Miranda July: The First Bad Man

Just his name on a piece of paper could set her off. Even a word like Broyard— barnyard, backyard —sent her into an exhausted loop of fantasies. Everything else in her life, including her own therapy practice, was faked. The spell consumed 95 percent of her energy but she was surprised to see that no one noticed; the wafer-thin 5 percent version of her sufficed. She kept a list on her desk of all the things that used to make her happy:

Zydeco music

Dogs

My work

Rainy days

Thai food

Body surfing

My friends

But she couldn’t generate enough sadness and regret to free herself. She lived for the three days a year he replaced her in her office and she worked beneath him. Through sheer force of will she became what he once said he wished his wife was: small, feminine, with a slightly conservative elegance. Being this woman, this receptionist, was her one joy. Joy is the wrong word: it fueled the spell and so the spell could continue, which is the only thing a spell wants to do.

Ruth-Anne filed the folder. Looking at her expansive back it was easier to remember my therapist who was so daring and so helpful, even at 5 percent. I owed her.

It took a while to get it going, but after a few seconds of rocking on my heels I began to sway to the twangy rhythm. Ruth-Anne raised her eyebrows, hoping I was just stretching my legs. I began hoarsely, unmelodically but with great force.

“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story

“If you stay you won’t be sorry”

She looked up, or rather the spell looked up, slowly, with revulsion. The spell, in its tartan headband, was fuming. It looked from me to Dr. Broyard’s door to its own monstrous hands and back to me as I raised my voice in volume:

“’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”

Jack liked this; he bounced up and down in his sling.

“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance

“With a couple of Kooks

“Hung up on romaaancing”

I only knew the chorus, so I immediately began again,

“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story”

Something strange was happening with Ruth-Anne. It didn’t seem good. She was sweating; big damp rings were rapidly expanding from the sides of her blouse. She was dissolving. If this was the wrong thing to do, then it was very wrong. I shut my eyes, wrapped my arms around Jack, and chanted,

“If you stay you won’t be sorry

“’Cause weeeee believe in youuuu”

The “in you” part sounded stronger than the rest, full-voiced and resonant. I cracked my eyes. Sweat was streaming down her face and her mouth was pointed heavenward, as if she were singing to the gods, begging them to intercede on this matter, to release her from her spell. We crooned together:

“Soon you’ll grow so take a chance

“With a couple of Kooks

“Hung up on romaaancing”

But they do not exist, the gods. The only way to break the spell is to break the spell. So now she hooked her thumbs under her soggy armpits, trying to ride the twang, embody it. We came around the bend and headed back into the start of the chorus:

“Will you stay in our Lovers’ Story

“If you stay you won’t be sorry”

Her shoulders were broadening, almost ripping her blouse. Makeup melted into the wrinkles around her eyes and her jaw galloped as she sang. Dr. Broyard opened his door, adjusting his spectacles and watching us with a bemused smile — Kirsten peeked out behind him. Too late, doctor! Too late! The spell has been shattered into ten million pieces, too dispersed to flock together.

But I was wrong. Seeing my triumphant face, Ruth-Anne realized who was watching; her croon immediately withered to nothing. For a split second she looked devastated, her eyes wild with disappointment. Then the spell descended and she cozily tucked herself back in, almost relieved, it seemed. She sat down and rolled forward to her computer. I stood before her, my arms hanging, chest heaving, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen. As she repositioned her headband I turned to leave.

“Your card, miss.”

“What?”

“Your appointment card.”

Without a blink she handed me a card for an appointment I didn’t have.

I put it in the glove compartment. Now that I had it I didn’t want to look. Of course it was Darren. Why break a promise to learn something I already knew? This feeling carried me all the way home. I calmly gave Jack his bottle and put him down for his one o’clock nap. But the moment I shut the nursery door the equanimity ended and I could not get to the glove compartment quickly enough. I carried it inside in my fist and sat on the couch. I opened my fingers, smoothed the card and turned it over.

It wasn’t Darren.

I ripped the card to shreds before remembering, too late, the old trick for getting someone to call by tearing their name up.

The phone rang almost immediately.

“You look the same,” he said. “Kirsten looks much older but you look the same. And the little guy in front — what’s his name?”

“Jack,” I whispered. I sank to my knees, keeling over a throw pillow.

“Jack. He’s a sweetheart — how old is he?”

“Ten months.”

He coughed — he already knew that, he had done the math. My forehead had a fever, I was burning up. Oxygen. With the pillow under one arm I crawled to an open window and pointed my mouth at the screen.

“It’s great to hear your voice, Cheryl. It’s been a long time.”

Phillip and Clee.

How had they met? How was it even possible? But why not? If one young woman, why not another?

“I think I owe you an apology,” he continued. “I was in a difficult place when we last spoke.”

“No need,” I choked out. I couldn’t remember what we were talking about.

“No,” he said, “I want to apologize. I should have called when I heard she was… but of course I didn’t know for sure. And then when I saw his picture—” His voice cracked. I inhaled wetly and he gasped a sob of relief, as if my tears allowed his tears. This wasn’t the time for one of his long cries; I hoped he knew that. I blew my nose sharply on a sock. It was quiet for a minute. The curtain blew against my face.

“Here’s an idea,” he said finally. “I come over.”

AT THE DOOR WE JUSTstared at each other. He looked much older; there were heavy bags under his eyes. I felt like a wife who had waited in vain for her husband to return from war, and now, twenty years later, here he was. Ancient, but home. He stepped inside and looked around.

“Where is he?”

“Napping. He should be up soon, though.”

I offered him something to drink. Lemonade? Water?

“Could I just have some hot water?” He pulled a packet of tea bags out of his back pocket. “I’d offer you one but this is a special formulation, made by my acupuncturist. For my lungs.”

We sat on the couch holding our mugs, waiting. He kept glancing at me, trying to weigh my mood or show me how receptive he was. As if I would want to talk about it.

“Why did you step down from the board?” I said finally.

He leapt on this, launching into a lengthy description of his poor health and a recent trip to Thailand, how it really took him out of himself. Each word he said was boring, but collectively the melody of them lulled me. I tried to resist, but just the weight of him, in pounds and ounces, was a relief. Always being the heaviest person in the house had been exhausting. I sipped my tea and leaned back into the couch. When he left I would have to shift the weight back onto my own shoulders again, but that was a problem for later.