ancient cardboard boxes, it became apparent to me that I wasn’t hungry and that drinking had something to do with it. I went back out into the deserted street to my building.
By the time I got to the landing on the fourth floor, I was winded. A slob who was going to croak from a heart attack at the entry to her own dwelling. I thought of knocking, but before I had the chance to, the door opened a crack. Frank, looking anxious, was framed in the orange glow of a lamp on the floor.
“Where the fuck’ve you been?”
“I know, I know. I had to stay after.”
“Smells like it. Hey, did you see the police around the corner?”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.”
A car was honking downstairs in the street, making my head pound. Frank put his muscular arms around my neck and said, “I’m happy to see you, booger.” He melted his mouth on mine. I knew what kissing was for: like any other arrangement, it’s what you do to get through to the next person when talking becomes pointless.
Our union, his and mine, it didn’t even have the faintest stink of compromise. This man was so tolerant of me; nearly anything I said or did was fine with Frank. On occasion, this had led me to gross speculation. How could I have a marriage with someone who wasn’t critical of me?
Domestic tranquility was a precedent for me because in the book of matrimony, my divorces had been sordid. Fattened by huge telephone bills, drunken nights at El Tico Nica and Doc’s Clock on Mission Street, and arguments arctic in their ferocity.
“Sugar? You okay?” Frank asked.
There are choices to make when you come home to your spouse. You could tell him about drinking vodka with Hendrix, how you listened to the man rhapsodize about his horniness. You could describe the day at work and what a fucker Eldon had turned out to be. Or you didn’t have to do any of that.
“Everything’s fine, Frank. Almost fabulous.”
“Why don’t you sit down. You want something to eat?”
“It can wait,” I replied.
“You sure? I was going to make rice and veggies.”
“With tofu?”
“And with zucchini.”
“What about mushrooms?”
“I was going to stir-fry it in lemon and ginger.”
“Nah, I’ll skip it.”
“Are you trying to lose weight?”
There were no secrets between me and him. I copped to it. “Yeah, I am.”
Frank was my junior by four years. I had trouble getting a handle on this; everyone was younger and taller than me. I thought my age made me clever; nothing exceptional, but I was beginning to see that wasn’t the case. Getting older only made you more zombielike to yourself.
But my third husband? His relative boyishness, nigh onto thirty-one, kept me clinging to the better things in life. It was a sensational idea to be around Frank because he spoon-fed optimism into me, and because someday, like the buffalo and the welfare recipient, my life, too, would turn over a new leaf.
fourteen
T wo years ago, while working through another divorce, I’d met Frank and I had taken up with him to rebound from that split. My second husband had sailed off in a squall of discount liquor, not even pretending to say goodbye. A woman in his life had been someone to purchase the alcohol, to keep him company while he drank and to use as a scapegoat when he was coming out of his stupor. He never liked having any witnesses after a binge. I had a knack for getting in the way.
I know it sounds bitter: that’s why I left.
Neither of my ex-spouses had made any claims on my money, knowing with their own savage insight that the wage of a social worker wasn’t anything to fight for. I was left with a nagging, unrepentant feeling like the blood in my vital organs had been desiccated. When you broke up with your mate, you couldn’t get that blood back. It didn’t recondense, didn’t reincarnate itself, and never passed through your arteries and capillaries again.
Frank had been married before as a teenager. He
By the time I got to the landing on the fourth floor, I was winded. A slob who was going to croak from a heart attack at the entry to her own dwelling. I thought of knocking, but before I had the chance to, the door opened a crack. Frank, looking anxious, was framed in the orange glow of a lamp on the floor.
“Where the fuck’ve you been?”
“I know, I know. I had to stay after.”
“Smells like it. Hey, did you see the police around the corner?”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“What happened?”
“An accident.”
A car was honking downstairs in the street, making my head pound. Frank put his muscular arms around my neck and said, “I’m happy to see you, booger.” He melted his mouth on mine. I knew what kissing was for: like any other arrangement, it’s what you do to get through to the next person when talking becomes pointless.
Our union, his and mine, it didn’t even have the faintest stink of compromise. This man was so tolerant of me; nearly anything I said or did was fine with Frank. On occasion, this had led me to gross speculation. How could I have a marriage with someone who wasn’t critical of me?
Domestic tranquility was a precedent for me because in the book of matrimony, my divorces had been sordid. Fattened by huge telephone bills, drunken nights at El Tico Nica and Doc’s Clock on Mission Street, and arguments arctic in their ferocity.
“Sugar? You okay?” Frank asked.
There are choices to make when you come home to your spouse. You could tell him about drinking vodka with Hendrix, how you listened to the man rhapsodize about his horniness. You could describe the day at work and what a fucker Eldon had turned out to be. Or you didn’t have to do any of that.
“Everything’s fine, Frank. Almost fabulous.”
“Why don’t you sit down. You want something to eat?”
“It can wait,” I replied.
“You sure? I was going to make rice and veggies.”
“With tofu?”
“And with zucchini.”
“What about mushrooms?”
“I was going to stir-fry it in lemon and ginger.”
“Nah, I’ll skip it.”
“Are you trying to lose weight?”
There were no secrets between me and him. I copped to it. “Yeah, I am.”
Frank was my junior by four years. I had trouble getting a handle on this; everyone was younger and taller than me. I thought my age made me clever; nothing exceptional, but I was beginning to see that wasn’t the case. Getting older only made you more zombielike to yourself.
But my third husband? His relative boyishness, nigh onto thirty-one, kept me clinging to the better things in life. It was a sensational idea to be around Frank because he spoon-fed optimism into me, and because someday, like the buffalo and the welfare recipient, my life, too, would turn over a new leaf.
fourteen
T wo years ago, while working through another divorce, I’d met Frank and I had taken up with him to rebound from that split. My second husband had sailed off in a squall of discount liquor, not even pretending to say goodbye. A woman in his life had been someone to purchase the alcohol, to keep him company while he drank and to use as a scapegoat when he was coming out of his stupor. He never liked having any witnesses after a binge. I had a knack for getting in the way.
I know it sounds bitter: that’s why I left.
Neither of my ex-spouses had made any claims on my money, knowing with their own savage insight that the wage of a social worker wasn’t anything to fight for. I was left with a nagging, unrepentant feeling like the blood in my vital organs had been desiccated. When you broke up with your mate, you couldn’t get that blood back. It didn’t recondense, didn’t reincarnate itself, and never passed through your arteries and capillaries again.
Frank had been married before as a teenager. He
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