Probation (16 page)

That’s your birthday present. Your anniversary present is inside, she says.

The announcement is printed on pristine new cards of the highest-grade ivory paper.

T
AR
H
EEL
H
ERITAGE
F
URNITURE

A
NDREW
N
OCERA

V
ICE
P
RESIDENT FOR
N
ATIONAL
S
ALES

It’s really the King of Unpainted Furniture’s anniversary gift to her, elevating me to a position undeserved by a failed graduate student in comparative literature who can’t tell particle board from solid mahogany.

So, hey, let’s drain the bottle in honor of the promotion and walk hand in hand to the bedroom. Yes, I may be a little drunk, okay, really drunk, but I love you, I really love you. I’m drunk enough that the ferocity of my erection surprises me, explainable only by the fact that tonight, maybe for the first time, maybe for the only time, I have complete and total faith that I am not who I am but who I want to be.

Pull over there, I order the cabbie.

The House of Pies: 101 Varieties.

I can’t face the hotel yet, afraid of insomnia and of being alone. I can’t bear the thought of cruising bars and looking for intimacy with a complete stranger. I’m so hungry I’ll eat anything that doesn’t come with chopsticks. A tired waitress leads me to a booth. She hands me a plastic menu and asks if I want coffee. She tries to be friendly, but her mind is elsewhere, probably with a sick kid at home. The dirty thumbprints on the menu kill my appetite. But there’s a five-buck minimum per table and I order a grilled cheese and coffee. I realize I have no idea where I am. The hotel might be miles away or just around the block. I’m counting the cabs passing on the street when he slides into the booth.

“What did you think of the show?”

The furry blond singer from Kiko’s flashes a Hollywood smile.

“Do you mind if I join you? I’m waiting on a friend.”

I don’t mind. I really do, but I don’t. I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m tired of sitting at tables alone. I tell him he was great, especially when he sat down at the piano and played a little boogie-woogie. He says that for what Daddy paid for four years at Juilliard, he ought to be able to fake a little cathouse ragtime for a…

“…
shall we say, less than discriminating audience.”

I hear crape myrtle in that phrase. I say I’m from North Carolina, trying to bond. Why, you’re practically a Yankee, he says. He asks if I’m traveling alone, if I’m married, if I have children. Yes, no, and no. So far so good, he thinks. And what brought you to Kiko’s? he asks. Well, if it’s good enough for Jim Nabors, I say. He reaches over to light my cigarette and lets his fingers brush mine. I don’t back away.

Now that we’ve established that I am a homosexual, his flirtation becomes aggressive. He says he’s thirty-two, an obvious lie. He’s wearing light mascara and foundation. Well, he is in show business and works under the lights, I think, giving him the benefit of the doubt. He’s from Mississippi, Old Mississippi, he emphasizes. He’s setting the groundwork, establishing he is
somebody
and must not be mistaken for some piano player in a rinky-dink bar.
Somebody
, meaning somebody better than me. Daddy has been the Chief Justice of the Mississippi Supreme Court for over thirty years. Mother is old cotton money. I am appropriately impressed. He orders the California burger and a slab of lemon meringue pie and excuses himself. There’s a trace of powder on the tip of his nose when he returns.

“Mother is a dilettante,” he says, with a voice fueled by cocaine and bitterness, a modestly talented watercolorist who’s shown in galleries as far away as Boston. She has a small but solid reputation.
Art in America
once called her an important regionalist. But her true vocation is reigning over the Gulf panhandle arts scene.

“Oh, Mother is a cunt.” He laughs. “A real card-carrying cunt,” he says too loudly, drawing angry stares from other tables.

The thought of my own mother, insisting on driving me to the airport and waving good-bye at the gate as if she will never see me again, makes me want to grab my fork and stab him in his glassy eye. The waitress drops the grilled cheese on the table and warns us we’ll have to leave if we can’t behave ourselves. I want to protest, explain to her I’m here alone, that he’s intruded on me just like he’s intruding on the nearby tables. He rolls his eyes and zips his lips with his fingertips, mocking her prudery. He sees he’s embarrassed me and reaches across the table to touch my hand. His apology sounds almost sincere.

“Please stay,” he says. “I don’t like sitting alone.”

Why shouldn’t you have to sit alone? I do. And I may not be
somebody
, but I’m somebody better than you. But instead I settle back in the booth and play at eating the greasy grilled cheese. He looks at his watch, then asks me the time. Whoever he’s waiting for is late and probably not going to show. He asks why I’m in Hawaii.

“An anniversary gift,” I say.

He looks addled. He must have heard me wrong. He says he thought I’d said I wasn’t married. He’s either done too many drugs or not enough. He doesn’t understand.

I’m not going to confess what I’ve done to deserve spending my anniversary in a House of Pies six thousand miles from home, the captive of this nasty creature with tinted hair who’s being stood up by someone who most likely charges by the hour.

“Excuse me for just a minute,” he says, apparently having decided that the drugs he’s already snorted aren’t sufficient. I’m not going to play this one out. Not this time. Not anymore. I grab the waitress as soon as he is out of sight. I stuff a twenty in her hand, mutter a quick apology, and bolt. She calls after me, aloha, I think she’s saying. I can’t really hear her. The piped-in ukuleles crackling in the speaker over the door are too loud.

Kuluha luha, kala halaki, kaluha luha…

Or something like that.

W
hat God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

Well, that’s obviously one commandment the Bible-thumping legislators of the State of North Carolina neglected to codify. In fact, they’ve gone out of their way to make my divorce quick and easy, an exercise in politeness and consideration, a mediation, nothing like the messy marital battles you read about in the tabloids. No angry accusations of adultery from the witness stand. No tearful recriminations. No hostile exchanges under oath. No blame. No fault.

No-fault divorce. The lawyers have handled it briskly and efficiently and are polite enough to conceal their disappointment at not being able to run up the bills because I insisted she get everything. Needless to say, the King of Unpainted Furniture made short work of Alice’s refusal to take it all.

The separation agreement and the property settlement were signed months ago. There’s nothing left to do but wait. The divorce will be final one year and one day after the date we established separate residences; that is, one year and one day after Curtis kicked me out on my ass. The house went on the market the day the deed was transferred. Alice held out until she got her asking price, not because she needed the money, but, I suspect, out of a reluctance to let go. The message came through my lawyer. Everything had been packed and moved, everything but the clothes I’d left behind, a few boxes of books and records, my bicycle, and a set of weights. It was my responsibility to pick them up. The locks haven’t been changed. Settlement is Monday, twelve noon.

I was up before dawn this morning, dreading the long drive to High Point. Thirty miles out of Gastonia, I realized it had never occurred to me I might need something larger than a two-door compact to haul away my few remaining material assets. Ah well, too late now. Maybe the new owner is athletic or has a kid who might appreciate a customized racing bike worth a few thousand bucks. Might as well throw in the dumbbells too. And I’ve read all the books. They can keep the ones they want and throw away the rest. And who really needs all those clothes? Not me. Maybe the husband is my size. If he isn’t, they can call the Salvation Army and take the tax deduction. Come to think of it, there’s no reason not turn the car around and head back home.

Except that I can’t do that to Alice. She’s the one who will have to go to settlement and face the pissed-off buyers who’d just come from the walk-through and found the last vestiges of my former life cluttering the rooms of their dream house. Besides, the time has slipped by and I’m almost there anyway.

REST STOP

TWO MILES AHEAD

I press the accelerator to the floor and fly past the scene of the crime at ninety miles an hour.

I’d prayed for rain and was rewarded with a beautiful, sunny Sunday, an unseasonably warm spring day full of the promise of summer. The kind of day to inspire my former friends and neighbors to turn on the spigots and slip into their flip-flops and spend the morning waxing and polishing their BMWs and Range Rovers. I can see the double takes at the sight of the notorious criminal pulling into the driveway.

W
hat is he, honey, a pederast? Or is it a pedophile? A child abuser? Sodomite? Yeah, that’s it, a sodomite. So how did he look, dear? Did he say anything to you? Did he look you in the eye? God, the nerve! If he had any decency, he’d never show his face around here again.

How could they forget my departure on that beautiful sunny day, much like this one except much hotter? The sirens and dome lights of the squad cars had alerted the entire neighborhood to the spectacle at 12 Virginia Dare Court. The whole cul-de-sac had a front-row seat and an unobstructed view of the King of Unpainted Furniture of late-night television fame ranting and raving in the flesh, threatening to break every bone in my body.

What the hell do I care what they think? Put it in perspective. It all happened months ago, almost forgotten now. If they think of it at all, it’s only as a salacious little tale to reinforce their self-righteousness, threatening their complacency, the perfect order in their perfect worlds disturbed, if only momentarily. I pull into the cul-de-sac and am surprised to see that nothing’s changed. I ask myself why I would have expected it to change since I’ve been gone. It must be because I’ve changed so drastically since then. How exactly, I’m not quite sure yet. I may never have been the man they thought I was, but I’m no longer the same man they didn’t know.

There’s not a soul in sight. No doubt the suspense on some putting green has them glued to their television sets. Thank you, God. Forgive me for doubting You exist. The lawyer was right. The keys still work. I put the car in the garage, not risking the unwanted attention a strange vehicle in the driveway would attract.

The boxes are stacked neatly in what used to be the dining room. The bicycle is in the garage. The free weights are nowhere to be found. I could just pack the car with as much as it can hold and take off, in and out in a few minutes. But something is slowing me down, nostalgia perhaps, or maybe a nagging regret that I’d never had the opportunity to bid the rooms of this house a formal farewell.

I’ll start on the top floor and work my way down. Climbing the stairs, I’m humming a tune I’d forgotten I remembered—a country and western weepy that’s as much a part of my heritage as MoonPies and RC Cola.

Life imitates art. Well, that might be stretching it. Life imitates the jukebox. The voice of Mr. George Jones follows me from room to room. I can’t believe I know all the words.

Well, George, maybe not. I’ve got another song about lovemaking for you, a duet, something you and Tammy would have taken to the top of the Country Hot 100.

Him:
Distant and analytical—touch here and make her sigh; touch there and drive her crazy.

Her:
Wary; sensitive of crossing the fine line between passion and aggression.

Him:
Rating his performance, keeping score, fretting over the gradual slide in technical points as repetition and familiarity and, worst, lack of interest took its toll.

Her:
Wanting more, getting less.

Him:
Frustrated, angry, finally weary of trying to draw from a well of desire that was shallow to begin with, gone bone dry all too soon.

Her:
Finally surrendering, conceding that he will not, cannot, respond to her touch the way she responds to his.

The End.

Ah, George and Tammy would have turned our sad story into poetry.

Our old bedroom, stripped of its contents, seems enormous. Sunlight falls on the large rectangle of clean, plush carpet where the bed used to be. I’m exhausted and the shadow of the queen-sized mattress makes sleep irresistible. I kick off my shoes and curl up on the floor. The pile scratches my cheek and my nose detects traces of factory glue in this unblemished section of rug. I’m sound asleep within a minute.

I don’t know how long I’ve been dozing when I’m awakened by the sound of a car door. I jump up and look out the window. I panic, realizing I’m trapped in this room, unable to escape. It’s too late to race down the stairs and slip out the door. Alice’s key is already in the lock.

I have two choices. I can walk downstairs, announce my presence, hope that I don’t startle her. But then I would have to look her in the eye. The alternative is to stay here and take a chance she won’t feel the need to visit the garage or climb the stairs. I consider hiding in the closet and reject that strategy as too cowardly. Instead, I sink quietly to the floor to avoid any footfalls on the creaking floorboards. I hear the front door close and the quiet shuffle of leather soles on the parquet floor. Alice goes directly to the dining room.

Goddamn
, I hear her say when she finds the boxes exactly where she left them. She uses her cell phone to call someone, the real estate agent most likely, and bemoan the fact
he
—that would be me—
never showed up and the boxes are still stacked in the middle of the floor
. I hear her making arrangements for someone, the agent’s teenage son apparently, to bring a van and haul it all away before the walk-through in the morning. She sounds more exasperated than angry.

No, no,
she says,
he’s not like that. He’s got a lot on his mind right now. That’s all. See you in the morning.

Alice is still making excuses for me.

After all I’ve done to her, after everything I’ve put her through, she’s still making excuses for me.

Yes, but sometimes he’s a little absentminded.

He forgets things.

He didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

He really is very sweet.

Everyone is a little cranky at times.

He’s tired. He works so hard.

You don’t know him the way I do.

No one knows him like I do.

Here in this empty house, I realize she’s right.

No one knows me like she does. My mother maybe, certainly no one else.

But even Alice couldn’t have imagined me down on my knees in front of the urinal, swallowing a stranger’s semen. Or maybe I’m deluding myself and she knew all too well what I was capable of and turned a blind eye and a deaf ear, loving me anyway.

The house is so quiet I can hear her walking through the kitchen. I imagine she’s opening the refrigerator door, checking for any ancient jelly or olive jars left behind. That’s my Alice. Thorough to the end. Doing a little pre-inspection inspection. Making sure the faucets are working and the toilets still flush.

Oh, Sweet Jesus. The big, beautiful master bath, accessible only through this room in which I’m stranded, is sure to be on her punch list. I’m caught. There’s nothing to do but get up off the floor and straighten my back, accept my fate, and stand face-to-face with the woman I betrayed. The words won’t come easy. I can’t ask her forgiveness. I’m afraid she would deny it, but am even more terrified she will offer it. Besides, I’ve asked enough of her over the years, more than enough, too much, more than I had a right to take. I can’t ask her for anything ever again.

But what I can do is thank her.

Thank her for staying with me, for knowing I wasn’t ready.

But this happy reconciliation will never come to pass if she goes into cardiac arrest when she unexpectedly comes face-to-face with this great ghost from the past. Just as I’m about to call down to her, her cell phone rings.
Hello?
she answers.
Okay. All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’m leaving now. Good-bye.

She turns away from the staircase and closes the front door behind her. I hear her car backing down the driveway. She’s probably singing along to the radio, her mind preoccupied with directions, blissfully unaware of me watching her from the window. She’s let me off the hook again. I can walk away scot-free, without having hoisted anything heavier than my car keys. It’s been a wasted trip. Hours of driving to accomplish nothing except a quick catnap. But I have a few moments before Zack or Tyler or Jason or whatever the most popular name for baby boys was sixteen or seventeen years ago comes bursting through the front door, still sweaty from lacrosse practice, to haul the last of this detritus from the house. I’m here, after all; it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek at what’s packed in that small pyramid of boxes downstairs.

Books, of course, as promised. Dozens of cheap paperbacks, their dry yellow pages crumbling, stuffed with bookmarks and receipts from long-shuttered bookshops, the underlined and highlighted passages revealing my impressionable undergraduate mind. I find what I’m looking for in the second box, the complete works of Faulkner, the Vintage editions, including a dog-eared copy of
Absalom, Absalom!
I carefully flip through it, astonished to find ancient petrified crumbs lodged between the pages. Is it possible they’re from the bits of cookie I dusted off my lips when the bold little coed startled me in the Davidson dining hall? Not likely, but I’m not gonna let common sense stop me from believing they are.

Other boxes have books of a more recent vintage. Alice’s book club selections are sandwiched between copies of
Ball Four
and the complete Henry Wiggen series. Along with the immortal volumes of Susan Moore Duncan and Lucy Patton Kline is her copy of
Wuthering Heights
, the tidy Everyman’s Library edition with acid-free pages and slick red cloth place marker. Damn her, I spit, angry and hurt, my face stinging with rejection. She’s jettisoned this very important artifact from our history, a critical key to deciphering the mysterious code that scripted the story of our marriage. I tear through the boxes, looking for more evidence of her callousness in her choice of what to keep and what to consign to the scrap heap of history.

It appears she’s keeping those goddamn Dawn Powell books.

And, at last, in the heaviest boxes at the bottom of the stacks, I find hundreds of LPs in their faded and frayed jackets. Damn, it’s the mother lode! These things are worth hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars now that the warmth and beauty of the crackling imperfections of vinyl, once rejected in favor of unbreakable, unscratchable technology, has been rediscovered, championed by record store geeks, indie pop front men, and contrarians.

Not bad, I think as I shuffle the records, impressed by the range and depth of my musical knowledge and tastes. The collection spans generations and genres, from the most glittering, shimmering pop to chord-crunching R&B, from plaintive folksongs to soul-crushing blues.