I just thought...."
"What's this about. Tell me now."
"My mom was going off the other night, sort of drunk, talking about this trip she's taking to Geneva with Jim Crimshaw...."
"Ohio?"
"No, the European one. The real one." Despite herself, she snickers.
"Why is she going there?"
"Sentimental reasons I suppose. But she brought your dad up in passing and her 'involvement' with your dad. I was curious to see if you had any-"
"David, are you implying an affair?" Sarah's eyes are suddenly the size of Susan B. Anthony half dollars.
"Not necessarily, but. I mean, we're both adults. What else could it be?"
She pauses.
"I don't know anything about any affairs. As far as I know, my parents have always been faithful to each other. Always. And I think that's what I'd like to choose to believe?" She raises her spread-out hands, like now God is in on our private little conversation. "So if you want to go digging around in dirty laundry, please don't count me in, David. Please."
"Listen, that's not my intention." But it damn well is.
She leaves, revealing nothing more than approaching scenes of domestic bliss and a deep-rooted desire to keep the peace, however uneasy I find it.
As for me, I swiftly rise to the rank of office manager at the Bartleby-esque hell where I am stuck to wither.
People are subservient to me. When they see me, they think of nice schools and long vacations and trust funds. I cannot say I fault them for this prejudice- classism does exist in America, but it disguises itself behind fake smiles and polite nods. Most of my underlings are lucky to have an associate’s and go home to a brood of squealing children each night.
“Yes, Mr. Solomon. Sure thing, Mr. Solomon,” they chirp at me. I try to please myself with this but I am not pleased at all. Far from that. Yet I can’t. I just can’t. I feel like that would be abandoning my mother- cheating, of sorts. Infidelity of the parental breed. So I look at the job listings I find on the internet and sigh hopelessly. I am stuck.
“Okay,” I say back to the staffers, as monotone as ever. My supervisor is proud of me.
“You’re a really great addition to this office, David. Don’t forget it!” he barks at me and then offers me some cognac from under the old chestnut desk. I accept.
My mother seems to be peaceful, but it’s sort of a catatonic peaceful. Meaning? I can’t read it. She does things normally, mechanically. Hollowly. She smiles a lot but I wonder if she means it?
My father is more like a ghost, drifting through space now. When she brings him up, there’s a fragile glint to her eye. It’s a passing tear, I know.
I take her out for Italian- her favorite. She has told me some special occasion looms. Special occasion? Her voice is buoyant; I can imagine a glow to her face.
“We should order some Chianti,” she tells me excitedly.
“Okay.” I like her excitement. It makes the both of us smile.
The waiter comes to our table and takes our orders for wine and the linguine I will have, the lasagna she will and the tripe that will come before that.
“I have such big news, David. Such big news.” She grabs my hands.
I wonder what in hell! I can’t imagine her having big news. Ever. I remember when I was younger she’d pull out the same stunt and it’d just be to show me some “gorgeous!” vase she bought at a flea market. My father would laugh at her. I would just be mystified.
"She takes joy in the small stuff."
“What is it?” I don’t even know what to expect. I lean back in my chair.
“I’m going to Geneva for the summer. Well, part of it.” she says in return. Her voice is pitchy; she sounds like she’s about to tell me she made cheerleading team.
“Ohio?”
“Switzerland!” My eyes widen. I think my hands turn cold in her touch.
Isn’t that...
“Really! How, Mom! Wow! Good for you!” I can only speak in exclamations. Despite my initial reservations, flaring up in my throat, I am so happy for her.
The waiter comes with the wine and bread. He's smiling, as if he's in on this, too.
"We should celebrate!" she tells me and pours herself some, then me.
"How did this...come about?" She drinks some of her wine, shrugging her bare shoulders. I feel like we're almost on a date. Eaugh.
"Crimshaw of all people! Would you believe it?" Mom exclaims. Now my eyes want to bulge out of my skull. Crimshaw! Switzerland? That was like putting me in Calcutta.
“Crimshaw?” I’m her parrot.
“Yes! Crimshaw! Remember how him and Dad went ten years ago?”
The trip, from a decade ago, comes creeping into my mind. Postcards and phone calls and an endless parade of slideshows. My father talking about Swiss beer, Swiss mountains, Swiss hot chocolate. How they wanted to go to Austria and couldn't and how the hotel bill of the weekend they spent fleetingly in Zurich could "bankrupt Crimshaw for a lifetime!" Crimshaw, for a good portion of his life, lived in and out of trailers.
"...Yeah...." I struggle to say. Mom watches me with sudden tension, picking up on my mood. Truly, I can never hide from this woman.
"What? Oh, what? Do you disapprove of me, David? Do you? Is this too soon or inap-"
"No! Mom, God no!" I need to change my reaction and fast. I swallow some wine, take in some bread. Jesus and the fucking Disciples. "I'm just honestly surprised, that's all."
"Well, don't be. Your father was going to be doing this if he lived." There's a small pensive pause there, like footfall on the snow. "It's just me instead now. It was the anniversary; they'd been planning it for a year or two." She scatters her hands. "Crimshaw, of all people!" A fragile laugh. Her spirits are still up, but I've killed the initial euphoria of it all.
"I had no idea." One of my biggest regrets was not talking to my father more before he died. We had grown apart. It was the country; it was too big for the both of us to exist separately on different coasts and yet remain close. Long distance relationships, romantic or otherwise, they don't always work out too well. I should have emailed more; I should have called more. And likewise with him, but I'm not one for pinning blame on the dead.
Life is a lot of giving and taking, after all. There are nearly always two parties, equally responsible.
My mom nods. She's wearing a dark gold dress and there's a white shawl she's wrapped around her shoulders now, as if chilled. My mother looks exquisite.
"It's for two weeks in July. I'll be back before you know it. I trust you'll water the plants for me?" She looks at me with such wide eyes. What a dumb request. I nod, subservient to her in this scenario.
"I'm not going to let them die." And with this I think: her goddamn cabbage.
"I just figure the weird thing will be with Crimshaw, we haven't been alone together that long. But we've been spending more time together, ever since your father died. In fact, he came to me a month after your father died and he said to me, 'Ed and I wanted to take this trip. Well, with Ed gone, I've made a lot of preparations and I'd hate to see it go to waste. Do you want to go in his place, as sort of a respect to him? And, let's face it, Lucille. You could use a break.' Well! After some consideration, I called him. I told him yes. Let's do this. And it's been a lot of booking and looking at this thing called-"
She turns her fingers into air quotes.
"the Lonely Planet. Are you familiar, David?"
"Yup. It's a very popular series." More wine follows. I used it when I went to Europe; hell I used it the first time I found myself on the streets of Los Angeles, navigating what I perceived as "certain death" on each corner.
"What a name, because it is a Lonely Planet, isn't it?" She stares at me directly, once again offering no escape.
"It is and it isn't."
"We're flying out of New York and then we're due in Geneva. Crimshaw and your father have friends there from last time. And that will be that, some sightseeing, some cultural experiences. God, I haven't been abroad since I took you to France when you were a baby. You don't remember that, do you?" It's fair to say she's a little drunk, but she's glowing. And if it is booze and the promise of adventure that it it takes to make her glow, well then. Carry on.
"I was a baby." I smile. Our entrees arrive. "How would I remember?"
I help my mom to the car after dinner. Over dinner, she's excitedly rushed to me the details of her excursion. The exact date and time of the flight (July 6, 2:30 PM, Delta from JFK), the names of the friends they are meeting (Otto and Rita Von Griech, a respected couple somehow involved with an obscure literary circle) and the operas she plans on seeing (cannot remember their names, sounded more like gobbliegook to my uneducated ears).
"Are there any girls in your life, David?" she asks out of the blue. I wince at this.
"Just you, Mom."
"You're a regular Norman Bates!" I open the door for her.
"Not going to kill anyone yet, Mom."
"What about that girl you always liked?" She collapses on to the backseat like she's made of bricks. I chuckle. The night has such an unusual mood to it. Surprise, concern, confusion, amusement. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah Brightman?"
"Brannigan? Brightman's a singer, Mom." She taps her forehead.
"Your father always liked her."
"Who, the singer?"
"Both!" She closes the door. I enter in the driver's seat, sliding in and buckling the seatbelt protectively over me. My mom's functioning enough to do it on her own.
"The Brannigans, though. After my," she coughed. "My involvement with Keith, though. He wasn't too keen on them, no. The wife was weird. Ah, Linda. Her and her Anais Nin-derived philosophy. I just don't know what was completely up with her. But he said Sarah was a good kid, always."
I haven't lifted my gaze from her. I'm stuck on something she has let out in her drunken stupor.
"Your involvement with Keith?" I remember Mr. Brannigan. I suppose you could call him good-looking for an older guy; I don't really know. He had been a sculptor and had served a stint in the military, which hadn't worked out in his benefit. He was tall and imposing and broad-shouldered. My father's build was sort of similar, but Mr. Brannigan seemed to be cut from a line of ancient marines.
At times like this, I wish I had a sister, so I could get more valid judgment on whether or not Mr. Brannigan was "good-looking." I couldn't remember that well, besides.
"Yessss," she yawned. "David, take me home." I'm not getting anymore details out of her. She's fallen asleep, her mouth agog, her hands criss-crossed over her lap.
I will not think anymore of this. I tell myself as I drive her back. Involvement doesn't mean affair, she didn't come out and say 'affair,' did she?
I tell myself not to think of it and I still do. It keeps me up at night. At 3 AM, I give Sarah Brannigan a call.
The next day, I'm meeting Sarah for a drink. The Rhinestone is the most popular bar in DuBres. That is like being the most popular girl at fat camp. It's not saying a lot.
Inside, it's a barely disguised dump with dim lighting. The smell of spilled liquor permeates. One of the bartenders is a young, jock guy with a crewcut who shows off his dance moves to the barmaids between drinks.
I watch in utter disgust. I slowly drink my beer, a pale ale. It burns. And as stupid as it is to think about, I wonder what Sarah will drink when she eventually shows.
She's late, so I'm having my doubts with the beer. What is it about alcohol that both relaxes and unhinges me? I'm like an unstable door, at this moment in time. And the questions I'm about to ask. Questions to which I really do, to sound overdramatic, need answers.
I can see my father flinching when I think that thought.
"Hey," Sarah pulls up next to me, out of breath. She looks harried. I didn't mean to harry her. Her hair's a mess and her cheeks are red. I know it's May, but the past few days have been below average. Her overcoat's awry, too, adding to the "harried" noton.
"Sorry I'm late," she started to explain. "It was just so short notice, that was all. And you know how hectic it is, with me going back and forth and all."
The nights she spends here, at her parents' house, in the room she grew up in. In the room she became a woman in.
"The train late?" I ask. I size her up and down, although unconsciously.
"A little. There were some mechanical difficulties. What's up, David? I was honestly surprised to hear from you. Pleasantly," she corrects herself and there's a smile in her voice which helps me believe it isn't a lie when it surely is.
"Life moves fast. It's only been about a month."
"A little more than that!" She orders an Amstel Lite.
"What's new in your life, Sarah?" I look at her. Really look at her. I'm interested.
She laughs shyly, eyes downwards.
"I know that's not why you brought me here, David."
Sarah's right, but that doesn't mean I don't care. I wonder: has part of me always loved Sarah? Has part of me loved this girl without truly knowing her?
"No it's not, but I mean it," I swallow more of the pale ale for courage, swishing it around in my mouth. It makes me feel warm, like looking at Sarah also does. And always has, even before I could find words to explain what that was.
Maybe it was destiny. If you believe in that kind of thing. My mother might. How else could you explain such strange, drawn-out kismet?
"Ha. We can catch up with niceties later. I'll fill you in about everything." The "ggggg" at the end of everything. One of my favorite sounds.
"There's nothing new here. I have regular work now. That's the extent of my niceties."
Sarah is silent for a very long time. She takes her long, winding finger and traces the outline of the rim of the glass. Again and again, very sensual-like. I'm reminded of my third girlfriend, Emily, the writer. She had this habit of caressing computer keys like that. Pencils, pens, coffee mugs. Other things. We broke up because Emily thought her career was the most important thing going for her, her artistic higher calling. It didn't help that I wasn't particularly fond of the poor, wayward girl. Her calling, by the way, I don't believe it got her anywhere. Unless you count working as a service writer for a car dealership in DuBres a where...
"I'm seeing Paul again," she finally says. Each of her words fall like a brick. A song that was popular in my high school years......"she's a brick and I'm drowning slowly...." A song about an unwanted abortion; ours is a lesser tragedy. If you could call it even that. Unrequited love is just unfortunate and unpleasant.
"Oh."
"He's really a great guy. We're trying to patch things up; it's a trial period, you know? I'm hoping for the best. We were so close to.... going all the way, last time."
I don't say anything because I don't want to say anything. What is there to say?
"Good, good. I'm happy for you, Sarah." She stares directly into me, then. Like she can see all of me, inside and outside, exposed as if on an operating gurney.
"So if this was some kind of impromptu date...." she starts to say. I nearly shudder. How stupid, how stupid.
"No, it's not that. It's something else." There's no use in hiding underlying expectations, though. Why run from those? "But I really am happy for you, Sarah. You deserved to be loved."
Sarah twists a piece of her hair and has more to drink.
"So do you, David."
"You want another, big chief?" the bartender spins over to me. He's a clown and his existence, right now, pains me. I want to punch him in the jaw. I think I could easily get him on the floor. Kick him a few times for good measure, too.
"I'm good for now." He nods and moonwalks away. Moonwalks.
"Well, if this wasn't a date. What is it? What's going on?" Sarah leans in closer. I really want to kiss her, against my better judgment.
"I have to ask you about your parents." She stiffens.
"And what about my parents?"
Maybe I should have gotten that other beer.
"Your father," I gulp. "Did he ever talk about my mother at all? Like, at great length?"
"Um. What brings this about?"
"I'll tell you if you answer me first."
"Not a lot. In fact, hardly ever, until your dad died. Then he'd say 'oh, poor Lucille.' Things like that. Sympathetic things, I guess." She was squinting her eyes in the diligence of pure thought, scoping every corner of her memory for a fragment worth mentioning.
"Just that?"
"Why, David?"
"Do you remember what your parents and my parents had that falling-out about?"
"No, God no. Do you?"
"No no no. Too young."
"We're the exact same age, David. How would I remember?"
"I just thought...."
"What's this about. Tell me now."
"My mom was going off the other night, sort of drunk, talking about this trip she's taking to Geneva with Jim Crimshaw...."
"Ohio?"
"No, the European one. The real one." Despite herself, she snickers.
"Why is she going there?"
"Sentimental reasons I suppose. But she brought your dad up in passing and her 'involvement' with your dad. I was curious to see if you had any-"
"David, are you implying an affair?" Sarah's eyes are suddenly the size of Susan B. Anthony half dollars.
"Not necessarily, but. I mean, we're both adults. What else could it be?"
She pauses.
"I don't know anything about any affairs. As far as I know, my parents have always been faithful to each other. Always. And I think that's what I'd like to choose to believe?" She raises her spread-out hands, like now God is in on our private little conversation. "So if you want to go digging around in dirty laundry, please don't count me in, David. Please."
"Listen, that's not my intention." But it damn well is.
She leaves, revealing nothing more than approaching scenes of domestic bliss and a deep-rooted desire to keep the peace, however uneasy I find it.
Comments
Post a Comment