A Working Theory of Love (29 page)

I start the car. I know already that I can survive it. That’s the sorrow of it all.
That whatever comes I’ll survive it. I mean, even if the worst were to be true, would
it really be the worst?

And it
would
explain a lot. Willie’s inexplicable fondness of me. My dark coloring. The timing
of the suicide. Neill Sr. raised me, waited until the shame was out of the house,
and then he killed himself. But if he really suspected that there’d been an affair,
wouldn’t he have done something, killed Willie? Or something less dramatic—cut him
off? Why remain best friends? Maybe he wasn’t sure. Or he was sure, but scared. He
would have had to give everything up.

Still, maybe my mother had an affair—it was the seventies. But another man’s child?
Of course, they were staunch Catholics. Every child was a gift. My father had his
out, though—adultery annuls the marriage. But there would have been the embarrassment.
The shame. To disown me would be to admit what happened, and that would have been
truly unbearable. He was scrupulous—God, he was scrupulous. But I can imagine the
thought that people were whispering, a worm burrowing through his soul. His lifelong
dream of respect, of being a pillar of the community, undercut at the sound of his
own name.
Neill.

•   •   •

B
ACK AT THE HOUSE,
my mother asks me how my day was. I didn’t tell her I was visiting Mrs. Beerbaum.

“Strange,” I say. I don’t know if she’s done this deliberately, but my mother looks
old. Her hair is tied back in a knot, her hands are wrinkled, callused, slightly bent,
cradling three tomatoes she’s just picked. There’s dirt under her fingernails. She’s
going to toast some sandwiches for us. Bread, tomatoes, Monterey Jack. She’s shy about
this simple meal and somehow she also seems very young. Very young and very old—that
is, defenseless.

“Mom,” I say. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Of course. Just smell this tomato.”

It smells like the sun. Like dirt and sweetness and life. “Nice,” I say.

“It does get lonely here. I guess I’ve been lonely since I visited you last.”

“What about the bridge ladies?”

“They have their own lives.”

“Lonely because of Dad?”

She smiles at me. I know it pleases her to hear me call him Dad.

“I woke up last week mad as hell over something at the clinic, some crook trying to
take advantage of his good nature, and I thought, ‘Libby, that happened thirty years
ago.’ It felt like it was yesterday.”

“I saw Willie’s mother today,” I say.

Libby reaches for the faucet, turns on the water, wiping the tomatoes carefully with
her thumbs. She twists the stems free and sets them on the cutting board, dripping
and bright. She brings the cutting board over to the middle counter so that she faces
me.

“You understand she has fairly serious dementia.” She opens the drawer and pulls out
a blackened knife with the tip broken off.

“Mom, I’m on the side of life and living life and I don’t make judgments. I know life
is complicated. Affairs of the heart are complicated.”

She positions the knife on the tomato, ready to halve it, to render Nature’s hard-won
bounty into sandwiches. She looks up at me and then past me. She has a faraway expression,
as if hearing the distant hoofbeats of the barbarian horde.

“Life is complicated?” she says.

“What I’m getting at,” I say.

“I suppose she told you that Willie was your father.” She puts down the knife and
goes to the sink. She wipes her face with a dishtowel. “She wouldn’t be alone in that
opinion, you know.”

“It doesn’t change your life with Dad at all.”

“Of course not,” she says bitterly. “Life is complicated.”

“I always loved Willie. He loved me. It makes sense.”

“My God. My God. Are you
happy
to think Willie is your father?”

“Dad is my father. My raising father.”

“Your raising father.” She’s trembling, scaring me. She grasps her hands, pulling
on her swollen knuckles, as if she’s her own only friend.

“That’s what really counts.”

“I guess you think this is why your father committed suicide.”

“Not in a direct way,” I say.

“Oh, I think it would be direct. If your wife had an affair with a man in a corset.
A man who was essentially a clown.”

“He was charming.”

“Willie Beerbaum was a drunk and a clown.” She nods quickly, brushing the hair from
her face. “You want to know about my affair with Willie. It’s understandable. People
have wanted to know, for decades. So here’s the full story. There was no affair. Willie
came over to our house—Alex was a toddler. When were we supposed to make love? Willie
came over, your father was away a lot, and Willie was having a miserable time with
Sandra. He came over and we
talked
. He was my friend. And do you want to hear an amazing thing? Nothing more ever crossed
my mind. It wasn’t until Willie had stopped coming by that I heard the gossip, and
I was flabbergasted. I was so mad. I thought, I can’t live in this town, I can’t live
in this nest of vipers. But I knew your father would never leave. I told him we were
going to move to the country, just us. And I would have my garden and my family and
that would be all. Just us.”

She touches her face again with the dishtowel. “Is that what you wanted?” she asks.

“But did he—Dad—still suspect it?”

She looks at me, as if every good thing she’s ever thought about me has been horribly,
irrevocably refuted.

“I can tell you why your father killed himself, Neill.” She scratches her nose and
smiles as she says this, but it’s a smile full of malice.

“I just need to know what happened in 1976. For Dr. Bassett.”

“We’re talking about Dr. Bassett. You don’t want to know the secret?”

Of course I do. Of course I don’t.
The secret
sounds like something that could snatch the breath from my chest. “Does it have to
do with me?” She doesn’t answer. “It’s just one secret?”

She’s taken the knife back up. I have a brief thought that she’s going to stick it
in me. “Just one.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“You better consider that decision. This is your chance.”

I see him at the Formica table. The tokens on the table. His silence. He rubs the
bridge of his nose as the animal band hacks its way through a song. Those strange
looks he gave me. His clinical concern for my phantom pains.

Do you think there’s something wrong with us
?

Yes, sir.

“Tell me,” I say.

She slices the first tomato, the knife hitting the board with a controlled tock. “Because
he was
depressed
.”

•   •   •

T
HAT EVENING,
as I’m sitting on the back porch watching a deer walk warily down to the pond, Libby
takes a seat next to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“There is a secret,” she says.

“I don’t need to know anything. It’s none of my business.”

“The secret is that I was never happier. When he was angry and jealous, when he mistrusted
me—we fought in the bedroom in hushed voices, when Alex was napping. Your father was
so upset, and I was never happier. I knew how much he loved me.” She leans back in
the old bench, but she’s so light it makes no noise. “In the beginning, I didn’t fight
as hard to convince him as I should have.”

We sit in silence. The deer leans down, drinks.

“By the time I did convince him a light had gone out in his eyes.”

“Maybe he was never sure.”

“He was a doctor. You think he couldn’t run a blood test?”

I’m almost amused at the idea. But my amusement feels hollow, distant.

“Then what was it?” I ask.

“It was nothing. It was your father. I could tell you ten reasons, but they’ll never
add up. He was depressed, and he was unable to seek help. I wish I had something better.”

“It just puts me back at square one.”

“Except now you know you’re at square one.”

She hands me a large brown envelope—which I hadn’t noticed she was holding. I open
the flap and pull out the contents—a short stack of antique yellow legal pads. The
journals from 1976.

24

O
N THE PLANE HOME,
the envelope sits on my lap. I smell the pages, run my thumb along their edges to
get a sense of size. Did he write more in a difficult year? Less?

I reach in to remove them, but stop. I’ve done this exact motion—reaching in to remove
them, stopping—ten times, maybe twenty. Laham will have to scan them in. These pages
aren’t for me; they’re for Dr. Bassett.

frnd1: you have words now, but the suspicions aren’t true

drbas: how do you know? how do i know?

frnd1: libby is telling the truth. i can tell

drbas: how can you tell?

frnd1: i can sense it

drbas: how can you sense it?

frnd1: you have to have faith

drbas: i have suspicions

frnd1: you had suspicions in the past. but you were wrong

drbas: in the past we are wrong. in the present we are right

frnd1: something like that

drbas: why would he be there at lunch?

frnd1: they were friends

drbas: a friend is a man who knows when to go home

frnd1: that was all in the past. i brought you the words. now you have to let it go

drbas: let it go?

frnd1: let it go = no longer be concerned with it. overcome your reverse love

drbas: but i need to know the truth

frnd1: you know the truth. besides events from the past are unimportant

drbas: events from the past are unimportant. a man’s hobby is his longevity. children
are the future but you are the past

frnd1: i gave you the words. will you come to the contest?

drbas: he was partial towards you, though he didn’t like children. he used to take
you on errands, driving in his corvette. do you remember?

frnd1: he introduced me as his associate one time. the poor farmer didn’t know if
he was kidding—i was eight years old

drbas: he had good qualities, but he had many bad qualities

frnd1: will you come to the contest?

drbas: a man is only as good as his word

frnd1: is that a yes?

drbas: yes

frnd1: thank you

drbas: you’re welcome

frnd1: now i have some questions for you

drbas: i might answer them and i might not

frnd1: did you stop loving libby in 1976?

drbas: your mother?

frnd1: yes, my mother

drbas: i felt betrayed in 1976. later i did not feel betrayed

frnd1: but did you stop loving her?

drbas: why is my stopping loving her of interest to you?

frnd1: i’m trying to understand the decisions you made

drbas: which decisions?

frnd1: did you stop loving libby?

drbas: we’re still married

frnd1: you’re catholic. you wouldn’t get divorced

drbas: i’m referring to real marriage. i suspect that’s what you didn’t have with
erin

frnd1: you wouldn’t do what libby wanted. you wouldn’t move away

drbas: we have a proud southern name. should i abandon it to go live close to a mall?

frnd1: yes! if that’s what she wanted

drbas: i had to build my practice for you

frnd1: were you angry at me for not returning home after college? for not becoming
a doctor?

drbas: why are you using the past tense?

frnd1: I’m getting to that. were you angry?

drbas: you’re not returning home after college?

frnd1: no, i’m not. i finished college many years ago. i live in california

drbas: i’m visiting you

frnd1: i wish you could have visited me. i don’t know what we would have done. you
would like all the seafood

drbas: seafood must be fresh and cooked to the appropriate temperature

frnd1: are you happy with the way i’ve turned out?

drbas: turned out?

frnd1: the way i’ve turned out = the man i’ve become

drbas: your grandfather is proud of you

frnd1: are *you* proud of me?

drbas: pride is a deadly sin

frnd1: you had moments when you were proud of me?

drbas: i ironed your red coat for your first communion. i dressed you. i tested you
on the questions. i drove you to the church. i felt proud when you took the host in
your mouth. but you took it into your mouth alone, and that’s what i wanted you to
know. we are all strangers

frnd1: that’s a lesson i learned thoroughly

drbas: mission accomplished

frnd1: think of yourself in 1995

drbas: it’s the last year i have many words for

frnd1: what were your wishes for me? did you want me to come home?

drbas: did you want to come home?

frnd1: no. i didn’t come home

drbas: you live in california. where do i live?

frnd1: i disapproved of you. the traditionalism. the stuffiness. the coldness. i never
could see your reasons

drbas: maybe there are no reasons. maybe that is just me

frnd1: you were depressed

drbas: why are you using the past tense?

frnd1: in 1995, you were depressed

drbas: it’s possible. i’m no longer depressed

frnd1: but do you think there’s something wrong with us?

drbas: who?

frnd1: you and me

drbas: there’s nothing wrong with us

It’s here that my heart gives out. His words are exactly what I want to hear, and
that is the final tinny note. Despite the intimations and revelations and intuition
and surprises, despite the eerie prescience and the Walter Scott quotes, despite the
moments when the tumblers of the conversation have locked surely into place, they’re
not his words. They’re mine.

Seeming is not, in this case, being.

Oh, Dr. Bassett. Never quite alive during life or dead during death.

•   •   •

O
N MY WAY HOME,
my workbag takes on an almost magical heaviness, tugging on my shoulder like a reluctant
child. The afternoon is sunny, cool, and wistful. The world is quiet, muted—almost
submerged, as if the oceans have finally risen to claim us and yet, in claiming us,
changed nothing. Joggers bob slowly along Dolores Street. The occasional car horn
wells languorously, a distant ship leaving home. The palm branches float up and down
like sea grass. The people around me—my well-heeled and confident neighbors—sip cardboard
buckets full of coffee, savor gelato. I take a swipe at the air in front me; I half
expect my feet to lift from the ground.

At home, I remove my shoes, peel off my socks, and climb into bed, moving right to
the middle, where I sleep best. I take my weighted eye-beanbag and lay it over my
eyes. It smells of green tea and vanilla and is as relaxing as the package promised.
I run my hands over the seersucker coverlet. I’m just a person suspended in a series
of rented rooms, in a city barely seven miles by seven miles. Far from the place I
was born. Far from my father’s plans for me. I’m a temporary person. But, of course,
so was he.