Amy Bloom: Where the God of Love Hangs Out

“She’s my daughter-in-law,” Ray said.

“Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone,” the man said.

“I thought you were from Iowa. Kansas? Was I wrong?” Ray said, when they’d brought their beers to a table.

“No. I said my parents were dead and I had an aunt and uncle in Des Moines. Which I don’t.”

Macy drummed her fingers on the table.

“I love Neil,” she said. “I really do.”

“I’m sure you do. And he loves you. Christ, you have only to look at him — he thinks you hung the moon.”

“Really? He wants to have a baby.”

“Good,” Ray said. “Have two.” Babies having babies, he thought.

“He thinks I hung the moon? He’s the best man I know,” Macy said. “I’m just not who he thinks I am.”

“That’s not the worst thing in the world,” Ray said, and Macy put her hand, cool and wet from the beer, over his lips. Her hand smelled like grapefruit.

“I don’t mean he doesn’t know my essence on some metaphysical level. I mean I have lied to him on a million different occasions about a million things.”

Ray nodded.

“When I was ten, my mother fell down on the kitchen floor, and blood was pouring out of her nose. So, you know, I understood she was OD’ing on coke.”

Ray nodded again, like women OD’ing on coke in front of their children was as much part of his life as reading the paper.

“I had this amazing babysitter, Sammy. So — I don’t want this to take forever — when I’m fourteen my mother moves in with this guy, we’ll just call him The Asshole, and I moved in with Sammy. It turns out, Sammy’s a transvestite.”

Ray nodded again; he had defended a dozen middle-aged guys in dresses who were caught speeding.

“So, I do Sammy’s hair and nails. And I do his friends’, too, and Sammy basically sets me up in the tranny business in our TV room. I do hair, nails, and makeup every day after school and most of Saturday. When I graduate from high school, I have three thousand dollars in my savings account. Plus, I got into Bryn Mawr on scholarship and I graduated second in my class.” Macy smiled shyly. “My name’s not Macy. I changed it — I mean I changed it legally, when I was sixteen. Sammy’s mother’s name was Macy. So when we get to Bryn Mawr, Sammy is just the shit . All the parents love him. He drives off and he goes, Au revoir , honeybun, and don’t look back. He got a horrible staph infection, from the acrylic nails. Ten days in the ICU. It was terrible. He was a really, really nice man,” Macy said, wiping her face with a beer napkin.

“When I was in college,” Ray said, “I let a guy give me a blow job. Let me be clear. This guy paid me fifty bucks, which was a lot of money at the time, and I let him do me once a week for three years. If not for him, I would have had to drop out of college. You already know my father was a bum.”

“Thank you,” Macy said, and she laughed. Ray smiled.

“Also, you might already know this — I’m in love with Randeane.”

“I really like her,” Macy said. “Everything about her, she’s just so great. She’s read everything. I’m sort of in love with her.”

“Maybe,” Ray said. He sighed and spread his arms along the back of the booth. “I’m pretty sure not like this.”

One morning, Ray told Macy, he’d gotten to Randeane’s late, between the morning people and the lunchtime people, and there was a man sitting at Ray’s usual table.

Oh, Ray, Randeane said. This is my friend, Garbly Garble. Ray couldn’t make out the man’s name. He was taller than Ray, in his late thirties or early forties; it was harder and harder for Ray to tell anything except that someone was more or less his age. People under fifty looked like young people and people under thirty looked like children. The man stood up politely and shook Ray’s hand. He shook it twice, not the hard handshake that even men Ray’s age gave one another just to show they were still in the game, but a very gentle, slow handshake as if he was mindful of Ray’s osteoporosis or arthritis or some other damned thing that would make Ray’s hand crumble in his like an Egyptian relic. The man was clearly not thinking, So, this is the competition; he was thinking, Poor old Uncle Ray, or even poor Grandpa Ray, Civil War veteran. Nurse, get this man a chair. Ray walked out and across town to the office of Ferrante and Ticknor, Attorneys-at-Law. He walked along the narrow, cluttered river that ran through the park.

In Leo Ferrante’s office, Ray cleared his throat and Leo put his hand up.

“Don’t,” he said.

“What, you’re psychic?” Ray said.

Leo said he was sorry, that in the past three days he’d had two old friends come in to divorce their wives and marry hot chicks.

“I wouldn’t call her a hot chick,” Ray’d said.

Macy leaned forward, her face in her hands, lit up with the thought of Ray’s love for Randeane. She looked about twelve years old.

“You deserve happiness, Ray.”

“And Eleanor? What about her happiness?”

Macy did not say that Eleanor’s happiness was of no account to her.

Ray said, “Someone’s got to speak up for Ellie,” and he looked around Buck’s as if the gold-haired bartender or the young couple might say something on Ellie’s behalf. Like: Goddammit, that woman has — in her own way — devoted herself to you. Or maybe the bartender would say, Leave Ellie and your children will turn their backs on you. They think you’re a good man. Leave Ellie to shack up with a young lady from the coffee shop, half your age. No fool like an old fool. Ray turned back to Macy but he could still hear the bartender and Leo Ferrante talking to him. Your prostate alone’s enough to scare her off; you gotta get a guest room just to keep it somewhere. And your suitcase of Viagra and Levitra and don’t forget the Allopurinol and the Amlodipine and the Flomax, without which you’ll never piss again. And why shouldn’t she want children, young as she is? She could have them with that tall, good-looking man, Ray heard the bartender say, and he looked at her and she winked, gold powder sparkling on her eyelids and cheekbones, shining across her breasts. She brought them another pair of beers and a bowl of nuts.

“Do you have any food?” Macy said.

“What do you like?” the woman said.

Macy looked around and she sniffed the air.

“Catfish, maybe,” she said.

The woman shrugged pleasantly. “For two? Sweet-potato fries? Butter beans?”

“I have died and gone to heaven,” Macy said, and she almost clapped her hands.

“I don’t think I can eat all that,” Ray said.

“I love it. I’ll bring some home for Neil. Like they say, so good, makes you want to slap yo’ mama.” Macy took a sip of beer and smiled. “Sammy was a great cook. Actually, I’m a great cook.”

Turned on a dime, Ray thought. Two hours ago, she was going to hang herself in the garage because Neil didn’t know her essence; now she’s bringing him a Southern fried feast and they’ll eat in bed. Laughing. Ray thought of Randeane and his heart clenched so deeply, he put his hands on the table.

“You should bring some home for him. I really can’t eat that stuff anymore,” he said. “Call him. Tell him you’re coming home. Don’t be afraid to tell him about your mother and about Sammy. He’ll admire you for that stuff. For getting past it.”

“Okay,” Macy said, biting her lip. “You really think so?” She took out her phone and checked her text messages.

“He’s still at work,” she said, grinning like a kid. “He’s not even worrying.” She texted Neil and showed Ray: B home soon, w fab dinner. Love u so .