Said Sayrafiezadeh - Brief Encounters with the Enemy

“Where have you been?” I once screamed after five days of absence. We were in the garden, and I was unshaved, and Lola was staring at me in disbelief because she had never heard me scream before. Molly was staring at me too, smiling slightly as if she’d known it would eventually come to this. “You men are all the same,” I could hear her thinking. She had one hand on her hip, cocked slightly, and one hand on her easel. She had just begun a new painting of people lying on the grass looking at people lying on the grass. I thought of grabbing the canvas and smashing it against the lemon tree.

“Would you like us to leave?” she asked. Her equanimity terrified me. I had no choice but to accept the terms.

I filled my empty days by trying to do something productive, something enriching. I selected Dr. Dave’s educational tomes and took them out into the garden. The books were heavy and the reading was ponderous. Soon I would fall asleep, facedown on the grass. I dreamed once that I was heading back to war. I was on a train going over the ocean. The waves lapped at the window. “Is this seat taken?” someone was asking me, and when I turned, I saw that it was Molly. “No,” I said, “it’s yours,” and then I watched impassively as she struggled to put her suitcase in the overhead rack. I should help her with that, I thought, but it was every man for himself in this world. So I stared out the window, hoping to spot whales in the water below. I had never seen whales before. The din of the train grew louder; it combined with the din of the ocean. Beneath it I could hear Molly saying, “It’s all going to waste.”

It was apparent that I did not have what it would take to earn a doctorate. It was also apparent that the solitude of the house was beginning to crush me. I considered driving back into the city, back home even, just to stop by for a minute, “just stopping by, Fred.” But that seemed akin to admitting defeat. Defeat of what, I wasn’t sure. I thought of calling Molly. I wouldn’t care if her husband answered. “Do you know who this is?” I’d ask. “Do you have any idea?” I’d gloat. I’d preen. He’d squirm. “Who is this?” he’d demand. I’d let the line go dead.

And if she answered the phone, I’d say, “Please come.”

Instead, I roamed the house with the television turned high. The third wave of soldiers was arriving home. They were having a parade to which no one was going. Only the reporters were going, and a high school band. From floor to floor I roamed. Room to room. The rooms echoed. What once felt spacious now felt vacuous. Those few things that Dr. Dave and his wife had forgotten to put away before they left to “see the world,” a half-empty glass of water, for instance, began to give the impression that the occupants had been surprised by thieves one afternoon and murdered. I added to this sense of disarray. My absolute ease in their home had an insulting, apathetic underbelly: muddy footprints on the carpet, dirty dishes in the sink, hair in the bathtub. I recalled having once read an article about a gang of criminals who had invaded a vacant, wealthy house, not to steal but to live slovenly.

That’s what I was, an invader, a plunderer of privacy. In one of Dr. Dave’s closets I discovered two dozen pairs of identical blue jeans, hanging on hangers, ready to go. For fun I tried them on — they were too big. In another closet I found a box of photo albums. Sitting on the floor cross-legged, I looked through every one of them. Dr. Dave in the swing, Dr. Dave on his eighth birthday with cake on his face, Dr. Dave at the prom. He was born, he grew up, he graduated. And then it was his wedding day with his bride, a babe, dressed in her wedding gown and winking at the camera, her bouquet in her hand.

In another closet were his academic papers and professional correspondences, hundreds of pages, some in Japanese.

Everything that I took out, I put back exactly where it’d been. There would be no trace of my transgression. But hours later I’d be overcome with anxiety that I’d been careless somewhere, and I’d retrace my steps into the closets and trunks and boxes, fixing and readjusting.

Still, I hunted. What I was searching for, I did not know, something illicit I suppose, something secret, something that would debase Dr. Dave before the world. I found nothing. Not one thing. Not even pornography.

In lieu of nothing better to do, I masturbated one afternoon using his wife’s panties. It was thrilling and empowering, but when I came, I had a clear and unobstructed view of myself, almost as if watching myself from above. There, down below, I could see a small figure named Jake standing naked in a stranger’s living room in the middle of a summer afternoon with no idea what he was supposed to do next.

The flowers are dying, I thought, and I went out to water the garden.

Meanwhile, Molly’s painting progressed. It’s amazing what you can accomplish given just two days a week.

When she arrived, she would give me a kiss on the cheek and get right to work. “I don’t have much time,” she’d say. She meant it. She wore her smock and mixed her paints and studied the foliage. She painted people looking at the foliage. It was a theme that never tired and which she consistently improved upon. I liked thinking that the subjects in her paintings were variations of us, the three of us, but I didn’t want to presume, and I didn’t want to ask.

She worked slowly, cautiously, meticulously. It took hours for something even remotely recognizable to take shape, sometimes days, but when it did, it was glorious. She saw things I never noticed: snails and spiders and imperfections in the stonework. “Look at how it curves slightly. Isn’t it beautiful?” Yes, now that she mentioned it, it was beautiful.

It had become my job to occupy Lola while her mother attended to the important work. Never mind that I had my own aspirations for the summer. I would wander through the rooms calling “yoo-hoo,” displacing furniture as I went, further distressing the home in my game of hide-and-seek. And when I finally found Lola hidden under the bed or under a pile of dirty laundry, she’d scream as if she were about to be killed, bloodthirsty screams. I’d pick her up and swing her around. Her beautiful red hair falling in her face.

Back out in the garden, we filled balloons with water and hurled them at each other, so careful to avoid Mommy and her paintings. When the balloons burst, I would reflect on how our game was doing its part to aid the dying garden.

And the garden was dying. There was no question about it. We were presiding over its death. The plants and flowers were not able to survive the lack of rain, they were folding and drooping. Even the sturdier ones had collapsed and died, and the grass was turning brown. I blamed myself for this state of affairs, for not having been more diligent in my care. To make up for it, I fed them an inordinate amount of water, sometimes three or four times a day, sometimes in the middle of the night. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Forgive me.” My feet made indentations in the earth as I walked to and fro with the hose, spraying it like a firefighter entering a burning house. A bee buzzed around a flower, and I knew that this was how flowers were made, and I knew that I had no real understanding of the process beyond that. Bugs crawled past my feet at a glacial pace, asking not to be harmed. “I won’t harm you,” I said. This was the garden I would have had as a child if things had been different for me. If my mother had had ambition towards something more than being an operator. It was the luck of the draw.

And then summer was ending. Just like that. Dr. Dave was on his way home from his travels, school was about to begin, and Fred the subletter was being dislodged once more.