Tom Mendicino - Probation

Maybe what she meant was that it was better than sex with me.

No, she didn’t think that, not my Alice. She’s not clairvoyant; she isn’t a psychic. I was determined to never give her any reason to question or doubt me. I was a good husband, or at least I tried to be. I studied the arcs of her moods, armed and ready at the slightest hint of discontent or restlessness with surprise trips to Paris and tickets to the Metropolitan Opera and newly issued gift editions of classic cookbooks. The price tags didn’t matter to her. A Cracker Jack prize would have done the trick. The clouds would disperse, the threat of showers would pass, and the forecast was bright and sunny again. And I did my duty in the sack, even going above and beyond it with the occasional gold medal performance, scoring a perfect ten. What else could all that sound and fury, all that rutting and humping, signify but the sincerity and depth of my desire?

Desire.

What a fluid concept. Would Mr. Webster, Mr. Funk, and Mr. Wagnalls say I desired her? Of course they would. I desired her during the comfortable silences on the long drive to my mother’s home. I desired her on those happy evenings spent playing board games at the kitchen table. I desired her as I fell into a deep sleep while she lay propped against her pillows, captivated by Audrey and Cary. I even desired her, at least something about her, on those nights when she would fall asleep first and, tortured by insomnia, I would mute the television, silencing the sirens of the police drama or the explosions of a war epic. I desired her even though I didn’t stroke her shoulder or roll her toward me and wake her with a kiss and stiff penis but, instead, would slip quietly out of the bed and take solace in the dungeon of the Internet, sometimes only staring at the lurid images, sometimes engaging in cybersex with another bored and restless suburban husband in some remote corner of our great nation. And I desired her when I slid quietly back under the covers and finally fell into dreams of citrus groves inspired by the conditioner she’d used on her hair.

And I desired her even more when I woke in the morning and heard her singing softly in the bathroom. I would open my eyes to watch her brush her hair. She would squint at the image that stared back from the mirror as she carefully tinted her lips and dabbed color on her cheeks. Lying there, her side of the bed still warm, I desired her, maybe not like the Continental lover my family name would lead you to assume I might be, but in a quiet, sort of British way, sneaking off to the kitchen to steep a cup of Earl Grey for her and being rewarded with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. This is better than sex. Damn right, Alice. Anyone can fuck you, but where would you ever find anyone else to serve up such a heady brew of tea and sympathy?

Only once did she take a pass, after we “lost” the baby. At first, I assumed it was a reaction to the brutal shock of the D and C and that it was only a matter of time until her hormones restored her body to equilibrium. But a month passed, then another, and she remained beyond my reach, a distant buoy bobbing on the surface of a placid but unnavigable lake. I would hear her talking on the telephone, jovial and lighthearted with her sisters and her girlfriends. Her shoulders would grow stiff if I approached her from behind and gently touched her. A slight edginess, probably noticeable to no one but me, would creep into her voice. I would rub her neck, trying to persuade her to relax, but her muscles would resist me and she would burrow deeper into her conversation until, defeated, I would walk away. I would hear the tension recede from her voice as I walked out of the room.

She carefully avoided me, keeping me at a safe distance, studying me. She was subtle as always, never cruel, rejecting every attempt at physical intimacy as kindly as possible. Yet her reticence was lethal as Kryptonite, leaving me powerless to assure her that all was well and good in our little kingdom. For the first time, I felt as if I could lose her. Nothing, nothing, she would say, when I asked if anything was wrong. I’m fine, when I suggested she was fatigued, that a checkup and maybe blood work might be a good idea. Finally, I said we needed a change, to get away. Spring had been cold and wet and Rome might be pleasant, or maybe Santa Barbara. She looked up from her dinner plate and gave me an indulgent smile.

“Not this time, Andy,” she said.

I sat there, exposed. And, assuming the game was finally up, I found the nerve to ask the question I was afraid to have answered.

“Do you still love me?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she said.

I should have known better than to make the fatal mistake of asking one question too many.

“Why?”

She stood and picked up her plate, her appetite lost.

“Because I don’t give up that easily.”

We made the trip to Santa Barbara after all and, over time, her faith in my gestures of love and affection seemed renewed. One night, not that many months ago, we sat on the deck, reading in the soft, extended daylight of midsummer, tropical bossa novas spinning on the disc player. I looked up from my book and saw her staring at me. She hadn’t aged a day since college, at least not in the fading light. She could have been that quiet, determined college girl who summoned the courage to join me, uninvited, while I tugged my hair and struggled with Absalom, Absalom! at the cafeteria table. What’s up? I asked, and she grinned self-consciously.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“That it’s good to be friends.”

“Yes, it is.”

Damn, how this night has slipped away. Audrey and Cary are in the final clinch, about to embark on the happily ever after. Oh shit. I hadn’t remembered how this fucking thing ended. I’d forgotten Audrey’s last words.

Oh, I love you, Adam, Peter, Alex, Brian, whatever your name is. I hope we have a lot of boys and we can name them all after you.

Goddamn it. It would all have turned out different if I had been more like Cary Grant. The son of a bitch was never stupid enough to do it in a public toilet and, if he did, he was smart enough to never get caught.

His wide shoulders span the narrow aisle between the peep booths. He’s tall and carries a lot of weight. His belly is Jell-O but, all in all, he’s packed too solid to be called fat. He’s still wearing his work shirt. Duffy Donlan is embroidered above the pocket. Is that really his name or is it the logo design for the Looney Tunes fashion collection? He sees that I’m smiling and sets off in hot pursuit, following me through the maze. He’s no Cary Grant and this little cat-and-mouse chase through a dirty book store on the west side of Cleveland is hardly a romp through the streets of Paris. But it’s fun being the prey instead of the predator for a change and I slide into an empty booth, leaving the door ajar. He hesitates, then slips inside to join me.

The booth is tiny and he’s a big man. He fumbles for quarters. Somehow, he manages to drop a few coins into the box while getting my shirt unbuttoned and my pants to my knees. There’s no room to do anything but rub against each other. My nose is buried in his armpits and I work my arms around his waist. He kisses me and finishes off on my leg. I resist the affection in his hands. The attendant is swabbing out the next booth and the potent disinfectant kills any thoughts of romance.

The booth feels enormous after he leaves. I drop a few more quarters. Someone jiggles the knob of the locked door, trying to get in, smelling cum on the floor. Every few minutes the door rattles again. When I run out of quarters, I head for the parking lot.

A couple of old men smoking in their cars wink and smile as I pass. A rusty Chevy Impala with the hood propped open is parked next to my rental. Duffy Donlan looks up from the engine. His battery has died and none of these pricks will give him a jump, afraid his battleship will suck all the juice from their Toyotas and Hondas. I can hardly blame them. How would they explain it to the little woman if they had to call for a ride home from the parking lot of the Aphrodite Adult Emporium and Video Arcade, conveniently open twenty-four hours, seven days a week? Gee, honey, just thought I’d surprise you with a two-headed dildo for your birthday next month.