Tomcat in Love (23 page)

I
was in sad shape when Delbert escorted me to my room that afternoon.

Agitated and weepy, confused as to my emotional whereabouts, I allowed the old janitor to tuck me in and draw the shades and leave me to a well-earned rest.

I slept for eighteen hours. Alone, as usual. Where, in time of distress, were Peg and Patty? Where was Toni? Where was my beloved Mrs. Robert Kooshof? Even in deep slumber I missed her. Once, in the middle of the night, I jerked awake and dialed her number in Owago, with no results, and then for a long while afterward I lay paralyzed by the suspicion that my tempestuous companion was no longer fully committed to our relationship. (
Commitment
—surely among the most suspect words in our language. After an act of betrayal, can one truthfully say, in the past tense, “Well, I
was
committed,” and if so, what fuzzy function does the word serve in our intricate, ongoing web of promises and expectations? If commitment comes undone, was such commitment
ever
commitment?
By what slippery standard? What small print? What fickle sliding scale? The betrayal of love, in other words, seems also to entail a fundamental betrayal of language and logic and human reason, a subversion of meaning, a practical joke directed against the very meaning of meaning.
^*

My mood, in any case, was far from peppy. The next morning, even after the refreshment of sleep, it was all I could do to lumber through the motions of shaving and showering and getting on with the chores at hand. My heart was not fully engaged. It was a labor, as they say, without love, but at this point there was no going back.

I spent a final day in Tampa, wrapping things up, spreading a last coat of icing on my poisonous cake. By telephone, I sent flowers to various parties, under various names, with various messages. In late morning, after a cocktail or two, I visited a travel agent near the hotel, spent a studious half hour browsing through several colorful brochures, then booked Lorna Sue and Herbie on a seven-night honeymooners’ cruise through the Gulf of Mexico. (At no additional charge, the travel agent very graciously agreed to
hand-deliver the tickets to a certain real-estate office in downtown Tampa.)

Outside, buoyed by accomplishment, I strolled across the street to do some honeymoon shopping. The perky young salesgirls in Victoria’s Secret were more than helpful as I picked out a new wardrobe for Lorna Sue—peekaboo bras, panties, negligees, camisoles, garters, chaps, teddies, pigskin leggings—all of which the gals enthusiastically packed up for me and dispatched by courier to the tycoon’s downtown real-estate office, along with an accompanying note signed “Herbie.” (The salesgirls, in ascending order of mystery, were Katrina, Caroline, Deb, and Tulsa. “Why Tulsa?” I inquired, which caused the lanky lass to lick her lips and whisper, “Oil rigs, darling.” I asked no more.)

My fortunes, in any case, appeared to be picking up. A sense of progress; modest new control over my life.

I had a late lunch with the gals, collected four emergency phone numbers, then returned to the hotel and again tried calling Mrs. Robert Kooshof. (There is little on this earth more dispiriting than the repetitive, one-note drone of an unanswered telephone.) Over the next hour, I called twelve more times, still without response, then I packed my bags and prepared to check out. I was only moments from departure, in fact, when there came a sharp rapping at my door.

Instantly, in my bones, I knew it had to be Mrs. Robert Kooshof, an estimate that was at least partially confirmed when I opened the door. What I could not have predicted was that a smirking Herbie would amble in behind her.

Uninvited, this unlikely duo strode into the room and took seats upon my bed.

In Mrs. Kooshof’s lap, I could not help but notice, was my old leather-bound love ledger.

“What a scuz,” she said.

In my experience, it is a commonplace but still remarkable truth that the raw materials of one’s life—objects, people, places,
words—have a way of converging in time and space, coalescing like the elements of a dream, drawn together by a powerful but altogether mysterious force of nature.

Here again, I realized, was fate’s cunning hand at work.

How did I respond?

Alarm, of course.

Who, after all, would not be discomposed by the sight of one’s archenemy sitting so casually at the side of a beloved consort? Dressed in crisp chinos and a blue polo shirt, the complacent prick radiated a prosperous, upscale masculinity. Physically, as always, he was in superb condition: narrow waist, impressive chest and biceps. His dark hair was slicked straight back in what I believe
is
called the “Vet look”; his smile was glossy white, his aftershave pungent. This was no longer the snot-nosed delinquent of childhood. A total makeover—a latter-day smoothie.

Herbie’s presence, I confess, was sufficiently unnerving in its own right. Yet even more so was the leather-bound ledger in Mrs. Kooshof’s lap: an embarrassing and easily misunderstood document. So embarrassing, in fact, that I may have thus far failed to underscore its altogether critical role in the collapse of my marriage. (Self-criticism is not my strong suit; I have avoided the confessional for two guiltless decades.) But, yes, the ledger was without doubt a volatile artifact, one that I had last seen on the night Herbie reached under my marital mattress and proceeded to ruin my life forever.

I looked at Mrs. Kooshof, then at Herbie, and said, “
Fancy this,” somewhat nervously, with the knowledge that several jigs were on the rise.

Another moment elapsed before I was able to add, “Burn down any churches lately?”

Herbie grinned. “Have a seat,” he said, “and forget the bullshit. You’re in no position.”

I glanced again at my ledger, hesitated, then selected an upholstered armchair situated a safe six feet from Mrs. Kooshof.

My consort sat turning pages. “Sleaze,” she muttered. “Scum.”

Herbie laughed at this.

There was considerable electricity in the room, considerable ill
will, enough of both to suggest that our very universe had been organized around the single teleological principle of heaping upon me piles of grief and anguish.

“Stinking liar too,” said Mrs. Kooshof. Her voice was listless. She did not so much as look up at me. “All that crap about checks under a mattress. You don’t know what truth
is.
”

“Nor do the philosophers,” said I. “Nor do you.”

“Lies.”

I wagged my head. “Not at all. I happen to be a half-truth teller. Fluent, as a matter of fact.”

“Liar,” she said. “Nothing else.”

Again, Herbie laughed. He crossed his legs and appraised me with a small, composed smile. Very silky, very self-satisfied. Months earlier, I had done some rudimentary detective work, turning up the essential facts of his life in Tampa: he ran a successful import firm specializing in electronic toys from the Orient; he traveled extensively and dated even more extensively—no commitments, no entanglements; he lived alone; he paid his taxes in quarterly installments; he attended Mass at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart; he dined out five nights a week; he was in love with my former wife, his own sister, once the girl of my dreams.

Forewarned
is
forearmed.

I did not blink. (Remember: a war hero.)

For the present, however, the more problematic issue was Mrs. Robert Kooshof, who turned the pages of my ledger with quiet fury.

There was little to be lost by flashing her a sexy smile. “So, then, here we are,” I said gaily. “And may I ask how this cozy rendezvous came about?”

She made an apathetic motion with her shoulders. “I needed to find things out for myself. Showed up on Herbie’s doorstep.”

“So you’ve been staying—”

“Right here,” she said. “In the hotel. Under your nose, as usual.”

“You might’ve let me know.”

“I might’ve.”

Even then, she refused to look up at me. Grimly, without pity,
she kept flipping through the ledger, scanning my neat rows and columns.

Herbie watched with obvious amusement. “Fascinating two days, Tommy. Comparing notes and so on. Very informative.”

“An education,” said Mrs. Kooshof.

I eyed my ledger.
^*

“Whatever’s happening here,” I said severely, “you should understand that you’re in possession of stolen property. Herbie burgled my bedroom—he has no right to it.”

“A matter of opinion,” Herbie said.

“It’s
mine
. It’s
private.
”

Mrs. Kooshof snorted and turned a page. “Private’s not the word. I mean, listen to this. ‘Hand-holdings: 421. Nuzzlings: 233. Valentines: 98. Marriages: 1. Meaningful gazes: 1,788. Home runs: 4. Near misses: 128.’ ” She gave a little toss to her hair. “The whole thing, Thomas, it’s revolting. All these ridiculous subcategories. Telephone numbers. Body types. Hair color. Names and dates. It doesn’t
stop.
”

“Well,” I admitted, “I do think of myself as meticulous.”

Herbie beamed.

“Sick,” Mrs. Kooshof muttered. “It’s like you’re—I don’t know—some perverted public accountant. Inflow, outflow. Assets and debits. Except you’re counting up human
beings.
” She paused, squinted at the ledger, then held it up toward me. “What’s
this
mean?”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

I leaned forward. “That would be the young lady’s state of origin. I believe I’m missing Delaware.”

For a few moments we sat in silence, then Mrs. Robert Kooshof closed the ledger and looked directly at me for the first time.

“The thing is,” she said, “I can’t pretend to be shocked. Not even surprised. That story about the checks—so weird, so convoluted—but the whole time it was the most common thing on earth. A little black book.”

“Not so ‘little,’ ” I sniffed, “and far from ‘common.’ ”

“No wonder she left you.”

I stiffened. “Rubbish.”

“Lists of women? Under the mattress?”

“But I didn’t
do
anything.”

Mrs. Kooshof laughed without mirth. “How noble. You didn’t sleep with them—so what? Keeping these ridiculous statistics. It’s obsessive and demeaning and … You can’t file people away like a bunch of index cards.”

“They liked me,” I said. “They paid attention.”

“Liked you?”

“Well, yes. It matters.”

Tiny wrinkles formed across her forehead. She hesitated. “So where would you file
me
? Under ‘Dutch’? Under ‘doormat’?”

I stayed silent. (There was little to be gained by informing her that I had recently inaugurated a new and much improved ledger.)

After a second Herbie chuckled.

“Honest Abe,” he sighed. “Compulsive liar. Compulsive ladies’ man.”

“But not a pyromaniac,” I said tartly. “I don’t burn down churches.”

“You, then? You sicced the cops on me?”

“Concerned citizen,” I replied.

He looked at me without speaking for a moment, a blue vein twitching near his left eye. “Just don’t try it again,” he said. “You’re pushing where you shouldn’t push.”

“I gather they asked some difficult questions?”

“What a baby,” he said, and glared at me. “Christ, if you understood the first thing about—” He stopped and shook his head hard. The vein was still twitching. “I swear to God, you’d better leave it alone. You’re ignorant. Keep the fuck out of it.”

For a second I wondered if he might resort to his old crucifying tricks. Clearly, I had struck a nerve, but his reaction seemed to go well beyond anger; something else was happening behind his eyes—indecisiveness, a tug-of-war.

I waited a moment.

“Well, perhaps I
am
ignorant,” I said. “But I didn’t destroy any marriages.”

“It was your life, Tommy. Your blunders. Not mine.”

“But you didn’t have to—”

“She’s my sister,” Herbie said softly. “I
did
have to.”

At that instant the old rage rose up inside me. I wanted to push needles through those complacent, pious, self-righteous eyeballs. So smug. So certain of his own virtue.

I was trembling.

“Sister,” I said. “And that’s all?”

“All?”

“You know.”

Something changed in Herbie’s expression. “I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Think dirty,” I said.

“Tommy—”

“Sisterly love. That old rugged cross.”

Herbie folded his arms, studied me with a patented Zylstra stare. A muscle moved at his jaw.

“Tell you what,” he said slowly. “I’ll ignore that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Don’t press it.”

Gracefully, smiling again, Herbie picked up the ledger and cradled it in his lap. He seemed thoughtful.

“I’ll try to be diplomatic,” he said. “I do care for my sister. But whatever you think, whoever you blame, Lorna Sue has a brand-new life now, a pretty good life, and all these juvenile pranks you’ve been pulling … I recommend you cut it out.” He gave me another of his irritating smiles. “We’re not kids anymore. Things change, people change. No more make-believe. Fantasies suck.”

“Fantasies?” I said.

“You’re divorced, Tommy. End of story.”