Wasted Beauty (27 page)

RICK STANDS POISED IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS KITCHEN,
a Williams-Sonoma stainless steel sauce pan in his hand. He has been staring at it with incomprehension for a full minute, not really sure what it is. Not really sure what anything is. Laura is out getting her hair cut and he has forgotten that, too. The children are enmeshed in their video games and Barbies elsewhere in the house, but he’s not sure where they are.

He can’t move. Every cell in his body is infected with Rena. He thinks, it’s not over just because I say it is. A fling, an “extra-marital affair” and I’ve ended it because it’s wrong. Except that it doesn’t want to be ended. Because I’m in love.

Rick has never starved or caught his leg in a bear trap or murdered someone. All these things have real meaning to someone somewhere, and he can imagine them, but he doesn’t really know them. Now he knows the true meaning of the words “hopelessly in love.” The situation with Rena lives outside the bounds of the rational. It has no future. It has no past. It’s just
now now now,
like a psychic car alarm overwhelming every waking thought. I’m lovelorn, no, lovesick. Why did this have to happen? I liked my life before. Sort of liked it. It was OK. I never said I wanted to fall in love. Did I? First of all, I don’t believe in falling in love. I’m already in love with my wife, still in love with my wife, in fact. Things were fine as they were.

And this girl, because that’s all she is, a girl, isn’t even somebody I like that much. She’s uneducated. Never really thinks about anything but the world in which she lives. It isn’t like we could have a conversation about politics or art. She’s from a different generation. She’s a kid. She doesn’t like the music I like, doesn’t like the movies I like, doesn’t even like the food I like.

I trained and busted my hump for eight years to get to where I am. And Laura helped me. Together we busted our humps. Something we did together. This girl, she fell down a rabbit hole and became a model. She makes more money than she knows what to do with. We have nothing in common. And I’m willing to throw everything away. Don’t I respect my own life? Don’t I respect Laura? What we made?

I’d trade it all just to be in Rena’s arms. Or would I? Or did I? Have I already made the deal with the devil?

Is it because she adores me? And does she adore me because she can’t have me without wrecking my life? Isn’t she just a spoiled little jet-setter, who has everything she wants and now she’s decided she wants this married guy and is using every wile she possesses to clobber my poor defenseless middle-class ass into submission? What kind of love is that? That’s not love, that’s greed.

Maybe she’s a siren, maybe she’s a witch. But does it matter, Ricky-boy? Never felt like this in my whole life. And this thing, this love affair, whatever the fuck it is, diminishes everything else. I thought I knew everything, but I don’t. I’m like some hillbilly who finally leaves his backwoods home for the city. I can’t go back, can I? To a life without her?

I can’t hurt the children. Right? It’s logical that love cannot come out of hurt. She wants to have children with me. But I already have children! And the children are innocent. I’m not going to hurt them. Like Dad, with his lady in the closet. Only concerned with his own fucking life and his own fucking needs. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck everybody.

And besides, I don’t want to leave Laura. I love Laura. Can’t live without Laura. And do I actually think that I could make a life with Rena? What would that be like? Chaos on a stick. Anarchy. And how could I ever trust her? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Or is it? Fuck, I want to touch her one more time. What’s wrong with that? Everything. And so I’ve done the right thing because lust is no excuse to ruin a life. Except that I did just see her a week ago. And even though we say we’re not going to see each other, that’s impossible isn’t it? It’s a maze and I’m lost and everything leads back to her.

Clutching the pan, Rick begins to cry. It starts as a trickling pain, stabbing his heart, then with a rush, it floods up from his belly, into his lungs, his throat, his face hot and moist and then the tears. Wracking, sobbing. Why am I crying? Because I feel sorry for myself. Because I have never been adored like this. And don’t want to let go of it. Why can’t I have it? Why can’t I have what I want? It’s not fair.

He steadies himself by reaching out to the polished granite countertop. Laura’s countertop. With care he puts the pot down, wipes his eyes as a few more tears seep out. This is crazy. This is crazy. I’ve lost my mind. I don’t know who I am.

He holds a crumpled wad of paper towel to his swollen eyes. OK. OK. It will be OK.

“Daddy?” Henry and Trina are standing in the kitchen doorway, watching their father. Henry is holding his Game Boy and the bright figures dance on its screen.

“Huh?” He blows his nose.

“Are you crying, Daddy?”

“Where’s your mommy?”

“We don’t know. There are no lights on in the house.”

Helpful Trina. “Oh, is that why you’re crying? Because you miss Mommy?”

“No, uh. Yeah. No. I just, I was just thinking a sad thought and it made me cry a little. Listen, go back to the TV. I’m all right. Everything’s all right.”

“Can I have some juice?”

“I want some juice, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Henry, you get it for you and your sister.”

“You should have some juice, too, Dad.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I should. Thanks.”

“No problem, Dad.”

They finally leave and Rick dials her number on the cell phone. He gets her voice mail. He can’t help himself. “Rena. It’s me. Call me.”

He sits in the backyard, cradling the phone. Five minutes later, it rings.

“Rick?”

“I just wanted to see if you were OK. I have to know.”

“I’m not OK, Rick. I’m not OK. I’ve been having a hard time.”

“Me, too.”

“No, with me, it’s different.”

On the ferry Rick thinks, I am blowing up my life. I’m breaking laws here and if Laura finds out, there is no explanation for what I’m doing. Is this going to be the system from now on? Sneaking around? Claiming I have a patient in New York I have to see? How many times will Laura buy that? But this is only going to be this one time. This is a special circumstance. If this starts up again, Laura will figure it out. And then she will hate me. The kids will hate me, too. Everyone will hate me.

When Rena opens the door, Rick doesn’t see her. Her skin is the greenish yellow of spoiled chicken, her hair, dense with oil and grime, lies flat against her skull. She doesn’t raise her eyes to his, turns back into the room.

Is it a sign of love that I can see her like this? That she lets me see her like this? Or doesn’t she care if I see her like this because she doesn’t love me anymore? Because I’ve pushed the thing past love? What is there after love? And when did we ever have love?

Rick steps into the wretched atmosphere of the apartment. Rena has sealed the windows with packing tape. I am walking through her breath, Rick thinks. I am inside her. Rena crosses to the couch and slumps onto it. She lights a cigarette, finally looks up at him and flashes him the briefest of guilty smiles. “Hi.”

Rick finds an armchair, sits. “How are you doing?”

“It hurts. A lot. To be really honest with you right now, Rick, I’m just in incredible pain. I’ve been puking and shitting and last night I thought maybe I was going to die, which probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“It would be a very bad thing.”

“Really? You think so?”

“I brought the stuff.”

An expression crosses Rena’s face, something like the scrunch of her features when she has an orgasm, but also something like disappointment. The one place Rick has never entered. “Well, that’s good. Should we uh, get to it?”

“Of course.” Rick opens the little black bag that he never carries and removes alcohol swabs, a sterile syringe and an ampoule of Dilaudid. “It’s not the same as heroin, Rena.”

“I don’t care.”

Her nose is running. Didn’t notice that when I came in. Rick takes her arm. The first time I’ve touched her in what, six days? “God, Rena.”

Rena snatches the swab from him and scrubs her own arm. “Come on, Doctor. I’m sick.”

Rick stabs the syringe into the neck of the tiny bottle, retrieving one dose. Her inner arm is covered with purple splotches. Rick wants to say, “What have you been doing to yourself?” and thinks, I don’t know her.

Rena says, “You want me to do it?”

“No. Just grab your bicep hard with your other hand and make a fist with this one.” Her veins are as fine as silk. He misses and a fresh discoloration appears under her translucent skin. Finally, he gets it in. He retracts the plunger and the blood blooms into the barrel of drug.

Rena falls into his eyes with something indistinguishable from love. “OK. Do me.” He urges the syringe forward and the drug flows into her. She closes her eyes. “Hmmmm. Yeah.”

I’m still holding her arm. I’m touching her. “Rena?”

A long pause. Eyes closed. “Yeah.”

Rick thinks, where are we now? How far from earth? “You OK? Is it too much?”

“Never.” She opens her eyes. “You broke my heart, you know?”

“You broke mine.”

“Just don’t go away.” She shifts her weight into him. “I love you, Rick.”

“I love you.”

“Kiss me.”

She’s a ruined version of Rena, but I don’t care. Kiss her. And his mouth finds hers, spoiled with tobacco, her limbs loose and weak. Under her unwashed rattiness, she wears her old scent like a ruined aristocrat wears jewelry.

“You can fuck me if you want.”

“God, Rena. I just want you to get better.”

“Rick.” Don’t tell him about Barry. Don’t tell him why you couldn’t go back there. That you’d kill yourself first. “Rick, please.”

He’s pulling at her clothes, finding himself, instantly hard, finding her, in her. He puts his lips to her shoulder, amazed by her frailty. She tastes like almonds. It’s her. It’s my love. It’s my love. He comes in seconds and falls away spent. My god. It’s all I want in the world.

She smiles at him and touches his hair. “Wham bam thank you ma’am.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Baby, don’t ever be sorry. Every time you touch me, I’m in heaven.”

“Did the Dilaudid get you high?”

“It fixed me for a few minutes. But what would be really great is if you could make a double of what you did before. You don’t have to shoot me up, I can do that.”

“You’ll overdose.”

“No, I won’t. And if I do, there’s a doctor in the house, right? And there’s ice in the freezer. Just shove a cube up my ass. That’s what Barry says you have to do.”

“Barry?”

“A guy I know.”

Rick maintains a vigil over Rena’s wasted sleep, tracking her shallow breath. He thinks, Me and Rena, we are innocent. She’s a little girl. She’s my little girl and I will take care of her.

DOGS COME TO MIND. HUNGRY, FORCED INTO WIRE
cages, shivering with fear, sniffing the shit and slobber of the other canine presences, biting their own tails. Or folded into themselves, lying still, with ears pricked up, alert, waiting. Then how does it go? The men in white lab coats arrive and slap down the cool, freshly hacked hunks of beef, filling the hard plastic bowls. Then what? The placards. The placards thrust before the dripping muzzles. Placards inked with bold geometrics, a binary choice: outline of a rectangle or a circle. Yes-No. On-Off. Rectangle equals meat. Rectangle means satisfaction. See a rectangle, get meat. But the circle. The evil circle! When the electric current passes through the metal floor, the dogs dance in pain, whining, and then the circle placard is revealed. The horrible circle of agony. And so the dogs learn all about circles and rectangles, rectangles and circles. The dogs come to understand what is good and what is bad in a universe where men with lab coats reign. Everything becomes very clear.

All clear, until the researcher-gods show up with new placards. And on these new improved placards, the rectangles have rounded corners and the sides of the circles are flattened. These symbols are further improved, the circles becoming more and more rectangular. The rectangles more and more circular. Soon the dogs are eyeballing shapes that are neither circular nor square, a twilight zone of symbology, of ultimate truth. They can’t know what’s coming next. Nonetheless, the shocks and feedings continue. Satisfaction and pain, but now no longer connected to any placard logic. And the dogs go mad. Totally fucking mad.

When did I learn all that? Third year? Fourth? Kleinman? Phipps? Piercy? What the fuck difference does it make now? Those dogs are long gone, incinerated, memorialized as a long footnote in a behaviorism textbook.

We’re seeing each other again. I’ve gone insane.

His eyes like slit-open gray prunes, Rick traces the contours of his immaculate living room, the flawless eggshell finish, tranquil in the early morning light. He drags on his cigarette and lets the smoke trail upward. I could cash it all out right now, cash out the IRA, take the money, run away, run to Alaska, buy a cabin, never see another human being again or if I felt like it, take a running jump into polar ice water and die. Fuck me. I’m like one of those existential philosophers you see on the back of the book jackets. So full of thoughtful thoughts I’m giving myself a headache.

I’m falling like an apple from a tree. Hey, you can’t fight gravity, right? It’s a law of nature. Anyway, it feels good to be on the move, a nice change of pace, exciting to see my life flying past, all the things and people and events kind of equal. All the parts unfettered and pointless. I’m like Alice down the rabbit hole, there’s all my stuff floating in midair right before my eyes: my penis, my asshole, my teeth. My mother, my father, my car, my house. My children, my money, my gallons of semen, rivers of piss, mountains of fingernail clippings, oceans of shit. Everything I am or have ever been.

The ground is coming up pretty fast. Could hit any second now. That’s going to be interesting. Really interesting. It’s like that dream where I’m alone in a car but my hands aren’t touching the steering wheel. Except it’s not a dream.

Why can’t I figure this out? For forty-five years I’ve figured it all out. Found my way out of every life-maze. Hurdled every hurdle. Broken the code and deconstructed every incomprehensible passage. And now, here I am, a man of means and status, flummoxed by pussy. Of course it’s worse than that. More pathetic. It’s love. Love has arrived like a disease and I’m sick.

I’m almost fifty and instead it’s like I’m fifteen again and I’m running home after school, stumbling up to my room, bruised and broken, sobbing into the bedspread, pounding with heartache. The heartache never went away, did it? Every time I look into a girl’s eyes, every time I come, every time I wake up in the morning I’m thinking, Wait a sec, who am I again? This has been the light I’ve wanted. It was this that I’ve needed all along.

But if I reach out for it, I burn down my whole life and how can I do that? Easy, Rena said, it happens all the time. The world won’t stop spinning and five billion people will keep breathing. This is just one more infinitesimal event. She says, if there is an infinity, it is in your heart. And your heart is the only heart, only you know what you know and only you have what you have. Follow your heart. Your heart will tell you. Burn your house down. Run from your wife and kids. It happens all the time.

Rick lies on the couch and plans scenarios of escape, of divorce, of suicide, of murder. He embezzles his own money and runs away to anonymous midwestern cities. Or to a houseboat in Amsterdam. He prays. He considers a proposal of bigamy. He does all this, but he doesn’t sleep.

Three times tonight, he has gone to the kitchen and standing in the gloom, cell phone in hand, checked his voice mail to see if she’s called in. That’s what she does, calls in the middle of the night and leaves messages like “I love you, I miss you. I wish you were here.” And when Laura finds me standing here, in the night, in the lonely, lonely night, cell phone like a dick in my hand, how will I explain?

Knowing I’m a fool doesn’t make me less of a fool. Where’s a confessor when I need one? And who can I turn to for advice? What elder? What sage? All alone now. There is no one. This is what it means to be a grown-up, finally. Marriage didn’t do it. Kids didn’t do it. Ultimate peril is required to see how alone I am. Maybe there is no answer? Eventually time will provide one. Or accident. And how stupid will I be then, explaining it all, not only to my wife, but to my children?

If Laura caught me she wouldn’t understand. Fuck wouldn’t, couldn’t. A woman says she understands desire, but she only understands feminine desire. Not the kind that makes you get up in the middle of the night and prowl. Not the kind that makes every female a piece of anatomical acreage, good for one thing, needed. And when a man feels that way, every man is the same, tortured, blue-balled, stumbling for it, willing to ruin himself for it, put everything at stake, be condemned for it. Any man who says he’s above that, has never been tempted. No woman can understand that. And the rules of the game are set by the women, aren’t they?

I’m just one more aging asshole, doing pushups, rediscovering my dick, thinking, this never happened before. But it has, hasn’t it? A million million times. And never.

Was it too much to ask to be happy? As things are, I’m not happy now. Would I be happy if I followed my heart? Why not? Why the fuck not, let it all come down. Let myself be swallowed whole by the anarchy of her beauty. Be immolated by it. Be burnt to dust and blown away by the first stiff breeze. Why not? Why the fuck not?

And what about my other heart? The heart that lives here within these freshly painted walls? My unconscious heart, the one that beats when I’m asleep, surrounded by my loving family. Because it works both ways, I don’t just protect them, it is their love that lets me rest peacefully every night. They are the glue of my life, their love holds everything together.

Rick makes a final round of the quiet house. His heart rattles inside his chest like an old seed in a gourd. He touches his chest. Do I have a heart anymore? Can love kill a person?

In Trina’s room he takes in her sweet scent. Her slim chest expands in its even, shallow course. She says her prayers every night because she believes in God. I’m God to you, aren’t I? I’m what stands between you and all the bad stuff.

Rick pulls the sheets up to her chin and kisses her. She dreams in safety. He whispers, “I will not leave you, sweetness. No pain can make me do that. Don’t worry. Daddy’s going fix it.”