Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories (4 page)

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I won’t answer that,” she said.

“How many?”

“I guess I should pack some stuff,” she said.

The phone rang while I was watching television. It was the news. Bill O’Reilly on Fox.

“Hello,” the woman's voice said. “I called the other day. From San Diego.”

“Andrea Redman?”

“Yes,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Your husband met my wife at a bar,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “He told me. He said they didn’t sleep together.”

“No,” I said, “Lisa only gave him a blowjob.”

“What?”

“You know what a blowjob is?”

“I
know
what it is,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

“That's what my wife told me,” I said. “She's gone now.”

“With Barry?”

“They hardly know each other,” I said, “I doubt they have anything romantic going on,” I said.

Silence.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Andrea Redman said. “He's done this before. I’d hoped it stopped.”

“Ask him what it was like,” I said.

“What?”

“What it was like,” I said, “getting his dick blown by my wife.”

She hung up.

Lisa called me from a hotel room. “What should we do?” she asked.

“What will
you
do?”

“I’m not sure what to do,” she said. “Do you want a divorce?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I love you,” she said, “no matter what.”

“I want to know how many?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Six,” she said, “I think. But they didn’t mean anything.”

I hung up.

Andrea Redman called in the afternoon.

“I thought you might call,” I said.

“I’m in L.A.,” she said.

“Why are you in L.A.?”

“It's only a two hour drive up,” she said. “I was hoping—I was hoping maybe you’d meet me.”

“Okay,” I said.

She arrived forty minutes later. I watched for her. She drove a small station wagon. She was tall and slim, with short blonde hair and a thin face, too gaunt. Maybe it was the glasses she wore. She rang the door bell and I answered.

“Andrea Redman, I presume.”

“Hello.”

“Did you find my house okay?”

“I got lost once, but I’m here.”

I offered her some coffee. She said that’d be nice. I got us both a cup of coffee and we sat in the living room. The television was on, sound off. We sat there quietly, sipping coffee.

“Well,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. I was rehearsing all kinds of things in my head on the way down here. My mind is blank now.”

“Relax.”

“I
am
relaxed. I just can’t
think
. I don’t know why I’m here. I got into my car and started to drive. I thought you had some answers. I don’t know what the questions are. I woke up this morning and my husband was gone. I don’t know where he is.”

She added, “I wasn’t surprised.”

“I don’t think he's in L.A,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“But you are,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

I looked out the window.

“Listen,” I said. “It's starting to get dark out. You want to go to a bar, or something?”

“Sure,” Andrea Redman said. “Or something.”

We took her car. We went to a little bar I like, one Lisa and I used to go to. We’d been here last week. Andrea and I sat at the counter. “What would you like?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Whatever you’re having,” she said.

I ordered two tequila tonics.

“Strong,” she said.

I drank mine fast, and ordered another.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” she said. “Barry likes to drink.”

“Lisa likes to drink,” I said. “I do too.”

“I should take up drinking more.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

We sat there.

“Do we have anything to talk about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It's not
you,”
she said, taking her glasses off and putting them back on. “It's this bar. I never feel comfortable in dark bars,” she said.

We left the bar and picked up a six-pack of beer from the liquor store. I told her where to drive, near Santa Monica. I told her where to park.

“It's peaceful here,” I said, opening two beers.

“I like the sound of the waves,” Andrea Redman said. “We don’t live near the beach. I always wanted to live by the beach,” she said, drinking beer. “This is good beer. I usually don’t drink beer. If I drink at all, it's wine. Not a lot of wine, a glass, two at the most,” she said.

“When I drink wine,” I said, “my eyes itch like crazy the next morning.”

“I keep trying to picture them together,” she said. “But I can’t. I don’t know what your wife looks like.”

“I have a photo,” I said, taking out my wallet.

“I do too.” She opened her purse. “Barry.”

We exchanged photos.

“Oh,” she said, giving my wallet back. “I still can’t see them together. Can you?”

“I don’t know.”

“He swore they didn’t make love.”

“He just got his cock sucked.”

“If he wanted that, why didn’t he ask me?” She drank her beer. “I give him that when he wants it.” She drank her beer and looked at me. “Would you like me to show you? Would you like me to suck you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “take it out.”

I unzipped my pants.

Andrea finished her beer. She looked at me holding it. She bent down. I barely felt her mouth graze me. She came back up, adjusting her glasses.

“I can’t,” she said.

“It's okay,” I said.

We got a motel room, near the beach. There was a bar connected to the motel so we went there. She was getting drunk. “I want to get
really
drunk,” she said, and I had no problem with that. There were mostly men in the bar, as bars go. I ordered us two drinks and we sat in a booth. “I think I can go through with this,” Andrea said, kissing me on the mouth.

A man with a thick mustache joined us in our booth. He was heavy-set and smiling. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Rick.”

“Hello,” Andrea said.

“Can I join you?”

“No,” I said.

“There's this joke I want to tell you both,” he said.

“A joke?” Andrea said.

“Yeah,” Rick said, “but now I can’t remember it. I think I drank too much.”

“Haven’t we all,” Andrea said, and giggled.

“You’re cute,” Rick said. “I mean, gorgeous. The both of you. All hugs and kisses. Like you’re on some adventure. I envy you.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but we’d like to be left alone. We were having a private conversation.”

“Yeah,” Rick said. Something changed in him. “What's so private about it, huh?
Tell me
. What's so goddamned
private
about it?”

“Would you please leave,” I said.

“What’re you gonna
do
about it?”

Andrea laughed.

Rick looked down. “I’m sorry. I’m just drunk. I haven’t been with a woman in over a year. When I see a pretty woman …”

He got up and left.

“That was strange,” Andrea said.

Back in the motel room, we started to kiss and undress. There was a knock on the door. Andrea went to get it, stumbling, wearing only her skirt and bra.

“Ignore it,” I said.

“Maybe it's room service,” she said.

“Motels don’t have that,” I said.

I don’t know what she was thinking. She opened the door, half-naked, and said, “Surprise!” She was laughing, until a hand shoved her back. She collapsed on the floor, glasses falling off her face.

Before I could move, Rick was in the room. He shut the door. He held a black revolver.

“Hello again,” he said.

“Oh boy,” I said.

“I had to do this,” he said. “This is what's gonna happen. I’m robbing you, because I’ve been out of work longer than I want to remember and I need money. Then I’m gonna fuck your lady friend because I haven’t been with a woman for a while.”

Andrea just stared at him.

“Don’t make this difficult,” Rick said. “This can be fun if you’d like,” he said.

I rushed Rick. He wasn’t expecting it. I slapped the gun out of his hand, and hit him a few times in the face. He went down. It was all a silly drunk moment and probably would’ve been funny under different circumstances.

“Are you crazy?” Andrea said. “He could’ve
shot
us!”

“No.” I picked up the gun. “It's fake.”

“How can you tell?”

“You look at a revolver, you can see bullets in the chamber. This is a fake chamber. The whole thing is fake.”

“Oh,”
Andrea said, picking up her glasses.

We sat in a diner that was near-by, eating pancakes, drinking coffee, getting sober. We’d left Rick in the motel room bed; he seemed to be sleeping well.

“I guess I should go home now,” Andrea said.

“Can you drive?”

“Yes. I need to go home. I’ve had enough excitement to last me the year, my life. Barry is probably wondering. Maybe he's even worried. I’ve never stayed away from home before.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I don’t have to tell him anything.”

“Are you staying with him?”

“Yes,” she said, “he's my husband.”

Andrea drove me home. I wanted to kiss her goodbye. We smiled at each other, and that was enough. It was 6 A.M. Lisa's car was there. She was in the bedroom, packing. We looked at each other. I went to the kitchen and made myself a vodka tonic.

Lisa followed.

“Just came by to get more of my stuff,” she said. “I have to look for an apartment today.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t.”

Lisa came to me then, putting her head against my chest, and I held her.

“Lisa,” I said.

She said nothing.

Angry words: they’re fighting.

In the car, they are fighting.

Outside the Salton Sea, they yell at each other:

Bastard!

Cunt!

Asshole!

Bitch!

Motherfucker!

Cocksucker!

Whorepipe!

Jerk!

David and Wanda: married, mid-30s, married for five years, and now it seems to be over.

They have left Borrego Springs.

Borrego Springs: they thought the love would rekindle; the silence would make them happy; that all the bad things of the marriage would go away.

No. No, this did not happen.

They’re driving back to Los Angeles, by way of the Salton Sea, to Indio, to Palm Springs and then L.A. In L.A., Wanda says: I want a divorce.

Whatever, David says.

What-evah,
she
goes, and: Don’t ever call me a whorepipe again, you asspipe.

She laughs.

He does not laugh.

He says, I need a drink.

You
always
need a drink, she says, and: I need some
sleep.
I could sleep for a week, a month, a year, and maybe when I woke up you’d be gone and it’d be like we never met.

Where they met: Borrego Springs.

Borrego Springs is not the answer to their problems.

Their problems are bigger than Borrego Springs.

David: behind the wheel. Driving fast.

Slows down outside Salton City.

He spots a liquor store: just what he was looking for.

That’s the ticket, he says.

He needs at least a twelve pack of beer and a pint of vodka to drink on the drive to L.A. with his angry wife sitting next to him.

He parks in the parking lot.

Drink and drive, Wanda says, go ahead and put our lives in danger.

I’m the designated drinker, he says.

Funny, she says.

You want something? he asks.

I want a lot of things, she says.

To drink? Eat?

No.

No?

No, she goes.

No, he says.

Jesus,
she says, and hey, she goes, those guys give me the creeps, they’re staring at us.

David looks: three deeply tanned, or naturally brown, bums hanging outside the liquor store. One sits in a plastic lawn chair, one leans against the wall, one is spinning in circles and looking up at the clear blue sky of the California desert.

None of them wear shoes. Their bare feet are covered in dirt and mud. Their clothes are soiled by dirt and mud and old beer stains, piss stains, puke stains. They all have gray or white hair, in their 50s; their teeth yellow and crooked.

Their eyes: bloodshot.

Two of them stare at David and Wanda with those bloodshot eyes.

The spinning man stops spinning and looks at them too.

Let’s get out of here, Wanda says.

I’ll be quick, David says.

She goes, Those men are
weird.

They think
we’re
weird because we’re strangers, outsiders, we don’t belong in Salton City; we’re not from here.

We don’t belong anywhere, she says, don’t you get it?

Come inside with me, he says.

I don’t want to, she says.

Watever.

What
-evah.

He walks by the three men and they smell something bad: sweat and dirt and piss and bad breath. He nods at them. They stare and say nothing.

Wanda sticks out her tongue.

Inside the liquor store, David buys a twelve-pack of Heineken and a small bottle of vodka. He uses his credit card. He is only gone two, three minutes.

Outside, Wanda is not in the car. He walks by the three men who smell something bad and they snicker and giggle.

He looks at them: what?