Sunlight is streaming through the venetians and it feels like it should be a holiday. Tiny particles of dust are dancing in the beams and Jen wants to be one, shimmering in golden light. This morning she feels incredibly happy, like there’s something to look forward to after all. She squeezes the comforter to her chest. It must be the motor scooter. Jace is still sleeping, barely. There are about forty-two stages of half-sleep with him. Sometimes, when Jen thinks he’s sound asleep, he’s really awake and hearing everything. Like when Chris wakes in the night. Snore snore. Then, when he finally settles, and Jen comes back to bed, Jace will say, in a far too-lucid voice, what was wrong, is he okay? He tries to act like he just woke up when she came back to bed, but Jen knows him better than that by now. If his voice is that clear, he’s been lying awake half the night, listening to her pace and sing and rock until their ever-wakeful boy is cajoled into a very temporary sleep. Chris takes after Jen that way, never wants to waste time sleeping, doesn’t want to miss anything. She just hopes he marries someone like him when he grows up. Jace and Jen have never been able to get into sync. He says it’s because Jen doesn’t need sleep. Jen says it’s just that she doesn’t want to spend half her life avoiding life.
She can always tell when he’s depressed, because he sleeps all the time. She has a habit of calling it laziness, letting everyone else deal with things while he checks out of the reality department. But he’s been better lately, since the move. Jen thinks he feels more purposeful now, more appreciative of his time now that he has something to do with it.
She always feels she gets more done when she’s busy. You learn to manage your time that way. But give yourself a dead day, it’ll take five hours to accomplish what can be done in one when you’re busy.
Today’s supposed to be a dead day (Jace gets pissed when she calls them that…he likes to say a “hang-loose” day). The deal is, Jen restrains herself from making plans or starting projects; they wander around the house all day and try to decide what spontaneous thing they should do. Then they argue because the day gets away on them, there’s no time left, and they didn’t do any spontaneous, relaxing thing.
Jen looks at his angelic, almost translucent face now, the broad arching eyelids, sweet, well-defined lips, and dimpled cheek, even when he’s not smiling (though he has the eerie habit of smiling in his sleep) and she has to hold herself very still to not start kissing him. It’s not that he’d object; anytime’s a good time for Jace; it’s just that he’d drag his ass all day because he didn’t get enough sleep. It doesn’t seem worth it. She’s glad though, that she still feel this way, even amidst traitorous thoughts and motor scooter defiance, or maybe because of them. She seems to need that edge.
On the way downstairs, it occurs to her that she’s always sneaking down the stairs in the early morning light, alone. Key word. From Roly right on down the line, she’s always been the first one up. It’s because she usually feels so terrific in the morning. So excited about the new day. Jace just gives her these looks, like, fuck off, would you? He’s even admonished her, said, Do you have to be so cheerful, I can’t take it Jen. He’s serious too. If he were the first to complain, maybe she’d take offence. But he’s not.
The only other creature Jen knows who wakes up almost as early and usually as cheerful as her is her son. Even now, he is babbling away to himself in his crib. He likely started at six, but he won’t cry for another hour. He’s amazing that way. It seems he knows Jen needs her morning time before she comes to get him. She’s been blessed with an incredible child, and is grateful. Easy to say at this stage, when they’re so connected, she thinks. Who knows how she’ll feel when he starts asserting himself. When she remembers he’s the world’s child, not hers. A thought Jen doesn’t care to pursue at the moment.
She’s sitting in her sunroom, loving the liquid orange rolling down toward the mist rising from the river. This is her favorite room in the house. She gets lost here sometimes, hours just fly away like they never happened at all. It’s likely because her file cabinet’s here. Under the pretenses of cleaning it out, Jen finds poems, letters, pictures from the past. Then she’s lost in reflection, but then again, is an unreflected life worth living? Jen doesn’t consider herself especially sentimental. It’s more like she’s looking for something. She just doesn’t know what.
Maybe it’s boredom. Her mother always said Jen read because she was bored with everyone, that it was as much escapism as her dad’s watching TV all the time, which had been a habit that irritated Jen to no end. Funny how she managed to marry a man who watches TV all the time too. She didn’t even own a TV when she met Jace. But just before he moved in, she went out to one of those man-den big box stores and got a huge flat screen and digital recorder. Like, goodness, there’ll be a man in the house, what will she do with him? Buy him a bigger TV!
Jen thinks the feminist movement has it all wrong. She thinks women teach people how to treat them; expect men to do certain things so they can drop out of the relationship and nurture the sisterhood. What else do women talk about? Men, or possibly other women. Other women when it’s political, when someone needs more power in the group. If the dynamics are running smoothly, then women talk about men. What they say, how they say it, what women suspect they really meant. What they do, why they do it.
The Saint was terrible that way. Jen has letters, hundreds of ‘em, rhapsodizing about this guy they knew since they were kids. Saint wrote about him for ten years, TEN YEARS. Then one day when Jen and Saint were living together he came back to town with the Second City Troop. He’d become a rising comedian. Jen knew him pretty well in school; they were on the debate team together. Saint was always shy around him, but Jen suspected he liked her too. So Jen went to his show with a few pals from work and they had drinks with him afterwards. Saint had to work the night shift so she didn’t go. He asked about her, so Jen invited him over to their house for dinner the next day, when Saint would be off. It didn’t start out as a betrayal.
Jen didn’t tell her until a few hours before because she knew Saint would get too nervous about it. Jen was in the kitchen getting things ready for dinner – lasagna – when she finally told Saint. Saint hit the roof, throwing things around the kitchen and swearing like a trucker. Finally, she locked herself in the bathroom, presumably to surreptitiously preen and then came out in a waft of lavender when the doorbell rang.
There’s John in the doorway, tall and languid, with a bottle of wine, flowers, dressed like a real gentleman, which he’d always been. Saint played it cool, as if he’s the UPS guy or something, and just grabbed the stuff and headed for the kitchen.
Then the guy Jen was dating at the time shows up, barely dressed as usual, T-shirt tucked into the pocket of his cutoffs, going for the rumpled waif look. He smelled like he’d just smoked an ounce of pot in a closet. Sounded like it too as he slurs out a “baaaaaabe” and plants a sloppy kiss on Jen’s unarmed lips. Jen introduced him to John, which netted a “Heeey” and something that looked like a lazy high-five, aborted mid swing. Jen realized if he and John have to carry the conversation they’re in trouble. Saint was glaring at Jen and shaking her head. Jen added an extra shot of gin to her cocktail – Jerry was way more fun if she’s too drunk to notice.
Everyone was quiet at dinner. John talked mostly to Jen, since he wasn’t having any luck with anyone else, but Jen didn’t want to talk too much because Saint would think she was stealing the show. Jerry threw out the odd, incredibly stupid non-sequitur to punctuate the silence. Stuff like, “I wrote this story once about a guy and his dog. He shot it.” Silence. Jen was thinking, Thanks for coming out, Jer. You’ve been a fine contestant…
Worst dinner party she’s ever had. Everyone was relieved when dessert was done. Jen assumed John wanted to go home, Saint wanted to kill her, and Jer just wanted to get to the meat of their liaison, which, of course was fucking. So no one was too enthused when Jen suggested they take a bottle of Grand Marnier and walk to the beach. She wondered if she should have let it go, but she didn’t want to see this dream die. Bad idea.
Everyone was a little cut because there’s nothing to do but drink, so by that time they’re too stupid to stop Jen’s late-night lake quest. It was like a thick glaze had been poured over them, and they were trying to swim through it to reality. Like Jer’s high was contagious.
Then they’re walking to the beach a few minutes away from the house, and Jen’s talking about the stars. Jer starts to get into the swing of things finally–once he’s latched onto something he’ll bore you to death with it–so he started on about science fiction. Nobody had read any, or knew what the hell he was talking about, but it gave them a rhythm. Something to chew on.
They got to the beach, and the guys get a bonfire going. John seemed a little more relaxed. Jen was thinking, good, there’s still hope. Maybe Saint would snap out of it. But every time she looked across the fire, Saint’s eyes were shooting hatpins. Jen was starting to get nervous about going home. Jer was still rambling on, now he was talking about Philip K.Dick and the pink beam of light he saw and wrote about just before his death, and have they ever experienced the Godhead. John was just chuckling a lot. Jen suddenly realized that he hasn’t cracked a joke all night. He was a comedian, that’s what he gets paid to do. Surely he could have saved dinner. But then Jen thinks, no, that’s the last thing he wants to do. Perform. He didn’t expect to have to “put it on” for them. Poor guy. Sensitive, even a little shy. The way Jen remembered him, in fact. Why couldn’t Saint give a little. A word, a smile. Anything.
They drank the Grand Marnier from translucent plastic cups, glittering against the blackness the way the liquid glitters against the light. It was burnished liquid fire going down, sweet orange mingling in the freshwater lake air and smoky scent of spent wood. Jer decided he wants to swim. He pulled Jen up to her feet and they stagger toward the black horizon. In the water, Jen realized Jer was too stoned to walk through water, let alone swim. Then he started leaping around the sandbar like a madman, diving under, grabbing her, pulling her down, choking, leaping up again. Jen felt cloth brush against her thigh —his shorts—he’d taken them off now. Jen told him to stop, but he didn’t want to; she kept getting water in her mouth as she struggled against him. She felt a choking gloom that made her want to heave. Then she got mad, mad at his groping, his drunken, slobbering pawing when she’s trying to just breathe. She swung out with all her force against the water and in slow motion punched him in his naked nuts. Now he gets mad, so he started pushing her down under the water. She’s thinking the whole time, this isn’t happening. He isn’t serious. He’s crazy, but he’d never hurt me. That’s the last thought Jen remembered. He’d never hurt me.
Jen came to on the beach. Everything was blurry and orange, and the sky was black black. John’s face was above her. Eerie orange on one side, dark on the other. “You okay?” he asked.
She tried to nod. Her throat felt thick and sore. She wanted to know what happened to Jer.
“Jer…” Jen croaked. Her throat was sore, as if she were choked.
“He’s gone now. I sent him away.” John said.
She couldn’t believe he’d leave like that, so quickly. She started to cry, which John seemed to misinterpret.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s gone.” He cradled her head and shoulders in his arms like a baby.
Saint said she’d go back to the house and get the car and stood up abruptly, wavering a little. She trudged off through the sand.
John just nodded and continued to rock Jen, whose face was buried in his chest. Jen noticed how good he smelled. Lagerfeld. Sweet, woody, a little spice. She listened to the crackles of the fire. Then she saw two beams of light in the dark, shimmering off the lake.
Saint got out, threw John a blanket. He wrapped Jen up and picked her up like a doll. Aloft, Jen noticed how tall he really was. A weary wave of exhaustion drains through her veins, spreading. He put her in the car, then went back to smother the fire with sand to put it out. Saint said she was going to go home, if he didn’t mind bringing Jen back after a check at the hospital. John said fine. As they drove off, Jen saw Saint through the window, hands in pockets, kicking stones along the lane.
The lights at the emergency room were so bright they hurt her eyes. The walls were that ugly 50’s green that makes you feel sick even if you aren’t. John pieced the story together for her. He came out to the sandbar, slugged Jer, and then tried to figure out how to bring them both in. Finally, Jer just waded in. Didn’t fight or anything. Stood and watched John for a moment, then wandered away, stark naked, when John told him to get out. Saint just sat there, and said “Sleep it off Jer” when he left. That bugged John. John wanted to call the cops, to send them out for him. Jen said no, it was just a bad night.
After the emergency room doctor checked to make sure her trachea wasn’t swollen and discharged her, John suggested a drive. Jen was exhausted and felt weak, but she certainly didn’t feel like going home to what she expected would be an evening of angry Saint drama. They ended up in the parking lot of their old high school instead.
“You were the only girl who ever beat me at debate,” John told her. Jen laughed. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Softly at first. Jen didn’t stop him. She didn’t have the energy. Part of her felt like shit about it, but it was too warm and alive to stop. Then he kissed her more deeply, and she could feel his grip tightening. His fingers were winding through her hair, which she’s always loved, ever since she was a kid when you’d take turns playing with each others’ hair. He was so gentle, but firm. Jen felt like she was on top of a roller coaster, about to swoosh down, leave her stomach behind. It was that sweet. And then she stopped him, breathless. She was soaked, throbbing against the crotch of her swimsuit, dying for more. There goes the sisterhood, was all Jen could think.
She said, “John, I can’t do this.”
“I know, it’s too much after tonight. I’m sorry.”
“I mean Saint. You know what I mean.”
John was quiet for a minute, clearly torn about what to say. He looked away from Jen and said, “Yeah, I think so. I put you in a bad spot. Sad thing is, I used to have it for her so bad, y’know. Thought about her every day through high school. I don’t know what’s wrong with her Jen, but I think I always sensed it. It’s why I never did anything about it. Tonight I saw it. And you, well, you’ve just kind of blossomed. I always liked you too, but you were so tough, no way was any high school boy gonna touch you. You’ve softened.”
“I always thought you liked her. She always liked you, you know,” Jen said, finally free to say the secret words, feeling a rush of adrenalin at the honesty. And something else. Maybe deep down a mean satisfaction, an exhaustion-fueled betrayal that somehow released all the charge around it. It was done.
“I figured that’s why you asked me over. But you’re wrong. She doesn’t really like me. Likely never has. I can’t explain it, Jen, but it’s all bullshit. And I’m not saying that just cause she snubbed me tonight,” John said, rubbing his face slowly, as if in thought, as if too tired of the subject to utter another word. “It’s more like she liked the idea of me, instead of me. The way women flirt with me after a show. They’re flirting with the person on stage, not the person in front of them.”
“I guess we better leave it there, then.”
“Yeah, I’ll take you home.”
In the driveway, John held her hand for a minute. Jen thanked him for what he’d done. He thanked her for dinner, and said, as strange as it sounded, it had been a great evening. She walked toward the door in the pre-dawn glow. The house was dark except for the yellow cast of the stove light in the kitchen. There, Jen found a note on the table.
It said:
Jones:
I knew we’d come to this sooner or later. It appears to be sooner. The danger of friendship is you map it all out in advance. You tell them where, and when, and how to hurt you most. A bad strategy, friendship is.
You’ve proven to be particularly resourceful in the task of nullifying my existence to fuel your megalomaniac ego. You’ve sucked the life out of me drop by drop, day by day, year by year. Tonight was just the piece de resistance, and it didn’t hurt as much as you would have liked it to. That’s because I’m half-dead already and its hard to get a rise from a corpse.
The thing that surprises me most is that you’re stupider than I thought. Somewhere beneath the layers of shit in your brain you presumed that if you sold yourself a heap of altruistic crap about getting John and I together, I would buy it too. I’m a tougher customer than you bargained for. What hurts the most is you don’t see this.
You don’t see this because you don’t see me. I don’t exist. I’m just your foil, traipsing along on your follies. I’m your audience, your readership. You need your words and your life to fall somewhere, to make some sound. That way you know you are real.
I suppose you have to do this, because if you didn’t, you’d be lost. You know jack shit about living with yourself. You haven’t been alone the way I have. You don’t wake up in the middle of the night with a searing pain jabbing through your cunt, craving the purity of an absolute fuck, a mind that can find its way through the narrow, marble passage.
You don’t understand this because you’re too busy stuffing your gaping wound with a blizzard of bed sheets, you don’t care whose. Exhibit A: Look what you brought to dinner. But that was clever, wasn’t it? Poor Jen, still dating losers. How John’s heart must have brimmed with pity. Every guy wants to be someone’s hero.
You’re a Romantic, Jones. You light your candles as symbols of your need, and cry when the flames sputter, absorbed into the pool of wax in your hands when dawn shatters your illusions. That’s why you don’t like to get out of bed in the morning lately. It’s not the booze. It’s the pain.
I’d like to fuck this letter. I wonder if you’re even worthy of the words. It might be too much for you to handle. Or you’ll pretend it is. I’d like to sell my brains for an eighty foot yacht, to play along with your endless games. Only because in a sick way I’ll miss it. But I’m stronger than that. I don’t need to live in your shadow. I have my own fight to live, to exist. It isn’t a spectator sport. I feel sorry for you because you won’t know what hit you. You’re not one of the lesser fucked anymore. You can’t be with me around at the ready to feed your neurotic and bottomless monster.
I wash my hands of you, and pray someday you will understand that this constitutes an act of self-preservation.
Seriously, Saint.
Jen sat in the kitchen for hours, stunned, as Saint had predicted. She was furious, full of injustice, but also sad, because she wasn’t sure who was lying, if anyone. So she sat, smoking, as dawn spilled across her life the way the curls of smoke formed thick layers across her kitchen.