The Man I Love (39 page)

The final papers were signed on an unseasonably chilly autumn morning, the day before Halloween. Erik walked his now ex-wife out of the courthouse and they looked at each other.

“I’ll get you a cab,” Erik said.

“Why don’t you get me a drink?” she said. “Let’s go to a bar.”

Erik stared at her, not understanding.

“Where was our first date?” she asked. “This isn’t a trick question.”

“At a bar.”

“Right. And after we got married at city hall we went to…?”

“A bar.”

“I think it’ll be all right if we go to a bar to mark the occasion of our divorce. In fact, it seems fitting.”

Still bewildered, Erik nodded, gesturing down the street. Melanie took his arm and they walked without talking to a small Irish pub. They sat at a little sunlit table in the window, ordered drinks, looked at each other.

Melanie was wearing her hair in cornrows again, letting the grey come in at her temples. New lines creased her forehead, but when their beers came, she raised her pilsner with dry-eyed serenity.

“Cheers, baby,” she said.

“Skål,” Erik said, touching his glass to hers.

They drank deeply. Melanie put a finger to the bit of foam at the corner of her mouth. “You will stay in touch with me, won’t you?”

“I… If you want me to.”

“I do. Does it surprise you?”

Erik shook his head. “I don’t know what surprises me anymore. I don’t know anything anymore.”

Melanie had asked for a divorce ten months ago. Erik conceded. She wondered if she might have the upright piano. He agreed. She asked if she could take the dog. It killed Erik, but he let Harry go.

Then she threw a plate at him.

It went wide and smashed in pieces against a far wall but the intent behind it was unmistakable. “You are emotionally retarded, you know that, Erik? Goddammit, you won’t fight for
anything
you love,” she said. “You spineless victim.”

And she moved out. With the dog. It was the ugliest moment in an otherwise smooth, no-fault divorce that took less than a year.

Now Melanie leaned forward and began tapping her index finger on Erik’s left hand. He looked at her, looked down at his hand as her tapping grew more deliberate.

“What?” he said. His wedding band was gone. So was hers. They had sold the diamond and used it for lawyers’ fees. But she wasn’t tapping his ring finger, she was tapping down by his wrist, flicking with her nail, nudging his hand to turn over. When it was palm up, her fingertip came to rest on his tattoo.

“You never got over her,” she said, her voice filled with kindness he didn’t deserve. “You just left.”

Erik breathed slowly. “I was young,” he heard himself say. His weight was down again. He hadn’t had breakfast and one beer was already sinking gooey fingers into his brain.

“You started calling for her in your sleep,” Melanie said. “The last few months I was at home. It was November—the dreams always come back to you in the fall. I was used to the thrashing around and the wordless crying out. But then you started calling for her.”

Erik clenched his fist and turned the tattoo down to face the table. His other hand came to catch his brow.

“Hey,” Melanie said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not telling you now to accuse you. I just… I worry about you, baby. You’re not mine to worry over anymore, but I do. I want you to be all right. It’s fall, November’s in two days, the dreams will start coming again. And I don’t want you to be lying next to your second wife calling Daisy’s name.”

It settled onto his shoulders, the great wrong he had done this fine woman. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Mel, I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” she said. Then she sat back, rolling her eyes “Dig me. Can you tell I’ve been going back to church? And doing some therapy?”

“Growing your soul and shrinking your head,” he said. “It’s good stuff.”

“I won’t lie and say we didn’t talk about you.”

“You’re talking about me in church?”

She kicked him under the table. “Smartass.”

He smiled. “Anyway, it’s only supposed to be about you in therapy.”

“If I’m paying, I’ll make it about whatever the fuck I want.”

He laughed, let go her fingers and reached to touch her cheek. He did like her, and it made a warm little dent in the genuine sadness which had cloaked him during the divorce proceedings.

The one drink turned into a two-hour boozy lunch. The beers loosened their tongues and hearts. They cried a little, but they also laughed a lot. And afterward, when they stumbled out onto the sidewalk and Erik hailed a cab, they were still laughing.

“Your heart is huge,” Melanie said, putting a foot into the well of the car.

“Your love is amazing,” he said, holding the door.

She put her cheek against his. “You’re good.”

“You’re adorable.”

Erik waved as the taxi pulled away, laughing when Melanie gave him the finger out the window and catching the kiss she blew before the cab turned the corner.

* * *

“It was weird,” Erik said to Miles as they ran through Corbett Park.

“How so?”

“It felt almost celebratory. We just got divorced and we were having a party.”

“Would you rather she told you to fuck off forever?”

“No,” Erik said, laughing.

“Amicable divorce is an achievement,” Miles said. “And at the end of the day, you still like each other. Which is also an achievement.”

“I know,” Erik said. “But it just seemed weird.”

“Probably because you don’t have much experience with relationships ending in a healthy way.”

They emerged from the park, turned left and headed along the canal’s bike path. The sun’s rays slanted from beneath the clouds. Leaves were collecting in crunchy piles. The air was cool and dry, the perfect temperature for running. A hint of wood smoke lingered. They reached the Main Street Bridge and headed across its span. The clouds shifted and the last of the sun threw a handful of diamonds on the green waters of the canal.

“So,” Miles said. “Will you stay in touch?”

“With Melanie? I guess. I mean, sure.”

Miles chuckled. “Your apple lies so close to your father’s tree, Fish.”

Erik stopped short. “Excuse me?”

Miles stopped too, looked calmly back with hands on hips. “I teach diction. You heard me.”

“Are you actually comparing me to my father?” Erik said.

“Yes.”

Erik glanced around, open-mouthed and stunned. “I don’t know where you get off bracketing me with that—”

“Erik, shut up. I’ll preface this by saying I love you like a son. Both Janey and I love you. But it’s clear you only know two ways to relate to people: whole-hearted, complete commitment. Or estrangement. And who did you learn from?”

Erik’s teeth clicked shut. He stared.

Miles answered his own question. “Your old man. From him you learned the only way to end a relationship is to walk out and never look back. You shut it off, shut it down, cease all contact and act like it never happened. It’s what you did with Daisy. You did to Daisy exactly what your father did to you. Not consciously. Not maliciously. But because it was the only way you knew. And you almost did it with Melanie. If Mel hadn’t orchestrated that little post-mortem after you came out of the courthouse, you would’ve said
vaya con dios
and never called her again.”

Erik was on the defense, a sharp retort formed on his tongue. Yet at the same time Miles’s words were turning a key to the gears of his mind. And the reply dissolved.

It was the only way you knew.

“Daisy hurt you,” Miles said. “And you never let her explain. Or apologize.”

“She cheated on me,” Erik said, his voice hollow and petulant.

“Oh, stop clutching your pearls. She cheated but you never dealt with it. Instead you amputated her like a diseased limb, shut your heart down and never looked back. You may think it’s closure but it isn’t. You may think the Janeys and Daisys of the world come along twice in a lifetime but they don’t. C’mon, move, my legs are going to cramp up.”

They ran down Market Street in silence, turned left and headed for the Fayette Street Bridge, crossing the canal again. Their strides ate the asphalt in rhythmic gulps. Their open-mouthed breathing matched. The charms on Erik’s necklace jingled as they bounced around his collarbones.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, as they jogged down the ramp back onto the bike path.

“It was Janey’s theory,” Miles said. “She’s the shrink.”

“You’re just the henchman.”

Still running, Miles reached into his pocket then held out his empty hand to Erik.

“What?” Erik said.

“It’s a fuck. I give it.” He laughed and punched Erik’s shoulder. “God, I love that line. One of Mel’s greatest.”

“I know,” Erik muttered. “Thanks, Miles.”

“It’s what we father figures are supposed to do. Slap you upside the head to point out the not-so-obvious.”

A babble of laughter behind them. A couple on rollerblades glided by, letting go hands to divert around Erik and Miles, then join again. Their legs planed side to side in perfect unison. Partners on the path.

Erik watched the lovers until they disappeared around a bend.

At some point you just gotta start living the truth.

In his heart Erik knew it was time. He didn’t ask why, he didn’t think it to death. He just got in his car and drove to Lancaster.

It was Monday of Thanksgiving week. The campus seemed subdued. Erik parked in the visitor lot and heeded the posted sign:
All visitors must report to the Security Office in the Wayne Administration Building.

The office was a tiny nook in the lobby of Wayne, manned by a young man with a black watch cap and a soul patch. His nametag read
Charlie.
“Help you?”

“I was a student here,” Erik said. “I was just in the area. Would it be all right if I walked around?”

“Sure,” Charlie said, scooting his chair over to a computer console. “What’s your name?”

Erik gave it and spelled it, handed over his driver’s license. Charlie tapped a few keys, made a few mouse clicks.

“What class?”

“1993, but I didn’t graduate.”

Charlie grunted, typed, and then, thankfully, he smiled. “Well, you’re right here, class of ‘93. Fill this out and I’ll print you up a badge.” He passed a form on a clipboard over the counter and Erik began filling it out. As he did, another security guard came in through a back door. He was a much older guy, silver hair and mustache, an impressive beer belly. Erik glanced at his nametag,
Stan.

“Whaddya got, Charlie,” Stan mumbled, dropping his walkie-talkie into a charger.

“Just an alumni visitor pass.”

Stan glanced over Charlie’s shoulder at the computer screen, then stooped and looked again, putting his hands on the back of Charlie’s chair. “Erik Fiskare,” he said. “I remember you.”

Erik looked up, startled. “I’m sorry?” His mind raced through a gallery of his not-so-finest collegiate moments. He couldn’t remember an offense so notorious, it would stay planted in a security guard’s memory for over a decade.

Stan straightened up, adjusting the belt holding up his considerable girth. “Well, you might not remember,” he said. “It was in Mallory Hall right after the shooting.”

“Holy shit.” Charlie swiveled around to look at Erik. “Class of ‘93. You were there?”

“I was,” Erik said to him. Then to Stan, “You were?”

“Sure was. You were in a bit of a tug-o-war. Police wanted to question you but your girlfriend was being wheeled out on a gurney. I talked you into staying.”

“Wow.” Erik blinked. He tried hard, but could only summon the general recollection of security’s presence in the theater. No faces. He recalled the agony of letting them take Daisy without him, but nobody named Stan who had acted as a voice of reason and helped him make the decision. “I don’t remember a whole lot from that day,” he said.

“Well I can’t blame you,” Stan said. “You were one scared kid. I tell you, Charlie, this poor guy was covered in blood and had a look in his eye I hadn’t seen since I was in Vietnam.”

“No kidding,” Charlie said. His tone was amused tolerance but his eyes on Erik were awed and respectful.

“A real thousand-yard stare. His whole heart was heading out in the ambulance. He wouldn’t let go of her. I told him to stay and talk to police first. Otherwise they’d only come looking for him later, wondering why he was reluctant to talk.”

Erik’s eyes drifted up and to his left, to the place of memory. “You know,” he said. “Hearing you talk right now, it starts to… I remember your voice.”

“You said all right but they still had to peel your hand out of your girl’s. Typical, right? We think we’re men and then a woman brings us to our knees.” Stan’s laugh started as a wheeze and then burst in a bubbling guffaw.

“She make it?” Charlie asked under the chortling.

Erik nodded at him. “She made it. She’s all right.” He turned back to Stan. “Talking to the police first definitely was the right choice to make. I don’t remember you steering me, but thank you.”

Stan dismissed it with a wave.

“No, really,” Erik said. “I came back today to face some ghosts, so it means a lot to find this out. Thank you.“

Stan cleared his throat. “Good to see you again, Erik,” he said, and offered a hand across the counter. “Welcome back.”

Erik shook his hand. Then took his license and the completed visitor’s badge from Charlie and shook his hand, too. He left Wayne Hall oddly touched.

In the lobby of Mallory Hall, he stood before the bronze plaque outside the auditorium doors, tracing a finger over the raised letters:

Del’Amici Memorial Auditorium

In memory of our friend and colleague

Marie Giulia Del’Amici

Professor of Dance

May 27, 1943 - April 19, 1992

He breathed in, his heart pounding. The smell in the lobby alone was an engulfing wave of nostalgia. The smell of the past. The smell of production. It was more intense than he’d imagined.

The doors to the theater were open, and music played within. Erik hesitated. He could skip the theater and head down to the shops, look for Leo. He did come to see Leo, after all.

“We’re going in,” David had said, one long-ago summer. “Fuck the fucking fuckers, this is our theater. We own this place…”

Erik glanced again at Marie’s plaque, then he walked through the auditorium doors.

Here the smell of the past was stronger. He paused by the lighting booth, dark and empty. The door was ajar, beckoning. Erik put his hand on the glass pane, as if to soothe a sorrowful dog.
Not now. It’s all right, I’ll come back.

A half-dozen girls were on the stage in practice clothes, flushed, panting, gulping water. One or two glanced back to where Erik stood. He kept his badge and his hands in plain sight, made his body language neutral.

Standing in the middle of the third row, talking to the girls, a familiar figure. Tall and broad-shouldered, a little thicker in the waist now, but exuding the same charisma and magnetism. And the voice—deep and full, rising up out of his chest and filling the theater.

“All right then, ladies. Go cool down. Thank you. If I don’t see you, enjoy your Thanksgiving.”

The girls dispersed through the wings. Erik moved further down the aisle. Kees was looking at a notebook, a pair of reading glasses on his nose, held by a chain. His bald pate shone under the lights.

Erik cleared his throat. “Keesja.”

Kees looked up like a bird, then back over his shoulder. His mouth fell open. “Holy. Shit.”

“We meet again, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Kees tossed the notebook over his shoulder and fumbled at his glasses. “Will you look what the good Lord hath brought to me?”

“The return of the prodigal son,” Erik said, his voice husky as it passed his tight throat.

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing.” Kees made his way down the row.

“Believe it.”

“You still haven’t kissed a man in your life but I can tell you’re pretty damn close right now.” Kees came up the aisle, throwing his arms out into their full, magnificent span. Erik went straight into them and was crushed in muscle and bone. Kees’s hands pummeled and patted him, he kissed Erik’s head, rocked him back and forth, crooning. “Good to see you. So good to see you.”

“Good to be seen,” Erik said.

Kees held him away. “How are you, my man? Let me look at you. No, wait, let me finish feeling you up.” He hugged Erik again.

“Keep your hands off my ass.”

“You wish.” Kees swatted said posterior anyway. “Now let me look at you. Sit down, come, sit down. Goddamn, I can’t believe it. All these years, Fish. What the hell are you doing here?”

Erik could have made up any number of things, but this supernatural weariness he could not seem to shake left him with only enough energy for the truth. “It was time,” he said.

Kees seemed satisfied, and leaned back, putting one ankle on the other knee. He was now sporting a goatee, shot through with grey. So were his eyebrows.

“So tell me, what have you been doing with yourself since you ran away?”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I call things what they are. Where did you go?”

Erik gave him the short version, a resume of Geneseo and Brockport.

“Are you married? Any little fishies of your own?”

“Just divorced. No guppies.”

“No wonder you look terrible.”

“Do I?”

“Well you’re beautiful to me but yeah, you look a little beat up, my friend.”

“I feel beat up.”

Kees clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let me buy you a beer. And a sandwich. Good Lord, you look gaunt.”

“I won’t say no.”

“Come on. Just stop by my office, let me get my coat.”

They headed up the aisle. He hadn’t intended to, but as they reached row M, Erik paused, looked down at the carpet, moving his feet around, looking for long-gone bloodstains. The carpet had been navy blue in 1992. They’d pulled all of it out and replaced it with this gold.

“Right here,” he said.

“Right here,” Kees said.

“I heard the radio piece. From the ten-year anniversary. I was touched by what you said.”

Kees’s eyebrows came together.

“You said when I came out of the booth and called James’s name, it was the most courageous thing you’d ever seen.”

“It was,” Kees said. He cleared his throat. “Stupid and insane. But courageous. And genuine. I knew you didn’t plan it. You just did it. Because of who you are. If anyone could have pulled James back from the edge, you could, Fish.”

Hands in pockets, Erik moved up the aisle toward the lighting booth. He put a foot up on the step, looked back at Kees, who nodded.

He stepped in, flicking the light.

It was a mistake.

He’d come in looking for his own memories of work, of shows and tech weeks and his stagehand friends. Instead, she was here. Hanging around, sewing her shoes. Nestled beside him while he was running a show, keeping him company. Straddling his legs the day of the shooting, burning with impatient desire.

He looked out through the glass but she was there too, on the stage. Running to Will, up on his shoulder, a bloody burst and Will jerked up fast and threw her off him…

He turned the light off and the images faded away. He ran a hand along the console table. Caressed it as he had once caressed his lover. He stepped out of the booth. “It’s all I can do.”

“It’s enough. Come on.”

They walked through the lobby and down the stairs to Kees’s office. “Is Leo here?”

“Unfortunately you’ll miss him. He already left for Thanksgiving.”

“Michael Kantz?”

“He retired two years ago.”

“So you’re head of the whole dance department now?”

“I am. And having a hell of a time wearing all these hats. Marie left a cursed pair of shoes, my friend. It’s just been a bitch finding a good fit. If it keeps up this way we may end up being entirely contemporary.”

“I really was here during the Golden Age, wasn’t I?”

“You were indeed.”

“You’re well though? Holding up?”

“Holding up.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

Kees vigorously wind-milled his arm a few times. “Happy?”

“I’d be ecstatic except it’s the wrong shoulder.”

“Well dig your steel trap,” Kees muttered, and made circles with his other arm, much more slowly and without as much range. “Hurts like a bitch on rainy days.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

“I tell you, Erik, much as I’m shocked to see you wander into my theater like a stray dog, I’m not shocked.”

“Why’s that?”

“The older I get, the more I’m convinced there are no coincidences.” Kees shuffled through papers on his desk and finally extricated a copy of
Dance Magazine.
He licked a finger and went through the pages. “Here. If you can step into the lighting booth, you should be able to look at this.”

As if it were a sword, he reversed the mag over his forearm. Erik took it carefully.

“There’s a chair behind you,” Kees said. “Or just fall onto the floor if it’s too much.”

Erik scanned the headline, “A Tree Grows in Saint John: New Brunswick Ballet Theater Debuts Full-Length Nutcracker.”

He sat down. In the chair.

After two years of only being able to produce the Act II Divertissements from the beloved ballet of the Christmas season, New Brunswick Ballet Theater is debuting its first full-length Nutcracker this year, with a thriving guest list for the party scene and an army of mice and soldiers, all under the age of twelve. Co-Artistic Directors William Kaeger and Marguerite Bianco partnered with local dance schools to cast the iconic first act, and a team of industrious set designers came up trumps with the ultimate present for their iconic battle scene: a growing Christmas tree…