City Boy (35 page)

“Oh yes. Not in dispute.”

“And the pregnancy.”

“Yeah. That’s bonus points.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When she sat here and told you how hard she wanted to work on the marriage, it was going on right then. Hot and heavy.”

“You know, I see people in crisis all the time. There seems to be an inexhaustible amount of pain in the world. It never gets less.”

Jack said, “The crisis is over. This is the postmortem. The accident reconstruction.”

Pat gave him a measuring look. She was wearing lavender today, another flowing caftan. Her hair was piled up and held in place by a silver and mother-of-pearl clip set front and center. It made her resemble something out of
Star Trek,
the queen of some alien TV planet. She said, “Perhaps you should tell me where you want to go from here. What you want to focus on.”

“Getting my wife back.”

“Have you talked with Chloe about a reconciliation?”

Jack shook his head. “We haven’t done a lot of talking.”

“That would be a good place to start.”

“Fine. Tell me what to say.”

Pat’s fingernails were painted silver today. They made her big fingers look like butter knives. Jack watched them tap against the desk’s surface. He liked feeling that he might be throwing her off stride, making her run through her repertoire of responses, cautious about him. The last time he was in this office he’d been such a girl. Pat said, “I think you should prepare for other possibilities.”

“No.”

“There isn’t any magic abracadabra here. It’s a process. And it may or may not turn out the way you want.”

“All due respect to the counseling profession, but if you can’t give me something I can use, I’d say it’s a real crock-of-shit racket.”

He was sure he’d gone too far. Pat would rise up in a billowing lavender cloud and throw him out. Not bodily. With some galactic-force ray. But she didn’t allow herself to show anger. She was, as everybody said, a pro. “All right. Here’s the deal. I can give you an assessment, based on my very limited contact with the two of you.”

“Deal.”

“Then I’m going to strongly suggest you visit a medical doctor, or a clinician who can prescribe medication. Antianxiety drugs. Not because I disapprove of your rudeness and belligerence, although I do. But because they won’t help you with Chloe.”

Jack ducked his head to acknowledge that she might have a point. Even if he had no intention of getting a prescription, dosing himself into drooling calm. He said, “I wanted to keep coming back here. Working things out. She was the one who said no.”

“That’s because of the drinking. She didn’t want to be called on it. I don’t doubt that she’s alcoholic. And just in case you’re interested, which you aren’t, there are any number of support groups and informational readings at your disposal.”

“Thanks. I think I already know the basics.”

“Maybe. Living with it doesn’t mean you completely understand it. There’s a basic dishonesty that’s a component of alcoholism. What we call denial. Alcoholics aren’t con artists because they’re evil, devious
people. It’s because they’re conning themselves. The disease affects behavior, memory, judgment. The whole package.”

“So what are you saying, it’s a symptom of alcoholism to screw your boss?”

“She’s sick. Unless she gets into recovery, there’s no happy ending.”

“This is the best you can do? Drunks tell lies? Wow. Breaking news.”

“The best I can do right now is try and talk you through—”

“Every time she opened her mouth, it was to lie. So I should go back and ask her not to? That’s brilliant. I’m in awe.”

“Jack.”

“You ever think maybe this whole talk-therapy deal is oversold? I mean, here’s you and everybody like you, sitting in cushy offices and saying all the right things, and people walk out of here with a head full of all the right words and pick up where they left off, treating each other like beasts. I’m a writer. Did we get around to telling you that? It was one of the things Chloe used to berate me for when she was drunk, being a bad writer. Well maybe I am, or was, who cares. But it was something I thought mattered. Words. Now they’re just more crap on the crap heap.”

Pat didn’t speak. The silence stretched. After a time Jack said, “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry. I’m just at the end of some kind of rope here.”

“Don’t give up on words yet, Jack. They can work for you.”

“Yeah.” He felt a fool. He should be getting used to that by now, but he wasn’t.

“Anything else you wanted to address?”

“Yes. Here’s a question for you. Are you surprised? I mean, when we walked out of your office that time, did you say to yourself, ‘Wow, these kids are really fucked’?”

Pat shook her head. Her face looked worn. Jack had a sense of what a truly crummy start her day was getting off to, thanks to him. She said, “No. But I thought you were more committed to the marriage than she was.”

He wasn’t prepared to hear it, even though he knew it was true. It shocked him, how much he could be hurt in this new, fresh place. He managed, “Why? Because of the drinking?”

“Not entirely. Because when I asked you both for a happy memory, hers was all about you doing things for her. How much you were willing to do for her. You’re still doing things for her. Everything you’re putting yourself through. It’s all for her.”

After a moment Jack said, “I apologize. I know I’ve been giving you a hard time.”

Pat smiled. “Ah, you never laid a glove on me.” But she looked weary. Jack liked her for that, for letting him see it in her.

He said, “I guess I didn’t really expect you to fix this for me. I’ve been going a little crazy. But Christ Jesus. I don’t know any other way to be in love. If it doesn’t drive you crazy, how do you know it’s love?”

Pat held up her silver fingernails to indicate she didn’t know.

J
ack called Chloe that night. He sat on his saggy bed and dialed from his recently acquired cell phone. A cell phone wasn’t a big deal, didn’t commit you to living anywhere.

Jack listened to the phone purring. Chloe answered on the fourth ring, just before the machine picked up. “Hello?”

“Guess who?” He hadn’t meant to start off like that, flippant. Nerves. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what?” He imagined her standing in the living room. The water lilies floating behind her.

“How are you feeling?”

“What do you want, Jack.”

“Come on. I want to know how you are. With the baby and all.”

Chloe didn’t say anything. Maybe she was weighing just how long she could carry on being sullen and aggrieved before some of it started coming back her way. She said, “Not terrific. Mornings aren’t good. They say it gets easier. You’re missing a lot of real quality throwing-up time.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“Next week.”

A silence. Jack said, “I want to see you.”

“What was that stunt with the clothes, huh? I turned on the light and just about jumped out of my skin. It was creepy. And stupid. I don’t like you prowling around here when I’m not home.”

“Anything else I’ve done wrong lately?”

“All right,” Chloe said. “All right.”

The silence ticked. He wasn’t going to start in apologizing, “Can we meet somewhere?”

“The last time I saw you, you were holding me hostage on a boat.”

“Canoe.”

“God.”

“Sorry.” He’d said it in spite of himself. It had an ashy taste.

As if that was what she had been waiting to hear, she agreed to meet him for coffee the next day, Saturday. “I’m just doing decaf these days. It’s another big thrill.”

When he hung up, Jack left his apartment and drove to the old neighborhood. He hadn’t intended to go there, in fact he’d decided he was behaving stupidly, dangerously, and should stay away, but of course it did not surprise him to be ignoring his own good advice. He parked down the street and walked through the alley to the yard gate, found it locked, circled back to the street where he observed the drawn curtains in the living room and bedroom. A light was on in the kitchen. He edged between the two buildings for a closer look.

He could see only a portion of the refrigerator, and the high shelf where they kept an enameled tea canister and two fancy wedding-present wineglasses, the kind you couldn’t really drink from. These were particularly strange; they were made in the shape of fish, fish reclining on their tails and gaping openmouthed. The tails were the stems, the mouths the bowls, so that drinking from one would give you the impression of kissing a fish. They’d kept them as a joke. He couldn’t remember who they were from. He remembered the living room of their old apartment, Chloe shrieking as they emerged from the bridal wrapping paper, Jack saying something about the thank-you note, and then a little later they’d made love on their knees, Chloe astride him. Or maybe that had been some other time. Things you thought you’d
never forget, playing hide-and-seek in the neon maze of your brain. He tried to remember the last time he and Chloe had made love. And he knew he could recall it but he didn’t want to visit it just yet. He couldn’t stand the thought of last, last time. As he watched, the kitchen window went dark.

H
e was meeting Chloe at three o’clock. She’d said mornings were out, you know, that morning thing. Jack couldn’t help thinking she’d chosen three because there was no possibility of turning it into a meal and lingering. It felt, weirdly, as if they were back to dating, as if he was courting her all over again. Somehow he’d lost whatever advantage her bad behavior entitled him to.

Chloe was fifteen minutes late. Maybe that was another power play on her part but he let it pass. She wore jeans and a white shirt and carried an oversized red straw shoulder bag. People in the shop took note of her. Jack watched them watch her. It was like spotting a hummingbird. You had to keep your eyes on it until it was out of sight, or you remembered not to stare at strangers.

Jack stood up when she reached the table, leaned over, and kissed her on the cheek. His own power play. She wasn’t expecting it, had to produce a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi. What would you like?”

“A decaf cappuccino.”

Jack went to the counter to order it. Bolted, really. He’d underestimated the effect seeing her would have on him. The coffee he’d drunk was roaring through his nerves like a truck on an expressway.

When he brought her coffee to the table, he said, “Here you go,” and watched her curl her fingers around the cup, warming them. She didn’t look pregnant yet, he guessed it was still too early for that. If anything, she looked a little thinner. She’d done careful work with her makeup but there were dark circles beneath her eyes and her face retained that taut, skull-like quality. He said, “Rough morning?”

“Rough night. Oh well. The wages of sin.” She shrugged.

Jack imagined himself sitting up with Chloe, massaging her neck,
massaging her feet, bringing her soda crackers and ginger ale. The old habit of pleasing her. Pat had that one nailed. But wasn’t that what a marriage meant? You did things for each other.

Pat said, “You’re still doing things for her.”

“Come on. It works both ways. It’s not the kind of thing you can quantify.”

“Quantify?”

Jack looked up at Chloe, confused. She said, “You said ‘quantify.’”

He felt stupid. He couldn’t remember saying anything. “Just mum-bling.”

Chloe nodded. Polite. Not that interested anyway. Probably bored. Jack said, “It’s good to see you.”

“I guess we had to start somewhere,” she said vaguely. She took a sip of her coffee, set the cup down again. “Hot.”

“I’m glad to see you’re watching what you eat.”

“You mean, am I drinking again.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

He didn’t answer. Maybe it had been what he meant. He didn’t know.

“You don’t believe me about anything anymore, fine, but that’s the truth.”

“Con job,” said Pat.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The caffeine rolled through him, its sloshy tides.

“Don’t say ‘nothing.’ I heard you. Con job! Is that what you think of me?”

“This is so weird.”

“Because if that’s the way—”

“No, no, I went back to see Pat, you know? Pat …” It embarrassed him not to remember her last name. “ … anyway, now it’s like I can’t stop her from talking.”

“That’s not funny either.”

He tried to say he didn’t mean to be funny. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

“What is wrong with you?”

Pat said, “No happy ending.”

“Jack, stop this.”

He slumped over the table and buried his head in his arms. This wasn’t how he’d meant things to go at all.

Noise buzzed in his ears. Coffee-shop voices. He tried not to hear them. Then Chloe was talking. She tugged at his arm. She wanted him to look at her but he couldn’t. She wanted him to stand up, walk. Well okay. He kept his eyes on his shuffling feet.

Once they were outside his head cleared a little. “Wow. That was so …” The sun made him squint. He felt the heat of the sidewalk through his shoes. “I guess I spaced out back there.”

“You think?” She sounded exasperated.

“Sorry.” He closed his eyes and waited for her to leave. The sun crept in behind his eyelids, a muddy red-orange. A space of time passed. He didn’t know how long. It was measured in sunlight.

Chloe was still there. She said, “What’s the deal with you?”

“It’s hard seeing you when I know you’re going to go away again.”

“Would you look at me?” He opened his eyes. Chloe’s face was skeptical. Her not-taking-any-shit expression. “How did you get here?”

Jack had driven, but he had just enough craftiness left in him to say, “Bus.” He didn’t want her to see his car.

“Do you want a ride? You look shot.”

“Thanks. Sure.” He felt as if he’d just awakened from anesthesia, or perhaps as if he’d been thoroughly beaten up. He followed Chloe along the sidewalk, trying not to bump into her.

“Where are you staying anyway, or is that some big secret?”

“No, it’s just … a place.”

“Glad we got that cleared up.”