Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

“You mean that he assumed we were married?”

It was not just the motel clerk. The waitress at the diner in Iowa where they stopped for lunch had come by the table when Winnie was in the bathroom and asked Aaron what his wife wanted to drink. He had not known how to respond but thought he might feel foolish if he made a point of insisting that Winnie was not his wife, so he said, “Can you check back after she returns from the restroom?” It turned out that this made him feel foolish also. As they drove, they had become just one more husband and wife eating, buying gas, driving across the middle of the country, together. It was as though he had stepped into another life, the life he might have lived had he not left Mortonville, had he not understood who he was, whom he desired.

“To be fair,” he told Winnie, “they’re looking at two people who clearly enjoy each other’s company, so it’s not a stretch to think we’re a couple. But if you’re asking whether it bothers me that I could be here with a man, looking just as pleased with his company, and these same people would be asking whether we’re brothers, and which one of us is older, and nonsense like that, yes, that bothers me.”

But he was guilty of making assumptions also, for hadn’t he decided that most of these people had never felt on the outside of anything, were incapable of seeing the world from the perspective of someone who was? Without even knowing them, he had concluded that they lacked the necessary imagination.

“When Walter and I traveled, we’d get to a town like this and find ourselves right back in the closet, actually thanking the motel clerk after he’d explained proudly that he’d managed to secure us a room with two beds. The truth is that a part of me enjoys how easy this feels, yet I simultaneously feel like, I don’t know, like I’m being erased, like I don’t exist here.” By then they were in front of the grain elevator, and they stood looking up at it together.

Later that night, after they had eaten dinner and gone back to their rooms, Aaron composed a letter to Walter on stationery from the North Platte Motel. He carried the letter with him, stamp-less, during the rest of the trip.

Dear Walter [he had written],

Do you remember how you tried to teach me Spanish and French, back in the beginning? “With your vocabulary and the ubiquity of cognates?” you used to say. “It’ll be a piece of pie.” “Piece of cake,” I’d always correct you, and then we’d argue about whether it was still a cliché if you changed one of the key words like that. “You’ve turned it into a cliché and a malapropism, which makes it doubly offensive,” I would say, and you’d reply with something like “Well, there’s more than one way to skin a mouse.” We’d laugh, and sometimes we’d have sex because we had that in common: verbal sparring aroused us. I know it will probably embarrass you that I’m writing about sex — you never liked to talk about it, at least not with me. I wish you would have told me why, but you didn’t, and I didn’t know how to make you.

But back to language. I always argued that it was my fierce love of English — of its nuances and endless synonyms — that hindered my attempts to learn, that and the fact that you were a language professor. But what I never told you was that I abhorred cognates, that I preferred words that bore no resemblance to English, to the sounds that I formed on a daily basis. I gravitated toward the useless and obscure. In fact, I kept secret lists, words that I learned in the countries we visited: in Japanese, I liked inushishi , which is a wild boar; in German, I could request a sewing kit, a dustpan, or a table runner; and in Spanish, I could point to a child’s curly hair and say “ringlets.”

Of course, I could also exchange pleasantries and keep myself fed. But it was only in tossing around those useless words — blurting them out to children on trains and to the spouses of your colleagues as we sat together at interminable dinners — that I truly felt I was communicating, letting everyone know how far I was (and would always be) from ever being able to say anything that I really needed to say.

That is, I’m sorry.

Aaron

He finally mailed the letter from the airport in Minneapolis, as he waited for his flight back to San Francisco. Winnie had insisted on going with him to the airport, even though he still had the rental car to return. She was waiting for him just before the security checkpoint, holding a bag of cookies that she had stayed up making for him the night before. “Snickerdoodles,” she said happily. He’d told her once, years ago, that they were his favorite.

Then, they stood awkwardly for a few minutes, as people do when there is still more to say. “Beware of leaving guests,” he joked. It was something that Walter used to say, a Russian proverb he thought.

“You’re the one who’s insisting on leaving,” she said.

He thought about all the things he wanted to say to her. “Thanks for my cookies,” he said. “I love snickerdoodles.”

“I know,” Winnie said.

As he walked toward his gate, he took out the letter to Walter that he’d composed in North Platte, Nebraska, bought a stamp, and dropped it in a mailbox. Immediately, he wanted it back, but wasn’t it always that way with letters? There was that moment right after you’d put it in the box when you wished you’d said so much less — or so much more.

* * *

Whatever was wrong with him — and there was something wrong — had started before he walked into the school and saw Bill’s empty room and the smoking balcony door still leaning against the wall, before he awakened, exhausted, from his half day of sleep. He did not understand it. On the plane home he had been buoyant, filled with resolve: there were issues to be addressed, and he was going to address them. He would begin by telling the Ngs that he could hear everything, all their screaming and cursing and furniture shoving. Then he would find a new apartment, something quiet where he could maybe have a cat. Next, he would go to the café where he had met George and would keep going until he found him. He would invite George to take a walk with him, just a walk . Maybe they would become friends, maybe something more, but even if nothing ever happened, this nothing would at least be the result of something other than fear. The most important thing was that he was going to call Walter and make sure that the letter had arrived. He was going to apologize for not calling earlier.

These were the things he had planned to do, had thought about on the flight back from Minneapolis and was still thinking about as he rode BART into the city from the airport, but then he entered his studio beneath the Ngs’ house, dropped his bag on the bed, and discovered he did not have the energy to unpack it. Instead, he lay down and pulled the covers over his head, making a tent, where he stayed for hours, trying to empty his mind, as people who meditate claim to do, but he did not have a mind for meditation.

He tried an exercise he’d read about in a magazine one time. He was supposed to picture something, let it come into focus. What he saw was a package, neatly wrapped, like a gift beneath a Christmas tree. The tag on it said For: Walter and From: Aaron, and inside was An Apology . Except envisioning it beneath a tree reminded him that he had left just before Christmas and, worse, that he had never given Walter a gift, not once in all their years together. Walter had always claimed not to mind. He probably didn’t mind, but Aaron was still ashamed. He had let his mother’s injunction against gifts become a rule, and now Walter had nothing to remember their years together by.