Alix Ohlin - Inside

There was a long pause before he said, “Well, I’m glad I didn’t wake you up.” It was clear from the pause that he hadn’t, actually, given it much thought.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m having a dark night of the soul. You seemed like the person to call.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Grace said, trying to picture him alone in his dark apartment, in his bed, his hands agitating his curly hair. “Not that you’re having a dark night of the soul, I mean. I’m not glad about that part.”

“Oh, I am,” Tug said. “I’m positively thrilled.”

She chose not to encourage this sarcasm. Instead she concentrated on the near-silence between them on the line, the cadence of his breath. “What would you say is keeping you up?” she asked after a while.

“At this point I’d have to say it’s the drinking,” Tug said.

“And before that?”

“I feel bad about lying to you,” he said, not an answer to her question but a separate tack. “And you knew it, too. That’s probably why people don’t like to spend time with you, Grace. Because you can tell when they’re lying and you call them on it.”

This stung her. “Who says people don’t like to spend time with me?”

“You don’t seem to have much of a social life. And you’re pouring a lot of energy into being friends with me, God knows why. And you’re divorced.”

“So are you.”

“My point,” he said, “exactly.”

Tug was wrong, Grace thought: she had friends. But she had to admit there was some truth to what he said. With men, she was curious enough to pay attention to them, but they either recoiled as if she were too intense or else unraveled, told her everything, then wound up saying, “You’re a great listener, Grace,” and dating somebody else. Lately she’d sort of given up on meeting anyone. As her friends got older, busy with their marriages and children, she was starting to feel isolated, marooned on her own private island, and sometimes weeks passed without her making any plans at all.

But she was still curious about Tug. “So what did you lie about?” she said.

He lowered his voice to a whisper so unfocused that she had trouble making out the words. “I was never an exchange student in Switzerland. Also, I haven’t exactly worked at the store forever. I was headquartered in Geneva for a time, then Central America, then Africa, then back here. I’ve been restless for most of my life, and maybe that’s my problem — that I came home.”

“Are you a spy?” Grace said.

“I was. But not anymore.”

She let the silence stretch between them again, a joint project, loose and home-fashioned, like a string between two tin cans.

“That was a lie. The spy thing, not the geography.” He was barely audible now, his mouth far from the phone, and she could picture him clearly, head on the pillow, the phone next to him like a companion, a pet.

“Ah,” she said.

There was a scuffle on the other end of the line as he started to say something, but then he hung up — whether accidentally or on purpose, she didn’t know. He didn’t call again.

The next day she was back at work. Never had she been more grateful for how the hour-long sessions broke the day down, and she poured her attention and focus into each one. Only in a few off moments did the memory of his slurred, confiding tone return to her, the intimacy of his middle-of-the-night voice. She resisted the temptation to give in to it. She wanted to be fair to the people who sought her help, without distraction, and she promised herself that she could think about him all she wanted some other time.

As if in reward for this promise, he called her that evening at seven thirty, and his voice was articulate and dry, haltingly sober. “I want to apologize,” he said, “for last night.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe you don’t think so,” he said. “Though it’s a mystery why.”

“I was glad you called.”

“There’s something weird about a person like you,” he said, “who’s so intent on helping a fuck-up.”

“I don’t actually think you’re a fuck-up,” Grace said mildly. She was standing in her kitchen, holding a half-eaten sandwich. “And anyway, maybe there’s something weird about a person like you, who thinks he doesn’t deserve anybody’s help.”

“Maybe,” he said, not sounding very convinced. “I shouldn’t be drunk-dialing at my age. I’m sorry.”

“Are you all right?”

“My hangover’s more psychological than physical, if that’s what you mean.”

“It wasn’t, but okay.”

“Did you ask me if I was a spy?” he said. “I vaguely remember that.”

“You were talking about a life spent in far-flung locations. It seemed like a logical question at three in the morning. I’m not sure I was thinking clearly.” In the ensuing silence she could imagine him wearily rubbing his eyes.

“I was employed for a time by an international NGO working to provide basic supplies for refugees in famine areas,” he said. “I handled logistics. I organized the importation of rice. Coordinated food drops and set up camps.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And now I coordinate paper supplies. As you can see, it was a logical step.”

“What happened to you?”

“I had enough. It happens to a lot of people. Anyway, I felt I owed you an explanation. Sorry about calling in the middle of the night. It won’t happen again.”

“Hold on,” she said, but he was gone.

In spite of his confession, she felt that they’d taken a step backward. He’d offered her bits of his past, yes, but mostly to keep her at a distance. There is a difference between the facts of a person and the truth of him, and Tug knew it. Grace wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t notice how little he asked about her, and she wanted to be acknowledged as someone with whom he might develop a connection. It would be a way of feeling her own weight in the world. She wondered if in all their time together she’d made any impression on him at all.

Then a couple days later she stepped out of the office and there he was in the parking lot, leaning against her car on a freezing afternoon. His cheeks were red, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a navy-blue pea coat. She wondered how long he’d been waiting. “You look cold,” she said, and smiled.

He didn’t smile back, his expression so serious that he almost seemed angry. “I don’t really know why I’m here.”

“I’m glad to see you,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Good.” For the first time, he seemed unsure of what to do next.

Grace said, “Seriously, you really do look cold.”

“Do you think—” he said, then stopped. “Look, can we go somewhere?”

Grace nodded, unlocked the car, and, not knowing what else to do, drove them to her apartment. Once inside, Tug took off his coat, accepted a drink, and sat on the couch. He didn’t look around the place or make any small talk. She sat down next to him, acutely conscious of his closeness. He was wearing a collared shirt and a V-neck sweater, and she could see that his throat had completely healed.

“So, how are you?” she said.

“I’m better.” Looking at her, he took a sip of his wine.

“Your whole situation — it’s a little confusing to me, Tug.”

At the sound of his name, he smiled. “Do you wish you’d never stopped when you saw me there on the mountain?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly. “You really don’t care, do you? About what I did. What I almost did.”

“Of course I care,” she said. “It just doesn’t discourage me.”

His lips were dark pink, almost red, and she wondered if they were chapped or raw from cold. But they weren’t. They were soft, and he was kissing her. Barely able to make any sense of it, she put her hand on his arm and felt the knit of his sweater, telling herself, This is real. I’m touching him. His other arm went around her waist, and her leg was on top of his. She stopped kissing him, almost sick to her stomach with an excess of wanting.