Amie Barrodale - You Are Having a Good Time

Then the woman lowers herself down into a push-up position, and she walks on her hands and feet. We talk about her commercial success. In the dream there are mansions. The mansions are tall but thinly drawn, and the sun is near the horizon.

It is wintertime, and my calls to Kate have not been returned.

* * *

The apartment my wife and I shared for three years was on the top floor of an old stone building. Often I had trouble saying the word “wife.” We had the top floor to ourselves, units 15 and 16. Sometimes in conversation, I mistakenly said girlfriend, or referred to our relationship as dating. When I said wife, it felt as though I was telling a lie.

We had two apartments, but one front door. You opened the front door, and at the end of a long entryway were two more doors, to the apartment on the left (#16) and the one on the right (#15). After some thought, we placed two bedrooms in the unit on the left and the common areas on the right.

I was unable to sleep. Each night I fell asleep early, and then woke up and lay awake until morning. I was worried at this time about a number of things. I was growing older, my talents had been wasted, and I knew that my wife would leave me for a younger, more successful man. Also, I worried that I was losing my mind. I was having vicious thoughts. I was full of bitterness. My wife was loyal and kind — everyone who met her commented on how much she loved me — but I nursed my malevolent feelings. I mentioned this to an analyst, a man whom I met with several times. He said, “Malevolent or vicious thoughts don’t necessarily imply insanity.” “So she’s cheating?” I said. He was openly confused by the leap. I was speaking a different language. I couldn’t communicate with the analyst, and so rather than showing up for our meetings, I walked around the mall where he kept an office. I couldn’t share this with my wife. In the middle of the night I sent an email to a new age couples therapist, but when she replied, I deleted the email. After sunrise I woke my wife up, gently, several times. She had trouble getting out of bed. She could only wake up when she was in danger of being late.

“You should take the car and go to the office now while you can still get there on time.”

“I’ll walk, so you can have the car,” she murmured. She fell back asleep.

My wife was very shy. She had a moonlike face. Her features were unusually even. She was pleasant to look at, but not beautiful. When she was nervous, when she spoke to strangers, sometimes her face trembled. She was quiet for long stretches of time, and believed in silly things.

* * *

After she was gone, I stayed in bed and did nothing. I was tired, and then I was frustrated, and after some time I opened my wife’s computer and turned on Outlook Express. I read her incoming mail. It was mostly communications with coworkers about small matters. I read what she had sent. Her replies were short, cordial, and efficient. I couldn’t find any secrets. I typed the name of her last boyfriend into her sent-mail box and read her emails to him. Then I went online and typed in the name of my last girlfriend and looked at photographs of her.

My first marriage ended when I’d had an affair. So I know how quickly these things happen. The wind blows, and a five-year commitment falls apart.

I went back to my wife’s inbox, and I found a love letter that she had written when she was in her twenties, to one of her old flames. She described a trip to the farmers’ market, dresses she wanted to buy, and the color of some berries that she had bought. The berries were green. It was not what she said, it was the way she said it.

I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and ate a handful of Brazil nuts. I stood in front of the sink. I can say these things now. At the time I couldn’t even think them to myself in an honest way.

* * *

In the car, I turned on Siri and said, “Driving directions. Trader Joe’s, Palo Alto.” Siri said, “I don’t understand.” I said it again, four or five times. My wife worked for a company that designed operating systems. I told her she should work on problems like this. “Everyday things. Then you’d make us rich.”

“You’ll make us rich with the new play,” she said, and then she corrected herself. “The new production. Besides, I am happy in our life. We have everything we need.”

Siri called out directions, and I followed them. I managed to get lost. I have a poor sense of direction. I always miss exits at the worst time. This happened and I had to drive ten miles on an open stretch before I could turn around.

The phone rang and I put it on speakerphone. It was my father. He said, “Did you drive by the place I sent? I saw you opened the photos.”

“No.”

“Why won’t you look in the Redwoods? They have nice things there. You could easily find something.”

I was driving on the highway and trying to figure out how to pull up directions on a different program. My father said, “Tom?”

“Don’t use my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t use it when you’re angry. You know like what, you’re not stupid. Besides, the fog is dangerous.”

“What?”

“The fog is dangerous in the Redwoods.”

“It’s not so bad. I drove through it at night.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“But people do live there, don’t they?”

“They don’t commute. I can’t have this discussion.”

“I guess you can’t talk about the sleep clinic.”

“I’m lost on the freeway. I don’t want to discuss checking myself into a new age asylum.”

“Well, are you going to just— Tom, you’re under strain. I’m worried about you. You can’t live in that drafty old apartment. I couldn’t sleep there either, and frankly, if you stay there, you’ll lose Kate. I think your marriage should be your first priority.”

“Boundaries.” I hung up the phone. I took an exit and pulled into the gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes.

In the parking lot of the grocery store half an hour later, I called my father and apologized. My father said, “Son, it is not your fault. You’re not sleeping. I wish you all would at least come out to the house.”

“We’ll try.”

My father had struggled with psychiatric problems, and so had my mom.

It’s true I was very tired. Standing in front of one particular segment of floor cleaners, I picked up a scouring sponge and a package of sponges with dual sides. I didn’t know how I was supposed to decide between them.

* * *

At dinner, my wife talked about semaphores, possible synchronization problems, and her junior staff. I often felt worn down when she spoke. I felt frustrated, then nauseated. I realized that I would be sick and ran to the kitchen sink, where I threw up. I put my hands above my head and grasped the cabinet pulls and vomited. Then I turned and put a hand to my throat — I couldn’t get any air. I turned back to the sink and threw up.

When I came back to the table, my wife took her plate to the kitchen. She was trying to be polite, but she was confused.

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Maybe you should lie down.”

“I’m not sick. I’m revolted. By you. All this talk about your office. Just to rub my nose in it. Why don’t you just say I’m a failure?”

“Ordinarily you like to hear how I describe things,” she said. “I think you’re unhappy.”

“Is that a joke?”

“What?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

I stood up and walked out of the room. I left my plate on the table. I went to the other side of the apartment. With the lights out, I got into pajamas and went to bed. I heard her go to the kitchen and run water to scrub the sink and wash my dish.