Eddie loved Gino’s, the tiny Italian restaurant near his home. With its seven tables, quietly old-fashioned waiters, and unfancy menu, it soothed him. That Saturday, he sat leaning against the wall at a table in the back, and looked around, focusing in on in on a table near the front window, where he saw what first appeared to be two women. One was in her forties, with dyed black hair, overweight in a comfortable way, cradling her coffee cup as if she were nervous or cold. Her companion was tall, very tall for a woman, and almost certainly wearing a wig, a wig in a pixie cut, with dark brown, overly shiny hair. Not a real-hair wig, Eddie thought. He noticed things like that. The woman’s skirt was made of a cheap, loudly patterned fabric that was meant to ruffle softly but actually floated flimsily above her knees. Her knees were extraordinary. The knee joint itself was large and well defined, almost like a small skull, and the calf muscles long, tough, and knotty, like the weird roots of some swampy tree. The woman’s legs were crossed, and her enormous feet were encased in what girls used to call kitten heels, black fake leather, with gaudy buckles. Eddie then dared to look up at her face. Too much make-up, poorly applied, but the eyes stared back at him and he knew he knew her. He knew him. He finished his ravioli and ordered a cappuccino. He stared at his hands. He looked back at the unmistakable knees. He knew him.
* * *
Eddie’s sister Connie had told him that the second or third time her husband Martin had been unfaithful to her was with a man. When Eddie eventually asked Martin about this, he told Eddie he hadn’t liked it much, but would probably do it again to see if the first time was simply ruled by nerves, or by his innate desire to please. By this time Martin was living alone in a shack that was called a cottage, about a block from the main street in town. Connie had kept their apartment because she loved it and could afford it. Eddie and Martin were still friendly, so Eddie went to see Martin’s shack, but did not stay for tea although invited. Martin slept on a long, padded shelf that jutted out across the main room. He’d always had a monastic bent. A handful of tarnished spoons sprawled over a small table that also displayed a vase with no flowers and a very small photo of Connie in a blue plastic frame. The shack was dark inside but somehow cheerful; probably Martin’s personality generated the cheerfulness. When Martin was about ten years old, living in a suburban development in New Jersey, his father had died after blowing up the television set in their living room. The going theory was that the explosion had not been deliberate, but no one knew for sure. According to the apocryphal law of opposites, this childhood event had turned Martin into a very cheery guy, whose favorite color was bright royal blue—on the surface. Inside, he was black, grey, and brown.
In addition to his cheerfulness and unending desire to please, Martin was also extremely intelligent. His closest friends knew this, but he didn’t flaunt it. In college, Martin was always on the dean’s list, but he never said so. He liked to make observations and answer questions in his classes, but he didn’t like to debate anything. All through high school he’d had a girlfriend named Marie and continued to date her until his sophomore college year, when he met Connie. Poor Marie, everyone said, he just dumped her. But the truth was that Marie was so enslaved by the doctrines and rumors she’d learned in Catholic school that she was unable to envision any relationship that included “unnatural” sex. Marie was confused about exactly what that meant, and she sometimes managed to have sex with Martin, but just barely. She couldn’t stop thinking about the sins they were committing, and he put up with her because he felt that being Catholic himself, he was lucky to have any kind of extramarital sex at all. He also secretly felt that Marie’s personal hygiene needed improvement; she was so ashamed of her body that she didn’t wash everywhere. He was already thinking about how to disengage from Marie when he met Connie.
Not that Connie was promiscuous or even sexually advanced. She just liked sex. She and Martin took a while to acclimate to one another, but eventually they became a couple. They were both really smart, both liked art and literature, and both had liberal views of the world. One big difference was that Martin was a jock, and Connie liked just enough physical exercise to keep herself from becoming fat or unhealthy. She tried going running with Martin, but it didn’t last long. Martin was bony and sinuous and strong; his body reminded her oddly of sculptures of Christ on the cross, with all the bones of his legs distinctly configured. They both liked wild games of Frisbee, though, so that kept them going. When they graduated college, it was looking like a beautiful summer ahead.
The Vietnam War happened. Martin was absolutely firm about not wanting to slaughter people, but his draft number was in the iffy range. One of his close friends enlisted in the army and another packed up his fiancée and his English Setter and headed for British Columbia. When Martin was directed to report for an Army physical, he disclosed, with medical proof, his asthma (real) and bone spurs (real), but, contrary to the regulations of the land, he passed. A doctor’s assistant left him alone in an exam room so he could put his clothes back on and he noticed his file lying on the counter. Dressing in a flash, Martin grabbed the file, stuffed it down his pants, and vaulted out the window and into the parking lot, swiftly fleeing the scene in his faithful old Volkswagen.
Later he said he didn’t really think about any of it; he’d just acted on impulse, knowing this might be his only chance to disappear from the system. His hurdling and running skills had paid off. Much to his amazement, he wasn’t pursued by siren-screaming, rifle-wielding military police or anyone at all. He drove to Connie’s house with the thick, stiff folder still under his clothes, cutting into the skin of his stomach and groin.
Connie was living at her mother’s house, looking for a job. Fortunately, that day she was alone. Just to be safe, Martin parked on another street and sprinted to Connie’s. When she opened her door, he spat out the circumstances of his predicament so quickly she barely understood him, but when she’d gotten her head around it, she said, “What do we do?” The “we” just killed him. He thought he might love her forever.
He told her to find the biggest frying pan she could, with a lid if possible. He wanted to burn his file. Connie suggested doing it outdoors (the kitchen was cramped, with only a small window and no exhaust fan), but he was afraid someone would see them. Without even opening it, they cut the file into about twenty pieces so it would fit in the pan and took a match to the gas burner. The pieces began to scorch and the room immediately filled with dark, gag-inducing smoke. In addition to some papers, the file had contained two sheets of x-ray film, thick with various emulsions. They opened the window and flapped dish towels at the noxious air as best they could, but Martin was determined to leave the burner on until everything had disappeared. When all the chunks of file had been reduced to ashes, they flushed the debris down the toilet, retrieved a small table fan from the attic, and set it up in the kitchen. It took Connie forever to scour all the stinky viscous gunk from the skillet. They had about an hour before Connie’s mother got home.
Connie’s mother was crazy about Martin, so even though there was still a bit of a stench in the kitchen when she got home, she gullibly bought his story about trying to heat up some rubber to repair the cracked soles of his running shoes. He apologized for the smell, but she didn’t seem to mind it. After dinner, Connie walked him to his car. By this time, she was shaking, terrified that she’d assisted in a federal crime, but Martin assured her that even if they tortured him, he’d never tell what had happened in her kitchen.
* * *
Martin escaped the draft completely. No one ever came after him. He and Connie got married. Years later, long after the divorce, Connie, visiting her mother for the weekend, was horrified to find a rather large wedding photo of her and Martin still hanging in the guest room. When Connie asked her mother to take it down, her mother laughed at her and said she was too sensitive. “I liked Martin,” her mother said. When Connie’s visit was over, she removed the photo from the wall, placed it face down in her suitcase and, as soon as she got to the airport, slipped it into the first big trashcan she could find. I definitely am too sensitive, she thought. And some other people had never been sensitive enough.
The divorce was long in coming but had been sidetracked by Martin’s inability to make a firm decision about it. He really did still love Connie, but, on the other hand, he wanted total freedom. He thought she had lost her youthful liberal outlook on life, but in truth that outlook had never included Martin having other lovers. There was more to the divorce than that, of course; there always, always is. Finally, however, he agreed, and moved out, by which time Connie’s determination to be rid of him was gargantuan. She felt sorry for him, but that was about all. He left, with most of his belongings stuffed into yet another shabby VW, on her birthday, after surprising her with a new bicycle, something she’d been coveting for a while. Connie was touched, and it did take a bit of the sting out of separation day, but later she learned that her neighbor, a very nice man who she thought she might try to get closer to someday, had not only encouraged Martin to give her the bike, but had helped him pick it out.
After a while Connie moved to another state and secured a job she was pretty happy with. She had a pleasant apartment in a pleasant neighborhood and was even able to get a cat. Martin had never wanted pets. She also had a pleasant sometimes boyfriend and didn’t keep in touch with Martin or his friends, except for Christmas cards. Then one day, Martin called her. He was going to be in her town the following week and could he just stay on her couch for one night? He didn’t, he told her, have enough money for a motel, and it crossed Connie’s mind to lend him the money rather than have him stay with her, but then she thought that would be expensive and stupid and she could just put up with him for a few hours. All that “thinking” took place in a split second and she regretted it later. When she described the evening to one of her friends the following day, she said she thought maybe she’d just been curious, and her friend said, “or completely deranged.”
She met Martin at the bus stop downtown and took him to dinner. She knew he wouldn’t offer to pay for his meal, but he did offer to pay the tip. She sighed. But the conversation hadn’t been slow or forced, and they did have a few laughs, even at themselves. Then she drove them back to her place. He’d told her he was on his way to a family funeral and would be with his relatives for a week or so, but she noticed he had almost no luggage. She didn’t ask any questions, though; she was pleased to realize that she utterly did not care.
Back at her apartment, she made coffee, and they chatted a little more. Her cat had retreated to safety under her bed, not even emerging for his dinner. He was an unusually friendly cat, for the most part. After a little more talking, Connie went to her closet and brought out a pillow and a couple of quilts and placed them on the couch, next to Martin. She told him the couch was pretty comfortable for sleeping and that there were clean towels for him on the back of the toilet. He grinned.
She said she’d use the bathroom first and she’d see him in the morning. They could have coffee and a croissant at her favorite café near the bus station before she dropped him off. She’d wake him up in time. He grinned.
Connie got into her pajamas and into her bed, and her cat joined her, and they went happily off to sleep together. And then there was a knock at the bedroom door. “What’s wrong?” she called out. Martin opened the door just the tiniest crack and whispered that he missed her and wanted to sleep in her bed. She said, “Hold on a minute.” She got up, put on her robe and slippers and walked very calmly right past Martin and into the living room, turning on every lamp she passed by, as well as the overhead light in her little kitchen. When she got to the living room, she turned to look at Martin, who had been following her like a baby duck. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said.
Martin just smiled. He took her hand; she took it back. He said if he couldn’t sleep in her bed, maybe he could sleep on the floor next to it? “Look,” she said, “I think you’re crazier than ever and I don’t love you or want you in my bed or, truthfully, even in my apartment. But you can stay on the couch tonight, and I’ll drive you to the bus stop in the morning. No breakfast. I’m sorry, Martin, but please don’t speak to me any more tonight. This is ghastly.”
He slept on the couch. She drove him to the bus stop. He looked so crestfallen and contrite that she allowed him to kiss her goodbye on her cheek, but even before he turned to go, she took a Kleenex out of her purse and wiped her face. Three days later she noticed that some of her makeup was missing from a basket in the bathroom, as was a horrible ruffly skirt she’d picked up at a yard sale but had tried on, hated, and tossed on the bathroom tiles, planning to throw it away.
* * *
Years after Eddie had observed Martin in drag in the Italian restaurant, he ran into him again, only this time Martin looked like Martin and was happy to see and talk with Eddie. They had a couple of beers and just shot the breeze. Martin seemed starved for a chat, and pretty soon launched into a story about years ago when his favorite aunt had died and no one in his family would allow him to go to the funeral. Eddie asked why. Martin said it might have had something to do with his drug use, but that he only smoked pot, and, as Eddie knew, was a perfectly harmless person. Eddie agreed to that. Not once, during their two-hour conversation, to Eddie’s amazement, did Martin ask anything about Connie. Not even once. Just as well, Eddie thought. Connie had told him about Martin’s visit to her apartment that time. Christ, Eddie thought, I’m glad I’m not either one of them.
Just before saying goodbye to Martin, Eddie experienced a powerful stroke of clarity and courage. “Martin,” he said. “The wig. The makeup. The stupid outfit. Was that your sister you were with at that restaurant? All so you could go to the funeral?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Martin said. He was looking somewhere over Eddie’s head, but he was smiling.
Eddie swallowed the last of his beer. “I was too
scared to say hello.”
“I’ve never
done it before or since,” said Martin, holding up his crossed fingers.
Eddie grinned; he thought about calling Connie.
About the author
Diane Wald has published five chapbooks, three novels, and four poetry collections. Her next novel, The Bayrose Files, was recently published by Regal House Publishing.
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