Funeral with a View (20 page)

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

I set aside the last
items from my unpacked suitcase and picked up my phone. It was Bill, not
Catherine. My lungs deflated.

My wife was already gone
by the time I’d woken up that morning. She hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t even
left a note, and when I called to let her know I’d gotten to Baltimore safely,
it went straight to voicemail. Leaving for the conference was the last thing I
wanted to do with the argument still looming over us like an oppressive cloud
of regret, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I could have—
should
have—handled it so much better. All of it.

I clicked the answer
button and plopped my weary bones on the bed.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Where the hell have you
been?”

I rolled my eyes.
“Around.”

“Around.”

“Yeah, around.”

“You avoiding me?”

“No,” I lied.

“Because I get the
feeling you’ve been avoiding me. Whenever I stop by, you’re on your way out.
When I call, you clam up and say you have to go. Messages? Ignored.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

My patience was wearing
thin. Getting up from the bed, I opened the curtain. The large hotel window
looked down onto the inner harbor. Restaurants and shops dotted its periphery. To
the left, the curved glass of the Baltimore Aquarium, and next to that the
submarine-turned Maritime Museum, forever stationary, floating as if keeping an
eternal vigil. Across the deep blue water, the cold stone of the Maryland
Science Center. People strolled about in shorts and cool summer clothes, taking
in the weather and the scenes. The water looked serene, inviting. I wanted to
dive in and sink to the bottom.

“Rick, you there?”

Letting the curtain fall
back into place, the room dimmed to a dull burnt amber. All signs of life on
the outside were cut off.

“Still here. What’s going
on?”

“Everything. Nothing. I
don’t know.”

Bill sounded shitty,
almost like he’d been crying. This is what I’d been trying to avoid.

“I was going to call you.”
Another lie. “Cat told me what happened last night.”

“Can you believe that
shit?” he asked. “
She
dumped
me
.”

“I heard the whole story.”
I leaned against the headboard and crossed my legs at the ankle, aimlessly flipping
through television channels with the volume muted.

“Rick, I haven’t felt
this bad about a breakup since I was in high school.”

“You really like her,
don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked
her to move in with me if I didn’t.” Bill sucked in a breath. His voice took on
a dark edge. “You know, it’s funny. The one time ... the
one
time I let
myself get this invested in a woman and try to do what feels right, what I
think is the next logical step in our relationship, she kicks me to the curb
like some unwanted mutt. I’m not used to this shit.”

For Bill, the monologue
was his equivalent of an epic soliloquy, and the closest he’d ever gotten to
‘puking’ in his life. I didn’t know what to say. What’s more, I don’t think I
had it in me to say anything even if I did. My heart wasn’t into playing love
doctor to my wounded friend. There was no gas left in my emotional tank.

“Can you get together for
a few beers sometime this weekend? I need to get out and decompress.”

“I wish I could,” lie
number three, “but I’m in Baltimore for a conference all weekend.”

“Fuck!” I heard what
sounded like the wall receiving the business end of Bill’s fist. “Thanks a lot,
buddy,” he said sarcastically. “Some friend you are.”

He was joking, and I knew
it. However, that didn’t prevent his comment from rubbing me the wrong way.

“Bill,” I sighed, “grow
the fuck up, will you?”

“Say what?”

“Grow a set, man. When
are you going to start handling your own bullshit? I’m not always going to be
around to lift you up when you’re down. Ever think of that? Or are you too busy
thinking about yourself?”

“You’re being an asshole,
Rick.”

Not the first person
to tell me that this week.

“Yeah, maybe I am.”

“What the hell is your
problem?”

I flung the remote across
the room. “I’m tired of bending over backward for people. Nobody ever stops to
consider my feelings or how I’m doing. I’m sick of it, Bill. Fed up.”

“Dude, you better back
up. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?
Never did.”

Bill was right. I was
being a total asshole. It didn’t feel good. Self-loathing crawled along my
skin. In retrospect, I had no right to fly off the handle. My broken marriage
wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault. Bill wasn’t the villain I was
painting him out to be, but in that moment, he was the misbegotten focus of
every last ounce of my anger. It was one of many things I’d look back on later
in my life, later in my death, that I would regret.

He remained silent, no
doubt shocked by the sudden unveiling of this awful side of me, a side he never
knew existed.

A side
I
never
knew existed.

“I don’t need this shit,
Rick,” he finally said. “If you’re sick of all my baggage, I’ll find someone
else to discuss it with.”

“Not a bad idea, Bill. In
fact, it’s a great one. Why don’t you give Cat a call? You guys can get
together and talk about what a jerkoff you both think I am.”

“Fuck you, Rick.” His
voice was full of emotions I wasn’t used to hearing from the big man. It stung.

He hung up without giving
me the chance to reply.

I dropped the silent
phone to the bed. It flopped like a fish out of water gasping for oxygen it
wouldn’t get and went still. I turned to the window. Sunlight cut a shimmering
triangle on the harbor. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass and caught
sight of my reflection. It was thin, lacking in any substance. I looked at it,
and a shadow person stared back at me.

I turned away, and let
the curtain fall.

“Have you been injured in
an accident?”

Click
.

“But wait! There’s more!
Get a second for only—”

Click
.

“Coming up on the next
Real Housewives of—”

Click
.

“Contact your doctor
immediately if you experience an erection lasting longer—”

Click.

I found a talk show
featuring wretches who seemed to have lives worse than mine and set down the
remote.

The hotel room was dark.
Light from the great outdoors had stopped trickling through the large window at
least an hour ago. Only the glow of the TV kept me from tripping and breaking
my face when I needed to get off the bed, which wasn’t often.

Feet bare, khaki pants
creased, white undershirt pulled out of my waistband, I settled my head into
the pillows and watched a man the size of a Volkswagen confess to his equally
large wife that he was having sex with her mother. The crowd booed, a chair
flew, almost hitting the gray haired, bespectacled host.

I shook my head and took
a sip of water I’d poured from the tap.

After the conference
wound up for the day I went back to my room, locked myself in, and ordered some
room service. A greasy container sat on the nightstand, a half-eaten BLT
forgotten. My dress shirt and tie lay in a crumpled heap next to the bed with
my inactive cellphone on top of them. No texts or calls all day.

I was debating blowing my
hard-earned money on a ten dollar soda from the mini-fridge when a soft knock
came on my door.

“Housekeeping.”

The alarm clock read
9:15. “Go away.”

Another knock.

“Housekeeping.” The
muffled voice was squeaky.

“Go
away
.”

“You need towel?”

“No!”

Yet another knock.

“Housekeeping. You need
sucky-sucky?”

“What the … This is
ridiculous,” I huffed, dragging myself from the bed.

I flung open the door
without looking through the peephole. My teeth gnashed. I wasn’t in the mood.

“Look, I—”

“Gotcha.” Sandy stood in
the hallway, grinning. In one hand she held two glasses with the hotel’s logo
etched into them, in the other, two airplane bottles of what looked to be vodka
which she shook like a bell. “And on the eighth day God created the mini-bar.”

“He didn’t rest very
long, did He?”

“Nope. Mind if I come
in?”

She brushed past me into
the room. I caught a hint of soap and pot.

“Um, sure. Make yourself
at home.”

Sandy threw herself on
the bed, tucking her legs under her. She was dressed in running shorts and a
gray Harvard Athletic Dept. T-shirt, the collar darkened from her wet, black
hair. We’d played social tag for most of the conference, each with our own
panels and presentations to attend.

“Jesus, Rick. Jerry
Springer?” she said.

I shrugged, sitting in
the recliner by the window. “Either that or porn, and I didn’t want accounting
to shit a brick when they review the expense account.”

“True. They’d collapse
dead at their desks if they saw
Weapons of Ass Destruction III
on your
bill. This, on the other hand,” she poured the tiny bottles of booze into each
glass, already filled with ice, “is no big deal. Here you go.”

“Thanks.” The vodka
struck my throat with that anti-flavor that only vodka has, winding a burning
trail to my stomach.

“I have to say I’m very
disappointed in you, Rick.”

My ass clenched. “Why?”

“The housekeeping bit.
Haven’t you ever seen
Tommy Boy
?”

My ass unclenched. “I
thought it seemed familiar. Sorry, I’m a little out of it tonight.”

“Is that why you weren’t
at the party?”

Unlike me, most everyone
else in attendance gathered in one of the hotel’s ballrooms for the big
Saturday night mixer. Food, drinks, music, mingling. I’d given my free drink
vouchers to Jack Resnick, who looked like he’d gotten the golden ticket to a
world famous chocolate factory. A big crowd wasn’t something I wanted any part
of.

I took another sip,
shrugged. “How come you’re not still there?”

She waved dismissively.
“Pfft. And hang out with a bunch of desperate, horny guys looking to get laid?
No thanks. I rubbed elbows with the right people then got out of there before
the groping started.”

“Sounds like a crazy good
time.”

“It’s a scene, man.”

Footsteps bounded down
the hall. A child laughed. A mother scolded.

“I can go if you want,” she
said, finger-combing her long onyx hair.

Yes. I should have said
yes, but I didn’t.

“You don’t have to. I
doubt I’ll be any company tonight, though.”

“That’s okay. I’m only
here to raid your mini-bar and order porn so you’re forever the office laughing
stock.”

A bright scene flashed on
the TV, lighting up her face for a moment. Her eyes were glassy, her smile
lopsided. I smelled the sweet fragrance of pot across the few feet that
separated us.

Sandy clinked the ice in
her now empty glass. “No way I can watch Jerry Springer without another one of
these. You look like you could use another, too.”

She hopped off the bed, her
bare feet silent on the carpet, and opened up the mini-bar. In the gloom, I
could see the fabric of her shorts pressed tight against her ass. With a flick
of the head, her damp hair flung to the side. Her T-shirt clung to her skin,
exposing the shadow of her bra strap.

“Get out!”
That’s
what I should have said. Instead, I stayed silent as I stared at her tight body
and drank from melting ice cubes.

She stood and walked to
me with two open bottles …

And tripped over my shoes
in the dark.

The bottles flew in the
air. Arcs of clear liquid trapped the light from the TV and shot like electric
fountains toward me. Bottles landed with muted thuds on the carpet. Sandy
landed on the floor with a squeal. The vodka ended up in my lap.

“Shit,” she muttered from
the floor.

I knelt next to her. Her
shoulders were shaking.

“You okay, Sandy? You’re
not hurt, are you?”

She leaned back on her
feet, fists pressed to her eyes. When she removed them, I saw that she wasn’t
crying, but laughing. Silent giggles turned into belly laughs.

I found myself laughing,
too.

“Nice form,” I said,
gasping for air. It felt good to laugh.

“Oh my God,” she panted.
“I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque.”

Sandy’s laugh intensified
to the point where it made no sound, and tears poured out of her eyes. She
placed a hand on my shoulder to keep herself from falling flat on her face. “Sorry
about the mess.” She pointed at my crotch. “It looks like you peed yourself.”

My pants were soaked. Her
finger was dangerously close to the stain.

I looked up, grinning,
and saw that Sandy had stopped laughing.

Our mouths were less than
a foot away. One side of her face was cast in shadow, the other bright from the
TV. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She didn’t need to. Her skin was flawless.

My throat went dry, and
it wasn’t from the vodka. I smelled the damp on her shirt, the pot on her
clothes, the vodka on her breath. One bright blue eye studied me, looked
through me. She licked her full lips. I wasn’t aware if my heart was beating or
not.

The next thing I knew she
was kissing me. Sandy pulled my face to hers. Our tongues met. At first I
stiffened, going perfectly still, then closed my eyes and let myself be
absorbed in it. A voice in my head screamed:
“Pull back! Cease and desist!”
,
but the hardening in my pants screamed something else.

Breaking the kiss, Sandy
began taking off her shirt. Her wet hair prevented it from being removed in one
go. I helped her, grabbing it and pulling it over her head. As soon as the
shirt cleared her chest, large lace-clad breasts flopped free and bounced. Her
lips found mine again, hard, taught nipples crushed to my chest. I ran one hand
through her damp hair, the other running up along her side. Her body was fit
and toned, but her skin was soft. A moan escaped her mouth under my touch.
Sandy caressed my shoulders, neck, and back, slowly working her way down.

After a severe bout of tongue
wrestling, an angel on one shoulder poked through the veil of lust. “You’re a
married man,” it scolded me. The devil on the opposite shoulder told him to
shut up, and smacked him in the mouth.

I ignored them both.

Sandy helped me pull off
my shirt, then I lowered her onto the floor, one hand on the small of her back
for support. Frantic fingers worked at my belt buckle as she spread her legs
like wings. The bulge in my pants pressed against her crotch, friction building
up between the rubbing fabrics.

“Mmmm, Ricky,” Sandy
moaned.

Ricky.

My preferred nickname
burrowed into the center of my brain and gave me pause. Sandy had only called
me by that name once, when she was stoned at her house. Most people call me
Rick. The one person I chose to spend my life with called me Ricky more than
anybody else.

Catherine’s face, the
look of hurt and anger stamped upon it from the last time we’d seen each other,
ingrained itself on my eyes.

What am I doing?

I pulled my body from
hers, pushing against the floor with my hands, stopping things before they went
any farther. They’d gone too far already.

“I can’t do this, Sandy.”

She ran fingers through
my hair. “Yes you can.”

“No,” I said, removing
myself and sitting by the TV stand, where I wrapped my arms around my knees.
“I’m married. This can’t happen. I love my wife.”

She sat up and looked at
me as if realizing the reality of the situation for the first time. “You’re
right. Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?” In a rush, Sandy found her shirt
and put it on. “I’m sorry, Rick.”

She wiped at her eye with
the back of her hand and tried to open the door, but I sprung up and stopped
her.

“I didn’t mean to give
you the wrong impression. There’s some things going on in my life right now …
If I were single, then this would be a different situation, Sandy. But I just
can’t.”

She seemed saddened, but
allowed a tiny smile to bend her lips. It was a hollow, lost look, not at home
on her face. I felt like a complete dirt bag for putting it there. All I seemed
to do lately was hurt people. I was sick of it.

Her knuckles softly
grazed my cheek. “I know.”

Then Sandy disappeared
down the hallway.