How to Talk to a Widower (14 page)

We stare across the table at each other, and I can see the naked hatred like a caged animal pacing frantically behind his eyes. I lived for two years with the woman he loved and the child he fathered, in the house he paid for. He traded his family for sex, and then traded that sex in for another family that I sometimes suspect he doesn't like very much, and while Hailey was still alive Jim was arrogant enough to believe that the only thing that kept him from taking back his first, better life was the man that had somehow supplanted him there. This isn't a guess on my part; I know it from the long, drunken messages he would occasionally leave on our answering machine in the middle of the night, crying to Hailey, begging her to call him.

“I'm not judging you, Jim.”

“The hell you're not.”

“This isn't about you and me,” I say. “I'm just thinking about what's best for Russ.”

Jim looks at me for a long moment. “You think it's so easy, why don't you keep him?”

“What?”

Jim shrugs. “He can live with you. Problem solved.”

“He's not my kid.”

“He may as well be.” He sits back and finishes off his beer, instantly refilling it from the pitcher. “What do you think Hailey would want?”

“That's not the point.”

“Isn't it?”

“I'm not in the equation. Like you said, I'm just part of the debris.”

“And like you said, we're talking about what's best for Russ here,” Jim says with a smug grin. “I guess we're both just babbling brooks of bullshit, aren't we?”

“He's your son, for Christ's sake! You can't just give him away.”

Jim leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and flexing his biceps for the ladies. “Angie is unhappy, and Russ is unhappy,” he says. “It's my job to make them both happy, and the way I see it, there's only one way to do that, and the answer is you. And I know I'll just be confirming everyone's notion of what a shitty father I am, but in the end, doing what's right for your son is more important than looking good, right?”

“So you're saying giving up your son is the noble thing to do?”

“I'm not giving him up. I'm giving him his freedom.”

I look at Jim, sweating through his polo shirt, so certain he's got the upper hand, and I think about Hailey, about how big her eyes would get when she talked to me about Russ, about how hard she was on herself about being a good mother. And I think about Russ crying into the unyielding granite of Hailey's grave, and lying in the humid dankness of Jim's basement listening to him and Angie fuck. And I think about how alone I am, how the desolation is like a cancer spreading through my gut, and I hear Claire's voice in my head, but I'm pretty sure that it's my own voice coming out of my mouth, saying, “Yes.”

“What do you mean, yes?”

Just say yes.

“I mean okay. He can stay with me. I'll take him.”

And if Jim is surprised, he doesn't let on. He just says, “Okay,” and reaches across the table to shake my hand, like he's just sold me a car, and for reasons that elude me, I shake his back, smiling like an idiot. “He can come down to Boca to see us on holidays,” he says.

“He'll be thrilled to hear it.”

“Great,” Jim says, getting to his feet. “He'll live with us until January, when we move. Maybe, once he knows he's not being forced to come, he'll be able to calm down and enjoy himself, get to know Angie and his brother a little bit better.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Okay,” Jim says, reaching down to pat my shoulder. “Good talk.” And then he's gone, weaving his way through the crowd to rush home and tell Angie the good news, no doubt figuring it will get him some extra loving tonight.

I sit there for a long time after he leaves, staring into space, oblivious to the crowd around me, running my tongue over the smooth lip of my beer mug. They're playing an old Billy Joel song on the jukebox, and I'm fifteen again, and I've just crashed a stolen Mercedes. My tongue is cut and I can taste the blood in my throat, my head is spinning as I watch the cops running in slow motion toward me, and I'm wondering, as I so often do, how I manage to get myself into these messes?

21

LONG AFTER THE COMING ICE AGE HAS BURIED
this civilization, when archaeologists dig up downtown New Radford, the first thing their shovels will hit is the giant fiberglass Starbucks coffee cup suspended over the strip mall on Broadway like a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. It's far and away the highest structure on the street, second in height only to the clock tower above the elementary school two miles away. Studying the way the town spreads out in concentric circles from Broadway, they might deduce that Starbucks was our temple, and coffee our God. And, much like God, I don't believe in coffee. I don't care how they flavor it, steam it, caramelize it, whip cream it, or foam it, it will still score your stomach lining like acid, ruin your breath, and strip the coating on your nerves, leaving them raw and exposed. Studies have not yet shown that Starbucks causes cancer, but the lawsuits are coming. I'm sure of it.

The problem with New Radford's downtown is that there's just not very much of it. Because of the municipality's maniacal determination to preserve the rustic feel of the town, the nearest true business district is three and a half miles down, where Broadway becomes South Broadway and New Radford becomes just plain old Radford. But where Broadway runs through New Radford, there's just the one block of stores: Antonelli's Pizza, CVS, a few surprisingly mediocre restaurants, a mom-and-pop stationery store, the adjacent offices of the town's two competing real estate brokers, the Riviera Hair Salon, the Pink Petals Nail Salon, Mom's Homemade Ice Cream Shoppe, and, of course, Starbucks. Around the corner, on Roaring Creek Road, is the Super Stop and Shop and Blockbuster Video. A handful of investors tried to buy a piece of the Stop and Shop parking lot to put up an arcade, but the zoning board shot them down, just like they stopped Ikea, Bed Bath & Beyond, and the expansion of a local synagogue. Like all fairly affluent suburbs, preservation is the priority, not growth.

Consequently, it's next to impossible to venture into downtown New Radford without running into someone you know. Because one way or another you'll have to pass Starbucks, and there's always someone you know coming in or out of Starbucks. I never really thought about it until Hailey died, at which point simple trips to buy soap and razors turned into a grueling obstacle course of pity and gross fascination, friends and neighbors all eager to squeeze my arm, or hug me and ask me how I'm doing, or slowing down in their cars to point me out, rubbernecking in the parking lot like I was a disabled tractor trailer pulled over to the shoulder of the highway.

But it's morning and Claire wants her Venti Nonfat Mocha Latte or whatever, so in we go. We've missed the work crowd and now the place is filled with women, coming from the gym, headed to the gym, young mothers sitting in groups, mommy-thongs rising up over their low-rise jeans and designer sweatpants as they bend over their toddlers. I nod awkward hellos to a number of people I know tangentially, who all smile and nod and they're probably averting their gazes almost immediately, although I can't be sure since I've already averted mine.

“I don't belong here,” I mutter through clenched teeth to Claire. “I don't even drink coffee.”

“Like a vegetarian at a steakhouse,” she says.

“Like an atheist in church.”

“Good one,” she says approvingly. “Much better subtext.”

“Thanks.”

And here comes Mandy Seaver, one of New Radford's many housewives turned real estate brokers, a pleasant-faced, chubby woman who served on the PTA with Hailey, and used to bring me lasagna, garden salad, and inhumanly large wedges of her Harvey Wallbanger cake on Thursdays. Mandy, who would confide tearfully to Hailey that her husband had stopped touching her ever since her C-section, and who cried so loudly and consistently at the funeral you would have thought it was her wife they were burying. “Doug!” she yells across the shop, creating a small commotion as she charges noisily across the tiled floor. She grabs both of my elbows and then realizes that there's just not much to do with someone's elbows once you've gotten ahold of them, so she lets them go, her hands falling awkwardly to her sides. “It's so nice to see you out and about.”

“Hi, Mandy.”

“You look good,” she says, her eyes crinkling up with concern.

“He looks like shit,” Claire says, turning to the counter to order what sounds like six drinks but turns out to just be a coffee. Mandy frowns at Claire, looking her up and down, worriedly speculating on the nature of our relationship. I sometimes forget how Claire looks to other women, stunning and too aggressively sexy for the suburbs.

“Don't worry,” Claire says. “If I wasn't his sister, I'd be out of his league.”

“Oh,” Mandy says, and, in spite of myself, I'm annoyed by the expression of relief that briefly crosses her face. “I can see the resemblance.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Claire, Mandy; Mandy, Claire,” I say.

“Nice to meet you,” Mandy says, shaking Claire's hand. “Do you live in the area?”

“Greenwich,” Claire says. “Just visiting for a little while, to get Doug's ass in gear.”

“That's nice.”

“Okay,” I say, trying to nudge Claire away. “That's enough.”

“I mean, it's been a year already,” Claire says, easily sidestepping me.

“Has it been that long?” Mandy says, surprised. “My God. It feels like so much less than that. I still have Hailey on my speed dial.” And then, out of nowhere, her eyes are brimming with tears. It always strikes me as bad form to exhibit more grief than the bereaved, like showing off your new Lexus to a guy who drives a Ferrari. You think that's horsepower? You don't know shit about horsepower.

“Anyway,” Claire says disapprovingly, turning on Mandy. “It's been a bit longer, actually. And I think it's high time Doug got back out there. Don't you agree, Mandy?” Claire is one of the only people I know who can bully you into liking her.

“I suppose, if he feels ready,” Mandy says hesitantly, terrified of Claire.

“Claire's ready,” I say wryly.

“He's not even thirty,” Claire says. “What's he supposed to do, spend the best years of his life alone?”

“Of course not,” Mandy says.

“I'm sure you know that it's been well documented that happily married people are quicker to remarry.”

“I've heard that,” Mandy says, nodding like a dashboard bobble-head.

“So, Mandy,” Claire says, bringing it home. “You know any single women in these parts?”

Mandy grins widely, happily vanquished. “I'm a realtor. I've shown the houses of every divorced woman in town.”

“Mandy,” Claire says with a smile, looping her arm through Mandy's elbow. “We are going to get along famously.”

And that's when Mike arrives, panting slightly as he comes through the door. “Hey, Doug,” he says, coming right up to me and shaking my hand. “Sorry I'm late. I had to file a brief first thing in the morning.”

“Late for what?” I say, taking an extra beat to figure it out. I turn to Claire, who winks at me. “Just say yes,” she says, flashing her brightest smile.

“Wait a minute,” Mike says. “She told me you wanted to meet me here.”

“She lied. She does that.”

“It's true,” Claire says with a happy grin, leading Mandy to a vacant table. “I do.”

Mike nods, looking uncomfortable. “Well, as long as we're both here, can we at least have a cup of coffee?”

“I don't drink coffee.”

“Jesus, Doug,” he says, shaking his head forlornly. “There are only so many times I can apologize before the words just lose their meaning.”

I exhale slowly and nod my head. “Water's fine.”

Mike smiles, not triumphant, just glad, quickly looking away before the moment turns awkward, and I feel a surge of tenderness toward him.

Marrying Hailey and moving out to New Radford had meant becoming friendly with a different sort of man than my younger, drunker, wilder single friends back in Manhattan. The men I met in Hailey's circle were all husbands and fathers either on the cusp or already descending into the tide pool of middle age. These men were all adrift in an alien landscape of mortgages and second mortgages, marriages and second marriages, children, child support, affairs, alimony, tuition, tutors, and an endless barrage of social functions. And all of their living had to be squeezed into those few hours on the weekends that they weren't working their asses off to pay for the whole mess. I'd always assumed that the people who lived in those fancy houses in the suburbs were financially better off than I was, and only once I'd joined them did I come to understand that it's all just a much more sophisticated and elaborate way of being broke. There's the jumbo mortgage, the home equity loan to renovate the kitchen and bathrooms, the two or three monthly luxury car payments; before you know it, you've spent a hundred grand of post-tax income before you've put the first piece of bread on your table. Curse of the middle class, my ass. They do it to themselves, all because they've got this Hollywood Christmas movie notion of what their life is supposed to look like. It's a tenuous existence built precariously on a foundation of colossal debt, and one miscalculation, one meager bonus or bad investment or unforeseen expense, can bring the whole thing crashing to the ground. In time, I came to understand that the idyllic streets of New Radford were to a large extent an illusion, and, charged with the responsibility of maintaining this illusion, it was understandable that even the most well-preserved men would start to show some stress fractures. And so they lost their hair and gained some weight and their complexions grew pallid, their eyelids heavier, their wit sour. And while some of them were smart, worldly, and even surprisingly likable, men with whom you could spend an evening knocking back a few more than you should and setting the world to right, they still scared the shit out of me, because now that I was theoretically one of them, albeit a bastard version, it seemed that all that was left was for me to become like them. I didn't want to get fat and bald and start indebting myself in the name of German cars and radiant heating under hardwood floors. And the greatest evidence of my love for Hailey is the fact that I didn't pack it in and bolt for the safety and comfort of my old life and young friends back in the city.

Instead I joined the gym and started playing racquetball with Mike Sandleman, who I met at a bar mitzvah of all places. He was only a few years older than me, in good shape, and actually understood when I was being ironic. We got drunk at the open bar and then made fun of all the fat old men doing the Electric Slide. He was a lawyer, but he had a sloppy, irresponsible streak that made me feel at home, and because he was single he could ogle the younger women and flirt with the waitresses without seeming lecherous. Hanging out with him, I felt my own age, which it had never occurred to me could be an important factor in a friendship, but there it was. So while I still socialized with the husbands of Hailey's many friends, somehow finding the fun between talk of the stock market and mind-numbing descriptions of the world's best Scotches, golf courses, and tropical resorts, when it came to seeing all the sci-fi and action movies that Hailey didn't want to see, or getting drunk and talking about all that existential shit that matters when you're drunk, Mike was my guy. And when Hailey died, it was Mike who came right over to sit with me and Claire and help deal with the airline and the funeral arrangements, and to run interference for me with everyone else who showed up afterwards. He'd proven himself to be a good and loyal friend, and under normal circumstances I'd have been thrilled to welcome him to the family.

But circumstances have not been normal for some time now. Circumstances have, in point of fact, been fucked-up beyond all recognition. Still, it occurs to me that there's probably more to getting back out there than watching Claire hunt down random single women that I will never date, and this is one area where just saying yes won't seem like a betrayal of Hailey. And maybe at some future point in time, I'll feel like having a friend to go to the movies with again, instead of going alone, like I do now. Of course, by then Mike will be married and Debbie will have him instantly whipped and won't let him go. But we could in theory.

So we sit down and Mike drinks his coffee—skim milk, decaf, like that makes a bit of difference—and I sip at my two-and-a-half-dollar bottle of water. The reason men almost never hold long-term grudges against each other is that we're so damn bad at making up. We don't offer heartfelt apologies, and then hug each other tightly the way women do, laughing and crying into each other's hair until the last remnants of hostility and resentment are gone. We just sit around, nodding inelegantly without making eye contact, shrugging and saying things like “Forget about it” or “Let's just call it even” or other meaningless clichés that save us from actually having to speak directly to each other about hurt feelings and anger. In most cases, we'd just as soon find a new friend as submit to the awkward process of reclaiming an existing one. But in this case, Mike's going to be family, and all the dinners and holidays headed our way leave us no choice. At least we're united in wanting the conversation to be over before it begins, so while it never gets quite comfortable, it doesn't take very long, and ten minutes later, I've agreed, against all my better instincts, to be one of his groomsmen. There will be a tuxedo fitting followed by a bachelor party in a few days. His younger brother Max will call me with all the details.