Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

The weeks passed. Rita would spot blood and cramp and spot some more. Spotting, gushing. Something was wrong. On the day she went to the hospital for surgery and was prescribed bed rest, Bruce was offered a position with the phone company, customer service. Only such was his rush to refuse the job, he’d forgotten to wipe the answering machine before Rita got home. They spoke for a while on the couch. She wasn’t feeling well. And she was worried. They’d consolidated their debt and cut way back, but to minimal effect. They weren’t saving money. And the baby was due in less than five months. She’d had her head on his shoulder when she noticed the 1 on the answering machine and went for it. Bruce did nothing. It was like watching a bottle of wine roll off the table. Not enough wherewithal to stop it but full knowledge that here was a disaster.

They fought. She hemorrhaged. Two weeks later, the phone rang. “This is the Department of the Interior,” said some strange woman who seemed to know a lot about him, followed by a job offer and signing bonus. To do what, exactly? Footage consultant. Had he applied for a job there? He couldn’t remember. Never mind, there was no arguing at dinner, no discussion. Bruce simply accepted the job and started work.

“Can I have the remote now?” he said.

“No.”

They’d been watching Les Misérables on pay per view. She said, “You know, most of the radicals in this country are fixated on their commitment to revolution way more than on the revolution itself. They don’t want to succeed. Because if they did, they couldn’t be radicals anymore, and a radical is most interested in his sense of being a radical.”

He shifted to his side. “See, this is why you need to stop with all that reading. It’s making you sound like a crank. Where do you get these ideas?”

“Just look around.”

“I am. And what I see is a middle-class couple watching Les Mis on a Sleep Number bed.”

“Crystal could probably put what I said better, anyway.”

“Oh, so this is Crystal talking. I’d like to meet this fount of conservatism.”

“She’s not conservative. She’s Helix. A level-headed reformist.”

“Aha.”

“Get me that brush while you’re up?” she said.

It was on her nightstand. He tossed it her way. “Anything else?”

“It’s snowing out. I bet Crystal’s not going to make it.”

His heart sank. Crystal, do not do this to me! The doorbell rang. And rang again, because he was so busy lamenting the afternoon ahead, he didn’t hear it.

“Want to get that?” Rita said.

He made for the door. A young woman with a canvas bike bag and a box of chocolate peppermint bark. Eighteen years old. Twenty, tops. “Yes?” he said.

“I’m here for Rita. You must be Bruce.”

She wore a hat with a yarn pom-pom dusted in snow. The cuffs of her jeans were soggy.

“You’re Crystal?”

“The very one.”

She took off her boots in the doorway. They were shag Inuit boots with tassels and incongruous rubber soles. She took off her gloves, coat, scarf, and sweater, and piled them on the radiator. She’d looked much bigger a second ago.

“My wife’s in the bedroom,” he said. “Follow me.”

“I know the way.”

She trotted down the hall: guess she’d been here before.

He decided to make nice. Brew some tea, make a tray of chocolate and whatever else was in the fridge.

Crystal had pulled up an armchair and rested her feet on the mattress. Awfully chummy, these two. Her socks were penguins on the beach. Rita had put on her glasses, which she never did in company. They were giant. Brown and plastic, and hitched to a chain around her neck. She was reading out loud. Bruce leaned against the door frame and waited.

Crystal put up her hand as if to say: Not in front of the husband.

But Rita shrugged it off. “He’s fine,” she said, and she kept going:

As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

As the seizure, four years back, of the presidency from the will of the people has perverted the Constitution.

As liberal Americans have a common stake in the enterprise of justice and must be common sufferers of its dispatch.

As the government’s hostility to principles of democracy mandates a reluctant but immediate exercise of protest.

Rita looked over her glasses at Crystal, who said, “So what do you think? We’re passing them out at the meeting today.”

“I think it’s good. It’s got moral authority.”

Bruce cleared his throat, wanting to jump in.

“You think?” Crystal said. “Because we haven’t gotten input from HQ. Not yet, anyway. Thurlow’s a busy man.”

Rita nodded. She’d read every speech Thurlow Dan had given, and none had actually mentioned interest in the travesty helming the government or that he thought the political strife of 2000 had turned into a bald divide no country could sustain, so revolt. But still, the message was there. Implicitly. Loud and implicit. Revolt!

“We were going for a certain tone,” Crystal said. “Like, you sort of want to call up the language of back then but not the substance.”

“Exactly,” Rita said. “Because if anything, the Confederates have all the power now. Total role reversal.”

Bruce cleared his throat again. And when they continued to ignore him, he said, “Uh, there are no Confederates anymore.”

Crystal returned her feet to the floor so she could one-eighty and regard the idiot by the door. Rita gazed at him from above the rim of her glasses. Their faces were the essence of pity.

“What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Crystal said, “Okay, but surely you’ve got a problem with what’s happening. Everyone with a brain has a problem with it. This government represents only half, half, of Americans. And the wrong half at that. You call that a union? It’s time we found each other. Started something new.”

As she spoke, her hair began to take on an unruly look. Static, perhaps. Or sympathetic arousal. Maybe her skin was on fire. She was so young.

“I thought the Helix was more of a therapy thing,” he said.

Crystal sighed as though to say: Who has time for this.

“Well,” he went on. “I’m apolitical, anyway. I choose not to get involved. Do I have opinions? Of course. Do they matter? No.”

“Gross,” Crystal said, and she looked at Rita, like, How was Rita married to this oaf?

“You have to know that pamphlet sounds like some ridiculous secession manifesto,” he said. “Are you in a club or something? High school play?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Rita. “Crystal is my new assistant. I told you.”

She told him? Really? “Oh, right,” he said. “When did you start?”

“Couple weeks. But I feel at home already. Lucky to have been assigned to Rita. We get along famously.”

She turned to Rita. “So, you ready? Meeting starts in about an hour. I got a car outside. And there’s plenty of couches, so you can lie down the whole time.”

“You bet,” said Rita. And, to Bruce, “Honey, get me my coat?”

“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “You can’t go out. What are you doing? You won’t even pick a sock off the floor, and you’re going to some silly model congress with lounge furniture?”

“Since Rita’s vouching for you, you’re welcome to come,” Crystal said. “The more the merrier. Strength in numbers.”