David Gates - The Wonders of the Invisible World

“Jesus, no. Oh my God, Cindy. I can’t believe — listen, I don’t know if they even have the shuttle on weekends. Maybe we should just drive? By the time—”

“You’re not coming.”

“Say again?”

“Would you just call, please?”

“Cindy.”

“Okay, fine. I will call.” You hauled down the Yellow Pages.

“What the hell’s going on?” I said. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

“You see my family once a year,” you said. “At Thanksgiving. That’s a grand total of five times. And once at the wedding.”

“This is completely batshit. I’m your husband. ”

You rolled your eyes.

“Listen,” I said, “if absolutely nothing else, it would freak your mother out if I wasn’t with you.”

“Helen knows everything is fucked,” you said. “She’s not expecting you. You’re so concerned with the proprieties, write her a note. Truly. I’ll hand-deliver it, how’s that?” You went back into the bedroom and closed the door. I followed you in, wondering if at a time like this I should be asking what this everything-is-fucked business was about. Or were you entitled to slip stuff in and not be called on it because your sister was dead?

I ended up agreeing to everything: not to come, not to call, to let you deal with this in your own way, to let you breathe. Not to upset your mother by sending flowers. If I’d given you more of an argument, would you have broken down and confessed? Such a bizarre lie: you must have wanted me to bust you on it. So: one more time I failed you. On the other hand, you went to such lengths to make it convincing. So: one more time you arranged for me to fail you. While you packed, I wrote a draft of the note for your mother, then copied it cleanly on a sheet of your good notepaper. Quite a collector’s item. What did you end up doing with it?

After helping you down with your stuff and finding you a reputable-looking livery cab I came back upstairs, made more coffee and decided to call in to work the next morning, take the week off and drive up to Joey’s. I’d like to think I meant to spend some of the time thinking about Us. But really it was just a holiday: boozing, moping, bullshitting, listening to Miles Davis, wishing for women, drugs and money. Your sister had laid down her life (as I thought) so I could have a week off from you.

I got back from Joey’s on Thursday night. You called on Friday, around noon: you were taking the shuttle, arriving seven o’clock.

“Want me to come get you?” I said.

“If you feel like it.”

“Are you okay?” I said. “How’s your mom holding up?”

“Look, I’ll see you at seven,” you said.

At ten after seven I watched stranger after stranger after stranger come down the carpeted passageway. You touched my arm.

“Hey,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”

You shrugged. “I’ve been here a couple hours. I think.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “How come you didn’t call?” Then I smelled your breath. “Well, I see you’ve used the time to advantage.”

“The American Advantage,” you said. “Now I have the advantage.” You let your suitcase drop, and it fell on its side.

I picked it up and said, “Shall we?” You followed like a little girl who’d been bad. When we got to the escalator I turned around. “Have you eaten anything? Do you want to stop someplace?”

“Want to go home,” you said, head down.

“So be it,” I said. “I don’t know what there is, but there’s probably something.”

“You don’t want to talk to me,” you said.

It was the second-to-last of our silent car rides: me thinking of ways to open a conversation and imagining how you’d parry each one. I thought what a drag it was that you chose to get drunk. And then I thought how unfair it was to think that after you’d just lost your sister. (As I believed.) You were looking good, despite the shape you were in: your cheeks pale, your lips fat. It was the first sexual thing I’d felt for you since our confrontation over Kate, but I decided to stay angry. You showed better sense: when we got up the stairs and I put down your suitcase to unlock the door, you reached for my belt. To my credit, I was gracious.

The next afternoon, Saturday, you’d gone up to the Cloisters — you said — when the phone rang. “Hi, it’s Marie,” said the voice. “Is Cindy around? Listen, when are you guys ever going to come to Washington?”

“Who is this?” I said. “Goddamn it, who the fuck is this?”

When you came in, I said, “Your sister called.”

“Oh,” you said. “Well.” You shook your head, sniffled. “Actually I’m surprised it took this long. But …” You shrugged. “It must’ve been weird for you. What did you end up saying?”

“ Why ?” I said. “Why would you be so stupid? I mean, beyond stupid.”

“Sometimes you feel like being stupid, what can I say? Didn’t you ever want to just be stupid? I have to blow my nose.” You went into the bathroom and shut the door.

I shoved it open again. “So where were you?” I said. “Obviously you were with somebody. Who was the lucky guy?”

You tore toilet paper off the roll and wiped your nose. “Why do you assume it was only one?” You turned to face me, and struck a pose, palm out, the back of your hand to your forehead. “Oh, Rick, I can’t go on living a lie.” You gazed ceiling-ward. “The truth is, it was all of your friends. Every last one. It was Stefan and Andrew and Alex — oh, and Gregory. Now, did I leave anybody out?”

“Okay, forget it,” I said. “I mean, I’m through anyway. I truly am.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Rick, I need your compassion at this terrible moment. The truth is, it was a woman. In fact, it was your dear friend and platonic coworker Kate. We just found that we had so much in common that we decided to have gay women’s sex. Can you ever, ever forgive me?” You gripped my arms, then began to giggle.

“You’re stoned,” I said.

“Oh, yes, Rick, I am stoned. You’re so perspicacious, always. And I’m just — shit under your feet.” You dug your fingernails into my arms, then lifted your head and kissed my cheek so hard I felt teeth. Then you let go, stepped back and slapped me, and my glasses went flying. We looked at each other. You were red-faced, breathing hard. I was thinking:

She means to kill me.

I can’t walk out with her in this kind of shape.

This will never end.

I will take her throat and rip it open.

I am observing all this from a great distance.

Then you began to sob, and I took you in my arms and patted your back again and again, and smoothed and smoothed your hair, thinking: Every minute of this is a minute out of my life.

When you finally turned to the sink and began washing your face, I picked up my glasses and brought them into the living room. A Y-shaped crack in the left lens. I tried to figure out how to hide from you the evidence of what you yourself had done; all I could come up with was not putting them back on. The bathroom door closed. Now what? Were you using the toilet or swallowing handfuls of Bufferins and Sudafeds? Cutting your wrists? Not easy with a Good News razor. I could save your life by breaking down the door. But first I’d have to ask if you were all right in there, and that might enrage you — even make you suicidal. The thing to do was ask something else— Hey, Cindy? I’m going to need to use the john pretty soon —and see if you answered. But of course you’d see through it.

Finally you came out and sat on the sofa hugging yourself, your feet tucked under you. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I am completely humiliated. And I need very much not to talk at this point.”