Tim Sandlin - Social Blunders

No 240Z or any other car was in front and the house looked dark and empty. Beyond empty, it looked uninhabited. There were no curtains or shades, no clutter on the porch that sagged vaguely southeast. Several windows were cracked or broken.

“Maybe she doesn’t live here but uses the address as a mail drop,” I said. “She was accustomed to a privileged way of life.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“You stay here while I check things out.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m with you.”

“If she comes home while I’m inside, things could get ugly.”

“I like other people’s ugly scenes. All that intense emotion, words spoken without thought, domestic violence—it’s neat if I’m not taking part.”

“But what if she expects you to take part?”

“I’ll slap her upside the head.”

I looked at Gilia in the late afternoon light. Her eyes sparkled, but I couldn’t tell if it was from resolve or amusement. She was either being supportive in my time of tension or making sport of my personal problems. Either way, it would be nice not to face Wanda alone.

As we walked toward the house, I said, “Sometimes I wish I believed in firearm ownership.”

She buddy-punched my shoulder. “Yeah, right, Wyatt Earp. In a showdown you’re more likely to pull out a credit card than a gun.”

The front door was locked and I was ready to give it up and head back to Greensboro, but Gilia reached through a broken window pane and flipped the bolt.

“You’ve got spine to spare dealing with my father and Skip, why turn into a whuss when it’s your wife?”

“Wanda’s meaner than your father and Skip.”

The living room wasn’t as bad as I’d expected—bare floor, single mattress up against the wall, overflowing ashtrays, pizza boxes with the one-two Domino’s logo. I’d expected rotting trash and human feces; this was no worse than the average freshman dorm. On one wall someone had painted a Harley-Davidson that was fairly good.

Gilia wrinkled her nose at the smell. “So what’s Grandma’s jewelry stored in?”

“A box covered with green felt; at least that’s what the stuff was in when Wanda took it. Desperate as she’s been for cash, I doubt we’ll find much.”

Gilia bent down and turned over a couch pillow next to the mattress. “This it?” She held up Me Maw’s jewelry box.

I nodded. “I don’t suppose—”

“Nope.”

I wandered down the hall and into the kitchen, where my baseball cards lay stacked on a linoleum-topped table. They were a mess. She’d mixed American League with National League and relief pitchers with starters. A sticky bottle of Log Cabin syrup was balanced on 1968. I guess she hadn’t had time to figure out how much the collection was worth or where to sell it. She’d only stolen it to hurt me anyway; I told her a long time ago it wasn’t worth huge amounts on account of Caspar burned all the pre-August 1963 cards, including a 1954 Alvin Dark that was the pride of my youth.

Don Drysdale, ’65, fell on the floor, and when I bent to get him I discovered one table leg was propped up by The Shortstop Kid . I dropped to my knees and pulled it out from under the leg, which caused the table to tip and more cards to fall. The Shortstop Kid had been my first published novel. The day my carton of books arrived, I’d been so proud I took a picture of the mailman.

The cover was a boy in a home uniform, tagging second and making the throw to first. The kid on the cover was right-handed and my kid was left-handed, but even that didn’t spoil the moment. I opened to the title page and read the inscription: For Wanda, My love for you shall never fade nor falter. You are my purpose. Yours, Sam.

“Sam, come here,” Gilia called.

“Just a sec. I found the cards.”

“Now would be better.”

I followed Gilia’s voice down the hall and into a bedroom, where I found Wanda passed out in a bed with two men—kids really. She was in the middle, on her back with her mouth open, naked. Wanda’s breasts were so small she looked like a little girl. Her pubic hair had grown out some since I’d last seen it, and she had a bruise, or a hickie, I don’t know which, on her thigh.

“Are they alive?” I asked.

Gilia stood against the wall. “I think so. They all seem to be breathing.”

The guys had long hair. One wore an ankle bracelet made of leather and the other had a dark blue tattoo on his shoulder that said Hog. Both of them were touching Wanda.

“They’re making a movie,” Gilia said. She nodded toward a Panasonic videocamera on a tripod. It was aimed at the bed. A red light on the side blinked slowly.

I looked from Wanda to the book in my hand, and back to Wanda. Memory was hard to connect to reality.

Gilia stepped toward me and touched my arm. She said, “I can’t picture you married to her.”

“Would you gather up the cards? They’re on the kitchen table.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’d like to stay here and watch her for a while.”

Gilia glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at me. “Did you steal the videotape?”

“How did you know I wanted to?”

Her face crinkled into a smile. “I’m starting to see how that misguided mind of yours works.”

Everybody thinks they know how I think but me.

“You look at watching your wife’s porno flick as a duty,” Gilia said, “as if you owe it to the experience of losing her.”

Those weren’t the exact words I’d used, but close enough. Punishment deserved was what I’d thought. The moral person does not avoid punishment deserved. But then at the last moment, in a giant spiritual step either forward or backward, I chose to skip the heartache.

“Besides,” Gilia went on, “that tape in the hands of a lawyer would put an end to Wanda’s hopes of taking your money.”

“I guess I couldn’t do that.”

“Or we could mail the tape to her parents. It might actually help Wanda in the long run.”

“I’m not good at hurting people in the short run to help them in the long run.”

Gilia made a right-hand turn that left rubber on the curb next to my driveway. Her mind seemed to drift, which left her braking foot unattended until almost too late to save my garage. Only by stiff-arming the glove compartment did I avoid seat belt burns.

“You always drive like this?” I asked.

She looked at her hands on the steering wheel. “I was thinking about seeing Jeremy in bed with another woman. They were ignoring me so I got up and sat in a chair at my vanity table and watched him on top of her. She lifted her feet high and sweat ran down her neck. Jeremy’s eyes were open in that foggy look I’d always thought was love. It was like a dream where you want to scream, but can’t.”

“Wanda must have been a low-quality person when I married her. I wonder why I didn’t notice?”

“You see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear.”

“Is that a quote? Sounds like Shakespeare or Woody Allen.”

“It’s me.”

“Oh.” We sat looking at the garage, the yard, and my big old house. I didn’t want to go inside. I wanted to sit next to Gilia and feel clean.

“Did you love Jeremy?” I asked.

“A lot. Did you love Wanda?”

I saw Wanda on our wedding day. She’d worn a beige dress and smiled at me. “I thought I could save her.”

“That’s not the same as love.”

I leaned across and kissed Gilia. Her lips didn’t respond. She didn’t flinch or fight, but it was definitely a one-sided kiss.

After about four seconds, she pulled back and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Is it because you might be my sister?”