Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone Read online

  I want to say he's wrong. I don't have any solution in mind, if he's right. "I'm almost fifty. I don't think I can—"

  "You can, Tiger. You just got to break habits."

  "Maybe. At least now, I have possibilities that weren't on my radar a week ago, or a month." I stop, unsure how long it's been. My whole timeline, meeting Lily, Karl's absence, hearing Sadie, trouble at work. Everything's scrambled, disordered. I not only have trouble with time gaps, but also sorting events into the right sequence. Maybe it's just the whisky, making it seem worse.

  Karl alternates bites of Rye Krisp with sips of the Johnnie. "You won't ever be right until you face up about your ex. That shit was unreasonable, but you keep acting like she's pure good."

  "I know. Why did I accept it?" I surprise myself, saying this without equivocation, without offering excuses for Michelle. "Sometimes I tried to speak up, I might sit her down, say we need to talk. But nothing ever changed. She was nicer to strangers than to me. Sometimes she was cruel. I should have been the one to end things, but I didn't. So why do I see Michelle as this ideal partner, someone I should want back?"

  "Because she said go, not you. That simple."

  "She's the only woman I've known. One person, my whole life. Losing her, it's like I've lost everything. In college, at U of O, it was all Michelle. Things weren't bad then. Junior year, she got pregnant, so we moved back to Portland. Her parents had a guest house over their garage. We got married in the back yard under this huge tree. We recited poems, one of Michelle's, one each by Keats and Rumi. Can you believe someone barely twenty putting her own poetry in a mix with these towering geniuses?" I shifted from the ottoman back to the Papasan itself. "Anyway, we painted everything, all this cliché baby decor, even bought a crib. Then she miscarried. We'd already quit school, gotten married, so we didn't consider going back to Eugene. But there was no baby."

  "Sorry, that's tough."

  "No, don't be sorry. I'm glad there's no kid. But this offspring who wasn't, this absence where we expected a person to be, that's the reason my life went this direction. I started this direction, got into a flow and just drifted along. I never ran around in college, never went to parties, or tried to meet girls. Michelle and I had friends like ourselves, all married too young. They started having kids, and drifted away. Then it was just us."

  "Did you want out?"

  "No. I didn't marry Michelle only because she was pregnant. Well, maybe, but I did love her. She was attractive, very smart and confident. Just smashed obstacles out of the way. I remember when she wanted to make me happy, at first."

  "Yeah, until she didn't." Karl yawns, stretches, looks inside the empty Rye Krisp box and tosses it aside. "If you look at everything, all the life you missed out on, plus the divorce shitstorm, it wasn't worth it. Right?"

  I pause, not trying to be dramatic, but actually pondering his question. I don't know the answer, so I don't respond. Of course I realize he'll take silence as my answer.

  "You said she cheated," Karl says with surprising delicacy.

  I lean forward, refill my glass, lean back. I can't answer yet, so I lean forward again, offer the bottle to Karl. He extends his glass, I pour him full. Try again.

  "Yeah, with a coworker. Not just sex." I gesture, summoning clouds. "Romance, passion. I wanted to believe it had only been one time, so I forgave. Later, I realized she'd never asked for forgiveness. Never promised it was over. I was trying to show I could rise above it."

  "Weren't you pissed?"

  "I was. I am. But sometimes I miss her so much, it feels like fresh grief. I remind myself why I wanted to stop missing her. Why I should. Now, lately, I have a chance to start over. I believed I'd stop thinking about Michelle as soon as I found sex, a relationship, even go on a date. Now I wonder, but at least I see Michelle as she really is. This new one helps me, this new woman. Still I find myself thinking of Michelle, and feel disgusted about that. I hate my weakness."

  "It's not weak, just to think about her. It's only weak if you give up. Man, don't let it keep you stuck."

  "That's why this is so bad. I'd take her back, if she asked me. I'd go, even after everything."

  "Damn." Karl drinks deeper than he has since the first, then takes another mouthful and holds the Scotch in his mouth. He focuses on me with solemnity. "You know what you need to do? Tell me the most brutal part, all the details, whatever's your worst memory. How you found out, or when she told you to go."

  I'm weighing the possibility he suggests. Whether it's reasonable to tell. Whether it might help. Whether I can even do it.

  "When you give me the story," Karl elaborates, "you have to tell how it really was. I mean relive it, like put yourself back into the worst pain. Man, that was your wife. She ended your marriage. It wasn't a misunderstanding that she's going to come back and fix. She wanted you the fuck out of her life, out of her house. So when you're telling it, remember. Really make yourself feel how it was."

  I don't speak at first, not because I'm unwilling to tell. It's just hard to figure out where in the stream of events to begin. I could set the background for context, why she was stressed, how we'd argued and I'd said something I wished I hadn't. None of that matters.

  "It was an ordinary evening. Michelle was standing in the kitchen, boiling linguini and slicing brown mushrooms. There was a giant Costco jug of olive oil on the counter, and a bottle of very pale yellow-green Pinot Grigio, something local. I can picture the color but don't remember the name. I asked what she's making and she looked at me, didn't speak. I can see this sullen face, loose, drooping skin, like a stranger wearing a Michelle mask that doesn't quite fit. Dark bags under her eyes, pain inside welling up like sickness. Or so much poison, it's killing her. I recognized the look. When she finally did speak, her voice was rough. Not just something raw in her throat, but trembling, and loss of control from emotion. Fear and anger, which I didn't understand. It scared me. That's when I realized she'd been crying, alone in the kitchen, making food for herself, but not for me. My first reaction was to back away, tell her I didn't need any food."

  Karl leans back, eyes closed. "How'd she say it? Did she blurt it out, or did you have to pull it out of her?"

  "She forgot about her pasta, just stirred it robotically for a long time, glancing between me and the boiling water. Like she was about to speak, but her mouth couldn't form the words. She'd start, then stammer, repeat herself, not really going anywhere. She kept apologizing, touching her face. This wasn't Michelle. I started guessing at what she meant to say, making suggestions so she could nod or shake her head. Something about this made me sick. We were only making it worse. Finally I turned away to sit, to wait for her to talk to me, and as soon as I faced away, as soon as eye contact broke, she said the words. 'I don't want us to be together, Guy.'"

  "Did you try to argue her out of it?"

  "She never said anything important like this unless she'd already been thinking about it a long time. And once she said the words, I knew her mind would never change. So I said nothing. Just sat there, trying to compute, looking at the floor. My mind spun with all these possibilities. Thinking about stupid things like furniture, and bills. Details of a life that was already dead." I stop, refill both glasses, trying to relive what happened next. What really did happen, and what did I imagine later? Breathe deep. "Finally I said, ‘Where will you go? I don't get how this works.’"

  "You thought she was gonna leave."

  "She looked at me confused, said, ‘Where will I go?’ I said, ‘Your income won't pay for another house. Are you moving in with someone else?’ She stopped stirring linguini, turned off the stove, and set down the wood spoon. Came over to me, with this softness in her eyes, for the first time looking at me with this gentle pity. She touched my hand, so delicately. I thought, she's relenting, she already realizes she's been all wrong about this. Something changed her mind. Even if it's only that she hasn't considered the financial aspect, if she only wants to stay because she can't afford to leave, th
at's fine. Good enough. Either way, I'm sure she doesn't mean it. The change won't really happen."

  Karl shakes his head, waiting. He knows the outline of my story.

  "The next thing Michelle said, she let me know how foolish I was, still am. She said, ‘I'm not leaving, Guy. You're leaving. I can't have you here in this house any more. Not another day.’"

  "So you were paying most of the bills but—"

  "Yeah." I nod. "She set out all the luggage, two pieces of hers and two of mine, and said I should pack my things right now. From the garage she brought in two empty cardboard boxes, not nearly enough for everything of mine. Then she changed her mind, said instead of watching me pack, she'd allow me to do this alone. She said she'd be back in an hour and left the house. I was stunned, just standing there looking around. Thinking I should've said this or that. I didn't become angry. Not at her. I had this weird, chivalrous impulse. Fine, if she doesn't want me, I won't ask for anything. I'll handle it so well, be so strong and noble, this will clarify for Michelle how wrong she's been. I'll leave behind most of what I care about, and when she sees, she'll feel ashamed. Books half mine, music mostly mine, even the beautiful Linn stereo I bought twenty years ago. All left behind. I keep thinking, Michelle seeing all my things, that will guarantee my return to this house. She'll realize our lives are of a single piece. I boxed up my computer, a few things from my desk, just filled one of the boxes. I remember thinking I might be about to cry, and I couldn't do that in case she came back. I left in a hurry, four suitcases, one cardboard box. Does that make sense?"

  Karl set the empty glass beside himself on the sofa cushion. "Hell no."

  "I mean, do you understand my idea that by taking it well, I kept alive the possibility she might change her mind? The marriage might be out of joint, but not dead. Her declaration might be revocable."

  "But you did that for her, not yourself. You wanted to lay on a guilt trip by walking away from things you wanted. Like, fine, I'll leave, but I'll force you to feel bad. You left thinking she'd have to call you back. But did she?"

  My eyes burn so I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Not tears, just fatigue. Fumes from my glass. "Of course not."

  "You made a mistake. You played it, thinking she'd have to take pity."

  I shake my head. "I was just reeling, faced with trying to divide up books and CDs. I couldn't deal with it."

  "Whatever," Karl says, seeming to dismiss my suggestion. "I'm saying your old-fashioned gentlemanly approach was bullshit. ‘Not at all dear, quite all right.’ You thought she wouldn't take you up on it, but she sure as hell did. Too bad, but you didn't mean what you said. Don't say something's fine if it isn't. Don't walk away from most of what's yours, including a four hundred thousand dollar house, saying you don't mind. That's not being a quality person. It's being a sucker."

  "Yeah."

  "And how'd that work for you?"

  "Not too well."

  "So you take a few suitcases and that sissy iMac in a cardboard box, and everything else, you let her keep. That big gesture got you shit."

  "It's all gestures." I motion widely, implying everything. "Acting."

  "You lost me."

  "Everybody's got it within them to do anything, good or bad. But we decide how we want to be, and try to play the part. It's only the acting that gives us any hope of being better than the worst parts of ourselves."

  "You think?" Karl holds up the Scotch bottle, eyeballs what remains, pours half for himself, and hands me the bottle. "What's the worst you've ever done? Truth. Man, I've done some heinous shit."

  The diagonal Johnnie Walker label makes me feel off-kilter. I pour most of the remainder into my glass. "I haven't thought about this in a long time," I begin, without stopping to think. "At a certain age, this neighbor sort of molested me. I don't know, how old is second grade. Eight?"

  "Wait, what?" Karl scrutinizes me, squints as if having trouble focusing. "How old was this other guy?"

  "I don't know. Older than me, but not adult. Maybe twelve or thirteen."

  Karl whistles a descending note. "Fuck, man. How does that make you feel? You want to kill him?"

  I shake my head, trying to blink away the surge of feelings coming over me. "I never felt like it harmed me, exactly. I'm not saying I liked any of it. Really everything just seemed like... pointless things to do. I was a kid. It wasn't traumatizing, like rape. He didn't fuck me, anything like that. He'd say if I'd lay down beside him in his bed for a few minutes, he'd give me certain comic books he knew I wanted. And I'd think about whether I wanted the comic books enough to be willing to do whatever it was, and I'd either do it or say no. What he was asking wasn't the hardcore stuff you're probably imagining. I'm not even sure what he was doing, probably just beating himself off with a little naked kid next to him. He didn't touch me, really. The decisions seemed simple. I felt weird after, sure as hell never told anybody, but I didn't worry over it, either. It only happened a few times. He moved away."

  Karl makes a farting noise with his mouth. "That's why your sexuality's all deformed and shit, you realize."

  "Fuck you, Karl. You want any more of this?" It's an effort, sitting up, focusing on the whisky.

  "Nah, Tiger, just kidding. Yeah, go ahead and pour me. Thing is, I asked what's the worst thing you've done. That story, shit. You were a little kid. That dude victimized you. That's not anything you did wrong."

  "Yeah," I say, though the suggestion surprises me, until I think about it. "I didn't exactly mean it was my fault. But when you asked, that's what came to mind."

  "Dude probably hates himself now. If not, he fucking should. Man, I could tell a whole list of horrible shit. You ready to hear mine, some of the worst, something I actually did?"

  I hesitate, put off by this lead-in. "I guess so."

  "Man." Karl blows through pursed lips. "This wasn't quite as young as what you said, but similar. Perverted kids, that kind of shit."

  "You're serious?"

  "Fuck yeah, serious. I messed with my cousin Laurie one summer, a few times. Like first, got her to show me herself. Then look at me naked, touch it. Later, she let me kind of roll around on top of her, not fucking, but you know, sort of sexual. I started touching her, fingering. I thought she liked it, but I don't know now. Shit. I was thirteen, she was eleven, almost twelve. I wanted to act out things I saw in magazines. Tried to put it in her mouth, you know. At least got her to sort of kiss it. Fuck, who knows what I thought I was doing."

  My reflex is to tell him not to worry, that he was too young, but I stop myself. It's better if he continues feeling it was wrong. He should wish he could take it back, even if he can't. "So we both admitted these buried stories, revealed our secret shame, or whatever." I wipe my mouth, realize my vision is blurry. "Fucking whisky. But the difference is, your story's about doing something to somebody else. Mine's about being done to."

  Karl appears to weigh the distinction, or maybe he's just drunk too. His head lolls sideways, eyes squeezed shut. "You're doing it again, Tiger. Head-shrinking, even liquored up. Anyway, I got to get a little sleep." Both knees pop when he stands, and he lists to one side as if he might fall.

  "Yeah, I should too." Now I'm the one lying. No way I can sleep.

  Karl staggers a few steps, stops, turns back. "Wait, did I tell you about Constant? This work thing, Constant's big plan?"

  I try to remember. "You said something about Astoria."

  "Yeah, that's the start of it. Something new for me. Constant's grooming me for management. Man, you watch and see."

  "Management?" I ask. "You already supervise most of the guys that work there."

  "Management, not supervisor," Karl says, extending his earlier lie. "I wear a hardhat, one of the good old boys. But you'll see. No more welding and shit for me. Constant sees me in a necktie, talking to customers, making deals. Like a boss."

  Bad enough Karl believes his employment remains stable, he wants me to believe he has a future in upper management, at a company that
doesn't even have upper management. The only person playing the role Karl envisions is Constant himself. This is nothing but wishful thinking, so detached from reality I doubt even Karl himself believes it possible. Maybe that's why we drink, to let our lies become reality, at least for a while.

  But I don't tell Karl this. We say good night. I head into my own room, shut my door.

  Now that Michelle's back on my mind, I doubt I'll be sleeping. Lily helped me past this, before. Where's Lily now? Too much to think about. I wish I'd never started thinking again.

  Chapter 17

  Weightless in a bed of self-deceit

  Just try to rest, that's all. Close your eyes. Lie still.

  I see myself from outside, a body sleeping beneath the stars, in a field of grass near a river.

  Then I'm back inside my body. Someone's sitting on my chest, pressing down, hands on my face. I struggle to pry the hands away. Fingers part enough that I can recognize that smile. The wide crescent of Sadie's mouth.

  The ground softens beneath me. I sink in. The weight holding me isn't heavy, but persistent. Even as she forces me down, her smile remains. I'm halfway under, like floating in cool water, but the ground is silent and dry.

  Her skin slides over mine, slippery as if her body is oiled. Even in this moment of fear the sensation is pleasurable in the exaggerated way of dreams, a feeling intense and electric. I want to enjoy it, savor it. The realization that I'm slipping under allows me to simply feel the pleasure, without any thought of Lily or Karl or Michelle or anyone. Nothing matters but the sensation of skin slipping against skin. The longer I accept this, focus on the touch instead of fighting back, the more I'm pushed under. The ground keeps rising. I'm almost beneath the surface.

  Sadie stands, moves away, still smiling. Knowing.

  The air touches me where now her skin is absent. I want to rise, but the river forces me to listen, the whisper of water's constant need. Memories an endless stream, events which someday I should organize. Occurrences sorted into sequence. Isn't that how time works?