Me Again (31 page)

Chapter 37

S
HIT.

And suddenly OJ was nowhere to be found, leaving me on my own to stammer an unintelligible response. “What? I... you mean... but I...”

“Don’t lie to me, Jon.”

Bob drew closer, seemed to grow larger.

“Do
not
fucking lie to me, or I will crush you like a grape. That anger management class was good, but not
that
good.”

“I probably am,” I blurted. “In love. I probably am.”

I idly wondered which bay of the ICU I’d be taken to. If I lived long enough to make it to the hospital.

After a long silence, Bob said, “Is she in love with you?”

If I’d been expecting a punch, I instead received a question that hit even harder. And Bob’s voice lacked the hardness it had just a moment before. He looked at me, his gaze level, his stance neutral. He was not threatening. He was just asking an honest question.

“No,” I said finally.

“Does she know how you feel?”

“I... I don’t know.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed. “But the two of you aren’t—"

“God, no!” I waved my hands, flailing like a marionette under the control of some drunken puppeteer. “Bob – I swear to you. I would never... hell,
Rebecca
would never...”

Exasperated, I finally managed a cohesive sentence. “Bob, you’ve got to know she would never be unfaithful to you.” I shook my head, willing my helplessly gesturing hands to be still. “And I would never ask her to be, out of respect. For both of you.”

Bob hadn’t moved. He loomed over me, unblinking. “So this whole thing isn’t something the two of you cooked up so you can be together?”

“No,” I said. “God, no. I’ve never suggested anything like that to her. She was looking for a way to get divorced that wouldn’t damage your reputation at church, and I’m looking to help. But I’ve never said anything to Rebecca about her and... about
us
being together.”

“Out of respect,” said Bob. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, so I nodded.

“Yes,” I said. “Out of respect.”

Big Bob seemed to shrink a little, like a balloon several days past its prime. He sat back down on the couch and took a long pull from his drink. I tried to relax, with minimal success.

“So what is this?” he finally said. “Are you trying to... to
buy
her love by doing this? I mean, is that the going rate these days? Three hundred K to fall in love?”

“No,” I said yet again, sinking back into my own seat. “That’s not it. I mean, she’s not somebody whose feelings are for sale. I could never think of her like that.”

Now I took a turn sipping my Scotch, trying to formulate my words.

“If there’s anything I’m trying to buy,” I said slowly, “maybe it’s... freedom. She doesn’t want to be married to you.”

Bob bristled, but I forged ahead. “She doesn’t, Bob. She’s told you that before, and I know it. I’m sorry if that upsets you, but she and I are friends and she confided that in me. And she just said it again, in front of both of us, right here in this room.”

I sat up, speaking as clearly and deliberately as my smirking lips would let me. “But
your
freedom is at stake, too. Right now you’re trapped. You’re a good guy – Christ, Bob, you don’t know how often Rebecca has told me what a good guy you are. And you’re trying to do the right thing – I know that, and so does Rebecca.”

I was rebuilding my momentum and prayed that my tongue could keep up with my thoughts. “But you said it yourself – she’s not the woman you married. So you’re trapped. Trapped in a marriage with a stranger.”

For the first time, what I’d been interpreting as anger in Bob’s expression now seemed like a profound sadness. He looked at me, saying nothing.

“You’re doing your best,” I went on. “And people at your church know how hard you’re working, and they think the world of you. And maybe for now, that’s enough for you to go on. Enough emotional support for you to get by.”

I was having difficulty getting my point into focus, and tried a different direction. “I’m thirty-four years old,” I said. “You’re around the same age, right?”

Bob nodded. “Thirty-one,” he said softly. I took the nod to mean I was on the right track and went on.

“Is this how you want the rest of your life to be? Well-respected at church, but sleeping in the guest room in your own house?”

Bob’s face darkened, and once again the ICU scenario began to play out in my mind. But I continued. “I’ve just got to believe that there’s more to life. That there’s another way. That you should get to be happy, and to be married to the kind of woman... well, the kind of woman you fell in love with.”

I nodded upwards.

“But like you said, that’s not her. Not anymore.”

I had run out of things to say. I sat back and finished my Scotch with no idea what response my impassioned oration would elicit.

Bob stared at me for a long time, then nodded towards my drink. “You want another?”

I did, but was conscious of the long bicycle ride awaiting me if I survived this conversation. “I probably shouldn’t,” I said, attempting a lame smile. “I’m driving.”

Bob nodded, playing along. “What’s your ride these days? A Schwinn?”

I shook my head. “Too rich for my blood. I’m a Huffy man.”

Bob got up and approached me, holding his hand out.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said, taking my glass from me. “Those things drive themselves.”

He returned momentarily with a healthy dose of single-malt for me and a much smaller amount in his own glass.

“Thanks.” I took a tentative sip, flashing on the many drinks I’d seen poisoned in the soap operas I used to watch in the hospital. But the Scotch tasted fine, so I decided to take my chances.

“You’re not exactly a catch,” Bob said once he’d situated himself on the couch.

“Pardon?”

Bob gestured towards me with his glass. “I mean, no offense, Jon, but let’s face it. You’re not much of a catch. You talk kind of funny. You can’t count. You can’t drive. Are you working?”

I shook my head.

“And you’re not in the greatest physical shape,” he observed.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said pausing to sip his drink, “is that you may be kidding yourself. About Becky, I mean.”

He set his drink on the table, leveling his gaze at me. “So are you prepared to make a three-hundred-thousand-dollar mistake?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation, “I am. You need to understand: I’m going to give this money away. One way or another. My offer gives you the opportunity to control where that money goes. To do some real good for causes that matter to you. And, to be blunt, for you to take some of the credit.”

“Win-win,” Bob said, with absolutely no triumph in his voice.

“It really is,” I said. “Because any way you slice it, this money is going to help some people. So no, I can’t consider it a mistake, no matter what Rebecca may feel about me.”

We sipped our drinks for a moment in silence. Bob finished his, and surprised me by smiling.

“I’ve got another hypothesis,” he said. “Would you consider the possibility that the only reason you’re making this offer is that you’re too badly brain-damaged to know any better?”

I laughed. “I bet if you asked me that before my stroke, I’d have said you were absolutely right.”

We sat for a while, our smiles fading and our ice melting. Then Bob let out a heavy sigh.

“We were happy, you know?” He looked at me with something new in his eyes. Something that suggested that under different circumstances I might have been able to like this man.

“Before all this, I mean. We were really fucking happy. And not just me. I’m talking about the old Becky. The woman you never knew. She was happy, too. She and I... well, we just fit together.”

He stopped to drain his glass. “And now she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling stupid but needing to say something.

“It’s not fair,” Bob said, looking away as his voice began to break.

“I know,” I said quietly, reminded why I wanted to donate money to stroke research. You don’t need to have a stroke to be hurt by one.

“Believe me,” I said, “I know.”

Chapter 38

“K
NOW WHAT THIS IS?” Rebecca waved an envelope in front of me, her expression impossible to read. She wore a sleek dark blue dress with a matching jacket, making me wish I’d put more thought into my own ensemble, which consisted of jeans and an open Oxford over an Abe Lincoln T-shirt. Yes, I had finally succumbed to the temptations of the hospital gift shop.

“Fan mail?” I suggested, scooting over to make room for her in the curved booth into which I’d slid myself a few minutes ago. Over the past several months we had fallen into the habit of meeting for coffee in a little sandwich shop that was easily accessible to me by bus and close to Rebecca’s new apartment. The décor was retro, but I suspected it was authentic, not the work of some decorator, as the shop had been in business long before I was born, according to my parents. They specialized in a cheese-covered open-faced sandwich inexplicably called a
horseshoe
, whose primary function seemed to be the clogging of all major arteries. That said, they were wonderfully delicious.

Rebecca slid in beside me and said, “No, the fan mail has really dropped off since I canceled the fall concert tour.”

I looked at her and then laughed belatedly, caught off guard by her deadpan humor.

“Tragic,” I improvised, “what with all those dance moves you’ve been working on.”

But the joke had played itself out, and Rebecca again raised the envelope. “Anyway,” she said, “this is something I’ve been waiting on for a long time. My divorce papers. I just came from the courthouse.”

She laid the envelope on the table.

“It’s done.”

Floored by the news, I stammered, “I didn’t realize it was today... I mean... you didn’t tell...”

“I didn’t tell you about it because I wanted to wait until it was all done. Until it was, I don’t know,
real
.”

A waitress with a gravity-defying beehive hairstyle brought us coffee while I contemplated this news.

After she left us alone, Rebecca said, “They give you all these last-minute chances to change your mind – I think it’s part of why the process takes so long. And I just wanted to make sure Big Bob actually went through with it and signed the papers.”

“Did
you
ever think about changing your mind?” There, I’d put it out there. It was awkward, but I needed to know.

Rebecca shook her head. “No, it’s like I said. I couldn’t live like that anymore.”

“So how do you feel now?” I asked, dreading the answer.

She thought for a moment. “Overall, pretty good. I mean, it was weird, doing something that, well, basically ended such a huge part of my life. We were both crying a little when we signed the papers.”

“Big Bob was crying?” I couldn’t contain my surprise.

“Yeah, and I can understand why. I mean, he really sees it as having lost somebody he loved. And knowing he feels that way, well, it makes me feel bad.”

Rebecca selected a yellow envelope from a plastic caddy containing a variety of sweeteners, and tore it open, pouring a fine white powder into her coffee.

“Face it,” she went on, “this isn’t what either of us expected when we got married. You don’t figure somebody’s personality is going to radically change, particularly somebody you’re in love with. I may be brain-damaged, but I get that. Believe me, I get that. “

She paused, a pained expression on her face. “But it’s not like I did it on purpose.”

“I know, Rebecca. I—"

“No, wait – I’m not finished.” She took a moment to frame her thoughts. “I didn’t do it on purpose. And Big Bob knows that. Despite what you may think, he’s not a bad guy.”

Thinking of my last encounter with him, I nodded. “I know.”

“And he tried really hard to be patient and supportive.”

“I know.”

She inhaled, then let out a long breath. “But something you really helped me realize is that I just can’t go through the rest of my life focusing on being broken. Focused on what I can’t be. I’ve got to find out what I
can
be. And frankly Big Bob has a right to be with the kind of woman that, well, that is the right kind of woman for him. And that’s not me. Not anymore. So this divorce – it needed to happen. And we both knew it.”

“Then I’m... happy for you,” I said carefully.

Rebecca poured some cream into her coffee from a small steel pitcher. “Me too,” she said. “But it was still kind of weird.”

Our waitress came back, pen at the ready. Judging by the size of Rebecca’s order, getting divorced can make you very hungry.

“So what’s next?” I asked when we were once again alone.

Rebecca grimaced. “Now we file for the annulment. That could take a while.”

“The whole system seems weird to me,” I said. “Having to do a divorce
and
an annulment. Seems like overkill.”

Rebecca nodded. “I agree, but that’s how it works with the church. And normally the annulment can take more than a year after the divorce, and even then it’s not a sure thing. But the people at the church have assured us that our petition will be
fast-tracked
” – Rebecca drew finger quotes in the air – “and that they
foresee no obstacles
.” More finger quotes. “To put it in Big Bob’s terms, it’s a
slam dunk
.”

I reached for the cream pitcher. “At least they’re being cooperative about the annulment.”

Rebecca smirked. “Well, they have three hundred thousand reasons to be cooperative.” She paused, taking a long look at me. “I still can’t believe you gave Big Bob that money.”

“Well, technically I only made the money available for him to
donate
. I wouldn’t have just given it to him to keep.”

“I know,” she said. “And it made him look like this super-generous guy to donate all that money to all those different causes that the church sponsors.”

I tried my hand at arching an eyebrow, but cannot vouch for the results. “So his anonymity has been compromised?”

“Just a little,” she said. “But apparently it was enough. I swear, he’s like a rock star in our church these days. He can do no wrong.”

“So it’s win-win,” I offered.

Rebecca grimaced. “Please don’t start talking that way.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “That was my final attempt.”

The grimace was replaced by a smile. “Thank God.”

“And I promise not to call you Becky.”

“Even better,” she said, her smile growing.

“I’m just glad the money went to good causes.”

“Oh, it did,” she agreed. “I can give you a list of where it went and how it was divided up. Bob gave me a photocopy of it, in case you wanted proof. It’s all accounted for.”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. Plus, it’s not like the numbers would mean anything to me.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t keep any for yourself.” The look on her face had softened, as had her voice.

I shrugged. “It wasn’t mine,” I said simply.

Before she could argue, I said, “I’m sure of it. There’s no way I’d have kept legitimately earned money hidden in a leather chair. So I needed to give it back, or at least give it to somebody who deserved it. And Big Bob helped me do just that.”

“I know, but weren’t you tempted to keep just a little bit?”

I chuckled. “Well, with my less-than-stellar grasp of mathematics,
a little bit
is not a concept that’s very meaningful to me. Plus, I get my disability insurance, and I live pretty simply. I may even have an income soon.”

Rebecca put down her coffee cup. “Really? Doing what?”

“Do you know what blogging is?”

When Rebecca nodded, I said, “I’ve been asked to write a blog for an online newsletter for stroke victims. They pay a small fee for each article they accept.”

“That’s wonderful – how did that come about?”

“Mrs. Margolis. She and I have been emailing each other, and she would occasionally compliment my writing style. I’d always shrug it off until she bothered to mention that she used to work at the newspaper here in town, and she actually knows something about writing. She’s the one who thought of looking for a publication that my, um, special circumstances might lend themselves to.”

I went on to describe how she’d arranged for an editor to help me with any number-related issues that might crop up, and then gradually realized that although Rebecca was looking at me, she wasn’t really listening.

And she was looking at me in an odd way. Not unpleasant, but odd nonetheless.

I stopped talking, and she continued to just look at me. Finally I asked, “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head, never taking her eyes off me. Then she softly spoke.

“Do you remember the poem you wrote for me? The haiku?”

I paused, caught off guard by the question. Then I nodded.

Her expression grew more intent. “Does that mean you remember writing it, or that you remember the words?”

This was an easy question. “Both,” I said, meeting her gaze.

“Can you say it for me?”

“Out loud?” This was something I’d never done at more than a whisper, even when I was crafting the poem, testing the rhythm of its syllables.

“Yes,” Rebecca said. “Out loud. If you remember how it goes, that is.”

“I remember,” I said, a strange calm coming over me. “I definitely remember.”

“How do those work again? Was it five syllables, then seven, then five?”

“That’s right.”

Rebecca inclined her head, her eyes still locked on mine. “Go ahead.”

I ignored the inclination to clear my throat, mindful of the delicacy of the moment. Instead I took a deep breath, then spoke the words of the poem slowly, clearly. Honestly.

Quiet little smiles

on Rebecca’s face make me

glad that I woke up

When I was done speaking, her face shone with just such a smile. She held my gaze in silence for a long time. Then she spoke.

“I was thinking...”

I smiled encouragingly. “Yes?”

“Now that I’m officially an unmarried woman, I was wondering if I could do something that, well, that frankly I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

Before I could answer, Rebecca leaned in close.

* * * * *

I first kissed a woman on a Thursday afternoon. The fact that I was thirty-four years old at the time made it a particularly nice kiss.