Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

‘And I never recited “Fire and Ice” again.’

‘Until now,’ Richard said.

Silence. I hung my head.

‘I’m sorry,’ I finally said.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Sorry for boring you with an adolescent embarrassment I should have gotten over years ago. And something I shouldn’t have shared with you.’

‘But I’m glad you shared it.’

‘I’ve hardly shared it with anybody before.’

‘I see,’ Richard said.

‘There’s nothing to “see” here. There’s just the fact that there are moments in life you find so mortifying. ’

I let the sentence die before finishing it. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. Suddenly felt as vulnerable and awkward and lost as I felt that moment on that high school stage with that white-hot spotlight on me. I fingered my glass.

‘I should go,’ I said.

‘Just because you told me that story?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘Your mother. was she always so brutal with you?’

‘“Brutal” is perhaps too brutal a word. She was very much pull-no-punches. All tough love. No real warmth. Why do you ask?’

‘My dad. He was brutal. Physically brutal — as in hitting us with a belt when we stepped out of line. Once my brother and I were beyond the spanking stage — though being whacked on the thighs with a belt is not exactly spanking — he then started working on us in different ways. Like the time I won the short story competition at the University of Maine. A story about a lobster man who takes his teenage son out to teach him the basics of his trade, and the boat capsizes and the son drowns. The prize was two hundred and fifty dollars and the story not only got printed in the college literary magazine, but also in the weekend supplement of the Bangor Daily News. It turns out half my father’s clients Down East saw the story. He called me up at college and tore a strip or two off of me, telling me that I had caused him all sorts of professional problems, as he had insured a whole bunch of lobster men, and my depiction of the lives of these men, and — most of all — a terrible tragedy happening owing to one man’s negligence. well, it was just outrageous. Especially as I didn’t know a damn thing about their world, me being a guy who was anything but hearty, and who had the audacity to think of himself as a writer when I was just turning out “mediocre drivel”. Those were his exact words.’

Silence. Then I said:

‘And you’re telling me this to make me feel better?’

‘Absolutely. Because I know what it means to have any sort of confidence zapped out of you through the unkindness of others.’

‘My unkindness was towards myself — which is far worse. Because we all short-change ourselves.’

‘Not you.’

‘You’re sugaring the pill.’

‘Well then, how have you short-changed yourself?’

‘That’s another conversation.’

The smallest smile formed on Richard’s lips as I uttered that.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘If there is another conversation.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘My weekend’s really busy.’

‘All those radiology conferences?’

‘All those radiology conferences.’

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Except for another morning meeting tomorrow in Brockton, I have the day free.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

My tone was sharp, dismissive, so stupidly defensive. I turned away — but from the corner of my eye I could see that Richard had been unsettled by the hint of anger underlying my reply. Again I had just slammed shut a door. out of fear. Fear of what? The fact that this man was suggesting we spend the afternoon together? The fear that I had just told him a story that I could never bring myself to tell my husband — perhaps out of the knowledge that his reaction would have been the roll-of-the-eyes, poor silly Laura look that I saw Dan give me on so many occasions.

‘I’ve obviously uttered the wrong thing again,’ Richard said, simultaneously motioning to the waiter for the check.

‘No, it’s me who’s been the impolite one here.’

‘I shouldn’t have been so personal, asking you how you’ve short-changed yourself.’

‘That wasn’t the reason I got tetchy. The reason was. ’

I broke off, not wanting to say anything more.

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Richard said.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered, suddenly wanting a hole in the floor to open up and suck me out of this embarrassed place.

The check arrived and Richard insisted on paying it. He then asked me if I could get email on my cellphone.

‘I could,’ I said, ‘but it’s too expensive to run on a monthly basis. So I rely on texting.’

‘Well then, I am going to put the ball completely in your court. Here again is my card. My cell number is the one at the bottom. I am free tomorrow as of twelve noon — and I would love to spend the day with you. If you don’t contact me, no hard feelings whatsoever. It’s been lovely sharing this time with you. And I truly wish you well. Because — if I may say so — you deserve good things.’

Silence.

‘Thank you,’ I finally said. ‘Thank you so much.’

We stood up. I found myself wanting to say: Shall we meet somewhere downtown around one p.m.? But again I held back.

‘Can I walk you to your car?’ he asked.

‘No need. I got lucky and found a spot right outside the movie house.’

‘That still requires a few steps.’

We left the bar and said nothing as we walked less than half a block to my elderly vehicle. If Richard noticed its decrepitude he was very good at not showing it.

‘Well then. ’ I said.

‘Well then.’

Another silence.

‘I’m sorry tomorrow won’t work out,’ I said, thinking: Now the door has been slammed twice.

‘You have my number.’

‘That I do.’

‘And that cheerleader — the one who heckled you — I bet she regrets all that now.’

‘I tend to doubt it. But do you want to hear one of the great supreme ironies of my life? My daughter’s a cheerleader. Not a mean one, I hope. But very much a cheerleader. And very much desperate to be popular at all costs.’

‘So she’s lonely.’

And I heard myself say:

‘Aren’t we all?’

As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I whispered a fast goodbye and climbed into the car, unnerved by the fact that I had just told a stranger the one central thing that had been unsettling me for days, months, years: the fact that I’ve felt so terribly alone.

And having made that huge admission, what did I do? I slammed the door and drove right off into the night.

Six

WHEN I GOT back to the hotel it was almost one a.m. When was the last time I had stayed up so late, talking, talking, talking?

I felt a stab of self-reproach. Especially as I saw a text from my husband.

I was out of line before. Sorry. Dan

So there it was. An apology of sorts. Terse. Telegraphic. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of love.

And how did I react to this detached expression of regret? Without a pause for reflection I texted back:

No problem. We all have our off moments. Love you. Laura

Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops. And though Dan’s anger of late had been so quietly contemptuous, his surliness tonight was, in part, due to the stress he’d been under, and the fact that he’d been roused out of sleep by my ill-timed call.

Why was I excusing his very bad behavior right now? Because part of me was feeling just a little guilty about having those two glasses of wine with Richard. and so enjoying myself. Just as I was also simultaneously castigating myself for turning my blurted-out admission of loneliness into a reason to dash off into the night. No doubt he now considered me highly strung and profoundly uptight. Except for that one innocent aside about this being something akin to a first date — an aside which I absurdly jumped on — Richard did absolutely nothing to indicate that he was in any way cruising me. Nor did he signal whatsoever that he was unhappily married or so frustrated with his personal situation that he wanted to.