Why I Don't Write Read online

  As she sat, catching her breath, she observed the crowd gathering around her. Random thoughts came, like candles lit on a river. How would it be if Mr. Fleming were here? Might it awaken in him a feeling for her he’d not yet had? She recognized it as a pathetic thought, but that didn’t stop more embarrassing thoughts from coming. She had a quick vision of him visiting her as she lay in bed…in the hospital? No, in her bedroom. He would not be bothered by the fact that the side of her face looked like raw beef. He couldn’t be shocked. That was consoling. He probably was so tough nothing could hurt him. The visit would bring them closer, perhaps to something real. That is what she wanted, after all: real. She didn’t know if he had it in him though: to want something real.

  In the moments after the impact, everything inside was oddly clear, as if everything extraneous inside her were gone. All the jumping worry, all those heavy pellets of pain. Her internal activity switched from thinking to breathing. A sense of only wonder prevailed.

  * * *

  •

  Sometimes an accident cleared the horizon. She felt like a giant brass gong that had been hit, then saw the healthy vessel of herself frozen in shock at how she’d allowed herself to be unprotected, that she’d flung herself out without the least care for the damage it might do, to herself or to another. She would never have been so reckless with her son, but with herself…Well, it was easier to care about a person not oneself.

  Vibrating with clarity, she saw her son’s face looking steeply up from his position on the rug as it had so often been when she walked in, his neck retracted, his open gaze receiving her as if she were a column of light entering the room, and in the brightness she realized that of course it was Dexter Fleming back there. The person resembled him because he was the person. She had not been hallucinating. It was exactly he. Her view of him had never been from a distance, it had always been up close. From afar, his face was dented and flat and traumatized. It was the face of a person who cared little to nothing about her.

  She was receiving more care from the woman in a colorful coat, from the angry construction worker, and from the passing jogger with his matter-of-fact gut, than it seemed she’d ever gotten from the man, and all the lines connecting her to him, the erotic and the intriguing, the smart and the electric, seemed to snap one at a time as if ripped away in a gale wind, easily detached because there was nothing tested binding them.

  * * *

  •

  Come on, came a voice, and some assured hands were lifting her at the armpits. Let’s get you up.

  She let herself be lifted, and shakily stood.

  One needed people’s help. One needed people. A lift from a person helped you picture things as okay.

  The arms helping her along were in a white uniform. She turned to the face. It was close up: dark-skinned and smooth with a mustache. The man’s downcast eyes were studying the problem of her, eyes doing his job. She saw a white ambulance van waiting with its open back doors and glanced back to her crumpled bicycle. The jogger had righted it and held it by the handlebars. He gave her a thumbs-up, sending her off. Who knows what he was going to do with it, but she felt reassured he was taking care of it. She saw the cave where she lived being illuminated and even saw an exit at the back. She didn’t want to be in a cave anymore. She didn’t want to be in a black-and-white room. Its allure was gone. She still felt clear inside. As the pain in her jaw thickened her throat she thought, I must keep this clarity. For Nicky. The thought repeated: Keep this clarity. The lack of allure. She prayed to remember it. She must take it in and let it occupy her.

  Here we go, said the man’s voice, guiding her to a stretcher which had snapped up nearby. The guiding hand made her feel as if she were in a fairy tale being led to a tower. There you are, said the voice and lowered her onto a crinkling mattress.

  Okay, she thought, lying back. She gazed up at the man’s face with its strong dark forehead and thought, Okay, whatever you say. Take me.

  And she moved from one version of surrender to another.

  • GREEN GLASS •

  “Will you-know-who be at the wedding?” Fran said.

  “Yes,” Tom said, reading the paper. “She will.”

  “You know?” Fran stood in the doorway that led to the narrow kitchen slot.

  “Yes, she called me. The other day.”

  “She called you again?” Fran came out into the room. The apartment had one other small room, just big enough for the bed. “She was the one who left you,” Fran said. “Why doesn’t she act like it?”

  Fran turned back into the narrow slot of kitchen. “She should act like it.”

  “She did not leave me,” Tom said. “It was a mutual decision. Things had been over long before she left.”

  “Did you leave?” Fran said.

  Tom shrugged. “She just happened to mention it first.”

  “I don’t see why she calls you all the time,” Fran said.

  “She does not call me all the time.” Tom put down the paper.

  “Enough, she does.”

  “She’s a friend. We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “A friend?” Fran said.

  “Yes, a friend. That’s what it was like. That’s why it didn’t last.”

  “Six years is a pretty long time for it not to last,” Fran said.

  “We weren’t together the whole time,” Tom said. “We broke up a lot.”

  “And got back together every time,” Fran said.

  “I felt guilty,” Tom said.

  “Right.”

  “I did. And we had a lot in common.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Reading. She liked books. Liked animals.” Tom hesitated—dangerous territory. “We got along well.”

  “I’m surprised you let her go.” Fran stirred onions in a frying pan.

  “Frannie,” Tom said.

  “Really. Getting along so beautifully—and liking to read. That is rare.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Tom said.

  Fran was quiet. Tom came into the narrow kitchen.

  “Listen, I’m sorry she calls me. I can’t do anything about it.”

  “You can’t?” Fran turned astonished eyes on Tom.

  “What?” Tom said. “You want me to tell her not to call?”

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do.” Fran pushed the onions this way and that with a wooden spoon.

  “If you want that,” Tom said, “you should say so.”

  “I just don’t like it,” Fran said. “Isn’t it all right just to not like it?”

  “I’ll tell her not to call,” Tom said, giving up. He looked out the window to the flat tops of buildings at different heights. “But she won’t understand.”

  “Of course she’ll understand,” Fran said. “Not that you should do it. She just doesn’t want to let you go.”

  Tom regarded Fran with pity. “She’s not like that. She’s not as sensitive as you are.”

  “Men like to think women aren’t sensitive, at convenient times.”

  “Maybe I know her better than you do,” Tom said.

  “Are you saying she doesn’t have strong feelings?”

  “Come on, honey.” Tom stood behind Fran and pulled her to him. “Why are we talking about this? I love you.”

  “I just don’t understand how you could have been with that person all that time,” Fran said softly.

  “It’s pointless to think about,” Tom said into her hair.

  “It’s not voluntary,” Fran murmured. “It’s a feeling.”

  * * *

  •

  Sunlight filled the windows of the chapel, and light green leaves threw a leafy pattern of shade over the empty pews in front.

  “You know all these people?” Fran said.

  “Mostly on
Buster’s side,” Tom said. “Some of the bride’s.”

  “A lot of blonds,” Fran said.

  “A lot of marriages,” Tom said. “Buster’s family alone could fill this chapel, if you included all the divorces.”

  “What’s with that guy?” Fran said.

  Tom followed her gaze. “Mr. Hildreth. He hasn’t had his daily ration of cocktails yet.”

  Fran watched the people entering the arching door. She turned abruptly and faced forward. “Guess who,” she said. Tom glanced back. Fran toyed with the hem at her knees. She’d worn a black print vintage dress. “Where’s she sitting?” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Way back on the other side.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m just wondering.”

  After a few minutes, Fran shot a look over her shoulder. “Oh, she looks good. Carefully avoiding our direction. Who’s she with?”

  “That’s Heidi and Hilary. They’re all friends of the bride.”

  “Old home week,” Fran said.

  “They’re nice, actually. I like Heidi and Hilary.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Fran said.

  “Honey.”

  “Sorry.” Fran took Tom’s hand into her lap. “I just feel a little out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I wanted you to.”

  “I wanted to too. But you know what I mean.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tom said.

  The organ music changed from something jaunty to something serious, and the groom appeared at the front of the chapel by the purple-and-white spray of flowers. He was biting his lower lip, possibly joking, possibly sincere. It was hard to tell. The bridesmaids in lilac passed down the aisle, with unrelenting smiles, balancing purple garlands on their heads. The bride followed, on the arm of a man she kept at a distance.

  “What’s that thing sticking out of her rear?” Fran whispered.

  The sermon focused on the sacred qualities of marriage. The trembling of the bride’s veil could be seen from the back pew.

  Soon the organ hit the staccato chords of the wedding march and the couple flew out the door. Outside, the late afternoon was tranquil and bright. Tom and Fran strolled down a slope to stand apart and watch the members of the wedding party arranging themselves for a photographer. People milled around.

  “Tommy Stanwyck!” A woman in a wide-brimmed hat engulfed Tom in yellow polka dots. “Where are your parents? So naughty of them not to have come. Is this your girlfriend? Fran? So nice to meet you. Didn’t I see your old flame up there, Tommy?” The woman winked at Fran. “I’ve got two exes here—two out of four! Don’t give it a thought…” The woman sputtered away.

  Fran glanced back up to the church. “Maybe we should go say hi to her. Get it over with.”

  “Okay.” Tom took her arm and they started up the hill.

  * * *

  •

  On the way to the reception, they drove behind a car that had Heidi and Hilary in the back seat, with a familiar head in between.

  “That was the shortest dress I’ve ever seen,” Fran said.

  “It looked ridiculous,” Tom said, hands firmly on the steering wheel.

  “If you’ve got the body, why not?” Fran said weakly.

  “To a wedding?”

  “You know,” Fran said, “I thought she looked kind of sad. My heart went out to her.” Fran watched the placid countryside go by.

  Tom drove, eyes straight ahead.

  “She seems different from how you talk about her,” Fran said.

  “You may not be the best judge,” Tom said.

  “I don’t think she seems hard at all,” Fran said.

  “I didn’t say she was hard. I said she wasn’t that sensitive.”

  “She looked sensitive just now,” Fran said. “I’ve never seen anyone go so white.”

  “When?” Tom said, but something else was bothering him.

  “Just now. Outside the church. She looked terrified.”

  “She was a little embarrassed,” Tom said stiffly. “It’s understandable. I don’t think anyone would think it strange for it to be a little embarrassing seeing the new girlfriend.”

  “What did you think?” Fran said. “ ‘Here’s a person I spent six years of my life with’?”

  “I didn’t think anything.” Tom bent to turn on the radio. “It was a little awkward is all.”

  “I think she has a certain dignity about her.” Fran stared at the car in front of them gliding around wide corners under the ceiling of trees. “With that long neck. Isn’t there something sort of regal about her?”

  “I don’t know.” Tom found a station with music and left it on.

  “Haven’t you ever noticed that?” Fran turned down the volume.

  “No.”

  “Makes me feel like a dwarf,” Fran said.

  “Stop it,” Tom said sharply.

  “I mean it. If I were you, I’d rather be with her.”

  “You are insane,” Tom said, angry. “I’m not in love with her.”

  Fran looked out the window. “I can’t imagine why not.”

  “You don’t need to,” Tom said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “She’s been with you so much longer than I have,” Fran said. “I hate that.”

  “Why do you want to make yourself unhappy?” Tom said.

  “I don’t,” Fran said. “What were you like with her?”

  “That has nothing to do with us.”

  “What if I found out you were a member of the Ku Klux Klan before I met you—wouldn’t that have something to do with us?”

  “You’re losing your mind,” Tom said.

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Why won’t you answer me?” Fran said.

  “Because it’s the question of an insane person.”

  They rode along in silence, past stone walls crumbling in the slanted light and ponds with green glassy surfaces.

  “You never had fights like this with her, did you?”

  “No,” Tom said matter-of-factly. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “How could you not have fights?” Fran said. “Was she too above it?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said wearily.

  “You must think I’m so—so petty compared with her.” Fran took some combs out of her hair and put them back in.

  “Please,” Tom said.

  “I’m just letting out my feelings.” Fran tried a few times to set the combs right. “I don’t know what else to do with them.”

  “Keep them in,” Tom said. After a moment he added, looking at Fran’s stony profile, “That’s a joke.”

  * * *

  •

  Night fell over the reception at the country club. Tom and Fran stepped down from the slate terrace onto a golf green. At the edge of the light, figures strolled into the darkness.

  “So how do you know that lawyer guy?” Tom said.

  “Who, Alex?” Fran said. “From around.”

  “Do you always kiss guys you know from around?”

  “Well, I sort of…” Fran’s voice trailed off.

  Tom halted in his tracks. “Did you go out with him?”

  “Sort of.” Fran laughed. “Brief thing.”

  “You went out with that jerk?”

  “Tom, you don’t even know him.”

  “Yes, I do. Everybody knows him. He’s a complete slimeball. How could you go out with him?”

  Fran didn’t answer.

  “He’s known for getting drug dealers out of jail and screwing models!”

  “It didn’t last long,” Fran said. “Obviously.” She looked through the clubhouse windows and saw Buster, the groom, at one end of
the room and his bride at the other. “It was a short thing.”

  “But what were you doing with him at all?” Tom had become shrill.

  “Let’s drop it,” Fran said.

  “Oh, we can talk about my past but not about yours?”

  “I thought you didn’t ever want to hear anything about my past,” Fran said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Good. Then drop it.”

  “Okay.” Tom folded his arms. “As soon as you tell me what you saw in that asshole.”

  “Jesus,” Fran said. “Believe it or not, he did have some good qualities.” Then she shook her head. “Listen, it never should have happened.”

  “You’re so gullible,” Tom said with disgust. “All a man has to do is say a few complimentary things and you completely fall for it. Women are such fools.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t recall ever having told you what went on.”

  “I know what guys like that are like.” Tom faced into the darkness.

  “Okay. It was a mistake.” Fran reached up to his shoulder. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

  “Not with an asshole,” Tom said, turning to her.

  “Come on,” Fran said gently. “Let’s stop. Let’s go in and eat. Go see how Buster is.”

  “Who’s hungry?” Tom said.

  * * *

  •

  It was after ten when they left the reception.

  “Are you going to sulk all the way home?” Fran said.

  Their headlights wove through the blackness.

  “If I don’t talk, does that mean I’m sulking?”

  “No.”

  After a while Fran said, “So, did you have a good time?”

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  “I had a fine time,” Tom said. “One of my oldest friends just got married to a cream puff. It was a nice wedding. Leave me alone.”