11

I drive slowly down Second Street, and note the line of twenty or so people waiting to get into Sloopy’s. That spot is going to be packed all weekend and my favorite pink-haired waitress will be making some good tips. I’m glad I made a reservation for us tonight at a new Italian restaurant in Port Clinton. It actually has its own herb garden, which will make my wife happy. I hope it’s not as crowded there as it is here. I’m still surprised so many people had the same idea to head to the lake this weekend. The economy is back on track, I guess, for most people.

I pass the park, lit by streetlamps in the growing dusk, and see a young mother pushing her child on a swing. I have so many images in my mind of Mia doing just that with our boys, their squeals of delight floating through the air, reaching me as I sit on the park bench watching over them all. Neither of my boys inherited my rage, I am almost certain. I’ve seen no hints. No rock throwing, no toys mangled and destroyed. Instead, they play together nicely, are polite and happy, I think. The generational darkness of rage has skipped over them, though most likely it will appear in their children. It’s a strong gene, anger. But for now, I will continue to nurture their happiness. They are my gift to the world, my sons are.

I stop in front of the Boones’ cottage. All of the lights are on, it seems, in every room of the place. They are entertaining people from our neighborhood, no doubt, wining and dining them at their grand historic cottage. I try to look in the windows, to get a glimpse of who else may be seated at their long table for twelve. But all I can distinguish are shapes of people, some overall characteristics maybe, but not enough to identify who they are. Most of the neighbors don’t know me, or care to, and the feeling is mutual. There’s another feeling I can name: disdain. But they do know Mia, many of them, and are friends with her, too. Mia is a person many want to befriend.

Take Buck, for example. I turn the corner onto Laurel Street and our cottage is glowing with light, too. There are two people on the screened-in porch. They sit in the two chairs that face the sofa. The furniture is old and rather embarrassing. The ancient outdoor wicker set itself is valuable—they just don’t make them like this anymore—but the fabric covering the cushions is obnoxious, a gaudy green-and-pink-floral design that reminds me of my mother’s favorite teacup pattern, blown up. I know this set came with the place and we haven’t invested in new cushions. Perhaps that is an expense for this summer. Because no matter how often the slipcovers are laundered, there is always the smell of dust, lingering and thick. It climbs onto your clothes when you sit too long, seeps into your pores like a small dose of poison. Sneaks up on you, I guess. I start sneezing if I spend more than ten minutes out there.

Mia knows this, and yet, there they sit. The two of them. In my cottage. On my porch during my romantic weekend. I dig my fingernails into my palm, enjoying the sting.

I pull into the driveway and stop the car in front of the back door. I realize Mia does not like it when I park here, considers it lazy, and would prefer it if I pulled into the garage. It is more civilized, she explains. That may be the case, but I’m late and I have three grocery bags. I am anxious to question Mia about the credit card, our credit card being declined, but will wait until Buck is gone. Which will be soon. We have dinner plans.

I pop open the trunk and gather the bags in my arms. I’m trying to figure out how to turn the knob to open the back door when Mia opens it for me.

“What took you so long? I thought you got lost,” Mia says. Her face is flushed, either from laughing or from alcohol. Or both. She wrestles one of the bags out of my arms as Buck appears behind her.

“Can I help?” Buck says. “Must have been a big line at the grocery.”

“There was a line, yes,” I say. My tone is calm, measured. I am fighting fire. I place the two bags on the counter next to the one my wife plunked down. I look in the third bag and notice the pack of cigarettes. I had meant to leave them in the car. I reach into the bag and slide the pack up my palm and into my shirtsleeve. I will hide them in my briefcase upstairs.

“We’ll unload these, Paul. Why don’t I make you a drink? Tito’s with a squeeze of lime coming right up,” Mia says. “Go sit and relax.”

I don’t want to leave the kitchen, but I need to dispose of the cigarettes.

“Great, sounds good. And, honey, we need to leave in about ten minutes, for our dinner reservation,” I say. I think I notice my wife and Buck exchanging looks, a silent communication of sorts. But I could be imagining things. My mind has been busy today. I don’t say anything, just walk out of the room. I still need to remove the surprise from the glove box, but every time I remember to do so, our neighbor is around it seems. I will bring it out tonight, after dinner, once good old Buck has gone away for good.

I climb the stairs two at a time, hurry to our bedroom, and push the cigarettes into the pocket inside my briefcase and zip it closed. I take a moment in the bathroom, quickly brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, adding a little aftershave. I examine my shirt in the mirror and decide I should change. This is our special day. I hurry back into our bedroom and pull out my favorite thin navy cashmere sweater. I tug on a crisp white T-shirt and then the sweater. My eyes are still dark, but brightened a bit by the sweater. My jeans look fine, and my leather loafers are a statement by themselves. A present from Mia a couple years ago, they’re Gucci. Classic.

I turn off the lights to the bedroom and head back down. “Buck and I moved inside,” Mia says as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I know how you hate that musty old porch. Here’s your drink.”

I just now realize Mia has changed into a dress. It’s midthigh, a shiny champagne-colored silk. She’s wearing heels, and her legs look fantastic. I should have told her so. I am positive Buck has beaten me to the punch. Buck is sitting in my favorite chair. I glare at the back of his head as I walk to the seating area.

Mia has placed my drink on the coffee table next to hers. She pats the couch cushion. This couch is new; we had a decorator help select this entire seating area. The couch is a light tan, firm but still fluffy. The two club chairs are upholstered in a pale blue cotton. They are the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever owned. Buck is seated across the coffee table from Mia, in one of my comfortable club chairs. Those are much more comfortable than the couch, but I choose to sit down next to my wife, squeezing her knee with my hand as I do.

“Ouch,” she says, pulling her leg away from me. I must have grabbed a bit too hard.

“Sorry, honey, just wanted to tell you how great you look in that dress,” I say. “Got carried away. Cheers!”

“How thoughtful, Paul,” Mia says. Her tone makes me think she doesn’t believe I’m thoughtful at all. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Buck says, raising his glass in my direction. His handsome news anchor face is not cheerful. I don’t think he liked me touching my own wife. His eyes narrow as he says, “What restaurant are you dining at tonight?”

“Oh, some new Italian place in Port Clinton,” I say. “They have their own herb garden, so I knew Mia would enjoy it.” I turn to smile at my wife and she offers a mild close-lipped smile back. I may put my arm around her shoulders and pull her in to me, just to see his reaction, and hers. Perhaps a romantic kiss on the cheek is in order?

“Ciao Bella,” Buck says. “Nice place. Good atmosphere for up here.”

“Glad you approve,” I say. “Well, look at the time. We should get going.” I smile at Mia and fight the urge to yank her up from the couch by the arm. I’m also resisting the urge to kick Buck out of my house. Best thing for me to do is to stand. So I do.

“Since you were running late, I moved the reservation back a half hour,” Mia says. “So sit down, relax. We have time to finish our drinks.”

Well played, Mia, I think. My mind is busy tonight, as I mentioned, and it flashes to another time, another home, another happy hour, this one in Nashville, Tennessee, with a different blonde woman. She was a Mia knockoff, really. Her name was Lois and she was captivating. She said those exact words to me: sit down, relax, we have time to finish our drinks. No doubt you realize by now I don’t like being told what to do. I didn’t back then either.

I was young. I couldn’t control my fire. I didn’t know that I could just stand up, for example, and walk into the kitchen pretending to be in search of ice and a snack. Lois had opened the door in her bathrobe, not even close to being ready. She told me to sit down and wait, like a dog. I stepped inside the door, pulling it shut behind me. Back then, my temper would explode immediately: a fistful of rage to a beautiful face, for example. We’d been together, Lois and I, for more than a year by then. She had no way of seeing this coming, as up until then our relationship had been all fun and great sex. But on that fateful night, we were to attend a cocktail party held in my honor by the professor I’d been working with. It was a very important event, a thank-you and a congratulations, an introduction to society so to speak. Lois wasn’t ready when she said she would be. She completely disrespected me, and the importance of the night. It wasn’t my fault, not really.

Blood was flowing from her nose as she looked at me in shock, the front of her bathrobe turning reddish brown, her bright blue eyes shiny with fear and tears. I looked down at my fist, rubbed my knuckles where her flesh had stung, and shook my head.

“Lois, please, never tell me what to do,” I said. We were in her tiny apartment, now ours, a place I knew intimately since we’d made love on just about every counter and piece of furniture. I walked quickly to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and soaking a dish towel before wrapping it around several cubes of ice. I pulled the paper towel roll from the holder and presented everything to her. I shook my head in disgust. Now we wouldn’t make the reception. She’d ruined everything.

“You need to put ice on your face. Lie back and the bleeding will stop,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure this was the case, of course. The few times I’d been in fights before with boys my own age, neither had sustained serious injuries. My father always was careful his blows fell in places easily disguised by clothing. Unfortunately, Lois’s injury seemed serious and quite visible.

“Leave,” she whispered. She refused to take the ice or the paper towels so I dropped them onto the couch next to her. She was shaking, violently, and I wondered if I should hold her, squeeze her tight. I was afraid, somehow, that maybe I would hurt her more. Could hurt her more. I stood there, immobilized, my feet weighed down by cement. The times I’d seen my father strike my mother flashed through my mind. Her screams, his empty promises. These memories were loud, thudding through my brain.

But between Lois and me, at that moment, there was only silence. I remembered checking my watch. There was blood decorating its face.

We’d met in Greek Mythology class my senior year in college, when I was goofing off during the last semester of my undergraduate career, and she was a young, adorable freshman. She called me Zeus when we were in bed, when I’d make her orgasm like no one had before. She was a studious sophomore now, and I was doing consumer research for the professor, the one whose invite-only party we were going to miss that night, while I interviewed for jobs at advertising agencies in town. I’d finally accepted an account executive position at a prestigious local firm. This cocktail reception was my goodbye party, and my introduction to important people in Nashville. This night was to be my launch into the ad agency world. Why didn’t she understand how important it was?

“Lois, no one can know about what happened here, do you understand? I’m starting my job tomorrow,” I said. My voice was calm. Fatherly. It was logical that she would want my new career to start out well, unimpeded by innuendo and the like.

Her trembling was becoming more violent, but her eyes were focused on me intently, as if seeing inside me to my organs, my small beating heart. The blood flow from her nose had slowed, but her robe was now covered. Blood splattered in her lap, in the white cotton folds.

“If you leave and never call me again, no one will know. If I see you, or hear from you, I will press charges,” she said. Her voice was quivering with fear.

Press charges, why don’t you? I wanted to say. I would explain that she was delusional, that she fell into the kitchen counter but wanted to blame me. Sure, I could get out of any charges as quickly as she could press them. My father, I learned all the tricks from him. But I didn’t really need her anymore. It was time to move on, establish my career. I didn’t need this college baggage situation any longer.

“As you wish,” I said, bowing at the waist before leaving. It was a reference to her favorite movie, The Princess Bride, and her reaction wasn’t her typical reply. As I opened the door and stepped into the humid Nashville night, her scream followed me out. But I know there was still love for me in her heart. I’m unforgettable. Oh, and the cocktail reception was fabulous. Poor Lois sent her regards as she was under the weather.

Now, standing in the kitchen, I hear my wife laughing in the living room. Unwittingly, she is stoking the fire with her words, her actions and her joy. But it is fine. I’ve learned to control myself since that night in Nashville. I’m telling myself to relax: Mia doesn’t mean to upset you tonight. I know she doesn’t. We’ve been together a long time, we’ve worked out the relationship just fine. She’s simply entertaining our unnecessary guest, our lonely loser of a neighbor. But soon we’ll be on our way to dinner and everything will be back in control. We need to discuss the job, Buck, the credit card situation tonight during the meal. It might be uncomfortable, but once she understands my priorities, we will have the best night ever. It’s certainly salvageable. And just like that, I have calmed myself down.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants legs before I walk back into the family room, carrying the bag of cashews I’d picked up at the grocery store.

“Nuts, anyone?” I ask. Both Mia and Buck shake their heads. I shrug and carry the bag over to the couch and take my seat next to my wife. “So, Buck, did you really spend the winter up here? Is it true you really live here full-time, year-round?”

“I did and I do. For now. It’s a great place to find peace and think. It works for me,” he says. His dimple appears as he smiles at us, the happy couple on the couch. He must be so jealous. He’s so alone.

“And is it true your wife died?” I say. I mean, we’ve never discussed his lack of a spouse, man-to-man. At least I hadn’t discussed it with him. Who knows what Mia knows. All I’ve heard through the grapevine was that his wife was dead. I thought it best to seem interested in our guest.

“Paul. Really?” Mia says. I note her cheeks are flushed and she shakes her head back and forth. Embarrassed, that’s the emotion. Too bad, Mia.

“Yes. It’s true. Stage four lung cancer, inoperable. She was a nonsmoker. Woke up in the middle of the night, short of breath. Five months later, I buried her.” Buck says these things without emotion. The way I might say them if I hadn’t practiced emotional responses. It makes me wonder about Buck. He adds, “It was the hardest five months of my life.”

“Worse for her,” I say. From the looks of it, my joke was not well received by my wife or our guest.

“Buck, I’m sorry,” Mia says. “Paul’s emotional intelligence is a bit lacking, I’ve come to realize. He tries but, well, Paul, you understand that was insensitive, right?”

I’ve slipped the matches that were left on the counter when they unloaded the grocery bags into my pocket. Right now I imagine pulling them out, lighting them all and throwing them at my wife. The fire. My left hand slides into my front pocket, but I can’t reach the matches while seated. I take a deep breath and flash a smile at my wife. She’s so cute.

I turn my attention back to the interloper. “I’m sorry for your loss, Buck. Is that why you quit your job and moved here, the middle of nowhere?” I ask. The neighborhood snoop’s job may be in jeopardy, I tell myself. I know I can run circles around her anyway, if I liked gossip that is. Which I don’t.

“Yes. I sold everything we’d built together. Our house, our apartment in the city, our cars except one. I sold my business and just started driving. Somehow, I took the right exit from the highway and found myself here,” he says. He wipes his palms on his pants as if signaling that is the end of his explanation.

I turn to look at my wife. She is beaming, her face covered with a smile so big and so fake it must hurt her cheeks. Or maybe it’s a genuine smile. One I never see. One that is reserved for Buck, the garden gnome.

“This is a perfect place to heal,” Mia says.

Whatever. My mind flashes back to Lois. I did see her again, of course, on campus, but she didn’t see me. I knew her class schedule, and I also needed to be sure she wouldn’t ruin anything for me and my new job at the hippest advertising agency in Nashville. So I kept tabs on her. I’m a good follower, like I noted. She healed well. I heard through the grapevine that she told her friends she blacked out and fell. Had low blood sugar or something?

Found out she did undergo surgery to straighten things out. And I think she may have had a little something taken off the tip of her nose, a cosmetic enhancement. She looked good, last time I saw her. Better even than she looked before the little incident. Making lemonade out of lemons, that’s my little Lois. She honored her end of our agreement, and so did I. I’m a man of my word. After launching my successful advertising career in Nashville, I moved back to Columbus. As for Lois, she’s married, with a bunch of kids now. Everything works out.

“You two better get going if you want to make your reservation,” Buck says. He stands up. How helpful. At his command, my wife finally rises.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she says. “I’ll just grab my purse.”

“I’ll show myself out,” Buck says. “Have a good time.” He waves his hand at me awkwardly, no doubt afraid to shake it. I still didn’t get an answer on what he did before he dropped into our lives, but I don’t think he was an actual anchorman. Business of some kind is what he said. I guess I will believe him. For now, I just want him out of here.

“Right, well, enjoy your evening.” As I walk him to the door, I ask, “Any special ladies in your life, Buck?” It has been a year since his wife died, after all, and men have needs. I think that is a thing a guy would say to another guy.

Mia appears beside me. She must have overheard me because she says, “Really, Paul?”

Buck chuckles. “It’s okay, Mia,” he says. “I’m sure Paul just wishes me the best, don’t you, Paul?” Buck slaps me on the back, firmly. A brotherly pat, that’s what I’ll consider it. I slip my hand into my pocket, rubbing the matches between my fingers.