Good People (5 page)

Another reason she is doing the driving is I don't have a valid driver's license. It was revoked last year, I'm pretty sure. I think it was for my third DUI, which is a night I'd like to remember. I know that's a reason they revoke licenses, the third strike, so to speak. Otherwise, I let the license lapse and never renewed it. I'm not sure which is true in this instance. It could be that I've lost my license both ways over the years. It is like me to ignore things I have to do, like renew driver's licenses, pay the heating bill, rent, insurance. Sometimes I forget to call my sister. It's not that I forget to return her calls because she's never called me on the telephone or dropped by in person. I've learned not to take this
personally, though I'm sure it's personal. I'm sure she holds me responsible for something and there's no getting over it. Maybe it's the monkey bars. Maybe she thinks I'm the one who tripped her. Even still, I have it in my head to call her every so often, check in. I like to know she's okay, that she's still living some kind of life. This is one reason we're driving around Piscataway, trying to find her. I also want to introduce her to my new wife, show her that people can be happy with other people. I've never liked driving myself and my new wife can drive just fine, which is probably strange for an Eastern European. I didn't ask if she had a valid license, but I'm sure she does. And when I say I'm sure I mean I hope she has a valid license. If we get pulled over here in Piscataway and she gets busted for driving without a license I can foresee a chain of events that conclude with her deportation back to Poland or Slovakia and my ending up on my sister's couch for a couple of months, dodging bows and drinking tea and slipping brochures under her bedroom door.

My new wife is a marvel of Eastern European design. She has the hair and the eyes and the cheekbones that protrude three paces ahead of her and that way of walking around the world like it's an absolute pleasure or at least better than the gulag. I saw her crying at the bar and it was maybe two or three drinks before we were engaged to be married. Then it was up and down the
boardwalk, sharing ice-cream cones and cotton candy. There have been a few hiccups, to be sure, a few misunderstandings, given the cultural divide. There was the time we were out walking and I'd assumed the inside position, so that she was on my left. She said to me, out of nowhere, she said, Do you think I am a whore? Of course, I had no idea what was happening. We were out walking, neither of us had said anything for about a mile or so. I was probably thinking about the rest of the tournament, if I was thinking about anything at all. I'd been knocked out shortly after I'd eliminated my new wife. I went all in with kings and ran up against aces. This happens, there's nothing you can do. I said, What, to my new wife, and she said, You heard me. I said, I don't think I heard correctly, and she said, This is my fault. At this point we'd stopped walking and I had my hands on her shoulders. It felt like maybe she wanted to kick me in the groin. I asked, Do I think you are a whore? Is that what you said? She said, This is the question. After asking what the hell she was talking about, she finally explained what it means if you walk and the woman is on your left.

As if life wasn't hard enough.

My new wife holds her own at the poker table, though. Maybe she's too much of a gambler, but she's talented, dangerous. She and I haven't talked about poker too much since the wedding. I do know she is
concerned about money. I've heard her talking about not having any money at all, about being broke as Polish jokes, about being hungry as a child and how this can never happen again. She asks me how much money I have saved, if I own a house somewhere. I tell her I have a house in Vermont and that I might take her there sometime. She says she cannot wait for this, that she loves the mountains, so I tell her that we can go up to Vermont after we visit with my sister. She talks about rich American doctors and lawyers and how they think they can play poker. I think she thinks I'm one of these. She says that she can't believe how lucky she is that she met me. I feel like a million dollars when she says this. I haven't said anything about being a doctor or lawyer, but I've decided that it doesn't matter. So far she hasn't paid for anything and I've decided this doesn't matter, either. I'm not sure exactly how our lives will work once we get back to it. I imagine we'll find a place together. I've been living in a hotel and I'm not sure what her situation is, where she lives, what exactly her hustle is. I know she has a hustle, they all do. I think I remember her mentioning a roommate, maybe she's in on it, too. They could be working girls, high-end. You can't tell. The very first thing I asked her was if I could take her home, on account of her being upset. This was before buying that first drink at the bar and falling in love. She said, I don't like this idea. I
asked what idea she might like, and she said, A drink with fruit inside it and then another one after that.

So now we are in Piscataway or someplace that looks like Piscataway or how I imagine Piscataway should look. My new wife isn't impressed. She says things like, Why you bring me to this pit? Why you bring me someplace like Piscataway? I tell her about the park with the trees and brook and the blue jays. I tell her it's pretty here. I tell her that she should meet my sister, that I think they have a lot in common. I tell her about the tea and cello. I say that family is important. I tell her if things get bad we can always steal the cello and pawn it for good money. I tell her that my sister is an easy mark. My new wife doesn't react when I say this. She could be holding anything at this point, a high pair or rags.

I decide to tell her some stories about my sister, how she used to be a concert cellist but was injured in a playground mishap. I tell her a little boy tripped her and we don't know if it was an accident or not. I tell her that my sister had two children but they were taken by the state on account of her being an unfit mother. I tell her about the drug use and the prostitution. Still, I say, she is a good person with a good heart and we shouldn't judge her. I tell my new wife that she will love my sister and they will grow to be great friends. I tell my new wife that my sister needs this as much
as she does. This is when I suggest we pull over, get something to eat, stretch our legs. My new wife wants to check into a hotel so we can watch TV. So far we've watched hours of TV every night before going to sleep sometime around 4:00 a.m. The truth is, we haven't even consummated our marriage yet. Every time I try, she says she is trying to watch something or that she doesn't like this idea. I explain to her that this is what married people do in this country, and she says, Everything about this is a problem. I want to ask what this means, but I don't. Instead I go out and get her chips. She likes chips, calls them cheeps, eats them straight from the bag, one at a time.

What no one knows is that it doesn't take much for me to fall in love and get married. With my new wife, it's how she pronounces
cheeps
and the rest of her broken English and how she peeks down past those cheekbones at her hole cards, like she doesn't want them to know she's looking. How she looks devastated when I tell her something she doesn't like and how after I say something nice a smile comes exploding from the bottom of her face and she kisses me hard on the cheek. She can go from inconsolable to affectionate in seconds and I don't care if she's just biding her time as long as she does this every so often. The others all had their own private wonders unique to them, too. I can't help myself when it comes to women sometimes.
This probably speaks to something fundamental about who I am as a person, but I try not to think about it. Or if I do, I only try to see how it might connect to poker.

I tell her we should keep driving around, that it'll be dark soon. I ask if we can give it another hour, that if we can't find my sister's house in another hour, we'll find a hotel and watch TV and eat chips. Then tomorrow we'll go up to Vermont and live happily ever after. She tells me this is her dream. She says I should call my sister to see if she's home, but I don't have her new phone number. The last time I tried to call there was an automated voice saying the number I had dialed had been disconnected. I'm not sure when this was, if it was before or after I'd visited her last, the time she played the cello and we went for a walk. My sister hasn't met any of my wives. I have a dim memory of calling her after I got married the first time with the intention of telling her the news, but all she could talk about were the drapes and how they were giving her all kinds of trouble.

Essentials

T
HERE WERE TOO MANY PEOPLE
there when it happened so I've decided to cut some of them. Arthur Wheeler was present but had nothing to do with it. Gil Figgitz was whittling with his fly open again, dementia worsening, so he's out. All June Harrison does is occupy space and too much of it at that and this was no exception. Likewise husband, Bill. I know for a fact Judy Jakker wanted nothing to do with it—she said so in that ridiculous European accent of hers—so out of respect for Judy, I'll say she wasn't even there. Betty Lager is an easy cut, despite the jean shorts and pedicured toes. Frank Pugo shouldn't have been mixed up in this in the first place and his role, from what I understand, was minimal. William Shedd doesn't need this kind of recognition, given his situation. As far as Harriet Dovovich is concerned, it's best to leave well enough alone. Diego Goldstein wasn't there at all, but he's my friend
and he'd be excited to see his name included. Dottie Western was there, but only for a few minutes. She left her turquoise Indian bracelet so I have to remember to call her. Pugo's mother was there—I remember seeing her—but I don't think she was involved, although it wouldn't surprise me. I'd like to say Bennie Mangine was there and responsible for the whole thing, but I'd be lying. Next door Jill probably had something to do with it, but I've been trying to get her to watch me from her bedroom window at night and we're in the latter stages of negotiations. Considering what Jenn Untermeyer did for me the night of Bill Shedd's going-away party, there's no way I can put her in the middle of this. Along those same lines, Grace Heaney gets a pass, too. Of course, Sam Marichino was in it up to his ears, but given his condition . . . Dale Sween has always known about discretion and valor. Fran Pollo was acting awfully strange. Maybe she'll stay in, I'm not sure. She let me feel her up when we were sixteen so I'm sure I owe her something. Denise Livingston never seemed quite right to me. Her eyes are far apart and she is always bumping into things. It's as if she can only muster an inconsequential peripheral vision. Sal Gonzalez saved my ass once. Maybe the train wouldn't have killed me, but there's no way of knowing. So regardless that all the evidence points to Sal, I could never name him. At any rate, those are the people I'm
cutting. I'm not sure if it'll make a difference. By the time the cops got there, it was out of our hands. I'm not sure who called them. I was contemplating Next-door Jill's counteroffer when someone tapped me on the shoulder. There were two of them. The one with the mustache said, What's the problem here? I said, There's no problem, and looked him in the eye. It's best if you look them in the eye. Then he said, Well, someone has a problem. I said nothing. It's best if you can look them in the eye and say nothing at the same time. Then they both noticed what had happened in the living room. The other one said, Does it have something to do . . . with . . . I said, Yes, Officer, it does.

Good People

O
NE OF THEM
, the one who is driving, says, Pussy's pussy, and looks at the other one, the one in the passenger seat. It's a kind of challenge.

The other says, Pussy is not pussy.

The two work together and are considered good people. That's how they were introduced. Their boss is the one who introduced them this way, palming each on the shoulder as the two shook hands, both uneasy about this particular introduction, the intimate and public nature of it, the informality, the three of them all touching one another in the middle of the office like that, neither of the two looking the other in the eye, both noting the other's grip, one limp and ladylike, the other deliberately firm, like he was trying to inflict pain, like he had something to prove.

One is tall and the other short. They both have hair
and eyes and wear suits and shoes. Although they both are good, they are not friends.

The one driving, the one who says that pussy's pussy, is recently married. The woman he married works as a receptionist for a dentist. She is a good woman. She was born and raised in Wisconsin. She has alabaster skin. She is hoping to become pregnant soon and is unaware of her husband's thoughts on the similarity of female genitalia.

The one driving turns the radio down and says, Then what is it, then?

The one in the passenger seat says, You have to open your eyes, man. The answer's obvious.

The one in the passenger seat is not married, never has been, and probably never will be. He does not have any siblings or close friends. He considers himself average in every respect and most agree he is correct in this, as he is neither handsome nor unhandsome, bright nor dull, witty nor humorless. He talks to his mother on the phone every day, roughly the same time every day. He tries to eat vegetables every day. There are other things he does every day, but they aren't worth noting.

The two of them are on their way to a meeting across town.

The one driving will buy his wife flowers once a month.
Dendrobium
orchids are her favorites, and he made an effort to remember this the first time she told
him. They were at a restaurant when this conversation took place. It was their second encounter. Certainly there was wine, an appetizer, salads, entrées, dessert, premature emissions from both parties. At one point she said, Surely there has to be, and he agreed.

Later they retreated to separate corners. The following week nothing in the world happened for either. Rather, they both slept, showered, maintained personal hygiene. They worked, ordered lunch, and commuted home, checked mail, exercised, watched television, roamed and repeated daily, but not with each other or in consultation. Both thought of the other, alone at night, and periodically through the day, wondering this or that, wondering if the other was likewise alone at night, up beneath the blankets, not sleeping, maybe getting out of bed to turn on an air conditioner or a sound machine, something that would make noise, take up space, provide a distraction, still wondering what the other might be doing and with whom, both thinking ultimately it was none of their business, that there was no actual bond between them, spoken or unspoken, no implied covenant, but still there was something, though perhaps it wasn't mutual, perhaps it was entirely one-sided, but even still, they wondered if the other was up wondering the same things, still curious, still uncertain but excited, still hopeful. Both considered calling the other but then reconsidered. One or
the other maybe even picking up the telephone, maybe even dialing the first few numbers, but in the end doing nothing, putting the phone back down, thinking it inappropriate, too forward. Both consulted friends on the next best move throughout the week and were confused by what they heard, how they were counseled. Then, finally, one did call the other, deciding enough was enough, and after a few false starts and the requisite back-and-forth, they came to terms.

The one driving says, What do you know about it?

The one in the passenger seat looks at the one driving. He says nothing.

The one driving likes to hold his wife's hand when they go out walking. They make it a point to go for a walk twice a week after dinner. She always chooses the path and he follows. This is how they both want it. Once she let him choose the path and they ended up on the wrong side of nowhere.

Their first outing was a walk through the park. During this walk they did not hold hands, though the one driving briefly considered doing so or trying to do so. He realized she might get the wrong idea, that the gesture could be misinterpreted. He thought people from the Midwest were more likely to misinterpret certain gestures. He put his hands in his pockets instead, playing with the loose change he found there. On this particular walk neither led the way, rather, whenever one
seemed to meander down this pathway or that one, the other was only too happy to follow, thinking nothing of it, like what could happen if they ended up on the other side of the park after sundown, knowing that people are sometimes harassed on that side of the park at night, even mugged at knifepoint. Nothing like that happened during their walk together, but it could've. Had that have happened, had a mugger actually pulled a knife on them, demanding their undivided attention, their wallets and jewelry, their full cooperation, the one driving would like to think he'd have risen to the occasion, that he could have played hero, staring the mugger down, unblinking, the look in his eye telling the mugger that he'd better move on, take his business elsewhere. Otherwise, he'd have to relieve the mugger of his knife, take it off him, getting up real close, daring the mugger to make his move, to flinch. He'd say something like, I'll take that for you, or You won't be needing this. Then he'd put the mugger in a headlock or pin his arm behind his back, effectively making a citizen's arrest, telling his future wife to call the police. He's pictured it before, many times. But nothing like this happened on their walk together. During this walk each of them looked mostly at the path in front of them, turning every so often to smile at the other or see if the other was smiling back. More often than not, each was smiling when the other looked, except for once when
the one now driving mentioned his father, how he'd been arrested once or twice, was never around much, and how that he'd never actually known the man.

Both were pleased with the outing, how it went, and what it promised.

The one driving says, What's the difference?

The one in the passenger seat says, If you have to ask . . .

At home, they divide the chores evenly. He cooks most nights and is responsible for going to stores—hardware, grocery, whatnot—though he is always overwhelmed in a store. He never can decide which item to purchase, which brand is best. Recently he has asked his wife to make lists, this way, he will not have to make any decisions himself.

It takes him twice as long to shop for groceries as it does the average person.

Once she thought something had happened. She thought he'd either run off with someone at work or been killed. He used to mention one of the sales representatives by name. He said something once about her eyes and legs. When he said this about the sales representative, she said, I think we have to get something straight here. She was removing a brassiere, arms twisting around her back, hair down around her shoulders. He was watching. He likes to watch his wife disrobe. Sometimes he lingers on the other side of doorways.
He will put his eye against the space between the door and wall. Once he dropped outside the bathroom to look under. He lay down on the carpeted floor, making sure that the floorboards stayed quiet as he did this because sometimes floorboards advertise one's presence. He can always hear her when she is on the move from the bathroom to the bedroom. She is light on her feet, but that doesn't matter, apparently, at least not to the floorboards. Once on the floor, with his right cheek pressed tight to the carpet, he got to see those light feet, how she rose up on her toes to drape a towel over the shower rod, almost like a ballerina. Sometimes he will handle himself through his pants, but he never takes himself out, never tries to finish. He is always hopeful that they might have a go afterward. She is usually a good sport concerning his need for a go.

The one driving says, It's like the old joke: Take my wife. She's a good woman, but my dick isn't going to suck itself.

Unbeknownst to him, she is aware of his voyeurism. She hasn't confronted him about it because she doesn't mind him spying on her. She would rather he spy on her than on a neighbor, though she is worried that he does this, as well. There is an attractive woman across the street and she has noticed her husband observing her. The first time it happened was on a Sunday as they were getting into the car to go shopping. On Sunday,
they shop together instead of walk together. They both think it important to do things together, for the marriage. In truth, the wife doesn't like to shop, but she also doesn't like it when she gives the one driving a list and he fails to acquire every item listed. Sometimes what he forgets is the one thing they need most, so Sunday is reserved for them to pick up what he's forgotten during the week. On this particular Sunday as they were getting into the car, she noticed him glance several times across the street, and there was the woman. She doesn't know who this woman is, doesn't know her name, her occupation or if she has one, whether she is single or married or what. She looked at her husband after his second or third glance across the street and told him to get in the car.

She has searched through his closet and the downstairs garage, looking for binoculars or a telescope or a camera with a telephoto lens. She searches approximately once a month, usually when he is out at a store. She has yet to find anything incriminating.

She doesn't want to humiliate him about this particular predilection, the voyeurism. All in all, he is a good man. Every good man has something wrong with him, something fundamentally unwholesome and feeble. She told him early on that she was open-minded, and enjoyed the look on his face afterward. She said this
before they were intimate, before they'd even kissed good night.

Topless, she said, Are we clear?

He hasn't mentioned the sales representative since.

Before, when he was single, he would go to a store only if it was absolutely necessary. Now he lives in them. He tells his friends that it's awful, that it's the death of some essential part of himself, but he does not actually mind. He knows he has to do something. He is a man.

She does everything else around the house, both inside and out. She is always dusting, cleaning, building, caulking, grouting, finishing, fixing. She mows, trims, weeds, gardens, waters. He does not like to be around when she is doing any of these things. Whenever she is out there, he will try to think of a store he should visit, something they might need for the house. Plumber's tape or clippers or something she mentioned over dinner or during a walk the past week.

He will come home with the plumber's tape or clippers, proud of himself. He knows not to make a production of it, however. He knows he shouldn't come bounding through the door exclaiming, I got the plumber's tape or clippers you wanted. He did this once on a Saturday when his wife was in the downstairs bathroom fixing both the showerhead and toilet tank. The showerhead had been leaking water for some
time, since they'd moved in. But the chain connecting the handle and ball cock in the toilet tank had come unhinged the night before. He was the one who broke it. She'd told him repeatedly that he had to be gentle with the handle in the downstairs toilet. She told him the chain was about to come unhinged. To his credit, he'd tried to remember this, and for weeks he was gentle in the downstairs bathroom. The trouble is, he is never gentle with anything, at least not for long. He always finds himself slamming cabinet doors shut, violating keyholes while opening locks, gripping a toothbrush like he's strangling a garter snake.

There she was in the bathroom, wearing overalls and a bandanna. The lid of the toilet tank was resting on the bowl and she was hunched over, with her arms submerged in the very cold water, fingers manipulating the rusted chain, growing numb.

I got the plumber's tape you wanted.

What did you say to me?

Still, both are satisfied with the arrangement, their respective roles.

The one driving says, I don't know, man. He is aggressively changing lanes whenever there is an opportunity to pass a slower car like he is in a race. The one in the passenger seat doesn't like it that he comes right up behind the car directly in front of them, leaving only a few inches between back and front bumpers, tailgating
this way for a few seconds, before changing lanes to pass. He thinks about telling the one who is driving to relax, asking him, Where's the fire? but he says nothing. Instead, he looks out the window and peers into the cars they are passing.

A few months ago, the one in the passenger seat walked into a supply closet at the office. He was looking for a colored binder but found the one now in the driver's seat leaning back while a young girl was kneeling in front of him. The one in the passenger seat couldn't tell who the young girl was, but she most likely worked in another department. The one in the driver's seat looked at the one in the passenger's seat and winked.