I sat in the waiting room, a plastic bag of her personal items on my lap, the clothes she’d worn to the clinic, her watch and handbag. I was restless as a toddler, unable to concentrate on the words of the book I was reading (The Southpaw, an annual Opening Day ritual since I was fourteen), needing Dr Pepper and cheese crackers from the vending machine to pacify me. I knew she’d have the necessary quarters and dimes in her change purse and as I shuffled through the contents of the bag I found a medal and chain, carefully wrapped in her panties. The metal was black with tarnish, the impression of the Blessed Virgin worn and barely distinguishable. It must have been a talisman from her childhood, probably draped around her neck at her First Communion and not removed until late in her rebellious adolescence.
I knew then that whatever was happening in another room of the clinic was a mistake. Not a sin. A mistake. She’d made the decision, made it alone really, not trusting me to have the fortitude and patience to persevere through the struggles ahead. I should have assured her that I was up for the challenge, that little Jack would make us even closer, that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever abandon her, leaving her alone to raise our child. But I didn’t. And if she had resorted to prayer, it hadn’t been to ask for forgiveness for what she was about to do. Once she’d made the decision, she would have been absolutely certain it was the right one. She would have been praying for hopeless causes, the baby and me.
I never saw that medal again. It was consigned to its secret hiding place until the next crisis or tragedy when she would retrieve it from safekeeping, seeking the comfort of feeling it resting on her chest. There was no religious awakening in our household, no sudden appearance of Mass cards or scripture tracts. Over time, life seemed to return to normal. But sex gradually became an afterthought, a ritual to mark a special occasion, a birthday or anniversary, or another stop on the carefully planned itineraries to Europe or Mexico, scheduled between breakfast and an afternoon shopping spree. I’d guiltily initiate foreplay when I suddenly realized it had been weeks, no, months, since we’d last made love.
The rift between us, once opened, could never be completely sealed. We never actually made the decision to stop trying for another baby, but we never really committed to continuing the effort after the abortion.
I’m nursing my second, no, make that third drink, building a nice buzz as I sit alone at the Carousel, watching the clock on the wall. I’ve driven by here thousands of times; the place has been a notorious gathering place for “fairy nice guys” as long as I can remember. Father Matthew McGinley really got under my skin tonight, dredging up all these damn memories. Dreading the prospect of my first major holiday as a (disgraced) single man, I called my mother from the parking lot, pleading early holiday air-traffic delays (“Flight’s not due in until almost midnight. Yes, I remembered to call the psychiatrist to cancel.”) as if spending a few hours sitting in a gay bar still necessitated an elaborate alibi. Of course, the reality of the Carousel is far more benign than the sinful den of iniquity of my imagination. The owners haven’t redecorated since the heyday of The Brady Bunch, and the plaid carpet and faux paneling have all the charm of a suburban rec room. So much for the maxim that all gays have good taste.
“Where’s the jukebox?” I ask.
“Sorry, buddy, it’s broken,” the bartender apologizes. “But the deejay starts spinning in an hour.”
The bartender plops another beer in front of me; the guy at the end of the bar has bought me a drink. I turn toward my benefactor and offer a nod of appreciation without acquiescence. He raises his glass and smiles. He seems friendly enough, not bad-looking, a bit scruffy, my type, actually. He’d be a real possibility if it weren’t for my state of mind tonight. In the mood I’m in, he looks slightly ridiculous, a grown man in a Carolina Tar Heels Basketball hoodie.
“Tell him thanks,” I say to the barman.
“He says thanks, Harold,” he bellows.
“You’re welcome,” Harold shouts back.
I look away quickly before he reads an invitation to join me in my eyes.
It’s pushing toward eleven. The Carousel is starting to get crowded. Mr. Tar Heels Basketball is lingering at the end of the bar. Friends greet him and he laughs, too loudly, intending to get my attention. I understand the message being delivered. See? I’m not a freak, a criminal, a psycho. I’ve got friends who are happy to see me. Don’t be frightened. I’m a normal guy. Smile. Strike up a conversation. Protocol demands I buy him a beer if I order another drink. I’m thirsty. I don’t want to go home. Hey, bartender, one for the road, and send one to Hank-sorry, Harold-at the end of the bar.
“What’s your name?” Harold asks, challenged by his friends to walk over and introduce himself.
“Andy,” I say, trying to suppress my irritation at having my space invaded.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says, contrite, his overture rewarded by my obvious lack of interest.
“That’s okay,” I say blandly so as not to encourage him.
“I just wanted to thank you for the beer. Have a nice Thanksgiving,” he says.
“You too,” I mutter, turning away.
The Carousel is starting to hop.
“So what do you think, Blue Eyes?”
The snaggletooth sitting next to me insists I join the debate.
“Streisand or Midler?”
“Streisand or Midler what?”
He rolls his eyes as if the question-and the answer-is obvious.
“You must be one of those queens who can’t think beyond Madonna,” the snaggletooth sneers, dismissing me from the conversation.
“Yeah, that’s me, all right,” I snarl, firing up a cigarette.
I wish I was still married.
It’s time to hit the road. I swallow the backwash in my beer bottle, preparing to do penance for my bad behavior. Harold’s back is toward me. I touch his shoulder, expecting he’ll turn and sneer, revenge, after all, being sweet.
“Sorry for being so rude earlier. It’s been a long week,” I apologize.
“No problem,” he says, smiling. “You come here often?”
“Not really.”
“We’ll try it again next time.” He laughs. “Gimme a kiss.”
Why not? I give him a friendly peck and slip out the door.
The temperature’s dropped quickly. Tomorrow morning a killer frost will blanket the lawns of Mecklenburg and Gaston Counties. I turn off the car radio; I’ve had enough crappy memories for one day.
I kept my promise, Alice. I never told you I stopped loving you because I never did.
You asked the wrong question.
You should have made me promise to tell you if I ever fell in love with someone else.
Meet the Wilkinses
“You’ll like them. I know it.”
I’ve never been a big one for socializing. Alice had to drag me out of the house kicking and screaming. This time she was insistent.
She was right. Why wouldn’t I like them? They were probably lovely people, great folks, exactly the type of neighbors we were hoping for when we bought this splashily designed, poorly constructed, and wildly expensive town house in the most exclusive gated community in the Triad.
“Give them a chance,” she said.
Alice wanted to cook dinner for them. No, I said, willing to give in only so far, we’ll meet at a restaurant. She wasn’t sure, wanting to avoid the awkward moment when the check was presented. No problem, I said, I’ll give my card in advance and, at the end of the evening, I’ll slip away from the table and discreetly sign. She finally conceded, knowing I really did not want to meet the Wilkinses.
I started to relax as the waiter uncorked the second bottle of wine. The evening was going well, better than expected. In fact, it was an unqualified success. The Wilkinses, unlike most of my professional acquaintances, gave every indication they knew how to read. There was plenty to talk about; there was a lot of laughter. Driving home, Alice asked what I’d thought of Nora. The question took me by surprise. I was having a hard time remembering her face.