Authors: Tom Mendicino
“Maybe I’ll start a new book club with women who want to talk about books instead of their pathetic sex lives.”
“You mean they have sex lives?” I asked.
“I doubt it.” She laughed. Or at least I thought she laughed. Maybe she simply snorted. “You know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”
“Of course, it will be twelve years since the day we met. Hey, look at the clock! It’s after midnight. It’s officially tomorrow now. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Andy, if you ever stopped loving me you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Alice, I will never stop loving you,” I swore, promising a celebration, dinner and a good bottle of wine, later that night.
“Andy, you’re going to break the slats if you don’t cut it out!” Alice chastised, but not too seriously. It was probably the bottle and a half of pinot noir we’d had at dinner, but she thought my ridiculous imitation of Prince performing “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” was hilarious. I cranked up the volume and strutted on the bed. Ooh-we-sha-sha-coo-coo-yeah! I loved that fucking song, a seven-minute orgasm, especially that nasty little refrain about wanting to fuck the taste out of that sweet little girl’s mouth.
“Happy Valentine’s Day! Come on, come on, dance with me, baby,” I pleaded, pulling her up by her arms, the bed finally collapsing under the weight of a grown man and woman jumping on the mattress. We did it right then and there, with the Artist Formerly Known As serenading our coupling.
Several weeks later, I sat in my pants and socks, too stunned to finish undressing for bed, and she held my hand and told me our prayers had been answered. We were crossing a bridge and on the other side was a deeper intimacy, a family, the circle complete at last. Who could have predicted that all it would take after years of careful planning was one spastic little jig and broken bed slats to inspire one intrepid little sperm to take aim, blast off, and hit the target? Alice was sure the little tadpole swimming in a pool of her amniotic fluid was going to grow into a boy. After we backdated the calendar to determine the exact date of the miracle of conception, I insisted there was only one way to appropriately honor the Raspberry Beret Sorcerer who had succeeded where a legion of obstetricians, endocrinologists, and urologists had failed. Of course, there was the added benefit of a likely fatal myocardial infarction when Curtis was introduced to his new grandson Prince Rogers Nelson Nocera. My suggestion, needless to say, was summarily rejected and Alice started making a list of names, inspired by literary or musical icons, all of which I refused to consider. Yes, I remembered I was reading
Absalom, Absalom!
when we met but I just couldn’t warm up to the idea of Faulkner Nocera. Dylan had become a cliché. I am being serious, I insisted: John-paulgeorgeandringo Nocera had a nice ring. Why would I ever agree to call our son Pynchon when I couldn’t finish
Gravity’s Rainbow?
Besides, I argued, everyone knows the rules. A boy’s name should be one syllable with more consonants than vowels. Jack was the compromise, after London or Kerouac. Both great writers and great lookers.
“But what if Jack turns out ugly?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t you want the kid to be good-looking?”
“Looks aren’t important.”
“You thought I was good-looking when we met.”
“I still do.”
Oh, Alice, my sweet Alice. At best, I’m a six out of ten. The collision of Naples and Appalachia had yielded better results in my younger sister, proof that practice makes perfect.
“So looks
are
important?”
“Incidental. Sort of a fringe benefit.”
“So what attracted you to me besides my beauty?”
“You were smart. You were funny. You weren’t like other boys.”
I didn’t like where this was going. My wife chose me because I was “different.”
“You were the first man I ever met who listened when I talked instead of thinking of what he was going to say next.”
Thank God she hadn’t fallen for me because I was a sissy.
“If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?”
“Ask me tomorrow. Tonight I’m perfectly happy.”
“So you hope Jack will be a chip off the old block?”
“Your block,” she said emphatically. “If he turns out anything like my father, we’re going to have to trade him in.”
The AFP was positive, “abnormal.” Her serum protein levels were low. It’s a screening, not a test, they assured us. No reason to get anxious yet. The chance of Down syndrome was one in a thousand, but an ultrasound and amniocentesis were recommended just for our peace of mind. Modern medicine ensures you’ll never be blindsided by the left jab. There are no more awful surprises, no need to cry and curse your fate and finally to resign yourself to the hand that’s been dealt you. The tests confirmed the extra chromosome.
“It’s your decision,” I told her, thinking I was saying the right thing.
She was furious, angry at me. At herself. At the world.
“Don’t put it all on me! How dare you make me take all the responsibility for this!”
“I mean I want what you want. Jesus, that’s all I’m trying to say.”
If only we hadn’t shared the happy news with the world. After trying for so long, the three-month obligatory wait, the safety net, “just in case,” seemed like an eternity. Living with your conscience, justifying, rationalizing, would be difficult enough without having to endure the judgment, silent or otherwise, of the morally absolute.
“We could tell our parents we lost the baby,” I said.
“Why?” she countered. “If that’s the decision we make, we should have the integrity to live with the consequences.”
“I was just thinking about your father.”
“If we decide to have this baby, it will be because it’s the right thing to do. My father has nothing to do with it. I don’t know why you even care what he would think.”
Frustration, maybe even disgust, was creeping into her voice.
“Look, Alice, do you have the strength to raise this baby?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t think you do.”
I didn’t. She knew it. It was an act of kindness for her to suggest that it was even a subject for discussion and debate. We left the question hanging between us, unresolved, until the calendar dictated that she couldn’t wait any longer to make the appointment. We barely spoke as we drove to the clinic the morning of the “procedure.” I asked if she was warm enough; she told me to turn left at the next light. I sat beside her as she signed the consent forms. She allowed me to kiss her on the forehead and, as the staff escorted her behind closed doors, I slumped into a chair, feeling nothing but relief.
I sat in the waiting room, a plastic bag of her personal items on my lap, the clothes she’d worn to the clinic, her watch and handbag. I was restless as a toddler, unable to concentrate on the words of the book I was reading (
The Southpaw
, an annual Opening Day ritual since I was fourteen), needing Dr Pepper and cheese crackers from the vending machine to pacify me. I knew she’d have the necessary quarters and dimes in her change purse and as I shuffled through the contents of the bag I found a medal and chain, carefully wrapped in her panties. The metal was black with tarnish, the impression of the Blessed Virgin worn and barely distinguishable. It must have been a talisman from her childhood, probably draped around her neck at her First Communion and not removed until late in her rebellious adolescence.
I knew then that whatever was happening in another room of the clinic was a mistake. Not a sin. A mistake. She’d made the decision, made it alone really, not trusting me to have the fortitude and patience to persevere through the struggles ahead. I should have assured her that I was up for the challenge, that little Jack would make us even closer, that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever abandon her, leaving her alone to raise our child. But I didn’t. And if she had resorted to prayer, it hadn’t been to ask for forgiveness for what she was about to do. Once she’d made the decision, she would have been absolutely certain it was the right one. She would have been praying for hopeless causes, the baby and me.
I never saw that medal again. It was consigned to its secret hiding place until the next crisis or tragedy when she would retrieve it from safekeeping, seeking the comfort of feeling it resting on her chest. There was no religious awakening in our household, no sudden appearance of Mass cards or scripture tracts. Over time, life seemed to return to normal. But sex gradually became an afterthought, a ritual to mark a special occasion, a birthday or anniversary, or another stop on the carefully planned itineraries to Europe or Mexico, scheduled between breakfast and an afternoon shopping spree. I’d guiltily initiate foreplay when I suddenly realized it had been weeks, no, months, since we’d last made love.
The rift between us, once opened, could never be completely sealed. We never actually made the decision to stop trying for another baby, but we never really committed to continuing the effort after the abortion.
I’m nursing my second, no, make that third drink, building a nice buzz as I sit alone at the Carousel, watching the clock on the wall. I’ve driven by here thousands of times; the place has been a notorious gathering place for “fairy nice guys” as long as I can remember. Father Matthew McGinley really got under my skin tonight, dredging up all these damn memories. Dreading the prospect of my first major holiday as a (disgraced) single man, I called my mother from the parking lot, pleading early holiday air-traffic delays (“Flight’s not due in until almost midnight. Yes, I remembered to call the psychiatrist to cancel.”) as if spending a few hours sitting in a gay bar still necessitated an elaborate alibi. Of course, the reality of the Carousel is far more benign than the sinful den of iniquity of my imagination. The owners haven’t redecorated since the heyday of
The Brady Bunch,
and the plaid carpet and faux paneling have all the charm of a suburban rec room. So much for the maxim that all gays have good taste.
“Where’s the jukebox?” I ask.
“Sorry, buddy, it’s broken,” the bartender apologizes. “But the deejay starts spinning in an hour.”
The bartender plops another beer in front of me; the guy at the end of the bar has bought me a drink. I turn toward my benefactor and offer a nod of appreciation without acquiescence. He raises his glass and smiles. He seems friendly enough, not bad-looking, a bit scruffy, my type, actually. He’d be a real possibility if it weren’t for my state of mind tonight. In the mood I’m in, he looks slightly ridiculous, a grown man in a Carolina Tar Heels Basketball hoodie.
“Tell him thanks,” I say to the barman.
“He says thanks, Harold,” he bellows.
“You’re welcome,” Harold shouts back.
I look away quickly before he reads an invitation to join me in my eyes.
It’s pushing toward eleven. The Carousel is starting to get crowded. Mr. Tar Heels Basketball is lingering at the end of the bar. Friends greet him and he laughs, too loudly, intending to get my attention. I understand the message being delivered.
See? I’m not a freak, a criminal, a psycho. I’ve got friends who are happy to see me. Don’t be frightened. I’m a normal guy. Smile. Strike up a conversation.
Protocol demands I buy him a beer if I order another drink. I’m thirsty. I don’t want to go home.
Hey, bartender, one for the road, and send one to Hank—sorry, Harold—at the end of the bar.
“What’s your name?” Harold asks, challenged by his friends to walk over and introduce himself.
“Andy,” I say, trying to suppress my irritation at having my space invaded.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says, contrite, his overture rewarded by my obvious lack of interest.
“That’s okay,” I say blandly so as not to encourage him.
“I just wanted to thank you for the beer. Have a nice Thanksgiving,” he says.
“You too,” I mutter, turning away.
The Carousel is starting to hop.
“So what do you think, Blue Eyes?”
The snaggletooth sitting next to me insists I join the debate.
“Streisand or Midler?”
“Streisand or Midler what?”
He rolls his eyes as if the question—and the answer—is obvious.
“You must be one of those queens who can’t think beyond Madonna,” the snaggletooth sneers, dismissing me from the conversation.
“Yeah, that’s me, all right,” I snarl, firing up a cigarette.
I wish I was still married.
It’s time to hit the road. I swallow the backwash in my beer bottle, preparing to do penance for my bad behavior. Harold’s back is toward me. I touch his shoulder, expecting he’ll turn and sneer, revenge, after all, being sweet.
“Sorry for being so rude earlier. It’s been a long week,” I apologize.
“No problem,” he says, smiling. “You come here often?”
“Not really.”
“We’ll try it again next time.” He laughs. “Gimme a kiss.”
Why not? I give him a friendly peck and slip out the door.
The temperature’s dropped quickly. Tomorrow morning a killer frost will blanket the lawns of Mecklenburg and Gaston Counties. I turn off the car radio; I’ve had enough crappy memories for one day.
I kept my promise, Alice. I never told you I stopped loving you because I never did.
You asked the wrong question.
You should have made me promise to tell you if I ever fell in love with someone else.
“Y
ou’ll like them. I know it.”
I’ve never been a big one for socializing. Alice had to drag me out of the house kicking and screaming. This time she was insistent.
She was right. Why wouldn’t I like them? They were probably lovely people, great folks, exactly the type of neighbors we were hoping for when we bought this splashily designed, poorly constructed, and wildly expensive town house in the most exclusive gated community in the Triad.
“Give them a chance,” she said.
Alice wanted to cook dinner for them. No, I said, willing to give in only so far, we’ll meet at a restaurant. She wasn’t sure, wanting to avoid the awkward moment when the check was presented. No problem, I said, I’ll give my card in advance and, at the end of the evening, I’ll slip away from the table and discreetly sign. She finally conceded, knowing I really did not want to meet the Wilkinses.
I started to relax as the waiter uncorked the second bottle of wine. The evening was going well, better than expected. In fact, it was an unqualified success. The Wilkinses, unlike most of my professional acquaintances, gave every indication they knew how to read. There was plenty to talk about; there was a lot of laughter. Driving home, Alice asked what I’d thought of Nora. The question took me by surprise. I was having a hard time remembering her face.
“She seemed kind of quiet,” I said, assuming shyness was the explanation for her failure to make an impression on me.
“Andy.” Alice laughed. “She talked a blue streak all night!”
Hmmmmm.
“What did you think of Brian?” she asked.
I wondered if that was a trick question.
“Seems like a nice guy,” I said, cautiously.
“You two really seemed to hit it off.”
Did we? I felt a strange sensation in my chest. Good God, I thought, it sounds like an old cliché, but did my heart skip a beat?
“What did you talk about?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said, suddenly becoming inarticulate.
What did we talk about? Work, obviously. Our wives, certainly. It was easier to remember what we didn’t talk about.
Golf.
Cars.
Power tools.
“Swimming,” I finally said.
“He’s a swimmer too?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You guys ought to swim together sometime.”
“Yeah, he mentioned something like that,” I said, sounding nonchalant and noncommittal. “He said he’d call to set something up.”
Two days later, she was slipping on her Levi’s while I cradled my foot, engrossed in a virgin blister on my heel. She asked if something was wrong. It must be the new shoes, I said. No, I don’t mean that, she said. I’d thought she was blissfully unaware of my barely concealed agitation, of the nervous twitch I’d developed whenever the phone rang, of my impatient interruptions to ask who was on the line, and of my disappointment when the call was not the one I was so anxiously awaiting.
Wednesday night was close, but no cigar.
“It’s Nora Wilkins,” she said. “She wants to know if we’re free for dinner Saturday night.” She expressed our regrets, telling Nora we were visiting my parents this weekend.
“Wait, wait one minute, Nora. Andy’s trying to tell me something.”
I was waving my hands furiously to get her attention.
“Nora? Andy says they cancelled, that they’re going out of town this weekend. Thanks for telling me, mister,” she said, laughing. “We’d love to.”
I needed to square this little white lie with my mother, pronto, before she called and told Alice they were looking forward to seeing us this weekend and she’d gotten tickets to the garden show for the two of them.
I got a fresh haircut Saturday afternoon and bought a new shirt that brought out the color in my eyes.
“I’ve been meaning to call you all week, Andy, and make a date to go swimming, but the days just got away from me,” he said.
“Oh, I’d forgotten all about it, to tell you the truth,” I lied.
“This week definitely.”
“Not good for me. I’ve got a sales meeting with a distributor in Atlanta.”
“Damn. Soon, then.”
“I’ll be back Wednesday night,” I blurted.
Alice and Nora finished the house tour.
“Andy, you must see it,” Alice said. “The Wilkinses have the most beautiful things.”
If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Alice had a bit of a crush herself. Nora was so self-assured, a take-charge blonde, slightly butch in a female golf pro sort of way. I made it a point to be more conscious of her, notice her mannerisms, memorize one of her offhand remarks. She was bossy, but in a way that was more brisk and efficient than aggressive, as if she’d already considered and rejected all the alternatives to her way of doing things before you had an opportunity to propose them. She must have reminded Alice of her sisters, which explained why she was so immediately comfortable with her.
“Brian, it’s time to light the grill. Andy, you go with him.”
Aye, aye, sir…er, ma’am.
Central Casting would never have selected Brian Wilkins as the catalyst for my downfall. Hollywood’s idea of a seducer was everything short, fair, and nearsighted Brian Wilkins was not. That’s not to say Brian wasn’t attractive. Years earlier, he might have been voted Cutest Boy by his high school graduating class. Best Looking would have been a classmate with a more classic profile, better bone structure, and features that would only improve with time, unlike Brian, whose chipmunk cheeks were thickening even before middle age.
A minor inferno erupted when Brian tossed a match on the charcoal. His hand flew up to my chest and he pushed me back from the flame.
“Someday I’ll figure out how much lighter fluid is too much.”
I drank a little too much that night, enough that Alice insisted on taking the wheel to drive home. And the more I drank, the less I’d cared that it was obvious our wives might have been dining in another solar system for all the attention we gave them.
“I told you you’d like them,” Alice said triumphantly as I rolled into bed. “I knew it.”
Brian called the next morning. He was wondering when we might get together for that swim.
Too bad this week didn’t look so good. Hey, how about today? This afternoon. It’s clear for me. How about you? We can burn off some of that alcohol. Let’s make it two o’clock. Give me the directions. I’ll find it.
That’s how easy it was. Alice’s Sunday was committed to yet another shower—either bridal or, more often those days, baby. Her forced cheeriness at the breakfast table meant, yes, definitely, it was another celebration of the imminent arrival of Joshua, if it’s a boy, Sarah, if it’s a girl. She was genuinely delighted for Becca or Susan or Shelley, the glowing mothers-to-be, a happiness untainted by envy. Only once did her armor crack, when her friend Carolyn announced that she and her husband had settled on the name John for their son, after his father’s father. Sure it was old-fashioned, but they were going to call him Jack. We still have lots of time, I consoled her. We can start trying to get pregnant again, as soon as she was ready. Yes, she agreed, soon, sometime soon. Little did we know that a low sperm count would turn out to be a minor obstacle compared to the events set in motion that perfectly ordinary Sunday afternoon.
I hadn’t expected him to be so nervous. He dropped his lock twice, fumbling through the combination. He turned his back to me when he stepped out of his briefs and into his trunks. His shoulders were wide without being impressive. He coughed and bent down to swipe the soles of his bare feet. He finally turned to face me, red in the face and stammering.
“Andy, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Sorry about what?” I asked, truly confused.
“I’m a terrible swimmer. I should have told you up front.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted to come swimming with you.”
His forwardness made me self-conscious. I knew then why I had impulsively chosen to bring a pair of baggy gym shorts instead of my usual racing trunks. I was conscious of my naked chest and limbs as we walked to the pool. I took long strides, moving quickly, forcing him to keep pace, anxious for the protective cover of warm, chlorinated water. I chose my lane, dove quickly, and swam away.
He wasn’t a bad swimmer; not in my league, but, of course, I was a former state high school champion in the breaststroke, the rare high point in an adolescence distinguished mainly by my ability to achieve new standards of awkwardness. He’d taken the next lane and I passed him many times, coming and going, always averting my eyes and immersing myself in my laps. Half an hour passed. When I pulled myself out of the pool, he was waiting on the deck, his arms wrapped around his knees and his toes inches from my nose. He had huge feet and, before I could censor my thoughts, I wondered if the old wives’ tale was true—big hands, big feet, big everything.
“You’ve got a beautiful stroke,” he said. “I could watch you all day.”
Barely thirty, Brian Wilkins was progressing on his March to the Sea. He’d started in the tiny market of Rochester, Minnesota, fresh out of school, as associate producer of the ten o’clock news broadcast; he’d made his way south with an unbroken string of triumphs at small stations in the heart of the Midwest. The network had taken notice when he drove our local Greensboro affiliate’s eleven o’clock newscast to first place in the ratings in nine short months by dumping the venerable local anchor for a former drum majorette with big tits and a blazing white smile of after-dinner-mint teeth. He knew it was his certain destiny to command network operations in the District of Columbia, finally capping his career in Manhattan as executive producer of a national broadcast.
Brian was self-effacing and falsely humble and always positioned himself so that his rivals and enemies would underestimate him. His work ethic was legendary. His instincts for what sold in the broadcast journalism market were remarkable. The fortress of his personal life was unassailable. His Valkyrie wife excelled at fulfilling the responsibilities of corporate wife and was willing to overlook his lack of interest in conjugal intimacy in exchange for a seat on the rocket launch to the top. They’d already accomplished one daughter, and a little brother or sister was scheduled to be in development in the near future. There was only one slight problem and a potential pitfall Brian Wilkins was determined to avoid. Brian had certain needs that none of his successes could satisfy. And so he chose me as the successor to my predecessors abandoned in Rochester and Springfield, Illinois, and Lincoln, Nebraska, all of us married men with too much at stake to risk indiscretion and potential exposure. Later, when he told me he’d accepted the network’s offer for the number-one position at the Pittsburgh affiliate, I asked him how he’d known to pursue me.
“It was easy,” he said, his smile almost a sneer. “You’re smart. You figure it out.”
I’d kept my mind a blank slate when it came to homoerotic attraction and proclivities. I would immediately extinguish the occasional, no, frequent, disturbing thoughts before they had an opportunity to reveal their nature, before they could identify themselves as
attraction
or
desire
. Brian Wilkins must have caught me in that split second before I put the fire out, my eye lingering a second too long before I blushed and looked away.
And so it began.
It was just waiting for the right opportunity, which was not, of course, going to be there and then, on the wet pool deck of my swim club, trunks around the ankles, writhing and moaning in the face of appalled exercise buffs. In the open shower, it was my turn to keep my back turned, feeling like I was back in high school and couldn’t trust my defiant penis. We shook hands in the parking lot and I ignored it when he scratched my palm with his middle finger, not yet knowing the secret signals between closeted homosexuals.
“We should get together soon for drinks,” he said, making it obvious that he meant alone, not with our wives.
“Give me a call,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the nerves in my voice.
“Didn’t you say last night you’d be back Wednesday?”
I told him I had a late-afternoon flight out of Atlanta after my lunch meeting with the distributor. Great, he said, telling me where to meet him that evening.
That night I attacked Alice enthusiastically. Once wasn’t enough. Twice didn’t satisfy me. Long after midnight, Alice pulled the twisted sheets between her legs and sipped a glass of wine.
“You ought to exercise more often,” she said.
A week later, she waited for a reprise. But that night I fell asleep during
60 Minutes
, not to awaken until seven the next morning. Everything had changed in those seven days.
I’d called home from the airport Wednesday afternoon and left a message on the machine, complaining that I’d missed my flight, that it was ridiculous to get routed through Columbus, Ohio, and the next nonstop didn’t arrive until after midnight.
Don’t wait up. Love you. Miss you.
I thought his choice of a bar was a little odd. The Tara Lounge at a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Winston-Salem? His briefcase was in plain view and he’d placed a thick ratings book on the table, evidence of a pure business purpose in the highly unlikely event someone who knew him stumbled upon us in a dark corner in the empty lounge in that tacky backwater. We started with beer and moved quickly to bourbon, straight up. It wasn’t long before enough alcohol had flowed to excuse his shins touching mine under the table. I didn’t pull my leg away and he pressed lightly, just enough to confirm it was intentional.
“How long have you and Alice been married?” he asked.
“Eight years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Longer, really. We met in college. Freshmen. Been together thirteen years.”
“Hard, isn’t it?”
“What?”
He went to the bar for another round, and, when he returned, he kept his legs tucked beneath the seat. I slid my foot across the floor until it nudged his shoe. He put his hands on the table and looked me in the eyes.
“What do you think?”
There was a key, Room 206, between us on the table. I panicked, admitting I’d lied to Alice, told her I’d missed my flight, she might call Nora and find out I was not far from home, meeting him for a beer. He laughed so hard the bartender looked away from the television.