Leonard Michaels - The Men's Club

In the silence following my story, I began to regret having told it. Then a man who had said nothing all evening asked, “Did you make it with Marilyn that night?”

“No. Nothing changed. I don’t think it ever could.”

The man started to say something, then stopped.

I said, “Do you have a question?”

It seemed he was a shy man. He said, “Was it a true story?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I liked Marilyn.”

“I like her, too. Maybe I can fix you up with her. What’s your name?”

“I’m Terry.”

“Terry?” shrieked Berliner. “Terry, you’re supposed to phone your wife.”

Grinning at Berliner, Terry seemed less a shy man than a man surprised. “It’s not my wife,” he said, intimating complexities. Old confusions. As if to forbid himself another word, he shook his head. Round and bald. Sandy tufts of hair beside the ears, like baby feathers. His eyes were hazel. His nose was a thick pull. “I mustn’t bore you fellows with my situation.” He nodded at me as if we had a special understanding. “We’re enjoying ourselves, telling stories about love.” He continued nodding. For no reason, I nodded back.

Cavanaugh said, “Talk about anything you like, Terry. You say the woman who phoned isn’t your wife?”

He grinned. “I’m a haunted house. For me, yesterday is today. The woman who phoned is my former wife. A strange expression, but what else can I call her? Ex-wife?”

“Call her by her name,” I said.

“Her name is Nicki.”

“How long have you been divorced?” asked Cavanaugh.

“Usually one asks how long you’ve been married. Nicki and I have been divorced ten years. Nicki—”

“It’s better,” said Berliner, “if you say former wife. Nicki, Nicki — you sound like a ping-pong game.”

“All right. After ten years of divorce we’re closer than during our marriage. If you don’t remarry, this is natural. She phones me two or three times a week. Listen to how personal I’m becoming. Why is everything personal so funny?”

“Who’s laughing?” said Berliner. “Do you sleep together? To sleep with your former wife, I think — I mean just to me — I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t do it,” I said. “Who asked you to?”

“He’s right. I’m sorry, Terry.”

“It doesn’t happen often. Nicki has a boy friend. His name is Harrison. But they don’t live together. Nicki can’t get along with kids. She doesn’t like kids. More complicated yet, Harrison’s daughter, eleven years old, is a very sad fat girl. His boy, six years old, has learning problems. Harrison phones me, too. I meet him now and then to talk about his kids.”

“He wants to talk to you?” I said.

“I’m a doctor. Even at parties people come up to me for an opinion. ‘Terry, I shouldn’t discuss professional matters in these circumstances, but my aged aunt Sophie has a wart on her buttock. She wants you to know.’”

“So what about Nicki? She was crying on the phone,” Kramer says.

“She always does. Your Marilyn story reminded me of a fight we had when I was in medical school in Montreal. We lived in a two-room flat above a grocery store. It was a Saturday morning. I was studying at the kitchen table. Can I tell this story?”

Berliner said, “Only if it’s miserable.”

“A blizzard had been building for days. I watched it through the kitchen window as it attacked the city. The sky disappeared. The streets were dead. Nothing moved but wind and snow. In this deadly blizzard, Nicki decided to go out. She had been saving money for a particular pair of boots. Fine soft leather. Tight. Knee-high. They had a red-brown tone, like dried blood. Totally impractical and too elegant. The wind would tear them off her legs. Nobody in our crowd owned such boots. Our friends were like us — students. Poor. Always worried about money. Nicki had worked as a secretary all year. She never bought presents for herself. I had a tiny scholarship. It covered books and incidental tuition fees. We were badly in debt, but she wanted these boots. I don’t know how she saved a penny for them. I pleaded with her not to go out in the blizzard. Something in my voice, maybe, suggested more anxiety about the price of the boots than her safety. The more I pleaded, the more determined she became.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?” I asked.

“I wanted to. But the idea of the boots — so trivial, such a luxury — and her wanting to go get them that morning — made me furious. I could sympathize with her desire for beautiful boots. She deserved a reward. But why that minute? I was trying to study. My papers and books were on the kitchen table. Also a box of slides and a microscope I carried home from the laboratory. Today, though I own a house with ten rooms, I still use the kitchen table when I read medical journals or write an article. Anyhow, I was trying to study. I needed the time. It’s difficult for me to memorize things, but I can do it if there is peace and quiet and no bad feelings in the air. You don’t have to be a genius to be a doctor. But now I was furious. I yelled, ‘Do what you like. Buy the stupid boots. Just leave me alone.’ She slammed the door.

“For a while I sat with my papers and books. Outside the blizzard was hysterical. Inside it was warm and quiet. I worried about her, but my fury canceled the worry. Soon I began to study. I forgot about Nicki. Maybe three hours passed and, suddenly, she’s home. Pale and burning and happy. I didn’t say hello. My fury returned. She had a big shoe box under her arm. She had returned with her boots. While she put them on, I continued trying to study. I didn’t watch her, but I could tell she needed help. The boots were tight. After a while she managed to get them on by herself, then she walked up to my table and stood there, waiting for me to notice. I could feel her excitement. She was trembling with pleasure. I knew what expression was in her face. Every muscle working not to smile. She waited for me to look up and admit she was magnificent in those boots. But the blizzard was in my heart. I refused to look. Suddenly my papers, books, slides, microscope — everything on the table was all over the kitchen floor. Nicki is strong. She plays tennis like a man. I felt I had been killed, wiped out of the world.

“She still claims I hit her. I don’t remember. I remember rushing out into the blizzard with no coat or hat. Why? To buy a gun. I didn’t really know what I wanted until I passed a pawnshop with guns in the window. I had a pocket watch that my father gave me when I left for medical school. Gold case. Gothic numerals. A classic watch. Also a heavy gold chain. In exchange for that watch I got a rifle. I asked the man for a bullet. I couldn’t pay for it, but I told him the deal was off unless he gave me a bullet. He said, ‘One bullet?’ I screamed, ‘Give me a bullet.’ He gave it to me. If I’d asked for a ton of bullets, he would have thought nothing. Ask for one bullet and there’s trouble.”

“The police were waiting for you,” said Berliner.

“The police car was in front of the house, its light blinking through the storm. I went around behind the house and climbed a stairway to the roof, and loaded the rifle. I intended to go to the flat and blow my brains out in front of Nicki.”

“I thought you were going to shoot her,” I said.

“Her? I’d never shoot her. I’m her slave. I wanted to make a point about our relationship. But the police were in the flat. I was on the roof with a loaded rifle, freezing in a storm. I aimed into the storm, toward the medical school, and fired. How could I shoot myself? I’d have been on that roof with a bullet in my head, covered by snow, and nobody would have found me until spring. What comes to mind when you commit suicide is amazing. Listen, I have a question. My story made me hungry. Is there anything to eat?”