Tough Day for the Army (11 page)

Norman thought the man looked at him with something like pity, but it should've been the other way around given his situation, his status. “If you say so,” the man said, flouncing out of the kitchenette and into the hallway.

* * *

“I won't be home for dinner tomorrow night,” Norman said to Ellie as they sat down to eat that evening. Wednesday, which meant meatloaf, which Norman enjoyed with generous mounds of ketchup.

“No?”

“I'm taking the whole team out to celebrate. We're up 22 percent this year over last.” Norman shook the ketchup bottle vigorously, mixing the contents, making sure he wasn't stuck with a runny initial burst out of the squeeze top.

“No spouses?”

“They're all single, dearest. Besides, it isn't in the budget.”

“Even though you're up 22 percent?”

Norman could not tell whether Ellie was teasing him. Her face was bent over her plate as she shoveled a forkful of green beans into her mouth.

Norman got a little huffy. “We're the only ones up more than single digits. Some groups are even down.” He crammed a bite of meatloaf into his mouth and chewed roughly. Looking up, he could see two or three of the homosexuals outside the window over Ellie's shoulder, waving at him like small children. Norman frowned.

“That's wonderful, dear,” Ellie said. “I just wish I could be in on the celebration is all. I'm proud of you.” Her voice trailed off near the end, becoming barely audible, but Norman made no notice because he was distracted by the antics of the homosexuals. One of the suit-wearing ones donned a long dark wig and hung a sign around his neck with “Gina” on it in bold letters. The lime-green-sweatered one came up from behind and groped the other man's chest while thrusting his pelvis against his backside. Norman tried to wave them off without Ellie seeing, but as she looked up, she caught him flailing his arms back and forth.

“Are you OK?”

“Fine,” Norman replied, digging his fork back into the meatloaf. “Maybe a little dry tonight?”

“Maybe,” Ellie said. “The beef looked a bit old in the case.”

The plan—never stated, but understood between them—had been for children, somewhere between several and a bunch. They weren't exactly trying from the get-go, but neither were they using protection. At first, they rationalized, Norman was moving up the ladder and when children did arrive they'd have increased security and stability; God would grant them their blessings when they were ready to receive them. After a while, it seemed strange, though, all that activity with nothing (not nothing, but you know…) to show for it. Nor-man first turned to God, praying, not for his sake, but Ellie's. When that didn't work, and they felt the window of opportunity closing, they went to the doctor, a humiliation.

They handed Norman a cup with a screw-top lid, his name, and a six-digit number written on the side, and showed him to a room with a reclining chair, a couch, and an array of skin magazines in a rack on the wall. It wasn't that Norman never masturbated, but he certainly didn't make a habit of it and did his best to think of Ellie when he did so. The magazines looked old, the pages worn. The women seemed eager to show the viewer their privates, making sure everything was spread for examination. They were shaved almost entirely, save a little column that looked to Norman like exclamation point. Norman realized he had never seen Ellie
down there.
He'd felt it, of course, and once or twice—more out of duty than desire—used his mouth, but it was always dark when they made love and when he tried it, Ellie would pull his head away and he would mount.

The pictures did nothing for Norman except make him shudder, but as he closed his eyes and tried to conjure Ellie, she stayed fuzzy and out of reach, so he reached for one of the magazines and turned to a page where the woman had one arm slung under her breasts, pushing them up and together, while her fingers reached for her privates. Norman folded the page so her lower half was covered and soon made his deposit, the spunk sad and gray under the overhead fluorescents. When he was done, not knowing why, he carefully tore the page from the magazine and folded it until it fit into a slot in his wallet.

The doctors said that individually there was nothing wrong with Norman and Ellie, but a fluke of body chemistry made his sperm incompatible with her womb. Ellie reached for Norman's hand and began to cry. Norman gripped it back and nodded stoically. The doctors said that when Norman's swimmers entered Ellie they became disoriented, like they were drunk, and swam the wrong direction or in circles. It was rare, the doctor said, but they did see this from time to time. Some remedies were being tried for this condition, but as of yet, nothing had proven promising. Still, conception was not impossible. Some of the sperm seemed to get the gist, just not enough to make the odds good. The doctor smiled at them and said, “The only thing to do is just keep trying, and have fun doing it!”

They were counseled on in vitro fertilization, but when they were told what happened to the leftover embryos, that was the end of that. You can't kill ten babies to make one and feel good about it.

For a while they did not try, Ellie turning her back to Norman as she slid under the sheets, a cool wall of air separating them. In the middle of the night Norman would wake with an erection and clenched fists. After several months, Ellie began throwing a leg over his body as they slept, and finally, one early morning just before dawn, he felt Ellie's hand groping at his legs and they were together again. They tried and tried, less often but regularly, and there were a few what they dubbed close calls but were just late periods, nothing close at all. One day they realized they'd both crossed forty-five and the odds had gone from negligible to nonexistent and that even adoption, at least of an infant, was a long shot. Norman did his best to count his blessings: health, a wife whom he loved and who loved him, success in business. To complain seemed ungracious, and yet he often thought about how unfair it seemed. Deep down he knew he had what it took to be a good father: the capacity for love, a willingness to sacrifice, a deep sense of ethics and morality, the instinct to protect combined with an openness to letting go when the time was right. Norman knew that fatherhood would be
fulfilling
, the end point of his destiny, and he was pretty sure Ellie felt the same about motherhood.

After it became apparent that their life together would be childless, without saying a word to each other they stopped trying. This is not to say that they never made love—they were human beings with needs—but each year Norman felt more and more of the need leaking out of him. But his love for Ellie did not diminish, even as his desire was slowly extinguished.

He shouldn't have had so much to drink. Normally he limited himself to one glass of wine, two at most if the dinner was going to be a prolonged one. They had been drinking cocktails that ended in “tini” and looked radioactive in the glass, and Norman had lost count at six. He knew he was talking too loud and too much, regaling the team—Bart, Laurie, Sheila, Ian, Scarlet, and of course Gina—with ancient tales from the company offices. He spilled secrets, some of which weren't his to give away, and after each story he saw them look at each other as if to say, “Get a load of this,” before goading him on. He felt like a racehorse being spurred by the jockey. It was a large table, and he sat at the head with Gina on his right. At some point, hidden by the cloth, she'd put her hand on his knee, but he didn't miss a beat. When the waiter came to clear the dinner plates, Norman had hardly eaten any of his steak and
pommes frites
, but he sent the food away anyway and launched into another story. It felt like he'd been waiting his whole life to be in this place, with these people,
his
people, hanging on his experiences, his wisdom. Bart suggested a digestif, and when Norman stood to retire to the bar the room swirled and he clutched the table and he felt Gina reach for his elbow, keeping him steady.

Leaving the table broke the spell, though, and in the bar, the others picked up the conversation, airing typical workplace complaints about nonunderstanding bosses and stupid managerial moves. Norman, feeling wobbly, was rooted to a stool, afraid to stand. While he cringed a little at the criticism rained down on his longtime friends and colleagues, Norman felt flattered they would air these grievances in front of him, making it clear that he, Norman, was one of the good guys. He tried his best to nod or smile at the right spots without seeming too eager. One by one they excused themselves for the evening, until Norman was alone with Gina and she came to his stool and put her knee between his legs.

“I guess I'm just not tired yet. Are you?” she asked.

Norman shook his head. He was not tired; he was exhausted. He'd long ago lost track of the time, but he was certain he hadn't been up this late in years. It was a joke between him and Ellie that they celebrated New Year's on Greenwich Mean Time. Norman's hand clutched an empty glass that he didn't remember drinking from. He'd never been close to this drunk. The alcohol churned in his stomach.

“You know what turns me on?” Gina said.

Norman shook his head. He felt emptied.

“I love it when I know that someone really
wants
me. It's just the biggest turn-on. Don't get me wrong, you're not a bad-looking guy, Norm, but it doesn't matter because I see the way you look at me. It's like you don't want to admit how much you want me, but you can't contain it. It's just pouring out of you, and that drives me crazy.”

Norman nodded.

“I had a shrink who called it a pathology. Can you believe that?” Gina said. “He said I mistook sex for love, but I don't even know what that means. You know?” Gina had pulled a small compact out of her purse. She examined herself in the mirror and frowned briefly before snapping it shut.

“I better go freshen up,” she said. “You'll be OK here, won't you?”

As Gina turned for the bathroom, Norman's stomach flipped and he was sure he was going to vomit. It was imperative that he make it outside. He clamped his hand over his nose and mouth and ran, knocking into people, but even as he crested the door it came forth, spurting between his fingers out of his mouth and nose. The second and third and subsequent waves hit as he hunched over the curb. Strings of drool reached from his mouth toward the ground, and the stomach acid burned his nasal passages. He couldn't bear to have Gina see him this way, but neither could he move from the spot.

After a while he smelled her behind him, her fresh application of perfume penetrating even the smell of the upchuck. “I got sick,” he said.

“Yeah, wow,” Gina replied. “I can see that.” After a long pause filled by only the sound of Norman spitting into the gutter, she said, “Is there something I can do?” in a way that made clear she didn't want to do anything.

“I'll see you in the office on Monday,” Norman said, never turning around. He listened to her heels click away down the sidewalk, gaining speed with each step. He remained hunched until he felt strong hands tugging under his armpits, and he turned and saw the one in the lime-green sweater helping him upright.

“Upsie-daisy,” the man said.

Norman cupped the coffee mug in his hands, not yet able to make himself drink.

“Go on,” the lime-green-sweater said. “Drink up, you'll feel better.”

They were in a diner, Norman across a booth from the one in the lime-green sweater and one of the ones that looked like just about anyone. Norman's tie was crusted with puke, ruined. He took it off and shoved it in his pocket. He'd drop it in the garbage on the way out.

“Ellie's got to be worried,” Norman said.

“She's OK,” lime-green-sweater replied.

“How do you know?”

“She trusts you.”

Norman humphed at the irony and tried a sip of the coffee. It burned on the way down, and he added some cream from the little tin container on the table, swirling it through with his spoon. “So what do you want?” Norman said.

“What everyone else wants.”

“And what's that?”

“Legal recognition of our bond. The state's seal on our love.” The one with the lime-green sweater placed his hand gently on his partner's arm as he said this. They leaned together and touched heads. Nor-man thought it wasn't a bad-looking picture. He knew what that was.

“Love doesn't need official recognition,” Norman grumbled.

“You're right,” the one in the lime-green sweater replied. “Love is love is love. We don't
need
recognition, but we want it.”

“Not everyone gets what they want.”

“But why should we be denied our wants when they're the same as everybody else's?”

“Because it's not natural?”

“And who's to say what's natural?”

Norman tried to think, but his brain wasn't working quite right. It was late and he was confused and they were taking advantage of that and they kept touching each other in tender ways, which was distracting. “I'm sure there's an answer,” he said, “but I can't think of it right now.”

Both men smiled at Norman, the kind of look you give a child, and the one in the lime-green sweater spoke. “Well, you let us know when you do. We've been waiting a long time.”

Norman nodded. He was tired of looking at them. They'd seen what happened with Gina, and that meant they reminded him of his shame. No one did any more talking. Some food Norman didn't remember ordering arrived, steak and eggs over easy, crispy hash browns that the yolk dripped through. Norman was suddenly hungry, so he ate, eyes on the plate, shoveling it in. The men must've left at some point because when he looked up, they were gone.

Making sure of sobriety, he slept in his car for an hour before driving home. He showered in the dark, slowly. He knew Ellie wasn't asleep when he slipped under the covers, but neither of them said anything.