Tract Two:

Fall 2005

An Unasked-for Gift

What he noticed, before his brain had time to register what this meant, was the door to their apartment shut tightly. Usually, on warm autumn afternoons in mid-September, the period between the necessity of air-conditioning and the need for furnaces, all the Redman Studio apartment doors were flung wide open, a living organism revealing its underbelly, the inner rooms pulsating cells. May always thrilled in these brief displays. “Look at the filth in 223. Come on, pick up your beer cans, and use the sweeper occasionally. How do they live that way?”

He remembered the first time they stood side by side, examining the lives of others under a microscope. “Oh, I always knew she would have ultra-frilly decorations, all those fake plants and flowers. And come on, don’t you know the pillows are supposed to compliment the sofa, not be made with the exact same fabric? That’s why they’re called accent pillows!” May laughed, her voice high, “a chipmunk,” his friend Miguel teased. Ray slung his arm around her curvy waist and inhaled her freshly shampooed hair, a smell that he now associated with her, an overwhelming concoction of perfumed fragrances not found anywhere in nature but one he nonetheless found intoxicating. She continued, “Our place is the best, don’t you think?” May turned to examine their unit, a precise compartment, orderly, color-coordinated, mimicking the pages of one of her magazines.

When they first started living together, the run-down 300-square-foot studio apartment was the most economical place they could find, one they could barely afford. Yet, May, who had a knack for finding hidden bargains and high-quality cast-offs in second-hand stores, made their home look like a million bucks. Now that Ray was earning a more stable income, and she had finally found full-time employment, she had moved on to higher-class shopping and mastered the art of stretching their credit card limits to the maximum.

“Our home’s the best because of you.” Ray kissed her soft neck, and she squirmed out from under his arm, eager to continue her comparisons.

When he first met May, he felt like he’d discovered an exotic new breed, a vibrant, colorful adaptation of a previously known species. For May not to be part of this exhibition meant something was up. Maybe I should have told her I got the night off from work and was planning on taking her out to dinner. He found himself second-guessing his surprise. But then he rationalized she must be out shopping while reaching in his pocket for his keys, fingers grazing the velvet ring box. May found a new look for the apartment and was getting slipcovers, accessories, and accent pieces–notions he had never contemplated before she came into his life. How different she was from his steady, non-materialistic Mother and no-nonsense sister. The joy May exacted from a successful shopping trip, from a bargain find, never ceased to amaze him. As he fumbled with the chain, he noticed her parked car in its usual position, not out shopping. The keys fell to the cement landing. He bent to retrieve them.

Maybe she’s napping. He turned the lock. Ray wasn’t due to be home until much later. But he had picked up an extra shift last week to get this time off. He wanted the entire night to be one surprise after another, flowers, a candlelit dinner, and a proposal. He was leaving for boot camp in five days. There wasn’t much time left. Ray turned the handle and entered.

Boxes were everywhere. May’s heart-shaped face popped around the corner of their bedroom; her round eyes flashed quickly from surprise to irritable defiance.

“Well, at least you saved me the trouble of having to write a note.” She forcefully threw an armful of her “fall” clothes into an empty carton, an open act of rebellion, for she loved her outfits. He had never met someone who had four separate wardrobes, one for each time of year. He could see that spring and summer were packed. The seasons of their time together, he evaluated, his mind taking over what his heart did not want to recognize. Winter was when they met and moved in together. Those clothes must still be hanging in her closet. Maybe this was an extreme act of reorganization.

“What’s going on, May?” Ray tentatively placed the pink rose arrangement on top of a box of jewelry, makeup, and assorted toiletries, his six-foot, two-inch frame filling the doorway. His voice was measured. He had learned how important remaining calm was when faced with a disaster. His instructors had emphasized this fact repeatedly. “Don’t forget your training. Remain cool when arriving at a chaotic scene, take everything in, assess, then triage.” Later in boot camp, when everyone had a nickname, this ability would earn him the moniker “Iceman.”

“I’m leaving. Not that anything matters to you. You’re outta here, anyway. I’m moving in with Marty, starting a new life.” She laid the truth at his feet, an unwanted gift.

Marty? Her boss? Ray’s chest felt tight and constricted, as though his lungs were collapsing, yet he remained motionless. Processing. She stopped packing for a moment, aware of her words' impact. “Look, you were always harping about the truth, so there you are.” Winter came out of the bedroom closet.

She was right. The truth was always more manageable. Ray grew up believing this. He remembers his first lesson, courtesy of his father. Bored twins, Ray and Hope, finding a partially used gallon of fire engine red paint, wanted to surprise their mother and had covered half of the garage door up to the height their seven-year-old arms would reach. When their father returned home and saw their handiwork, he was furious. Out of fear, they lied, blaming the neighbor’s teenage son. The repercussions were terrible. Worse than seeing his father’s face knotted in rage and feeling the “board of education” on his bottom was how Hope shrieked before her “turn to learn.” “Wait! Wait!” Ray had cried. Even then, an instinct, an unrecognized need to protect, kicked in. “It’s not her fault. Painting the garage was my idea!” He stretched tall, his skinny rib cage puffed out, trying to appear larger, more believable. “Oh, and now another lie?” His father gave Ray a second round of education before turning to Hope.

There was simplicity in truth. Spinning elaborate narratives around a falsehood was exhausting and always seemed to trip the spinner up. Time and time again, Ray had seen this born out. Stepping into and owning his mistakes was easier than looking for excuses and laying blame at the feet of others. And he knew now, the exacting expectations of his mother and father allowed him to do so. Lying was not tolerated. The truth, no matter how difficult, was honored. And that is why he trusted her. When May called to say her boss was making her work late, night after night, he believed her. She would slip in at two or three in the morning, her scent strong, her body hard-wired. He would reach for her and pull her close. “You must be tired. I’m sorry you have to work so much overtime.” Mostly she remained taut, but sometimes she fell into him. Now, this all made sense. He understood.

The pink rose petals of the bouquet were brushed brown at the edges. May remained confrontational, her arms on shapely hips, her orange top rising above the soft swell of flesh he used to lay his head upon after they made love.

“He says he cannot live without me!” Her eyes were resolute, unyielding.

But I cannot live without you. Externally, he remained stoic, for the price of forgoing truth-telling is silence. While honesty was valued and a sign of strength, a display of raw emotion was pathetic, a sign of weakness, leaving one vulnerable. And though Ray experienced profoundly and had a rich interior life, he knew little about expressing his thoughts and feelings. Why couldn’t she see that all the small things put together over the past two years meant he loved her and truly cared? Every considered act had been a display of what he felt: the raised flower bed he had built for her in the community garden, the thoughtfully planned secret Saturday excursions, and the wildflowers he collected throughout the warm seasons (the ones he so carefully tried to color coordinate with her current decorating trend).

Her defiance continued, “I want to be with someone who loves me so much he says he would die without me.” Okay, a bit theatrical, but he understood. He nodded, his eyes searching for the slightest crack or waver in her expression. There was none. With a prolonged pause he took in the whole of her, from the top of her head, where he could drop a kiss in her bleached blond hair, so light, she hardly noticed, to her carefully polished fingers and toes matching, of course, her outfit. He breathed in deeply, inhaling. But she was too far away, her scent already a remembrance.

It was better this way, his military buddies would say later, at boot camp and then in war; better that she did this before your deployment, before she raided your bank account and left you penniless and broken-hearted. But the truth was, he would have given anything to have her remain loyal and faithful, to have her value him the way he treasured her.

When he returned the next day, May had folded her belongings and two years’ worth of memories into a Ford Fusion. They were all gone. As he walked out of the apartment for the final time, locking the door behind him, he could feel the infinitesimal weight of the diamond nestled in a velvet ring box, a tiny broken 0.5-carat embolism of hope, now coursing through his bloodstream, heading straight for his heart.