The Stories of Richard Bausch (21 page)

Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings now.

…

Come on. Is his iddy-biddy feelings hurt?

Don’t do that. It tickles.

This?

Cut it out, Ellen.

I’m tickling you. It’s supposed to tickle.

Well don’t. I’m not in the mood.

All right.

And don’t be mad.

I’m
not
mad.

Sorry.

…

Whole thing’s silly….

Whatever you say, Mr. Man.

There’s no need to take an attitude

…

Ellen?

Darling, I think it’s a little late to be worrying about whether or not we’ve been okay in bed, isn’t it?

Oh, so now I was just okay.

My God!

It’s never too late to worry about a thing like that.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t mean it that way. Light me a cigarette.

What way did you mean it?

Light me a cigarette, would you?

…

Boy, this is some afterglow we’ve got here.

I can’t help it.

…

Ellen?

What?

Do you ever think of him when we’re—together like this?

Stop it, Larry.

I told you I can’t help it.

You’re being ridiculous.

…

I can’t believe you’d bring him up that way.

You do think about him, then.

This isn’t a movie, Larry.

No, I know.

…

Why’d you say this isn’t a movie—what’s that supposed to mean?

I don’t know. Forget it.

You think I’m being overly dramatic.

…

That’s natural enough, isn’t it? Under the circumstances?

You know, I really don’t want to talk about it.

Well, I’ll tell you something. I can’t get him out of my head.

You? You think about him?

Of course I do.

While we’re—when we’re—

All the time. Sure.

God.

…

Light me a cigarette, would you?

You mean you don’t think of him? He never enters your mind?

He never enters my mind. I have trouble remembering him
while he’s speaking to me.

And you don’t—compare?

Compare what?

Nothing.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Larry.

Don’t be mad.

Look, I don’t think about him. Okay?

He used to tell me things. In those first years you were married.

What things?

Forget it.

Jesus Christ, what are you talking about? What things? What things did he tell you?

Never mind about it, okay? It’s nothing.

If it’s nothing, why can’t you tell me about it?

Don’t get up.

I want a cigarette.

I’ll get you one.

…

There.

Now tell me what fucking things he talked to you about, Larry.

Well—well he’s my brother. Men talk about their sexual—about sex. You know.

You mean he would tell you what we
did?
Oh, boy! Give me an example.

Look, I’m sorry I brought it up.

No—come on now. I want to know. You tell me.

Don’t cry.

I’m not crying, goddamn you. Tell me.

He—well, he—he said you did oral things, and that you were excitable.

Excitable.

That you—you’d cry out.

Oh, Jesus God. Oh, boy. This is funny. This is classic.

…

Larry?

I know.

You’re really an asshole, you know that?

Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It was a long time ago. It was boys talking.

Well, but—now—let me see if I can get this straight. Now, I’m not living up to your fantasies, based on what Joe told you about me. Is that it?

No. Christ—you make it sound—

But you are. You’re thinking of what Joe told you, right?

I don’t know.

If that isn’t men for you.

Now don’t start on all that crap. There’s nothing to extrapolate from the fact that my brother told me a few things a long time ago.

Yeah, well maybe Joe was lying. Did that ever occur to you? Maybe I wouldn’t be here with you now if Joe was half as good as he must’ve said he was.

You mean that’s the only reason we—you and I—Boy, is this ever a fun conversation.

…

Tell me what I’m apparently lacking according to the legends you’ve heard.

Stop it, Ellen. I just wanted to be sure I was giving you as much pleasure as—hell, never mind.

No, this is interesting. You want to know if I think you’re as good. Right?

I wanted to be sure I was giving you pleasure. Is that such a terrible thing?

And there was no thought of gratifying your male ego?

Please don’t hand me that feminist shit. Not now.

Well, isn’t that it?

No, that is
not
it.

You couldn’t tell from what we just did that I was getting pleasure out of it?

Okay.

This whole thing bothers you more than it does me, right?

Well, he’s my brother, after all.

He never deigned to remind himself of that fact, why should you? Because he
is
my brother.

When was the last time he played that role with you?

This isn’t about roles or role-playing, okay? This is blood.

…

No, don’t, Ellen. Stay, please.

When was the last time he had anything to do with you, besides ordering you around and berating you for the fact that you don’t make a hundred seventy thousand dollars a year setting up contracts for corporate giants?

…

Remember when I got interested in astronomy, and he bought me the telescope and we started looking at the stars, making calculations and charting the heavenly bodies in flight? Remember that?

I guess.

I was looking through the thing one night, and it came to me that the distances between those stars, that was like the distances I felt between him and me. And it didn’t have anything to do with sex. The sex was fine, then. Back then. At least I thought it was fine.

Fine. Not nice or wonderful?

Jesus, you’re beginning to sound pathetic.

It was a joke, Ellen. Can’t you take a joke?

I wasn’t joking. I was trying to tell you something.

…

If this was a movie, I think I’d be trying to get you to kill him or something. Make it look like an accident.

Good Lord.

Why not? It happens all the time. We could play Hamlet.

…

The classic love triangle.

Stop this.

Hey, Larry. It’s just talk, right? I’m babbling on because I’m so happy.

Why’d you marry him, anyway?

I loved him.

You
thought
you loved him.

No, goddamn you—I
did
love him.

Okay, I’m sorry.

…

Can you forgive me?

I don’t know what kind of person you think I am.

It’s just that all this is so strange for me. And I can’t keep from thinking about him.

You mean you can’t stop thinking about what he told you about me in bed.

I wish I hadn’t mentioned that. I’m not talking about that now. That isn’t all we talked about.

You told him about all your adventures with Janice.

Stop it, Ellen.

Well, tell me. Give me an example of whatever
else
you talked about.

I don’t know. When I was in Texas that time, and he came through on one of his trips. You and he had been married the year before, I think. He was so—glad. He told me stuff you guys were doing together. Places you went. He even had pictures. You looked so happy in the pictures.

I
was
happy.

…

We’ve been married ten years. What do you think? It’s all been torture?

…

Jesus, Larry.

Well, I feel bad for him.

He’s happy. He’s got his work. His travels, his pals. His life is organized about the way he likes it. You know what he said to me on our last anniversary? He said he wasn’t sure he was as heterosexual as other men. Imagine that.

What the hell was he talking about?

He doesn’t feel drawn to me that way. He hasn’t touched me in months, okay? Do you want me to be as graphic about all this as he was back when we were twenty-five years old and I believed that what happened between us was private?

No, don’t—come on. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.

I’m not crying.

…

Anyway, this doesn’t really have anything to do with him.

I wish we could stop talking about him.

You’re the one who brought him up, Larry.

Don’t be mad. Come on, please.

Well, for Christ’s sake, can’t you just enjoy something for what it is, without tearing it all to pieces? You know what you are? You’re morbid.

I’m scared.

I am. I’m scared.

Scared of what? Joe? He’s in another time zone, remember? He won’t be home for another week.

I think I’m scared of you.

…

It’s like I’m on the outside of you some way. Like there’s walls I can’t see through. I don’t know what effect I have on you. Or if I really mean anything to you.

Do you want me to simper and tell you how I can’t live without you?

…

Well?

I don’t know what I want. It’s like you’re a drug, and I can’t get enough of you. But I get the feeling sometimes—I can’t express it exactly—like—well, like you could do without me very easily.

…

I do. I get that feeling.

Poor Larry.

I can’t help it.

And now you expect me to reassure you about that, too.

There’s nothing wrong with saying you love someone.

And that’s what you want?

Never mind.

No, really. We started with you worrying about whether or not you were as sexy as Joe—or whether or not I found you as sexy as Joe.

Let’s just forget it, okay?

Are you afraid of what my answer might be?

I thought you
had
answered it.

…

Look, why did you want to get involved in the first place?

I think it just happened, didn’t it, Larry?

…

Didn’t it?

That’s the way it felt. Then why question it now?

You said you looked through the telescope and saw the distances between the stars-

Are we going to talk about this all night?

Well, why haven’t you divorced him?

I might. Someday I might.

But why not now?

Do you want me to?

Do you want to?

Where would I go?

You could come to me.

I’m here now.

But we could get married, Ellen.

Oh, please. Can we change the subject? Can we talk about all this later? Surely you can see that this is not the time.

You don’t believe me?

…

It would be terrible to leave Janice and the boys. But I think I would. If I could have you. I really think I would.

You do. You
think
you would.

…

Well, would you or wouldn’t you?

I said I think I would.

You’re hilarious. Truly a stitch, you know it?

I believe that I would.

Ah, an article of faith.

There’s no reason to be sarcastic, Ellen.

I know, Larry, let’s talk about the stars, crossing through the blackness of space. Let’s talk about the moons of Jupiter and Mars.

You’re being sarcastic.

I’m simply trying to change the subject.

Okay, we’ll change the subject.

…

If that’s what you want. We’ll just change it.

It’s what I want.

…

Well?

I’m thinking. Jesus, you don’t give a man a chance.

Terrific.

Just wait a minute, can’t you? Ellen?

…

I’m listening.

Did you ever think you’d end up here?

I don’t think I’m going to
end up
here, particularly. You make it sound awful.

You know how I mean it.

All right, darling, let’s just say that from where I started, I would never have predicted it. You’re right about that.

I feel the same way.

Now if you don’t mind, sir, can we sleep a little?

I’m sorry.

And stop apologizing. I swear you’re the most apologetic man I know. Do you know how many times a day you say you’re sorry about something?

You’re right, sweetie, I’m sor—Jesus. Listen to me.

…

I’ve been so miserable, Ellen.

Oh, Christ.

Okay, I won’t talk about it anymore.

Is that a promise?

I promise, sweetie, really.

Thanks.

…

I think I should go soon.

I guess so.

…

Sweetie?

What, Larry.

Do you love me?

…

I just need to hear it once.

…

Honey?

…

Aren’t you going to?

Ellen?

…

Sweetie, please.

…

Ellen?

The calm early
summer afternoon that “in the flash of a moment would be shattered by gunfire”—the newspaper writer expressed it this way—had been unremarkable for the Blakelys: like the other “returning commuters” (the newspaper writer again) they were sitting in traffic, in the heat, with jazz playing on the radio, saying little to each other, staring out. Exactly as it usually was on the ride home from work. Neither of them felt any particular need to speak. The music played, and they did not quite hear it. Both were tired, both had been through an arduous day’s work—Michael was an office clerk in the university’s admissions office, and Ivy was a receptionist in the office of the dean of arts and sciences.