Part Three Ed the co-worker neighbor has invited me and the lovely missus over for dinner or a party or something. I wasn’t really paying attention because I don’t want to go. I spend enough time with him during the week. He must be infatuated with me or something. I break the news to the little wife and the first question out of her mouth is “Who’s going to be there?” She’s trolling for agents, producers, casting directors. When I tell her it is the cast of Fucking and Fucked-Up, she frowns and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head trying to come up with a reason why she can’t go. My guess is that severe cramps will besiege her – for the fifth time this month. I think Ed is crazy. But then again, he doesn’t know that the Evanses hate one another. I wonder if he will have others at his party, people he cares about ever seeing again. Because Maria and I have been lying dormant, not unlike Mount Vesuvius, and one of these days the explosion will be capable of killing thousands. Pompeii for the twenty first century. We drive over to Ed’s house in silence. I smoke, she makes little noises of disgust from the passenger seat. Hey – I rolled the window down at least. It’s a wonderful, warm California night. A little fresh air will do us good. Besides, I need the buzz, woman. She checks her makeup in the mirror, runs her finger along the corner of her mouth to straighten her lipstick. Then it’s on to the compact and the nose powder. When did she become so obsessed with her looks? Oh, yeah – it was when she realized she could be “discovered” at any moment. “You aren’t going to drink, are you?” she asks suddenly. Why do I need to drink? I’m already stoned. I look at her and don’t say a word. I never drink. She saw me drunk once – when we were 16. Let it go, woman. Or I’ll pull up to the curb and kick your bony ass out. “I mean,” she backtracks, her voice uncertain. “You never know…your powers and all…” I sigh and look back to the road. Maria believes that alien powers are like constipation – they build up after a while and nothing good is going to come of it. I think she believes one day I will just explode because I haven’t used mine in so long. That’s not the case – it’s not like an electrical build up or something. It’s like coughing – if you don’t have to cough, you don’t. When you have to cough, your body naturally does it. It’s not like if you don’t cough for eight years that you’re one day going to cough to death. Whatever. From the corner of my eye, I can see her looking at her hands in her lap. She knows she’s just wandered into forbidden territory. Don’t worry, Maria, I’m not going to bitch slap you for that. Not tonight. Because you smell really, really good. But I’m also not willing to let her off the hook entirely. Because this is the state of our relationship. She’s a bitch to me. I’m a dick to her. “Don’t worry,” I say without taking my eyes from the road. “I won’t do anything to embarrass you.” She lets out a snort. “That isn’t what I meant.” I give her the “whatever” look and I can see the rage starting to flare in her eyes. But my timing is immaculate and here we are in front of Ed’s house. He actually has a valet and as soon as that suited monkey boy opens Maria’s door, she snaps on the smile and becomes Maria Deluca, the starlet. Score one for me on the evasion board. Obviously Ed can’t afford this wonderful house with the valet on an accountant’s salary. His wife, Doria, is a publicist or something. I didn’t tell Maria this because not all occasions need to be about her. All of the ledgerheads are in attendance. Surprisingly, accountants aren’t that boring. They have boring jobs, but outside of the office they are some of the more wild people I’ve ever met. So much stereotyping with the horn-rimmed glasses and the pocket protectors. We live in a cruel world. I do have to give the little wife credit – she’s still charming to anyone she meets, regardless if they can advance her career or not. She likes to meet people, to talk about stupid things. I was never good at that, I’m still not. So I sit in a corner and smoke Marlboros to get stoned. I watch her in her short red dress working the room. The women like her, the men really like her. I hear little clusters of laughter wherever she goes. It’s official – nine out of ten financial experts adore my wife…I’m the abstaining one. Suddenly a little blond girl is before me. She has Cindy Brady curly pigtails and she’s toting a baby doll. I smile down at her and she smiles back. For some reason, I attract small children and cats. “Who’re you?” she asks, her blue eyes round. I guess she’s probably five. “Max,” I tell her, my ears buzzing from the cigarettes. “Who’re you?” “Greta.” Well, that’s an awful name to pin on a kid. Especially in this century. In my haze, I try to think if Greta was one of the kids in The Sound of Music. I think she was. What were the other kids’ names? All German of some kind, obviously. Well, I guess I should say Austrian because the Austrians might get pissed if someone called them German. Just like people from Wales don’t like to be referred to as British. I mean, come on – they’re on the same island…where was I? Oh, yeah, the kids from The Sound of Music. I can’t seem to remember any of them. A Franz in there maybe? Christ, I’ve seen that movie ten billion times and I can’t remember anything more than Greta and maybe Franz? “Do you want to play with my doll?” I am jerked out of my intoxicated internal rambling by the little girl, who is still standing before me. I have no idea how long I drifted off there. Whatever. “Sure,” I say because she is a child and little things like playing with her doll are important to her. So she climbs onto my lap uninvited. Which is okay, I guess. I extinguish my latest cigarette because it’s bad to smoke around babies and put my arm around her. I take her doll with the other hand. “What’s your doll’s name?” I ask her, somewhat amused that doll and child are dressed in very similar outfits. “Blanche.” I managed to stifle that giggle. And I’m not sure exactly how. When we were kids, Isabel’s dolls had names like Suzie and Rainbow and Chrissy. But Blanche? Who are these people? “That’s a lovely name,” I tell her. Kids will believe anything you tell them. Greta chatters on about something only she understands, either because I am too stoned to interpret or she’s really inarticulate. Come to think of it, she kind of sounds like Cindy Brady, too. I wonder if Ed is aware that his daughter is a 70s sitcom reincarnation… “There you are,” I hear Ed’s familiar voice. I look up at him and he strokes his daughter’s hair. “You aren’t bothering Max, are you?” I shake my head. “No, she’s fine.” On my lap, she weighs practically nothing. Ed laughs. “Greta doesn’t like everybody. Consider yourself special.” Told you – small children and cats. “You’re a natural, Evans. When are you going to have some of your own?” Oh. Shit. An innocent question asked by an honest person. I hope Maria hasn’t heard and I can’t force myself to look across the room to ensure she hasn’t. “No time soon,” I answer ambiguously. That is not a yes, that is not a no. It’s a response that he can have no come back for. He nods his head. “Ah, you’re both young still. Plenty of time. Me, I’m an old man.” He laughs. “Your wife’s incredible, Evans.” I smile in return, hope that the panic has left my face. As he moves away, I look across the living room and I can tell by her expression that she did indeed hear. I am suddenly very sober. The ride home is silent. Only the sound of the tires on the road resonates in the cab of the Expedition. She’s stopped fussing with her makeup. In fact, she’s huddle against the passenger door, her face nearly pressed against the glass. I glance quickly her way a couple of times, hoping she doesn’t catch me. I would reach for her hand, but the truck is wide and I wouldn’t be able to reach her. I swallow and lick my lips. “You okay?” I ask her quietly. She doesn’t look at me, but nods her head. I know she is lying. She’s not okay. She will never be okay. She’s only saying yes so that I will not pressure her to talk about it. Been down this road. Many times. At home I try to get the door for her, but she more or less pushes me out of the way. She doesn’t want my help. Not any more. She wanted it when I couldn’t give it to her, and tonight all of that was dredged to the surface again. I watch her walk directly back to the bedroom without a backward glance. I don’t know what to do, so I stand impotently for a few long moments. Then I go to the balcony and smoke. I watch the city lights and listen to the traffic below. The only good thing about this apartment is this little piece of solitude. After awhile, I go back inside. The lights are off in the bedroom, so I undress in the dark and slide beneath the covers. For the first time in a very long time, I want to curl up behind her and comfort her. But I know I would only make it worse. I watch her shoulders rise and fall for awhile and wonder if she is faking being asleep. I’m sure she is. I wish she would talk to me, yell at me, anything. But she just lays with her back to me and there is nothing I can do. I’m powerless in more ways than one. |
| PART 3 |