Stranger, Father, Beloved (20 page)

“Naw, man. Don't worry about it, seriously,” John said. “You did what you could. Steve is a real bastard, but he is strong. He's bullheaded too. It's hard to stop him from doing anything.”

“Does your nose hurt?”

“No, not really. God, it feels good to be fucked up, to be a fucking mess like this, doesn't it? I am so tired of having my shit together all the time and pretending to be just fine. I am so tired of pretending to forgive my wife for leaving me, for gypping me out of a great life, and for not giving me children. She wouldn't know how to be a wife if her life depended on it—it's like she was missing that gene. My parents never liked her. My mom warned me not to marry her, and in the end she was right. My mom said, ‘That woman is cold as ice,' and she was right! Why didn't I listen to her?”

“You didn't know, you just didn't know,” Michael said, his head spinning and his fingers curled around the cool bottle. Remembering it, he lifted it to his lips and took a swig. A few drops splashed onto his collar.

“Are we both crying?” John asked as he looked at Michael. John's eyes were watery. “Maybe we are homos. Filthy homos, like Steve said.” That set them off laughing. Michael kept turning to study John's face as they laughed, looking for something, waiting for some other comment. He suddenly wished he weren't so drunk—he could barely move. In this moment, the only people who existed were John and
­himself. He had no responsibilities, other than to be here with John and enjoy his company. Michael suddenly felt he was a young man, as was John, ageless, two young men getting drunk with no one to answer to. In this moment, nothing was defined yet, no big decisions had been made as to what the course of life would look like. Michael laughed until his guts started to cramp. He felt himself sliding off into unconsciousness and then bursting back. They continued taking drinks from the bottle, and eventually both passed out in their seats.

They slept the night in the car seats, passed out drunk. In the morning, Michael woke up with sweat on his forehead. He could feel the alcohol still oozing through his veins. It was sickeningly hot in the world both inside and outside the car, though the world inside the car was plagued with stagnancy, while outside squirrels were running around from tree to tree and life was bursting with verdancy.

“Fuck, man, oh shit,” John mumbled as he groaned back to life. Whenever John spoke in this vulgar way it both disappointed and thrilled Michael. He wanted the softness of his friend's personality back, although the softness did bore him. Michael went off into the trees to pee, and, while he was walking back to the car, hunger ripped at his guts. He asked John if there were any fast-food joints nearby. He didn't want to have to get out of the car to go into a restaurant. They drove to one and ate the greasy food in silence. Every once in a while John would exclaim an obscenity and bring his hand wearily to his forehead.

Michael thought about the fact that John had been mesmerized by the young girl at the bar. It was unlikely that he found Nancy attractive if he was preoccupied with superficial charms. He also remembered, with horror, his own conduct at the bar, how he had let Steve
knock him into the bar stools, how he had not done more to stop him. Shame gripped his heart, and he regretted that he had not dived into the action more. He felt he lacked normal impulses and secretly suspected he was a coward.

When Michael said good-bye and got into his own car, they chatted while he started the engine. Both of them were unsure how to part or how to comment on the previous evening. Michael was beginning to feel nauseated from the food, the alcohol, and the prospect of going home. Yet he knew he must go home.

Before he left, a thought struck him, and he turned to John, who was standing beside the car window.

“Want to come by tonight for dinner with us?”

“Sure. Should I bring anything?” John said it with ease, as if he were already part of the family, and relief spread through Michael, calming his nerves and stormy bowels. This wasn't really a parting—there would be dinner later. No need for panic. His friend was coming back.

When Michael arrived back home, no one was there. Nancy had taken Max somewhere for a Sunday outing—her car was gone—and Ryan was out as usual. Maybe Nancy had left him or had at least stormed out, her patience with him worn thin at last. Michael showered and kept turning off the water to listen for the sound of car doors slamming, but he heard nothing. After he had finished showering and put on fresh clothes, he went to his study and sat down at his desk but could not sit still. Had Nancy driven to her mother's house? It was possible. Michael went down to the basement and shot some pool. He could not fully relax, as someone might burst into the house at any moment. He went up to Max's room and lay down on his bed,
instantly recognizing his son's distinct smell on the comforter. Each of his children had a particular smell that hadn't changed much over time. He wanted this to be his room. He wanted to be a little boy and not have a damn thing to worry about other than sleeping, getting up, being fed, and playing in the yard. This tranquil room should have been his room, and he would lie in it now and pretend that it was.

Michael slept deeply, and when he awoke, it was dark out and Max's tiny lamp with the swirling seahorses was on, glowing blue and pink in the corner of the room. Nancy must have turned it on when she came home and found him there. He could picture Max whispering “Daddy's asleep in my room” and Nancy saying “Shhh” as she held her finger to her lips, gently turned on the lamp, and left him in there. He thought, what a foolish thing for her to do. That he had been caught in such a childish and vulnerable position and had been treated, accordingly,
as a child
, angered him. The lamp with its swirling colors continued its idiotic rotation as Michael flipped on the harsh light of the overhead to drown it out. Why could Nancy never get mad at him?

When Michael came downstairs, Nancy was standing at the kitchen counter, her back to him, chopping something. Max was sprawled out coloring in the other room.

Nancy turned around when he walked in and said nothing. He saw in her eyes sadness but no anger.

“We went to a movie at the mall,” she said.

“Last night—”

“I don't want to know.” Her voice was firm, firmer than Michael was used to.

“I was just out with John.”

She wiped her forehead with her left hand and leaned against the counter. “It's obvious I have no control over anybody anymore,
whether they come or go. You, Ryan. You could have called me. Nobody seems to respect me enough to place a simple phone call.”

Michael studied her. She had aged visibly over the years and wore a lot of weight around her middle. Her arms had never been slender, but they had lost what little definition they once had. Her face, too, had lost most of its angularity and it saddened Michael to realize it was all his fault. Her body was losing its form for him, and the daily disappointments were crowding over her skin, stretching everything out. Grotesquely, he was going through the opposite process and seemed to be hollowing out, losing weight and becoming more angular as the years went by. It was as if each body, repulsed by the other, had made a decision to change in an opposite way—she expanded while he contracted. Michael felt more and more like a pencil or a razor blade, while Nancy's extra weight seemed to swim around her, unsure of what it was supposed to be doing.

“Max had an asthma attack this morning. He saw me crying and it triggered his anxiety, and then he had an attack—one of his worst ones in years. It might have been a red-zone attack.” She rubbed her forehead. “I don't know, maybe it was yellow, he had to lie down after it. Then when he got up, I took him to the movies because I didn't know what else to do with him. I think it might have had something to do with the fact that two of his favorite family members are never here.”

“Oh Jesus, Nancy. I'm sorry.”

“I hate it when you say ‘Jesus' like that.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Now? Nothing. I needed you before.”

“I feel terrible.”

She raised her eyebrows over an otherwise deadpan face. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

“Where is Ryan?”

Nancy slammed her hand down on the counter. “I don't know,” she said, her voice hoarse. She grabbed a bottle of wine and went outside. Michael followed and found her sitting in a wicker chair. He and Nancy sat on the patio, not speaking, drinking wine. Nancy had a resigned look on her face, a sternness that scared Michael.

“Well, I've got some news,” Michael started. “I have a trip planned for all of us. I've got it all arranged. Should I tell you or keep it a surprise? What the hell, I'll tell you. I've scheduled us to go on a wilderness retreat. You will love me for this—it's with a Christian retreat center. John told me about it, he used to go there with his wife. It's in the mountains, and there's hiking and cabins. Max will love it because there are kids' activities—other kids will be there. Ryan may not love it, in fact, I know she won't, but she'll deal with it.
You
will love it—I thought of you when I was there.”

“That does sound nice. I don't know why you don't think to ask me before you just go ahead and do things. What I could really use is a massage. This place doesn't have that, does it?”

Michael wrinkled his brow. Nancy was starting to sound like the local Peninsula women. She was acting uppity—he had never seen this side of her. He didn't know what to think of it.

“No, this place is a spiritual center. If you want that, you should head down to the day spa. I have always encouraged you to pamper yourself—why don't you just go and do it instead of talking about it?”

“I was partly kidding.”

“No, you deserve it. I'll call them myself for you, give you the works. How about today?”

“Michael, I was kidding. We don't need to spend all that money. I can just soak in a hot tub upstairs.”

“No, why do I make all this money,” his voice coiled low in his throat, “if we're not going to spend it on things like this? I mean, isn't this why people have money, so they can treat themselves? Why do you act like we live during the depression or back in Castleton,
West Virginia
?”

“Don't talk to me in that maniacal way of yours.”

“I am just saying you don't need to make everything into such a big deal—get your freakin' back rubbed by some Korean lady who needs the money—what the hell do I care?”

“How do you know it will be with a Korean person?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake.”

“Why are you getting so worked up over this? I just mentioned I needed a massage, and I wasn't even being serious. It's like I'm talking to a crazy person sometimes—” She stopped herself in midsentence and covered her mouth with her hand. “I didn't mean that.”

“You shouldn't blame anyone but yourself, you knew what you were getting yourself into when you married me. I didn't hide a thing.”

“I know. I'm sorry, I never should have said that.” She went to him and put a hand on his arm, a gesture that only made him angrier.

“Stop pitying me. God, your whole life is so depressing, taking care of messed-up people—me, Max—between the two of us, I don't know how you have the will to live. I know you think of yourself as a modern-day Mother Teresa, but martyrdom is not all it's cracked up to be. Get a day job.”

“Calm down, it's all right. I'm sorry I got you all worked up. I just wish you would consult with me about things first so they don't come out of left field.”

“I can't even stand the sight of you.” Michael said it and waited for the anger to appear in her eyes. Nancy said nothing for a moment,
and a look of defeat, one he knew well, registered in the features of her face.

“I know. I can't stand the sight of me either, so we have something in common.” She smiled as she said it, and he laughed and softened. Michael looked into the living room, overcome with the desire to pound a glass of cold vodka on ice. The urge left as quickly as it came.

“Let's go upstairs. I want to . . . fuck you,” Michael said and pulled her to him. He was going to give her what she wanted because he could not bear her expectancy for it for another second.

“Really? Now?”

“No, next month. Yes, now.” Excitement lit up her sad brown eyes. They scampered upstairs, and Michael pretended to ignore the two minutes when Nancy was in the bathroom “freshening up.”

She came out of the bathroom, a devilish smile on her lips, pulled up her shirt, and quickly stripped down to nakedness.

Her confidence aroused Michael, and he kissed her and planted himself into her, as they gazed with wicked pleasure into each other's eyes. He then turned her over and continued, feeling lightheaded and wild, and then yelled out when he came and collapsed next to her, giggling.

“Turn over,” Michael instructed her.

“No, you don't have to, I enjoyed it. It's fine.”

“Goddammit, Nancy, will you let me make you come? For heaven's sake, get over it. I don't care how long it takes.”

He worked on her body until she finally began to shake and clutch at the sheets. She looked up at the ceiling, embarrassed, while he, proud, scooted up off the bed and trotted into the bathroom to take a shower. He could still successfully screw someone, despite all his problems, and he was happy to know that. He was still a man, for Christ's sake. He would never understand why she became so
ashamed after having an orgasm and didn't try to. It could all be easy as pie if he just kept it light and simple. He could do this. He could do it. Light and simple was the name of the game.

When John knocked on the door around six thirty, Michael yelled for him to come in and John did so, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He brought them in for Nancy, a carnation mix, and Michael smiled to himself at the tacky choice in flowers. Such were the choices Nancy would have made when they first married. It was endearing now to see it play out again.