Imaginary Men (13 page)

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Authors: Enid Shomer

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Literary Collections, #Literary Criticism, #test

BOOK: Imaginary Men
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Page 80
Diane slumps into the opposite chair, her hair falling forward onto her face. ''Jesus," she says.
"I'm only telling the truth."
"Well, it isn't a very nice truth, is it? You lied to me before, but now you say you don't intend to lie again. How can I believe anything you say?" Suddenly she's crying, but her voice is angry. He hands her a tissue.
"I can't answer that. I've had the shit knocked out of me, too, you know."
She nods.
"How about a couple of hands of gin? It might make you feel better."
"I'm confused," Diane says, retrieving the cards from a drawer. "You deal."
Diane knows that Joe hates cards. She can count the number of times they've played. The first was on their honeymoon cruise to Jamaica. It rained for two days straight. She remembers Joe saying he wasn't good at any game where he had to sit still. Then, when her father died three years ago, Joe played cards with the relatives from Baltimore who hung around after the funeral to fulfill the seven-day requirement on their Super Saver flights. She remembers best their gin tournament in the hospital after Gerald was born, slightly jaundiced and premature. They'd play to five hundred, then walk down the hall to peer at Gerald, whose treatment was to lie in a special cubicle under ultraviolet light, wearing only a blindfold and a diaper. "Look at that one," a tactless visitor said one day. "Must be a blue baby." And Joe had answered loudly, "No, no. He's just getting a head start on his tan."
Now Joe shuffles the cards solemnly, then counts off "she loves me, she loves me not" as he deals. Diane knows that the knock card will be "she loves me," but she doesn't comment. They play for more than an hour, Diane winning nearly every hand.
"I'm going home for a week to my folks," he tells her.
"Everybody okay there?"
"Yeah. I just want to talk to them. My counselor agreed it was a good idea."
"Your counselor?"
"Yeah. I'm seeing a counselor twice a week. I think she's helping me. I'd like you to come with me sometime."
 
Page 81
"I'll think about it." Diane knocks with three points. Joe's hand is loaded again with face cards.
At seven o'clock Joe tucks the end flaps over the cards and puts on his jacket. "Will you tell Gerald goodbye for me?" He pauses at the doorway like he used to when they were dating. Diane feels the old ache she felt then. "I'm sorry that I hurt you," he says. "I wish I could undo it." Tears magnify his eyes.
Diane would like to comfort him. But she was the one who cried at the movies while Joe put his arm around her. Suddenly she feels awful about the way she's treating him, yet, at the same time, put off by his tears. She can't forgive the old Joe or warm up to the new one. But just to be on the safe side, she undresses that night in the dark.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Momma takes Gerald on Sunday because Diane has finally agreed to go with Alice to the Trinity Singles meeting and picnic.
"You look great, Alice," Diane says as she gets into the Toyota.
"Didn't we decide not to comment on each other's looks?" Alice reminds her. "Unless one of us has spinach on her teeth or something."
"Oh yeah, I forgot." Diane finds it hard to remember all their resolutions. The primary one is to talk about their work, just the way men do, even if it means being a bore. Diane practices on the way to the Trinity church. She tells Alice about the new software program for inventorying paper goods. "It's supposed to save the city about $5,000 a year in overstock assets alone," she concludes.
Diane knows she's supposed to care about her career, but despite her new title as executive assistant, Purchasing, and her new computer terminal, she can't generate much enthusiasm. Between her job and Gerald and her dissolving marriage she feels like a juggler frozen in midstroke, forever waiting to catch the third ball. Alice, on the other hand, has mapped out a strategy to net herself an elementary school principalship within ten years.
The Trinity Singles meeting is boring. The men busily scan the women. Diane senses many eyes roaming her body. She recrosses her legs and tucks strands of hair into her French knot. Alice is giving her the scoop on the members she's dated. "Why do you keep coming back if they're all such creeps?" Diane asks.
 
Page 82
"Uh oh," Alice whispers. "Clam up."
A man of about forty-five wearing a silver dollar belt buckle and yellow jeans sits down next to Diane. "Name's Harding," he says, extending his hand to her.
"You look familiar." Diane cocks her head. "Do you work at city hall, too?"
"Everybody says I look familiar. I'm the guy that does the waterbed commercial on TV. You know, the one for the Waterbed Ranch."
Diane remembers instantly. In it, Harding is sitting on the edge of a waterbed surrounded by three women in nightgowns. "Want something new in your bedroom?" he leers at the camera.
"You new in town?" he asks. "Or just newly divorced?"
"Separated."
"So," he says, leaning back, "you've seen me on TV?"
"I guess you're famous."
"So what did you think of it? The commercial?"
"Oh, it's fine," Diane lies, "but I'd like to see one with men in their pj's."
"Hey, I volunteer," Harding says seductively.
The meeting adjourns to nearby Morning Glory Park. The men light barbecue pits, and the women spread blankets under the trees. A volleyball game begins. Harding sits beside Diane, telling the story of his life. His voice is southern and soothing. The sky is so blue she can hardly look at it. It reminds her of the sky painted on the background of a cereal boxthe one with the bowl of granola set on a checkered cloth in a field of wildflowers.
"The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B," Harding suddenly sings. "That's my real love," he explains, "music of the '40s."
"Do you want to take a walk?" Diane longs for the cool shade of the forest at the edge of the picnic area.
They follow the hiking path, a mile-and-a-half loop through the park grounds. The terrain changes from sandy pines to overarching hardwood trees. Harding walks briskly, talking most of the time. "Resurrection ferns!" she interrupts, running over to a low limb of live oak where the supple, shiny fronds have uncurled from the rain.
"I bet you have a real green thumb." Harding doesn't move from the path. "Even though my daddy was a farmer, I never could grow
 
Page 83
anything." He scuffs at the loose soil. "But ask me anything about the Andrews Sisters."
"What?"
"Go ahead. Ask me anything."
"I don't know anything about them. Besides," she feels the moss along a branch, "I don't care."
"Oh."
Diane, surprised by her own honesty, notices that Harding is finally silent. "Look!" She points to the electric fence that demarcates the county prison from the park. Beyond it, the windowless white concrete building generates a glare in the full sun. As they get closer, Diane makes out men in gray prison suits walking and smoking in the compound. "Let's go back," she urges Harding.
"They can't hurt you from over there." He goes right up to the fence and stares at the prisoners.
"Yeah, but I bet they hurt a lot of people on their way in." Diane imagines Joe there for a second, convicted of mental cruelty or infidelity or whatever it is that used to be against the law between two married people. Irreconcilable differences is like a traffic ticket, she thinks.
"Hey little lady." Harding's voice is conspiratorial. "Want to smoke a joint?"
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Over the next three days Harding calls twice to chat, most of the time reviewing why his two marriages failed. Momma calls every day, and Joe phones every evening from Georgia. By Thursday, Diane is actually waiting by the phone for his call. She knows this is regressiveshe's read enough articles confirming that it's a waste of time for women to wait for men.
"I found my high school yearbook," Joe tells Diane on Friday. "I used to wear my hair greased. It looked wacky. I was sure a different person then," he muses. "Diane?"
"Yeah?"
"I really love you."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow," Diane forces herself to say.
The next night he tells her three times that he loves her, but now
 
Page 84
there is a happier ring to his voice. ''I've figured it out," he says. "I think I've figured it out."
To this Diane says nothing, even though she's pretty sure she loves him, too. Still, there's something in the way, though Diane can't quite identify what it is. She agrees to meet him on Sunday evening on the neutral ground of Harrison's Cafeteria in the mall.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Sunday is Family Night at Harrison's, and the place is packed. The big, intact families with grandparents, parents, and children cluster in noisy groups. A few of the unescorted women have their hair in rollers under bright bandannas, as if they are already preparing for next Saturday night.
The line snakes around in front of a mirrored wall where Diane and Joe hesitantly study their reflections as they wait. Diane thinks Joe looks thinner and older. She thinks, too, that they still look as if they belong together. It's partly the way the top of her head comes right up to his ears, the stair-step silhouette they make standing together. But now they stand apart, as if they don't know each other very well. Diane has the same eerie feeling she gets at nightthat Joe is secretly watching her and that she wants him to. He stares into the eyes of her mirror image. "Diane," he says to her reflection, "do you miss me at all?"
"Of course I miss you." She touches his sleeve.
"I've learned a lot about myself," he says, handing her a brown plastic tray.
"I'm glad."
"No, you don't understand. Now I want to learn about you. I want to know everything about you. I don't even know what size shoe you wear," he says incredulously.
"It's all right," she says. Her heart thumps a little at the prospect of Joe wanting to know her so intimately, so individually.
"Salad, ma'am?" the server asks in a bored voice. Diane becomes aware of the long buffet of food. She surveys the assortment of dessertsbright red deep-dish cherry cobbler, tall chocolate layer cake, key lime pie heaped with whipped topping.
"It's too bad I know what this stuff tastes like," she tells Joe. He
 
Page 85
squints back a question mark at her. "The desserts. All the food here," she explains. "It looks delicious, but it's a . . . lie. It tastes like . . . nothing." Her voice rises in anger. "It fools your eyes."
"Yeah," Joe drawls. "There are people like that, too."
Diane passes over the entrées and heaps her plate with corn bread, butter, and fried okra. They take a corner booth in the brightly lit lime-colored room.
A moment later, Harding's bejeweled hand is on Diane's shoulder, and his silver dollar belt buckle gleams at the corner of her eye. "I've been trying to reach you," Harding says, ignoring Joe. "I got a great new Benny Goodman recording I wanted you to hear"
"Harding," Diane interrupts, "this is Joe."
"Nice to meet you. You can come along, too, Joe. I'm talking about a smooooth sound. How about after dinner?"
"I don't know." Diane holds her buttered corn bread in midair.
"And," Harding continues, "I'm making another commercial this week. I told them your idea about the pajamas, and they want to meet you. You might even get to sit on the bed."
"We're trying to have a conversation here. Do you mind?" Joe points a fried drumstick at Harding, who gets the message, tips his cowboy hat, and retreats, promising to call Diane at a more convenient time.
"Do you like that guy?" Joe asks.
"He's all right."
"Since when do you like Benny Goodman?" Joe pauses. "Is that how I've acted for the last nine years? I mean, he just assumed you wanted to hear all about him and his record."
Diane puts her hand over Joe's. "I think you
were
like that for nine years, but I didn't notice it most of the time. Now I'd notice it though, you know?"
"Yeah. I guess I owe you nine years of listening. Nonot owe. I want to hear you out."
"About the pajamas"
"You don't have to explain anything."
"I know." Diane drains the last of her ice water from the glass and watches Joe pick at his food. She remembers the countless times Joe heard her moaning in and out of sleep with menstrual cramps. He would take her in his arms and stroke her face until she fell asleep.

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