Part Five Her depression doesn’t last as long as I anticipated it would. I had geared myself up for a few weeks of moping and refusing to get out of bed and avoiding me. I even set up camp on the couch – I know when that king size bed is too small. But I come home from work only a few days after the Ed incident and find her on the phone. She’s talking rapidly, gesticulating in that vague Italian manner she possesses. I set my briefcase down silently and loiter in the entranceway, picking up bits and pieces of her conversation. She’s talking to her mom. She got a part – a small part, but a part nonetheless. And not a commercial shoot this time. No more laundry detergent and toothpaste ads for my baby, no siree. A real part in a miniseries or something. I know she won’t share the joy with me, so I retreat to our bedroom. I know she’ll call her girlfriends, the two or three that she’s made while we’ve been here, and they will go out to celebrate. She doesn’t want to celebrate with me. And that’s okay, because at this point I am just baggage in her life, a painful reminder. I change my clothes, light a cigarette and go out to the balcony. I hear the phone hang up, then some shuffling around, then a vague, “I’ll be back later.” Have a good time, dear. May you find someone more worthy than me. And as the nicotine swirls in my lungs, I think about that. Why hasn’t she moved on? Why haven’t I moved on? I’m still young, I’m still fit – I go to the gym three times a week and run on weekends, although that is happening less and less as the tar builds up in my lungs and I can’t tolerate it as much. That secretary in legal thinks I’m hot – I mean, she lets me ogle her boobs just about every morning. Sure, she’s married, but that doesn’t stop some people from having sex. I could have that woman, I’m sure of it. But I haven’t had her and I have no intention of having her. Maybe I’m gay. I giggle – the effects of the smokes. Think of the staggering statistic that would be – not only is he an alien, folks, but he likes boy aliens. I laugh a little harder. Watch out, Michael Guerin – I’m after you. I sigh. I’m not gay. I’m definitely straight. But for some reason I sit here, stuck in this loveless, passionless marriage like a neutered tabby cat. I think the thing that troubles me is that I don’t want to find someone else. I don’t want her, I don’t want anyone. And to me that is a problem. What did that psychiatrist tell me when I was a teenager? “Don’t be afraid to feel things, Max. The problem is when you can’t feel something.” And I can’t feel attraction. Is that a problem? Here comes the imaginary conversation. Me: “Dr….whatever your name was, do you think it’s a problem that I’m not attracted to anyone anymore?” Dr. Whatever-Your-Name-Was: “I don’t know, Max. Do you think it’s a problem?” You know, I don’t think that little girl in The Sound of Music’s name was Greta. I think her name was Gretel. Like Hansel and Gretel. I smoke too much. Around me, the sky has turned dark and the city lights are once again painting a florescent picture before me. I don’t know what time Maria left – some time shortly after I got home from work. It’s dark now. She’s been gone awhile and I know she won’t be home any time soon. She’s celebrating. With her superficial friends. I’m alone. With an empty stomach and a horrible buzz. So life goes on. I go to work at Fucking and Fucked-Up, I come home. I catch pieces of Maria’s phone conversations. This is the only way I know how her days go, what it’s like on the set. It’s not that she’s hiding anything from me, it’s not a secret. I think she doesn’t think I’m interested. But I am…kinda. A little generous part of me likes seeing her so happy. A little jealous part of me is upset that I’m not the one who could make her happy. It becomes more and more obvious every day that she doesn’t need me. And that I don’t need her. At work, the legal secretary continues to drop stacks of paper to the floor in front of my cube. I continue helping her pick them up and trying to not stare at her breasts. Ed continues to laugh at both of us. I balance the books, make entries, count beans, all the time thinking that I never intended on a pencil-pusher job. But I stay here because it is good money and I am good at it. I’m as neutered on the job as I am at home. And then one afternoon I come home and find Maria on the couch. She’s staring straight into space, her expression vacant. I stop in the doorway and feel my world start to spin. Something is really really wrong. My parents? One of them sick or injured? Is it Maria, is she hurt in some way? I suddenly can’t swallow past my mounting fear. “Maria?” I say cautiously. She turns slowly to look at me. Her eyes are dead. “What happened?” I ask. She expels a little snort, which only heightens my anxiety. “What?” I ask her. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she delivers the news. “Isabel is pregnant.” |
| PART 5 |